Work Text:
You Do Not Need to Walk on Your Knees
The unmistakable privilege of his life was being born a Bridgerton. It afforded him a comfortable childhood, an advantageous education, and the opportunity to see a world of beauty that very few experienced in their lifetime. Quite early in life, Benedict quenched his thirst for the wonders that the world could show by circling galleries around the world where the grandmasters’ works were showcased.
Yet no masterpiece he had ever crossed an ocean to admire compared to the one waiting behind the breakfast room door.
He pushed open the silent door. There she was, close to the window and the natural light, seated with her back to the sun so that she enjoyed the full light across her specimen and her neatly organized tools. She wore white cotton gloves as she handled the fabric in front of her. A magnifying visor was propped up on her head like they were sunglasses.
She had not noticed him. Instead, all her attention was on the silk thread that she held up with her tiny tweezers. She leaned forward and compared the thread to the damaged embroidered cuff on the restoration mat.
She was so focused on the work. He itched to remind her to pull down the visor so she could see better. He did not. He watched her work. Sophie began to turn the fabric in her hands.
“Good morning, Sophie.”
She looked up with a start, caught off guard and so engrossed that she did not even notice company. “Good morning, Benedict.” And then, out of nowhere, her cheeks grew pink.
His lips curved, remembering the night. Benedict’s gaze swept her flushed cheeks. “May I?”
“It’s your townhouse,” she answered, going back to her inspection.
He walked into the room, walking directly right behind her. “Our house, Mrs Bridgerton,” he corrected gently. Just two months married. She would get used to the concept soon enough. He kissed the top of her head, keeping himself as inobtrusive as his size could be when he could see now he was blocking her light. As a painter, he would probably feel upset had it happened to him.
“Is that a mourning dress?”
She smiled. “It’s an 18th century court sleeve.”
“Close enough.”
“You are so completely wrong. You were not even in the same neighborhood.”
At the sheer gall of her, he laughed. He placed his hands on her shoulders. She covered one of his hands with hers. With her other hand, she pointed to the embroidery on the collar of the dress. “This repair was done in the 19th century,” she shared.
“How can you tell?” he murmured, genuinely curious now because the threads looked impossibly alike.
“Yes, look at this silk twist. In the 18th century the silk twist would have been thrown by hand and twisted. By the 19thcentury, most of this was machine-twisted.”
He leaned forward over her shoulders and squinted. And then she was putting the magnifiers over her eyes.
“Use this,” she demanded. “Before you damage your eyes.” As if she had not been doing the same thing earlier.
For the life of him he could not tell the difference between the two silken threads. He turned to her and declared, “I shall simply take your word for it.”
She grinned. “Best decision you made.”
He snorted. “Not even close.” And since he was already leaning forward over her shoulder, he simply shifted and pressed kiss into the side of her neck, causing her to giggle. “Best decision I made,” he claimed in between kisses and sucking in more air, “was marrying you, babe.”
The ridiculous endearment still caught her by surprise.
Two months into marriage, and she still could not hear it without stifling a smile.
She still never quite knew what to do with the fact that a man who had every advantage life could bestow still looked at her as though she had been the great fortune of his.
Sophie dropped the specimen and her tweezers on the table, then twisted her body so that she could claim his lips with hers. He smirked against her kiss, always delighting in her expressiveness. Her fingers buried in his hair, scratching his scalp deliciously. And then she began to pull back. He followed the movement, unwilling to release the kiss so suddenly.
“I might be late,” she gasped.
He noticed the museum ID card lying on the mock workspace. Sophie successfully disengaged, her lips reddened from the kiss, her nostrils flared as she tried to catch her breath. She caught his glance, then reached for the card. She grasped it with two hands and looked at her face smiling proudly at the camera. “I still forget I have this.”
“It’s only been a year.”
Her fingers traced the laminated edges. “Sometimes I feel like I’m borrowing a life meant for someone else,” she whispered.
The words struck him harder than he was prepared for. After two years of loving her in silence. After a year of convincing her to be with him.
After standing in front of family and friends, taking her hand, and promising everything that he was for hers alone.
Still, she believed that this was not meant for her?
She was the reason this whole life felt like home.
His denial was firmer than he expected. “No. You spent six years working for my mother during the day.” She was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth again. He disliked it when she hurt those lovely full lips like so, but knew changes did not happen overnight. Or over the years that he pursued her and the two months of their marriage. He had not been cursed with patience for anyone but her. Carefully, he began packing away her tools in her little case while she worked diligently on the final stitch. He snapped the case closed. “You studied every evening after every demanding day working for Violet Bridgerton.”
She tucked away the needle, the gently folded the cuff in a satin protective sheath. “I was very tired,” she said softly, looking up at him through lowered lashes, her lower lip sliding into the faintest pout.
Benedict closed his eyes for the briefest moment. This was not the time. He was building to something. Unfortunately, no one thought to inform his wife. “I know you were, babe. But you earned that badge.”
“It still feels strange.”
It took all of his self-control to kiss her forehead instead. “Soon, it won’t.” He took her face in his hands and looked straight into those brown eyes and firmly said, “Because you deserve your place, more than anyone I know.”
When she turned away, he could tell that she was holding back her glee. What privilege it was of his to be the one to give her those little moments, when he knew her heart was soaring but she had had so practiced not giving in to delights that it was a struggle to let go.
The notification pinged on his phone, and he glanced down at the screen.
The invitation flashed on the screen with a sleek animation that he had never seen before in the same context. When he agreed to the event, he had expected a negotiation on gallery logistics. Instead, his saw a rather confident block text:
You are Officially Confirmed!
THE NEXUS COLLECTIVE
Future is Human
At the bottom half of the screen was a QR code. And then a serious of icons and letters. He had younger siblings. He knew exactly what they were. Handles. Usernames. Links to digital portfolios, more likely. There were no embossed initials on cream card stock. There was no handwritten letter from a curator thanking him for his time. Just a QR code. He was glad they did not frame it and pretend it was an art piece. It did beat the way he and his contemporaries had done it when they started out, and fresh graduates spent a fortune printing and binding portfolios that may be thrown out unreviewed and untouched, and then burning CDs when they realized it was cheaper and more technically impressive.
Sophie stopped beside him and peered at his phone. He rested his chin on top of her head.
“I miss embossed stationery, sweetheart.”
Sophie scrolled. “Oh there’s an app to download.”
Benedict sighed. “Of course there is.”
She chuckled, then slapped his chest playfully. “You’re thirty eight, not eighty eight!” Sophie grabbed his phone, a large smile splitting her face. “Contemporary art, digital installations, emerging artists. Guest Speaker Benedict Bridgerton,” she read out loud, pride throbbing in her voice. “Dress Code: Creative Formal.” Her lips twitched. She looked up at him.
Benedict had been worried by the precise line. He looked at her with suspicion. “What does that mean?” He tapped the dress code on the screen. “I have no earthly idea what this means, babe.”
“You can always ask your gallery,” she suggested. “I’m sure they can guide you.”
Immediately he shook his head. “No. I don’t want someone who knows fashion. I want someone who knows me.”
Sophie handed him back his phone. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have spent twenty years attending gallery openings all over the world.”
She nodded emphatically. “You’ve spent twenty years being the most elegantly dressed man in each of those rooms!” she claimed. She was not there, but she delivered it so confidently and certainly that he simply had to smile.
“All those years I have attended the same sort of events.” He held up the invitation from his phone. “This isn’t like any one of those gallery openings. And this is not the same crowd.”
“It decidedly is not,” Sophie agreed.
“It’s founders,” Benedict said. If they had not promised to make a large donation to the Art Academy, he would have uncrossed his arms and used his fingers to quote the name. “Influencers.”
Sophie made a face. “Possibly.”
“Young, upcoming artists.”
“They did say so in the invitation,” she acknowledged, nodding in agreement.
“People who will think I am woefully out of touch.”
“Benedict!” she complained. “They will not.”
“I am thirty-eight, babe.”
She smiled again. She smiled a lot now. He liked that. But he was in a bit of crisis, so he could not nibble on those smiles like he should.
“I don’t want to arrive there looking like everyone’s distinguished elder.”
Sophie turned to study him. She paused and assessed, looking at him from head to toe. She took her time. He cleared his throat. And then, she quietly said, “I have never once looked at you and wished you were younger.”
He blinked once. She held his gaze. He swallowed. And then she picked up her tool case and busied her hands by placing the needle inside and shutting it closed again.
“If anything…” she said, trailing off. And then she stopped, glanced back at him.
He smiled. Hell, even he smiled a lot these days. “If anything?” he prompted.
She cleared her throat. He could see the flush creeping up from her neck once more. “I’ve decided not to finish the sentence.”
“Sophie,” he said softly.
“No.”
“Sophie,” he repeated.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Soph—”
“No,” she repeated in a sing song.
“You have made me very curious, babe.”
“I know.”
“It was deliberate.”
She blinked at him innocently. “Innocent me?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I married a menace.”
“Oh, you absolutely did!”
And then he caught her hand and raised it up to his chest. His smile softened. “Sophie, I need your help.”
She titled her head. “My help?”
His brows rose in a silent, charming plea. “This is something that you understand better than I do.”
“You’re a Bridgerton,” she reminded him.
He had just been waxing poetic about the privilege of being born as he was, and the privilege that came along with that name. That fact did not help in this particular instance. “I grew up in tailored suits. I wore Ralph Lauren to my brother’s Year 8 tennis match.”
The interest in her eyes was unmistakable. “Was there a picture?”
“Soph, I’m serious.”
She reached up a hand to run her fingers down the lapel of his blazer. “You still wear tailored suits.” Sophie grinned. “And you wear them really, really well.”
“I understand museums,” he told her. Benedict rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “You understand fashion, where aesthetics are going, this future they talk about right in that invite.”
“Benedict,” she said slowly. “I restore 18th century clothing.”
“You also follow exhibitions, runways, designers, fashion houses and you know every collection before I even hear about them,” he pointed out.
Her gaze sharpened. “How did you know?”
He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I married you. I notice everything.” Her smile faded. “I really am asking, Sophie. I need your eyes.”
Slowly she nodded. “Okay.”
He grew triumphant. “Okay!”
“But you do exactly what I say.”
He laughed again, but pulled her flush against him. “I’ve done far more reckless things.” Her brows rose. “I married you, didn’t I?”
Sophie rolled her eyes, but let herself press even closer against him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, meeting on the small of his back. “I walked right into that one.” He lowered his lips and kissed her, finally tasting that smile. “This means that you admit I’m cooler than you.”
He scrunched his nose. And then he sighed. “I admit that you know more than I do in certain niche pursuits.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you saying I’m smarter?”
Benedict sighed. “In certain niche pursuits,” he pointed out.
Sophie crowed. “Oh this is even better!” And then she released him, then whirled around to set aside her tools and picked up her handbag. “I am calling off work today. I still have so many PTOs that they won’t mind.”
There was nothing urgent about determining whether a silk strand was 18th or 19th century anyway, so if the restoration studio complains he was going to need to take it up with the foundation. But then he remembered what valuable specialist his wife was and knew there was nothing to be concerned about. And if they gave her a hard time, well he was going to be there but not until she asked.
“We are going to need appointments.”
“What appointments?” he asked, flabbergasted.
“You don’t just walk into Mayfair boutiques out of the blue on a Saturday and expect them to entertain you.”
“You don’t?” He followed her out the door. Because he did. Since he was young. No one ever turned him away. But his wife was on a roll listing the boutiques she was taking him. Benedict listened as she rattled off designer names.
Finally, very softly, he said, “Baby.”
Sophie stopped walking. And then slowly, she turned, flushed once again. She whispered, “What?”
“Take a breath. I understood four words out of that.”
She reached out a hand. “Let me translate into your language.”
He grinned and took her hand. “I’d appreciate that. Now, slowly, tell me which places you want to go, and I’ll make sure the doors are wide open for you.” His fingers curled around hers. “And then you lead. I follow.”
The two of them emerged into the London sunshine.
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
Walking hand in hand towards the boutiques of Mayfair, Sophie fished for a case of sunglasses from her bag and put them on, chic and cute. And then she handed him another case of his own, which he gladly put on.
Benedict began to walk towards the first boutique. Her hand on his sleeve still him. “Not there.” He stopped immediately. “We’re starting over here.”
He nodded. “Lead,” he repeated. “I follow.”
Inside the boutique, Benedict saw his wife light up.
She spoke animatedly about tailoring traditions of the century she was focused on—18th for this project—and connected the conversation with the styles emerging for this year. Sophie released his arm and walked up to a full suit combination and then raised it to him. She told him about the last Fashion Week that featured the exact same style, a night that she caught and followed on social media and told him about how much of the couture was inspired by which pieces of the museum fashion archives. She even explained why historical construction influenced modern designers and how to find it in the suit’s seams.
He swore right then he was going to get her a front row seat to next year’s Fashion Week in each and every city she mentioned that morning. Fair was fair. She had joined him in his art gallery pilgrimage since the day they started dating, even before it if he counted the nights when Violet Bridgerton asked for her company when Benedict showed his mother his own exhibits. She never once complained, listened to him explain pigments, composition, light, brushwork. Even when she was exhausted most of the time. Now, it was his turn.
He understood very little of the technicalities of what she described. It did not matter. She smiled, more frequently than before. She spoke, more animatedly than ever. She laughed, more freely than any time in her life.
After three years of knowing her and months of calling her his wife, there was nothing he enjoyed more than watching her step into a room and letting her doubts fall from her shoulders.
He had seen her transform this way before. The first time that he had seen that expression had been at a conservation laboratory three years ago. She had forgotten he was even in the room. He had spent twenty minutes pretending to study a tapestry while secretly studying her.
He did not understand yet the depths of her fascination with textile conservation. But the moment she entered that laboratory, he knew there was much more to her passion than design and construction.
He mistook some of the intricate patterns and gave an anachronistic answer. She began a lecture on 18th century embroidery. He should have been humiliated. Instead her obsession with old dresses vied for his obsession with her.
There she is, he thought.
She was not the timid personal assistant who was perpetually lacking in sleep and careful not to call attention to herself so she could keep her job. She was not even the gloriously beautiful woman for whom he worked his ass off so she would agree to marry him.
Here was conservator Sophie, scholarly Sophie. Here was the woman she fought so hard, against all the odds, to become.
He did not even care anymore what he ended up wearing.
All he could think of was the extraordinary privilege of being Benedict Bridgerton, whose good fortune was that he married a woman whose eyes could see beauty in anything—and chose to see it in him.
Only moments later, a stylish woman stepped out of the backroom and greeted them. She towered over Sophie, and his wife hung the suit back in place and then stood by his side. Benedict extended a hand, prepared to offer the name in the appointment that he managed to wrangle while they were on the way.
Instead, the woman turned to Sophie and recognized her. “Miss Baek!”
“Genevieve!” Sophie laughed. “It’s Mrs Bridgerton now,” she corrected her gently.
The sales associate gasped. “Congratulations!” She stepped forward and gave Sophie a warm hug. Quickly, the two rattled off quickly a series of questions and answers.
Benedict hung back, then searched for a waiting chair. Most boutiques had them for the husbands, of course. And so it served its purpose for him that day. From his seat, he watched in delight.
Finally, as the rapid fire talk wound down, Sophie seemed to remember and searched the room for him. She turned and saw him watching her. “I’m so sorry. That was so rude of me.” She walked forward and reached for Benedict’s hand then pulled him with her. “Gen, this is my husband.” She reached for Benedict's hand.
“Benedict Bridgerton?” the woman confirmed, with a masked French lilt. “I recognize the name from the booking.” She turned to Benedict and shook his hand, wishing him well too.
“Guilty,” he admitted.
Genevieve instinctively turned to Benedict, just as most did when he was with his wife. He could not fault them for it. He was older and occupied more physical space. It became a nearly default setting for most that encountered them as a couple. “What are we looking for today, Mr Bridgerton?”
Before he answered, he turned to look at his wife. She answered for him, “We are rebuilding his wardrobe, but for today, we have one particular event in mind.”
“Excellent,” Genevieve exclaimed.
Again, Benedict said nothing. He merely smiled back at his wife taking charge.
The sales associate looked between Benedict and Sophie. Genevieve began pulling items based on Benedict’s figure, and then handed each one to Sophie. She started with a jacket. Sophie ran her hand over it. “This is floating canvas?” she asked.
“Half,” Genevieve answered.
Sophie gave it back. “I thought so.”
Genevieve handed another one to Sophie. Sophie hummed and then looked at the seams. “This is machine finished.” Genevieve did not speak another word, merely took the jacket from Sophie and set it aside. She handed another. “This is Edward Sexton inspired,” Sophie whispered. “Oh.”
There was something in her voice. Benedict turned. How could brown eyes turn impossibly darker?
Curious.
He had never heard anyone sound quite so reverent over tailoring.
She looked at the jacket the way he looked at a newly discovered Caravaggio. He smiled to himself. That was interesting. He had never seen her quite so taken with a garment before.
Genevieve lit up. “Exactly.”
Sophie licked her lips. Benedict watched. His wife held up the jacket, then ran her hands at the tailoring. She looked up at him. “Architectural, straight shoulders.”
Benedict nodded. That sounded reasonable.
“Rock-and-roll tailoring,” Sophie continued.
Benedict still nodded. Fine.
“Aggressively nipped waist.” With each word she grew increasingly breathless. She must be exhausted from the walk. She turned to Genevieve. “You have the trousers for this?” Genevieve nodded. “My husband will fit them.”
Benedict looked up and met her eyes. Dark eyes turned impossibly darker.
She really liked Edward Sexton.
When Genevieve vanished to the backroom, Benedict wrapped his arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “Are you alright?” Sophie nodded. “If you get too tired, we’ll go home and then come back tomorrow.”
“I’m alright, Benedict. I want to see you in that suit.”
He squeezed her against him. “I had no idea you knew all that.”
“I thought you noticed everything,” she pointed out.
“I noticed you loved fashion. I didn’t realize you studied them that much.”
Sophie giggled. “I restore them. Of course I study them.”
“Well now I know,” he said.
Genevieve returned, reporting that the Sexton suit was hanging in the fitting room to be fitted later. She brought a different jacket option and mistakenly handed it to Benedict. Without looking at it, he handed it to Sophie. “What do you think, Soph?”
Sophie inspected the jacket.
“Excellent line. Benedict has the wide shoulders to pull this off.” And then she turned to look at the front, then frowned. “The lapel is too wide for you. But the drape is lovely.”
Benedict had a small smile listening to his wife.
Genevieve prompted, “Do you agree, Mr Bridgerton?”
Without waiting another second, he answered. “I have no idea, but I agree with my wife.”
Genevieve then laughed. “As do most happily married men.”
“No,” Benedict clarified. “I agree because she’s right.” He tapped his temple, and he showed his pride clearly in the way that he looked at Sophie. “My wife knows her stuff. I trust her completely. You’ll see.”
Sophie handed the jacket back to Genevieve and requested for the full suit to be included in the fitting room. Genevieve addressed Benedict, “You are very lucky. Other men would have looked for a proper stylist for this.”
“I did,” Benedict said. “I just happen to be married to the best one. Just happy I married someone considerably younger than I am, or I’d be lost with all this.”
Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Ten years, Benedict.”
“That is an entire decade, sweetheart.”
“It’s not that big of a gap.”
Genevieve left to search for other options meeting Sophie’s exacting specifications. While Sophie and Benedict were alone, Sophie reached out and adjusted Benedict’s collar.
He looked around, then lowered his voice. “So…”
Sophie’s brows shot up, immediately detecting the change in his tone. “So?”
He wet his lips. “Am I doing well?”
She placed her palm on his chest. “So far,” she allowed.
“What a glowing review.”
Genevieve returned with a few more garment bags. “We found some wonderful options meeting the criteria that Mrs Bridgerton provided us.” Sophie clapped her hands in excitement. The associate walked Benedict and Sophie to the fitting rooms.
“Shall we begin?”
Benedict stared at the garments hanging inside the fitting room. He turned to his wife, then back at the fitting room again. He sighed. “You lead,” he repeated the mantra of the day. “I follow.” He expected her to indicate which outfit to try on first.
Sophie instead stepped forward and straightened his lapel. Then she smoothened his tie.
“There you go,” she murmured.
“There?” he pressed.
“You look very handsome in that. What a masterpiece.”
He cleared his throat. “Sophie, I haven’t tried anything on yet. This is what I came in with.”
Her eyes widened. She froze. Genevieve stifled her grin. “Right. I was testing you,” Sophie stammered. She turned him and pushed him towards the changing room. Benedict allowed himself to be led by his wife who stood a foot shorter than him. When he got into the room, he was unable to stop smiling.
How productive were they going to be today, when Sophie forgot she was supposed to be evaluating the clothes?
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
“We will begin with the Edward Sexton,” Genevieve announced.
Sophie nodded enthusiastically. “That is… excellent,” Sophie acknowledged. “Just… excellent.”
Benedict assessed all the garments hanging there inside the fitting room, then turned around and asked, “Do I need instructions?”
Sophie blinked. “You’ve put trousers on before, Benedict. Get started.”
Inside the fitting room, Benedict hung up his own clothes. He studied the first set that Genevieve had helpfully placed in front of the rest. Unusual. Much bolder than anything he would normally wear, and he noted that it was the point the dress code and his plea for help from his younger wife.
“I hope my man Eddie knows what he’s doing,” he muttered to himself.
Outside, Genevieve overheard him. “He usually did, Mr Bridgerton,” she called back for Benedict to hear.
While Benedict changed, Sophie clasped her hands together. Genevieve pulled up a seat so that she could wait comfortably right across Benedict’s fitting room door.
“Have you never styled your husband before?” Sophie shook her head. “He is handsome.”
“He is,” Sophie agreed without missing a beat.
Genevieve smiled knowingly. “I imagine that will complicate the job, no?”
Sophie laughed. “I am fair and balanced. I’ll manage,” she declared confidently.
Finally, Benedict opened the fitting room door. He stepped out. He was met with silence. Sophie, in particular, held her breath.
“Sophie,” he prompted, this time with a tinge of nerves.
The jacket fit beautifully, just as she thought. Architectural shoulders. Clean, trim waist. Long line that elongated his torso and his legs.
Genevieve turned to his wife.
Benedict waited for the professional opinion that Sophie had been full of when the clothing was in her hands. Nothing came. The silence dragged.
And then finally, like waking up, she said, “Oh.”
He did not even look in the mirror. All he knew was that the suit felt fine, and he moved easily because it fit well. “Soph,” he prompted again. He smiled, and still she said nothing. “Is it catastrophic?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The jacket, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” She looked at him fully fitted in the suit. At least she tried to. “I’m…” She paused.
The sales associate took pity on his young wife who suddenly lost all the words that she had earlier in the morning. To facilitate the review, Genevieve prompted, “What do you think of the shoulders?”
Sophie nodded. “Excellent.”
“And the drape?”
“Perfect.”
“The waist?”
Benedict shifted when Sophie’s gaze dropped to the nipped, trimmed waist. And she looked down, not just at the waist. At him.
“The suppression through the waist…” she said slowly.
He smiled at her, encouragingly.
“…is…"
There was a long pause.
“…very distracting.” She cleared her throat. “I meant flattering.”
Benedict tilted his head. “Expound.”
Sophie blinked. “What do you mean expound?”
“You usually have many specific detailed observations,” he pointed out.
“I do.”
Benedict waited.
Sophie tried. She waited too.
Genevieve suspected. So she waited.
Sophie finally pulled the most astute critique she could. “Very tailored,” she said.
Benedict bit the inside of his cheek. He turned around slowly.
“What about the back?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“You haven’t seen it.”
Sophie nodded again. “I haven’t?”
“No.”
“I was hoping sounding confident was enough.”
“Almost. Not quite.”
Something was different. Something was wrong.
Normally—and he was just witness to it just this morning—Sophie lectured. She did it when he made an error in ascribing a century to a particular garb one weekend. Sophie explained. She had done so when he needed to know the difference between denim styles. Sophie demonstrated. She did so by showing the various ways to use an infinity dress.
Now she was strangely quiet, giving one word adjectives when prompted. And she had been breathing a little faster, a lot shallower. It was odd, and quite concerning.
“Is Edward Sexton very good?”
“The best.”
Benedict smiled. “Then perhaps we will buy this suit even if it does not end up as our choice for the event.”
Benedict went back into the fitting room and change to the next set of garments. When he stepped out of the fitting room, he stood in front of his wife.
“What do you think, Mrs Bridgerton?”
Sophie held her breath, still looking. Genevieve followed Sophie’s gaze, then meets Benedict’s eyes. She looked back at Sophie and gave one tiny smile.
“What do you think of the sleeve pitch?” Silence. “And the lapel?” Genevieve placed a hand on her shoulder.
Sophie blinked. “Handsome.”
“The lapel, Mrs Bridgerton?”
Curious.
His wife had been looking at him more than at the clothes. It seemed like a cry for help.
Had the sales associate noticed something that he had not? Perhaps Sophie had become quite tired already. She had been working quite early at the breakfast room, and who knew what time she rose in the morning while he was still fast asleep.
They should wrap this trip up soon.
Benedict looked at Genevieve, and the woman raised an eyebrow.
The next outfit was luxury knitwear, quite a relaxed option compared to the suits he had already tried on. The trousers were wide legged. The top had an open collar. He emerged from the fitting room and heard his wife’s audible intake of breath.
He looked up. “Better?”
Sophie nodded. “So much.”
“What specifically?”
Sophie answered confidently. “Everything.”
Benedict’s brows drew together. “Everything?”
Sophie waved her hands in front of her. “All of it. All of it works.”
He folded his arms across his chest. His wife seemed quite encouraging today. He had now worn three vastly different outfits. All three received almost identical one word feedback. He mentally catalogued everything he heard and observed.
Look One. Edward Sexton. Excellent. Look Two. Wide Lapel. Handsome. Look Three. Knitwear. Better. So much. Everything.
Genevieve returned with another jacket and handed it to Benedict. Instead of going back to the fitting room, he held it against himself. He turned to Sophie and asked, “What do you think?”
She smiled dreamily at him. “The blue brings out the flecks of blue in your eyes. It’s perfect.”
Benedict lowered the jacket. “Sophie,” he said gently.
“Yes?”
“I was holding it upside down.”
Genevieve lowered her head. Sophie looked again.
He did hold the backet upside down.
Finally, Sophie gave up and covered her face with her hands.
Benedict returned to the fitting room again. On the way, he paused beside Genevieve. “She isn’t usually at a loss for words.” Benedict’s eyes flickered back to Sophie, who was still trying to recover from the incident.
Genevieve followed his gaze. She smiled to herself. “No,” she said diplomatically, “Mrs Bridgerton is usually very decisive. Today she seems to be reconsidering every answer.”
He was not an ogre.
He was almost forty and will not be approached to model any time soon, but for his styling to be so difficult that someone as talented and professional as his wife would struggle—that was a bit of a hit on his ego.
Benedict found Sophie across the boutique. She was not looking at the jackets, or studying the tailoring. She was looking at him.
For the first time all afternoon, Benedict found himself wondering whether the assignment itself was the problem.
Now, Benedict decided to test a theory.
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
Not an ogre at all, thank you very much.
Benedict finally looked at himself in the mirror, but did not immediately change. He ran through the mental notes that he had with every reaction that Sophie had to each outfit so far.
The aggressively nipped waist and stark shoulders of the Sexton.
The bold lapel that she had somehow declared handsome.
The knit she had described as “so much everything.”
The upside down jacket that brought out the blue in his eyes.
“Now, let’s see,” he decided.
Benedict put on the dark green button down shirt, but chose to keep it unbuttoned. He rolled up one sleeve and left the other down. Experimental, he had heard someone call creative fashion. What was more experimental than this asymmetry?
He stepped out of the fitting room. Her eyes immediately went to his bare forearm.
Then, almost as though she had caught herself, she dragged her gaze back to his face. Benedict noticed. He filed it in the back of his head.
His wife straightened her back. Her hands folded neatly together. He noticed the change quite starkly. She spoke before he or Genevieve even prompted her.
“The proportions are cleaner,” Sophie declared.
Benedict blinked. Finally, a complete sentence. Perhaps she’d found her footing. That was good. He began rolling up the other sleeve that he had left undone. Midsentence, Sophie stopped. Benedict looked back up at her in concern. Her attention seemed curiously arrested by the simple act of a rolled sleeve. “Sophie?”
“Huh?”
“You were saying…”
“I…” She laughed softly. “I’ve completely forgotten.”
He had expected familiarity to soften many things after marriage. Apparently, it had softened everything except the way that Sophie looked at him.
Sophie took a deep breath.
Genevieve approached the two of them with a small correction to the outfit. “This look is usually styled with a looser tie than this. Let me show you.”
Sophie immediately stepped forward, and then placed her hand on his chest right over the tie. “I’ll do it.” She stepped even closer. Closer even that what it would require to fix the tie. She had done it before, countless times.
Sophie loosened the knot. Then she flattened the placket with the palm of her hand. Only afterwards, she reached for his collar to straighten it. Her fingertips brushed the side of his neck. Her fingertips were cool. It sent shivers down his spine. She inhaled sharply, then froze. Benedict watched as her eyes fluttered shut briefly, then her gaze settled on the hollow at the base of his throat.
“Finished?”
There it was again. Whatever had been quietly undoing her all afternoon returned the moment that she touched him.
She steadied her breathing.
She never seemed to lose her composure when restoring eighteenth-century silk. His neck must present a far greater challenge.
Benedict Bridgerton has painted enough portraits to know that observation was never passive. People looked differently when they were studying a subject. They looked differently still when the subject fascinated them.
Sophie was not observing. She was lingering.
There was a difference. And once he saw it, he could not unsee it. Not that he was complaining.
Benedict noted the moment that Genevieve became the world’s most considerate sales associate. The woman took one look at the couple and then announced her departure with a flimsy, transparent excuse.
He should remember to leave them a review.
Excellent service. Considerable tact. Would happily shop here again.
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
And now it was just the two of them. His lovely wife, flushed and breathless. And him, quite unabashedly delighted. Here he was, almost forty, and the loveliest, cleverest woman he had ever known still looked at him as if she’d only just fallen in love.
“Sophie,” he said with a smile. He realized he had been smiling for what felt like the entire afternoon. Then again, so had she ever since they married.
“Benedict,” she countered.
“You have become considerably less critical.”
She folded her arms with all the dignity of a queen refusing surrender. “I reject that premise.”
“You approved an upside-down jacket, babe,” he reminded her.
She huffed. “I reject that evidence.”
“Then explain it to me.”
She looked away. “I plead the fifth.”
“Sophie, we are in London,” he teased with an ever-widening grin.
“Then my right to silence, Benedict.”
He took a step closer to her. Even in their solitude, he made sure that only she could hear him. He lowered his voice. “Sophie, look at me.” She looked, her chin thrust up still in defiance. He smiled gently. He held her gaze. “Now, tell me what you think.”
“The—” He could see the effort in her eyes. “The construction—” And then she laughed. “This is completely unfair.”
His smile faded into something gentler.
His bride of two months had been trying, genuinely, excruciatingly. His accomplished wife who beat all the odds tried and failed because of him.
Because she was looking at him. Not the clothes. Him.
“It’s me, isn’t it,” he quietly said.
“Yes,” she grudgingly admitted.
That was the first completely unguarded answer she’d given all afternoon.
Exasperated, she continued, “You.”
“What did I do?” he exclaimed with a huge grin on his face.
“You keep…” She gestured vaguely, wide, the way she gestured aimlessly with the knitwear. “… being there.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Oh don’t sweetheart me right now.”
“I was told that putting on the clothes was the assignment. I had to be there.”
Sophie shook her head. “Oh you know what you were doing.”
“What was I doing?”
“You were—you were all—looking like all that!”
Baffled, he returned, “Like what?”
Her face crumpled. “I don’t know! I can’t describe it.”
“I can’t fix it if I don’t understand,” he said patiently.
Sophie threw both hands in the air. “You’ve been thirty eight the whole day today!” she said accusingly.
“Wait, what?” He blinked. “I.. can’t really argue with that.” He paused. “I’ve been thirty-eight since February. I am going to be thirty-eight for an entire year, Soph.”
Sophie sighed. “It’s beginning to be a problem, Ben.” Then, with the same careful hands that spent the whole afternoon fussing over lapels and collars, she cupped his cheek. “I was supposed to spend today looking at jackets and showing you how good I can be at this. Instead I spent the entire afternoon thinking how utterly beautiful you are.” She groaned. “I am an appalling stylist.”
He studied her in silence.
After two months of marriage and three years together of loving even from afar, his wife still looked at him like that.
What extraordinary luck.
“I don’t believe you are an appalling stylist.”
She winced. “I approved an upside down jacket!”
“You did.”
“I forgot that sleeves were supposed to be the same length before saying yes.”
“You did that too.”
“But I think you proved something even more important today,” he told her.
“What was that?”
He covered the hand resting on his cheek, then lifted it to his lips and kissed her palm. “You still look at me as though you haven’t finished discovering me.”
“Then I’m not an appalling stylist. I just may have been catastrophically unsuited to today’s assignment. I cannot be objective where you’re concerned.”
“I’d take it,” he said, turning her hand and pressing a kiss to her wrist. “And for the record, I never asked you to be objective.”
He smiled. “I only asked you to look at me.”
God, he loved the way she looked at him.
Benedict’s hand tightened around hers. “Would it help if I chose the next outfit?”
She nodded. “And you’d still look as delicious no matter what you pick.”
He chuckled. “I rather hoped you would.”
Genevieve returned to the floor with a fond smile on her face, completely unsurprised to find them standing much closer together than when she left. She carried a final garment bag that Benedict took from her hands.
“I’ve selected something I hope neither of you find too distracting.”
Sophie groaned once more, burying her face in Benedict’s chest. He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. His hand rubbed her back soothingly.
Genevieve hung the garment bag just outside the fitting room and made sure to clear the rest so that Benedict could be better organized inside.
“I’ve saved my favourite for last.”
Benedict reluctantly released Sophie, who settled into the chair in front of his fitting room. “Dare I ask whether this is your professional choice or my wife’s personal one?”
Genevieve glanced towards Sophie. “I have a feeling Mrs Bridgerton and I developed rather similar tastes this afternoon.”
Sophie looked at Genevieve hopefully.
When Benedict stepped out of the fitting room, Sophie’s eyes widened before she covered an unmistakable gasp. He had been proving look after look that she was putty in his hands. This time, when he stepped out, Sophie covered her gasp.
He stood there in glorious deep forest green, filling the suit remarkably with the expanse of his shoulders. He stepped forward in refined elegance but spoke of the uniqueness of his character by veering from the traditional neutrals.
His warm eyes turned to his wife. She looked at him with stars in her eyes, yet she had a calm about her. The frantic energy that followed her all afternoon was gone. She simply looked at him now.
Benedict turned to her. “What do you think?”
Sophie walked around him, and then when she stopped she asked him to turn around himself. Sophie nodded, this time admiring the cut of the suit. She lifted the sleeve and checked the shoulder. Sophie lifted either side of the jacket and then watched how the material fell against his body.
“This is it,” Sophie decided.
Benedict smiled, allowing her hands to playfully dance across his torso. “Is that your professional opinion, Mrs Bridgerton?”
“And my personal one,” she pointed out.
Benedict smiled. Of course it was.
Efficiently, she began listing the alterations. “One or two inches off the sleeve length, Gen. And then we need to get measurements done to avoid a trouser break. Benedict’s legs are long. I don’t think it will be a problem, but I would rather he look impeccable. Sophie knelt in front of Benedict, then ran her hands from his thighs to his calves. “Half an inch, maybe three quarters,” she determined. She looked up at Benedict. “Help me up?”
He did not hesitate. He offered both hands. She laughed softly as he drew her effortlessly back to her feet, then Sophie rested her hands on his waist. “Look at this jacket suppression. It’s not helping things. But you look amazing.”
Benedict watched her settle back into herself. She commented about how the color complemented him, the possible shoes that they could pair with and why some of the available styles would not match.
She had found her footing again.
He would spend the rest of his life making sure she never lost it again.
By the time Genevieve had finished taking measurements, Benedict had changed back into the navy suit and tie he had arrived in. He did not even ask for the price. He merely glanced at the lingering flush on Sophie’s face before saying, “We’ll take it.”
Genevieve scheduled the alterations and refitting pickup date and checked them out. Afterwards, Genevieve handed Sophie a garment bag. “This is yours.”
“I didn’t choose anything.”
Benedict smiled. “I know. I did,” he claimed.
He took the bag from Genevieve and presented it to Sophie.
“Mr Bridgerton asked me to set it aside while you were preoccupied.”
Sophie opened the bag and pulled out the tailored blazer first. She noted the cut and the fabric, then marveled at the hand stitching.
“You keep borrowing my navy jacket so I thought you deserve to have one of your own as well.”
“Benedict, this was sweet.”
“You spent all afternoon dressing me,” Benedict started. “Let me choose something for you.”
Sophie shrugged off her jacket and stepped into the fitting room. Genevieve went inside and helped her put it on. “So modern and elegant,” he heard Genevieve say.
“I’ve never had anything of my own that’s so practical and expensive at once. He chose well, didn’t he?”
“For more reasons than one, Mrs Bridgerton,” Genevieve commented kindly.
The door opened, and Benedict looked up. It was Genevieve who stepped out first. And then, the sales associate stepped to the side.
He forgot how breathing worked.
“What do you think, Mr Bridgerton?”
“Perfect,” he answered instantly. “Excellent, in fact.”
Sophie’s giggle was a fairy bell chiming from inside a rainbow bubble. “You have to look!” she reminded him.
“I’m looking,” he insisted.
“You’ve been looking at my face. At least have a look at the material and construction.”
His grin widened. “I find myself incapable of looking anywhere else, babe. It will be detrimental to the heart health of this poor old man.”
Genevieve shook her head. “I see we have abandoned any pretense of objectivity, Mr and Mrs Bridgerton.”
At the end of the visit, Benedict handed Genevieve his black card. Genevieve rang Sophie’s new blazer, then held up two other dresses. “The red sheath dress and the black strappy dress, Mr Bridgerton, as requested.” Sophie’s eyes widened and turned to protest. “You chose a wardrobe for me today. Allow me to choose some of yours.” He leaned forward and said to her in a low whisper, “Besides, I am looking forward to helping you into them, and then out. Don’t deny your brand new husband the little pleasures, hmm, babe.” And then he brushed a butterfly kiss on her heated cheek.
For Benedict, Genevieve rang up the Edward Sexton and the rich knit, along with the final deep forest green selection. All would be cut and tucked precisely based on their measurements. Genevieve assured them that the suit selected for the event and the red sheath dress would be ready within the next two hours, with the rest ready for fitting by the next day.
Benedict wrapped his arm around her waist. She tugged him closer, so he leaned and nuzzled his nose in her ear. It might as well have been a button to trigger that fairy laughter, which he adored so much that he simply repeated the action.
“Newlywed bliss,” Genevieve observed. “You will be the loveliest couple in that exhibition.”
Benedict blinked.
The exhibition.
Somehow, somewhere between Edward Sexton, rolled sleeves, and the woman he loved delightfully forgetting how to be objective, the exhibition ceased to matter at all.
Benedict checked his watch. Two hours. No appointments. No obligations.
He looked at his wife.
“We appear to have two unexpected hours.”
She smiled back. “It appears we do.”
The two of them walked out of the boutique hand in hand.
“Any professional recommendations of what we can do around here?”
Her hand tightened around his. She pretended to think. “This is going to be difficult, because what I’ve really been wanting to do since you stepped out of that fitting room the very first time will take considerably longer than two hours.”
He tugged at her hand. She pressed up against him. She held her breath when he lowered his face to hers.
Then he dropped a kiss on her nose.
“Soph,” he said softly, his voice just a little rough. “I cannot wait until we’re home either.”
She licked her lips. “Then I know an excellent café close by.”
“Excellent.”
Sophie looped both of her arms around his, and the two of them fell into step as they walked down the block. He stopped more than once before gallery windows and she pointed out interesting displays, remarkably back to her expressive self and elegant displays. She described outstanding details on the make and cut of the selected outfits. With the clothes on mannequins, she was considerably more objective.
He caught their reflection on the shop window. Sophie turned to him and prompted, “What?”
Benedict patted her hands holding on to his arm. “I rather like us.”
She looked at their reflection. Her wedding band glinted on her finger, and now with his left hand over her hers, his caught the sunlight.
“So do I.”
At the little café, he could not keep his hands away. He was a teenage boy on his first real date. He cut pastries in half before sliding the prettier cuts onto her place. Be stole bites from her selections over her half-hearted protests. She reached forward and wiped foam from his upper lip, then tipped her own cappuccino so she could call his attention to her moustache.
God, she made thirty-eight feel wonderfully unfinished. He had never been as delighted on an obligatory shopping trip.
He could give her the world and regret nothing.
Sophie reached for another pastry. Benedict caught her wrist gently.
“You’ll spoil lunch.”
She held her breath. “You’re terribly bossy.”
His eyes narrowed. “Selectively.”
She smiled, relenting without complaint. “Mmm. I noticed.”
His phone vibrated.
Genevieve.
Ready whenever you are.
He sighed theatrically.
“Must we?” Sophie said. And that pout, just like the one from him. That pout that made him want to forget.
“No,” he answered quickly.
He thought of the invitation on his phone.
Emerging painters. Scholarships. Young artists who might never otherwise have had the chance. Young people who had to earn every opportunity they were given instead of being born with them.
People like Sophie.
It pained him, but he revised his answer. “Unfortunate, but yes.”
They both stood despite the reluctance to leave their little book of coffee and croissants. Benedict reached for her coat. “Stand still for a moment,” he said.
Obediently, she does. “Yes, sir.”
He helped her into the coat. “Don’t sound so long-suffering.”
She turned around and looked up at him. “I’m not.”
He straightened her lapel, then ran a hand to smooth one shoulder. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “There you go. Lovely girl.”
Her lips curved with a small smile. “Professional opinion?”
He looked at her. “Not even remotely,” he admitted.
~ o ~ o ~ o ~
Breathtaking. Confounding. Life-altering.
And she married him.
No piece in the exhibition could compare. The entire collection put together stirred but a fraction of what she breathed into his soul.
The entire venue buzzed with activity as artists clustered around their work, with the same animated gusto that possessed Sophie when she talked about her craft. Screens displayed digital installations that boggled the mind, attempting to answer an existential question through LED and circuits. Classical oils hung in the backdrop. Mixed media sculpture loomed in the center.
Philosophically, he should be unsettled. Landscapes that gave him a prominent name in this world now hung back like an old guard. Modern and vibrant and puzzling occupied space where once they had no place.
Instead, the contrast intrigued him. The odd materials captivated him. Slowly moving pieces of contraptions in perpetual motion was an exercise of tear-jerking enchantment. He could be that spray-painted styrofoam excavator never picking anything from the empty ground, the angle never quite right, the teeth never hard enough to meet the Mohs level of the surface on which it stood.
Around him, tailored suits mingled with merino shirts and basketball shorts. One of the big money donors walked in the exact same navy blazer that Benedict wore shopping that afternoon. Another one popped up in a denim on denim combination that Sophie whispered was made from found Levi’s in abandoned mine shafts. The textile restorer in her looked on in awe. The modern man in him demurred. Either way, they were giving money for the arts so they were a positive in his books.
The deep forest green suit fit perfectly. The sleeves ended precisely where Sophie had indicated. The trousers broke above his polished shoes. His arm wrapped behind the most exquisite woman in the room, glittering in the red sheath dress that he himself had chosen.
She caught him looking at her. Even in the dimly lit gallery he could see her flush.
“How am I going to praise the artwork in this room when my stylist’s beauty puts every one of them to shame?”
“Haven’t we already established how appallingly unsuited I am for that role?”
His lips quirked. “The preponderance of evidence points to your unique unsuitability for styling your husband. And I am quite flattered.” He could see that he was able to tease a reluctant smile on her face. “It does not discount your ability to practice on lesser men than… well… all this.” He gestured wildly the way she had done with the knitwear.
Her brows arched. A smile danced on her lips and a playful twinkle in her eye. “If you insist, then perhaps I can take a some consultation gigs here and there. So many people have already done a double take—men and women. You are my best case study.”
He did not have the heart to dispel the notion, and point that he more than half those looks lingered on her silhouette so exquisitely emphasized by the dress. Curse him and his natural ability to showcase art. He had, rather thoughtlessly, chosen a dress that would draw every eye in the room. Had Sophie not spent the evening looking almost exclusively at him, he suspected he might have developed hives.
“That is if you don’t mind that part of the work is checking my clients’ inseams, and smoothening fabric to see how it lays against their torso, and checking on the suppression at the waist, then—”
Benedict cleared his throat. “You never have to work again a day in your life, you know.”
She laughed, and the night was full of fairy chimes. A shared joke, knowing he would never ask her to stop.
Several guests approached him through the night, and despite his initial perturbance about the state of classical art, hearing the appreciation for his work through the stories of the young arts taking inspiration from seeing an original Bridgerton while they were learning their craft, or finding small pieces of key sections of his paintings in the art exhibited that day, told him that classical and the old guard such as himself would remain so—like the old guard standing behind the next generation, ready to step forward when called, but happier still to watch them flourish.
“Congratulations, Mr Bridgerton! We heard the good news!”
“The suit is spectacular. Compliments to the stylist.”
“Your eyes are so green in that outfit, Benny. And all these years I thought they were blue!”
“Have you seen the backhoe on top of the skyscraper of disfigured Bratz dolls? I think one of the dolls was clutching one of your 2018s.”
Every time, Benedict’s hand moved on her back, soothing, including. “And this is my lovely wife.” His voice was warm, filled with unmistakable pride. Unhurried as he talked about her own art, the valuable work she had done so far to contribute to art history by studying and reconstructing costumes and textiles that would otherwise be lost to time.
Sophie found a small group of young students who took immediate interest in her work. They pulled her into a discussion of construction techniques that would best fit the modern fabrics, and then the conversation drifted towards ethical reuse and rationale to support a blend of artificial fiber.
Benedict watched from a distance, enjoying just the sight of her gleaming eyes as she spoke about what she loved.
How was he to pay attention to all the pieces around him?
She was right there.
fin