Portrait || Benedict Bridgerton

I

It's an early spring morning when you watch from the drawing-room window, heart in your mouth, as he descends gracefully from his carriage, so elegant in a navy jacket over a maroon waistcoat with a soft gold silk cravat. You listen as your family butler lets him in, and before you can arrange yourself on the setee, he strides in business-like. All he knows is that he is here to paint a portrait of a bride for her intended. He already has his hand out to shake yours... until he sees it's you.

His whole stance changes, and you know in an instant that he recognises you from the gallery that night. Now, up close, you see how tall he is, the turn of his aristocratic nose and his eyes that are the haziest blue you have ever seen. It's impossible to look away.

There is something charged in the air as, instead of shaking your hand, he delicately takes it up to his lips and brushes the lightest of kisses across your knuckles. There is no skin contact, seeing as you are wearing silk gloves, but even that simple gesture has you undone. You can feel the warmth of his fingers and his lips through the material, and you have to school your breathing; your stays suddenly too tight around your ribcage.

"Miss y/l/n," his voice is a veritable rumble, and your body is aflame. You are his. Completely. There is no other man you wish to know, wish to marry. Ever. You want him to take your hand and run. Run far away until the name Thomas Baden-Smith is but a distant memory.... "Show me where you wish for this portrait to be painted." he cuts into your yearning reverie.

You stumble, almost dazed, towards the chaise you have set up in front of the fireplace for this exact purpose. His gaze flits between you and then around the room.

"The light there is not quite right," he opines with a head tilt. "I would like to move you," he adds, drawing closer. You sit there dumbfounded for a second until you realise he is looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to get up so he can rearrange the furniture.

"Sorry, good sir," you apologise and jump to your feet, stepping aside, not missing how his nostrils flare at the honorific title you bestow upon him.

He moves the chaise, so it is on a diagonal. Then asks you to sit again as he moves to stand in front of the window. All you see is his silhouette as the bright sunlight blazes behind him.

"Perfect!" he exclaims after a moment of consideration, gesturing for his valet to set up his easel where he stands.

The valet does so and then bustles quickly from the room. It is just you and Benedict now. And the grandfather clock in the corner, loudly announcing each second with its pendulum swing.

You decide it is good that you cannot see him so well with where he has chosen to stand. Perhaps you will be able to sit still. Not think about the tingle you still feel on your knuckles where he kissed you, barely a chaste brush as it was. Just last year, you shared a stolen kiss with your childhood friend Daniel behind the greenhouse, his tongue in your mouth, his hands grabbing your bottom. But that was nothing compared to the split-second Benedict Bridgerton's lips burned a metaphorical hole through your glove and your heart. And indeed, the polar opposite of the disdain you feel every time you are within a few feet of your intended, albeit the very reason you are sitting here in the first place.

You have to force yourself to concentrate as Benedict details how the process will work, explaining it will take around five hours and that he will paint the portrait over the course of five sessions. Adding that he has heard from a good friend that this is the most successful approach, as after an hour, people tend to get restless about sitting still.

"Do you have a pose in mind, or would you like me to suggest one for you to adopt?" he asks, and your mind goes blank. You honestly had not even considered that.

"Nothing in particular. Just something acceptable for my future husband to hang in his hallway," you answer quietly, reluctant to vocalise the reason he is here.

Something flashes in his eyes, and it dawns on you that perhaps your parents did not elucidate why they requested his services.

"Right, well," he bustles, seeming a little off-kilter, "we should endeavour to capture the very reason he fell in love with you...."

"He does not love me," you cut in, desperate to clarify, "and I certainly do not him. Not all people have the privilege of marrying for love, Mr Bridgerton," you end, your voice brittle.

You see him nod and swallow heavily as if he has words he doesn't want to allow to escape. "Permit me a closer look to determine the best pose?" his request gentle and respectful.

Suddenly he is kneeling in front of you as you perch on the chaise. You have to fix your gaze on a spot on the wall behind him; you dare not look at him as he seems to study your face.

"You have a face that captures the light perfectly," he murmurs, and you know a blush stains your cheeks and creeps lower your collarbone feeling heated and prickled. A gasp catches in your throat as a long, elegant thumb and forefinger delicately grab your chin and move your face to be slightly in profile. It's his bare hand on your skin. Your body flushes hot, and there is a sudden pulse at the apex of your thighs; you have to swallow hard to tamp the saliva filling your mouth.

"That's it," his tone triumphant, "don't move."

Your eyes dart to meet his even as you keep your head where he requested. There is a split second where your gaze holds, and his pupils enlarge as you slowly draw your bottom lip under your teeth without realising. There it is again. That jolt that you ardently want to believe he feels too.

It's almost a relief when he clears his throat, stands up and walks back to his easel, puttering around with paints and brushes as you watch in your peripheral vision. Just as you think you are back to an even keel, he peels off his jacket and rolls up the frilled cuffs of his crisp white shirt, exposing his toned forearms. You feel a galloping tightness in your chest, yet again, you cannot look anywhere but him.

"This is to prevent charcoal or paint transferring," he explains, erroneously assuming your intense stare is borne of confusion rather than abject enthrallment.

"Of course..." you respond, shaking your head lightly to rid the reverie of thoughts your mind is supplying, tumbling images of your fingertips tracing over the vein that runs from his wrist to his elbow.

"At first, I like to sketch an outline as a guide for my painting," he explains, and you just nod, unsure of what else to do.

And then all is quiet as he concentrates on the task at hand. It is a strange trance-like state you enter as the moments tick by. Holding the pose as you hear charcoal scratch over the canvas. Attempting to syncopate your heartbeat with the gentle dull rhythm of the grandfather clock. Anything to school your body's reaction every time your eyes stray to him.

Half an hour has passed when the pins and needles start to creep into your limbs, your body more on an even keel as it adjusts to his continued presence. Your brain feels like it needs some stimulation, and alas, you cannot read a book, so decide conversation it must be.

"How many young lady's portraits have you painted?" you ask as he seems to change for a different pencil.

"None," he admits with mild contrite, "you are my first. My speciality is usually landscapes."

"First of many, I am sure," you affirm. "Once they see your work here, you will have a line of customers."

"You flatter me, miss," his cheeks heating a delightful shade of pink as he dips his head and continues his work. Not without his eyes twice darting to yours and then looking away.

You pretend not to notice the ache in your chest his humility causes as the clock strikes the hour, signalling the end of your session.

And when he leaves a few moments later, wrapping up the canvas without letting you see it, you feel strangely bereft—as if he has taken a little piece of you with him out of the door.