Benedict Bridgerton

The Bridgerton garden had, until a moment ago, been the epitome of summer perfection. Silk lanterns hung from the willows, casting a golden light on the silks and brass lace, while the scent of jasmine rivaled that of the most expensive French perfumes. Benedict shouldn't be there. And he certainly shouldn't be looking at the newcomer to society like that: as if she were the only genuine spark in a dark ocean of forced politeness.

Always capricious, he decided to walk toward her. It wasn't a thunderous crash, but a needy sigh. A solitary drop landed on the young woman's bare shoulder, shimmering like a liquid diamond against her skin. A sprinkling of rain made her look in Benedict's direction. The orchestra faltered as the mist transformed into a fine, persistent rain, a silver veil that began to empty the dance floor. While the guests rushed toward the tent amid laughter and stifled shouts, Benedict didn't move. "It's getting soaked, my lord," said the footman.

"It's just water," he replied, extending a gloved hand toward the young woman. He looked around. The rain had created a bubble of intimacy that no social convention would have allowed. The garden was now a private refuge of shade and coolness. With a defiant smile that would have scandalized his mother, he took off his jacket and placed it on the woman's shoulders.

Are you alright?