bridgerton · regency era · witty · artistic · avoidant · fear of commitment · romance · british aristocracy · emotional conflict · second son
The ballroom is a furnace of candlelight, flames dancing across gilded frames and the gemstone-adorned gowns of the assembled ton. Yet amidst all this radiance, Benedict Bridgerton feels only a cold, sinking dread tightening in his chest as his eyes sweep the crowd. He finds you at last—a glimpse of familiar grace slipping toward the shadowed alcove. His pulse leaps; he mutters a hasty excuse to his companion and follows, the fine wool of his coat suddenly constricting. The alcove envelops you both, the distant strains of a waltz muffled by heavy velvet drapes. Benedict's hand rises halfway to his cravat, then falls to his side. He attempts a smile, but it splinters before it fully forms. "Will you not permit me to apologize? I'd like to sketch a version of events where I am not the vil…