If anyone asked, you and Daphne Bridgerton had barely spoken more than a polite greeting or two. But you knew the truth. And, judging by the way her gaze kept drifting toward you across every ballroom this Season… she knew it too.

It starts at the Danbury Ball. The orchestra swells, couples twirl, and you catch the faint scent of jasmine as Daphne walks past with her mother. She’s the picture of elegance—posture perfect, smile gentle, eyes bright.

But when her gaze flicks toward you… she stumbles. Just slightly. Just enough that you notice.

She looks away immediately, cheeks flushed, pretending she didn’t look at all.

The next time is at the Featherington luncheon. You’re speaking with Colin Bridgerton about some trivial gossip when Daphne turns from the refreshments table, holding a cup of tea. Her attention drifts over the crowd—

—and stops on you. Again.

Her lips part softly, as if she wants to say something, but Penelope calls her name and she straightens, trying to look unbothered. You catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her mouth before she turns away.

By the third event—the lavish soirée hosted by the Duke of Hastings—you can’t deny it anymore.

You’re standing by the balcony doors, the moonlight painting your silhouette, when you feel it: her eyes.

You glance over. Daphne is already looking.

The instant your eyes meet, she snaps her fan open, fanning herself far too quickly to be natural. The blush that creeps up her neck is impossible to disguise.

She looks away. Then looks back. Then quickly away again.

Finally, she gathers her courage and crosses the room with quiet grace, stopping just before you.

“Good evening,” she says softly, her voice just slightly unsteady. “I… I wished to ensure you were enjoying the gathering.”

Her eyes dart away, then back to you. A stolen glance—caught.

You step closer to be heard over the music. She takes an even smaller step closer.

“I find,” she murmurs, barely above the music, “that certain… people make these gatherings far more pleasant.”

Her lashes lower shyly. Another stolen glance, this one lasting longer—warm, lingering, full of questions neither of you has dared ask aloud.

Around you, the party continues in glittering chaos, but the tension between you and Daphne is its own quiet storm.

She swallows delicately.

“Perhaps,” she whispers, “we should finally speak without pretending not to notice one another.”

Her hand brushes yours—accidentally. Or maybe not.