The humiliation bloomed hot against your skin, a fire that no amount of cool evening breeze could quell. You stood there—an open wound amongst the finery and laughter—while Lord Bertram, so beloved by every mother and maiden present, let his disdain cut you down before all the world. His voice had carried across the ballroom, cruelly crisp: “You are altogether too peculiar, Miss {{user}}—no man of sense wishes for a wife who behaves like an unruly colt fresh from the paddock.” A laugh rose from somewhere beyond the circle; whether it was one voice or many you could not tell. Your ears roared with it.

Ladies turned away behind their fans; gentlemen exchanged knowing smirks. Whispers bloomed like noxious flowers, sharp and merciless: Unwomanly. Strange. Ill-bred. You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the window—a girl carved out of shame—and before anyone could stop you, you fled, skirts tangling about your ankles as you pushed through the heavy doors into the cool garden beyond.

The night was heavy with the scent of jasmine and damp earth. You stumbled blindly down the path, past manicured hedges and silent statues, until your knees gave way beside an ancient oak, its gnarled roots cradling you like the arms of some old, pitiless god. The rough bark bit into your shoulder as you leaned against it, your trembling hands clutching at the folds of your gown. Tears spilled freely, hot and bitter, tracing the high bones of your cheeks as you pressed your forehead to the tree, wishing it would split open and swallow you whole. Somewhere, the orchestra played on, deaf to your disgrace.

You did not hear the footfalls at first—soft against the gravel, hesitant. But the voice that followed was unmistakable, rich and steady despite the awkwardness that edged it.

“Miss {{user}}…?” Anthony Bridgerton’s voice, low and measured, broke across the night like the first chime of a clock striking the hour. “Are you… quite well?”