Archive of Our Own

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Has the beast guarding Miss Edwina’s tower finally been tamed? I have never seen a creature beam as radiantly as Miss Sharma on the arm of Mr. Dorset.

Mondrich’s gentleman’s club was a fine enough establishment to grace, even though Anthony’s present company was giving him many causes for regret. He was slouched in the leather armchair with a brandy in hand, glaring at Dorset like he could bear a hole in his skull. Maybe he could. He’d heard from Dorset himself that the medicinal practice could put holes in skulls with the right equipment. Anthony would very much like to put one in his head. Why should he have to block his ears to get the man to stop talking about Miss Sharma?

Anthony tapped his foot against the wooden floor. Benedict chortled, halfway to drunk within thirty minutes of sitting his ass on the leather chair beside him. His brother had it so easy. Not one care in the world. Not one bother. The second son was graced with such a luxury, while the firstborn always carried the burdens. Why should Anthony have to concede defeat? Why couldn’t Miss Sharma? Why couldn’t she end this farce and put him out of his misery?

Dorset was sitting forward in his chair, with his glass held between two hands. Surgeon hands. Is that what he expected Miss Sharma to like so much about him? His allegedly delicate hands. He’d heard some of the women fall into a tizzy at the idea of such soft hands. Would they still be soft in India? Anthony gripped his glass. His thumb slipped against the condensation. Would Dorset follow Miss Sharma to India?

"Anthony?"

Anthony sat up straight and cleared his throat. "Pardon?"

"Have you spoken to Miss Sharma?" Dorset asked. He curved his lips upward like he thought being shy with him would get his own way. It wasn’t charming. Did she find his smile pleasant, too? "I presumed since you’ve been spending time with Miss Edwina that perhaps you’d have shared a few words with the elder Sharma."

He popped his lips. "No," he said. "I haven’t had the displeasure."

Benedict snorted. "That’s funny, brother." He downed his drink with his pinky held up. Could Anthony tear Benedict’s little finger from his body? "You act as though Miss Sharma’s a beast."

"That’s what Lady Whistledown wrote," Colin said.

"I don’t entertain myself with such…" Dorset pressed his lips together and lifted a shoulder. "Not everything you read in the paper is accurate."

"Yet you read medical papers," Anthony said. From the corner of his eye, Benedict looked at him like he was amusing. He wasn’t amusing. He was correct. One day, Benedict would grow up. "Are you to say not everything in them is correct?"

"Sometimes," Dorset said, unfazed. Why didn’t he care? He used to be so easy to rile at Oxford. "But gossip and medical journals are very different."

Colin hummed. "I suppose so," he said, though the seriousness of his voice was undercut by his smile. He wasn’t fast enough to hide it behind his drink. "Do you have an interest in Miss Sharma, Thomas?"

Dorset blushed. He settled back in his chair. Even his slumping looked like he was sitting straight. Did women find that attractive? Would Miss Sharma? The mere act alone looked like the man couldn’t relax. Women were attracted to confidence, and Dorset was not… "I… think she’s quite lovely."

Anthony snorted. "Lovely."

"Yes," Dorset said, unfazed yet again. "She is. Quite fiery and outspoken, but I enjoyed conversing with her at the races—"

"You hardly shared two words," Anthony said.

Colin’s brows furrowed. Dorset only smiled. "Not when the races started, no," Dorset said. "But we had a decent conversation as I escorted her to our seats. We were enjoying ourselves before she became distracted with you."

Distracted by him? Why did he feel so warm at the idea? Anthony shifted where he sat and smiled. He held his glass close to his mouth as he peered over the brim. Miss Sharma was distracted by him. That didn’t bode well for Dorset.

"When will you be seeing the Sharmas next?" Colin said. He readjusted and slid further down his chair as he tipped his glass in Anthony’s direction. The privilege of the third son was to sit like he had no spine. "Perhaps you can invite Thomas to come along."

"I don’t think that would be appropriate," Anthony said with a shake of his head. "There are wedding matters to tend to—"

"I’d be happy to entertain Miss Sharma," Dorset said. "While I don’t mean to make assumptions, she doesn’t strike me as the type to find wedding planning fun."

"Perhaps it’d be best if you didn’t make assumptions."

Benedict snorted and downed his drink when Anthony cut him a glare. "You make many assumptions about a woman you despise," Benedict said before he rose and stretched his arms over his head. His bones cracked. Perhaps Dorset should worry about his brother’s state than Miss Sharma. "I’m getting a drink. Another round?"

"None for me," Dorset said with a shake of his hand.

Anthony almost leapt out of his chair as he leaned forward, zeroing in on him. "Come on, Dorset," he said with a wide grin. He wanted to show his teeth, so he did. "Let loose. Enjoy yourself a little. You’re much too uptight."

Dorset’s smile was small as he regarded Anthony. His patience still irked Anthony, even after all these years. He looked down at his glass before lifting his gaze to Benedict. "Perhaps I could do with one more."

"Grand," Benedict said. "Perhaps a few more, and you’ll be halfway to fun!" He spun on his foot and left before Colin could get a word out for his answer.

Anthony remained sitting forward with his back hunched. He tapped his foot against the ground as he stared at Dorset. "I’m glad you’re back in town, Dorset," he said. He was. It was nice to have a friend nearby, what with Simon delayed with matters at home. "Wait until Hastings returns. It’ll be like Oxford all over again."

Simon knew telling him to arrive at a specific time meant that he would arrive at that specific time.

Anthony stepped out of his stationary carriage posted outside the Basset London home when the Danbury horses pulled up at his rear. His boots hitting the gravel were met with the horses’ neighs. Staying where he was, he eyed the front door of the burgundy carriage. Was she inside? Was he? Miss Edwina’s entourage always consisted of at least three women: Lady Danbury, Lady Mary, and Miss Sharma.

He tugged at the lapels of his dark blue coat as the door opened. His heart fluttered. Miss Sharma emerged, dressed in dark lavender, and gripped the side of the carriage as she gazed at the overly lavish home. She didn’t regard it with the wide-eyed wonder of Aubrey Hall. Even though the home was several stories high, it was enclosed in shadow and its neighbours when Aubrey Hall stretched in open space. The Basset home wasn’t ugly by any means, but it was crowded. Her guard was erected. No smile graced her face. She narrowed her eyes as she took in the lack of flowers hanging from the windows. That was why she liked Aubrey Hall, wasn’t it? The vines coiling around the pillars and the blooming gardens that littered its grounds.

Ignoring the footman, she dropped onto the ground. Sparing him a glance, she turned toward the carriage and stepped in front of the man to extend her hand out for Miss Edwina. Lady Mary was next, graciously taking her eldest’s hand. No sign of Dorset. The tightness in his chest softened.

Miss Edwina brushed her light pink gloves against her gown before she looked up and saw him. She gave him a pretty, small smile and bowed shallowly. He mimicked her. He kept his gaze locked on her, although Miss Sharma plagued his peripherals.

He’d managed two steps before he was tugged from his intended path.

Simon slapped him hard on the back. "Bridgerton!" He smiled widely, showing all his teeth like a predator. Anthony didn’t return the smile in kind, keeping his lips pressed as he swayed on the spot from Simon’s tug. "Glad you could make it."

"I recall receiving an invitation, Basset," he said. "Unless your cunning wife invited me behind your back?"

Simon laughed. "You know better than anyone your sister is welcome to do whatever she likes behind my back."

Anthony wrinkled his nose. "Information I didn’t need to know." He caught a glimpse of dark lavender from the corner of his eye. He turned toward Simon and smacked him on the back. "Where’s Daph?"

"Inside." Simon withdrew his arm and looked over Anthony’s shoulder. "I must greet my guests before the Dowager curses me for being a poor host."

He watched Simon stride toward the carriage and stand where the footman once stood with his hand extended toward the carriage. Lady Danbury smacked it away with her hand as she speared her cane into the ground and slowly manoeuvred her way out of the carriage, accepting Miss Sharma’s hand with a devious smile.

Why did Miss Sharma look lovely today? The dark purple of her dress suited her well. Her hair was pinned tight to her head, although a few long strands curled down her back. She always looked lovely, even when she wore pale pinks and clipped her hair tight to her head. Miss Edwina stood with her mother off to the side as Miss Sharma helped Lady Danbury to the ground.

When Miss Sharma turned her head in his direction, Anthony looked away and stormed into the house. There was no point in admiring the changes Daphne had made. None of them were significant enough to draw his attention. The blue wallpaper, rugs and curtains complimented Basset’s burgundy lounges and golden portrait frames. There were more flowers draped inside, pouring from vases and wrapping around the staircase. The house looked livelier, even though neither of them had graced it since before Auggie’s birth. Clyvedon was her true masterpiece. This house was merely an experiment.

He stood in the foyer with his arms tucked behind his back as he gazed at the spiral staircase. The biggest difference was the thin vines strangling the staircase. For someone with light feet, his sister was awfully loud, even from the first floor. Although he turned his head to listen for the commotion at the open front doors, Anthony kept his attention on the staircase in front of him. He was here to see Daphne first, Simon second. Miss Sharma being here was inconvenient timing.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long. Daphne approached the staircase and smacked her gloved hand against the railing as soon as she saw him. "Anthony!" she said. He stood taller at her bright smile as she skipped down the staircase like she used to when she was younger.

The force of Daphne leaping at him made him stumble back. Her arms shackled him to her.

"Are you trying to kill me?" he asked as he wrapped his arms loose around her.

"Can you blame me?" she said against his shoulder. She squeezed him three times before she released him. "You’re not exactly known for being likeable."

"Ouch."

His shoulders pinched as footsteps echoed behind him. Daphne’s gaze shifted to over his shoulder. "Lady Danbury," she said as she stepped away from him, but not before brushing her hand against his forearm.

"Your Grace," Lady Danbury said. He could imagine her bow without turning to look.

How long could Anthony get away with not turning around? She was there, wasn’t she? There were no lilies in this house, yet they invaded the foyer like the vases were haunted by only them. Tucking his arms behind his back again, he turned and gripped his fingers until his knuckles could almost pop from their joints. Why did Simon have to invite her?

"Miss Sharma," Daphne said, smiling as she dipped her head in an uncustomary greeting. "It’s a pleasure to see you again."

"It’s very much mine," Miss Sharma said. "You have a beautiful home here."

Miss Edwina was the picture of class as she curtsied to the Duchess of Hastings. He should go to her. He should greet his betrothed. But he stayed where he was. It was better to let them buzz like bees around Miss Sharma. He kept his gaze strictly on Miss Edwina’s neatly pinned hair. She truly was a sight in her soft pinks. He wore a deep blue coat that coincidentally could be the sister to Miss Sharma’s deep purple dress, but it meant nothing, because she declared it must mean nothing. They were nothing. A fleeting thing. Miss Sharma’s hair was braided and coiled around her head. Some of the fine hairs at her nape had escaped its tight clutches. Anthony flexed his fingers to stop himself from stepping forward and curling the long strands around his fingers.

His sister brightened as she looked around. "Perhaps I could show you and your sister around, if your mother can spare you."

Lady Mary’s arm was looped through Lady Danbury’s. Her gaze lingered on Miss Edwina.

"We’ll be fine, Amma," Miss Sharma said with a smile. "You are allowed to enjoy yourself with the company of others."

Lady Mary blushed and ducked her head. "It’s not that—"

"You’re in safe hands," Lady Danbury said, patting her arm. "The Duchess and I will not lead you astray." She smiled devilishly.

"For some reason, I struggle to believe that."

Miss Sharma’s soft laugh rang like bells. His chest tugged uncomfortably at the sound. He fidgeted where he stood and pressed his forced smile into a line.

Heavy footsteps thumped from the front doors. Anthony grimaced as Simon jogged inside and wrapped his arm around Daphne, who melted into his chest. "My apologies for my tardiness," said Simon. "I would’ve been outside to greet you as soon as you arrived if I was aware our guests had arrived and one of them was Lord Bridgerton." He grinned crookedly as he looked at him. "No one deserves to suffer in his presence for too long."

Miss Sharma’s piercing gaze shifted to Anthony. He kept his focus pinned on Simon. "Charmless as ever, Basset," Anthony said. He forced his smile.

"Inspired by you, old friend." Simon kissed the top of Daphne’s head before he tugged his arm from her. He nodded toward Lady Danbury, who shook her head with a fondness Anthony once envied. Simon approached him and embraced him yet again. Anthony wrapped his arm around his shoulders and patted him hard on the back—perhaps harder than necessary. Simon deserved it, though.

"About bloody time you graced us with your ugly face," Anthony said. He darted a glance at Miss Sharma. She was still looking at him, her face unreadable. He forced himself to look at Miss Edwina and her small, pretty smile.

"We need to catch up," Simon said quietly.

Anthony pulled away and ducked his head. "When we’re settled," he said.

Since Simon and Daphne came as a pair, they started the Sharma’s tour of the house together. Perhaps it was a blessing he’d visited the Basset London house numerous times in his life, for he could step away from the tour and venture into one of his favourite rooms by himself. Simon’s library was nothing like the one Anthony’s father had built in Aubrey Hall, but it was still impressive. He surveyed the book collection and took note of the volumes he knew he couldn’t find at Aubrey Hall. He was leaving the library when Simon appeared in the hallway and cocked his head in the direction of where they often found themselves.

Simon’s drinking room was neatly organised with burgundy red walls, curtains and leather chairs and couches. The cream rug must’ve been new, considering Colin had stained a rug with a spot of red wine the last time they’d all been here. Anthony couldn’t remember which one. Simon’s houses had plenty of rugs, and Colin tended to stain them the deeper he got into his cups. This section of the house was quiet. He couldn’t hear her laughter or comments to her sister in this nook.

Anthony slumped in the leather chair with his glass of brandy held away from him. He pressed his weight into it. There were times when he wished Basset’s furniture would swallow him whole so he could disappear from his duties. Why wouldn’t the chair eat him?

"I couldn’t believe it when Daph told me you were getting married," Simon said. He was slouched in his chair, too, with his glass still full. He’d crossed his legs at the knee and rested his cheek in the fist of his other hand.

"I can’t believe it myself," Anthony murmured, looking away. He rested his arm on the armrest and watched the liquid slosh inside the glass. It was a world he could control. The liquid could spill over at any minute if he so wished, but he kept it contained.

"Good god, man!" Simon said, laughing. "You’re acting as though you’re being led to the gallows."

"Aren’t I?"

Simon shook his head. "For what it’s worth, Miss Edwina seems lovely." He downed half his brandy. "Although… entirely too pleasant for the likes of you. She’s quite the reader."

Anthony pursed his lips. "I know."

"And she’s intelligent." Another fact he knew. Simon was watching him. "Isn’t she the match you wanted?"

"Very," Anthony said, shifting where he sat.

"Then what’s the issue?" Simon leaned forward and furrowed his brows. "Daphne told me the sister was giving you grief."

God. What did Daph tell him? "She rejects the match."

"Perhaps with good reason," Simon said. "Miss Sharma’s protective of her sister." Anthony didn’t need him to say what he was thinking. Simon subscribed to the same papers as his mother. Miss Edwina sought a love match, and that’s what Miss Sharma wanted for her sister. But she settled for him. Didn’t she want the same kind of relationship as he did? Duty bound, distanced. "As you are with yours."

"Spit it out, Basset."

"Sometimes it’s startling to look directly at our reflection."

Anthony narrowed his eyes. "Are you drunk?"

"You’re being dense." Simon leaned back in his chair as he observed him. "What’s the true issue, Anthony? Don’t bullshit me. We’ve been friends for too long."

Anthony licked his top teeth and looked away. There were plenty of problems! Miss Sharma disliked him. Miss Sharma was bitten by a bee and survived. Miss Sharma had soft hands and long fingers. Miss Sharma didn’t seem to think anything with Dorset was fleeting. Miss Sharma didn’t like him. Miss Sharma wanted to leave him for India.

"Dorset has inclinations towards Miss Sharma," he said. His heart pounded in his throat. Fuck. Why did he say that? He glanced at Simon and grew hot at his furrowed brows. He shifted roughly where he sat. Lifting the glass to his lips, he dropped his elbow to the arm of the chair.

"Thomas is a fine man," Simon said. Why was his tone gentle? Why did he look at him like he was one of his pheasants he liked to shoot?

"I only want to know Dorset’s intentions towards Miss Sharma," Anthony said. What was so hard to understand? Once he knew Dorset’s intentions towards his betrothed’s sister, then he could move the wedding forward. He needed to make sure Miss Sharma wasn’t going to be hurt. Wasn’t that what a good brother-in-law did? "What’s so difficult to understand about that?"

"Nothing," Simon said with a lift of his shoulder. He didn’t look away from him. "You like Dorset."

"I did." Anthony cleared his throat. "I do."

Simon didn’t look away from him. "Then he’d be a fine match for your betrothed’s sister, wouldn’t he?"

Anthony gritted his teeth and looked away.

"Anthony—"

"I don’t wish to speak of it."

Simon held up his hand. The liquid inside the glass sloshed in the other. "I’m your friend," he said. "Your business is yours—"

He narrowed his eyes at Simon. "Did Daphne say something to you?"

Simon licked his lips. "She did."

"What?"

He inhaled. "What my wife tells me if her perspective," he said slowly. "And sometimes her perspective is biased. I’d rather hear it from you."

Anthony’s nostrils flared. His chest heaved. His skin was hot, and his collar was sticking to his burning neck. "She hates me."

"Miss Sharma?"

"Yes." Anthony looked away.

"And that bothers you."

He ground his teeth. He refused to look at Simon.

"She wanted me to bring the wedding forward," he said. Anthony’s vision blurred. "But if I do that…"

"You lose her," Simon said. When he turned to Simon, he was eyeing him with narrowed eyes. He looked at him like he was trying to understand him like he was some mathematical problem. But he was the simplest equation anyone could be challenged with. "To Dorset?"

Anthony shrugged and looked away. "Maybe." He lifted his glass to his lips and sloshed the liquid into his mouth. His swallow was loud. "And if not Dorset, India."

Simon exhaled. "An undesirable ending."

"Both are," Anthony snapped. He glared at Simon before looking away. "Perhaps it’s the solution," he said as he readjusted in his chair. "Perhaps it’s best she find herself a gentleman. I can settle matters with Miss Edwina, and wed."

"Is that what you want?"

Anthony looked down at the rug and tapped his fingers against the glass. Yes. That’s what he should say. Yes, it’s very much what he wanted. Yes, he desired it so. If Miss Sharma was distracted by courtship, she would see how good Miss Edwina had it with him. She would leave his sphere. She’d be known, but unknown to him. She’d be unbearable to be around. She’d plague his every thought. He’d never be able to see his friend again. He’d never be able to see her again.

No distance was far enough.

Anthony exhaled through his nose and threw his head back against the leather chair.

Simon hummed. "I thought so."

It wasn’t like Miss Edwina to be late to one of their appointments. She would always be standing in the foyer or sitting in Lady Danbury’s favourite drawing room, waiting for him to arrive. And when he did, he’d smile as his mother taught him and extend his arm as she once instructed and he’d take Miss Edwina into town with a maid from Lady Danbury’s household on their outing. Miss Sharma stopped joining them after Aubrey Hall.

But Miss Edwina wasn’t waiting for him in the foyer or drawing room on this early morning. There was the usual maid, who greeted him with a rushed bow as she scurried into another room leading into the labyrinth of the Danbury house. He stood by the fireplace in the drawing room with his hands behind his back, with only one of the footmen standing by the door.

He waited.

He checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes had passed. Anthony eyed the room and considered sitting on one of the lounges, but he stayed obediently by the fireplace. It’d be rude manners to invite himself to sit when the hostess wasn’t present. Lady Danbury wasn’t one to suffer fools… even if she’d call him foolish for not making himself comfortable in her home.

Another five minutes passed. The footman stood with his back straight and his arms tucked behind his back, too. Anthony considered brushing his fingers over the mantle, but stopped himself. Would the footman report to Lady Danbury that Lord Bridgerton suspected her fireplace to be dusty? What was his name again?

Anthony turned to him. "Is—"

Miss Sharma sped through the open doors with that maid—what was her name?—barely keeping pace behind her. "I’d like for Lady Danbury’s favourite tea—Oh." She stopped when she saw him. Her shoulders tugged back and she scratched at her left collarbone before clasping her hands in front of her. The maid stood behind her and panted. "Lord Bridgerton," Miss Sharma said before she ducked her head in the courtesy greeting. He wished she’d stop.

"Miss Sharma," he said with a nod. "Is Miss—"

"My sister is out." She frowned. "I’m surprised you didn’t know."

He shook his head. "I didn’t know."

If she were crueller, she’d laugh at him. If their roles were reversed, he knew he would’ve, once. But she looked at him with parted lips and her brows raised before sparing a glance to the maid behind her.

"Laura," she said, "did we not send word to Lord Bridgerton?"

The maid shook her head. "I don’t believe so, Miss."

Miss Sharma inhaled before she turned to him. Her fingers briefly lapped at her collarbone before falling to her sides. Anthony was familiar with her forced, courteous smile. "My apologies, Lord Bridgerton—"

"It’s fine," he said with a shake of his head. It wasn’t fine. It was far from fine. If he had known Miss Edwina wasn’t here, he’d be spared her presence. "It was a misunderstanding."

"Most certainly." She wrung her hands together and glanced away. But Miss Sharma wasn’t one to avoid his gaze. He wanted to look away when her eyes met his, but he was a victim yet again. "You are welcome to wait," she said. "Perhaps they will not be long." She turned to Laura. "When did they leave?"

"After you returned from your…" The maid cleared her throat and bowed her head as though she could hide from the sheepishness that pinched her face. So, she was still riding before dawn? "If I may, Miss, I do think they will be quite some time. I overheard them talking about visiting many shopfronts. A few bookstores, actually."

Miss Sharma sighed. "We know what Edwina’s like with a bookstore," she said warmly. Laura the maid smiled as she met Miss Sharma’s eyes.

"Do you know when Miss Edwina will return?" he asked.

"No, my lord. I suspect she and Mama will be out for some time." She glanced at him. "They haven’t had time together since your engagement." There was a sharpness to her tone he didn’t like.

"And what of you?"

She frowned. "What of me?"

That was the fourth time Miss Sharma had scratched her collarbone. Did the area itch? From everything Anthony had read about bees since the Sharmas visited Aubrey Hall, she shouldn’t be bothered by the injury any longer. Unless she was having a late reaction to the sting?

Miss Sharma didn’t meet his eye. She tensed her jaw as she looked away from him. Her hand finally dropped from her collarbone when she folded her arms across her chest. Why was she acting like he was the difficult one?

"Do you not have plans for the day?" he asked. He cocked his brow. He resisted the temptation to cross his arms against his chest. He kept his locked behind his back.

She clenched her jaw as she tilted her head upward. "Not that it’s any of your business…" The sharpness to her voice faltered. "I will be promenading with Mr Dorset."

"Ah."

Her eyes narrowed.

"He’s quite good at promenading," he said. "Many women enjoy his promenades."

"Is there an issue, my lord?"

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "No. Not at all. I hope you enjoy your promenade with Mr Dorset."

Miss Sharma’s lips parted, but she pressed them tightly together and shook her head. What was it that she wished to say? Was she biting back her agreement? Was she on the cusp of disagreeing? Would she confess it was he who she wished to promenade with? He was great company. Many women wished to walk with him around the lake.

Anthony tilted his chin upward as he looked down his nose at her. Daring her.

"If there is nothing else I can do for you, my lord…"

He knew a dismissal. His family was fond of slamming doors in his face. Miss Sharma more so than any of his siblings. "No, Miss Sharma." He ducked his head and kept it bowed. "If you could tell Miss Edwina I was here, I’d appreciate it. I wanted to speak of our wedding." Did she flinch? He fought against one. Lifting his head, he regarded her as one did a thorn among lilies. "My mother wishes to know what flowers she would like. If they are exotic, we will need to request them immediately. It may be some time before their ship arrives to England."

Miss Sharma stared at him.

He should cock his brow, as he would with anyone who dared defy him. If she wanted him to hurry this wedding along, she would need to beg for it.

He kept his head bowed as he gave her a wide berth and left. The scent of lilies followed him into his carriage.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

While many gardens are in bloom this season, this author wonders if the prickly thorn plaguing the Diamond of the Season has finally been pruned. It appears Miss Edwina Sharma’s gatekeeper has abandoned her post to tend to her own garden at the tender hands of Mr. Dorset. I have never heard such a thorn laugh as lovely as flower. But there is always a first for this daring author.

Anthony dropped the latest Lady Whistledown papers outside the Bridgerton House and guided his horse to trod on them. Let Eloise pluck it from the clutches of the damp ground. It was rubbish, anyway. He left, with only John the Footman aware he was headed to the park. For another fateful morning? What trite, to think that fate was a real thing. But he hoped.

His horse walked at a leisurely pace so early in the morning. The fog thinned the further he travelled into the park. Anthony had no desire to bolt across the grounds and duck into the trees. He wished to take his time, to feel the soft earth beneath his horse’s hooves, to dare the damp, chilled air to tickle his nose. Perhaps if he could prolong his ride, the morning would stretch itself so thin the rest of the day wouldn’t come to pass.

He would see Miss Edwina today with his mother, and they would speak of flowers and colours. Would she agree to the most exotic flowers one could find? Eloise spoke of a species that only bloomed at a particular time of year in a specific location far from England, although he couldn’t recall the name, the time of year, or the location, and he couldn’t remember what book she’d been reading when she recited such a dry fact. But if he could find that book, perhaps he could prolong the engagement? A long engagement was becoming desirable. Or it could become so, if he were the first to enjoy one.

His heavy top hat slanted on his head. Would it be so horrible if it fell and his horse trod over it? It was just a hat. It performed its duty, it had met expectations. What else could one ask for a top hat than to stay on one’s head and protect him from the sun?

Lifting his gaze away from the ground, he didn’t readjust his hat when it slipped. Let it sit angled on his head. Let it fall. Let it fail in its duty. He could always get a new one. Thankfully the hat hadn’t slipped to sit at an angle that obscured his vision.

His heart skipped. There she was. Her horse cut through the trees from Mayfair and trotted ahead into the small cluster of trees. He nudged his horse to catch her.

His horse’s hooves clopped against the hard dirt ground and Anthony cleared his throat even though it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t turn to face him and she didn’t nudge her horse to bolt away when she heard him approach. Sitting straighter on the saddle, he encouraged his horse to slow so they could walk beside her. Her hair was loosely braided and thrown over her shoulder. Her dark green cloak reminded him of emeralds. She made the colour lovelier.

"I see you still ride," he said. His lips curved into a smile.

She darted her gaze away. Miss Sharma tipped her head upward as she had that very first morning in the park. "I enjoy riding alone in the park, Lord Bridgerton."

A request he’d rightly ignore.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "I haven’t seen you."

He looked down. "I haven’t had much reason to ride."

"Why would you need a reason, my lord? Riding is enough."

He sucked on his teeth and looked out at the thinning fog. His reason rode beside him, the clopping of hooves against hard dirt the best sound he’d heard since that fateful morning ride. The dull, scentless air now smelled of a bouquet of lilies. But he couldn’t say that. He wouldn’t say that.

"The wedding."

She bristled beside him.

He looked at her. "I’ve been busy making it one that your sister will remember for many years." Did it sound rehearsed to her ears, too?

She looked away from him. He stared at her profile as she took interest in a bare bush.

"Why have you not brought the wedding forward?" she asked. She inhaled deeply, perhaps too loudly, before she steeled herself and looked at him. Her shoulders were tense and she sat so straight her spine might turn into a blade. "You were eager to once before."

That was before.

He wanted to look away from her piercing gaze. He held it. "I want to give your sister her perfect wedding."

Miss Sharma scoffed and rolled her eyes. "I thought we were beyond your lies."

"Are we?" He frowned. She sat back on her horse. "If you wish to speak of lies, Miss Sharma, then let’s speak of yours."

"I have no lies, my lord."

It was his turn to scoff. "Another to add to your pile."

"This is highly inapp—"

"What are you doing with Mr Dorset?"

Miss Sharma’s mouth hung open before she closed her eyes and shook her head. He should push her for an answer. This was his moment to shove his fingers into the cracks and tear her wide open. What was she doing with Dorset? And why didn’t she seem torn apart by the idea of not doing it with him? But he pressed his lips together and waited for her to compose herself. Those cracks filled. She opened her eyes and glared at him incredulously. "What?"

"Mr Dorset," he said. His heart thumped in his throat like a horse was treading over him. "What are your wishes from him?"

"That is none of your business, sir."

"Isn’t it?" he asked. Was it? It should be. He wanted it to be. He wanted her to wish from him. "You were quite wrathful with me for what he and I plotted together."

"He has since explained your scheme, my lord."

"Which he agreed to."

She regarded him like he’d grown a second head. He tipped his heavy top hat back. Why did this damn thing weigh so much? He wanted to fling it into the thin fog and never see it again.

She tugged on the reins to still her horse. "What is it that you want, Lord Bridgerton?"

He followed, drawing his horse to stand still. He licked his lips. "An answer."

Miss Sharma stared at him. Would she ask him what answer he sought? Would she ask him to repeat his question? Did she know what question he wanted an answer for? Because he needed her to tell him what it was he was asking. What was the answer he so deeply wanted to hear from her? What question had he posed to her that night after the disastrous Sheffield dinner?

Did she want a life of suffering? Didn’t she see it as a life of suffering? This marriage was a manacle that kept dragging him underneath the surface of the lake. Would she stand on the jetty and watch him drown?

"I enjoy Mr Dorset’s company," she said. She regarded him with a sharp glare. "Much more than my present one." She nudged her horse with her heel and ran from him.

What was Miss Sharma doing at this very moment? Was she enjoying lunch with Mr Dorset at one of the tea shops in town? Was she promenading with the man? He could check. Anthony could walk through town and peep into the windows of every tea shop worth its salt and see if she was seated across from Dorset, laughing as he imagined she would laugh: head tilted back, the sound pouring from her as it had on the lake. He could take to the lake itself and make his way around its path to find them.

Or he could politely ask Eloise when Daphne wouldn’t be home so he could see his good friend undisturbed.

She was perched on the end of the lounge in their mother’s drawing room with her nose pressed against the seam of one of her books. The hardcover was a deep pink. It was a new purchase, possibly from Penelope. He knew every book in Bridgerton House and Aubrey Hall.

He stood at the edge of the large rug and tucked his hands behind his back. She didn’t look up at him. She knew he was there. Eloise might disappear into worlds he could no longer follow due to his responsibilities, but she wasn’t as oblivious as she pretended to be. She was waiting him out. He wouldn’t speak first.

He cleared his throat. She turned her page. The corner of her mouth curved upward. Anthony glared at her as he tugged his shoulders back and dug his blunt nails into his palm.

After a few more minutes, he clenched his jaw. "Where is Daphne?"

"I wasn’t aware I was her keeper," Eloise said without looking up. "Does she not have a husband to perform such a task?"

She turned her page again. Had she finished reading it? Or was she trying to rile him?

"I don’t wish to see Daphne. I want to see Hastings."

"Is she not a Hastings?"

He sighed. "I want to see Simon."

"Then go see him."

"I can’t." He exhaled through his nose as he rolled on his heels. He stood still. Eloise tilted her head as she read. "It’s not like he has time when she’s around," he said.

Eloise scoffed. "As if a person’s time has ever been an issue for you," she said. She finished reading her sentence before lifting her gaze and pulling a smile. It wasn’t a pretty smile. It was often the smile he wore. "You demand people make time for you. Is that because your the Viscount, a Bridgerton, or a man?"

He rolled his eyes. "Must you always be you?"

"Would you prefer I were someone else? A submissive someone, perhaps? A woman who didn’t speak?"

"I miss the times when you didn’t know how to talk," he said.

Eloise scrunched her nose in pleasure. "She’s with Mama," she said. "And your soon-to-be wife." Her gaze lingered on him.

Anthony shifted before he quickly bowed his head. "Was that so hard?"

"I’m in agony."

As much as he wished to linger in his sister’s presence, he only had so little time before Daphne would return home. Leaving Eloise in peace, he took the Bridgerton carriage to the Basset’s London house.

He slouched in the leather chair he’d occupied days before and nursed a glass of brandy in his hand. Before Simon’s ass met the opposing chair, Anthony asked, "Have you spoken to Dorset?"

Hovering his ass over the seat, Simon looked at him and laughed. His laughter lasted too long. He did Anthony the honour of placing his ass in the seat, although his raised eyebrows and wide smile didn’t disappear. "You cannot be serious."

Anthony glared. "Answer the question."

Simon sighed and glanced away. "Anthony."

"Simon."

Simon looked at him with a smile Anthony wished to tear from his face. It was wide, all knowing, and pressed crinkles into his eyes. Why did he think it was appropriate to laugh at such a serious question? Did he know something? His friend leaned back in his chair and rested his elbow against the arm. Was he trying to hide behind his glass? If he were, he was doing a poor job of it. His ringed pinky was cocked away from the glass. "Do you really wish for me to tell you Dorset’s intentions?"

"Yes."

Shaking his head, Simon smacked his lips. "He wishes to court Miss Sharma," he said. His expression was soft, like he was delivering the worst news to Auggie. But Anthony wasn’t a child who believed in fanciful things and didn’t understand how the world worked. "But you knew that."

Looking away, Anthony bit his bottom lip hard. "So he wishes to wed her."

From his peripherals, Simon shrugged. "I believe that is a desire for the future." Tapping his blunt nails against the glass, he leaned forward. Anthony glanced at him from the corner of his eye and remained faced away, still slouched in the chair. When he refused to make eye contact, Simon said, "You are still engaged to the sister."

"I’m aware."

"But?"

"It has nothing to do with Dorset and Miss Sharma."

"It doesn’t?"

"No."

Simon laughed again. "Do you realise how insane you sound?"

Anthony begrudgingly turned to him and forced his shoulders into the chair. "Again, I’m aware."

"You have no leg to stand on."

"Now you’re beginning to sound a lot like Daph." Anthony took a swig of his brandy without rising from the clutches of the chair’s back cushion.

Simon grinned. "If I can be blunt?"

He sighed. "Asking me for permission won’t stop you."

"Cease pushing her away," Simon said. He didn’t move back against the chair as he should’ve, as Anthony wanted him to. His gaze pierced his. The shit-eating grin was gone. This was a Simon he didn’t like seeing much. It was a serious version of a friend he admired too much, who saw through Anthony’s bullshit when everyone else was enamoured by it. "You continue along this path, and it might be Miss Sharma’s wedding to Dorset you attend."

Anthony curled his lip up. "There’s no need to be rash."

"Isn’t there?" Simon cocked his brow. "Is that not your biggest fear?"

Anthony raised his glass to his lips so he could bide his time. Yes? No. Of course not. Whatever Miss Sharma wished to do…

"I doubt she would mind such a fate," he murmured against the brim.

Simon scoffed. "Have you asked her?"

"I don’t need to."

"Because you know?"

No. He didn’t know. And Simon was a bastard for knowing that he knew that.

"Ask her," Simon said before falling back into his chair. "You’ll be surprised by what you learn when you stop making decisions for everyone else, Bridgerton."

Anthony leaned forward and thrusted his glass at Simon. "I don’t make decisions for you."

Simon laughed. "That’s because I stopped listening to you a long time ago."

"And you’ve been a fool for it."

"A lucky fool," he said. "Imagine if I had listened to your threats. My life wouldn’t be what it is today."

"I’d have one less headache," Anthony said as he lowered back into the chair’s cushion. He wished to sink into it, but it, like Simon, refused to let him.

"I’d have won the duel," Simon said.

Anthony scoffed. "If that’s the lie you tell yourself for a good night’s sleep, then who am I to discredit it?"

Simon laughed. He held his glass forward in a toast. "To your pigheadedness."

"To your lack of guts."

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Some say the key to a woman’s heart is through the stories a gentleman recites to her. This storyteller wonders what tales Mr. William Bagwell whispers into the crook of Miss Edwina Sharma’s ear. One would think they are in their own little world when they sit outside the teashop after spending hours inside with the neighbouring bookseller. To be a fly on that wall!

But to tell a tale of my own: I used to wonder as a young scribbler if a dragon could be tamed. They were, after all, considered mighty creatures that could thwart handsome heroes and capture pretty maidens. After watching Mr. Dorset court Miss Sharma over the last few weeks, I’ve come to the realisation that dragons, no matter how prickly, thick-skinned, and beastly they may appear, all have a softer side that can be wooed.

Anthony scrunched the latest Lady Whistledown paper and tossed it toward the office’s window. All the candelabras were lit so the room glowed as brightly as a sparkle of fireflies. The rest of Grosvenor Square hardly held a flame to the inferno of the Bridgerton House.

He bent over papers with a pen in hand and ink staining his fingers. His hair was a mess—he’d thrown his hands through it several times, going as far as gripping it until he almost tore it from his head. How long had he been staring at this proposal for a new fence from Mr Boyle?

Someone cleared their throat by the open door. Briefly closing his eyes, he lifted his head and pulled a smile as his mother stood in the entranceway with her hands clasped over her light blue dress. "If you are busy—"

He shook his head. "Please." Gesturing for her to enter, he tapped the pen’s end against the papers. His mother’s eyes darted toward it before she readjusted her shoulders and stood before him. Her shadow cast upon him.

"I wanted to see how you were."

"I’m fine."

"You’ve been in this office for hours—"

"I’m fine," he said as gently as possible. There was a sharpness to the two words he despised. Clearing his throat, he dropped the pen and clasped his hands as he peered up at her. "I am. Fine."

She cocked her brow. Twisting where she stood, she touched the back of the guest chair before sitting. She lounged back against it. Anthony always disliked it when she sat stiff in chairs like her spine couldn’t fold against the soft cushion. She always sat like that with the likes of their visitors who chomped at the bit for a glimpse at one of their rooms. They loved to boast about being inside his childhood home like it was some prize one could display for advancement on the marriage mart. Miss Sharma never looked at Bridgerton House with that kind of hunger.

"That’s good," his mother said. He cocked his brow. She chuckled. "I’m being truthful."

"So am I."

The corner of her lip curved upward. She pressed them together, prompting Anthony to sit back in his chair with his arms crossed. It was rare for her to step inside his office for chitchat. Sometimes she vented about Benedict’s childishness or Colin’s ramblings about his trips or complained about Eloise’s stubborn refusal to see into her very far future, but it was always business. Her children were her business, just as looking after the estate was his.

She trailed her fingers against the arm of the chair. A display of innocent curiosity that was hardly innocent at all. Did she forget she taught him how to lure the desperate fish of the ton to his lure? "Has Miss Edwina changed her mind?" she asked. She lifted her gaze, her eyes wide, her cheeks full. She was too hopeful. How many times in his life must Anthony be responsible for his mother’s frowns?

He shook his head. "No," he said softly. His gaze grew unfocused as he dropped it to the ink pot in front of him. "She has not."

When he looked up at her, her lips drooped like flower petals. "I’m sorry, Anthony."

"It’s no issue—"

"Anthony—"

"I intend to keep my vow to her," he said. He couldn’t look his mother in the eye. "If this marriage is what Miss Edwina wants—"

She sat forward in her chair. He refused to look at her. "What about what you want?"

What did it matter? What he wanted remained unchanged. He wished to wed for duty and to fulfil his duty. He wished to see his father’s line continue. He wished for the Bridgerton name to remain as highly distinguished as it was, sitting higher than earls and even dukes. What he wanted was for India to disappear from the map. What he wanted was not possible. He would be the first Bridgerton not to marry for love.

He frowned as he looked at her. "I want to look after my family."

"Are you not a part of this family?"

Picking up his pen, he looked at Mr Boyle’s written request and saw none of the scrawled letters. He tapped his pen against the paper before he tossed it onto the desk.

"You cannot look after this family if you do not look after yourself," she said. She was still leaning forward. Anthony ducked his gaze even more to push her from his peripherals. "Sometimes you remind me so much of your father."

His gaze shot to hers. "I’m nothing like him." His skin was hot. His father loomed behind her, a blurry, flat figure that suffocated the room. How was it that a man of his size and stature could be reduced to such a small painting? It was a quarter of the height of the wall, and while they’d positioned it on its mantel to look down upon the man who sat in his study’s seat… he was both too large and too small. What would Anthony’s portrait look like? Proud? Tired? A shadow of himself?

She chuckled. "Oh, you most certainly are," she said with a smile. "You are stubborn and don’t listen to sense."

"I listen to sense."

"Do you?" She was pretty when she smiled. Lighter than she appeared over the years. His father used to make his mother smile like she held the sun between her lips.

"I do."

"How?"

He licked his lips. "I pushed Eloise to speak to a suitor you selected. I told you he would bore her, but you insisted."

Why was she still smiling? "Is that it?"

"And I encouraged Benedict to apply for that ridiculous art school."

"You didn’t call it ridiculous when you spoke to me."

He sighed. "You understand what I mean."

His mother examined her nails. "Are those your only examples?"

He glared at her. "No." Instead of picking up the pen, he tapped his fingers against the paper. The thumping mimicked the pattern of his hurried heart.

"Anthony…" She leaned forward and captured his hand within her warm one. Her thumb swept over his knuckles. She hadn’t cradled his hands like this since he was a child. He hadn’t let her, not when his father declared him grown enough to hunt pheasants with him. "Speak to Miss Edwina. She may feel the same as you do."

He didn’t look up from her hand. "And if she doesn’t?"

"Then we go from there," she said. "But I have a feeling that what you fear is not the reality."

"How do you know?" he whispered. He peered up at her as he curled his hand around hers.

"Call it a mother’s intuition," she said, smiling. "You sometimes forget your mother knows best, dear."

He squeezed her hand as he smiled. "Sometimes you forget that I’m very well aware of that fact." Her cheeks flushed pink, although it could’ve been from the glow of the candles. "I’m simply too talented of an actor for my own good."

She chuckled. "You’re funny, just like Edmund. He had his moments of delirium, too."

He and his horse waited for her along the hard, dirt path she favoured. When her horse appeared, she slowed in her approach. Good. She wasn’t going to race right by him. He didn’t wish to chase her in such a way this morning.

He dipped his head toward her. She didn’t respond. That didn’t matter. Out in the park, under the cover of the thinning fog, Miss Sharma could be herself. Disobedient, stubborn, and truthful.

She came to a stop beside him. Her horse dug his hooves against the ground. The park’s damp smell disappeared underneath a field of lilies.

"Lord Bridgerton," she said. Was she flustered? "Are you troubled?" She didn’t sound concerned at all by the thought he could be.

He wouldn’t be deterred. Anthony ignored the heat prickling at his nape. "I was hoping I would see you this morning."

"And my sister?"

He frowned. "What of your sister?"

"Do you hope to see her this morning?"

"She’s with Mr Bagwell today," Anthony said. Miss Sharma narrowed her eyes, prompting him to tilt his chin upward. "She has no time to see me." The words would’ve sounded sulkier months ago, but now they came across as the impersonal fact they were.

She paused. "And you take no issue with that?"

"Not at all," he said with a shrug. "It’s good that she’s making friends."

Miss Sharma shook her head.

"What is it?"

"You."

He lifted his brows. "Me?"

"Yes."

"What about me?"

She pressed her lips together.

"I told her that there would be long stretches of time when I would be away from my wife and children," he said with practiced ease. Why was his heart thumping so hard under her reproachful stare? "It’s best she make friends to help fill in that time. Considering you intend to leave her—"

"It has always been part of the plan—"

"Then she must have someone," he said. "Many people to fill that void." She looked away. "You still plan on leaving."

She stiffened as she sat taller. Her horse shifted where it stood, but it didn’t turn her away from him. Miss Sharma finally looked away from him as she fidgeted with the reins. "Nothing has changed my mind."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Not even Mr Dorset?"

She paused.

"How disappointing for him," he said. He bit his lips to stop himself from smiling. "I do hope you’ve informed him of your intentions."

She glared at him. "What I do is none of your business, my lord."

"Mr Dorset is a close friend of mine," he said, tugging his shoulders back. His heart shuddered. He wanted to move. He wanted to pace. But he kept still and ignored the urge to flutter about as one of the many stupid butterflies in his belly. "I care for his wellbeing."

"Is that how you wish to frame your concern?"

"Yes."

"So you feel concern for Edwina and Mr Dorset."

"Yes." He frowned at her. Why didn’t she believe him? He cared. All he did was care> "Do you still intend to leave after the wedding?"

"Yes." She exhaled and pressed her lips together, catching herself on something he wished would slip between the tightly woven net of her self-control. "Edwina hopes to wed before the season is over."

"There are flowers to import—"

"I’m aware."

"And her favourite chocolates and sweets. I want the best for her."

"Do you?"

"I do."

Miss Sharma looked away.

"The wedding will happen before the season is over," he said, keeping his tone even. He wouldn’t rise to the anger spilling from her. He’d stay in control. His breathing would remain controlled and not laboured, even though it was becoming harder to keep his inhales long and low. "But I will not rush it. I want it to be perfect. Your sister deserves the best. My future viscountess deserves to have what she wants without it being rushed."

She scoffed.

"What you overheard at the conservatory ball—"

"That’s not what I’m concerned about."

"Then what is it?"

She pressed her lips together and twisted her hands. She hadn’t released them from her tight grip.

"The dowry? I care very little about it," he said, his voice still even. He sounded perfect, just as he wanted. If he stayed in control, she’d lose it. "And the Sheffields won’t dare challenge me. The Bridgerton name carries heavier weight than the Earl."

She looked away from him. The corner of her mouth twitched. Did she understand what he was saying? The Sheffields might have disappointed her, but he wouldn’t. Not in the way that mattered now. Even though Anthony wasn’t sure how that looked. If he could keep her grandparents from suffocating her, then he could… What? Take care of her?

He waited a moment for her to speak. Her chest heaved. Was she flushed? There was a sheen to her collarbones. "So what is it that concerns you, Miss Sharma?"

Was it him? Was it the fact they both knew Miss Edwina wasn’t happy with the arrangement? Oh, she knew how to play her part perfectly, but the longer Anthony took to settle the date for their wedding, the more she cracked and fell out of character. She was still polite. He doubted Miss Edwina knew how to be as impatient as a Bridgerton, but her practiced smiles were waning at the edges. The real Edwina Sharma was breaking through the suffocating cocoon they’d all stuffed her in.

Miss Sharma looked at the dirt path. There was something in the slope of her shoulders he disliked. Her mouth pursed in a manner he’d been responsible for too many times. What he wanted was to stoke her fire. He wanted her to burst back at him like fire under the encouragement of liquor.

But she looked at him with a pinched expression. "India is far enough then," she murmured. He frowned and parted his lips, but no sound emerged. She shook her head and nudged at her horse. After a snort, as though her horse hated him, too, she rode onward.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The problem with diamonds is that they’re so easy to misplace. It seems Miss Edwina Sharma sparkles brightest not on the arm of her betrothed, but on that of a Mr. William Bagwell.

Anthony did a double-take at Penelope Featherington sitting stiffly on the edge of his mother’s lounge. She was an eyesore with her puke yellow gown with green flowers emerging from the shoulders. Penelope wasn’t an unattractive girl, but Portia certainly treated her like she was an ugly duckling.

The soles of his dress shoes thumped hollowly against the clean rug. He locked his arms behind his back as he greeted her with a nod.

She sat taller and closed the small novel in her lap. "Lord Bridgerton," she said. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye before looking away.

"Miss Featherington," he said by way of greeting. "You’re here to see my brother?"

She turned a lovely shade of pink. "Y-yes," she said, looking at him before shifting her gaze to something over his shoulder. If he were interested or insecure enough to follow her gaze, he’d turn, but he knew no one was there. No one had quiet footsteps like he and Francesca, and Francesca was on the opposite side of the house, buried in her music books. "I wanted to see if he’d… come with me to the bookstore. One of his favourite stories is in and… and I wanted to… show him."

He hummed. "I’m sure Colin would like that."

Her smile was small, but it was enough to calm her nerves. She fidgeted with her dress and remained stiff. His mother would encourage her to relax and settle into the cushions, but he wasn’t his mother and he enjoyed it when others were terrified in his presence. Even poor Penelope Featherington.

Penelope Featherington, who was as sharp as Eloise, if more palatable in how she went about exposing her sharp tongue.

"You’re a girl," Anthony said as he approached the lounges.

Penelope furrowed her brows and watched him with wide eyes. "Y-yes, I am… my lord." Her face turned a pale pink. How did Colin miss how flustered she grew among them all, especially him? Idiot.

He perched on the edge the lounge opposite her. Once he locked met her eyes, she didn’t look away. He curved the corners of his lips up. There’s that Featherington courage.

"Tell me," he said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. "What is it that girls like to do?"

Her furrow remained. "Many things, my lord." She glanced toward the door. The hallway was quiet. It’d take some time for Celia to track Colin down. "And many girls—women—differ in what they like to do."

He bit his bottom lip and looked away. Of course. He should’ve known. Weren’t all his sisters so different? Daphne with her ability to build a person’s confidence from rubble into something magnificently sturdy. Eloise was as sharp as a whip. Francesca saw beauty in many things he deemed ugly. Hyacinth never found a reason not to laugh.

"Is there… a particular woman you’re enquiring about?" she asked. Penelope clasped her fingers together in her lap.

He hummed. "Yes." He glanced away from her before looking at her again. "There is, actually. I’m… a bit lost."

"How?" She cleared her throat. "If I may be so nosy."

He smiled. "There’s a woman who… is vexing. She’s difficult to read. The moment I think I have figured her out, the next line throws me for a loop and the chapter ends abruptly." He frowned as he looked at her. "That’s how books work, isn’t it?"

She ducked her head as she laughed softly. "Yes, Lord Bridgerton. Many books work like that."

"Good, I suppose. What do you suggest I do? Assuming you are feeling generous in giving me advice."

She sucked on her bottom lip as she looked to the mantel. What was it that she could see? His parents seated side by side, captured in a moment for eternity. He was looking at the portrait when she spoke again. "Is this about Miss Edwina?"

He kept his gaze focused on the painting. His cheeks burned. Should he pretend that it was? But didn’t Penelope know her better now? They were spending so much time together poring over books when Bagwell wasn’t entertaining her.

"No."

"Oh." She cleared her throat. From his peripherals, he saw she twisted her hands. "May I ask whom?"

No. He tore his gaze away from his parents and looked at Penelope’s hands. Was she terrified of him? Did she see him as some bully from her stories that stomped on houses and brought misery to everyone? But if she did, would she be here, entertaining him? She could excuse herself and find Colin—she knew Bridgerton House better than he on a good day—but she was watching him with a gentle expression.

"It’s…" He looked down at his clasped hands. "Miss Sharma. The elder."

When he looked up again, Penelope’s small smile remained intact. If she was shocked, she was an excellent actress at masking her expression. "Miss Edwina speaks fondly of her sister," she said. "But I think it would be cheating if I were to tell you what it is that Miss Sharma liked, wouldn’t you think?"

Unable to help his smile, he narrowed his eyes at her. "Not even a hint?"

She pressed her lips together like she wanted to repress a smile. "It’s not fun when you cheat, Lord Bridgerton."

He shook his head. "Damn. You were my last chance."

"That’s not true. You could always ask Miss Sharma yourself."

Sitting back against the lounge, Anthony allowed himself to slouch. The cushion was soft against his back as it tried to swallow him whole. "What would I ask her?"

"What she likes," she said with amusement. "I’m certain she would appreciate it if you were to enquire."

"She doesn’t like me."

Penelope leaned forward and stopped fidgeting with her hands. "If I may be so direct…" He gestured with a hand for her to continue. "Many people don’t like you, Lord Bridgerton. But that’s mostly because that’s the story you want written. Colin and I think you’re too hard on yourself."

He raised his brows. "Colin thinks that?"

She nodded. "Do you know how the stories you read end?"

He licked his bottom lip. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I always stall somewhere in the middle before returning the book to the shelf and forgetting about it."

"Then perhaps it’s in your best interest you develop a new habit," she said. Her cheeks were no longer pink. "If I may be so bold to suggest."

"You may," he said. Anthony dropped his gaze to the table between them. "You make it sound so easy."

"That’s because it is," she said with a smile. "Anyone can start writing a story, but so few ever finish it."

Anthony opened his mouth to speak. What could he say? That he finished his stories. That he knew how his story would end. He’d wed, fulfil his duty, and avoid the terrors of grief unlike his mother. But he couldn’t say that to Penelope. She looked at him as Hyacinth did a flower pot filled with soil, waiting for her seed to bloom.

Loud footsteps thumped against the floor outside the drawing room. "Pen!" Colin strode into the room with his hands wide. He slapped them against his sides when he came to stand near the edge of Penelope’s lounge. He twisted to face Anthony like he was an afterthought. "Brother. I hope you weren’t boring dear Pen."

She smiled. "He’s not a bore, Colin." She rose from where she sat and brushed her hands against the back of her dress. The pink returned to her cheeks as her gaze lingered on foolish, oblivious Colin. "It was lovely speaking to you," she said to Anthony. She stepped closer to Colin and pinched her skirt.

His brother was a fool not to extend his arm to her. She was an excellent actress in hiding her disappointment behind the soft clench of her jaw. As Colin led her out of the drawing room, Penelope stopped and turned back. "Ask her, my lord. You’ll be surprised by how eager some women are to answer such a question."

Colin frowned over her head. "What question?"

She laughed softly as she patted his arm. Her hand lingered before she withdrew it and walked past him. "Let’s go," she said. "I wouldn’t want us to miss our chance."

Lady Danbury’s house never had a particular smell to it. He’d visited many times over his life, and he’d never associated it with a scent. A colour, yes—he associated reds and pinks with Lady Danbury and only Lady Danbury. But her house now had a scent, and Anthony disliked that he knew who was responsible for it.

The drawing room might as well be a bouquet of lilies. The sweet scent tickled his nostrils. He curled his fingers into his palms as he tried to find a pocket within the room that was scentless. But she was everywhere, clinging to every surface and piece of dust floating in the slanting sunlight from the open windows.

He stood with his arms tucked behind his back as he waited for his betrothed. But it wasn’t her he wished to see. The staff in Lady Danbury’s employ always assumed he was here to see Miss Edwina, and he didn’t feel the need to correct them.

He shuddered when she stepped into the room. Miss Sharma came to an abrupt stop when she saw it was him and only him.

"Lord Bridgerton," she said.

Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he nodded. "Miss Sharma." Clearing his throat, he wetted his mouth. "I was waiting for Miss Edwina."

"She’s…" She shook her head. "She’s not here, sir." She frowned as she took an uncertain step toward him. "She’s at an engagement with Mr Bagwell."

"Ah." Anthony frowned and feigned surprised as he kept his lips parted. Of course, he already knew that. Miss Edwina had informed him of her plans for today a few days ago when he’d spent some time drinking tea with her. They made plans for tomorrow. "I see."

Before Miss Sharma could speak, a maid rapped her knuckles against the open door. "Miss," she said. Was that Laura again? Her eyes darted to him before landing on Miss Sharma. "Mr Dorset is here to see you."

Miss Sharma wrung her fingers together, sparing him a glance before turning on her feet to face Laura fully. "Yes," she said, her voice light. "Please escort him here."

Laura bowed before she scurried down the hallway. Anthony tugged his shoulders back as he watched Miss Sharma look down at her hands before twisting toward him.

"I’m sorry my sister is not here—"

"That’s fine," he said.

"But I will inform her that you visited." She swallowed and looked at him expectantly. She wanted him gone. Before Dorset saw them together? No, she knew he’d bump into him on the staircase. If she wanted him gone without Dorset knowing he was here, she’d shove him out the door and down the opposite end of the hallway. Did she want Dorset to know he was here?

"Yes," he said after a long moment. "Please do."

"Miss Sharma—" Dorset stepped over the threshold with a top hat in hand. He swept it behind him as he bowed low toward her. It took him a moment to turn his attention to Anthony, and his eyes darted between them. "Lord Bridgerton," he said. "I’m sorry to intrude—"

"You were doing no such thing," Miss Sharma said, wringing her hands together again. "Lord Bridgerton was just leaving."

Despite her raising her eyebrows at him, he stayed put.

"I was visiting Miss Edwina, but it seems I might have misremembered our engagement," Anthony said, not that he owed Dorset an explanation. He was here first. He was interrupting.

"Ah." Dorset licked his lips as he looked between them and fidgeted with the brim of his hat. "That’s a shame. Perhaps you would care to join us for our morning plans? We were intending to visit town. We could travel together, if you were heading that way."

Anthony rolled on his heels. "I could not impose—"

"It would be no imposition."

"It most certainly would be," Miss Sharma said. She huffed and her chest continued to heave. "Lord Bridgerton is a busy man—"

"My day is free," he said. "Since I had thought I would be spending it with your sister."

Miss Sharma glared at him. Anthony let his lips curl upward as he watched her. She looked up at the heavens before she turned to face Dorset, giving Anthony her back as she tried to pretend he wasn’t there. But he ensured to clear his throat and shift loudly on the floor.

"We were going to tea shops," Dorset said. He sounded uncertain, although to an untrained ear, he’d come across as polite. Anthony knew better.

"Then let’s hurry," Anthony said as he took a step away from where he’d stationed himself. He unfolded his hands and let his arms swing by his sides. "We have less than an hour before it becomes impossible to find a table."

Sweeping past them and taking two steps at a time down the staircase, he knew they were following without needing to look over his shoulder. He held the door open for the two of them to step through and inhaled a waft of lillies as Miss Sharma crossed the threshold, her arm brushing against his chest.

It would’ve been more sensible to ride together as a group in one carriage, but Anthony insisted taking his own… in case he needed to call upon an emergency exit. Why did he do that? There was Miss Sharma, sitting in the carriage in front of him with Dorset, and he was here, alone. The horse clopped along the cobblestone at a pace slower than a snail crawling along the garden bed wall.

When they finally stopped outside the tea shop, Anthony bounded out of the carriage and tugged his coat down as Dorset exited the carriage with Miss Sharma following. Dorset didn’t offer his hand as she descended the black steps, and she didn’t seem to expect it. Once they were together, Anthony raced to the shopfront and opened the door. Lilies bloomed around him as Miss Sharma entered the shop, and Dorset followed, with Anthony bringing up the rear.

It’d been a long time since he’d stepped inside. The interior was a dull cream that made the shop feel bigger than it was. The sun slanted through the wide windows, and the woman behind the counter was dressed in an eyesore pink. She held a porcelain cup between both hands as she greeted them. He didn’t bother to ask for her name.

Dorset wandered over to the far left, with Miss Sharma heading toward the far right. He followed her with his hands behind his back.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

Miss Sharma lifted her head as she eyed the teas on the highest shelf. The labels were a pretty design Hyacinth would love. "A tea that reminds me of home," she said.

Anthony kept a few steps between them. He forced himself to look at the shelves before glancing at her. "And what kind of tea would that be?"

"Something that doesn’t taste like your dreadful English tea."

He smiled. "My dreadful English tea?"

She furrowed her brows as she looked at him like he was the one solely responsible for the tea. "Yes. Your horrible tea."

"How could you dislike English tea?"

She hesitated as she ducked her gaze. He wished she’d look at him. "It has no taste," she said. "It lacks any refinery—and I simply do not like it."

Did he want to spend what little time he had with her fighting over tea? What was it that Penelope said? Get to know her likes. How could he find that information if he focused on what she disliked?

He nodded before he smiled. "Then what do you like?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, as if suspecting him of foul play, but this wasn’t the pall mall field. It was a ground that he wasn’t sure how to navigate, let alone cheat his way through.

"Proper tea," she said.

"Is that not English tea?"

"English tea is a poor attempt at making tea. Tea is meant to have spice. It is meant to have heart."

"And English tea lacks heart?"

"Severely!"

He chuckled.

She huffed. "Do you not believe me?"

"I find it difficult to believe you," he said. He scratched the centre of his palm. "I have never heard of having spice with tea."

"Let me show you."

After studying the shelves for a few moments, Miss Sharma exclaimed happily with a jump before she stood on her tiptoes to reach for one of the teas. Anthony stepped forward but stepped backward as soon as he did. She didn’t need his help. She grasped the pot in her hands like she’d found the most prized gold in all the adventure stories Eloise tortured him with.

But it didn’t appear to be gold. She pinched her lips and shook her head. "Not this one," she murmured as she returned it to the shelf.

Dorset called, "Miss Sharma!" He was beaming as he waved them over. "It seems I might have found your prize."

Before Dorset could stand on tiptoe, she gently nudged him out of the way so she could stand on the tips of her toes and extend her arm to fish blindly for the spices.

"Ha!" She shoved the spices proudly in Anthony’s face. "I will make you the best tea you have ever tasted."

Anthony couldn’t help but smile at how big her smile was. "I still believe that to be English tea, Miss Sharma."

"You won’t think that when you’ve tried this!" She swept over toward the counter and requested the shop owner to make them a tea with her chosen flavours.

Miss Sharma hurried into the sitting area and sat before he could race Dorset to pull her chair out. The round table was small with metal legs and its marble surface was shiny from the bright daylight outside. When Anthony sat and tugged his chair in, his knee bumped hers. He pulled it away, but slowly let it drift toward her. He glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Miss Sharma didn’t pull away.

The shop owner returned with a tray of cups and a teapot. "Your tea, Miss," she said as she placed it on the table.

Miss Sharma smiled as she eagerly picked up the teapot and began pouring. Once she’d finished, she held her teacup between her hands and closed her eyes as she inhaled the scent. Anthony was reluctant to pick up his teacup.

She beamed as she sipped her tea. Her smile was… rather nice to look at. He liked it whenever he caught her smiling, which wasn’t often.

Dorset sipped his. "It’s been some time since I’ve had this kind of tea," he said. "I’ve forgotten how much I liked it."

"I’m happy to make it for you any time you like, Mr Dorset," she said. She smiled prettily at him. "I enjoy making it. It’s nice to have something from home with me here."

He hummed. "I imagine. I have a nasty habit of burning my tea," he said with a chuckle.

"Then perhaps I can teach you how not to. It’s an art."

Anthony’s stomach dropped. He grabbed his cup and winced at how hot the porcelain was. He held it close to his face and wrinkled his nose. It certainly didn’t smell like English tea…

"How are you liking it, Lord Bridgerton?" Dorset asked.

Miss Sharma barely looked at him.

Lifting the teacup to his mouth, Anthony sipped it reluctantly. He smacked his lips and scrunched his nose. "It’s certainly different."

"It has spice," she said.

He face bloomed with heat. "But…" He watched her for a moment. She averted her gaze. "I like it." She pressed her lips together and still refused to look at him. "I’ll have to see if Mrs Wilson can acquire some of the spices. I’m sure my mother would enjoy the taste."

The small spoon clinked against the sides of her teacup.

"But I’m not sure if I would be the best teacher," he said. What was he doing?

"I’d be happy to teach Mrs Wilson how to make it," she said. Her tea was exceptionally stirred, yet she kept clinking the spoon against its sides. Her hand shook. "If it wouldn’t be an imposition."

"Not an imposition at all," he said as he lifted his cup. He looked at her over the brim and waited for her to lift her gaze. When she did, his heart skipped. "As long as it isn’t an imposition for you."

She lifted a shoulder as she readjusted where she sat. "It is quite lovely to be asked to share one’s culture, Lord Bridgerton," she said as she averted her gaze to her teacup. She lifted it so she mirrored him. "It wouldn’t be an imposition at all."

Why did Simon need such an annoying clock? It perched high on the mantel and ticked slowly and loudly. Every second was like a horse stomping on the floor. The drawing room Simon used to entertain his friends was warm from the fire and shiny from the candelabras lit in all four corners. It was only meant to be he, Simon, and Dorset this evening. An Oxford reunion. His idea, of course.

Anthony tapped his foot against the floor as he slouched in the armchair he’d come to claim as his. The brown leather was soft and the cushion enveloped his back. If he closed his eyes, he’d fall asleep in it—and he might as well, given that it was only he and Simon currently occupying the space.

"Are you unwell?" Simon asked as he sat back in his chair and held his glass of brandy high. He’d stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle.

Anthony frowned and ignored the sloshing of his own brandy in his glass. "I’m perfectly fine."

"Is that why you’re about to tap a hole into my floor?"

Rather than still his leg, Anthony tapped his boot harder. He cocked his head and gave Simon a thin-lipped smile. "Every duke has a hole in his floor."

Simon rolled his eyes. "You’re being ridiculous."

"Am I?" Anthony arched his brow as he stilled his foot. He shifted forward and glanced over his shoulder at the door. Empty. The footman was outside, but he could barely see him tucked around the corner. The hallway was quiet. "He’s late. How rude is that?"

"Thomas told me he’d be delayed," Simon said. Thomas. "He’s supporting the newly opened practice—"

Anthony scoffed as he settled back against the chair. He looked away when Simon regarded him with a smile.

"Do you think it’s a lie?"

He shook his head. "No." Yes. What a convenient lie it would be! Here Thomas Dorset was, delayed in attending an invitation he was eager to accept a few days prior, and now he was several minutes late when he always arrived early. This wasn’t the man he knew during Oxford.

Simon snorted. "While we wait for our friend to arrive, will you fill me in on your intentions for this evening?"

"I have no intentions for this evening, other than Oxford men spending time together remembering their time at Oxford."

"So you intend to reminisce."

"Yes."

Simon hummed and nodded. "Right."

Anthony glared. "What?"

Simon pursed his lips and looked away from him. "Nothing," he said a bit too quickly. It was what Daphne complained about—Simon was quite dismissive when he wished to avoid conflict. Not that Anthony intended to argue with him.

"It’s not nothing, Basset," he said. "Spit it out."

Lifting his glass to his lips, Simon didn’t tip it back to drink. He hid behind it. "Will we be speaking only of Oxford?"

Anthony squirmed before he stilled. "No."

Simon hummed again, long and low.

"We’ll speak of our lives as they are now. It’s been some time since we’ve been at Oxford," Anthony said.

"So you intend for this to be a… gathering where we share and get to know one another."

"It doesn’t sound right when you say it like that."

"Is that so?" Simon asked as he cocked his brow. He tipped his glass back and lifted his smallest finger in the air.

Anthony rolled his eyes. Footsteps thumped in the hallway outside, and he shot out of his chair as Simon remained seated. The footman stepped into the room with his hands tucked behind his back and announced the arrival of Doctor Thomas Dorset.

Dorset was an inch taller than the footman, even when he bowed his head and blushed. "'Mr' is fine, George," he said as he stepped past the footman and into the room. George closed the doors behind him as Dorset approached the set of armchairs with his hand held out. "Simon," he said, shaking his hand enthusiastically. Anthony brushed his free hand against his trousers as Dorset turned to him. "Lord Bridgerton."

"Anthony. We’re old friends. There’s no need for such courtesies." he said, forcing a smile as he shook Dorset’s hand roughly. Did his bones crack, or was that a figment of Anthony’s imagination? It didn’t matter. Anthony sat in his chair and settled back into the cushion as Dorset perched at the edge of another armchair.

"I was quite pleased to receive your invitation," Dorset said to Simon.

Simon waved his hand. "Let us forget the formalities. We’re old friends! Oxford men! Tell me, what trouble have you gotten yourself into?"

Dorset smiled, his cheeks tinted a rosy red. Anthony stared at him as he spoke about the medical clinic he was helping open a few streets away from the Basset London home. What a pleasure it was to assist an up and coming doctor with his clinic. What a joy it was to practice medicine and have those he knew trust his advice, when he’d been visiting neighbouring cities and working in the countryside to learn all he could from the other doctors who had less to rely on than those in London. With every word he spoke, Anthony’s ears rang as his heart thumped in his chest.

After a long moment, he was overcome with the urge to look away. He did so, glancing at Simon. Simon was frowning at him.

His cheeks burned. "I see you’re without a drink," Anthony said as he shot to his feet. "The same old?"

Dorset smiled at him. "Yes, thank you. A brandy would be nice."

Anthony hummed as he walked to the small bar and poured Dorset a drink. Refilling his glass and splashing droplets onto his thumb, he lifted his hand to suck at the brandy. Simon barked his laughter at Dorset’s silly joke about medicinal herbs.

"Do you intend to stay in London, then?" Anthony asked as he returned to the chairs and handed Dorset his glass. When Dorset lifted his brows as though confused, Anthony sat forward in his chair. "It sounds like you’ve found yourself an occupation."

Dorset looked down. "I suppose I have," he said. "But it depends…"

"On?"

Dorset smiled. Too much time passed before he looked up at Anthony and shifted his gaze between he and Simon. "Well… I was considering travelling overseas to learn more medicine—"

"Where?"

In his peripherals, Simon was still frowning at him.

Dorset licked his lips. "I was considering India."

Simon cleared his throat. "Bridgerton," he said sharply, although his tone sounded pleasant to anyone who didn’t know him well enough. "Isn’t your soon-to-be wife from India?"

Anthony pulled a smile as he looked at his friend. "Yes. Madras, I believe. She was living in Bombay for some time before travelling here."

"Yes," Dorset said. "Miss Sharma was telling me about her village in Madras."

Anthony’s chest burned. "Did she?" he asked through gritted teeth. "What else did you discuss with Miss Sharma?"

Dorset pursed his lips. "How she’s finding London," he said. "And her sister, of course. She seems pleased that Miss Edwina is happy."

"Miss Edwina appears very pleased," Simon said. "Over the last few weeks, she’s beamed with joy."

Anthony exhaled through his nose. "Yes." Although he knew better. He’d spent only minutes in her company over the last few weeks. It wasn’t he who caused her to beam, although he couldn’t begrudge her that. "She’s lovely, Miss Edwina."

He tapped his fingers against his glass. How could he steer this conversation to what he wanted to speak of? He pressed his lips together as silence settled between them.

When Simon opened his mouth, Anthony pressed his nails against the glass. "Although Miss Sharma seems quite happy herself," Anthony said, speaking to Dorset. "Miss Edwina informs me she’s been spending quite some time in your company, Thomas."

Dorset blushed. "I’m glad to hear that. I quite enjoy Miss Sharma’s company."

"She isn’t Anthony’s biggest supporter," Simon said as he tipped his glass toward his lips. Anthony cut him a sharp look, which only made Simon smile wider. "But I believe she’s come around to tolerating him, much like we all do."

Dorset chuckled. "She only has nice things to say about you, Bridgerton."

His pulse skipped. "Does she?" Anthony asked, intentionally looking down at his drink. The brandy was making him warm.

"Yes," Dorset said, humming. When he tipped his own drink back, it felt like the longest drag anyone had ever taken. Anthony stopped his foot from tapping. "She has made many comments to me about how she likes how you treat your sisters. You seem to light up around them."

Heat crept along his nape. "Is that so?" He glanced at Simon, who was grinning.

"She hoped that for her sister," Dorset said. "Miss Edwina hasn’t had the easiest life. That’s all Miss Sharma wants for her. A good life."

"And she thinks Miss Edwina will have one without her in London?" Anthony said, his voice too sharp for his liking. He grimaced quickly before schooling his features. Why did he say that? Simon cocked his brow at him, but Dorset relaxed in his chair and crossed his leg over his knee.

Dorset swivelled his glass. "I think Miss Sharma has spent much of her life looking after her sister that she now doesn’t know her place in the world. It’s something I can relate to."

Simon frowned. "She’d have a place here. A thorn in Anthony’s side," he said, chuckling.

Anthony wished to join him, but he was watching Dorset study the flowers painted on the ceiling. Is that what Miss Sharma wanted? A place to belong? A reason to stay? But hadn’t he given her one? To be here, with her sister. To be here, with him.

But was it truly a place to belong if she were allocated to the shadows? India would at least see her in the sunshine. Flowers wilted in darkness. They bloomed in the bright. If they were overwatered, Hyacinth had informed him that was the most tragic fate for any flower.

"I’d hope she would have a place with me," Dorset said. His face was red. His smile was shy as he looked between them before gazing at his glass. "Oh, I’m empty. Another drink, gentlemen?" He rose to steady feet.

Simon nodded, but Anthony declined.

He sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as Simon and Dorset spoke more of the clinic. All of it was dull talk. Was that what Miss Sharma wanted? A place beside Thomas Dorset? He was a man who didn’t instigate such games to get closer to others, although he did participate in them. He was a man with honour, who had a tangible footprint in the community. He made a difference. He helped people. And what did Anthony do? He got in the way. He trod on the growing flowers until they were nothing but pieces under his boot. The Mallet of Death was an apt name for the weapon he was most comfortable wielding.

He’d ridden his horse over the next few mornings without a companion to verbally spar with. While he didn’t mind the company of his horse, his stead didn’t talk back the way he liked, if he was blessed with his acknowledgement at all. So when he saw a figure in the distance entering the small cluster of tall, thin trees in the park, he nudged his horse to make haste so he could pull up beside her.

"I’m surprised," he said as he pulled his shoulders back.

Miss Sharma stiffened as she looked at him. "Why are you surprised?"

"I expected you to be riding with a companion."

She arched her brow.

He lifted his. "Mr Dorset."

She turned away with a sigh. "He’s busy at his practice." Her hands gripped the reins.

Why were butterflies fluttering around his insides? He schooled his face, pressing his mouth into a thin line. "Is that so?"

She glared at him. "Stop looking so smug."

"I wouldn’t say I’m smug."

"Then what are you?"

"Pleased." He let the corners of his mouth curve upward.

That rendered her quiet.

Anthony sighed as he looked ahead. The morning fog and the sun filtered through the thick canopy above them. In some ways, they were in their own bubble of London. He slowed his horse to prolong their entrapment, knowing she would follow, whether conscious of the action or not.

"I like these morning rides," he said, feeling warm all over at the confession. "It gives me time to think."

She scoffed. "How you can think when all you do is talk is beyond me."

He chuckled. Risking a glance at her, he warmed at her smile. She looked proud, like she was pleased she’d made him laugh.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

She was quiet for a long moment. Her smile diminished. Why was he so skilled in wilting it? He used to have the greenest thumb among his siblings before Hyacinth usurped him after he taught her how to take care of a plant and speak to people. Now his little sister was skilled in eliciting smiles and laughter from all those around her, while he encouraged his company to frown.

"No," she said quietly.

Good. "Neither am I."

He looked away, but from the corner of his eye, he saw her look at him. Her brow was furrowed and she slouched as she sat. Where he expected her to kick her horse into a gallop, she lingered.

"What will you do about it?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I’m not certain I know." He looked at her before he dropped his gaze to the twitching ears of her horse. "But I know what I must do. I’m not sure how to go about it."

"Perhaps be honest," she said. Her words lacked a sting. She was soft, like she was in the gardens of Aubrey Hall. "It might hurt at first, but I’ve found honesty can be quite a gift."

"Is there anything you need to be honest about, Miss Sharma?"

She focused straight ahead. "Yes," she said. He had expected her to say no, to grip onto that denial and refusal to play. But this wasn’t a game. He watched her, thankful the dirt path ahead was straight and cleared of any obstacles. "I think I would prefer it if you dropped the formality. 'Miss Sharma' makes me feel like someone I’m not."

"And who is that?" he asked quietly.

She tugged her shoulders back and tilted her chin upward. She didn’t speak for a long time. "An outsider." Glancing at him, she said, "Do you know what that feels like?"

He shook his head. "I don’t."

"I hope you never do," she said.

"Does Mr Dorset make you feel like an outsider?" His heart thumped in his throat. God, why did he say that? He was ready for her to set her shoulders, to pull her mouth into a frown, and nudge her horse so sharply she sped away in a blur.

But she remained.

She smiled a small smile. "No," she said.

Stones sank in his chest. He curled his toes in his boots to stop himself from nudging his horse so he could speed away in a blur. No. Such a simple answer to such a stupid question. Of course, he made her feel like she belonged. Wasn’t that why he and Basset liked Dorset so much? He was a kind man, someone who took the time to be personable when others were impatient and disparaging. He never allowed his money to blind him to common decency. That was how she looked at him, wasn’t it? She didn’t see him, Anthony, as anything more than the man who would break her sister’s heart and ruin the happiness she fought so desperately to secure for her.

She was still smiling. Anthony tugged his lips downward.

"All things pass," she said. Anthony’s skin felt cold all over. Their feelings would pass. Had her feelings passed? His had grown stubborn roots inside him. "I would hope feeling like this would eventually. It upsets my sister knowing I feel this way, and all I want for her—"

"Is her happiness," he said quietly.

She hummed her agreement. "She wishes for us to cease our bickering," she said. "She wishes for us…" Miss Sharma inhaled deeply and looked away from him. "My friends call me by my name," she said.

Anthony looked at his horse’s dark mane. Friends. Is that what she and Dorset were? Or were they something more? Did it matter? What she was asking of him… Anthony wasn’t certain he could give it to her.

From the corner of his eye, he knew she was looking at him. But Anthony didn’t turn his head toward her. He kept his gaze ahead and stiffened his shoulders. As much as he wanted to flee this bubble they found themselves in, he couldn’t make himself nudge his horse into a canter. He lingered by her side in silence.

Every moment he spent in her presence, he was unravelling. Every moment he spent thinking about her, he was untwisting from the tight knot he’d intentionally tangled himself in so he would never be open to love.

This was his chance to break free. This was his chance to push those feelings away until they were nothing more but a humming beneath his skin. But he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and something warm tugged in his chest. He liked that feeling too much to let it flee.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It’s rare this author finds herself surprised, but this season has unfolded unexpectedly, with winter coming earlier than anticipated for many suitors of the Ton. This season’s Diamond has met her suitor… and it isn’t this season’s most eligible bachelor.

It appears the comely Mr. William Bagwell has pruned Lord Bridgerton from Miss Edwina Sharma’s garden. The Diamond was seen on several occasions over the past fortnight laughing on the arm of Mr Bagwell.

That does leave me to wonder two things… What has become of the engagement between Miss Edwina Sharma and Lord Bridgerton? And who has caught Lord Bridgerton’s eye, if he isn’t blindly besotted with the Diamond?

At Miss Edwina’s request, no one accompanied them in Bridgerton House’s drawing room this time. His mother had reluctantly left, promising to be a few doors down the hall. The doors remained wide open, and the soft wind fluttered through the open windows and drawn curtains.

Why did he feel like someone had shoved him into the lake again? Wasn’t this the news he wanted? A broken engagement. The permission to no longer proceed with this farce. He didn’t wish to marry Edwina Sharma anymore than she wished to marry him.

But it was so rare he failed in his duty.

He frowned as he stared at what he could see of her heels. Pale pink, just like the dress she wore. He wanted to look up and see a darker colour, a bolder colouring around her eyes. Her hair was curled in ringlets rather than pulled tight away from her face with a rebellious long strand of hair.

This was only part of what he wanted.

He must’ve been quiet for too long. Miss Edwina was fiddling with her hands in her lap and regarding him with a furrowed brow. "I didn’t wish to hurt you, my lord," she said with her hands clasped tight in her lap. He looked away from her. Where he was a coward, she was brave, unable to look away despite him suspecting she very much wanted to.

"You haven’t," he said. He looked up at her and gave her a brief reassuring smile—or what he hoped to be. Daphne often claimed he grimaced. "Please be assured in that."

She shook her head. "I feel so foolish."

"Why?" If anyone were the fool… Well, most of his family would agree it was him.

Her gaze felt bolder than it’d ever been during their time together. "I had known for some time that I… I enjoyed Mr Bagwell’s company more than…" She pursed her lips and glanced away. "I do enjoy your company."

"But not enough to wish to marry." He scratched at the back of his thumb. "It’s alright, Miss Edwina."

"Are you certain? I don’t wish for you to hate me."

"That seems very impossible."

She smiled. Crinkling her nose, she said, "I hope this can be swept under the rug."

He chuckled. "I wish for the same, but I know the Ton."

She grimaced. "It won’t, will it?"

"It’ll most likely be featured in the next Whistledown."

She sighed and leaned back, but Miss Edwina failed to relax in his presence. She sat straight and proper in the way she’d been taught by Kate. "I wish there was some way we could end things without it bringing shame upon your family."

"Or yours." She glanced at him with a small smile. "I fear that there isn’t. But gossip climbs quickly in London, Miss Edwina. I’m surprised you haven’t realised that yet."

"Oh, I have. As much as I enjoy a little gossip, I prefer my novels. The stories there are more enticing."

"Do they contain good gossip?"

"Oh, most certainly!" She beamed. "Have you read Pride and Prejudice? The way Elizabeth Bennett speaks to Mr Darcy is much more entertaining than the drivel in those papers."

The heaviness in his chest shifted. While his skin pricked and he wished to leap from the lounge and pace the entirety of Bridgerton House, he was content to stay where he was. Miss Edwina’s posture shifted in the most minute of ways. She was able to meet his eyes without darting her gaze away. She no longer dug her nails into her nail beds in worry. She didn’t need to perform. Neither did he.

This farce was finally over.

He could finally breathe.

He smiled at her. "Tell me about it."

The engagement was over. It was truly over.

The Ton had twittered non-stop over the last week as the news of his broken engagement to Miss Sharma spread. Where he expected his family to be in reputational ruin, he found himself at the mercy of the untethered ladies who were still so hopeful to ensnare his arm.

Anthony wished to hide, so he did, in the Basset London home.

He sulked in the leather armchair with his third glass of brandy in hand. Simon sat gleeful opposite him, still on his first glass. Anthony had only seen him for a few minutes at Bridgerton House a few days earlier before escaping up the stairs to his room. He wasn’t trying to avoid anyone, although he’d wished not to see Daphne. His sister had trouble schooling her face. The last thing he wished to see was her knowing look.

He knew. He’d known all along. The path he’d chosen was the wrong one, and now he was back to square one.

"She ended it," Anthony said.

Simon sat forward in his armchair, the leather groaning beneath him. "Is that not what you wanted?"

Anthony sunk into his chair. "Yes."

"What’s the problem, then?"

"It’s because he now has to face the truth," Daphne said. Anthony and Simon jumped at her voice. Anthony pulled himself from the comfortable embrace of the chair and peered over its top. She stood by the door with her arms crossed over her chest, her face knowing. God, that was the look he was trying to avoid. "His engagement to Miss Edwina was his shield."

"Why are you here?" Anthony asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I live here."

Simon chuckled as he sat back in his chair. "What will you do?"

Anthony grimaced as he settled back against his chair and rested heavily against it. "I’m not sure."

"You are sure!" Daphne said as she stepped inside the room. "You’ve been moping since your engagement, and now that you are no longer engaged… You know what to do, Anthony." Ignoring Simon, she stood over him with her hands on her hips.

"When did you become so terrifying?"

She smiled. "I learned from the best." She cocked her brow as she looked pointedly at him.

He lifted his glass and hid his mouth behind it. "Remind me never to tell you anything."

"It’s written all over your face," Simon said. "You need to make a move, Bridgerton. Move your pawn or be knocked off the board."

He scrunched his nose in distaste. "This isn’t chess."

"Isn’t it?" Simon swished his brandy. Daphne sat on the arm of his chair and rested her hands in her lap as she watched him. Thankfully, she didn’t regard him with pity. He’d had enough of his mother regarding him with such a look.

"You’re not in checkmate," Daphne said. "You still have many moves to make."

But what moves were left? Hadn’t he made all the moves possible with the pieces he had? Anthony downed his brandy and closed his eyes. There were no more moves to make. He had lost.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Has anyone seen such a metamorphosis from beast to flower before?

Perhaps he had a few more moves up his sleeve before he’d find himself in checkmate.

Lady Danbury’s drawing room was becoming something of a familiar place. He sat on the opposite side of the lounge to Edwina with his hands clasped on his lap. She was wearing a pink dress, and her hair was braided intricately around her head. He’d seen Kate wear her hair in a similar way.

"And what do you think of them?" Anthony asked, his heart thumping.

Edwina was quiet for too long. She tapped her hands together as though she was searching for the kindest words to deal him the sharpest blow. "I think they make a fine pair," she said. "It comforts me to know he would accompany her to India if she asked."

"Does she intend to ask him?"

"We haven’t spoken about it, as I tend to avoid talking about her leaving me." She chuckled, although she couldn’t hide her sad smile. "I do not wish for her to." Anthony wished the same. "But I think she would, if she would allow herself to. Kathani has such trouble giving to herself. She cares about everyone else before herself."

"I’ve noticed."

"I worry she will be lonely. I know she will have Appa there, but… I will miss her terribly, and I know she will miss me terribly, too. I wish there was a way to make her stay."

His breathing was too shallow for his liking. Anthony licked his lips and disliked how his mouth was dry. "Do you believe that answer is Mr Dorset?"

"Perhaps." She looked at him before she shrugged. "Perhaps not. If I ask her to stay, I know she will. But it will not be for the right reasons."

Anthony settled back against the cushion. "You want her to choose to stay for herself."

"And she won’t." Miss Edwina looked down. "Even if it were what she wanted for herself. She wishes to leave. I am very tired of being what chains her."

"I doubt she views you that way—"

She smiled and pressed her hand on his leg. "I know she doesn’t think of me like that. But Kathani doesn’t allow herself to have things, if that makes sense. Can you relate to that, Lord Bridgerton?"

He nodded. "Yes, I can."

"I want her to have things," she said as she withdrew her hand. She clasped her hands in her lap and brushed her thumb along the side of her index finger. "I want her to have everything she wants. But she is stubborn, and her worst enemy. She requires patience, Lord Bridgerton—"

"Anthony," he prompted gently.

She smiled. "Anthony," she corrected softly. "But with that patience, she also requires someone who will…" She paused and licked her lips as she considered her words carefully. He stopped himself from tapping his foot impatiently.

Edwina looked at him and leaned closer. "Will you be good to her?"

He drew his brows together, his heart ascending to his throat. "Miss Edwina, I—"

"Edwina," she prompted gently.

"Edwina…" He swallowed thickly. "I’m uncertain of what—"

"I may be quiet, but I’m not blind, Anthony. You are Kathani’s mirror, sometimes. Withholding from yourself. Torturing yourself." She exhaled and smiled kindly at him. "Her happiness is important to me. And as my friend, I would hope that you would continue to want to make me happy."

Anthony smiled, shaking his head. "I have done a poor job of that, haven’t I?"

"A little poorly," she said, smiling widely. "Despite your faults, you have many pleasant qualities. But you’re fortunate that’s what I admire in my friends. I think the most beautiful diamonds are the ones that aren’t perfect, don’t you?"

He nodded. "It seems the Ton could learn a thing or two from you."

"If only they’d pick up a book!" Edwina leaned forward, pressing her hands against her thighs. "Tell me, have you fulfilled your promise and started reading your book?"

Face heating, he laughed. "I have made it past the first chapter."

Kate did a double-take when she saw him in Lady Danbury’s drawing room. She clasped her hands together in front of her as she darted her gaze briefly away from him. "Lord Bridgerton."

He tucked his hands behind his back and didn’t look away from her. Instead, he stood taller, tugging his shoulders back. "I came to see you," Anthony said.

"What ever for?"

"To see if you were alright."

She frowned. "Why wouldn’t I be alright?"

Anthony pressed his lips together. Why wouldn’t she be? She was well. She looked radiant. Nothing terrible had befallen Kate. If anything, she had gotten what she wanted—him no longer linked to her sister. But was that what she wanted, after everything that transpired between them?

"Your sister—"

"Is happy." Kate glanced away and wrung her hands. "I’m… sorry."

He most certainly wasn’t. Taking a step toward her, he stopped. Distance was still wedged between them, perhaps more than there’d ever been since he’d met her. The lounges and tables were debris floating between them. "Are you? Sorry?"

She pressed her lips together and looked away from him. Lady Danbury’s curtains weren’t anything spectacular, but they held her focus. He wished for her to look at him instead, but he didn’t know how to persuade her.

His heart thumped in his chest. Another step forward and his arm brushed one of the lounges. She watched him from the corner of her eye. Another step. Past the lounge, advancing closer to her. He was emboldened, even though his heart soared to flutter somewhere in his diaphragm.

She didn’t move. She didn’t look at him, either.

But she didn’t move.

"Miss Sharma—"

"I’m still leaving for India," she said, looking at him with her chin tilted upward. Her eyes glistened. "There is no reason for me to stay."

Kate’s gaze lingered on him then. Her brows creased. She inhaled sharply. She let him in the room, with the scent of lilies wafting after her.

For the first time since the Bassets return to Society, Anthony didn’t knock on the door to the London home with the desire to see Simon. Their housekeeper opened the front door and let him inside, where he travelled up the stairs to the room he knew Daphne would best be found. The library.

The room was empty. He stood by the shelves, pulling a book from its place. He didn’t read the cover. Anthony couldn’t bring himself to focus. How could he? All Kate wanted to do was flee, and he… didn’t know how to stop her.

"You’ve been avoiding me," Daphne said as she stood by the library’s door.

He turned to face her, holding the book with both hands. "With good reason."

She arched her brow. "And that is?"

He looked down at the book and found the words he’d practiced all night had abandoned him. The answer was simple. He could say the words. He had become friendly with them over the last handful of hours. So why couldn’t he utter them?

"Since I seem to have so little of your time, I’ll cut right to it," she said kindly, though there was a sharpness to her words. Her eyebrow remained raised as she crossed her arms over her chest. "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?"

"With Miss Sharma."

"I’m…"

"Anthony—"

He closed his eyes and forced the words out, "She does not want me."

Changing a peek at her, he wished he had remained in darkness. Daphne opened her mouth and closed it, a look that didn’t transpire much confidence in him. His sister was the one with the ideas, with the plans that made sense, even if he sometimes ripped them apart. She was the one who saw the world for what it was, not what others wished for it to be. He needed her guidance, and her sudden lack of it was not promising at all.

"She is returning to India," he said as he placed the book on the dark wooden desk. With his hands now free, he had no inkling of what to do with them. "She is leaving. It does not matter. None of it matters. I do not matter to her."

Her brows creased as she stepped inside. "Anthony…"

"I don’t need your pity."

"I offer none," she said, holding her hands out in surrender. She closed the distance between them. "I only come to you with understanding."

"Is that what the lecture is?"

"If you wish to view it as such." She exhaled and clasped her hands in front of her. "Do you know you matter little to her?"

He rested a hand against the cool surface of the desk. "She’s leaving for India, Daphne. Even without a wedding, she is leaving."

"Is that why you’re stalling?" she asked, cocking her brow. He stared at her, dumbfounded. Stalling? He wasn’t stalling. He was heeding her. He was listening. "Have you asked her?"

Anthony stared at her. "Asked her what?"

"If you matter to her," she said gently.

"I don’t need to," he said with a frown. "She’s made it abundantly clear—"

"Anthony!" She laughed, although it wasn’t out of mirth. It was the laugh Daphne often made when she was exasperated by Eloise’s antics or Francesca’s persistent questions as she tried to make sense of the world around her. It was the laugh Daphne reserved for him when she didn’t let him avoid her. "You cannot make decisions based on such assumptions—"

"It isn’t an assumption. It’s a fact. She has said it to me herself. She is leaving for India."

"So she has confirmed that you are not enough of a reason to stay."

He looked down at the table and scratched at its surface.

Daphne tilted her head, trying to capture his eye. He evaded her. "Why do you not ask her?" she asked.

"Ask who what?"

"Anthony."

He exhaled and slumped his shoulders. "Ask her what?"

"Ask her if she sees you the way you see her." She smiled her small pretty smile. "You will not get what you want through brute force, Anthony."

"And if Dorset’s intentions towards her are… what I think they are?"

Daphne licked her lips as she glanced down. "You must decide that for yourself," she said. "You can step aside and allow Mr Dorset to court Miss Sharma, or you can try."

"I’ve bungled it, Daph," he said, shaking his head. Rubbing his fingers beneath his chin, he looked over her shoulder. "I never should’ve proposed to her sister."

"There is no accounting for intelligence, brother," she said with a gentle smile. "But you can correct this. If you are honest. No more scheming."

He sighed. "And if nothing comes of it?"

"Then you’ve at least tried."

"She aggravates me."

Daphne chuckled.

"She’s always so contrary to me. Intentionally, I believe. And she does nothing to help matters. But I…"

"You needn’t tell me, Anthony," she said, resting her hand on his forearm. Instantly, he calmed. "That isn’t for me to know if you’re not ready for me to know."

He smiled as he placed his hand on top of hers. "When did you become so sensible?"

"I’ve always been sensible," she said. "You’ve only refused to see me as anything but a little girl who needed your wisdom."

"I’ve needed yours more than you know."

"I’ll always be glad to give it," she said, placing her other hand on top of his and squeezing.

It was good fortune Penelope hadn’t allowed them to meet in the eyesore excuse of the Featherington drawing room. As much as his mother suffered Lady Featherington’s derisive quips about half the members of the Ton, he couldn’t stomach being trapped in a room of such a putrid green. Not now. Not when he had important business to discuss privately with Penelope.

The bookstore Penelope favoured in town was quaint, if slightly small and boxed in. He slid sideways into an aisle and worried his broad shoulders would be the reason a shelf toppled into another. He hadn’t been inside in a long time.

Penelope stood in front of an assortment of books with one held open. He glanced at the titles—all romances—before coming to stand before her. His arms were tucked behind his back. Some voices a few aisles away were whispering about them.

"What do you suggest I do?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Penelope finished reading whatever line she was reading before she clapped the book closed. On the tips of her toes, she tried to slip the book back into its place on a shelf above her head. He took the book from her and slid it into its space.

"Speak to her," With a pointed look, she said, "And plainly. It’s clear you’ve done something to offend her."

He frowned. "What makes you think I offended her?"

Penelope cocked her brow.

He sighed and lowered his shoulders in defeat. "I offended her, yes," he said in a low voice. "But I’ve surely made up for it." He leaned closer to her. "I ended it."

"Technically Miss Edwina did." She waved for him to follow her as she left the aisle to enter another that was further away from the hushed voices. "But that’s neither here nor there."

"Then what do you suggest?"

She took interest in another book, this time one on a shelf that was two shelves too high for her. She cocked her head, and he stepped closer, trailing his fingers along the spines until she nodded. He pulled a small, thin book in dark blue leather free and handed it to her.

"Be honest." She opened the book to somewhere in the middle. Her system for browsing made no sense. Why didn’t she look at the ending? "Tell her how you feel—how you truly feel. And before you say you have," she said quickly when he opened his mouth to correct her, "it would be best if you consider an approach that’s less… blaming her for your lack of control."

He frowned. "I didn’t—"

She cocked her brow. "She’s not a woman to be crossed, is she?" She turned a page without looking down. "She doesn’t suffer fools, even though she has suffered you." Her cheeks flushed. "My lord."

What was the point of being offended? He shook his head. "You’re right. I have been a fool."

She gave him a sympathetic smile before handing the book back to him. He returned it to its place. She brushed her gloved hands together as she quickly scanned the titles on the opposite shelf. "You can’t manipulate your way into her trust. You can learn everything possible about her. Her favourite colour, her favourite book… The intentions of another… But none of it will get you what you want, Anthony."

He exhaled through his nose and slumped his shoulders. "I wish it were easier."

"Love wouldn’t be worth pursuing if it were."

"I’m not—"

She smiled gently and pressed her finger to her lips. "Your secret is safe with me, just as mine is with you."

He looked down and nodded. "My brother is an idiot, though I suppose he learned from me."

She made a soft, amused noise. "You’re too hard on yourself."

"As are you."

When he looked up at her, she was scrutinising a book somewhere past his shoulder, her face pinker than before.

"I wish it were easy," he said. "Lady Whistledown can use the information she discovers about the members of the Ton to break and make relationships. Why can’t I?"

Penelope pressed her lips together in thought. She looked up at him and fidgeted with her hands. "I think Lady Whistledown is lonely. What better way to feel like a part of the Ton than to immerse herself so intimately into its fabric? We all know our well-loved dresses and blazers eventually end up fraying. I think she wants to feel like that."

He frowned. "Like a worn piece of clothing?"

She chuckled. "Like she belongs. Like she is one of the flock, if an animal analogy is easier."

"I am vain, Penelope," he said, smiling when she laughed softly. "But I think I understand. She’s going about it the wrong way."

She shrugged. "I think there’s a possibility."

"Then why not stop?"

"Perhaps she’s taken it too far and can’t find another way to untangle the threads," she said. "Or maybe she enjoys having one foot in and one foot out. No one can be sure what a gossip with a pen truly wants."

He hummed and nodded. With a gesture of his arm, he encouraged her to keep walking. She guided them to the other end of the long aisle before a spine on a shelf at her height caught her eye. She pulled a thin red-covered book from its place and opened it in the crease.

He looked over her shoulder. "Why don’t you look at how the book ends?"

"Because that would ruin the journey," she said with a smile as she brushed her fingers over the inked letters. "I don’t want to know how it ends. Knowing ruins the beauty of falling into a story. I like to read to lose control."

"Then why check the middle?"

She scrunched her nose like they shared a secret. "Because I like to know if it’s worth pursuing." She looked up at him. "Isn’t that why you stall reading?"

"I simply lack the time—"

"You’re afraid of how it’s going to end," she said as she clapped the book shut with one hand. "You like control, which is why you like to know how it ends. If you don’t mind the ending, you’ll invest in starting. But some things are worth pursuing without knowing whether it ends like you want it to."

He pressed his lips tight together to stop himself from commenting. With a nod, he acquiesced. Yes, perhaps she was right. Wasn’t that why he disliked reading now? He used to always open a book at the ending, but after Father died…

"You are entirely too wise, Penelope."

"It’s all the reading," she said, smiling. "Why do you think I always have my nose in a book?"

To hide from the vultures. He wished he could disappear into a book like she could and become invisible. But he didn’t wish to say such a thing to her. She had been kinder to him than he deserved.

"To hide how much smarter you are than the rest of us."

Her light laugh was worth the comment. "Well, that, too, I suppose."

It wasn’t difficult to find Dorset in town. Considering his profession had him in one place during a specific block of time, Anthony waited for him outside the medical practice in the heart of Grosvenor Square.

"Bridgerton," Dorset said. His surprise was brief before he covered it with a pleasing smile. "I didn’t expect to see you until later tonight."

"Yes," Anthony said before clearing his throat. With his arms locked behind his back, he hoped he appeared approachable, much like the protagonists in Penelope and Eloise’s shared books. He wasn’t frowning, but he wasn’t smiling, either. Wasn’t meeting somewhere in the middle the best possible scenario?

"Are you unwell?" Dorset twisted toward the closed door of the practice. "I can see you if you are—"

"No, no," Anthony said with a wave of his hand. "I’m fine. I… wished to speak with you." He lifted his gaze to Dorset’s. "Do you have time?"

"For an old friend? Always." He gestured with his hand for Anthony to step with him away from the door and onto the cobblestone. This part of town wasn’t overly busy like the rest, although a horse-drawn carriage trotted past them before Anthony felt compelled to speak. Dorset beat him. "I have to admit, I am surprised to see you."

Anthony kept his arms behind his back. "Is that so?"

Dorset nodded. "You’ve been… Well, if you don’t mind me saying…"

"Speak plainly," he said with a small smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Heat warmed his chest. God, what was Dorset about to say? Anthony kept calm. "We’re old friends. We don’t hide behind courtesies and empty words."

Dorset smiled, although it wasn’t one of his mirthful ones. He ducked his head and wrung his hands together. That was how he used to behave in Oxford when he was nervous. It was a good thing he hadn’t outgrown those habits. "You’ve been acting quite… Have I done something to offend you?"

Anthony frowned. "No. Not at all."

"Ah. Good. I was afraid that I had. You seemed… colder towards me after the races. I am sorry for letting our past slip with Miss Sharma—"

"It’s quite alright," Anthony said, lifting his hand to wave the apology away. His heart sped up. "Truly. I shouldn’t have asked you to do that. It was wrong of me to lie."

"I can understand why, to an extent. Miss Sharma can be intimidating."

"Is that what you think of her?"

"I used to," Dorset said. His face was flushed. "She’s headstrong, and knows exactly what it is she likes. She suffers no fools." He clucked his tongue. "But once you get to know her, none of that changes. She simply makes more sense."

Anthony watched him with narrowed eyes. "You’ve become close."

Dorset lifted a shoulder. "I’d like to think we’re friends, yes. There’s still much I don’t know about her, but I’m in no hurry to rush that." He bowed his head as he looked at the cobblestone. "Miss Sharma needed a friend, and I wished to be that for her."

Right. Friend. Was that what he was? Or did he want more? Anthony inhaled deeply through his nose and tried to let it cool the heat swelling beneath his skin.

They walked in silence until they turned a corner. The roads grew busier, with more people walking in and out of shopfronts. Many were familiar faces, but Anthony paid them no attention when they briefly greeted him as they passed.

He kept his head bowed and focused on the cleared path ahead. "What are your intentions towards Miss Sharma?"

Dorset chuckled and looked at him. "I was wondering if you would ever ask."

Anthony cocked his brows at him. What kind of answer was that? A declaration of romantic interest? A desire to pursue her? He gripped his hands tight behind him and stopped himself from allowing his questions to tear out of him.

"I like her," Dorset said, and that flush bloomed on his cheeks again. "But I fear she does not like me beyond platonic company."

Anthony frowned. "She still wishes to leave for India. I thought…"

"We have discussed me visiting," Dorset said. "But I’m not reason enough for her to stay."

Unable to bear looking at Dorset any longer, Anthony at a window shopfront. He couldn’t read the sign’s writing, but he knew from the colour of the door and the looping letters painted on the window that it was the teashop they’d spent time in together as a trio.

Dorset seemed to be waiting for him to return his attention to him. "As we are friends," Dorset said, not taking his eyes off him, "perhaps I can offer you some advice?"

Anthony came to a stop in the middle of the walkway. Dorset stood beside him, not an inch in front. Anthony dragged his thumb nail against the side of his hand. His heart stampeded inside his chest like his horse in the park. He needed it to stop so he could hear Dorset’s words.

"Cease the games, Anthony," Dorset said. "Miss Sharma is a woman you do not wish to play with. You will lose if you continue trying to force her onto your board."

"I’m not—"

"You are," Dorset said gently. "Many others may allow you these games, but she will not. Stop pretending. It’s what got you in this position in the first place, isn’t it?"

Anthony exhaled and his shoulders deflated. He unwrapped his arms from around his back and pressed his fingers hard against his brow. He rested his other hand against his hip. "I fear I’ve bungled it all."

Dorset stepped closer. His hand was warm against his bicep as he squeezed, offering comfort. Comfort Anthony accepted. "Trust me when I say you haven’t."

Anthony encouraged his horse to stick to the main dirt path of the park. Every time a twig snapped, he turned in the sounds direction, hopeful that another set of hooves were on their way. But it was only he and his horse and the critters and birds found in the park.

Where was she? She was never late. There had been mornings when she would ride straight past him and slow to a trot when she heard his horse’s hooves beat the ground. The mornings where she waited for him were rare, but they existed, and he wished that today was one of them.

He was riding with his back toward where she always appeared. She wasn’t coming. The fog was thinning, and the day was beginning. If he lingered any longer, he’d miss his appointments with his mother and Francesca.

Twigs crunched beneath his horse. He swiped a low-hanging branch away from his face—undoubtedly his horse’s attempt to seek revenge for this boring ride.

Hooves clopped behind him.

Before Anthony could turn, she huffed beside him.

"You’re late," he said, looking at her.

She titled her chin upward and failed to blow an errant curl from her face. She wore no hat. Her hair was braided down her back. "The stablehand insisted on helping me," Kate said. "As if I can’t manage a horse!"

Anthony chuckled. He wasn’t fast enough to wipe the smile from his face. He didn’t wish to.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Do you not think I can handle a horse?"

"I think you’re capable of many things… Kate."

She blinked a few times. Did she disapprove? Did he read her entirely wrong? Were they not friends? His heart fluttered as wings spread wide in his chest. She looked away and bit her bottom lip briefly.

He observed her profile. "I was afraid you weren’t coming."

She frowned. "I always come."

"Not always."

She stiffened her shoulders. Was it wrong to take notice of her comings and goings and her lack of appearances? His best rides were the ones he shared with her. His worst rides were the ones where he rode alone. Heat uncurled itself low in his belly and climbed quickly up his chest and neck. But he wouldn’t allow himself to be ashamed. He didn’t look away from her.

Her horse snorted. Kate fiddled with the reins. Her gloves were a lovely, dark blue. She kept her horse at pace with his, and slowed as he did.

"Please don’t return to India."

Her relaxed face crinkled into a frown. "Lord—"

He urged his horse to stop walking. She mirrored him immediately, although she refused to look at him.

"I wish to court you," he said over his pounding heart. It was in his ears, beating like incessant hooves. "Against all my better judgements, that’s what I wish for most."

Kate glared at him, but how she held her throat tight and her hard swallow betrayed her. Something in his chest fluttered. He gripped the reins before he slackened his hold. He wouldn’t run from this.

"I’ve wanted it since meeting you in this very park, when we raced for the first time."

"I don’t think that was much of a race…"

"Wasn’t it?" he asked with a small smile. It felt loose, unsure. He didn’t let it slip.

Her eyes glanced down, but her lips pressed into a thin line. She was coiled so tightly she wouldn’t allow herself to unravel. He would for them both.

"And there’s something I wish to say to you," he said. "But not until you’ve been courted as you deserve. If you’ll have me."

"My—" She shook her head. Closing her eyes tight, her inhale shuddered through her. She gripped the reins, and her legs shifted beneath her long skirt. Was she going to kick off and run from him again?

But her horse remained.

She opened her eyes. She didn’t look away from him. "Anthony." Her lips parted, and an uncertain sound emerged. After a long pause that lasted too many seasons, she inhaled again, but this time, it didn’t rattle her. "We’re to race each other every morning in this park," she said. Something warmed his chest. "Even when it rains."

He nodded. "Even in the rain."

"And you are to cease these games," she said. "Please."

"Consider them ceased," he said, and sliced his hand along the air like he was cutting it with a knife. "I am sorry, Kate."

She waved her hand to dismiss him. "Please, don’t," she said gently. "I have no desire for your apologies. All I want is your…" She pressed her lips together and fought herself. He waited. "I want your trust," she said slowly, like the words were heavy on her tongue. "That is all I want."

He nodded. "And you’ll have it." For he knew what she was asking him. She wanted him to be here, with her, without the desire to wall himself away like he had behind the engagement. She wanted him to be honest. She wanted… him.

A smile broke out over his face.

"I have a stipulation," he said. She cocked her brow, and he sat taller on his saddle. "You’re not to return to India. Not unless it is what you want."

She tilted her chin upward, defiant. "And if it is?"

The fear that had haunted him for weeks was a dull throb. Her smile warmed him. He was safe to tease, just as she was safe to threaten him.

He licked his lips and fiddled with the reins. "Then I’d like to come with you."

"You cannot leave your family—"

"In case you haven’t noticed, I am one of eight," he said, letting himself smile. "They will most likely manage very well without me. And I think I could use a change in scenery."

"You may not like it."

"I may love it."

"You may not like me. This may pass—"

He shook his head. "It won’t."

"How can you be certain?"

"Because you are all I’ve been able to think about since I first saw you in the park," he said. Heat bloomed all over his body. Anthony wished to look away, but didn’t. "I prolonged setting a date for that ill-fated wedding because of you. I panicked and proposed to your sister because of you."

She frowned. "Because of me?"

"Because of you," he said, earnest. "I do not think when you are around. You are distracting."

"That doesn’t sound—"

"And I like that I stop thinking around you." He exhaled roughly through his nose. His shoulders sagged. He no longer held the tension in his spine. "I like that… I like that I can be someone else other than the viscount. I can be Anthony. I haven’t been myself in a long time."

Kate was quiet for a moment. "I am glad that you can be yourself with me," she said softly. "Because I feel that I can be myself with you."

He smiled. "Then we shall race?"

"We shall race."

"On the count of three?"

She nodded. Her smile warmed him.

"One… two…"

She nudged her horse into a gallop, laughing loudly as she rode from him. But this time, it wasn’t in fear. Anthony laughed as he encouraged his horse to move and close the gap.

"Kate!" he called after her, still laughing. "That’s cheating!"

"Is it, my lord?" she shouted over her shoulder. She stayed ahead of him, her horse kicking dirt up beneath its hooves. "Then I suppose I will have to pay the most wretched price for such a dishonourable act!"

"And what price would that be?"

"A kiss from you," she said. His face burned, and he imagined hers did, too. She threw her head back, her hair flying behind her. Anthony chased after her. No matter who won, that was a prize he felt was well-earned.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Let us begin with matters of the heart: it seems if a gentleman wishes to dance with Miss Sharma, Lord Bridgerton is the one to beat. I feel sorry for any foolish man who so much as looks her way.