#regency rp

"Perhaps," you say softly, setting your cold tea aside, "you'd have better luck with the light if you moved closer to the window." You shift slightly on the window seat, making room beside you, the invitation clear in the gesture.

Benedict's eyes meet yours again, and a slow smile curves his lips. He rises with that casual grace that seems inherent to all the Bridgerton brothers, gathering his sketching materials. "An excellent suggestion," he murmurs, settling into the space you've created. "Though I warn you, you'll be trapped here until I finish."

"Trapped?" you echo, watching as he adjusts his position, his knee barely brushing yours. "That implies I have somewhere else I'd rather be."

The rain drums steadily against the glass, casting shifting shadows across his features as he opens his sketchbook again. "And do you?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Have somewhere else you'd rather be?"

Before you can answer, Eloise's voice cuts through the quiet. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Benedict, if you're going to sketch her, at least be honest about it."

A flush creeps up your neck, but Benedict merely grins at his sister. "I am being perfectly honest. I'm capturing the light."

"The light," Eloise repeats flatly, "just happens to fall exactly where she's sitting?"

"Precisely," Benedict says, and though his tone is teasing, his eyes when they meet yours are serious, almost intent. "Some things are simply meant to be illuminated."

You lean slightly closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "And what exactly are you hoping to illuminate with this sketch, Mr. Bridgerton?"

Benedict's hand stills on the paper, his eyes lifting to meet yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "Truth," he says simply, though there's nothing simple about the way he's looking at you. "Art has a way of revealing what we try to hide."

"And what am I hiding?" you ask, heart quickening at his proximity.

His fingers brush yours as he adjusts his sketchbook, the touch so light it could be accidental – except nothing about Benedict feels accidental right now. "That's what I'm trying to discover," he murmurs. "Though I suspect it's the same thing I am."

From across the room, Violet clears her throat pointedly. "Benedict, dear, perhaps Lady Ryann would like to see some of your finished works?"

"Oh yes," Eloise chimes in with poorly concealed glee, "show her the ones from Italy. The ones with all the...illumination."

Benedict shoots his sister a look that manages to be both amused and warning. "I prefer to focus on the present," he says, turning back to you. "The past can wait for another day."

The rain seems to drum louder against the windows, matching the rhythm of your pulse as you realize just how close you've drawn together over his sketchbook.

"Perhaps," you say, voice soft as the rain against the windows, "we could sketch together." Your fingers brush his as you reach for the pencil. "Share your perspective, as it were."

Benedict's breath catches, almost imperceptibly. "Share my..." He glances down at where your hand rests near his, then back to your face with an intensity that makes your chest tight. "Yes," he says finally, shifting the sketchbook so it bridges the space between you. "Though I warn you, I can be rather particular about my tools."

"Can you?" you murmur, accepting the pencil he offers. Your fingers overlap his for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "How fortunate that I have a steady hand."

A quiet laugh escapes him, warm and low. "Do you? Even with me watching?"

You begin a light stroke across the paper, hyperaware of his presence beside you, of how he leans closer to observe your work. "I suppose we'll find out."

"Benedict," Eloise's exasperated voice cuts through the moment, "if you make her draw the entire room while you just sit there staring—"

"I am providing artistic guidance," he protests, though his eyes never leave your hand as it moves across the paper.

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Colin mutters from his place by the fire.

You focus on the sketch, trying to ignore how Benedict's arm presses against yours as he adjusts his position, how his breath stirs the loose strands of hair near your ear. The rain drums steadily outside, creating a private rhythm that seems to exist only for the two of you.

It's fascinating," you murmur, your pencil pausing on the paper, "how different everything looks from here. The shadows, the way the rain makes patterns on the floor..." You gesture subtly toward where Penelope sits reading, framed by the grey light. "She looks like she belongs in a painting."

Benedict follows your gaze, and you feel rather than see his smile. "You have an artist's eye," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Most people see only what they expect to see. You notice the stories hidden in plain sight."

Your hands have stilled on the paper, the pencil forgotten between you. "And what story do you see right now?"

He turns to you then, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. "One that's still being written," he murmurs. "Though I find myself rather invested in how it ends."

A sudden burst of laughter from Colin breaks through the moment, and you realize with a start how close you've drawn together, how the sketchbook has somehow shifted to rest against both your knees, creating a bridge between you.

"I believe," Benedict says, carefully taking the pencil from your loosened grip, "this perspective deserves more attention. Perhaps..." He pauses, glancing toward the terrace doors where the rain continues its steady fall. "Perhaps when there's better light."

You understand the invitation in his words, the promise of a more private continuation. "Yes," you say softly. "Better light would make all the difference."

"Do you often find inspiration in the rain?" you ask, watching droplets trace abstract patterns on the windowpane. "It seems to bring out different qualities in everything it touches."

Benedict's hand moves across the paper, adding soft shadows to the sketch between you. "The rain has a way of washing away pretense," he says thoughtfully. "It reveals things as they truly are." His eyes meet yours, and there's something almost confessional in his gaze. "Though sometimes what it reveals is... unexpected."

"Unexpected," you echo softly, "or simply overlooked until the right moment?"

He sets down his pencil, and you notice how his fingers linger near yours on the sketchbook. "Both, perhaps." His voice drops lower, meant only for you. "Like how the same view you've seen a hundred times can suddenly become..." he pauses, searching for the word.

"Illuminating?" you offer, remembering his earlier comment.

A smile touches his lips, genuine and warm. "Precisely." He glances toward the terrace doors, where the rain has begun to ease into a gentle mist. "Though I find some revelations are better appreciated in solitude."

You understand the subtle invitation in his words, the promise of a more private conversation to come. "Yes," you agree quietly. "Some things deserve to be viewed without an audience."

From her seat across the room, Eloise sighs dramatically. "If you two are quite finished discussing the artistic merits of precipitation..."

"Never," Benedict replies cheerfully, though his eyes remain on you. "There's always more to discover in the rain."

"I should rest before dinner," you say, carefully rising from the window seat. Your fingers brush against the sketch as you stand, a deliberate whisper of contact. "Though I imagine the rain will continue to provide... inspiration."

Benedict's eyes meet yours with quiet understanding. "Some inspirations are worth pursuing," he murmurs, closing his sketchbook with careful precision. "Even in less than perfect weather."

You feel the weight of his gaze as you move toward the door, your steps measured and unhurried. "The terrace can be quite lovely in the evening mist," you observe casually, though your heart beats a little faster at the implicit invitation.

"Indeed," he agrees, and though his tone is light, there's an undercurrent of anticipation that makes your pulse quicken. "One might even call it... illuminating."

As you leave the room, you catch Eloise's exasperated sigh and Colin's poorly concealed chuckle. But it's the sound of Benedict shifting in his seat, the subtle rustle of his sketchbook being set aside, that follows you up the stairs.

The evening air carries the lingering scent of rain as you step onto the terrace. Candlelight spills from the drawing room behind you, creating a warm glow that battles with the misty darkness. Your heart quickens as you hear familiar footsteps approaching.

Benedict emerges from the shadows, his evening jacket slightly undone, dark curls dampened by the evening air. The artistic disarray of his appearance makes your breath catch.

"I thought everyone had retired for the evening," you say softly, though you both know this isn't true.

He moves closer, moonlight catching the intensity in his eyes. "How could I? The evening wasn't finished." His voice drops lower. "The light wasn't quite right."

You smile, remembering your earlier conversation. "And now?"

"Now..." He steps nearer, close enough that your sleeve brushes his. "Now everything is perfectly illuminated."

The garden stretches before you, silver puddles reflecting moonlight like scattered mirrors. A distant rumble of thunder echoes your heartbeat as Benedict's hand finds yours in the shadows.

"The rain changes everything," you murmur, watching moonlight glint off the wet roses. "It strips away all the careful artifice, leaving only what's real." Your voice grows softer. "What's true."

Benedict's thumb traces a gentle pattern on your wrist, making your breath catch. "Truth can be dangerous," he says, his voice low and intimate. "Especially on nights like this."

You turn to face him, emboldened by the shadows and the lingering scent of rain. "Is that why you're here? Searching for dangerous truths?"

His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch deliberate and lingering. "I think I've been searching for you," he confesses, the words barely above a whisper. "Even before I knew what I was looking for."

The candlelight from the drawing room catches his profile, highlighting the intensity in his expression. You're acutely aware of how close he stands, how the damp air makes everything feel more immediate, more vital.

"Show me," you breathe, though you're not sure if you mean the truth, or himself, or something else entirely.

His response is to guide you deeper into the shadows, where the vine-covered wall meets the terrace steps. The privacy here feels absolute, intimate - a pocket of space where the world narrows to just the two of you, the rain, and whatever truth you're both about to discover.

"Have you found it?" you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the patter of rain. "The composition you were seeking?"

Benedict's eyes darken as he studies you, his artist's gaze taking in every detail of your face in the shadowed light. His hand, still holding yours, tightens almost imperceptibly. "Almost," he murmurs. "But something's still... constrained."

You feel the heat of his body, so close now that the edge of his coat brushes against your skirts. "The constraints of propriety?" you suggest, your heart thundering against your ribs.

"No." His free hand comes up to trace the line of your jaw, and you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. "The constraints of pretense. Of holding back what wants to be expressed." His thumb brushes your lower lip, sending a shiver through your entire body. "I don't want to paint this moment with careful strokes, (Name). I want to capture it exactly as it is."

The air between you feels electric, charged with possibility and the threatening rumble of distant thunder. "Then show me," you breathe, echoing your earlier words but with new meaning. "Show me how you'd compose this truth."

His eyes, dark and searching in the moonlight, hold yours for one endless moment. "Are you certain?" he asks, his voice rough with restraint. "Once we step past this line..."

You answer by letting your fingers find his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath the fine linen of his shirt. "I think we crossed that line the moment you followed me out here."

You take half a step back, your fingers still resting lightly on his chest. The sudden space between you feels charged, electric with possibility and restraint. "Perhaps we should maintain some... artistic distance," you murmur, though your racing pulse betrays your true desires.

Benedict's response is immediate and devastating. He moves forward, matching your retreat until your back meets the cool stone wall. His hands come to rest on either side of you, not touching but effectively caging you within the circle of his arms. The vine-covered trellis above casts dappled shadows across his features, making him look wild, untamed.

"Distance," he says, his voice rough with barely contained emotion, "is the last thing I want between us right now."

You can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the lingering scent of rain on his skin. His face hovers inches from yours, his breath warming your lips. "And what do you want?" you whisper, your last pretense at resistance crumbling.

"To lose every careful line I've ever drawn," he murmurs, one hand moving to trace the curve of your neck. "To create something real. Something true." His thumb brushes your pulse point, feeling its rapid flutter. "To paint you exactly as you are in this moment – breathless, beautiful, and completely unleashed."

"Then paint me," you whisper, your fingers finding his and guiding them to the delicate laces at your back. The touch sends shivers down your spine, each point of contact burning through the thin fabric of your gown.

Benedict draws in a sharp breath, his artistic hands stilling against the intricate knots. "Are you certain?" he asks, though his voice has dropped to a dangerous octave. "Once I begin this composition..."

You turn slightly, pressing his palm more firmly against the laces. "I trust your vision," you breathe, feeling the tremor that runs through him. "Show me how an artist loves."

His control splinters. With agonizing slowness, he begins to work the laces free, each loosened knot accompanied by the brush of his fingers against your skin. You feel the gown gradually loosening, the cool night air kissing your newly exposed flesh.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his lips finding the curve of your neck. "Every line, every shadow..." His free hand slides around your waist, drawing you back against his chest. "You're the masterpiece I've been waiting to create."

The last lace comes free, and your gown whispers a promise of surrender.

The silk slides from your shoulders like water, pooling at your feet in the moonlight. Benedict's breath catches audibly, his hands stilling on your waist as he drinks in the sight of you. The night air kisses your exposed skin, raising gooseflesh that his fingers quickly trace.

"Perfect," he breathes, and there's reverence in his voice. "Like a Titian come to life." His hands ghost over your stays, finding the edges with careful precision. "But even these lines need freeing."

You lean back against him as his clever fingers work at the restrictive garment. "Show me," you whisper again, feeling the thundering of his heart against your back. "Show me how an artist loves."

The stays loosen under his touch, each small release of pressure making you feel lighter, more real. When they finally fall away, you take your first full breath of the night air, feeling truly unveiled before his gaze.

Benedict turns you slowly in his arms, his eyes dark with appreciation and barely contained desire. "The composition improves," he murmurs, one hand sliding up your bare back while the other cups your face. "But I think..." His thumb traces your lower lip. "I think we need to move this masterpiece somewhere more... private."

"The composition is perfect," you breathe, your fingers finding the buttons of his waistcoat. "Right here, where the moonlight knows how to paint us." The shadows of the vine-covered wall create a natural sanctuary, the distant rumble of thunder masking any telltale sounds.

Benedict's eyes darken with understanding and barely restrained desire. "Here?" His voice is rough as he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall silently to the damp stone. "Where anyone might discover us?"

"Here," you confirm, bold in the silver darkness. "Where it's real. Where we're true."

He groans softly, his control finally shattering. His mouth claims yours with artistic passion, tasting of rain and desire. His hands, usually so precise with a pencil, now map the curves of your body with desperate appreciation. You arch into his touch as he guides you back against the cool stone wall, the contrast of temperatures making you gasp.

"My masterpiece," he whispers against your throat, his fingers working quickly at his own remaining clothes. "Let me worship every line, every shadow..."

You help him shed the last barriers between you, your hands trembling with equal parts nervousness and desire. When he finally stands before you, bare in the moonlight, you understand why the old masters painted their gods this way.

"Compose me," you breathe against his mouth, surrendering to his artist's vision. "Show me how this masterpiece ends."

Benedict's response is immediate and overwhelming. He lifts you onto a low stone ledge beneath the vines, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of his skin. His hands, so precise with a pencil, now trace your body with deliberate intention, each touch drawing soft gasps from your lips.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his mouth following the path of his fingers. "Every line, every curve..." He kisses the hollow of your throat, then lower, mapping you with lips and tongue. "You deserve to be worshipped like this."

You arch beneath his touch, fingers tangling in his dark curls as he explores your body with artistic devotion. The distant rumble of thunder masks your soft cries as he finds particularly sensitive places, his talented hands drawing pleasure from you like he would draw beauty from a blank canvas.

When he finally rises to claim your mouth again, you feel the hard length of him pressed against you. "Please," you whisper against his lips. "Complete the composition."

He enters you slowly, reverently, both of you gasping at the exquisite sensation. Your legs wrap around his waist as he begins to move, each thrust carefully measured like brush strokes on canvas. The vine leaves whisper above you, providing shelter from prying eyes as you lose yourself in his artistry.

You surrender completely to his artistry, letting waves of pleasure build with each precise movement. Benedict's hands grip your hips, holding you steady against the cool stone as he drives deeper, harder, his control finally fracturing under the weight of shared desire.

"Let go," he whispers against your throat, his voice rough with passion. "Let me see you come undone. Show me your masterpiece."

The words, combined with a particularly deep thrust, send you spiraling over the edge. You cry out softly, the sound lost in the rumble of distant thunder as pleasure courses through your body. Benedict follows immediately after, your name a broken prayer on his lips as he finds his own release.

For several long moments, you stay perfectly still, connected in every way possible. The night air cools your heated skin as his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. The scent of rain and roses mingles with the musk of passion.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. "Absolutely perfect."

The rain continues its gentle percussion against the terrace roof as you lie beside Benedict on the stone ledge, his coat draped carefully over both of you. The urgency of moments before has mellowed into something softer, more intimate. Your body hums with lingering pleasure as the cool night air kisses your heated skin.

"Well," Benedict murmurs, his voice deliciously rough, "that may be the first time I've ever finished a piece and immediately wished to start it again."

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, surprising in its lightness. "Ever the artist—never satisfied."

He shifts onto his side, propping himself up to look at you properly. In the moonlight, his dark curls are painted silver, his eyes holding a warmth that makes your heart flutter. "That's not dissatisfaction," he corrects softly. "That's admiration."

You arch an eyebrow at him, feeling playful despite your state of undress. "Is that what you call it?"

His fingers find your face, brushing away a strand of hair with infinite tenderness. "I call it inspiration. Though I suppose it's the same affliction that's ruined countless painters before me."

You catch his hand before it can retreat, pressing a kiss to his palm. "If I recall, most of them managed quite well despite their muses."

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Duty & Desire" by Neaphant