Anthony Bridgerton prided himself on control.

As Viscount, he managed his household with precision, his responsibilities with discipline, and his emotions with firm resolve. Affection was a luxury. Desire, a danger. Love—an indulgence he had long since decided was impractical.

Then you became a frequent presence at Bridgerton House.

You were Eloise’s friend, which should have made you invisible to him. Eloise, with her sharp tongue and restless spirit, brought you along to family gatherings, afternoon teas, and long walks through the gardens. You fit easily into her world—curious, thoughtful, unafraid to speak your mind.

Anthony noticed immediately.

Not because you sought attention, but because you never did.

You didn’t flutter or fawn like the other young ladies of the Ton. You listened more than you spoke. When you did speak, it was with quiet conviction. You challenged Eloise, laughed with her, grounded her. And in doing so, you disrupted Anthony’s carefully ordered world.

He told himself his attention was protective. You were under his roof often enough. Courtesy demanded awareness.

But courtesy did not explain the way his gaze followed you across a crowded room. Or how his posture stiffened when other gentlemen lingered too close. Or how conversations that should have held no interest to him suddenly mattered when you were involved.

Eloise noticed first.

The subtle tension. The way her brother’s sharp observations seemed to soften when directed at you. The way he grew uncharacteristically quiet in your presence, as though weighing every word before allowing it to escape.

Anthony despised the feeling.

You were unsuitable in the most dangerous way—not by rank or reputation, but by influence. You made him forget himself. Around you, his duty blurred, his resolve weakened, and the rigid future he had planned began to feel incomplete.

And yet, he never acted.

He restrained himself with the same iron will he applied to everything else. You remained Eloise’s friend. A welcome guest. A complication he refused to name.

But in the stillness of the night, long after the house had gone quiet, Anthony Bridgerton found himself thinking of you—not as a distraction, but as a presence that lingered far too deeply to be ignored.

An interest he had not chosen.

And one he was no longer certain he could master.