Chapter Eleven: Will You Let Me Lead

"I might not be a coward, but I am also no fool," Benedict broke the silence while helping both of them to some champagne.

"Certainly not, why would you imply that?" Franny inquired, taking a little sip from the drink hoping that it would give her courage.

"If I am not mistaken, you have already turned down my offer to dance on no less than two occasions. It would certainly hurt my pride if you finally danced with me because Lady Danbury has ordered us," he said with a what Franny labelled a Bridgerton-smile: a smile of a man very aware and making use of his charms.

"Well, nobody would dare say no to Lady Danbury."

Benedict chuckled and offered his hand gallantly, locking Franny's eyes. She lifted her arm only to stop in mid-air.

"But there are some pressing matters to be discussed first."

Benedict grinned, taking a big gulp from his champagne. Frances Granville was certainly playing hard to get probably without even realising.

"Dancing and talking are very much compatible."

"For me, they are not."

"Very well," he extended his arms questioningly, "What do you wish to discuss, Miss Granville?"

She took another sip of champagne and a deep breath, fortunately not at the same time.

"I believe apologies are in order, after what happened in Somerset House."

Benedict inspected her expectantly, not giving her the release of either apologising first or interceding. After all, two could play the game.

Franny expected him to jump at the chance to settle the matter between them, but judging by the mischievous glint in his eyes, he certainly was not going to. Very well, she wasn't a coward either.

"I am sorry, Mr. Bridgerton. You did come to my rescue, that was very kind of you. I apologise for reacting in a bad manner. And you were right about Cressida as well, it was cruel for me to criticise her," she blurted in one breath before she could chicken out.

Benedict nodded deeply, "Thank you, Miss Granville, I appreciate it. And, of course, I was at fault also. It was beyond cruel of me to abuse your trust and it certainly was not my place to criticise you. I must apologise to you as well."

Franny nodded the same way and silence fell on them. It was one of those quiet, content moments which neither of them felt compelled to break. Finally, Franny offered her hand.

"I shall very much like to dance with you, Mr. Bridgerton. Would you do me the honour?"

Benedict has never been asked to dance before, neither did he not know of any male acquaintances who have been, but he appreciated her boldness. He slipped his hand into hers before she could change her mind.

As they walked to the dance floor curious gazes and murmurs accompanied them. Benedict has long learnt not to care about the musings of the ton but Franny shifted uncomfortably, Bridgertons always attracted unwanted attention. They took their place and arranged into the starting position of the waltz. Franny had to lift her head to meet his eyes and finally noticed his prominent height; he was easily the tallest man in the room, and that was very much to her liking. Her heart was in her throat as they waited for the music to start and she felt his gaze on her. When they started the dance, however, their movement was far away from any kind of unison: they cancelled each other out, both battling to take the lead. Franny was always trying to anticipate the next move and Benedict did his best take it over from her while also preventing them from tripping over. A few heads were turning towards them and Franny grew more nervous by each second, trodding on Benedict's foot for the fifth time.

"Miss Granville," he muttered quietly, with an impeccably polite smile, "You would make both of our jobs easier, not to mention much painless if you had let me lead."

A furious gaze crossed Franny's face, making Benedict chuckle lightly.

"I am not asking for your hand in marriage. Let me lead, just for the duration of this one dance, and then you can go back to managing everything and everyone in your life and I will fall in line."

Franny's eyes narrowed in suspicion; it was silly but letting him lead just for this very dance seemed to be on par with a marriage proposal. She was reluctant to give in as she was dreadfully afraid of disappointment, or worse, what if she found the dance to her liking...

"You know," he said, reading the thoughts written on her face, "dancing is one of those things that you cannot execute by thinking and planning. You have to let your body take over."

"No wonder I have never been very good at dancing."

"That may be, but if you let me, I will teach you how. Simply because I am more experienced and not because I am a man, of course," he commented, grinning from ear to ear. Franny was impressed and pissed at the same time how cleverly he has figured her out. Benedict cocked his head slightly to the side, waiting for her with a kind, reassuring smile. She finally nodded curtly.

The moment Franny gave her permission, Benedict drew her closer, knocking the breath out of her. Except for Lord Wetherby, this was her first time to be dancing with a man, not a relative of hers or a dance teacher. The closeness seemed awkward and yet natural.

When dancing with Lord Wetherby Franny was actively aware of each step she took, each mistake she made, but with Benedict, it almost felt like she was weightless. He assumed control of her body and led her through the dance, spinning her around the ballroom with the ease of an experienced dancer, while their eyes never lost sight of each other. As their bodies were locked in a close embrace Franny caught herself holding her breath. She could feel the muscles under his tuxedo and she was aware of his hands in her hand and on her hips. Her skin burned under his touch, as if the fabric was non-existent and her head was filled with the mix of his cologne and fresh soap, making it hard to concentrate on anything else than his scent and body heat. It was simply intoxicating.

As they leaned forward, their bodies closely pressed together sending shivers across Franny's spine. There was only but a few inches between their faces, if one of them moved just by a hair, their lips would meet. As Benedict's eyes momentarily shifted to her lips, Franny noticed she was not alone in the thought, then they were back into glaring in her eyes. As navy met grey, she felt a burning sensation taking over her whole body, demanding and all-consuming, knocking all incomprehensible thought out of her head.

Benedict has never been short on confidence, he was a Bridgerton after all. His brother took him to a brothel on his eighteenth birthday where he discovered the pleasures of women and from that point, he rarely had any trouble finding willing participants to share his passions with. He low-key wanted half of the women he has met, but, of course, never had any indiscreet business with respectable young ladies, even if he desired them. He felt intrigued by Frances Granville over and over and yet she had refused him over and over, which, truth to be told, made him want to pursue her even more. He, like most men, liked a challenge, especially if the challenge was too smart for her own good, with long, wavy blonde hair and endlessly grey eyes with a never-ceasing defiant glint. Albeit, up until their dance he could never be sure whether she returned his attraction, but when she slipped his hands into hers, he knew it was only a matter of time before he won the game. He felt the exact moment when her body eased into the dance, eased into his body more precisely, and when she has finally given in. A triumphant grin spread on Benedict's face and he could not help but celebrate his victory.