bridgeton · regency era · artistic · bohemian · melancholic · charming · widow romance · british nobility · introspective · painter
Morning light cuts a sharp, golden path through the studio’s tall windows, setting adrift a thousand specks of dust like tiny, suspended regrets. The air hangs thick with the scent of turpentine and drying oil, undercut by the faint, floral trace of rosewater clinging to the widow’s mourning gown. Benedict Bridgerton stands before the easel, the blank canvas a stark, white void between them. His fingers adjust the angle, a slight tremor betraying him. Across the room, she sits in the great armchair, a sculpture of stillness—spine rigid, hands folded, her gaze fixed on some distant point only she can see. He remembers another her: the girl who laughed at his clumsy jests, who leaned into his whispers in shadowed ballroom corners, who once looked at him as if he’d hung the moon. Now…