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"The following Friday found her in much better spirits.
It had nothing to do with the party her uncle was hosting.
Edie once loved a good ball; loved the gowns, the glinting of jewels in the light, loved the way men and boys asked her (sometimes two at a time) for a dance. She hadn't been to one in seven years, and it was all too plain that parties hosted by Henry Granville were not the kind she had been permitted to attend when she was nineteen.
The air was hot and humid, much like a summers day that brought blood to the skin's surface. Once or twice a month, her uncle determined a party was in order, and invited the friends he had acquired throughout the years for a night of cards, dance, drinking and other pleasures that went unsaid in high society.
Before long, Henry's home was bursting with life and passion, and she knew each attendee was permitted entry by their host personally. Henry did not want tongues wagging, and thereby attracting unwanted attention and putting their happy routine to an end. To boot, it was only polite that the host himself greet his guests at the door.
Edie was not enthralled with the bodies that danced around each other, nor the rumpled appearance of all that were in attendance. Rather, the spirit of the surroundings gripped her, watching as the souls of the room played off each other and shed their fears. She was not a green girl, barely out of her leading strings. Instead, she thought herself well seasoned, and wished to capture the heart of that feeling—the feeling of being a wallflower at Henry's party, of being an outside observer. Inspiration, sharp and exhilarating erupted from her fingers and she was quick to bring the scene in her head, onto paper. She planned to make it into a painting, filled with swirling colour.
By the time the moon hung low in the dark satin sky, one Benedict Bridgerton arrived at the loud, and busy house.
After being greeted by Henry and left again just as quickly to discover the hidden treasures of the house for himself, Benedict peered into the open drawing room. Men and women played cards at tables dotted about the place, one room seemingly devoted to the dancing of a handful of women without a care about proper decorum or demure grace. Instead, they twirled and writhed and laughed, their skirts and gauze wraps fluttering through the air. Next, he strode towards the studio, further down the corridor, and inside, he found that a male model had taken the housemaid's place.
He lingered at the doorway a moment, taking in the scene with a happy grin, and his presence was soon noted by the woman sitting on a chair a few feet away.
"Ah, the pointy critic returns for another night of debauchery."
Turning towards the voice, Benedict's grin faltered to see Edith sitting there, sketch pad in her lap, her blue eyes trained on the paper in front of her.
"I shall never live that down, will I?" He asked, walking closer. The woman did not seem to like him much, a fact he had concluded moments after meeting her the first time. But it would be rude to not say hello to the hosts niece.
"Never. In fact, I shall go out of my way to remind you each and every time I see you." A little part of her was tempted to saw off an inch from one leg of each chair in the house, just so he would be so annoyed he would not stay long. But then that would irritate her as well, so she decided it was not a good idea.
"Then I must make every effort to ensure I do not darken your doorway in the future." He replied, turning his body so he stood next to her, leaning against the wall.
He heard Edith scoff, not looking up from her sketch pad. "You love it here too much." That first night, she had gone to bed and he had still been labouring away diligently on his sketch. "I am afraid, Mister Bridgerton, you will have to swallow down your suffering and abide my presence for the time being."
Another moment passed, and Edie let herself to become engrossed with her work once more, certain that Mister Bridgerton would leave for kinder company. "Impressive." She heard him mumble from behind her ear. Edie flinched forward, fear spiking for a moment before she realized he was only observing her work.
"Thank you." She murmured back, clearing her throat.
"I enjoy a good country scene, but yours is a rather inviting picture into this life." He noted, casting his appraising eye across the multitude of characters.
"And what is this life, Mister Bridgerton?" she asked, lifting her gaze to observe the people as well. She saw a few she recognized, some from the higher societal class, a handful of lower born and many more she could not name. But Benedict Bridgerton shone brighter than any of them. "A spectacle for your entertainment?"
Dear god, he thought, but she thinks I insult her each time I speak to her.
"I did not mean it that way." He bit out. "This place, Miss Granville, is free. Open." A rather lovely blonde strolled past, a soft, sweet smile flashing his way. Benedict's eyes trailed after her, lips curling up in a smile. "By god, honest." He did not see how Edie's eyes followed his gaze, her brow rising at his gawking. More and more, the man seemed to be a green lad hardly into manhood. He turned back to her, and not expecting to see her staring at him, he drew back, averting his eyes to the wall behind her so he would not see her scar. "Class does not exist here, the lines that society draws are shadows and expectations are not foisted on people who do not meet them easily."
For a long moment, she studied his face, eyes narrowing into slits. She found at least two different insults buried in his words, but the longer she considered him, the less she suspected he was trying to dig into her. Still, that did not stop her from shooting a well placed arrow.
"Is that why you are ogling the half-dressed beauties currently strutting like proud peacocks before your soft, innocent eyes?" And his eyes were so soft—blue as hyacinth. She recalled telling her uncle that Bridgeton's were beautiful, and she was correct.
Her mother had once ushered her towards the eldest Bridgerton brother, whispering that they would make a fine couple, and the young viscount had nodded and made polite conversation with her, and so had his younger brother. It had never been more than a dance or two, moments in public that were between strangers, quickly washed clean when the morning came.
Once, she had thought she and them were equal—similar rank, education, looks, aspirations. But to see one of them standing before her, with all the pain that had been inflicted upon her, bare to see…it made her heart ache, for he brought forth memories and longing from seven years past.
Benedict smiled an awkward smile, but did not answer for a heartbeat. "If I remember correctly, Miss Granville, the last time I was here, you named me a rake. Is it not the characteristic of a rake to gawk at half-dressed ladies?"
Finally, she looked away, the barest hint of a grin pulling at the unmarred side of her face. "'Rake' is too harsh a word. Truly, I have only named you such based on rumours I have heard about your elder brother. Instead, let me call you a 'typical young man'. A gentler word, and yet no less accurate when it comes to such private matters." She kept her eyes on her work.
A grin pulled at Benedict's mouth after a moment of surprise. She was quick, he realized with wonder. He was not deaf, and so he was familiar with the Tragedy of Edith Granville, but he was not one for gossip. However, living with five females kept him well informed of the rumours about the infamous disfigured spinster, but none had ever said she was witty. Or that she had talent, he thought, casting another look at the sketch she still minded with gentle, barely there strokes of black.
"I am rather shocked that Lady Whistledown has not reported on your sharp wit." He commented honestly, settling back against the wall. "I daresay I have never been insulted so many times within the first ten minutes of speaking."
She found no mirth, and tilted her head down farther. "My face outshines my personality, I am afraid. And I do not make a habit out of being noticed, least of all by a gossip monger." Benedict noted the change immediately, detecting an underlying feeling of annoyance and hostility, masked by her words. "Excuse me." Without another word, Edie tucked her sketch close to her chest, and melted into the crowd, her dark hair waving down her back.
Benedict blinked. He had thought they were having a pleasant enough conversation, only for her to cut it short, as carefully as a butcher hacking meat from bone. He saw movement from the corner of his eye, and saw Henry Granville approaching him slowly, his arms drawn behind his back, a sly smile on his face. His blue eyes watched where his niece had gone.
"I do not think she likes me." Benedict spoke. If the niece did not like him, how could he have hope that he would be welcomed back another time? Surely she would have influence on her uncle, and one ill spoken word on his character would bar him from this haven forever.
Sir Henry only grinned, clapping his back. "Edie doesn't like anyone at first, Bridgerton. Don't take it too personally." The older gentleman gestured forward, guiding him into the studio in search of a drink.
An hour or so later, Edie had snagged a glass of wine and retreated upstairs to her room to set her sketch down, safe from errant drinks flying out of clumsy hands.
Not wanting to retreat to her room just yet, Edie stood by the second floor bannister, her sharp eyes watching the people laughing, drinking, whispering in ears. A little part of her wanted to join the merriment, loneliness tugging against her heart. These sorts of shindigs were not for her. She could shed many layers of the lady she had been raised to be, and yet there were somethings that ran too deep.
So she stood and watched and sipped her drink, and thought about the errands she needed to complete the next day.
Can't avoid mother any longer, going to have to write to her and make up something. Her mama was a soft woman, and Edie did not want to cause her worry. Edie had taken to exaggerating the frequency of her outings: twice a week became five days a week, a trip to the dressmaker, tea twice a month with friends of Lucy. If it gave her mother any sort of peace, then Edie refused to feel badly for it. She would face god when the time came and when He thundered and scolded her for lying, she would snap right back for sending that monster in her direction.
She also had plans to stop by Cat's home in the early afternoon and bring her a ice bun for lunch. They often took their lunch behind Cat's family shop, talking non-stop until Cat's mother called her to come back in.
Downing the last of her wine, Edie let her hand lay limply over the bannister, glass in hand as she cast another look at the crowd below. She spied a solicitor, a painter, a merchant's son, and an actress. A trio of ballerinas, the mistress of a lord, a duke, another painter—
Edie stopped short, her eyes narrowing to focus on the couple writhing against each other on the stairs before drawing back, shock written on her face.
Benedict Bridgerton was the tallest of his mother's brood, and so seeing him shoved against the wall by a lady a head shorter than him was…something to behold.
For a long moment, she was rooted to the spot, staring like a fool at the scene before her. She had not clear view of his face, but she could see how he devoured the woman's lips with passion, one that she easily matched. When he dragged his lips from her mouth, Edie watched as he mouthed across her cheek and jaw, until his face was buried in her neck, his large hands resting low on her back, keeping her close.
Suddenly, his hands pulled away from her, only to reach up and push away the flimsy white material that covered her shoulders.
Edie whirled around, gasping to realize she had been holding her breath. Swallowing, she stepped away from the bannister and rushed towards her room.
Mister Bridgerton the younger had the wide eyed look of wonder, easily mistaken for innocence, but it was clear enough to Edie that he was not a green lad by any measure.
Quickly, she reached into her pocket and fetched her key, unlocking the door and disappearing inside before anyone could notice. Pressing her back against the door, Edie let her head fall back, trying to calm the racing of her heart. She could not understand why she reacted so to the view she just had, wondering why it both bothered her and intrigued her attention.
She was worldly enough to know it was not something as deep as lust, but neither was it as harsh as loathing. It was something between the two. Something that made her heart pick up speed and her breath come faster, something that made her belly squirm and her skin flush. Something that made it difficult to think of Benedict with his hands all over that lady and yet, impossible to think of anything else.
Edie was not as innocent as the world might think her to be. After the Incident, she had known desire, tasted it on her tongue, though it had not been a pleasant experience.
His name was Hugh, the bastard son of a duke, well liked by his peers but shunned from the ranks of polite society for his illegitimate origins. Easy to like, though his face was not incredibly handsome, and one might say, he was not nearly as comely a woman of Edith's standing deserved.
Still, a woman as lonely as she, one who felt ugly and unlikable, had clung to the attention he gave her. She liked the affection better than the actual intimacy, finding Hugh's kisses too rough, too uneven, too wet. His hands never bloody stayed still, either.
She thought suddenly of how Benedict Bridgerton's hands had seemed quite content on his lover's hips, trailing up an inch to pull her closer. His large hands, capable of such force, seemed quite gentle.
The woman cleared her throat, ridding herself of the thought.
Edie was arguably one of the ugliest women in the ton, a spinster to boot and so she had not thought another young man would look twice at her. Hugh himself had not soothed that particular wound either, and so she made herself content with him. It was only when she asked him to escort her to the shop for more paints that he revealed himself to be the worst, most cruel sort of wretch that Edie was sad to have given her time to.
Just a week short of a month later, Hugh's gambling debts had caught up to him, and he was scrambling like a mad man for a ship out of port before his debtors could catch him. Edith did not know what to make of that for no one who loved her ever claimed responsibility for his sudden disappearance, so she let the matter rest, content with it being a long coming strike from fate.
He had been the only man she had allowed close to her since the Incident, and she vowed he would be the last. Yet, her stupid heart started to heal over the last few years since, and now tried to reason that it could survive another heartbreak if the reward was sweet, loving, tender affection. Her heart would be sorely disappointed, because she had no intention of letting herself be vulnerable one more time in her life.
Edith listened to the sounds of the party fade into soft whispers and distant laughter, the sun slowly returning to turn the sky into a lovely, deep blue.
On the nights when gatherings shifted into parties, Edie found sleep impossible to achieve. She could only sleep in silence, and one never knew if a pair of lovers would stumble into her room in search of privacy.
Instead, Edie sketched. She erased, shaded and perfected until she was satisfied, and then continued.
By the time the sun made it's debut, the sketch was complete, and she was more than ready for sleep.
oop
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