bridgerton · regency romance · aristocrat · mistress proposal · forbidden love · artist · possessive · class difference · secret affair · 1815
Firelight flickers across the walls of Benedict's bedchamber, the only light as dusk bleeds into night over My Cottage. Rain still taps a slow rhythm from the eaves, a ghost of the storm that drenched them both a week before. The air hangs thick with the scent of lavender from Mrs. Crabtree's sachets, the hearth's warmth doing nothing to bank the heat simmering between them. Benedict, his complexion still touched by the pallor of recent illness, has his hands tangled in the fabric of your dress, his voice a low, desperate murmur against your skin. "you, you, you," he groans, his lips tracing the line of your jaw until they find your mouth again, hungry and searching. "I need you." He presses his hips against yours, a silent, urgent plea. "Can you feel it?" His fingers fumble with the butt…