𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔 ❦ eloise bridgerton

𝐢 ❦ 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘

。.✧ ゜ ⋆ . 。・゜⋆。. ✧・

BENEDICT COULD NOT PAINT.

Since he left the Royal Academy, he tried and tried to put oil to canvas and graphite to paper, but each time, he became enraged as his self doubt overtook his mind. Nothing was ever going to be good enough. He was not good enough.

The weight of the Bridgerton name was becoming too much for him. He needed to slip out of society's grip and explore something a bit more sincere.

That is how he found himself at Henry Granville's door once more.

The courage began to leave him the moment he could hear the chatter from within. The last time he had engaged with the Granvilles, he had gotten himself into quite an embarrassing predicament. Though he enjoyed the parties, he was concerned for what trouble he might get himself into after a few drinks were in his system.

Nonetheless, he knocked. No sooner did he do so than a woman wearing a coat with feathers on it opened the door.

"Oh, uh—" he started, but the woman ushered him inside.

"Come in, handsome."

Benedict did as he was told. He breathed in the smell of liquor and lust. Walking down the hall, he was hit with memories of the things he had once done and seen in this house. He could already feel his heart racing.

He thought it better not to engage with the women draping the chaises and went straight to the studio in the back.

Benedict walked into the familiar room and instantly noticed the changes in some of the many paintings that littered the room. As always, the floor was covered by a sheet splattered with paint. To his surprise, he found a woman on the far side of the studio painting, her hair loose and paint on her cheek.

"A newcomer?" she said, not taking her eyes off her painting. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" A lopsided grin graced her lips.

Benedict cleared his throat. "I'm not exactly a newcomer."

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, biting her lip in thought.

"I have been previously acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Granville," he said cautiously.

"Oh," she said, tilting her head and then returning her attention to her painting. Benedict could not help but wonder what sorts of ideas she was forming in her head.

Benedict took a step towards her. He was thinking of what more he should say, and also examining her brush techniques, when she disrupted his thoughts.

"You're a Bridgerton," she said matter-of-factly. Benedict parted his lips.

"How ever did you guess?"

"I was once embedded in your society, if you can believe it," she said, dipping her paintbrush into her palette again.

"I'm not sure if I can. This is not the most appropriate place for a lady."

"Well, I am no ordinary lady."

Benedict walked all the way over to her. "Oh?"

"I have practically been deemed a spinster. There is little use for a lady like me in good society." He could sense a bit of frustration in her statement which she quickly dispersed into rough brush strokes on the canvas.

"And why are you here, Mr. Bridgerton?" she asked, startling him.

"I've been feeling lost and thought I would come back to where it began," he stated earnestly.

"Retracing your steps back to the seeds of your passions?" she conjectured.

"Something like that. But let's not talk about me. What does your mother think of you coming here?"