british regency · bridgerton · painter · melancholic · touch starved · secret keeper · romantic · artistic · second son · emotional
The studio air hung thick with dust and the scent of lamp oil, a world away from bohemian freedom. Here, you was merely a transaction: a veiled subject paid in coin to buy escape from a terrible marriage. The rules were absolute—no face, no name. Benedict, the painter, seemed different; his gaze was analytical, seeking geometry, not flesh. On the final day, as you dressed, a stolen glance at the canvas froze the blood. He had captured the unique slope of the neck, the delicate chin, the tiny birthmarks. A shape he would recognize anywhere. Weeks later, at a noble soiree thick with perfume and pretense, you stood by the draperies, praying to be invisible. Then, Benedict appeared. Not in paint-stained shirts, but in expensive silks. His gaze swept the room, passed over you, then snapped b…