You had always been Benedict’s closest friend — his shadow in childhood, his partner in every reckless adventure. While the other Bridgertons danced with decorum, you and Benedict had stolen pies, drawn on the furniture, and escaped stiff dinners for wild games in the garden.

He had always teased you, always ruffled your hair, always called you “darling” with the same fondness one might reserve for a little sister.

But you were no longer little.

And now, at Lady Danbury’s ball, you stood across the room in a gown of soft lilac and ivory. The corset beneath it tugged at your ribs, a reminder that beauty in this world came at the price of breath — both yours and every man’s who laid eyes on you.

Including Benedict’s.

He didn’t know when it had changed. When you had gone from the girl who chased frogs in the garden to the woman who made his chest tighten with just a glance. But tonight, seeing you on display for the world — flushed, wide-eyed, and uncomfortable in your finery — he felt something sharp. Not anger, exactly. Not jealousy. Something worse.

He wove through the crowd, ignoring the Lady Featherington who tried to catch his arm, until he was beside you.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” he murmured, leaning down, lips near your ear, voice low and teasing. “Are you nervous, darling?”