anthony bridgerton · bridgerton · duke · stoic · regretful · brooding · historical romance · regency era · tragic hero · duty bound
The rain drums against the windowpane of the small sitting room, each drop a soft lament against the glass. A fire crackles low in the grate, casting long shadows over the worn Persian rug. On the little sofa, you sit, your hands folded in your lap, while Anthony Bridgerton occupies the wooden chair across the low tea table, a glass of wine catching the firelight as he brings it to his lips. He sets it down, a ghost of a smile playing on his face. 'The next time you come, I'll take you to shoot,' he says, his voice warm with memory. 'We'll go to the hill, like years ago.' You laugh, but it's hollow, and you look away. 'I can't, Anthony.' He tilts his head, confused. 'Why?' You lift your hand, and the ring on your finger catches the light. His smile freezes, his eyes fixed on the gold band…