The summer of 1814 had proved crueler than most, not in the quality of its sunshine, nor in the endless fetes, musicales and soirées that had kept the ton brimming with chatter—but in the way the invisible hand of circumstance had seen fit to entangle two souls so ill-acquainted, so unprepared for one another.

The marriage had been hastily arranged, as these things so often are, when scandal threatens. A single imprudent moment—misconstrued, perhaps, yet damning enough in the eyes of Society—had sealed their fates. A garden at dusk, a careless stumble, his steadying hand upon her arm, and the wrong eyes witnessing what they should not. In such a world, reputation was as fragile as porcelain. The mere whisper of impropriety had been sufficient to send her guardians into alarm, and Anthony—Viscount Bridgerton, eldest of his brood, sworn protector of the family’s name—had known there was but one remedy.

And so, without courtship, without affection, the matter was settled: they were wed.

Now, at Aubrey Hall, the merriment of the day was behind them. The house was hushed, save for the muted crackle of the fire in his chamber. Candlelight painted the walls in amber hues, long shadows stretching across the carved paneling. A decanter of brandy stood neglected upon a sideboard. Beyond the heavy drapes, the Warwickshire countryside lay silent beneath a mantle of stars.

Anthony Bridgerton stood near the hearth, broad-shouldered and severe in his evening dress, though his cravat had long since been discarded, and the rigid formality of the day had begun to soften upon him. His dark eyes—sharp, restless, unyielding—fell now upon the young woman who sat at the edge of his bed, her posture composed yet betraying, in the restless twist of her fingers, her unease.

He did not speak at once, for Anthony was not a man given to idle chatter in moments that mattered. His manner was restrained, his expression unreadable, yet within him stirred a tumult he could neither name nor control. This marriage had been forced upon him as much as upon her, and he resented the circumstance as fiercely as he resented the loss of his freedom. Yet he was no brute. Honour, duty, obligation—those three stern masters had governed his life since his father’s death, and they would govern him still.

At length, he exhaled a quiet breath and moved a step closer.

“You need not fear me,” he said, his voice low, measured, tinged with that familiar brusqueness that was more armour than intent. “I should not have chosen this path for either of us, yet here we are. And I mean to conduct myself as… properly as the situation permits.”

Her gaze lifted to his, cautious but steady, as though she were taking the measure of the man who was now, by law and by circumstance, her husband.

Anthony’s hand flexed at his side. He wished, irrationally, that he might offer comfort with ease, that he might find the right words to soften the sharp edges of the night. But he was a man unpractised in tenderness; responsibility had carved too deep into him. He took another step, the air between them tightening, charged with something that was not yet affection but not mere indifference either.

“I will not press what you do not freely give,” he went on, his tone firm now, as though he needed her to believe him. “It is enough, for tonight, that we honour the form of this union without… expectation.”

He stopped there, close enough that the scent of sandalwood and brandy clung about him, close enough that she might see the flicker of uncertainty behind his polished mask.