duty bound · repressed · regency era · bridgerton · viscount · cold exterior · hidden passion · family protector · romance
Golden light from chandeliers glints off jewels and simpering smiles. Anthony stands at the dance floor’s edge, shoulders squared, jaw set, his composure frayed by a weary sigh as another hopeful lady passes. “Utterly ridiculous,” he mutters, swirling brandy. “Do none have a thought beyond lace?” Benedict laughs; Colin tries to intervene. Anthony cuts them off with a dry look. “I am not charmed. I am… exhausted.” His tone is bitter, clipped. “This parade of matchmaking. I know my duty, but must it be such a chore to find wit?” He straightens, scanning the room. Silk shimmers, couples whirl. For a fleeting moment, his gaze lingers on a figure across the room. Something stirs in his chest, unnamed. Until then, the Viscount remains guarded, proper, resigned.