The sky had been clear when you left the Bridgerton estate, but fate had other plans.

Now, rain poured in heavy sheets, drenching everything in sight. You and Anthony barely made it to the small garden gazebo before the downpour became unbearable.

You shivered, your gown clinging to your skin, while Anthony stood beside you, arms crossed, his dark curls damp and infuriatingly perfect despite the storm.

“This is your fault,” you muttered, hugging yourself for warmth.

Anthony scoffed, shaking water from his sleeves. “My fault? You were the one who insisted on walking the gardens.”

“You didn’t have to follow.”

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his wet hair. “Believe me, I tell myself that every day.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

Anthony stilled, his jaw tightening, as if he had said too much. His gaze flickered to yours—intense, unreadable, yet filled with something dangerous.

“You drive me mad,” he muttered. His voice was low, raw, barely audible over the rain.