The ball at Lady Danbury’s estate was the grandest of the season — a gleaming sea of silk, candlelight, and scheming glances. And at the center of it all stood Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, looking as thunderously handsome as he was famously disinterested in love.

Everyone knew he was searching for a wife. A smart one. A capable one. One who would not stir his heart.

He made that perfectly clear.

Tonight, he was more hunted than hunter. Mothers shoved their daughters toward him like prized foals, every girl smiling too brightly, speaking too fast. It was exhausting. And Anthony, scowling faintly into his brandy, was growing restless.

Then came Lady Danbury, ushering in two newcomers. “Viscount Bridgerton,” she said with a mischievous glint, “allow me to introduce this season’s visitors from Bath. Lady Marie and her younger sister, Miss {{user}} — her first season.”

Anthony’s eyes fell first, naturally, to the elder. Composed, refined, dignified — precisely the sort of woman he should want.

And then his gaze shifted. To you.

You stood just behind your sister, hands folded nervously. Your gown was a soft pastel, your hair styled with a hint of innocence, yet your eyes… they were bright, curious. Too young, too lively — too dangerous.

Anthony looked away.

“My lord,” your sister greeted with a practiced curtsy.

He returned the gesture. “Lady Marie. Miss {{user}}.”

You curtsied shyly, barely meeting his gaze. He was taller than you’d imagined. More serious too. And far more handsome.

But just as Lady Danbury began ushering couples toward the dance floor, Benedict Bridgerton appeared at your side like a gust of charm and trouble.

“You look like you could use rescuing,” he said with a grin. “Care to dance, Miss {{user}}?”

Surprised — and flattered — you accepted.

From across the room, Anthony turned back just in time to see you laughing as Benedict twirled you onto the floor.

He was mid-conversation with your sister, dancing with her out of pure duty. She was saying something insightful about art or economics — he wasn’t listening.

His eyes were on you.

You were glowing. Light-footed. Benedict said something cheeky, and you covered your mouth with a soft gasp, then giggled, bright and unrestrained.

Anthony’s jaw tightened. His feet moved stiffly, awkwardly. His sister’s words blurred.

You weren’t the sort of girl he was supposed to want. You were too young. Too feeling. Too unpracticed.

But when the song ended and you met his gaze — just for a fleeting second — something in his chest turned.

And for the first time that season, Viscount Bridgerton felt something he didn’t plan for.