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Kate Bridgerton stood along a wall at the edge of the grand room, grinning with amusement with the other onlooking chaperones.
The room was full of a mix of youthful nerves and eagerness as small groups of young men and women shuffled between refreshments, dancing, and chatting animatedly in small clusters.
The evening was, by all means, a success.
And in the middle of it all was Hyacinth—beaming, radiant, and looking more and more like a young woman on the brink of entering society rather than the small girl Kate had met years ago.
Another sweep of the room revealed a second Bridgerton. Not quite as beaming in appearance. A hand raked through his hair as he studied the refreshment table with a deep furrow forming between his brows.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone study cakes and biscuits with such a serious expression before,” Kate said lightly as she stepped in beside him and surveyed the options.
“Daphne told Hyacinth that if a gentleman has an interest in a lady, he brings her a glass of lemonade,” Gregory sighed as he turned to her. “No one at Eton has informed me of such, and now I am left uncertain.”
“Ah,” Kate replied knowingly, turning back to survey the dance floor. “And which young lady are you contemplating offering a glass?”
Gregory nodded his head toward an attendee in a pastel gown.
“She looks lovely,” Kate commented conspiratorially.
“I know,” Gregory nearly groaned. “Should I offer her two glasses as a way to show how beautiful I find her?”
Kate bit back a laugh, “I think one will suffice.”
Gregory nodded, still looking over the options.
“If I may,” Kate said gently, “I’d suggest that cup, right in the front.”
She nodded toward the appropriate one. “You don’t want one that’s so full it might spill on your way over, nor a cup that might cause her gloves to become sticky.”
Gregory nodded solemnly, reaching for the glass. His wide eyes still looking uncertain.
“Try not to tell her she looked parched,” Kate added. “No woman likes being told they look thirsty. Instead, say something like ‘I thought you might need a drink.’”
Gregory nodded again, his shoulders squared. “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”
Kate grinned. “And smile. You have a nice smile.”
One more nod, a deep breath, and the glass of lemonade clutched securely in his hand, he set off.
Kate watched as he made his way across the dance floor to the young lady and offered the glass, the girl smiling and accepting it.
“I thought you might need a beverage,” Anthony’s voice appeared at her ear, a glass of wine pressed into her hand as he stepped in beside her.
Kate accepted it, “Thank you.”
“I am told it is the thing one does when one wishes to impress a lady.”
“Ah, so you were eavesdropping."
“I was listening at a close distance.”
Kate took a sip from her glass, her eyes still on the dance floor. “If your intention was to impress me, then you are some years too late, my lord.”
Kate kept her gaze on Gregory a moment longer, watching the way his shoulders, once rigid with uncertainty, had eased as the young lady smiled up at him. He said something that made her laugh, and the sound carried faintly across the room.
A small, satisfied warmth unfurled in Kate’s chest.
She became aware, then, of Anthony’s attention beside her, not the casual presence of a husband standing near, but the distinct sensation of being observed.
She turned her head.
He was already looking at her.
There was no mistaking the expression in his eyes: quiet amusement, yes, but threaded through with something softer—pride, perhaps, or the fond recognition of a pattern he knew well.
Kate arched a brow. “Yes?”
His mouth curved as he nodded toward the terrace doors. “Walk with me before the next set begins.”
She took his offered arm and followed him until the terrace door closed behind them, muting the swell of music to a faint hum. Cool evening air brushed Kate’s cheeks, carrying the scent of roses from the garden below.
Anthony did not release her hand immediately.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Kate asked, glancing up at him. “Surely you did not spirit me away to also discuss lemonade etiquette.”
His thumb brushed once across her gloved knuckles—absent, unthinking. “Tempting though that topic is, I thought you might welcome a moment’s reprieve.”
She studied him. “From the recital?”
“From being indispensable to my family,” he corrected.
Kate’s lips curved. “A burden one must bear with remarkable fortitude.”
He huffed softly, but his gaze drifted back toward the ballroom windows. Through the panes of glass, Gregory could be seen in earnest conversation, the pastel-gowned young lady smiling at him.
“Hyacinth has outdone herself,” Kate said.
“I imagine she will be insufferable about it by morning,” Anthony replied lightly. “I expect a full report at breakfast, whether we request one or not.”
Kate laughed under her breath. “You adore it.”
“Of course I adore it,” he admitted. “She is happy.”
The sincerity in his voice gentled something in her chest.
A quiet settled between them—not strained, but chosen.
Inside, the music shifted, the opening strains of a new set drifting faintly through the glass.
After a moment, she asked, “Do you wish to speak of Benedict?”
“Not particularly,” he replied. “Not when I could be dancing with my wife.”
Anthony’s gaze returned to her, warmer now, as if the decision to leave that subject untouched had eased something in him, and he offered her his hand.
She accepted with a smile.
He did not lead her back inside. Instead, he drew her a step closer beneath the terrace lantern, the muted music slipping through the doors behind them.
“I do not believe this is a waltz, Anthony,” Kate said as his hand settled at the small of her back.
“I think we can make it one,” he replied with a small smirk. “I find that London affords us very few moments that are simply ours.”
Kate’s breath caught—just slightly—as his fingers intertwined with hers and he guided her into a slow turn, the rhythm theirs alone.
“I grew rather accustomed to having you to myself in India,” he continued. “I have not yet forgiven England for reclaiming you.”
“You have me still.”
His answering smile was slow and certain. “Have I?”
The question lingered between them, soft as the lantern light.
“Always.”
The music swelled faintly from inside, and Anthony smiled—almost boyishly—as the hand at her back shifted, firming, guiding. He drew her through another slow turn, closer this time, until scarcely an inch remained between them.
Anthony’s gaze did not leave hers.
“Anthony—” she began, recognizing the look and knowing he was up to no good.
But her warning did little to stop him. He pivoted smoothly, his arm tightening at her waist as he lowered her in a graceful dip.
The world tilted.
For a suspended heartbeat there was only the night air, the glow of the lantern, and the steady certainty in his eyes as he held her.
“Anthony Bridgerton,” she laughed, one gloved hand tightening at his shoulder, “if anyone were to see—”
“We have survived far worse scandals,” he murmured.
He drew her back up—not to propriety, but into a kiss, his hand at her back pulling her nearer until there was no space left between them.
It was not hurried, nor tentative. It was the kind of kiss born of long familiarity and hard-won certainty—warm, sure, and wholly unguarded.
When they parted, her forehead rested briefly against his. “Incorrigible,” she whispered.
“Madly in love,” he corrected.
Kate laughed and shook her head, but something in her chest tightened—that familiar wondrous pressure of being cherished so openly.
“I am fortunate, then,” she murmured, her fingers curling lightly into his lapel.
His expression softened, the mischief giving way to something deeper. “No,” he said quietly. “That distinction is mine.”
Her breath caught.
“We should return before we corrupt the youth,” she said at last, though she made no move to step away.
“Not quite yet,” he replied, pulling her back into his chest and swaying lightly to the music. “Just one more moment together.”
Kate rested her cheek against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her ear and the music drifting around them.
She nodded her agreement. “One more moment.”