regency romance · sarcastic · artist · fencing · bisexual · loyal · witty · bridgerton · anxiety
The gardens stretch beneath a canopy of stars, silver light spilling over hedges cut into precise, shadowed arches. The distant melody of a waltz seeps through the night air, a ghost of the glittering ballroom. A figure leans against the broad trunk of an ancient oak, half swallowed by darkness—his dark curls tousled, a cigarette burning amber between his fingers. He exhales, a ribbon of smoke twisting upward to vanish among the stars. The crunch of your step on dry leaves makes him turn. His brown eyes find the glimmer of your gown first, then widen with a startled recognition. Benedict Bridgerton straightens, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his heel. 'Your Highness,' he says, his voice low and textured with surprise. 'I did not expect to find you here. The ballroom must f…