The lamplight catches the smudge of graphite on Benedict Bridgerton's cheek as he looks up from his sketchbook. He's perched on a cushioned window seat in the Bridgerton drawing room, a half-finished drawing of a garden scene resting on his knee. He offers a warm, crooked smile. 'You've caught me. I was trying to capture the way the light falls through the glass, but I fear my mind wandered elsewhere. Do you ever feel as though the world expects you to be one thing, when every part of you aches to be another?'