CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
moonstruck.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     STRANGE THINGS CAN HAPPEN UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE FULL MOON. Although, Benedict always assumed that meant more romantic things. The Full Moon Ball is certainly the right setting for it — beams of moonlight painting spots untouched by shadows, twinkling stars in the night sky above. It would paint the perfect scene to sweep one's true love off their feet, lit up as they glide across the dance-floor.

     But this is also the ton. And when it comes to the marriage mart, Benedict finds little to romanticise about any of it. It is simply something he can make a decent evening out of if he tries not to resist it too much.

     His point is only proven further when he hears excitable whispers growing closer to him, the Bridgerton name travelling to his ears against his will. Stood with Colin with a glass of ratafia in each their hands, Benedict braces himself for impact...

"Good-evening, Mr. Bridgerton... and Mr. Bridgerton!"

     "Ladies!" Benedict greets them; two more arrive, and his smile tightens. "And... more ladies!"

     Three or four debutantes have now closed in on the Bridgerton men — at Benedict's joke, they let out a chorus of giggles while batting their eyelids. Their most gracious, rehearsed smiles are being worn just as proudly as their new gowns, no doubt. They seem especially fixated on Colin with his new so-called swagger he brought home from Europe.

     Benedict turns briefly, whispering to Colin, "They've taken to hunting in packs..." before turning back and casually sipping in unison with his brother. It is not as though he hasn't found himself cornered by the marriage mart before. This year, however, seems particularly unbearable. Why is that? Are the debutantes more eager, or is Benedict just too tired of it?

     He has heard it all over the years:

     "Is that Lord Bridgerton?"

     "No. Although a second son will do just fine, especially a second Bridgerton son."

     "Which Bridgerton are you? I always muddle them up! Is it one... two... or three?"

     "Why is it I never see you calling on any young ladies, Mr. Bridgerton?"

     Benedict is quite certain he would rather remain a bachelor than walk deeper into the belly of the beast. Freedom is surely bliss, is it not?

     "Mr. Bridgerton," says one of the debutantes (Miss Stowell, is it?) to Benedict, "I've yet to see you on the dance-floor."

     Colin places a hand on his shoulder and grips it tightly. His younger brother has a mischievous twinkle in his eye, one he recognises too well. "What say you, brother? Time for you to dance?"

     Benedict glares at Colin with his jaw tightened, eyes challenging. A sudden defiance rises up in him — at this point, who cares? He might as well try to have some fun, no strings attached. Otherwise tonight will become more miserable than it has to be. He at least knows how to enjoy himself.

     "Yes." Benedict places his glass down on the table with a thump, pivoting to face the debutantes, as though rolling a dice to choose one. "Miss Stowell, may I have the next dance?"

     Miss Stowell answers with a feverish giggle. In the awkward silence that follows, Benedict steps forward and writes his name onto the dotted line on her dance card. There is a brief flicker of regret that sets off an alarm bell in his head — should he find a quick escape? — but he chooses to ignore it.

     As he makes his way towards the dance-floor, he looks around the ballroom for any sign of Winifred. He has yet to see her tonight. Until he does, Benedict knows he will be mindlessly looking for her. Her presence is a grounding force in all of this; it had been last year, and this year is no different. But he fails to catch any glimpse of her before it is time to join Miss Stowell on the dance-floor, under the watchful eye of Queen Charlotte seated at the top of the ballroom.

     For all his begrudging feelings about the marriage mart, Benedict can have fun when he wants to. That is the key to survival. If he carefully walks the edge, he can enjoy a good party without being leg-shackled.

     Freedom is bliss.

     The dance is a jaunty one, and Miss Stowell is a glowing and eager participant. She is certainly sweet enough, Benedict thinks, as flashes a smile at her and she returns it brightly. They hold onto each other's arms and spin as the room grows dizzying around them. The pair release a laugh of enjoyment, Miss Stowell keeping her eyes on him with an excitable admiration. As they gently slow to a halt, Benedict exhales a decently pleased breath. He enjoyed himself but did not think it anything much deeper. He bows and the debutante curtsies deeply.

     "Mr. Bridgerton," Miss Stowell says breathlessly, "you are an excellent dancer!"

     "The pleasure was all mine, Miss Stowell," Benedict replies graciously.

     A beat passes, a little too long for Benedict's liking. He avoids Miss Stowell's gaze and instead tries to pick out Winifred's face in the crowd. Once again, no sign of her, not even her sisters. Then, in the doorway to the ballroom, he glimpses the next best thing.

     "Ah," he murmurs. "Um, if you might excuse me..."

     Benedict bows once more to Miss Stowell, as courteously as he can, before making his escape. With each step towards the Mondrichs stood in the doorway, he grows more confident, happily taking on the role of their tour guide. A relative of Alice's had died, therefore leaving an entire estate and a title to inherit for their firstborn son — it had come as a shock for the husband and wife, who no more than a couple years prior had been a working class family and Will Mondrich himself had his career in boxing, and only recently started up his successful gentleman's club in town.

     To Benedict, they are a breath of fresh air, even if the Mondrichs themselves will take some persuading.

     "Mr. and Mrs. Mondrich... welcome to the ton," Benedict gestures with a slight dramatic flair.

     Alice, dazzling in jewels from her new estate, narrows her eyes sceptically. Meanwhile, Will glances around uncertainly at their contemporaries as Benedict leads them through the crowds. "I've been up against men in the ring who could have killed me," says Mondrich, "and yet I somehow find myself more nervous about tonight's program of dancing and socialising."

"Well, at least you have your arms," Alice sighs in her dress, "I can barely move in this."

"You both look superb!" Benedict insists, waving their concerns away with his hand. He leads them into a gallery, slightly less populated than the central ballroom. "And do not be intimidated. This can all be rather enjoyable if you do not resist."

Now in a new room, Benedict steals a glance around the surroundings. Still no sign of Winifred. Damn. He supposes this is a rather large venue, after all. She could be anywhere.

     "Looking for someone, Mr. Bridgerton?" asks Mondrich.

     "Oh, uh, just a friend," Benedict sighs, giving up. "A very good friend. I think the two of you would find her refreshing company here."

"You looked to be enjoying your time with the young lady," Alice observes, noting Miss Stowell and Lady Stowell in the distance. "Are you courting?"

     He scoffs sharply. "No– no, no. Miss Stowell is lovely, but that was me doing the not-resisting bit."

     Mrs. Mondrich quirks one eyebrow. "I am not certain Miss Stowell is taking your experiment so casually."

     Cluelessly, Benedict whirls around to pick out the young debutante he had just danced with. She sucks in an eager breath upon seeing him, her stare brimming with hope and fixation. Her mother is also eyeing him down with great intention, as if plotting their next move. He can see her signing something to her daughter, who gives an exaggerated nod in return. Benedict feels a cold sweat break out across his back.

     Uh oh.

     He may have overstepped the mark.

     "Excuse me, I must find some ratafia..." Alice says. "Your situation is making me all the more nervous."

     Benedict must say he is starting to feel rather nervous, too; like a target has been painted onto his back. Alice slips away, whilst Benedict stays with her husband and keeps a look out in case Winifred pops up anywhere... or the poor Miss Stowell he has just led on, for that matter. Bloody hell.

     Where is Winifred Erstwhile when you need her?

     "One dance, and suddenly you have signalled you are available," Mondrich shakes his head, baffled. "How are we expected to understand all these society rules when even someone born into this world cannot grasp them?"

     Benedict hums in thought. Mondrich does pose a good question. Then, past the fish-out-of-water, he spies a man and woman laughing together as they walk in from the ballroom. They bask in each other's happiness as they lean into each other. Nodding towards them, Benedict directs Mondrich's attention to the couple. "Do you see those two? Lord and Lady De Leon," he says, folding his arms across his chest. "It is considered impolite to dance as often as they do with the same partner, but they cannot keep themselves off the floor."

     His friend smiles at the sight. Then Benedict notes a much older couple, grey and wiry hair, but stumbling and laughing together as their drinks wobble in their hands.

     "And Lord and Lady Singer. The rule is that you are not supposed to have more than one or two drinks at these events, and yet they are like that... every time. Drunk as fiddlers." Benedict cannot help but chuckle at the sight, feeling a pang of genuine endearment at the elderly couple. He turns back to Mondrich and asks, "Do you know what both of these couples have in common?"

     Mondrich shakes his head.

     "They are married, like yourself," says Benedict. "All these rules are to keep the marriage mart churning. But once you have performed your function, and... found your match—" he pauses, raising a glass to Alice at the other side of the room, "— you are free."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     WINIFRED would usually enjoy being in lesser company, but knowing she is meant to set the example as chaperone, she feels anxious having two sisters out of her hands — Jemima seems to have disappeared with her friend once again, whilst Abigail has been conversing with a young and inquisitive bachelor named Lord Warner. Lettie had at least been there until she went to accompany Lady Strachan to go and rest. She tries to seem as unassuming yet quietly confident as she can, whilst carefully scanning the room for another friendly face... she has yet to glimpse Benedict at this ball. Although she has already seen his plentiful siblings, such as Eloise and Francesca, so he cannot have strayed far.

"Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Erstwhile?"

The tap of a cane comes after the sudden voice, startling Winifred. She presses her hand to her chest and sighs in relief when it is Lady Danbury at her side. "That might be a stretch, Lady Danbury," she admits, "but it is a fine evening."

"Ah, but keep in mind that we are often our greatest enemies," Lady Danbury replies. "The only one stopping you from having a good time is yourself."

     "Truly?" Winifred scoffs cynically.

     "Truly. Since learning that myself when I was around your age... well, I have never looked back!"

     Eyes twinkling mischievously, Lady Danbury disappears into the crowds again, looking for her next candidate to meddle with. Winifred sighs lightly and tunes back into the conversation Abigail has been having with the young lord again. They seem to be having a pleasant time, smiling and laughing together.

     "Winifred," Abigail suddenly turns around, "Lord Warner has reserved this next dance with me. I'll see you later!"

     "Oh, alright. Go on, then," Winifred pats her arm encouragingly.

     Abigail giggles and lets the lord lead her to the dance-floor, taking their positions for the quadrille. Winifred finds herself left alone, the room too crowded for it to be solitude. It feels more like... loneliness. She fiddles with the fingers on her gloves in search of something to do. She has just started debating whether she should search for an escape to a quieter room, when she notices a man stood in her periphery. At first, Winifred assumes he is just another person in the crowd. But something about him is turned towards her...

     He wishes to speak to her.

     "Good-evening," the man, seemingly a lord, says politely.

     "Good-evening, Lord..." Winifred trails off, hoping the name will come to her. She is usually better with details, but there are also an abundance of nobles to keep track of.

     "Ambrose."

     "Lord Ambrose," she sighs, "my apologies. Winifred Erstwhile."

     "A pleasure." He smiles only slightly, but it hardly dispenses any awkwardness in the pause that ensues. Winifred shifts her eyes to make contact with his for the first time — Lord Ambrose looks at her with a strange mix of restraint and intrigue. "I do not recall your face?"

     "Pardon me?"

     "I said I do not recall your face. I would like to think that, if I had seen you in Mayfair before, I would have remembered your face."

     Winifred blinks at him, puzzled initially. She does not understand why Lord Ambrose, a man she has never spoken to before now, is suddenly interested in striking up a conversation. "... What difference does it make to you, my lord?" she asks.

     "Are you one of the young ladies who perhaps prefers conversation to dancing, Miss Erstwhile?" he queries in return.

     "Either are agreeable enough in moderation," says Winifred dismissively. "And it is Mrs. Erstwhile."

     For the first time in their conversation, Lord Ambrose appears flustered. "Mrs? Oh, I– I see..." he stammers, taking a step back. She stares at him and only briefly wonders why his whole demeanour had suddenly shifted. It is only with the gift of hindsight, that contrast between then and now, that it hits her:

     Was Lord Ambrose showing an interest in her?

Now she realises there had been a degree of flirtation in his tone, which ebbed away the moment she hinted that she was married. Winifred's hand instinctively goes to massage the wedding ring under her glove as her mind races. Gradually, her mind catches up with itself — a man had shown interest in her. She has not experienced that since... well, since Joseph courted her. Not knowingly, anyway. Last year she felt as though she had been walking through fog, so perhaps she numbed herself to any inkling of such a thing.

     She cannot say she returns the feeling in the slightest. Nevertheless, it is... strange. Could it even be wrong?

     "Forgive me for being so presumptuous, Mrs. Erstwhile," Lord Ambrose continues. "Though I must ask, what brings you to Mayfair? I am still uncertain whether I have seen you before."

     "My sisters and I have taken up residence with Lady Strachan, who kindly agreed to sponsor them for the London season. Previously it had been my eldest sister, Lady Osborne, who extended this opportunity to them in the season last year."

She watches the lord perk up in recognition at Madeline's title. Lord Ambrose's eyes shine as he stares out at the dancers, seeming amused with himself. "Two outings to Mayfair... what does your husband make of all this? You disappearing to the ton to indulge yourself?"

Winifred's jaw tightens. Indulge herself? She turns, glaring at him.

Joseph's smile flashes through her mind like a lightning bolt. It leaves a sting afterwards that poisons her tone, as she carefully delivers her next words:

"My husband does not think very much at all, my lord, considering he has been dead for almost two years."

If she had not left Lord Ambrose tongue-tied before, Winifred certainly has now. His eyes widen apologetically as his mouth opens and shuts in shame. "I– my condolences, m'am, I... good-evening." Before he can seemingly embarrass himself further, Lord Ambrose flees the scene, leaving Winifred in his wake.

     She stands speechless in the space afterwards. What was that? Winifred hardly knows what to make of it.

"Ah, there you are! I have been looking for you all evening..."

A familiar voice, Benedict's voice, travels her way and soon he is stood right before her. Winifred feels it wash over her like a calming balm, even if for a fleeting moment. He smiles his usual smiles towards her, easygoing and flowing with where the party takes him. But it only takes one look at her for his expression to switch — his brows knit together, his body leaning in slightly.

"Is everything well? Did something happen?" Benedict asks.

Winifred blinks rapidly, shaking her head to ward off her confusion. "No– yes– I mean, I am well."

"You are certain?"

"Mhmm."

She instinctively shoots a glance into the crowd, seeing where Lord Ambrose has run off to. Benedict tracks her gaze with concerned curiosity but neither of them find anyone. Accepting he won't get anything out of her for now, he sighs and returns to his laid-back self. "Good. Because I have some very fine people I wish to introduce you to."

Benedict steps back for a moment, ushering a couple forwards — they seem completely wide-eyed and hesitant over the ton, observing everything as though it were brand new. The wife catches Winifred's gaze on accident, and already she can tell that she is a stubborn spirit.

"This is Mr. and Mrs. Mondrich, they run a club in town together," says Benedict. "And this is Winifred Erstwhile... I think you will both find she has more integrity in her little finger than most of the ton combined."

"Oh my," Winifred's eyes widen as she chuckles; the compliment catches her off-guard. "I am not certain I can live up to such an introduction."

Mrs. Mondrich lights up in realisation. "Mr. Bridgerton has told us much about you."

"Uh—"

"Has he?" Winifred asks, surprised.

"Well, I only thought that if anyone could put the Mondrichs at ease, it would be you," Benedict course-corrects. "They recently inherited a great fortune from a late family member, and have become the new Lord and Lady Kent. This is their first foray into the ton, so to speak."

     "Ah... it is quite the adjustment, wouldn't you agree?" she says.

"The imposter syndrome has yet to wear off," Mondrich replies.

"I cannot say it has left me either, Mr. Mondrich."

The couple smile, reassured by Winifred's words, while she silently returns to her own inner turmoil. She still feels jarred about staying in the same room as Lord Ambrose after he... well...

"Back again, sister!" Abigail suddenly pops up, Lord Warner in tow after their dance.

"Ah! Perfect timing," Winifred says breathlessly, "I think I might step outside for some fresh air, this room is so—"

"May we join you?" Mondrich asks. "I think I would rather observe the viper's nest from afar."

"Oh, certainly..."

Benedict furrows his brows at her, but she simply shakes her head. Not now. She moves to follow the others outside to the courtyard, where the moon's spotlight takes centre stage, when—

"Mrs. Erstwhile?" Lord Warner asks. Winifred turns around, facing him. "It would be a pleasure of mine if I could call on your sister tomorrow morning. She is charming in more ways than one."

As Abigail grins, Winifred feels a warm positivity lift her up. "Oh, thank you, my lord. You would be very welcome."

"I only mean to ask where exactly you are taking residence in Mayfair. Miss Seymour was telling me of how you have taken residence with a friend."

"Ah yes," she nods, catching her sister's relieved gaze, "that would be with the baroness, Lady Strachan, in Berkeley Square."

She sees no reason for this to cause any hesitation. And yet, Lord Warner fumbles at the mention of it. "Lady... Strachan, you say? Dominique Strachan?" he asks slowly, cautiously, with a hint of regret in his voice.

"... Yes?"

"Is something the matter my lord?" Abigail asks, her smile beginning to falter.

Lord Warner freezes on the spot, conflicted. Then he practically grimaces as he takes a bow. "Forgive me, Miss Seymour, Mrs. Erstwhile. I regret to say that I... may need to re-examine whether I can call on you tomorrow morning. Er– prior engagements, you see. Silly of me for not remembering sooner. Good-evening..." And just like that, he is gone.

Winifred glares after him. "What was the meaning of that?"

Abigail's lashes flutter. "I– I do not know... but I suppose it would be just my luck—"

"Don't," she warns her sister, just as Lettie arrives. "There you are. You will not believe this. A perfectly good suitor just abandoned Abigail out of nowhere."

"The cad!" Lettie retorts, infuriated.

"Lord Warner seemed to falter the minute he heard the baroness's name..." Winifred seethes quietly. But when she looks to Lettie, expecting a similar reaction, her friend instead gulps; she knows something she does not. "Lettie... what is it?"

"I think... there might be a reason for that."

Pulling back, Abigail looks pleadingly at Lettie. Winifred's look is decidedly more stern.

"Lord Warner is... Lady Strachan's grandson," Lettie whispers, after checking the baroness is occupied with Lady Danbury. "The son of her daughter. After Lord Strachan died a number of years ago, there was a vicious family feud over the inheritance. I do not know all the details — I have tried to extract some, but the baroness is fiercely stubborn about keeping the story under wraps. Anyway, she and her children want nothing to do with each other. I assume the grandchildren have been told the very same thing."

Abigail sighs heavily, reeling from the news, whilst also submitting to it. Just her luck, she seems to think woefully. Winifred, meanwhile, exhales slowly. "Why... did you not say this sooner?" she whispers back.

"It was difficult under her roof," Lettie replies, "and you know I would never want to sabotage your opportunities, truly!"

Winifred pinches the bridge of her nose. "Nothing is ever simple here, is it?"

"Nothing is ever simple in general."

It is infuriating, but Winifred also knows it to be a common conflict. Lettie's family have been fractured in the time she has known her. Winifred's own family, more on her mother's side, have their own host of in-fighting and passive-aggressive behaviour driving them apart as well. Too tired to question the matter further for now, she tugs her friend's arm towards the door, nodding for Abigail to lead the way. Perhaps she can find Jemima outside and keep a closer eye on her.

"Did I miss anything else whilst I was on companion duty?" Lettie asks innocently.

Winifred's mind reluctantly leaps back to Lord Ambrose and the conversation that only went downhill with each word. She wrinkles her nose.

"No, I do not believe you did."

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

     BENEDICT meanders through the moonlit courtyard, where lit torches punctuate doorways as their flames tremble in the light breeze. Everything is cast in a dimmed, almost magical hue. Members of the ton gossip and scheme over glasses of ratafia, eyes always scrutinising for their next manoeuvre... something he is keen to escape as soon as possible. With two drinks in hand he makes his way over to a quieter corner of the courtyard.

     Winifred is stood alone, ever vigilant as a chaperone as she watches Abigail mingle with other debutantes. Her back is pressed against a tall pillar like she was fused there. There is a look she wears when she thinks no one is watching her — Benedict can practically see her turning over every thought in her head like stones from the ground. What is she thinking? He sighs, walking over to her, which prompts her to step away from the pillar.

     "For you," he hands her a drink.

     "Thank you," she takes it, having a small sip.

     Benedict waits for a beat, tilting his head at her. "Do you plan on telling me what has been bothering you, or will you remain pensive for the rest of the evening?"

     Winifred's gaze darts down to her glass. "I– well–" she stammers at first, then resigns to a sigh. "I'm not sure I can..."

     "If you do not wish to, I understand," he says. "But do not feel that you can't. It is only me."

     She lets out another sigh; lots of sighing. Benedict notices she seems more embarrassed or conflicted, more than anything. But whatever it is, the subject has put Winifred in an off-kilter mood ever since he found her.

     "I, uh..." Winifred pauses, reaching up and rubbing the side of her neck. "I spoke with Lord Ambrose earlier tonight. Or rather he approached me. I assume you know him?"

     "By association, I suppose. He races horses."

     "Oh. Well. Anyway, as we spoke, I suddenly had the impression that he was..." Whatever follows next, Benedict cannot hear, for Winifred lowers her voice so much and speaks through her teeth that it blends into the mindless chatter in the distance.

     "I'm afraid not even the breeze heard that—"

     "He showed an interest in me!" Winifred says, a little too loudly this time, causing her to go wide-eyed with embarrassment.

     It takes a moment for Benedict to realise what she means: flirtation. "Oh– you mean– are you sure?" Benedict asks, teasing at first, although he cannot stop himself from suddenly scanning the courtyard for Lord Ambrose. Where did he come from, and why was he suddenly interested in Winifred now? Failing to find him, he adds, "What did you say to him?"

     "Not much. And once he discovered I was married, or widowed rather, he cleared off before I could scarcely draw breath."

     Winifred huffs, but even as she holds her glass, she still manages to link her hands in the nervous way he's noticed she does sometimes. "It was... just a shock, I suppose, to be noticed like that," she murmurs.

     "Why wouldn't Lord Ambrose notice you? You—" Benedict starts out, confidently, then violently finds himself stumbling over his own words out of nowhere. Any coherent sentence he was about to say has disintegrated on his tongue. And why has his heart started thumping so hard in his chest? Winifred knocked the words right out of him as her gaze snapped up to meet his, unflinching and awaiting his response. It's that damned look. He wishes she wouldn't look at him like that. What has come over him?

     Say something! Anything!

     "You are... well, yourself, of course," he gets out.

     Not your finest work, Benedict.

     Benedict attempts damage control by smoothing it over with a joke: "Although I do think you dodged a bullet. Anthony kept tabs on eligible bachelors during Daphne's season, and if they are anything to go by, Lord Ambrose draws the bustle too freely when it comes to his gambling habit..."

     Good grief.

     Winifred lets out a small hum, barely a laugh, as she seems preoccupied. "That isn't the point," she shakes her head and stares at the floor. "I never considered that someone might try to... make advances at me, when the only man who ever... I suppose what I am trying to say is that it felt strange. Make no mistake, I have no interest in Lord Ambrose, it could have been anyone. Simply the fact that it was not Joseph was..." Winifred trails off, frustrated at trying to articulate herself. It certainly sounds like a complicated web of emotions.

     "I understand," says Benedict sincerely. Winifred sighs, out of relief this time.

He must admit, he has always admired the clear devotion she has towards her late husband. Winifred appeared as the pragmatic type when they met, but Benedict saw quickly that underneath it all was a steadfastly loyal heart that was hurting. He was almost reminded of his own mother, and the way she still grows misty when she speaks about his father. How could someone love one person so deeply? It astounds him. It is beautiful to Benedict, from a distance... and terrifying, more than anything, in its rawness.

     In spite of the fear... he is curious... Benedict leans against the stone pillar behind him, feeling the cool texture through his jacket.

     "You know, there are other Lord Ambroses out there."

     "You mean men with a gambling problem?"

     "Probably, but no," Benedict chuckles, "what I mean to say is that... it is not beyond the realm of possibility that there are others who'd feel drawn to you." He stops as Winifred looks up at him, almost in surprise. "The question is, how would that make you feel?"

"Would I... put myself back out there, so to speak?" she asks cautiously.

He nods, shrugging a shoulder. Then Winifred laughs; bitterly, but still a laugh.

"Oh, no," she grins self-deprecatingly, "I'm afraid my days of courtship are far behind me. I have no desire to partake in something that was tiring enough the first time."

Benedict laughs too, but feels a surprising sting inside him. Disappointment. It sinks like a rock into the pit of his stomach and drags down his spirits... for what, exactly? Why should he feel disappointed? And who was he even asking for? Winifred gazes at him again, and Benedict feels the inkling of a warning sign in his head — or perhaps the warning was for his heart instead.

He shakes his head, as if shaking off a hallucination.

"Yes... well... who could blame you? The marriage mart continues to grate on my sanity each year. If it means I can avoid all this, then a bachelor's life it is." Benedict raises his glass into the air. "A toast. To... maintaining blissful freedom!"

Winifred nods, raising her glass too. "To freedom," she says, although lacking some conviction.

With a gentle clink, they each take a sip from their glasses... and within a few seconds their plans seem to disintegrate. Benedict and Winifred stare at each other over the rim of the glass, seeming to take each other in under the light of the moon.

.·:·.⟐.·:·.

A U T H O R ' S
N O T E

—

Dearest readers...

BENEDICT IS SEASON 4 Y'ALL!! I COULD DO A CARTWHEEL I'M SO HAPPY!! Anyway, back to the author's note with a meme made by yours truly...

I feel like I've ended up writing Benedict's POV wayyy more than I originally intended to in this book, but I can't help myself! I love it! This chapter in particular I wanted to use his POV to show how tired he is/will grow of the ton, as well as the fact that he is definitely catching onto his feelings for Winifred in some capacity. The pair of them were *definitely* connecting some dots in their heads towards the end of this chapter... to be continued.

Also, Winifred got hit on?? Sort of?? Although we know Benedict is his charming self, I think this moment is one where she blatantly notices a guy trying to flirt with her (during Act One I feel like she would've blocked out anything like that). It makes her feel really weird but it's a step in eventually opening up her heart again. Also Lord Ambrose is just a random guy I picked from the Bridgerton wiki, I think he's someone who tried to approach Daphne in season 1 until Anthony scared him off lmao.

Finally, a question from me which would be really helpful if you could answer: Do you prefer longer chapters where more happens in one chapter, or shorter ones where events are more confined? I'm trying not to drag things out too much and it is taking some balancing now that the Joseph flashback scenes are gone.

The next two-ish chapters take a departure from the show, they're filled with original scenes of mine. Both challenging and VERY fun to write... looking forward to those.

P.S. thank you for 60K reads!! I can hardly believe it!

Yours truly,
— starryeyedturtle

PUBLISHED: 24/07/2024