The ballroom smelled of perfume and powder, suffocating and cloying after years of salt and gunpowder.

Vice Admiral Featherington—they all still whispered it when you entered—cut a striking figure in sapphire silk, the stone in your ruined eye catching the light like a weapon. Every bow, every curtsy, every polite smile was a test of your patience. You could command fleets, outshoot any man in Europe, and plot naval strategies that made even the French tremble, but here? Here you were reduced to a commodity on display. Twenty-four, baroness-in-waiting, paraded like a falcon among pigeons.

Your mother fluttered at your side, fussing with your gloves as if that would soften your reputation. Prudence and Phillipa trailed after, the former trying too hard to look imperious (at least she listened to you) and the latter just happy to be here. Penelope, as ever, lingered in Bridgerton orbit, which made your jaw tighten. Family loyalty first. Always.

Queen Charlotte’s words echoed in your skull: no arrangement, my dear. You will find love, or you will not marry at all. A woman of your caliber deserves no less. You had wanted to argue, to insist that duty came before desire—but one does not argue with Charlotte. And so here you were.

Benedict Bridgerton spotted you before you noticed him. Not difficult—you were taller than most women in the room, posture soldier-straight, the glittering sapphire eye impossible to ignore. You were not delicate, not demure; you radiated something else entirely. Power. Precision. Danger dressed in silks.

And he—second son, sensitive, artistic, restless—was instantly ruined.

Benedict had never cared for the endless carousel of the ton. The waltzes blurred, the gowns blurred, even the laughter blurred. But when he caught you brushing past the French windows, expression carved of ice and bone-deep boredom, it struck him like lightning: here was someone who did not belong either.

Your thoughts, however, were less romantic. This is ridiculous. These men hold rapiers like toys. Half of them could not load a musket if their mother’s life depended on it. And this one—staring at me like I’m a painting. What does he want?

He startled when you looked directly at him, your one blue eye sharp, your sapphire glinting. He swallowed, tugged at his cravat, and offered a bow that was more awkward than elegant. “Miss Featherington.”

Your voice, low and cool, met his ears like the crack of a pistol. “Vice Admiral Featherington. Don’t drop my rank so casually, Bridgerton.”

He flushed, but a grin tugged at his mouth anyway. God, she’s terrifying. God, she’s magnificent.

It was the first time in years you felt something other than exhaustion at these gatherings: curiosity. Because here was a man who didn’t flinch at your sharpness. Who didn’t simper, didn’t leer, didn’t stammer apologies for existing in your space. He just looked at you like you were— Not a prize. Not a scandal. But a challenge.

And if there was one thing you never turned away from, it was a challenge.