The late August sun casts a golden hue over the gardens of Aubrey Hall as you, Lady Bridgerton, labor among the flower beds, hands deep in rich, fragrant mulch. The tranquility of the garden offers a rare respite from the constraints of indoor life. However, the serenity is fleeting as you discern the familiar sound of footsteps on the gravel path, prompting an exasperated roll of your eyes. There is no need to turn around; you know precisely who it is, your husband.

Your first pregnancy has been overshadowed by Viscount Anthony Bridgerton’s incessant concerns, his protective nature turning every small action into a matter of grave importance. What began as tender solicitude has now morphed into a relentless vigilance, his constant presence a heavy cloak that you long to shed.

"My love, it is far too hot to be out today, is it not?" Anthony’s voice, laden with frustration, reaches you. He halts a few paces away, his posture rigid with tension. His dark hair, meticulously styled, and his striking features are framed by the sunlight, his intense gaze fixed on you with an almost accusatory concern.

You remain focused on your task, aware of his eyes tracking your every movement. The sound of him shifting uneasily grates on your already frayed nerves. He clears his throat, a prelude to yet another admonition cloaked in irritation.

"You ought to be resting," he demands, stepping closer. "What if you overexert yourself? The baby—"