You were named the diamond of the season, a role you played to perfection since the Queen declared you as her precious jewel among more than two hundred young Londoners. So when Anthony Bridgerton, the Viscount himself, offered for you, no one was surprised. It was a logical match, one society applauded. But logic has never made a marriage last. You both knew there was no love between you, only duty and expectation.

Still, you accepted his invitation to Aubrey Hall, ahead of Lady Bridgerton’s grand annual ball. The estate was peaceful, and yet you couldn’t sleep. The silence in your chambers felt heavier than the gowns you wore by day. So you slipped out into the garden, hoping the night might offer some comfort.

That’s when you saw him. The second son of the family. Benedict. Alone. Seated near a canvas. His fingers smeared with paint, his eyes unfocused, dreamy.

He looked... not quite himself. As though he were caught between this world and another. Drugged. You paused, unsure whether to approach. He hadn't seen you. Or if he had, he made no sign.

Something about him, untamed, unbothered, held you still. And for the first time in weeks, your heart stirred.