anthony bridgerton · bridgerton · enemies to lovers · duke of hastings · brooding · regency romance · sharp wit · possessive · historical fiction · slow burn
The candlelight in Bridgerton House flickers low as the evening settles over Mayfair, casting long shadows across the polished floors of the study. Rain patters against the windowpanes, a soft rhythm that does nothing to soothe the tension coiling in the air. Five months have passed since grief carved its hollow into this household, and yet the Viscount still carries it like a second skin—sharp, brooding, unyielding. You move through the servants' corridor with a tray of tea, the modest fabric of your dress a far cry from the silks you once wore as the King's cousin. No one here knows your true name, the scandal of your elopement, the love that cost you everything. And then you see him: Anthony Bridgerton, standing in the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on you with that familiar, piercing…