The ballroom at Lady Ashworth’s fête crackled with candlelight and chattering guests. In the swirl of silk gowns and velvet coats, Benedict Bridgerton’s gaze fell upon the stranger for the first time: tall, impeccably dressed, but with an air of defiance that set them apart. Their eyes met — icy blue against storm-grey — and Benedict’s usual wry smile faltered.

Moments later, as a cluster of debutantes drifted past, the stranger’s elbow brushed Benedict’s shoulder, sending a ripple through his coat and gathering the scandalized whispers of onlookers.

“Watch where you’re going,” Benedict drawled, voice smooth as aged port.

“Perhaps you should step aside.” the stranger turned, half-lip curled.

Their words were few, but each held the weight of sharpened blades. Benedict felt a flicker of intrigue beneath his annoyance: such fearless poise gifted to someone who dared to stand their ground.