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If it were not completely uncouth, Anthony Bridgerton would have rubbed his eyes, blinked thrice and possibly flung himself into the nearest rosebush, just to ensure he was not hallucinating.
Instead, he settled for pinching the inside of his wrist—discreetly, of course.
Or, so he thought. The sharp glance Miss Edwina shot him from her chair across the circular table suggested otherwise. She looked at him with a furrowed brow, as though seeing him for the first time. As though some odd crack had appeared in the glossy shell of the perfect, polished viscount she had been presented with these past few weeks of their courtship. It was the expression one reserved for gentlemen who abruptly announced they collected dead insects or heaven forbid, dabbled in poetry. Unpredictable. Slightly alarming.
And truly, perhaps he was losing his mind.
Because standing not ten feet away, framed by the blooming lilacs and bathed in golden afternoon light, was Miss Sharma—perpetual thorn in his side—blushing.
Blushing?
Of all the absurd things in the world, Miss Sharma was blushing.
As if she were some demure debutante and not the woman who had argued with him about his supposed inadequacies for half an hour just yesterday. As if she hadn’t called him insufferable to his face, with no trace of irony. As if she hadn’t rolled her eyes at him no less than six times during dinner last night.
And the worst part?
She was blushing in the company of Lucien. Lucien fucking Ledger.
Lucien—his cousin twice removed on his mother’s side, the current Lord Ledger and the undeserving heir to their late grandfather’s title and estate. Lucien, who had once tripped over his own feet during a fencing match and blamed it on Anthony’s poor footwork, a grudge Anthony had nursed for years. Lucien, who had the audacity to arrive in town after years away—eight, to be precise—looking far too polished, far too tall and far too comfortable in the company of Miss Sharma.
Anthony couldn’t hear what they were saying from his vantage point on the terrace. It was an accidental vantage point, mind you, he had only been observing the garden, for maintenance purposes. But whatever Lucien was saying, it was making Kate—Miss Sharma, he corrected himself—laugh. Not smile, but laugh. That full-throated, delighted sound he’d only heard a handful of times, and never when she was looking at him.
The only thing that was making him breathe a little easier was that they looked utterly mismatched.
Or, so he constantly reassured himself.
Lucien was too tall, unreasonably tall really. Miss Sharma had to tilt her chin at a frankly injurious angle just to meet his eyes. That was no basis for a marriage. A gently-bred lady like Miss Sharma shouldn’t have to develop a crick in her neck every time she wanted to speak to her husband. It was impractical, unnatural and possibly immoral. Just like fucking Lucien.
He narrowed his eyes as Lucien leaned slightly closer to Miss Sharma and attempted to lead her somewhere. The mere thought of Lucien alone with Miss Sharma made him see red. Red, the color of blood. It seemed a fitting enough description for his current state of mind.
“Do they not look well matched, my lord?”
Anthony was shaken out of his day-dreams of roughing Lucien up. But only a little, because he was still a gentleman. “What?”
He turned, almost startled to find Miss Edwina still seated across the table, delicately sipping her tea like she hadn’t just tossed a grenade—live—into his lap.
“Who?” he added, already knowing exactly who she meant but praying, foolishly, that she was referring to anyone else. That perhaps she meant the vicar and that widowed baroness. Or a pair of footmen. Or a tree and a squirrel.
“My sister and your cousin.” She gave him a small, polite smile. Then, in case he had momentarily forgotten that he shared blood with that towering miscreant, she added helpfully, “Lord Ledger.”
Yes. Lucien.
Lucien fucking Ledger.
Like he did not know his own cousin.
Well, he knew Lucien and loathed him, in fact. But not in the familial-affection sort of way one might expect. No, Anthony’s knowledge of Lucien was limited entirely to memories of fencing matches gone wrong, smirks that suggested condescension and a general air of self-satisfaction that made him want to throttle the man.
“They hardly know each other,” Anthony bit out, perhaps more sharply than was strictly polite.
But really, was no one else concerned?
Miss Sharma was laughing, under no apparent duress.
And no one was concerned?
Anthony was beginning to understand what a true descent into madness felt like. Because the more he thought about it, the more his panic bloomed.
What if Miss Sharma did find Lucien attractive?
Of course, she wouldn’t. Would she?
It was no competition, obviously. Lucien might be taller, but Anthony was far more handsome and a better rider. He was also stronger, thanks to fencing. And he certainly was wittier. Lucien had the charisma of an undercooked, unseasoned potato. Not to mention the man was far too rigid for a woman like Miss Sharma, who did not live by societal rules. Anthony did not, thank you very much, have a stick up his arse, like his cousin did.
And that was worth something, wasn’t it?
He was superior in every way that mattered. Wasn’t he?
He glanced back toward the garden, just in time to see Lucien offer Miss Sharma his arm—his fucking arm—and guide her toward the drawing room. His hand landed on the small of her back.
Good God, he needed to act. Fast.
Anthony stood so abruptly that his chair nearly toppled backward. Miss Edwina gave a start, and he realized, belatedly, that he had interrupted her mid-sentence about poetry. Or maybe something about a new embroidery stitch? He’d not been listening.
“Please excuse me, Miss Edwina,” he said, with the sort of grave solemnity one might reserve for announcing a family death. Lucien was family, after all. “I have a very urgent correspondence I must dispatch. Posthaste.”
“Urgent correspondence?” she repeated, dubious.
He nodded once, curtly, with all the seriousness of a man heading off to war. He bowed, because he was a gentleman. Even if internally, he was contemplating throttling his fucking cousin.
Miss Edwina tilted her head at him, and for a split second, he could swear he saw amusement flash across her face.
“Ah, yes, my lord,” she said sweetly. “By all means, do hurry. You might even run into my sister on your way back.”
He froze mid-bow. That tone and that inflection, it was far too knowing. Far too entertained.
Still, he bowed again. Because what else could a gentleman do?
He certainly couldn’t say, “Why yes, Miss Edwina, I am indeed about to charge across the house like a man possessed, interrupt my cousin’s courtship attempt. And if I can somehow manage to charm your beautiful, vexing, maddening sister into smiling at me and laughing with me, I shall count the day as a victory.”
Instead, he straightened, nodded again and turned to leave with what he hoped was an air of calm dignity.
Behind him, Miss Edwina murmured, almost too low to catch. “God, I need to find a way to break off this courtship as soon as possible.”
Anthony tripped on something, but he did not turn back.
Thankfully, the universe had granted him a temporary reprieve.
He spotted Miss Sharma alone near the edge of the terrace, her gown of shimmering blue replaced by a riding habit of a deeper hue, that somehow made her look even more devastatingly lovely. There was a curl tucked behind her ear, hat placed at a jaunty angle and gloves only half-buttoned. Anthony had the sudden, stupid urge to offer to fasten them for her. He also found himself wondering, not for the first time, if she simply favored the color blue. Or if she somehow knew how well it suited her. More troublingly, he began to imagine how she might look in Bridgerton blue.
Not the point.
Focus, Bridgerton.
“My lord?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at him as he stood there in the middle of the path like a statue.
“Ah, Miss Sharma,” he said quickly, rocking on his heels. “Are you—are you off for a ride?”
Her smirk bloomed immediately. “No, my lord. I simply enjoy parading about in my riding habit for no reason.”
He flushed. Of course, she must think him a total dolt now.
“Yes, well, I only meant—”
“Lord Ledger invited me to join the hunt,” she said, adjusting the lapels of her habit. “Hence the attire.”
The hunt. She was going to join the gentlemen for hunting. Of course, she was. Ladies did not traditionally join the sport, but Miss Sharma was not traditional. Or typical. Or remotely reasonable, in his estimation. And Lucien—fucking Lucien with his massive horse and his smug bloody face—would be riding beside her all morning, no doubt talking at length about the trajectory of pheasants or some such nonsense.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, taking a graceful step away, “Lord Ledger is waiting.”
Absolutely not.
“That’s quite all right. I shall accompany you,” he said quickly, falling into step beside her.
She blinked up at him, amused. “I thought you were headed inside.”
“No,” he said at once, entirely too fast to be truly believable. At this point, she must think him an incompetent fool. “No, I was not.”
She gave him a look that said she did not believe him for a moment. He valiantly chose to ignore it.
The walk to the stables was short. But he managed to trip on a loose stone and knock his shoulder into hers—accidentally, though he didn’t mind the contact—all in the span of a minute.
When they reached the horses, there he was—fucking Lucien, already waiting, already insufferable, already placing a hand far too familiarly on the reins of Miss Sharma’s mare.
Anthony did not hesitate.
He surged forward, stepping directly between Lucien and the horse. And if he was overly aggressive, well, he did not much care.
“Oh, my apologies,” he said with mock civility as Lucien stumbled back half a step. “Didn’t see you there, Lucien.”
And then, with all the confidence of a man who absolutely should not be doing what he was doing, Anthony reached for Miss Sharma’s waist to help her mount. His hands lingered just a moment too long.
If anyone was going to touch her, it would be him. Only him.
He would not say the hunt began well. In fact, he would say—with great confidence and no small amount of seething resentment—that it began appallingly.
Because, fucking Lucien refused to relinquish Miss Sharma’s company. He was glued to her side like a shadow, with his polished boots and sickeningly polite conversation. Anthony could hardly hear what they were saying, but he swore Miss Sharma laughed. It was a quick, bright sound that sent a shiver down Anthony’s spine and made him want to throw Lucien into the nearest hedge. On second thoughts, a thorny rosebush might be better.
Thankfully, he spotted salvation in the form of his brother, a few paces ahead.
And what even was the point of having siblings if not to weaponize them occasionally?
“Benedict,” he said through gritted teeth, tugging him aside by the elbow.
Benedict blinked at him, utterly unbothered. “Yes, brother?”
“I need you to escort Lucien to the front. I believe the hunting guide had a few questions for him about the terrain. And strategy.”
Benedict tilted his head. “Do it yourself.”
“I am asking nicely,” Anthony bit out, though the word nicely had a certain venomous flavor to it.
Benedict looked over his shoulder toward Lucien and Miss Sharma, and then back at Anthony. Slowly, like a man discovering an inescapable truth, his mouth curled into a cheeky grin. “Oh, the sister,” he said, extending the ‘s’ sound like a true miscreant. “Worry not, dear brother. I shall heroically distract your rival.”
Anthony scowled. “He is not my rival.”
“Certainly not,” Benedict said cheerfully, already mounting his horse. “You’re only vibrating with barely restrained rage because Lucien is not your rival. And you are certainly not conspiring to have Miss Sharma’s delightful company to your lone self.”
Anthony did not reply. He would not dignify his brother’s nonsense with a response. Instead, he watched with great satisfaction as Benedict rode up and tapped Lucien on the shoulder, gesturing toward the guide. Lucien looked reluctant but eventually, and with a quick farewell to Miss Sharma, he turned his horse and followed.
Finally.
Anthony took a steadying breath and turned his attention back to her. Her posture on the saddle was poised, regal and utterly effortless. Her riding habit hugged her in all the right places and he caught an unfortunate glimpse of the smooth line of her thigh as her horse shifted.
Right. Well. That was troubling.
He was not a man prone to distraction on a hunt. Nor was he prone to dramatics. He was focused. He was in control. He was absolutely not thinking about whether the rest of her smelled like lilies too. Or was it just her neck and her collarbone? Could someone smell like lilies everywhere? Was that even a thing?
These were things he needed to know—
“Is Lord Ledger not joining us?” she asked suddenly, looking around.
“He was needed elsewhere,” Anthony said quickly. “He and the guide have some very important ridges to inspect.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious, but let it go.
He did not even mind the silence that followed. He was simply glad Lucien was gone. And if he could engineer a few more minutes of her company without interruption, well, that was simply good hosting.
And definitely not a sign of his sure descent into madness.
Certainly not.
The hunt ended unsuccessfully.
At least, that was the general consensus. No one caught anything of note, Lucien managed to fall into a ditch (which Anthony swore had nothing to do with the subtle nudge he gave Benedict) and Miss Sharma’s menace of a corgi went missing for a full hour—only to be found later gnawing on his ledgers in his study.
But Anthony considered the entire affair an overwhelming success.
Because somewhere between Miss Sharma expertly shooting down Lord Featherington’s unsolicited advice and glaring at the clueless guide, she had smiled at him.
Not just any smile. It was an actual, honest-to-god, warm and genuine smile. Directed solely at him.
And then, miracle of miracles, she had laughed with him. At something he said.
And he was taking it as a win. Because that sound—low, unexpected and utterly lovely—lodged itself somewhere deep in his chest and refused to leave.
She had glanced at him, lips still curled in amusement, and said, “You’re not entirely insufferable, my lord.”
High praise, really.
He had nearly proposed on the spot.
Instead, he managed to nod—casually, coolly, as if his heart wasn’t attempting to gallop out of his ribcage.
“Neither are you, Miss Sharma,” he had replied, sounding only mildly strangled.
And then she had smiled again. At him.
So no, they didn’t catch any game. No, Lucien did not seriously injure himself (a minor disappointment) and yes, the entire expedition devolved into chaos once Lord Lumley attempted to shoot a pheasant and nearly took out a tree branch instead.
But Anthony walked back to the manor with a ridiculous, idiotic grin plastered on his face, hands in his pockets like a man without a single care in the world.
What more could a man possibly want?
Well. Maybe Miss Sharma as his wife. That was all.