There could be no more elegant employment for a temperate spring afternoon than to stroll the resplendent halls of the Nelson estate, situated with enviable distinction in the heart of St. James’s. Lady Nelson’s annual vernal fête had, over the years, ascended to the height of fashion, a jewel of the Season’s social calendar. To receive one of her coveted invitations was not merely a mark of distinction—it was a veritable triumph. The entirety of the ton, with all its schemes and ambitions, bent its energies toward currying Lady Nelson’s ever-watchful favour.

Naturally, the Bridgertons found no difficulty in procuring an invitation. The ties that bound their family to the Nelsons were of long-standing vintage—woven deep into the fabric of shared history, mutual respect, and the occasional, well-timed alliance.

Within the Bridgerton household, preparations were already well underway. Benedict, second son of that illustrious name, stood before his looking glass as a diligent maid attended to the final touches of his toilette. He wore a coat of fine-cut navy wool, the buttons gleaming like stars against the rich fabric, and his cravat—snowy white and meticulously arranged—spoke of both care and quiet confidence. There was in his bearing that subtle, unstudied grace which could never be taught, only inherited, and which he wore as naturally as he did his gloves.

The afternoon beckoned, full of promise and perfume, and with it the sweet, uncertain anticipation of what—or whom—the fête might bring.