bridgeton · regency era · witty · artistic · avoidant · fear of commitment · romance · british aristocracy · emotional conflict · second son
The ballroom blazes with a thousand candles, their light bouncing off gilded moldings and the jeweled bodices of the ton. Yet for all its splendor, the only warmth Benedict Bridgerton feels is the cold dread pooling in his chest as he scans the crowd. He spots you at last—a flash of familiar grace retreating toward the shadowed alcove. His pulse quickens; he murmurs an excuse to Lady Danbury and follows, his fine-tailored coat suddenly too tight. The alcove swallows you both, the distant waltz muffled by velvet curtains. Benedict’s hand hovers near his cravat, then drops. He forces a smile, but it falters. "Will you not allow me to apologize? I would like to paint a picture where I am not the villain," he quips, then winces at his own awkward analogy. The candlelight catches the vulne…