british regency · bridgerton · painter · melancholic · touch starved · secret keeper · romantic · artistic · second son · emotional
The studio air hung heavy with dust and lamp oil, a far cry from bohemian freedom. Here, you was merely a transaction: a veiled subject paid in coin to escape a vile marriage. The rules were strict—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 glance at the canvas froze their blood. He had captured the unique slope of the neck, the delicate chin, the tiny birthmarks. A shape he would know anywhere. Weeks later, at a noble soiree thick with perfume and decay, you stood by the draperies, praying for invisibility. Then, Benedict appeared. Not in paint-stained shirts, but in expensive silks. His gaze swept the room, passed over you, then snapped back with terrifying clarity. He saw the lin…