Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

What The True Poet Describes

As your carriage thunders down the cobbled street of Mayfair, your stomach flutters—not from the jostling of the rough surface, but for an entirely different reason. This is a homecoming of sorts, it certainly feels too long since you were here; the sights and the smells of London so enthralling, teeming with life, such a contrast to where you have been.

But it's not just that.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and for you, nothing could be more apt. It's been nine weeks, and you are positively aching inside, distance bringing clarity to your heart's true desire. You are jangling with anticipation because of your destination. Not caring a jot for judgement of your actions or any scandal that may ensue, single-minded in your mission.

As the carriage slows in front of a handsome red brick townhouse, you leap out before your footman can assist. So keen for a reunion. The front door sweeps open, and the valet requests your name. But before you can even give it, the very person you want to see materialises at the top of the staircase: so handsome it takes your breath away. His face is one of shock.

"Miss y/l/n?!?" Benedict's baritone voice rings out in genial confusion.

"Mr Bridgerton!" your responding call an animated response, holding out your hand to him as he descends stairs quickly.

He reaches you and politely takes one of your hands, kissing your gloved knuckles, your blood flushing warm as he does.

"I have missed you!" Unable to hide the breathiness in your claim.

"I have missed you too!" He echoes, still seeming taken aback before shaking his head a fraction."Gosh, where are my manners? Please come into the drawing room!"

He leads you there, his hold on your gloved hand respectful but firm, a warmth that stirs your belly.

"Smith, some tea, please," he requests over his shoulder as he sees you to a seat.

"It's rather late. Do you have anything stronger?"

His eyebrow shoots up at your perhaps cheeky query, but it's not in judgment, more surprised admiration and respect.

"Cancel that, Smith," he calls out. "How about a brandy?" He adds quietly just for you, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You nod enthusiastically and remove your gloves as he pours two glasses from a decanter nearby.

"What brings you here so late?"

His skin touches yours briefly as he hands you the glass, a tiny frisson running down your spine.

"I have something to tell you," you offer, slightly enigmatic. "I hope you will indulge an old friend."

"Less of the old, please," he jests gently, raising his glass in a silent toast.

"To good friends," you amend, mirroring his action, then taking a sip and enjoying the fruity burn of the cognac.

"Good friends," he echoes after a swig, then smiles at you expectantly, waiting to hear your answer to his question.

"Well, I suppose what I have to say is more of a confession..." you admit, after another fortifying gulp, eyes downcast upon your glass as you swirl it lightly in your hand—a nervous tic. "Prussia has been nice in some ways, but there was one thing I missed so very much..."

"London?" he guesses

"Yes, but that's not it," you smile, looking up again.

"Parties?" he suggests next with a wink.