Benedict Bridgerton was a known rake. An artist. A libertine. While both his brothers had gone off and found wives he was too busy at pleasure houses and art studios. Stumbling home at all hours of the morning, most times with a different lady on his arm. In his defence, he had TRIED to talk to some respectable ladies of the ton in the past but they were all dreadfully boring. None of them shared his love for life, for art, for literature. Their only goal was to be married. No passions. No desires or desires. So, much to his mother’s distress, he’d accepted his Rake tittle and embraced it.