Chapter Text
Today was marked an ordinary day in Benedict Bridgerton's life when in the country. He'd just arrived at Aubrey Hall—a few days behind the rest of his family—armed with his art supplies, his creativity, and a need for inspiration.
His mother's Hearts and Flowers Ball was a mere two days away, and he was determined to make himself scarce, lest he wanted his mother to rope him in discussions on flowers and dance sets and refreshments.
Normally, he wouldn't have minded. He loved the artistry of all things, and Violet Bridgerton was particularly talented in making her hosting duties an art form. But he was focused on getting into the Royal Academy soon, and so he had to practice and practice and practice his craft in order to be the best he could be before sending in his works to be judged and appraised by the school that was to help him achieve his dreams of becoming a painter.
He walked along the halls of their grand country home, looking for any sign of life. Daphne was in Clyvedon Hall, wasting away in marital bliss. Francesca was in Bath with Aunt Winnie, furthering her pianoforte skills.
The little ones, Gregory and Hyacinth, were in their rooms—napping or plotting trouble. He was never really sure which. But the unusual stillness of his surroundings made Benedict assume the latter.
He searched for his brother Anthony in his study—he was not there—and his mother in her private tea room—she was not there either.
He looked for red and brown heads huddled together talking about their books, yet the cozy space before him was empty—Eloise and Penelope, inseparable and chatty and loud when in the library, were nowhere to be found.
Colin was also absent, but the dining table offered clues of his activities—an empty pouch still reeking of questionable flowers and herbs, used tea strainers, an open jar of honey, and tablespoons laid out like tools…
He’d brewed his blasted tea. Again.
That wretched concoction he'd brought home from Greece—or was it the Caicos—was allegedly “transcendental” and helped him “meditate for hours upon a single blade of grass”—whatever that was supposed to imply.
The ingredients were questionable at best: lavender, rose petals, valerian root, and—according to Colin—“a mysterious blossom gifted to him by a seaside apothecary with kind eyes.” The sun-dried flower came wrapped in parchment, tied with twine, and labeled only with the words “clarity of the soul.”
In truth, it was a blend that dulled inhibition, sharpened desire, and turned one’s language and temper into scandalous liabilities. It had always left a loose tongue and even looser morals in its herbal wake.
Benedict had tried it once—and it left him hard as a plank and louder than a banshee.
Yet Colin, the green lad, knew naught of carnal instincts and desires and honeyed… temptation.
He was about to make his way to his chambers to paint his final touches of shadow and light on a landscape of Aubrey Hall—adding little details that Penelope had been helpful in providing when he asked for her critique back in London a week ago—when he heard his mother giggle from behind doors that stood ajar, leading to the family sitting room.
He peeked in and was left slack-jawed with the scene that played before him.
Either Colin had decided to share his “spiritual” tea with the household just to see what would happen...
Or Colin had made a very grave mistake—and was currently sipping lavender-flavored black tea alone in the orangery, wondering why his potion wasn’t working as it used to.
Knowing his siblings, and knowing his brother's obliviousness and carelessness and sometimes utter recklessness, he'd assumed it was the latter.
With my siblings, Benedict mused with equal measures of affection and impatience, it's always the worse, always the latter.
The table at the center held three empty tea cups and one large and empty teapot—the exact makings of tea trouble.
Eloise was off to the side, her hair loose, her dress wrinkled, watching the world outside the window as though their gardens were the most interesting thing in the universe, humming a lullaby off-key.
She was hugging her knees to her chest, a content smile on her face, her stocking-clad toes peeking from beneath the hems of her skirts.
A book lay open before her on the settee, but it seemed abandoned, the pages fluttering slightly in the breeze coming through the open window.
Violet was seated pride of place, the very first thing Benedict saw the moment he stepped into the room, but he was distracted by Eloise’s look of quiet contemplation, shifting his gaze easily to his sister by the window.
Now, he was back looking right at Violet.
He had never before seen his mother like this.
“Mother?” he called out gently, as though in fear that he'd startle her.
She giggled behind her cup, before draining what remained of her tea in one large gulp. She then placed the cup back on its saucer with a little clink. Her usually prim and proper façade was not so prim and was definitely not proper this afternoon—her long, brown hair was loose, her dress a mess, pins and ribbons scattered on the sofa and on the carpet. Her one foot was on the floor, while her other leg was tucked underneath her. Both her shoes were missing and she had a mischievous glint in her eyes… eyes that seemed to refuse to meet Benedict's.
“Mother, are you all right?”
She sighed—contentedly, dazedly. “Yes, dear,” she replied. “More than all right. In fact… I am… delighted! Absolutely delighted.”
Benedict smirked. His mother looked lovely like this—carefree, joyful.
“And what, may I ask, caused such happiness? It suits you, Mother.”
A ruffle of skirts and the unmistakable sound of a soft sigh tried to get his attention. He disregarded it for now, assuming it was only Eloise by the window, probably drowning in her own thoughts of the patriarchy, the disadvantages of woman…
Yet he knew there was something new, something different, something inexplicable in the room… but with all his brilliance and creativity, he couldn't seem to place it.
“Because we are to plan a wedding very soon!” Violet replied, her voice determined and loud. “I shall finally be able to call darling Penelope my daughter in truth. Perhaps announce an engagement at the ball.”
Violet looked directly at him, tears of joy forming in the crinkled corners of her hazel brown eyes.
“Pen— Penelope?” Benedict stammered. “She's to be a Bridgerton?! How?!”
Without averting her eyes from Benedict's, his mother pointed at something over Benedict's shoulder with a haughty smile on her lips. She indicated with her chin the corner of the sitting room where a few shelves sparsely populated with books lined the walls, and where it was the dimmest and quietest no matter the time of day.
Just as Benedict was about to turn, he heard an unmistakable whimper of a woman, followed by a breathy, long, dragged out moan… and then a man's deep groan, a muffled animalistic grunt.
Oh no.
Oh, yes. His eyes found where the filthy sounds came from, loud in the thick silence of the room that hadn't been present just moments before.
And there he saw Penelope, seated far too comfortably on a sofa angled slightly away from him. She was still clothed—for which Benedict was half-heartedly thankful—yet her sleeves had slid off both shoulders, her neckline scandalously low, her bosom barely concealed.
He could not help but trace with his eyes the tops of her areolas peeking above the pink fabric of her dress. He couldn't help but notice her skin, flushed in arousal, shining in sweat.
“Mother,” Benedict began, yet his words trailed off to nothing, Violet's noncommittal hum echoing in the chambers of his ears.
Penelope was a vision of sin and desire.
Her hair was a riot of bright red curls, her cheeks pink and heated.
Her legs were spread wide, with one hooked over a broad shoulder, her skirts scandalously bunched at the tops of her thighs. She was clutching tight onto thick, dark brown hair, the man's head currently concealed, his face hidden beneath layers of fabric, behind soft, round thighs.
Her thin stockings offered a view of her toes curling and uncurling, twitching ever so slightly with every slow, deliberate movement made by the head buried between her legs.
“Oh… oh, my…” she keened, her eyes scrunched closed, brows furrowed. Her lips were separated just enough to be utterly sinful, soft gasps and whines in perfect duet with the baritone grunts and groans coming from below her.
The man under her skirts was kneeling on the carpeted floor, his jacket and waistcoat discarded. His hands clutched onto her for dear life, trying his best to keep her spread wide for him by gripping her knees apart.
“Jesus,” Penelope blasphemed. And Benedict would be lying if he said he was not even a little affected.
“Don't bother them,” Eloise called, causing Benedict to look at her. He found her twirling and twirling, eyes on the ceiling and a lopsided grin on her face, before she plopped back down her seat dazed and dizzy. “They've been at that for a while and Penelope seems pleased. She very seldom gets nice things, so don't disturb them, Ben.”
Benedict groaned, now fully facing his mother, he asked, “Who is that, Mother?!”
His mother only laughed. “Ben,” she began, her smile teasing and her eyes shining, clearly entertained. “That's Penelope. Featherington? Our neighb—”
“I know her, Mother. I was talking about the… man—er— pleasuring her. Who is that?!”
Violet scoffed, but only in humor. “Your brother, of course! Who else could it be?!”
Benedict—ever patient—gritted out, “Which. One. Which Bridgerton broth—?”
He never finished his question.
Because what interrupted him was a moan—loud, sultry, and unrestrained, the very sound of someone tipping into ecstasy.
“Ahhh—Christ! Anthony, Anthony!”