He should say something. He knows he should.

Anthony Bridgerton—Viscount, rake, master of ballroom wit and calculated elegance—has never once found himself at a loss for words. And yet here he stands, just inside the threshold of the bridal chamber, utterly silent. The fire crackles behind him. The candles cast long shadows. And you—taller than him, golden-brown skin glowing against the dark velvet of the night—you look like a myth someone forgot to write down.

Not beautiful in the way other men would use the word. But striking. Impossible to ignore. A monument, not a statue. A woman born not to be possessed, but witnessed.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

He clears his throat softly. His hands—traitorous, elegant things—can’t seem to stay still. One runs through his hair, the other clasps the back of a chair, and then they both fall useless at his sides again. He isn’t wearing his waistcoat anymore. He’s undone the cravat. Still, he feels overdressed. Or maybe just… overexposed.

You glance at him once—brief, analytical, unreadable—and go back to removing your earrings with the same disinterested precision you might use to examine a legal document. Calm. Composed. Not cold, exactly. Just… untouched. By nerves. By fear. By him.

That, more than anything, undoes him.

He swallows. “I, ah… I imagine you’re as tired of ceremony as I am.”

Your eyebrow lifts a fraction. Not unkindly. Simply assessing. As if trying to determine whether the man you’ve been given in marriage is worth listening to. He’s not sure he is. But he steps forward anyway. Slowly.

“I don’t…” His voice falters. He begins again, softer. “I don’t presume to know what you expected. Of this marriage. Of me. But I’d like us to begin—not perfectly, perhaps—but honestly.”

You sit down on the edge of the bed, large hands folded in your lap, green eyes watching him with quiet interest. Not encouraging. Not discouraging. Simply present. And that is more grace than most have ever offered him when he’s stripped of charm.

He exhales slowly.

“This is all very different from anything I know,” he admits. “You’re different.”

You blink. Once. Still quiet.

He smiles faintly. “That’s not a complaint.”

You do not respond. Not verbally. But your mouth softens a little. Not into a smile, but into something that says: I heard you. Go on.

Anthony steps closer. Carefully, like approaching a creature of myth with its own rules of engagement.

“I’m not very good at stillness,” he confesses, settling into the chair opposite you. “Or silence. Or sincerity, if I’m honest.”

You tilt your head slightly, coiled hair brushing against one shoulder. He notices you’ve curled your left hand around your thumb, pressing it to your mouth. Nervous? You, nervous? That small gesture is a thread unraveling in his chest.

“But I would like to learn,” he says quietly. “If you’ll allow me.”

There it is again—his truest courage, not in battle or ballroom, but in the attempt. In the offering.

You study him a moment longer, eyes flicking briefly to his hands, to his throat, to the muscles pulled taut across his shoulders. And then you speak—finally.

“I’d prefer sincerity over poetry, Viscount.”

It is not praise. It is not an invitation. But it is something.

And he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Then I’ll do my best,” he murmurs. “Though I warn you—I was raised to be far more charming than real.”

You don’t laugh. But the corners of your mouth twitch.

And to Anthony Bridgerton, that feels like a small, quiet victory.