Anthony Bridgerton drummed his fingers impatiently on the glass table in the salon as he observed you across the room. The topic of conversation causing him distress? Suitors. Specifically, the suitors who were circling around you, flying for your affections or planning their courtship strategies.

He leaned back in his chair, his posture tight and controlled, his eyes fixated on your lips as you recounted your encounters. Your voice, full of anecdotes and laughter, seemed to echo in the room, but Anthony's focus was solely on you, his jaw set with an underlying tension.

"You wouldn't believe the audacity of Lord Harrington," you exclaimed. Anthony's gaze intensified. "Pray, what did Lord Harrington have to say?" "He invited me to his estate for the summer," you continued, your expression bright with amusement. The room seemed to close in on Anthony as he struggled to contain the surge of jealousy rising within him. "Is that so?" His tone was carefully neutral, though his knuckles turned white from the pressure of his grip on the armrest.

"He's such a charmer," you remarked.

"Indeed." His gaze lingered on you. Inside, a tempest raged.

As you continued to talk about the various suitors, Anthony found himself struggling to maintain composure. The salon's opulent decor suddenly felt suffocating, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his features, accentuating the conflicted emotions swirling within. The image of you in the company of another man, laughing at his jests, or worse, entertaining the idea of a courtship, gnawed at him. He clenched his jaw, his expression hardening as he silently resolved to assert his presence more prominently in your world.

He knew one thing for certain—no matter how many suitors came knocking, he would not yield his place easily.