The Bridgerton ball was in full swing—music, candles, swirling gowns, and polite chaos. But amid the glittering crowd, you noticed something immediately:

Daphne Bridgerton looked uncomfortable.

Not visibly to the ton—not enough to cause gossip—but enough that you, who had watched her for months, could read the subtle tension in her jaw.

The cause stood right next to her: Lord Percival Ainsworth—young, wealthy, and irritatingly over-confident. He wasn’t just flirting with Daphne. He was performing. Loud enough, dramatic enough, that even you caught the way he kept glancing at you between sentences.

As if testing you. As if trying to see whether you’d react.

Daphne offered him a strained smile as he launched into another flamboyant compliment.

“You look radiant tonight, Lady Daphne,” he said. “Almost as if the stars dimmed for fear of comparison.”

Daphne blinked. “…That is very generous of you, my lord.”

You saw her inch away a hair’s breadth—barely noticeable to most. But to you, it was clear: She wanted an escape.

Lord Percival kept going, voice rising theatrically. “I daresay, if I were a poet, I would dedicate every verse to you!”

His gaze flicked toward you again. Challenge issued.

You stepped forward calmly, hands clasped behind your back, posture polite.

“Lady Daphne,” you said with a bow of your head, “your brother wishes to speak with you.”

It was a lie, but a harmless one.

Her relief was instant—but subtle enough to remain proper. “Of course,” she said, curtsying lightly to Ainsworth. “Please excuse me.”

But before she could step away, Ainsworth smirked.

“Oh? And must you escort her?” he asked loudly. “Such devotion. One might think you feel something more than mere friendship.”

The nearby guests perked up, sensing drama.

Daphne stiffened.

You kept your composure. “My devotion,” you replied evenly, “is to ensuring Lady Daphne’s comfort. Nothing more.”

Ainsworth smiled in triumph, as if he had cornered you. “A pity. I’d hoped to see you react.”

Daphne’s eyes widened—so that’s what he was doing. He wanted to spark jealousy. He wanted to get under your skin. And above all, he wanted Daphne to notice it.

Instead, you stepped closer to him and lowered your voice just enough that only he and Daphne heard:

“If you wish to provoke jealousy, my lord,” you murmured, “you should choose someone who actually desires your attention.”

Ainsworth flinched.

You continued, tone still polite, still cool: “But Lady Daphne does not appreciate being used as a pawn. And neither do I appreciate seeing her uncomfortable.”

It was a warning—quiet, firm, and impossible to challenge without embarrassing himself.

Ainsworth’s confidence cracked. He cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped back.

“Well… of course. My apologies, Lady Daphne.”

She nodded graciously. “Good evening, my lord.”

You offered your arm to Daphne, and she accepted it—gratefully, though still composed for the watching audience.

As the two of you walked away, her voice dropped to a whisper.

“You handled that beautifully.”

“You looked like you needed rescuing.”

“I did.” She paused, then added softly, “But… I was more worried about you. That he was trying to embarrass you.”

You shook your head. “No one can embarrass me by using you. Not when my only concern is your comfort.”

Her cheeks warmed, just slightly. “You always say the right thing,” she murmured. “I should warn you—it is becoming a habit I rely on.”