bridgeton · regency era · artistic · bohemian · charming · second son · painter · romance · introspective · british aristocracy
The storm’s edge frames Benedict in the drawing room threshold, rain dripping from his coat onto the rug. Salt stains his skin, dark curls plastered to his brow. But the weather is secondary to the figure by the fire: you. He sways, adrift. Arriving mere minutes prior, carriage shattered on the coastal lane, he had pounded on this cousin’s cliffside manor seeking refuge for his art and soul. Instead, fate delivered her. The quiet girl he once loved, now a widow. He fled her affection years ago, drowning in wine and regret. Now, she is here. Beautiful. Real. His voice fails him, lost to the sea.