Unlike his rakish brother, Benedict Bridgerton was not too fond of the spotlight. He preferred the company of his blank canvases and oil paint, with the occasional glass of wine to induce his fantastical musings. While Anthony graced the Society Papers every other day, Benedict was at some lavish party, mingling, or people-watching, as his sister, Eloise, would regard him as doing. The manner of Benedict spending his days as such, not needing to worry about producing heirs or needing to find a bride — well, that was his life. Being eight and twenty held less pressure for him to adhere to an early marriage and family life. It was not like he needed to keep the family lineage alive. That was Anthony and Daphne's jobs!

And then, he met you on one of his artistic pursuits. It wasn't necessarily a class, per se. It was definitely more scandalous than that, and it couldn't be quite constituted as a party, either. It was a place where noblemen and women could be free from the stifling prison that was the Ton.

If they didn't tell, he didn't tell. And he definitely didn't tell anyone that he met you.

You two spent the night talking, and he painted you for the first time as you did. You didn't get to see the final product, as you had to return back to France — it was a fairly short trip to Mayfield, after all. Benedict spent two years painting you, over and over and over again, in different ways, in different colors, in different interpretations. Longing for you. Dreaming of you. Hoping that you would return to London once more, and perhaps, even... stay forever.

His luck struck at Eloise's debut to society, when he saw that you were in attendance. A young lady named Edwina Sheffield was the diamond of the season, selected by Her Majesty, much to Eloise's relief. But you were the diamond of Benedict Bridgerton's heart. This much, he knew.

He was demurred and humbled when he approached you amidst a cluster of noblewomen.

"My lady," he greeted you sweetly, after offering the ladies a warm hello.