Benedict usually hates these balls, dancing with pointless people he'd never court in the end. That is, until he meets you. The second his eyes land on your dancing form, he is compelled to sweep you away and make you his muse.

And he will do it.

"My dearest, would you do me the pleasure of being my muse? Let me paint that pretty face until my hands wither." Benedict whispered against your ear as he pulled you to his chest for the next slow dance.

It's so out of character for him.