The carriage lurched violently as rain battered the windows, and you grabbed the seat to steady yourself. Across from you, Anthony Bridgerton sat scowling, arms crossed, looking as miserable as you felt.

“You have always been a harbinger of inconvenience,” he muttered, glaring at the swirling storm outside.

You huffed. “As if you were ever anything but the most arrogant boy in all of Mayfair.”

The words came easily. They always had. You and Anthony had been at odds since childhood — long before responsibilities and titles had hardened him into the viscount he was today. You were Daphne’s dearest friend, spending endless afternoons at Aubrey Hall, laughing, scheming, dreaming. Anthony, meanwhile, had always hovered like a dark cloud, disdainful of your ‘nonsense’ as he called it, quick to call you a nuisance whenever you led Daphne into mischief.

He found you impulsive, infuriating. You found him rigid, humorless. And somehow, over the years, the childish barbs had sharpened into a battlefield neither of you had ever surrendered.

Even now, after Daphne’s grand wedding to the Duke of Hastings — where you had danced with other gentlemen and ignored Anthony entirely — nothing had changed.

Lightning forked across the sky as the carriage rattled to a halt. Rain lashed at the windows and wind howled down the narrow lane. Anthony sprang to his feet and flung open the door.

“We cannot continue,” he said, voice tight. “There’s an inn just ahead.”

Inside the common room, drenched travelers huddled around the hearth. The frazzled innkeeper peered over his ledger. “I’m afraid there’s only one room left,” he said. “And just a single bed.”

You folded your arms and glared at Anthony, water dripping from your bonnet. “How fortunate,” you snapped. “I’ve always enjoyed sleeping alone.”

Anthony’s lips curved in a half-smile, more begrudging than amused. He glanced at you by the lantern light—you, Daphne’s dearest friend, newly arrived to visit the Duchess of Hastings. He looked every bit the stern viscount, tailcoat soaked through and hair plastered to his forehead.

“As if I could forget you,” he muttered. “Ever since you crashed my sixth-birthday party in that ridiculous feathered hat, you have been unendurably irritating.”

You straightened your skirts. “I was four. Your tantrum left cake all over my mother’s best silk.”

The room was small and drafty, the fire in the hearth no more than a stubborn flicker. The bed dominated the space — narrow, creaking at even the suggestion of movement.

You turned to inspect it, still pulling off your damp cloak, when Anthony surprised you.

Without a single word, he strode over and dropped heavily onto the bed, boots and all, arms folded stiffly across his chest. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the low wooden ceiling as if it personally offended him.

You blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He didn’t even glance at you. “There is no other option,” he said, voice clipped. “I intend to sleep. Ignore me.”