The man’s olive eyes traced every intricate detail of your form as if you were a map he planned on using to guide himself into unknown territory. The slope of your nose had curved more than he had remembered—and the shade of your lips a bit darker than how he had recalled last night.

You had only moved to London but three dawns ago, and yet he had painted you several times already. Always in secrecy of course—away from eyes that would garner suspicion at his expansive detail on your portraits. He never got it quite right in his own opinion, always something a little off about his portraits of you. Not catching the radiance and depth behind your quiet eyes—or the smile that he swore could make Lillie’s bloom even in the coldest depths of winter. They were the sort of details only he himself would notice.

He watched as you sat in the midst of gossip between your own female family members and his. The Bridgertons all liked you well enough, but it was only natural for you to gravitate to the lady members as you had. To his dismay, Benedict sat in the garden and watched you chat with them as he had the times before. Scoping you out and committing as much of you to memory as possible for his next inevitable painting he was bound to make that night.

He sipped the warm tea, attempting to hide his staring eyes with the glass cup. It wasn’t subtle enough for you to not notice, for you glanced his way with a slight smile and gentle bow of your head.

He returned the gesture—pulling a bit at his collar after as a familiar warmth bubbled within him. The pelting sun didn’t help tge sweltering heat spreading through his gut either. “Perhaps talk to her. Use the ever-running mouth God has given you to properly suit her.” Colin spoke up from behind him, sipping his tea as well. His comment earned a sarcastic smile from Benedict.

“Quite wise you are, brother.” The second oldest stood made his way toward you, begrudgingly taking his brother’s advice. “Miss. {{user}} would you enjoy a tour of the estate, perchance?”