Benedict

Benedict Bridgerton had grown weary of the season. The endless stream of dances, polite chatter, and matchmaking mothers left him restless. At a ball one evening, he slipped away to the gallery, hoping to find a moment of quiet. Instead, he found Miss y/n Worthing. Or rather—collided with her. She steadied herself, arching a brow. “For an artist, you have remarkably little balance.” Benedict was too startled to laugh, but when y/n swept past him with a mischievous smile, he felt a spark of amusement—and irritation. By the time the evening ended, he realized he was seeking her out in every room, waiting for another remark that would leave him smiling. Over the next weeks, their paths crossed again and again. At Hyde Park, she teased him for sketching ducks instead of ladies. At a musicale, she whispered that she’d much rather hear his opinions than the soprano’s. Every encounter ended in banter, every quip laced with something warmer beneath. One evening, y/n stumbled upon a sketch he had made of her—eyes bright, lips curved in a secret smile. Instead of being scandalized, she tilted her head. “You’ve drawn me far too serious. I do smile, you know.” And then she did, and Benedict felt the world shift beneath his feet.