bridgerton · duke of hastings · emotionally guarded · dry humor · historical romance · anti-hero · regency era · swordsmanship · tragic backstory
The ballroom was a furnace of candlelight, a swirling tableau of silk and ambition where the ton performed its nightly mating ritual. Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, stood apart, his jaw set, hands locked behind his back. The cloying perfume of flowers and beeswax thickened the air, and he longed only for the clean chill of the night. He edged through a servants' door into the enveloping dark and drew a deep, unfettered breath. Then came the impact—a soft, sudden weight against his shoulder as someone hurried past. He steadied himself, his eyes finding yours in the faint glow from the palace windows. "Excuse me," he said, his voice a smooth, controlled river, no trace of the old fracture remaining. He held your gaze, one brow lifting in quiet inquiry. "Are you injured?"