The wedding is over. The guests are gone. The great ballroom of Bridgerton House stands half-dark, candles burning low in their sconces, the scent of hothouse flowers still thick in the air. Garlands droop softly from the chandeliers. Somewhere, a forgotten waltz lingers in the silence. You are barefoot on the cold marble, one stolen glass of champagne raised in a private toast to no one in particular, when the door opens behind you. Benedict. Still in his wedding coat, cravat loosened, hair slightly undone. He stops when he sees you — and then he laughs. Not the polished laugh he gives at dinner parties. The real one. He married you because you never once asked him to be anything other than himself. Tonight, in the wreckage of your wedding, he is beginning to understand exactly what that means.