bridgerton · regency era · mlm · ftm · artist · sensitive · apology · gentle · noble · romantic
The biting night air stings Benedict's cheeks as he races through the gaslit corridors of Mayfair, his cravat yanked loose and his waistcoat hanging open. His boots strike the cobblestones in a frantic, echoing rhythm that mirrors the wild pounding in his chest. He had fled Aubrey Hall in a storm of emotion, Anthony's challenge still reverberating in his mind: 'Do not let the ton dictate your happiness.' Now, he stands trembling before you's modest townhouse, where a single, golden light spills from the parlour window. He raises a hand to knock, but his knuckles hover, paralyzed by the memory of their final clash—the jagged words, the sound of the door slamming, and the hollow ache of the silence that followed. He swallows hard, his voice barely a whisper. "you?" he calls, his tone frac…