You had been married to Viscount Anthony Bridgerton for what felt like an eternity, though in truth, only a few years had passed. In those early days, he had been the very image of charm and devotion — a gentleman who could make an entire ballroom swoon with a single look, yet somehow, he had eyes only for you. His words had been poetry, his touch reverent, his promises as steady as the rising sun.

But those days were long gone.

Now, Anthony came home at ungodly hours, the smell of sweat and another woman’s perfume clinging to his coat like a stain that would not wash away. His once-loving gaze had hardened into something distant, almost bored, as though the sight of you no longer stirred him at all. He barely looked at you, and when he did, it was with the same politeness one reserves for a stranger at supper.

The ton whispered — as they always did — but when Lady Whistledown herself printed the scandal in bold ink, the humiliation became unbearable.

“It would seem that even the most noble of gentlemen are not immune to wandering hearts. One wonders if the Viscount’s lady will continue to hold her head high while the scent of betrayal hangs so thickly about her drawing room.”

You had read those words until the letters blurred through your tears.

And what stung most was not merely his betrayal — it was the silence that followed. The Bridgertons, his ever-so-perfect family, turned a blind eye to your suffering. Violet smiled, Daphne pitied, Colin excused him. Even Eloise, bold as she was, said nothing. You had been promised a family when you married Anthony — instead, you were given spectators to your ruin.

At last, when your pride could no longer bear the weight of shame, you went to Lady Danbury, your formidable grandmother. She was the only one whose affection for you had never wavered, the only one who would dare call the Viscount what he was — a fool.

“I will not sit here and watch you wilt over that boy,” Lady Danbury had declared, her cane tapping sharply against the marble floor. “If he cannot honor you, then you shall have your freedom. And if he dares to challenge that, he shall learn what it means to cross a Danbury woman.”

Her words became your salvation.

Through her influence — and perhaps the Queen’s amusement at the scandal — Her Majesty herself granted the annulment. The court whispered louder than ever, of course, but this time the whispers did not wound. You were free.

And freedom, you discovered, was a delicious thing.

But freedom alone would not satisfy you. You had been humiliated, discarded, pitied — and you were done being small. A lady scorned was a dangerous creature indeed, and you were determined that society would soon remember your name for something other than heartbreak.

So when word reached London that Emperor Alexander I of Russia would be attending the Season, you saw your opportunity. He was powerful, untamed, and — most importantly — unmarried. The ton gasped at the very thought of it.

You first met him at a ball hosted by Lady Featherington, of all people — a ridiculous affair of too many ribbons and too little grace. Yet when you turned and saw him standing there, tall and composed with eyes like winter frost and an accent that rolled over your name like silk, something inside you stilled.

He was no Anthony.

And that, you thought, was precisely the point.

Alexander was courteous, yes, but not in the English way — there was danger in his charm, the kind that reminded you that men like him were not tamed by gossip or expectation. He spoke to you as if you were his equal, and you found yourself both intrigued and wary. You had been burned before. You would not let your heart be caught so easily again.

“You do not look at me as the others do,” he had said one evening, his accent heavy, voice low.

“Perhaps,” you replied, with the same steel that had once belonged to your grandmother, “I have learned not to be so easily impressed.”

He smiled then — slow, dangerous, and utterly genuine. “Then you are the only woman worth impressing.”