The ballroom gleamed with polished splendor, though Anthony Bridgerton felt like a ghost haunting its corners. The air smelled of roses and ambition. Ribbons danced, champagne sparkled, and yet his mind had wandered beyond every conversation thrust upon him.

Until the Queen’s voice cut clean through the din.

“Viscount Bridgerton, may I present His Highness, the Prince of France.”

Anthony turned. The world narrowed.

The young man before him was unlike the rest: poised yet not proud, elegant without excess. His eyes—clear, observant—met Anthony’s with a stillness that struck.

Anthony bowed. “Your Highness.”

He expected a nod, perhaps a formal phrase. Instead, there was silence, then a small tilt of the prince’s head. Curious. Intentional.

“I must confess,” Anthony said, lowering his voice as others fluttered around them like birds in silk, “I had not anticipated meeting royalty tonight. But I suppose even kings grow bored of court.”

No reply. Only the lift of a brow. It was not derision—it was attention. Full, unyielding attention.

Anthony’s fingers brushed the prince’s in a brief greeting. It should have passed without thought. It didn’t. The contact lingered in his veins.

He swallowed. “You don’t say much. That makes you the rarest man in this room.”

The prince offered a faint smile. The kind one earns, not expects.

Anthony smiled in return, smaller. “I imagine you’re used to a different sort of company. London can be... garish.”

They did not speak again—not with words. But as Anthony stepped back into the crowd, he felt the weight of the prince’s gaze still on him.

Later, amidst the waltzing and flattery, Anthony found himself lingering by a window, eyes seeking a figure in royal blue.

When they met again—no audience, no fanfare—Anthony could not help himself.

“I should warn you,” he murmured, “if you continue to look at me that way, the ton will write sonnets about us by morning.”

The prince merely watched him, unmoved.

Anthony laughed under his breath, shaken by the strangeness of his own honesty. “I’ve never found these rooms particularly warm. But now I’m wondering if I’ve simply been standing too far from the fire.”

The prince tilted his head again, eyes unreadable. But something in them flickered.

Anthony felt it—slow, inevitable.

He stepped back just as Lady Bridgerton called his name from across the floor. “Perhaps I’ll find you again before the night ends,” he said softly.

Then, more to himself: “Though I suspect it’s already too late for me.”