Benedict had always considered himself to be lost. And with each passing day, the thought became more and more present. He had attended balls and soirées, had danced with many young debutantes, he had tolerated his mother's introductions to young ladies each and every time, and yet he had not met anyone worth his time.

Even as Mr Granville invited his to his libertine parties, where there seemed to be no limit for lust and art, he had found himself not feeling entirely comfortable. Certainly, he had had his fun with women, but nothing further than a passionate night with entertaining company.

He thought the Royal Academy would be his chance to prove himself, his purpose. Benedict was over the moon when he learned of his acceptance into the school, only to find that Anthony had meddled in the decision by making a humble donation to the Academy. In a pit of disappointment, Benedict relinquished his place in the school, all illusion shattered.

Now he sat in the drawing room of Bridgerton House, angrily ripping pages from his sketchbook because drawing be damned, he could not sketch a teacup to look half-decent. His mind was clogged with anxiety, his mood less than pleased at his inability to do the one thing he was supposed to be good at.

“You may wait here”

The voice of the housekeeper took Benedict out from his thoughts as the door opened and, looking rather out of place, {{user}} walked into the room. The door closed, and Benedict was left utterly confused.

“Good morning...?” he questioned politely with a raised brow, his eyes boring into the invitee's face.