"I look at you and my heart trembles,"

they look at each other like they were almost lovers, like they should have kissed and made love and laughed in bed together, but they chose to stay friends instead. they look at each other with what ifs and could haves and hearts full of regret.

Nikos Kazantzakis  ///  Emma (2020)  ///  Lu Yun ///  Emily Henry  ///  La Belle Dame Sans Merci, Francis Dicksee  ///  Nikita Gill

PRISCILLA NORTHWICK'S heart was a fragile rose, and all her petals were plucked out of her to fray.

At the ripe of fifteen, she had remembered the moment her fickle heart was doomed to wither when she felt it burst against her ribcage like fireworks in a moonless night for the second eldest Bridgerton son.

The threads of day shone through the clouds like a wound spilling pure molten gold. Spring bloomed in daisy kisses, rosebuds dancing in the air, the fragrance of daffodils caressing their senses, and basking in sunrises after the decaying winter. Yet in spring's glorious awakening, her grandeur cannot pull Priscilla's lovestruck gaze from Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict's attention was on her, his nose wrinkled softly in thought. He reached a hand to her face, his fingers tracing the freckles on her cheeks, skimming lightly against blushing skin as if she were a canvas and his fingertips were a paintbrush.

"You have constellations on your cheeks," he had said in reverence as if he had discovered magic at the palm of his hand. As if he had seen starlight for the first time. "I've never noticed."

Priscilla had opened her mouth to speak but the words clogged in her throat as though she were swallowing heaps of thorns. That is because you only ever notice my sister, Priscilla wanted to say, but worried the tears she shed at the dusk of the night would betray her. Instead, a tight-lipped smile would suffice and feed on his obliviousness. "I suppose I have stars of my own."

Benedict had grinned, and for a brief second, Priscilla savored that grin. Kept that smile in her memory like a trinket in her pocket, a precious jewel within a treasure chest. Yet when he glanced over her shoulder, his focus immediately tugged away, and the glow within Priscilla's chest dimmed to a flicker. Standing still as a tree trunk, her company forsaken as Benedict brushed her aside and walked toward her eldest sister. Listening as he greeted her, complimented the dappled, twinkle green of her eyes. Forgetting the girl and her desolated constellations obscured in the shadow of her lovely sister.

The ache of it exhausted her. Loving Benedict Bridgerton was exhausting.

From afar, she admired the charcoal bits under his fingernails, his irises luminous in the afterglow like turquoise waves and seafoam green. Noticing the way the corners of his eyes creased when he grinned and laughed, to the calluses on his index finger and thumb as rough as a brush. Watching as he pursued her sister with, unknowingly, Priscilla's shriveled heart in his paint-stained hands.

To phantom the feeling of loving someone who would not love her back pressing down on her chest like a boulder.

Rooted in her spot, Priscilla glanced at the spring sky coated by a blanket of pale blue and streaks of rose quartz pink. Please, answer me this, she said in her thoughts, a heartbreaking look in her eyes. Why won't he love me?

Nothing replied. The light breeze fluttered over her eyelashes like a touch of a feather and, somehow, she understood. Priscilla Northwick realized the awful truth. The agonizing realization and defeat that embedded into the skin of her palm like shards of glass.

Her love was never meant to be reciprocated.

BENEDICT BRIDGERTON saw the life he was meant for in a painted canvas before him.

His artwork hung in museums and appreciated by a good eye, and the presence of the eldest Northwick daughter lingering by his side – a diamond ring winking at him from her dainty left hand.

Even then, his eyes, curious and inquisitive of beautiful things, can't help but wander to the girl with the stars on her cheeks and rose petals on her mousy brown curls hiding at the corners of the room to escape the festivities, accompanying the lonely mirage hiding in those corners. There is no point, Benedict thought to himself, his stare drifting away from the young Northwick girl. There was no point, not when his future was drawn in the sky, carefully crafted like a marble statue. Not when he had to prove himself that he was more than the name he was born into, more than what the Ton whispered about.

Yet all things come with a cost. The vision he had encapsulated in his head for half of his life – the daydreams he had painted with precision and abundance of colors – destroyed like paper over a flame. And though Benedict has lost the battle within himself and reeled in his defeat, at nightfall, as darkness tried to eat a path through the candlelight, those dreams failed to awaken. Instead, his mind could only conjure from memory that of Priscilla Northwick's watery smile and glassy eyes as her family's carriage carried her to France. Never seeing her again.

Years later, sealed with a burgundy red wax stamp embellished with a rose, a letter arrived. Written by the steady hand of one Lord Lucian Woodhouse, the message reads like a request rather than a demand. I heed to the rumors of your artistic talents, specifically from a close friend of ours, Sir Henry Granville, who spoke nothing but praises for you, Mr. Bridgerton, it read. And I ask with earnest gratitude, for your talents be distributed in a portrait of my betrothed as a gift for her. I will compensate you for your expenses and any demands of cost.

And here it was – a glorious opportunity. A chance to prove his worth and the value of his art. A kernel of hope was planted, glowing softly but nonetheless beaming. Benedict Bridgerton was prepared to accept Lord Woodhouse's request.

He prepared to meet the young Lord at the season's first ball. Prepared himself as Lord Lucian Woodhouse greeted him with a grin and a bow, and introduced Benedict to the young woman who would earn the title of Lady Woodhouse. However, what Benedict was unprepared for was the sight before him.

Lord Woodhouse's betrothed turned around. His breath stuck in his throat, and he could still feel the gossamer touch of freckled constellations warm under his fingertips as his eyes met Priscilla Northwick for the first time in five years.

And as Priscilla shyly grinned at him – cheeks rosy and shimmering under a soft shade of gold like champagne in the light – Benedict felt his heart flutter and plummet to his stomach with dread.

PRISCILLA NORTHWICK
mia goth

BENEDICT  BRIDGERTON
luke thompson

LUCIAN  WOODHOUSE
henry golding

BEATRIX  HUGHES
anya taylor joy

ISABEL  NORTHWICK
amber anderson

FEATURING !

douglas northwick. colin firth
constance northwick. jennifer ehle
lawrence northwick. james norton
sybil northwick. raffey cassidy
gertrude scarsdale.    meryl streep
camilla moir. golshifteh farahani
ms. prudence. gemma chan
honoria upton. freida pinto
esther hawkes. crystal clarke

⋆:°* 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓
i do not own bridgerton, its characters, plot lines, or dialogue. all credits go to julia quinn and netflix.
i do own priscilla and other characters mentioned above. all gifs presented in the book are not mine, all rights go to their creators.
the psd is by opulenceps from deviantart!
the layout belongs to the lovely GARDENS0NG (i asked for permission beforehand. so if you would like to borrow it, ask for permission.)

⋆:°* 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒
this book will contain the following-
vulgar language, sexism, religious themes, mental illness, depression.

⋆:°* 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄
not me simping for another white man 😭
the summary is kind of all over the place because i'm trying something new with my writing, but i don't think it worked so it was a fail in my part.
this story is lowkey inspired by amy and laurie's story from little women but with a twist. it's going to be angsty and there would be a lot of yearning, but NO CHEATING!
i think that is all.
i really need to stop posting stories.