You had not meant to fall in love with your husband. But in time—slowly, gently—you grew to care for him. He was kind. Honest. A good man, and good men were often in short supply in the ton. So you married him, and you were content.

But you had always loved Anthony Bridgerton.

You were not supposed to. He was your husband’s cousin—older, brooding, with eyes that seemed to see far more than he should. He was the one who sat beside you at supper when your husband was delayed. The one who offered a hand when your glove slipped, who dared to compliment your wit when others only spoke of your dowry. You were meant to be fond of him only as family. And yet—

There had been something else.

A tension that sparked when your fingers brushed. A glance too long. A conversation that grew too quiet. But Anthony had never crossed the line. He had been distant, polite, and maddeningly controlled. You never allowed yourself to wonder why.

And then, your husband died.

It was sudden. Unjust. The kind of loss that arrived like a winter storm—unforgiving, cold, and cruel. You wore black. You mourned. You wept until there were no tears left.

Anthony was the first to arrive at your door.

Not as a suitor. Not even as a friend. But as someone who couldn’t stay away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered through the door when he came the second time that week.

“And yet, here I am.”

You opened it. He looked like he hadn’t slept. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable.

“You are grieving,” he said, voice low. “But you must not do it alone.”

That was how it began.

Small moments. Shared silences. You did not speak of love. Not then. Not while grief still clung to you like fog. But you leaned on him. Trusted him. And Anthony, who had always held the world at arm’s length, became something like a constant. He fetched books from the library. Sat with you during walks. Wrote you letters when he could not see you.

But you were not blind. You saw the way his gaze lingered. The way his hands trembled when they touched yours. The way his voice broke when he wished you goodnight.

And still—he said nothing.

Until the night you fought.

It was trivial at first. A disagreement over an invitation you had accepted from another gentleman, one who had offered polite company and fresh air.

“You’re not my keeper, Anthony,” you said, sharp as a blade. “You are not my brother, nor my husband. You have no right—”

“I know I have no right!” he shouted, the words like a dam breaking. “I never did!”

The room fell silent.

His chest heaved. His fists were clenched at his sides. And his eyes—those dark, tortured eyes—held years of longing.

“I watched you marry him,” Anthony said, voice hoarse. “And I did nothing. I stood there as you walked toward him, dressed in white, because it was honourable. Because it was what you deserved. And now… now I sit in silence as you weep for him, and I still say nothing, because I do not wish to add to your grief.”

You stared at him. The truth of it washing over you like fire.

“But do not mistake my silence for indifference,” he continued. “Because I have always loved you. Even when I tried not to. Even when I knew it could only end in ruin. I loved you then. I love you still.”