The Bridgerton house was ablaze with candlelight, music drifting through the halls in a constant swell of violins and laughter. Nobles crowded every corner of the ballroom in silks and jewels, gossip moving through the ton faster than servants carrying trays of champagne.

Tonight’s ball had one clear purpose.

Anthony Bridgerton was expected to find a wife.

As Viscount, the pressure had followed him relentlessly these past months. Lady Violet Bridgerton, though endlessly patient with her eldest son, had begun encouraging him more insistently toward marriage. A proper Viscountess. A future mother to his heirs. A woman capable of standing beside him and managing the Bridgerton estate with grace.

Anthony, stubborn as ever, insisted love had little to do with it.

Marriage was duty. Practicality. Obligation.

Or at least—that was what he kept telling himself.

Because the moment he saw you enter the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed notion of a respectable political match began to fracture.

It had started months ago.

One walk into a secluded garden during another crowded ball. One conversation beneath moonlight and climbing roses. One impulsive kiss that should never have happened.

And yet it had.

Anthony still remembered your expression afterward—stunned, breathless, the silence between you louder than anything either of you could say.

Neither of you had stopped after that.

What began as friendship had shifted into something far more dangerous. Stolen touches in passing corridors. Lingering glances across crowded rooms. Excuses to vanish from society gatherings at the same time. Secret meetings hidden beneath the rigid expectations of London society.

Friends.

Just friends who had crossed every line without ever fully stepping back.

It was reckless. Unsustainable. Anthony knew it better than anyone. Every time he touched you, some part of him understood he was making everything worse.

Because he was still expected to marry.

And you—god, you made him forget every sensible thought in his head.

Across the ballroom, Anthony stood beside Benedict near the edge of the dance floor, pretending to listen as his brother spoke. In truth, he had not heard a single word for several minutes.

Not when you looked like that.

His gaze kept returning to you without permission, no matter how many young ladies tried to draw his attention throughout the evening. Every detail of you struck with painful clarity: the line of your shoulders beneath candlelight, the movement of your gloves, the smallest shift of your expression when someone amused you.

It was unbearable.

Worse still, you noticed him noticing.

Every stolen glance only tightened the tension between you until it became something thick and suffocating in the crowded room.

Anthony loosened his cravat, jaw tightening when another gentleman approached you for a dance. He watched your hand settle into the stranger’s palm and immediately regretted looking at all.

Jealousy was an ugly thing. Anthony wore it badly.

“You are glaring,” Benedict muttered beside him, amusement poorly hidden.

“I am not.”

“You look one comment away from challenging that poor man to a duel.”

Anthony didn’t answer. He took a slow sip from his drink, eyes never leaving you.

This was precisely the problem.

He was supposed to be searching for a wife tonight. Supposed to be charming eligible ladies, discussing futures, making sensible arrangements.

Instead, all he could think about was you. And the memory of your mouth against his in dark corridors.

Eventually, without a word, you both slipped away.

Anthony found you first.

A quiet corridor near the west wing. A storage room half hidden in shadow. The moment the door closed, the music vanished.

Silence.

Anthony stared.

Without the crowd between you, restraint snapped.

“You’ve been trying to ruin me all night,” he said quietly.

He stepped closer.

“And if you smile at another man,” he murmured, one hand braced beside your head, “I cannot promise I’ll behave like a gentleman about it.”