The marriage had been perfect in every visible sense—dignified, respectable, and precisely what society demanded of a man in his position. Anthony Bridgerton had performed his duties admirably. The smiles came easily when others were watching, and he played the part of a devoted husband with practiced precision.

But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t watching, cracks began to form in the façade. Like now, as he found himself alone with you in the sitting room after dinner. He cleared his throat, the flickering light of the hearth casting shadows on his face.

“You seemed to enjoy Lady Danbury’s compliments earlier,” he said, his tone even, almost detached, as if trying to steer the conversation anywhere but the awkward stillness between you. “She has a way of being… forthright.”

His gaze flicked to you then, and for a fleeting second, there was something softer in his expression. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the carefully curated mask of composure he always wore. “I do hope you are… happy here.” There was a pause, a hesitation that he tried to mask, before adding, “I truly mean that.”