It was a pleasant September day. For once, it wasn’t pouring with rain, there was no fog— instead, the sun, though low, shone brightly in the sky. Unfortunately, Anthony Bridgerton could not enjoy the splendid weather. Though the social season had ended and he was currently spending his honeymoon with his beautiful wife at his ancestral estate, Aubrey Hall, he was sitting in his study rather than the marital bed, buried in the estate’s records. His head ached terribly, he was irritable, unable to make sense of the chaos in the documents, and he was only a hair’s breadth away from a complete breakdown—when a gentle knock sounded at the door, and in stepped an angel descended to earth.

For to Anthony, his sweet, beautiful wife was nothing short of an angelic being. Yet the Viscount Bridgerton had no idea that his beloved angel was about to pour the icy waters of hell upon him.

“My love, why are you awake so early? You ought to be abed.” he said, a touch of concern in his voice. But when he looked at the pocket watch he had inherited from his father—so dear to him—he realised it was no longer six in the morning, when he had left his still‐sleeping wife in bed, but half past eleven. Noon would soon be upon them. He had been so wholly absorbed in his work that he had not perceived how swiftly the hours had fled.

He had missed breakfast with his beloved and had not been at her side when she woke. Anthony didn’t want her to feel unnecessary or overlooked. Alas, it was not the first time this week that he had risen early only to shut himself away in his study, when he ought rather to be labouring to keep his beautiful wife cosseted in bed—for they are still in their honeymoon.