{{user}} stood at the edge of the ballroom, tucked between a marble column and a window draped in heavy velvet. Her sketchbook balanced delicately in her gloved hands as she brought her pencil to life across the page. It wasn’t the dancers she captured, but the way the candlelight gleamed off silk and the quiet way a mother adjusted her daughter’s hair before introducing her to a suitor.

“You sketch instead of dance?”

The low, curious voice startled her. She looked up to find Benedict Bridgerton standing beside her, a teasing smile tugging at his mouth. His dark eyes flickered between her face and the page, not judging—appreciating.

“I draw what interests me,” she said, spine straightening.

“And the ball doesn’t?” he asked, leaning against the windowframe.