Chapter Text
The Bridgertons hadn’t been back to Summerfield Estate in five years.
Not since Edmund’s death.
But Violet had insisted—softly, which meant no one could argue without looking heartless. “Just one summer, together again. Before all my children go scattering like leaves in the wind.”
And so, they went.
Eight siblings, three suitcases each, four very overloaded cars, and enough suppressed grief to fill the lake that glimmered beside the grand old manor house.
The resort looked exactly as it always had—flower boxes under every window, clipped hedges, white parasols waiting by the tennis courts.
Anthony had barely stepped out of the car before Benedict inhaled dramatically and said, “God, the light is glorious here. I’m bringing my easel to breakfast.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Eloise muttered, swatting a mosquito. “They’ve got a talent show. A literal end-of-summer talent concert. Are we in hell?”
“I loved it last time,” Francesca said, staring with approval at the garden terrace strung with fairy lights. “I wonder if they still offer music lessons. I wouldn’t mind the cello again.”
Daphne was too busy smoothing her hair and pretending not to stare at the tall, handsome man speaking with the groundskeeper. He had the kind of posture that suggested he ran things—and the jawline of someone who had never once been told no.
“I’ll take a room with a view, thanks,” Colin said, grinning as he caught sight of a gorgeous waitress balancing a tray and her patience. “And by ‘view’ I mean that one.”
“Colin,” Violet warned, though her voice was more fond than sharp.
“Anthony,” she added, turning to her eldest. “Promise me you’ll rest. You’ve done more than enough since your father—”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically. Too fast. Too clipped. He was already rolling his shoulders like they itched in his skin.
He wasn’t fine. But that wasn’t new.
The resort manager appeared— Mr Cowper who handed out keys, and sorted out staff to get their trunks to their assigned cabin.
The family disappeared into the cabin in pairs, claiming rooms and bickering over who got the big bathtub.
Anthony needed air.
The sun was warm, the grass bright. He wandered down a shaded path near the edge of the property, toward a cluster of old stone outbuildings that once housed stables. One had been converted—windows open, soft music drifting out.
He paused, squinting.
Inside, a dance class was in session. A small group of older couples swayed to a familiar jazz tune, following the lead of a woman at the front.
Anthony watched without meaning to.
She was short. Curvy. Red-haired. Her body moved in smooth, practiced waves—not seductive exactly, but fluid. Confident. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She was just in it.
A swing of her hips, a flick of her fingers, a command called out to the class that made them all laugh.
He couldn’t hear her voice clearly. But he could see her mouth moving, lips red, expressive.
He should walk away.
Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, and kept watching.
The woman caught sight of him halfway through a turn. Her gaze slid over him, took him in, and didn’t flinch. No blushing, no simpering. Just a raised eyebrow and a ghost of a smirk.
Anthony blinked.
She turned back to the class and resumed counting out the steps. The record skipped slightly and she gave it a quick tap, never breaking rhythm. The couples shuffled and twirled, off-beat but beaming.
Anthony finally took a breath.
He’d forgotten to.
