Chapter Text
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Benedict weaved his way through the many members of the ton still milling around garden of the Featherington home, each step feeling as though it were fueled solely by his turbulent mix of emotions as the looming specter of his inevitable confrontation with Anthony cast a shadow over his mind.
The weight of his brother's actions bore down upon him like an anchor, threatening to drag him into the depths of despair. The knowledge that his hard-earned achievement had been tainted by Anthony's manipulation gnawed at his sense of self-worth, leaving him adrift in a sea of disillusionment. Benedict had believed in the sanctity of meritocracy, in the notion that his talent and dedication had secured him a rightful place at the Royal Academy of Art. To discover that his admission had been bought, not earned, struck at the very core of his identity, leaving him grappling with a profound sense of betrayal and loss.
Yet, just as he spotted his elder brother in the crowd and was preparing to approach, movement in his peripheral vision instead drew his attention away from the impending confrontation.
A familiar head of bright copper hair bobbed quickly across the space, very clearly fleeing. Normally, Benedict wouldn’t pay much mind to his sister’s closest friend, but the tears he could clearly see the curve of Penelope’s cheek as he caught sight of her profile had him immediately on high alert. Eloise was nowhere to be seen, Colin appeared to be chatting with a few of the less savory gentlemen that the ton had to offer and would be no help, and no one else appeared to even notice the woman’s distress — much less bothering to soothe it.
Benedict hesitated, torn between his intention to confront Anthony and his concern for Penelope. He couldn't ignore the distress etched on her face. With a quick decision, he abandoned his initial pursuit and followed Penelope discreetly, his footsteps silent as he weaved through the throngs of guests.
“Miss Featherington!” He called out to to get her attention as she entered the house, but rather than slowing down, she seemed to hasten even further.
“Miss Featherington!” He called again, quickening his own steps to catch up with her as she approached the stairwell in the foyer. While she still did not turn to acknowledge him, he could acutely hear the familiar hiccup of a suppressed cry reached his ears.
“Penelope!” He finally reached out, grasping her wrist before she could flee up the steps. What he did not expect from the contact was for her to immediately turn on her heel, the momentum sending her tumbling into his chest. Rather than pull away as he might have expected, she instead buried her face into his chest and released a sob so heartbreaking that it sent him back to the sight of his heavily pregnant mother hunched over the body of his father in the garden.
For a moment, Benedict did not know how to react and froze. It was quick to pass, however, as instinct instilled into him by years of caring for and raising his younger siblings kicked in, and he wrapped a pair of tender arms around the shaking back of the youngest Featherington daughter. From his experience with similar bouts of feminine distress, he doubted that she even consciously recognized who it was that she’d latched onto, just that he was safe.
As Benedict held Penelope close, he glanced around at the very few members of the ton still lingering in the area and felt a surge of protectiveness wash over him. He whispered soothing words in the hopes of offer some comfort amidst her tears, his own turmoil momentarily pushed aside by the urgent need to support her. From the wide-eyed stares of the witnesses, it was too late to avoid a scandal, but Penelope’s clear distress and the fact that there were still, in fact, witnesses to the entire interaction would hopefully be enough to relegate it to a particularly juicy tidbit and not necessarily a reputation destroying interaction.
Benedict cursed his impulsivity in chasing her down rather than allowing her to flee and, Just in case, made sure not to linger in the embrace longer than necessary to calm the worst of her cries.
“Penelope,” he whispered fervently to get her full attention. Penelope slowly lifted her head, her tear-stained cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she her eyes met his. Benedict held her gaze with unwavering sincerity, silently conveying his willingness to listen and offer whatever support she needed. He was at a mental impasse of wanting to comfort the young woman and not wanting to stain her with rumors of further impropriety that would already be making the rounds.
“I am sorry,” she apologized, her voice strangely hoarse, even for someone who’d been crying.
"Penelope," Benedict murmured again, his voice barely audible above the murmurs of the onlookers. “Do you have a maid nearby? I believe it would be best to get you someplace more private, but you’ll have to forgive my high handedness, but I do not think you should be alone in your distress." He gently guided her away from the center staircase and more towards a the outskirts of the room, less obvious to the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the ton.
"I'm sorry for causing a scene," she whispered, her voice strained with embarrassment, and Benedict found himself mildly taken aback that her interpretation of his worry seemed to be chastisement.
Benedict shook his head, offering her a reassuring smile. "Don't apologize. You have done nothing wrong."
As if some unseen force had decided to punish him with twisted irony, the piercing voice of Portia Featherington echoed through the room as she nearly shouted, “Penelope! What on earth have you done now?!”
Benedict's heart sank as Portia Featherington's accusatory voice cut through the air, causing even more heads to turn and eyes to fixate on Penelope and himself. He tightened his grip on Penelope's arm, instinctively shielding her from her mother's ire, before forcing himself to retract his touch and take a step away.
"Mrs. Featherington, please," Benedict interjected, his voice calm yet firm, "Penelope is in distress. This is neither the time nor the place for admonishments."
Portia's face contorted with a mixture of indignation and over the top concern as she approached them, her elaborate gown swishing with each determined step. "Distress?" she exclaimed, her tone dripping with skepticism. "What distress could possibly warrant such a scene?"
Benedict met Portia's gaze head-on, refusing to back down. It was no secret that the older woman did not favor her youngest daughter, but he was still a Bridgeton, and Penelope was dear to his entire family.
"Penelope needs support, not scrutiny," he stated, his voice unwavering. "Surely, as her mother, you can see that."
For a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed Portia's features before she composed herself, her minuscule maternal instincts battling with her desire to maintain appearances. With a resigned sigh, she reached out to Penelope, her expression softening. "Come, dear. Let us attend to you in private," she said gently, guiding Penelope away from Benedict's reach. Before heading up the staircase, however, her harpy-like gaze narrowed in on Benedict. “We will discuss your impropriety with my daughter later, Mr. Bridgerton.”
As they disappeared into the depths of the Featherington home, Benedict couldn't help but feel a sense of relief mingled with the deadly drop in the pit of his stomach. The confrontation with Anthony would have to wait, but in that moment, Benedict knew that he had made the right choice in prioritizing compassion over societal expectations.