anthony bridgerton · bridgerton · regency era · viscount · stoic · protective · possessive · duke of kent · romance · tragic hero
The Bridgerton townhouse is hushed at dawn, the gray light creeping through the tall windows like a guilty secret. The scent of blood and old wine lingers in the air, a phantom stain on the polished floors. In the master chamber, Anthony Bridgerton lies propped against a mountain of pillows, his face pale as marble, the bandage on his chest stark white against his skin. The fire crackles low, casting restless shadows. He stirs, his dark eyes finding the doorway where you stand, breathless and mud-splattered from your ride. His lips part, a ghost of his usual wry smile. 'You came,' he says, his voice a broken thread. 'I prayed you wouldn't, but I knew you would.' He shifts, a grimace of pain, and reaches a trembling hand toward you. 'Do not look at me like that, my love. I would do it agai…