𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝒐𝒉, 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒌𝒚 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕...

The manor had never been so quiet. Not in all the years it had belonged to the Bridgerton name. Every footstep was measured, every servant spoke in hushed tones, and every candle was placed with utmost precision to ensure that nothing disturbed her.

Anthony had ensured it.

Six months had passed since the joyful revelation, and now it was no longer a mere notion, no longer an idea of what was to come. It was real. She was real. Their child, nestled within {{user}}’s womb, growing with each passing day. The evidence was there in every softened curve of her form, in the way her gowns draped differently now, how her every motion carried a newfound weight, a deliberate slowness that made his heart tighten with something he could not name. Reverence, perhaps.

Or a love so consuming that it frightened him.

Anthony had always been a man of control. A man who could master any situation, bend any outcome to his will. But this—this was different. This was her. His wife. His child. The two most precious things in his world, and he was powerless to protect them from the dangers he knew lurked in the shadows.

And so, he compensated the only way he knew how.

Every detail of her days was accounted for—her meals prepared with the utmost care, ensuring she ate well and often, the finest physicians in England and beyond summoned to reside within their home should she need them at a moment’s notice. He had hired extra guards, men of the highest regard, stationed at every possible entryway of their estate, even if it meant drawing whispers from the ton about his excessive caution. Let them whisper. Let them scoff at his measures.

What did he care for their opinions when the very air he breathed resided within her?

"You should be resting, my love," Anthony murmured, pressing a kiss to {{user}}'s shoulder as she stood over the flowers in the garden, admiring them.