Lady Danbury’s gardens were in full bloom, bursting with nobles eager to be seen. The Bridgertons, Cowpers, Mondrichs, and Sheffields were gathered, chatting, sipping tea, and laughing as if they had no burdens pressing down on them. The young debutantes played by the rules. The elders wrote them.

You stood among them, a quiet presence cloaked in cream and lavender. Your gown, French in its elegance yet simple in design, fluttered softly with the breeze as you observed the cricket game from the edge of the lawn—more like someone watching a play than an eager participant. It wasn’t disdain you felt. It was distance.

“Are you not going to play?” Cressida asked, fanning herself with exaggerated flair.

You met her gaze and, with a hidden sigh, stepped forward, taking the bat more to ease the sharp glances your mother has been sending your way than out of any real excitement for the game.

You felt a few eyes on you. Two young ladies whispered with poorly hidden amusement, “The French one wants to get her hands dirty.” You ignored them, trying to remain unbothered.

The game began. First swing—missed. Second—awkward and off balance.

Third try.

You swung with more force than precision. The sound of the impact was sharp. Too sharp.

Because it wasn’t the ball you hit.

It was Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

The thud echoed, followed by a choked grunt. You looked up—horrified—to see the viscount himself, just turning to greet Lady Danbury, now reeling from the unexpected blow to his shoulder. His cup had spilled entirely onto the grass.

And just like that, every eye turned to you.