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Benedict did not return home that night.
He sat in his studio, staring at Caspian's portrait, until the candles burned down to stubs, until the grey dawn beyond the window gave way to morning light, then afternoon. Somewhere in the distance, the bells of St. Paul's struck eight, nine, ten. He did not move.
His lips still burned from the kiss.
Benedict raised his fingers, touching them as though he might recapture the sensation: the pressure of Caspian's mouth against his own, the taste of wine, the desperate hunger with which he had kissed him, as if drowning. And then the fear in those grey-blue eyes. And the emptiness when the door had closed.
It's complicated, but I'll come back.
A promise. Or a lie?
Benedict finally forced himself to stand. His legs had gone numb from sitting so long; his back ached. He walked to the easel, picked up a brush. The portrait was nearly finished, but something was missing.
The eyes. They lacked what he had seen last night: that mixture of fear and desire, vulnerability and hope.
He began to paint, adding shadows, highlights. He worked methodically, with focus, trying to capture the expression he had seen in the moment before their lips met.
An hour passed. Two.
When he stepped back, the portrait had come alive. Caspian gazed from the canvas as though he could see straight through Benedict, directly into his soul.
"Will you come back?" Benedict murmured to the image. "Or was that goodbye?"
The canvas gave no answer.
***
By Monday evening, Benedict finally returned to Grosvenor Square. He entered through the front door, not caring who might see. The butler gasped at the sight of him: rumpled clothes, shadows beneath his eyes, hair sticking out in every direction.
"Mr. Benedict, you..."
"Where is my mother?"
"In the music room, sir. With Miss Eloise and the Viscountess."
Benedict made his way there. Violet sat by the window with her embroidery, Kate was sorting through sheet music at the pianoforte, and Eloise was reading in an armchair with her legs tucked beneath her in a most unladylike fashion.
"Benedict!" Violet leapt up, dropping her embroidery hoop. "Good heavens, where have you been? We've been worried sick!"
"At the studio. Working."
"All night and all day?" Kate rose, appraising him with her usual directness. "You look dreadful."
"Thank you. That's very encouraging."
"Benedict." Violet's voice grew softer but more insistent. "What is going on? You've been behaving strangely for weeks. Declining invitations, disappearing at night..." She paused, studying his face. "Darling, is this about someone?"
Benedict froze. All three women were watching him: his mother with concern, Kate with curiosity, Eloise with suspicion.
"No," he lied, and the falsehood rang hollow even to his own ears. "I'm simply working on an important project. For myself."
"A project that requires all-night vigils?" Eloise snapped her book shut. "Benedict, we're not fools."
"Eloise," Violet said warningly, though her gaze never left her son.
Benedict ran a hand over his face, feeling exhaustion settle over him like a leaden weight.
"I'm trying to create something important. Something real." He looked at his mother. "After the academy, I realized I'd been lacking passion. Now I've found it. And I'm trying to capture it before I lose it again."
Violet approached and placed a hand on his cheek.
"Benedict, passion is wonderful. But you cannot continue like this. You're destroying yourself." Her voice dropped lower. "Whatever you're searching for in your art, it isn't worth your health."
Something tightened in Benedict's chest. He looked at his mother, at her kind eyes full of love and worry.
If only you knew, Mother. If only you knew that what I'm searching for isn't in my art. It's in a person who vanished, leaving me in this void.
"I'm fine," he said quietly. "I promise. I just need a little more time."
Violet studied him with a long look, then slowly nodded.
"Very well. But promise me you'll eat. And sleep. At least a little."
"I promise."
She kissed his forehead. Kate approached, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Anthony is worried too," she said softly. "Though he's trying not to show it. Perhaps you should speak with him?"
"Thank you, Kate. But I'll manage."
She nodded, though doubt was plain in her eyes.
***
Benedict could not sleep. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of that night over and over in his mind. The touches. Caspian's gaze upon the portrait. The kiss.
God, the kiss.
He closed his eyes, and immediately saw Caspian: those grey-blue eyes full of fear, those lips forming the words I need to think.
I cannot forget. Even if I tried, I couldn't.
At dawn on Tuesday, Benedict surrendered his attempts at sleep. He dressed and set off for the studio.
***
Benedict waited.
Every evening he came to the studio, lit the candles, sat by the window. He watched the street, the occasional passers-by, the streetlamps flickering in the dusk. He listened for every sound: footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the door, a knock.
No knock came.
On Wednesday he sat until midnight, then until one, until two. He left when the candles burned out.
On Thursday he brought a bottle of wine. He drank it alone, staring at Caspian's portrait.
On Friday he did not go at all, telling himself it was over, that enough was enough, that he would not humiliate himself. But by evening he sat once again at the familiar window, hating himself for his weakness.
On Saturday Benedict waited especially long. For some reason, it felt as though today must be the day. He did not come.
Sunday passed in a fog. Benedict barely remembered what he had done: breakfast with the family, perhaps; answering questions, perhaps. Everything was grey, meaningless.
By the end of the first week, hope had begun to melt away like snow beneath the spring sun.
***
Benedict began the new week with what he knew: Caspian loved books.
He went to Piccadilly, to Hatchards bookshop. The elderly clerk in spectacles looked up from behind the counter.
"Oh, Mr. Bridgerton. Haven't seen you in some time."
"Good afternoon." Benedict approached, trying to keep his voice casual. "I'm looking for an acquaintance. A young man, dark hair, light eyes. He usually purchases Italian texts. Caspian Blackwood."
The clerk frowned, removed his spectacles, polished them.
"Blackwood... yes, I remember. But he hasn't been in for..." He thought. "Two weeks, perhaps. Maybe three."
Benedict's heart clenched.
"Three weeks?"
"Yes. Strange, really. He used to come like clockwork. Every Saturday." The clerk put his spectacles back on. "Has something happened?"
"No. That is... I don't know." Benedict swallowed. "If he does come in, would you tell him I'm looking for him? Benedict Bridgerton. He knows where to find me."
"Of course, sir. I'll pass it along."
Benedict left the shop feeling as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet. Caspian hadn't come since before they'd last seen each other. Which meant he had already begun to hide.
From whom? From what?
***
On Wednesday, Benedict went to the Earl of Worthington's townhouse on Berkeley Square.
The butler, a tall man with a face like a tombstone, opened the door with an expression that made it perfectly clear unannounced visits were unacceptable.
"Yes?"
"Good afternoon. My name is Benedict Bridgerton. I'm looking for Caspian Blackwood. I understand he works as a librarian for the Earl."
"Worked," the butler corrected coldly. "He no longer does."
"Since when?"
"About a month ago. The Earl was dissatisfied with the quality of his work."
A lie. Benedict could hear it in every word.
"Do you have his address? To send final wages, for instance?"
"Mr. Blackwood received everything he was owed upon his departure. We have no further business with him." The butler began to close the door. "Good day, sir."
"Wait!" Benedict wedged his foot into the gap. "Please. This is important. He's my friend. I'm worried about him."
The butler regarded him with a long, appraising, and cold look. Something flickered in his eyes. Pity? Warning?
"If you are his friend," he said at last, quietly, "then know this: some people are better left unfound. For their own good."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Good day, Mr. Bridgerton."
The door closed.
Benedict stood on the steps, feeling cold spread through his veins. Some people are better left unfound.
What did that mean? Who was Caspian hiding from? The Earl? Or someone else?
***
On Thursday he stopped at a small bookshop on Charing Cross. Not the one Caspian usually frequented. Just hoping for a miracle.
The proprietor, a young man with sharp eyes, was examining a new shipment of books.
"Good afternoon," Benedict greeted him. "Forgive me for troubling you. I'm looking for someone. Young, dark hair, light eyes. Interested in Italian literature, the classics. You haven't by chance seen..."
"Tall? With excellent Latin?"
Benedict's heart beat faster.
"Yes! You know him?"
"Slightly acquainted. He comes in sometimes, asks for translations. Helps with annotations for rare editions for a nominal fee." The proprietor set a book on the shelf. "An educated man. Pity about his circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
The proprietor looked at him carefully.
"And who are you to him?"
"A friend." Benedict swallowed. "A close friend. I'm worried. He's disappeared."
"Disappeared..." The proprietor frowned. "When did you last see him?"
"Almost two weeks ago."
"Then I can't help you. He came in around that time as well. Took several books, said he might not be around for a while. He looked troubled."
"Troubled? Why?"
"I don't know. It wasn't my place to ask." The proprietor paused. "But if I see him again, I'll tell him you were looking. What's your name?"
"Benedict. Benedict Bridgerton."
The proprietor nodded and wrote down the name.
Benedict left the shop with a tiny spark of hope. Caspian had been alive two weeks ago. Taking books. Planning to disappear.
Then why had he come to him on Sunday? Kissed him as though it were farewell forever?
***
On Friday evening Benedict returned to the studio.
He took his sketchbook and began to draw from memory.
Caspian's hands, wrapped around a wine glass. The line of his profile. The curve of his neck when he tilted his head, listening. The eyes. He always drew the eyes.
He drew until dark. Lit the candles and continued.
By midnight, two dozen sketches lay scattered around him. All Caspian. In different poses, from different angles, but always Caspian.
Benedict leaned back in his chair, surveying the scattered drawings.
"Where are you?" he said to the emptiness. "Why haven't you come back?"
***
By the start of the third week, the studio had begun to transform into a shrine.
The walls filled with sketches of Caspian. Benedict pinned them up one after another. Profiles. Portraits. Hands. Eyes.
He came every evening. Sometimes he drew. Sometimes he simply sat among the images, trying to hold every detail in his memory. The line of a cheekbone. The curve of lips. The shade of grey-blue in those eyes, which seemed more blurred, more elusive with each passing day.
Panic began to tighten around his throat. He was losing him. The image was dissolving like watercolour in the rain. How much longer before he forgot how Caspian smiled? How his voice had sounded?
***
On Tuesday morning, Eloise burst into his room while Benedict was trying to steal a few hours of sleep.
"Who is she?" she demanded without preamble.
"Eloise, not now..."
"No, now!" She sat on the edge of his bed, arms crossed. "You don't sleep. You don't eat. Mama thinks you're ill. Kate thinks you've been jilted. And I think you're an idiot, but I want to know over whom exactly."
Benedict covered his face with his hands.
"Eloise, please..."
"It's about him, isn't it? That man from Bond Street?" She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Caspian, the one you ran across the road to meet. Is it his sister? Or his wife?"
Benedict barely suppressed a bitter laugh. Sister. Wife. If only it were that simple.
"No. Not a sister. Not a wife."
"Then who?" Eloise frowned. "Some woman he knows?"
"Yes," Benedict blurted, sitting up. "Caspian is my friend. And the woman... she's connected to him. I've been trying to find him to learn about her."
A lie. A desperate, pathetic lie. But Eloise seemed to accept it.
"So you're in love with some woman this Caspian knows?"
"Something like that."
"And she's disappeared? Or he has?" Eloise was getting confused. "Benedict, explain properly!"
"They've both disappeared," he said, and it was almost true. "Caspian was helping me meet her. And now I can't find either of them."
"How romantic," Eloise drawled, though scepticism coloured her voice. "And you're drawing her portraits all night long?"
"Trying to remember what she looks like."
Eloise studied his face. Too long. Too intently. Benedict felt sweat prickle along his spine. She could almost see the lie. Almost.
"Very well," she said at last, though the distrust hadn't gone anywhere. "But, Benedict, if she's worth it, if this woman truly matters, perhaps you should ask Anthony for help? Or hire someone to search?"
"No!" Too sharp. Too loud. Benedict swallowed, forcing himself to calm down. "No. It's a delicate situation. The fewer people who know, the better."
"Delicate," Eloise repeated. "Is she married?"
Benedict didn't answer, and Eloise took his silence for agreement.
"Oh, Benedict." She shook her head. "You've fallen in love with a married woman. That's why you're behaving this way. That's why it's all so secretive."
Let her think that. Let her believe this story. It's safer than the truth.
"Promise me," Eloise said, taking his hand, "that you won't do anything foolish. That you won't destroy someone else's marriage. That you won't..."
"I promise," he cut in. "Eloise, I promise. I don't intend to destroy anything."
Except, perhaps, myself.
She squeezed his hand and stood.
"Good. But if you need help, or simply someone to talk to, I'm here. Always." Eloise headed for the door but turned at the threshold. "And, Benedict? If this woman makes you look like that..." She nodded toward his haggard face. "Perhaps she isn't worth it."
The door closed.
Benedict sank back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
Not a woman. A man. A man with grey-blue eyes and scars on his heart, who kissed as though the world were crumbling around him.
And he was worth everything. Even this lie. Even this pain.
***
On Saturday evening, Granville came to the studio unannounced.
Benedict sat by the window, gazing at the street. On the table lay a map of London covered in notes: places where he had searched for Caspian, addresses he had checked.
"Benedict," Granville called softly.
"Henry." Benedict did not turn. "What brings you here?"
"Concern." Granville came closer, surveying the room. His gaze swept the walls, and he froze. Dozens of sketches of Caspian covered every surface: profiles, portraits, studies of hands, of eyes. The same person, over and over. "Good God, Benedict..."
"Yes."
"Have you found anything?"
"No." Benedict's voice was hollow. "He's vanished. No one knows where he is. Or won't say."
Granville placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Perhaps you should stop?"
"I can't." Benedict finally turned, and the pain in his eyes was so raw that Granville nearly stepped back. "What if he needs help? What if he's in danger?"
"Or what if he simply left?" Granville said gently. "Benedict, you must consider the possibility. Perhaps he decided it was too dangerous. For both of you."
"He promised to come back."
"People promise many things." Granville sighed. "They don't always keep those promises."
Benedict shook his head.
"No. Caspian isn't like that. If he hasn't returned, it means something happened. I have to find him."
"And then what?" Granville perched on the edge of the table. "What will you do when you find him? If he says he doesn't want to see you?"
"Then at least I'll know." Benedict looked at the map. "I'll know he's alive. That he's safe. That's better than knowing nothing."
Granville did not argue. He simply sat beside him in silence as darkness fell beyond the window.
***
By the start of the fourth week, the search had become an obsession.
Benedict walked all over London. He asked at bookshops, coffeehouses, libraries. He showed sketches of Caspian to anyone willing to look. He left his address everywhere he could.
Nothing.
Caspian had dissolved into thin air.
The studio had transformed into a shrine. The walls filled with sketches: dozens, hundreds of images. Caspian in profile. Full-face. Eyes closed. Eyes open. Smiling. Pensive. Sad.
Benedict drew because he could not stop. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw him. And he feared the image would begin to fade, to slip away.
I must remember. Every detail. Every line.
***
On Friday evening, as the sun set behind the rooftops of Bloomsbury, Benedict sat on the floor of his studio, surrounded by his drawings.
A month. A full month since their last kiss.
"Where are you?" he said into the silence. "Caspian, where are you? Why haven't you come back?"
Perhaps the kiss had been a mistake. Perhaps he had frightened him. Perhaps Caspian had realized that Benedict felt too much, too quickly, and fled.
I need to think.
A month. Was a month enough time to think? Or had it been a polite way of saying goodbye?
Benedict raised his gaze to the main portrait, hanging above the easel. Caspian looked at him from the canvas: vulnerable, beautiful, with grey-blue eyes full of something Benedict had never had time to understand.
"Come back," he whispered. "Please. Even if you say it was a mistake. Even if you no longer want to see me. Just let me know you're alive. That you're safe."
Silence.
Only the crackle of a dying candle and the distant noise of the street beyond the window.
Benedict lowered his head to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself.
Perhaps Granville had been right. Perhaps he should stop. Let go. Accept that some people come into your life only briefly, a flash of light in the darkness, and then vanish, leaving nothing but memories.
But how do you let go of someone who has become the air you breathe?
How do you forget a touch that has burned you from the inside out?
How do you go on living when part of your soul has remained with a person who vanished without looking back?
Benedict had no answers.
He knew only one thing: tomorrow he would return here again. And the day after. And the week after that.
He would wait.
He would search.
Because Caspian's promise, I'll come back, was the only thing he had to hold onto.
Even if that promise proved to be a lie.
Even if waiting destroyed him.
He would wait.
Because love, even unrequited, even hopeless, was better than the emptiness in which he had lived before Caspian.
Beyond the window, darkness had fallen completely. Stars glimmered through the London smog.
Benedict sat in the dark among the ghosts he had drawn with his own hand.
And waited.
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