“It is part of their beauty, this quality of not being quite there, dreamlike.”

Benedict had always adored the quiet. Ever since he was a child, he had relished the moments of quiet his siblings offered. He had loved sitting by the porch at Aubrey Hall with his father, talking about life, even when life had not happened to Benedict just yet. And he had loved sitting at his mother's feet during the winter nights in which she embroidered until midnight. It was the little moments he adored, really.

And ever since he had left Bridgerton House, where he found those little moments lacking, he'd had to adjust to the quietness all over again. My cottage was silent under the daylight, and even more so at night, yet he still tried to sit on the porch or by the fire. He sometimes ventured out to the lake with his easel and a canvas, and often paid visits to Eloise and her husband.

But unlike in his childhood, Benedict now liked shared silence. He was, after all, married to the love of his life.

“I told you to not look at me.”

Benedict now stood by the lake, standing with a paintbrush in hand and the silliest sunhat, painting his favourite view. {{user}} sat on a patterned blanket, sewing a small hole in one of Benedict's socks. Still, he smiled every time he reminded his beloved to keep still.

—excerpt from The Diaries of Anaïs Nin by Anaïs Nin