Chapter 11: The Duel

"Is it a choice, do you think?" he asked softly as he deftly leaned closer to her, pretending to choose another coloured pencil that lay between them. The evening was slowly coming to an end, but there were still a few that took their time in their departure from Henry's home. "F-for Henry, I mean."

After his last visit, Edie had thought that Benedict would slowly recede from her and Henry's lives, his presence drawing forth and pulling back like waves on the shore, slower and slower until she only knew he was alive from Lady Whistledown's gossip sheet. She had expected as much – men like Benedict may turn a blind eye to her uncle's nature, but they may not want to keep his company. It seemed as though some people thought Henry's inclination to his own sex was as catching, as women seemed to think pregnancy was.

But Benedict was… different . He had returned to their home, merry as he always seemed to be, and had not shied away from Henry when the older man greeted him, nor from inquiring further about Henry's proclivities.

For now, anyway, he was a fixed part of the studio. One day, for whatever reason, he would depart and another may take his place. Yet, she doubted the one to someday replace him would keep her company in the way he did. Even dear, sweet Caterina would not remain with her much longer, it seemed, so caught up in her impending nuptials.

And since that acceptance, she has come to realize, perhaps the man is neither a fool nor a bully, but rather his acceptance comes from a place without malice or greed or rudeness.

Still, a man's mood could change with the tides.

"Do you wake up each morning admiring women with a lusty eye, or do you simply follow along with your brother?" she replied, noting how his brows narrowed sourly. She thought then, of that night she'd seen him as a man, hands running over a woman's curves with grace and care and reverence and passion, mouth devouring hers, long fingers carding through his thick hair. No, that kind of desire could not be feigned.

He did not reply and Edie supposed he had gotten the answer he sought and returned to her own drawing paper.

"Is that – I do not go about pawing at ladies that come striding by, Edith. I am a gentleman."

Edie couldn't help but scoff. "To a certain type." She mumbled. Her keen eyes flickered towards him and tilted her head. "I recall a lovely dressmaker who made your acquaintance on my uncle's staircase." It gave Edie no greater pleasure than to watch as his affronted look melted into a speechless, open mouthed gape. The intact side of her face drew up into a grin. "There was a great deal of 'pawing' , as I recall."

Benedict was blessedly silent for a number of minutes, allowing Edie to focus anew on her work. Her mama's birthday present was part way done, much to Edie's relief. Much as she enjoyed painting, there was something about painting for her mother that left a bitter taste in her mouth, and made her hands slow to work.

Lady Amelia hadn't seen her daughter in five years. Two years after the Incident, her mama had found it too difficult to continue seeing her, and each time her father had some business in London, Lady Amelia came down with some sort of illness, an itch to visit relatives in Wales, or some such thing, but Edith was no fool. Still, she never commented on her mother's absence whenever her father deigned to visit her on his business trips.

She wondered when that particular sting would lose its power over the stupid, mangled bit of flesh beneath her ribs.

Taking in a deep breath, Edie withdrew her focus on the color of the girl's frock, and leaned backwards to see how the overall work appeared. An oceanside scene, in the foreground was the figure of a female, back to the viewer, looking out at the tumultuous sea, hair unbound and flowing in the salty air. A lonesome thing, but somehow she thought it would suit Lady Amelia perfectly.

Her eyes once more flickered from the canvas and towards Benedict, who somehow still sat beside her, still frowning as he swiped a dark pencil across his paper with long, downward strokes.

"T…" she tried, her voice halting. She licked her lips. "To answer your question, Pointy…" Benedict looked at her, now familiar with the nickname only she used. "No. I do not think it is a choice. We love whom we love, whether it is right and easy, or not."

Benedict straightened, his chair creaking as he did, his eyes not once leaving her own. "I had thought as much. Why would one choose to love in secret?"

"Many do, I think. Not like Henry, who must hide or die, but…" With a bitter smile, she recalled her first tangle with love. When she'd thought herself in love with Hugh, she had dreamed of shouting it through the street, walking proudly curled around his arm. She was thankful, now, that that had never happened, since the little maggot had been driven from town, debtors nipping at his heels all the way. How humiliated she felt when he left her, but how thankful she was that only a few knew of her entanglement with him. "Some enjoy the secrecy, I think. It makes for easy detachment."

He had never wanted to walk in the park with her, much as she had asked. He'd never wanted to come to tea in the afternoon, never held her hand, or smiled at her outside the seclusion of her bedroom. Too late, she had realized he was ashamed of her.

"It isn't like a man can just walk down the street with you, Edith. Come now, do you think that would be quite pleasant for either of us?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…come, Edith, you think I mean to court you?"

Edie bit her cheek, forcing the memory away with disgust.

"Then it is not love." Benedict declared assuredly. "Why think of the ending of a thing that is real and true and gives one such happiness?"

Edie's foolish little heart warmed a little at his confidence in the matter, charmed somehow by his sureness. "You asked me this, Pointy, so it is only fair I ask this of you. Have you ever been in love? You speak of it with such fervor."

To her surprise Benedict looked away, smiling that silly, awkward smile that he so often seemed to make when he was uncomfortable. "No, Miss Granville, I have not had the pleasure." He looked up again, still smiling. "But I have seen it. With my mother and father." Then, as he recalled whatever memories he had of the two, the warmth slowly left his face, replaced by the chill of a sadness that was years old. "When he died…" He set his dark pencil down, and reached for a light green one, not meeting her eyes. "I think a part of my mother died with him. She was not the same after, and in many ways, she is still not the same."

Edith was quiet. "How terrible it is then, to love something so much that one day will leave you." She wished for her mother, then, for her warm arms and the soft scent she carried on her skin that no perfume could replicate.

But Benedict surprised her by shaking his head, a grin once more twitching his lips upward. "As I said, Miss Granville, if you think of the ending during the beginning , then it is not real. My mother did not live life with my father thinking of the day they would be parted. Instead, they lived happily. Fully." He shifted in his chair, once more turning towards his drawing, green pencil in hand. "Without fear."

Somehow, that irked Edie and she too returned to her work, aggressively snatching up a fine pointed brush and dipping it into her paint. "Sadly, the same cannot be said of Henry."

Benedict said nothing, and tried very hard to hide the way he looked at her once more out of the corner of his eye. He watched the flexion of her little arms as she focused on a minute detail of the scene she was working on. He watched the way her fingers held the brush steady, working in short, small strokes. He watched her face, mouth parted as she concentrated, but her brow was smooth.

Suddenly, he thinks again of her uncle's sad look, the words that spoke of a longing that was not born of his own happiness, but the happiness of Edith Granville.

Made for love , he had said about his niece.

He wished he could remember her clearer from her debutante days.

Had she been sweeter at nineteen, or had she always possessed an irritable heart? Had she longed for a marriage, and did she grieve the absence of it now? Even the most prickly of hearts could find someone who trimmed their thorns dull. Of course, she had been more beautiful then, but Cressida Cowper was pretty too, and he found her as appealing as a rotten apple.

A soft girl , he remembered thinking after appeasing his mama by dancing with young Lady Granville. Soft and sweet, a little quiet and always smiling. The same as any other woman in attendance, and had he been in want of a wife at the time, perhaps he would have paid more attention, gotten to know her more. He'd been only twenty at the time and completely uninterested in matrimony.

Thus, this was the Edith he knew best – twenty-six, wielder of a barbed tongue and gentle, talented hands, Edie who smelled of lavender and often had paint or charcoal staining her fingers.

There are many unusual things that have occurred in Benedict's life, that is true. At six, he climbed a tree on his family's estate trying to catch a pretty bird for his mama, and promptly slipped down to another branch, narrowly avoiding falling to the ground. And, as though teasing him, the little bird flew down to the branch he'd settled on, just inches out of his reach.

At eleven, some random little girl about his age had come running up to him while he played in the park with his brothers, kissing him messily on the cheek before running away giggling at his shock. That same little girl had run up to his elder brother and had done the same thing. It was only when she tried to nab little Colin and kiss his cheek, only to scream when he got jelly in her hair, did he learn she had been dared to kiss all three Bridgerton brothers.

At fifteen, a friend's dog stole his shoe, only to return with a lady's shoe as its replacement. The friend had no sisters, and his mother had died years before, so the shoe's owner had remained a mystery.

At seventeen, his father died of a bee sting. Of all damnable things, a bee sting .

Now, at twenty-seven, he aided his brother in some foolish endeavor to preserve their little sister's honor, only for the girl herself to come riding to the field, dressed in her night clothes to put an end to it, offering her hand in exchange for the Duke's life.

When Anthony came to him with this plot, a cold fear seeped into Benedict's blood. He had lost his father, and he could not bear to lose his brother, his closest friend, neither to death nor exile. But, ever hard headed, Anthony would not be deterred.

And as the slow, creeping fear began to burrow in deeper, other thoughts made themselves known. Suddenly, he was not only afraid of losing his brother, but of all the implications that came with losing the Viscount.

Had Anthony been killed or had he killed Hastings, the destiny of Bridgerton House would fall into his hands – his clumsy, ill equipped, ill prepared hands.

No, that was not it. He knew well enough how to care for his family, he knew what was expected of a Viscount, expected as the head of the house, as the master of a great estate. He felt like a petulant little boy to think he just did not want any of it. He would take it up, if he had to, but it was not what he desired most.

He swallowed it all down, along with a couple of fingers of port alongside Anthony before he disappeared into the night to say farewell to that opera singer of his. As he sat in his brother's office, Benedict felt no inclination to get up.

Who would he to bid farewell to? His mother, perhaps, but she would know something was wrong and try to interfere with their business. His sisters, and baby brother were much the same. The realization left him feeling cold, an empty pit forming in his belly. He had no one to say goodbye to, no one to pull close to him, to wish him well, to tell him it would all work out correctly.

As the hours ticked by, he swallowed that down too, and stood when Anthony returned, the two of them riding swiftly to the field, arriving just as the Duke and his chosen second arrived.

Edith remained awake long after the last of the lamps had been guttered and sat alone in the sitting room, bare feet resting on the foot rest, her long hair hanging loose down her back, sketch pad in her lap and charcoal in her hand.

She had finally finished her mama's present and now could return to more pleasurable pursuits, like drawing little sketches all about the page before her – a hand grasping a teacup, a vase of flowers, a foot dipping into a cool stream.

The stupid present brought forth many unpleasant feelings for Edie and she found she could not shake them from her mind. Mostly, her thought lingered on the fact that once more, she would not be able to give her mother her gift in person. It would be far too uncomfortable for all involved to have Edie go to Granville House and suffer through awkward silences and counting in her head each time someone avoided looking at her. Once, she had given her mother little trinkets and drawings happily, for no other reason than that she loved her and wanted to please her. Now, she was lucky to get a monthly letter.

No, she was much better off here. Anyway, Granville House was quite boring, and it was not as though there was any great excitement anyway to visit the country —

Three loud bangs sounded at the door, startling her from her somber thoughts. Edie hesitated, wondering if she had misheard and the knocking came from somewhere in the house, rather than at the front door. But then, three more came, most certainly from the front door, and she hesitantly stood.

The help was all asleep, and she did not want to wake them at such a late hour, even though she was frightened of who could think it appropriate to call on the house at this hour. To be assured she did not wile away the hours, she cast another look at the clock, and saw it was past midnight. Perhaps the person would go away? She pulled her robe closed, wringing her hands together as she slowly made her way towards the front door.

Finally, she reached the door, staring at it a moment before softly calling out.

"Yes? Who is it? I have a mind to scream for the authorities. The hour is inappropriate and this is a respectable house!"

A beat passed, and a voice called back to her. "It… Pointy , miss." Edith frowned, fear melting to curiosity. She did not think anyone else knew of what she called Benedict. But…what if they did? Casting a quick look about her surroundings, Edie grabbed up the first object she saw that she thought could inflict some damage: her uncle's umbrella.

Firmly grasping her new weapon in hand, she carefully unlatched the door, and pulled it open a little.

There, standing before her, leaning one hand against the doorway, panting as though he'd run a mile, was Benedict Bridgerton. He was dressed in his evening attire, as though he'd just come from a ball, but his hair was a mess and there was sweat on his brow.

"Benedict?" She murmured curiously. The hour was late, and in only a few hours, the sun would make its way around the world and shine its light over the tops of the buildings, starting the day anew. "Are you drunk?"

"Miss…" he panted, inadvertently flashing his eyes down to her state of undress. "Miss Granville…" there was a fine pink blush to his cheeks but her concern far outweighed her appreciation.

" Are you? What is wrong? It is so late, Henry is not even home."

"Er…" His breathing was slowly evening out. "Not-not drunk." He smiled sheepishly. "I apologize for the-the," he waved his hand about, noting the street lamps still burning. "Late entry, but may I come in, I may need to sit a few moments." At that, he bent at the waist, letting out a long huff, as though staving off an impending cramp.

"Oh! Yes, please, come out of the cold." She rushed, stepping aside and ushering the tall man into her home. She cast a wary glance about the darkened houses surrounding her own, hoping no prying eyes had caught sight of the young man knocking at her door so late, nor that she had been the one to answer his call.

Later, she would think of how unafraid she'd been of his presence in her dark home while all other occupants slept. She was alone with a man who could easily overtake her, and somehow, the thought did not cross her mind until after she was settled in her own bed. Then, the fear came with a swiftness that stunned her, and she'd leapt from bed to make double sure the locks to her door were latched.

As he passed her, he paused, his gaze lingering on the umbrella in her right hand. Her cheeks heated against herself and she dropped her arm to her side, still holding firm to the umbrella.

"Go on. I may still strike you." Benedict was wise enough to heed her, and continued into the sitting room, the only room visible to have light enough to be occupied.

When he plopped himself down onto the settee, his breath slowing with much more ease now that he was resting, Edie once more noted his state of dress.

"So, why are you dressed like you're coming from a ball?" She asked with a frown, settling herself on the short table settled before the settee. Edie leaned the umbrella against the table, resolved to make good on her promise and poke him sharply with it if the urge struck after his explanation.

"Because I had no chance to change clothes." He replied simply, adjusting himself so he sat straighter. Edie sighed annoyedly at his poor answer, but paused when she spied his hand reaching up to brush away a wayward curl from his brow.

"Are…are you alright, Bridgerton? Your hands are shaking." Finally, Benedict met her eyes, and in them she saw an emotion she had only seen one other time. Her elder brother had been thrown from his horse at eighteen but by some stroke of luck, he hadn't broken his neck. Father had helped him up and dusted him off after, but Richie had had this look in his eye, a swirl of terror and disbelief and relief and even more terror.

Benedict had this look now, and Edie was frightened to think of what might have caused this fool of a man to look so shaken. Without an answer, she stood, and padded her way to the bottle of whiskey in the corner, sat on a fine silver platter with crystal tumblers.

"There was to…to be a duel."

Edie's head turned sharply towards him, wondering if she had heard right. That was…idiotic and dangerous and barbaric and illegal to top it all off. She did not think Benedict would be one to partake in such an archaic custom in a masculine attempt to preserve honor.

" What ?" Edith breathed, striding back to him and handing him the entire bottle of alcohol. She had poured him a glass, but after that confession, she deemed it a little lacking. Instead, she took up the tumbler herself and settled back on the table to stare at him with incredulity. "Who did you accost that required such a stupid, barbaric spectacle? Am I harboring a wanted man? Have you…have you killed someone? " She whispered, a touch of fear bleeding into her voice.

"Good God, no! It was not my duel, but my brothers. A Duke…he compromised our sister. Her honor had to be protected after the bastard refused to wed her."

Edie was shocked silent, her eyes wide and mouth softly parted. Staring at nothing at all, she heard him uncork the bottle and take a short sip.

"Yo…your sister? Your sister, compromised?"

"Nothing so terribly inappropriate, but my sister is young and in the midst of her first season, you see." Another sip. "She cannot be accused of being…unruly. It would ruin her, and my younger sisters."

"What sort of position were they found in?" Edith's mind was awash with all the things men and women could get up to when left alone, but she really couldn't imagine a sweet, naive debutante being caught in those kinds of activities.

"They were in an embrace. A very passionate kiss, as I am told."

Edith scoffed, hardly refraining from rolling her eyes. It sounded so innocent to her ears, but as he said, this was his sister's first season. One slip, and she would be ruined, destined to become a spinster, reliant on her elder brothers for protection for the remainder of her long, lonely life.

"And alone, I imagine." He nodded, taking a swig of whiskey. "Well that is a far gentler thing than what I had assumed." She confessed.

"But it would ruin Daphne." He countered, holding the bottle close to his chest, as a child might hold their favorite blanket.

"Yes, it would, Pointy."

"We could not allow it, not Daph, not Eloise, not Franny, not little Hyacinth, not even Gregory…" He seemed lost in his head for a moment, and Edith kicked his shin lightly to bring his mind back to the tale he was weaving for her.

"Get on with it. There was a duel, and?" He made to take another drink, but Edie stopped him, her hands on his as she took the bottle back. "No, you've had plenty. A little will calm you, too much will panic you."

"And you know this for certain?" He asked with a grin, disbelief coloring his words even as he attempted to be humorous.

Edie fixed him with a cold stare. "How is it you think Henry calmed me the first few days I learned to look at myself in the mirror again?"

Benedict's mouth tightened, averting his eyes in shame. It made him uncomfortable when she brought up the Incident, she noted. Most were uncomfortable with the topic, but she expected that. Very few were willing to ask her what had happened, and fewer still could stomach the tale. She did not take pleasure in recounting that day, remembering the details, remembering the rage in his eyes, the words he'd spat at her, the pain and fear —

Edie swallowed the lump growing in her throat with the little bit of whiskey she had in her glass. She did not enjoy it, but her silence meant that the gossip had power over the narrative.

"Well?" She asked, hoping the emotion in her voice was mistaken for impatience.

Benedict shook his head. "It did not come to that. Daphne rode in and after a spell, she and the Duke agreed to marry to avoid any such scandal."

Edie deflated, not having realized she'd nearly been on the edge of her seat with anticipation. "Ahh, Pointy." She murmured, running her fingers over her forehead. "You Bridgertons are quite dramatic."

"Yes, it seems so." He agreed, his legs shifting, brushing against her own through her robe and nightgown. Without thinking, Edie nudged his leg back, her distant eyes cast on the hand that sat clenched on his thigh. "But my brother...my brother might have died, Edith." He said, his voice small and yet, somehow still firm.

"But he didn't." she assured, leaning forward and covering his clenched hand with her own. She had never noticed the dark ring of grey that encircled his green eyes, nor the nearly unnoticeable lines between his brows that deepened when he frowned. "Your brother lives, and your sister is to marry a Duke. All very good things, Benedict." His hand felt so...warm beneath hers.

Benedict could not help but stare at her face, and he tried his hardest not to study the scar that marred the left half of her face. It was part of her, he reasoned, why deny a fact and pretend it was not there? So, as she spoke to him, Benedict drew back a a little and took in all of her. Her cheeks still bore the roundness of youth, her chin was pointed, her brows delicate, her mouth soft and sweet, the scar, deep and a deep pink colour. But she was beautiful, how could anyone deny that?

"Very good things, indeed." He agreed softly. Slowly, his hand unclenched, and his thumb brushed against her own.

A heartbeat passed them by, and Edie drew herself back, latching her hands together in her lap to avoid doing something else so stupid.

"Well why have you come here?" She asked softly.

At that Edie met his eyes once more, something squirming in her belly to find Benedict's eyes wide and soft, and looking like a much younger man than he was. "I…I am not sure." He confessed. "I meant to sleep at my family's home…but I could still smell the gunpowder on Anthony, and Daphne had such a sullen look about her. I made for my own lodgings, but…" He smiled sheepishly, the blush of exertion gone, and replaced by the blush of alcohol. "I think I sought the familiar scent of paints and lavender."