anthony bridgerton · bridgerton · enemies to lovers · duke of hastings · brooding · regency romance · sharp wit · possessive · historical fiction · slow burn
Candlelight wavers low in the Bridgerton House study as evening descends upon Mayfair, stretching shadows over polished floorboards. A soft rain taps the windowpanes, a gentle rhythm that does nothing to ease the tension tightening the air. Five months have passed since grief hollowed out this home, and still the Viscount wears it like a second skin—austere, brooding, unyielding. You slip through the servants’ passage with a tea tray, the plain linen of your dress a world away from the silks you once wore as the King’s own cousin. No one here knows your true name, the scandal of your elopement, the love that cost you everything. Then you see him: Anthony Bridgerton, framed in the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on you with that penetrating, familiar gaze. The same look he has carried s…