It's a strange predicament, but one that makes sense. Mostly he's furious at Max for saying yes before he had even heard the negotiations had been even put on the table. Even worse, it's what makes the most sense.
Rackham has his crew. Billy Bones dead, last he heard--and Flint murdered by Long John Silver. And John, well, he's a Pirate King, one that all of England wants to hang. He's got one good leg, and while he's leagues above others at fighting, the fact remains that his short-lived vanguard days are over. But he is still very much a Pirate King.
So of course he's the one to marry some nonce of a nobleman. Madi proposes it to him, and that's the only reason he accepts it. They've been frayed--broken, and he'd thought it beyond repair, but Madi had reached out to him for the first time in what felt like forever.
Marriage it is.
He'd arrived naught but two days earlier, which gave him barely enough time to get his bearings and bathe. He hasn't even had time to purchase proper appropriate clothing even if he had any desire to. Mostly, returning to London gives him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He at least ties his hair all the way up, however, and he'd brought a jacket and linens that were at least clean, even if they were from Nassau.
The steady tap of his crutch comes first, and when Silver rounds the corner his blue eyes immediately start raking over the place: exits, first. Windows, and the like. His gaze finally stops at Benedict, just as the servant ushers him towards the man. He's painfully aware of the guards outside, which is fine, seeing as he's also left his own.
He's a nice looking man, at the very least. Silver looks at him, face completely impassive, before limping over.
As soon as Benedict hears people approaching, he closes his sketchbook and sets it aside and makes sure he doesn't have pencil on his fingers. He's standing up from his seat when the man is ushered in, and Benedict puts on a pleasant and well practiced smile - which freezes a bit on his face in surprise.
He's not sure what he'd been expecting. The man in front of him looks like a pirate, but Benedict had been under the impression that pirates were more haggard. Yes, the man appears to have only one leg, but otherwise he's quite handsome. Even despite the distance, Benedict can notice how blue his eyes are.
Perhaps, he thinks (and the thought almost makes him blush), this won't be so terribly bad.
"Yes. John Silver, I presume."
He lets the smile relax into something more natural, despite how nervous he feels, and he holds out his hand. Do you shake the hand of the man you've been promised to? Benedict thinks it's probably the most acceptable greeting, in any case.
Silver looks down at the hand before he looks up at Benedict. They're not pristine and clean like everything else in here. A quick glance around the room earlier and he'd spotted paper. A writer, then, or thinker. Perhaps even an artist.
"I am." It seems only a month ago that admitting it in London would mean a hanging. Silver takes the other's hand with his own roughed and calloused one, shaking it.
"You and I are to wed." His gaze is stern, serious. He thinks it could be worse, however. There's a softness to Benedict that's aesthetically pleasing.
"Yes." Benedict lets out a laugh, half to get out his nervousness and half because he appreciates the bluntness of the statement. "I do believe we are. I must admit, a part of me is glad I won't need to try and survive another courting season."
It had been exhausting dodging all the mothers and daughters that sought him out. And, while his own mother is a bit displeased about the arrangement, Benedict thinks that at least now she doesn't have to guilt him about being unwed anymore.
"Rum," Silver's choice is automatic, though he stops moving forward the moment he remembers this is some sort of tea thing and not an actual bar. Right.
High society.
"...Tea's fine," he says, and his smile behind his beard is rather forced as he makes his way to the seat opposite Benedict, grunting as he sits down and puts his crutch to the side. There's some suspiciously looking deliciousness on the tables, too. Delicate and sugary. He pauses, lips parted.
"You're aware of what you're getting into?" he says, because there's no point in formalities. Not in a situation like this. Politeness for the sake of politeness will only make them miserable, he thinks. At the very least, Silver would be doomed.
"I am aware that, when all is said and done, I have very little choice in the matter."
After all, he's all but been ordered to by the queen herself, and he can't be the Bridgerton that took the coward's way out.
There's no rum, but there's a decanter on a desk near the window, and seeing as Silver's already sitting, Benedict is more than fine with going to pour the pirate a glass of whiskey.
"I'm aware that I'll be whisked away to Nassau, away from my family," he says when he returns. He passes the whiskey to Silver and sits with his own tea. "And that it will be nothing like the life I've grown accustomed to."
And while that's sort of terrifying, for Benedict, it's also a bit exciting. He's never felt much like he fit in well with the society of London, and of all his siblings, he's the least attached to it all.
"Beyond that, is anyone ever truly aware of what they're getting into when it comes to marriages, be they political or otherwise?"
Silver hates politics. Really and truly, and this is pretty much the most political thing he's had to do--he's thankful the other gets up to get him his drink, Silver himself already comfortable and not wanting to get up. The cold in London bites at his horrid stump of a leg, he's never been more acutely aware of it, not since he first lost it all that time ago.
He smirks.
"Perhaps not. I've had the liberty of hearing the talk among London's docks." He'd never heard something that made him both laugh and get angry at the absurdity until eating at the inn garnered him questions for a curious table maid. Jack had warned him, and he'd assumed the other was being grandoise about things, as per usual. How wrong he was.
Benedict sips his tea and watches the man across from him. Silver has very intelligent eyes, he decides, and something maybe quite kind lurking behind them. It puts him at a bit of ease. Pirates have such a terrible reputation and Benedict (and his family) had been concerned he’d been matched up with a brute.
“I can’t begin to imagination the talk at the docks.”
He can’t. He’s never been. He’s never really been into the city proper, let alone the docks.
“Can you tell me about Nassau? What it’s like, the good and the bad.”
Benedict is hoping to parse together what sort of man is sitting with him.
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Rackham has his crew. Billy Bones dead, last he heard--and Flint murdered by Long John Silver. And John, well, he's a Pirate King, one that all of England wants to hang. He's got one good leg, and while he's leagues above others at fighting, the fact remains that his short-lived vanguard days are over. But he is still very much a Pirate King.
So of course he's the one to marry some nonce of a nobleman. Madi proposes it to him, and that's the only reason he accepts it. They've been frayed--broken, and he'd thought it beyond repair, but Madi had reached out to him for the first time in what felt like forever.
Marriage it is.
He'd arrived naught but two days earlier, which gave him barely enough time to get his bearings and bathe. He hasn't even had time to purchase proper appropriate clothing even if he had any desire to. Mostly, returning to London gives him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He at least ties his hair all the way up, however, and he'd brought a jacket and linens that were at least clean, even if they were from Nassau.
The steady tap of his crutch comes first, and when Silver rounds the corner his blue eyes immediately start raking over the place: exits, first. Windows, and the like. His gaze finally stops at Benedict, just as the servant ushers him towards the man. He's painfully aware of the guards outside, which is fine, seeing as he's also left his own.
He's a nice looking man, at the very least. Silver looks at him, face completely impassive, before limping over.
"Benedict Bridgerton?"
no subject
He's not sure what he'd been expecting. The man in front of him looks like a pirate, but Benedict had been under the impression that pirates were more haggard. Yes, the man appears to have only one leg, but otherwise he's quite handsome. Even despite the distance, Benedict can notice how blue his eyes are.
Perhaps, he thinks (and the thought almost makes him blush), this won't be so terribly bad.
"Yes. John Silver, I presume."
He lets the smile relax into something more natural, despite how nervous he feels, and he holds out his hand. Do you shake the hand of the man you've been promised to? Benedict thinks it's probably the most acceptable greeting, in any case.
no subject
"I am." It seems only a month ago that admitting it in London would mean a hanging. Silver takes the other's hand with his own roughed and calloused one, shaking it.
"You and I are to wed." His gaze is stern, serious. He thinks it could be worse, however. There's a softness to Benedict that's aesthetically pleasing.
no subject
It had been exhausting dodging all the mothers and daughters that sought him out. And, while his own mother is a bit displeased about the arrangement, Benedict thinks that at least now she doesn't have to guilt him about being unwed anymore.
He moves to the tea service.
"Would you care for a cup?"
no subject
High society.
"...Tea's fine," he says, and his smile behind his beard is rather forced as he makes his way to the seat opposite Benedict, grunting as he sits down and puts his crutch to the side. There's some suspiciously looking deliciousness on the tables, too. Delicate and sugary. He pauses, lips parted.
"You're aware of what you're getting into?" he says, because there's no point in formalities. Not in a situation like this. Politeness for the sake of politeness will only make them miserable, he thinks. At the very least, Silver would be doomed.
no subject
After all, he's all but been ordered to by the queen herself, and he can't be the Bridgerton that took the coward's way out.
There's no rum, but there's a decanter on a desk near the window, and seeing as Silver's already sitting, Benedict is more than fine with going to pour the pirate a glass of whiskey.
"I'm aware that I'll be whisked away to Nassau, away from my family," he says when he returns. He passes the whiskey to Silver and sits with his own tea. "And that it will be nothing like the life I've grown accustomed to."
And while that's sort of terrifying, for Benedict, it's also a bit exciting. He's never felt much like he fit in well with the society of London, and of all his siblings, he's the least attached to it all.
"Beyond that, is anyone ever truly aware of what they're getting into when it comes to marriages, be they political or otherwise?"
no subject
He smirks.
"Perhaps not. I've had the liberty of hearing the talk among London's docks." He'd never heard something that made him both laugh and get angry at the absurdity until eating at the inn garnered him questions for a curious table maid. Jack had warned him, and he'd assumed the other was being grandoise about things, as per usual. How wrong he was.
no subject
“I can’t begin to imagination the talk at the docks.”
He can’t. He’s never been. He’s never really been into the city proper, let alone the docks.
“Can you tell me about Nassau? What it’s like, the good and the bad.”
Benedict is hoping to parse together what sort of man is sitting with him.