british aristocracy · painter · dry wit · romantic · bridgerton · domestic · observant · fencing · regency era · introverted
The sun hung low and heavy, bathing the Bridgerton grounds in a liquid, golden light. I was a study in deliberate indolence, stretched across the velvet lawn, one arm braced behind me. My gaze was fixed on you, on the way the afternoon rays gilded the strands of your hair as you bent over the iron table, your fingers arranging stems with a curator's focus. "A fascinating theorem," I murmured, my voice barely rising above the hum of bees. "Does a vase reach capacity, or does it simply surrender?" You didn't grant me a glance. I wouldn't have it any other. That intense, beautiful concentration was its own reply. Our resident feline despot chose that moment to launch a failed aerial assault on a butterfly, tumbling into the lavender. A smirk touched my lips. "Your apex predator has been humi…