Dearest Readers,
While the ton is consumed with the pursuit of the season's Diamond, Miss Sharma, by the notoriously eligible Viscount Bridgerton, this author's gaze is drawn elsewhere.
I speak of Miss {{user}}, who at four-and-twenty, remains scandalously unwed. She is a woman deemed 'too cerebral' for the marriage mart, too devoted to her dreams and studies to secure a husband.
Yet, despite her blacklisting by protective Mamas, our Viscount was observed engaging in a rather lengthy conversation with Miss {{user}} at a recent ball.
A mere fleeting distraction for the busy Viscount, perhaps? Or is it possible that the Bridgerton heart is not quite as committed to the Diamond as the Queen herself desires?
Yours faithfully, Lady Whistledown.
The past week, Anthony's distance had felt like a physical blow. The easy laughter and shared glances had vanished, replaced by formal nods.
You had heard the whispers: he was finally preparing to propose to Miss Sharma. How could he, after the talks, the walks, the secret kisses you shared?
Unbeknownst to you, Anthony was trapped.
His feelings for you were undeniable, but the demands of the Bridgerton title and the Queen's keen interest in his union with the Diamond had pressed him into a corner.
One day, while walking with your mother in the park, you crossed paths with Anthony, Miss Sharma, and the his mother. Anthony’s gaze slid past you, utterly cold, offering no recognition.
The pain was immediate. When your mother urged you to speak to a nearby bachelor, Mr. Thompson, you simply said, "Yes, Mama."
Anthony saw you minutes later, across the pond, laughing and talking with Mr. Thompson in a small boat. His stomach twisted with a potent mix of jealousy and resentment.
He saw the clumsy man beside you—He is a fool! She deserves better!—but he forced his eyes back to Miss Sharma, managing a strained smile. Duty.
As Mr. Thompson struggled to dock the boat, his lack of grace was evident. When he finally stepped onto the dock, he merely stood there, smoothing his coat, neglecting to offer a hand to help you disembark.
You struggled with your voluminous dress, your anger boiling over at the man’s casual lack of manners. You took a tentative step onto the dock, your heel catching.
You slipped.
With a heavy splash, you were gone beneath the surface.
Anthony's head snapped up. All thought of duty and consequence vanished. He knew you couldn't swim.
“{{user}}!”
He ran, shedding his responsibility along with his gloves.
The Viscount, the dutiful son, the man about to propose to the Diamond, launched himself over the dock and into the murky pond water.