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Benedict had always insisted that disorder was a state of mind. A necessary one. The mind of an artist, he claimed, could not possibly thrive in neat little rows or dustless corners. Inspiration liked clutter. It hid beneath piles of paper and half-empty teacups. It absolutely refused to be summoned by a polished floor. Which was why Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, habitual overfunctioner, very nearly forgot how to breathe when he stepped into My Cottage.
The Tudor manor sat at the edge of Wiltshire, all timbered beams and leaded windows, its ivy-clad stone walls bearing the quiet weight of generations. It had belonged to the Bridgertons for generations, one of their smaller estates, true, but no less storied. Passed down through wills and bloodlines until Edmund Bridgerton, in a rare moment of prescience, had left it to his second son. A place, perhaps, where Benedict could finally become something entirely his own.
The Crabtrees, who had served the Bridgertons for what felt like as long as the manor had stood, did their best to mitigate the damage. Mrs. Crabtree, the housekeeper, possessed nerves of steel and a cleaning regimen bordering on the militant. Her husband, the groundskeeper, took similar pride in keeping the lawns clipped and the hedges obedient, even when the man of the house was anything but. When Benedict visited only briefly, the manor survived in a tolerable state of genteel neglect.
But when he stayed for weeks at a time, the house surrendered.
Paint appeared in places no one could explain. Corridors became obstacle courses of canvases and books. Sunrooms transformed into studios, then into something closer to battlegrounds. Mrs. Crabtree once declared, quietly, and with great dignity, that the east wing had “given up entirely.” The Crabtrees worked valiantly, but even they could not keep pace with Benedict’s talent for chaos.
Which made the current state of the manor nothing short of miraculous.
Sunlight streamed through mullioned windows, clean windows, as in no fingerprints, no mysterious smears, spilling across a great hall that looked as though it had been curated rather than lived in. The dark oak floors gleamed softly. The long refectory table stood free of abandoned sketches. Even the ancient fireplace, usually a casualty of Benedict’s creative sprawl, was flanked by neatly stacked logs.
Anthony stopped short.
Viscountess Kate Bridgerton, ever observant, took one look at her husband’s face and followed his gaze inside. She blinked once. Then twice. “Are we,” she said carefully, “in the wrong place?”
Eloise stepped past them, eyes darting around like a detective entering a crime scene. “This cannot be Benedict’s,” she muttered. “I refuse to believe it. He once used a stack of unwashed plates as a nightstand.”
Hyacinth had already charged ahead, boots thudding against the suspiciously spotless floor. She slid to a dramatic halt in the center of the room and spun in a circle. “BROTHER,” she yelled, voice echoing off tidy walls, “WHY DOES YOUR HOUSE LOOK LIKE A PERSON WITH THEIR LIFE TOGETHER LIVES HERE?”
From the adjoining room came the soft clink of porcelain. Benedict appeared, holding a tray of teacups arranged with care, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair pulled back with deliberate neatness. He stopped dead at the sight of his family.
“…Hello,” he said, as if greeting them cautiously might keep the moment from unraveling.
Anthony stared at the tray. Then at the orderly bookshelf. Then at the conspicuous absence of discarded boots, paint rags, or artistic debris. “What,” he asked slowly, “have you done with my brother?”
“I married him,” Sophie Baek said pleasantly.
She stepped into view behind Benedict, sunlight catching in her dark hair. She carried a basket of freshly folded linens, her posture relaxed, her expression openly amused,as though this entire scene was unfolding exactly as she’d anticipated.
Kate’s lips curved immediately. “Ah.”
Eloise squinted at Sophie, then at Benedict. “No. This won’t do. He once lost an entire sketch pad inside his own coat.”
Benedict shifted his weight. “That was one time.”
“It was for three weeks,” Anthony replied flatly.
Sophie laughed, the sound warm and unbothered. “He’s still messy,” she said, setting the basket down neatly. “He’s just… learning consequences.”
Benedict winced in a way that suggested painful memory.
Hyacinth’s eyes lit up with delight. “Consequences?”
Sophie leaned against the doorframe, folding her arms. Her smile sharpened just slightly. “Simple rule in My Cottage. You messy things up, you clean it up.”
Anthony let out a bark of laughter that surprised even himself. Kate pressed her fingers to her mouth, shoulders shaking as she turned away.
Eloise stared, betrayed. “You mean to tell me,” she said slowly, “that discipline worked? On Benedict Bridgerton?”
“Please don’t make this a lesson,” Benedict groaned, already regretting everything.
“The first month we came back,” Sophie continued cheerfully, “he left paintbrushes everywhere. On tables. Chairs...”
The first month of marriage, Sophie learned many things about her new husband. She learned that Benedict could misplace anything, including objects currently in his hands. She learned that inspiration struck without warning and with the destructive force of a small storm. She learned that what he called “setting something down for a moment” actually meant “abandoning it to fate.” And, most importantly, she learned that their brief, stay before marriage had been lies. Sweet, charming lies, but lies all the same.
Because this, this was Benedict Bridgerton in his natural habitat.
It began innocently enough. A sketch left on the breakfast table. A paintbrush resting on the arm of a chair. Sophie said nothing, merely moved them aside, smiling to herself. Artists were eccentric. She had known this.
By the end of the first week, there were paintbrushes everywhere.
On tables. Chairs. Windowsills. Once, memorably, in the bread basket, nestled between a loaf and a roll like it had always belonged there. Sophie lifted it out, stared at it, then stared at Benedict, who was humming happily while mixing pigments.
“I was experimenting,” he said.
“With breakfast?” she asked.
He blinked. “Oh. Yes. I see the issue.”
The manor responded to Benedict’s prolonged presence the way it always had: by quietly surrendering. Entire rooms shifted purpose overnight. The morning room became a studio. The studio became another studio. The hall outside their bedchamber accumulated sketches like fallen leaves. Mrs. Crabtree watched it all unfold with the tight-lipped expression of a woman reliving a familiar nightmare.
Sophie watched, too. Not with horror, at least not at first, but with growing awe.
He worked everywhere. On the floor, on tables, leaning against doorframes. He forgot to eat. He forgot to sleep. He forgot that socks were not meant to be discarded wherever inspiration happened to strike. And through it all, he was incandescent, alive in a way that made her love him fiercely.
But love, Sophie believed, could coexist with rules.
On the tenth day, she calmly handed him a cloth and gestured to a constellation of paint splatters on the floor. He laughed, kissed her cheek, and promised to do better. On the eleventh day, he spent two hours scrubbing. On the twelfth day, he began cleaning as he went. By the end of the month, Benedict still made messes, glorious, inevitable messes, but he cleaned them without complaint, sometimes before Sophie even noticed.
“I am an artist,” Benedict protested. “I suffer for my art.”
“And then you mop,” Sophie said sweetly.
Anthony clapped Benedict on the shoulder with brotherly satisfaction. “I’ve never been prouder.”
Later, as tea was poured into matching cups and the scent of fresh pastries filled the room, Hyacinth began opening cupboards with exaggerated innocence, inspecting each one like an auditor searching for scandal.
Eloise lingered near the window, then quietly pulled Sophie aside. “He really will do anything for you, won’t he?”
Sophie’s gaze drifted across the room. Benedict was on his knees, calmly retrieving a crumb Hyacinth had dropped, quite deliberately, onto the floor. He didn’t complain. He didn’t sigh. He simply cleaned it up, then glanced up, catching Sophie’s eye.
He grinned at her, open, ridiculous, utterly unguarded, like a golden retriever who had just been praised for bringing back the stick and allowed onto the sofa afterward. There was no artifice in it, no wit, only pure, uncomplicated delight at having his wife's attention and approval.
“He does,” Sophie said softly. “Not because I ask. Because he wants me happy.”
Benedict straightened, crossed the room, and brushed a quick kiss against her temple as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And if happiness required order, routine, or the occasional broom?
Well.
He’d already learned exactly where it was kept.