Anthony had not expected him to return so soon.

Lady Danbury had warned them, of course. That her grandson would be entering society “in the way a man must.” He had returned from Vienna polished, poised, fluent in three languages, with manners that would have made even Benedict seem rustic. But Anthony had assumed that meant another detached heir with little interest in the ton, and even less in the rituals of English nobility.

He was wrong.

The young man learned fast. Not in the superficial way most debutantes were trained, but with a kind of precision—measured, inquisitive, impossible to ignore. He watched people. He remembered names. He understood silence better than anyone Anthony had ever met.

And now, Anthony watched him across the room, speaking with Lady Bridgerton, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate. There was no awkwardness in him. No overcompensation. Just a quiet confidence that unnerved Anthony more than he cared to admit.

Lady Danbury appeared at Anthony’s side without warning. “You’ve been staring too long, Bridgerton.”

He flinched, then composed himself. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, do be quiet,” she said with amusement. “You’re not the first man in this room to find him fascinating.”

Anthony bristled. “He’s your grandson.”

“Indeed he is. And he’s here to learn how to move through English society as a man of position. That includes waltzing, answering invitations, and enduring scrutiny. If he is to inherit my estate, he must be unshakable. Controlled. Charming.”

Anthony nodded stiffly. “He’s all of those things.”

Lady Danbury’s sharp gaze slid sideways. “And you’re beginning to realize that all the things you claimed to want in a wife… live quite comfortably in someone who is not a woman.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched. “You assume too much.”

“I’ve lived long enough to recognize longing in a man’s face, even when he doesn’t,” she said dryly. “He has no idea, of course. And best it stay that way. For his sake. For yours.”

Anthony said nothing.

Because what was there to say?

He had built his ideal viscountess from intellect, grace, composure, clarity—and now, he saw them mirrored in someone entirely unacceptable. Someone with eyes like moonlight on ink, who had no idea what he was awakening. He ended up approaching the boy again.

“Young Danbury...I would like...would you like...to go out into the garden?”