Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lord Bridgerton stares at her over the edge of his wine glass like a man starved.

Despite the hunger written on his face, he makes no move to resume cutting into the roast in front of him. Kate straightens her spine and fixes her attention to the napkin resting in her lap, a futile effort to appear unbothered, but her skin burns beneath his gaze. She flits her eyes to him briefly, her eyes holding both a plea and a warning: stop.

Ignoring this silent message, he takes a slow, deliberate mouthful from his cup. His motions are measured as he lowers his hand and licks a drop of the liquid from his lips. It is completely inappropriate and unsubtle, and she cannot breathe. As she tightens her grip on her napkin, she takes stock of the oblivious dinner guests, whose polite chuckles blend gently with the light tinker of forks and knives tapping against plates. How has no one else witnessed this obscene display? She feels mildly out of her mind.

And then she hears the words from Lady Sheffield, posed as a simple question, but tinged with venom. “Do they teach young ladies to shoot in India?”

“Only the lucky ones.” Kate says it while scrutinizing the embroidered edges of her napkin, but she can feel the air in the room constrict as the words escape her with a harder edge than intended.

She raises her head and looks past Mary, who is covering a small smile at her remark, locking eyes with Lady Danbury, whose eyebrows raise in reproval. Play nice. 

Kate straightens, fixes a kind smile, and attempts a more amiable approach. “Lord and Lady Sheffield, how long do you plan to remain in town?”

“Oh, we shall stay for the wedding,” she says imperiously. “Imagine. The queen herself, overseeing my granddaughter's nuptials. Her Majesty is kind to be so forgiving after everything that has happened.” Her tone turns sour, and presses her tongue against the ridge of her teeth, biting back a particularly unkind remark.

“Now, now.” Lord Sheffield chuckles uncomfortably. “We are all family here.”

“Oh, yes, of course we are.” Lady Sheffield’s words are silver-tipped and spoken with a forked tongue. Her upper lip curls as though it cannot wrap around the words claiming Kate as her own. She pauses briefly, assessing her estranged family. “Even after our daughter so callously rejected the match we had found for her.” 

“My dear, we agreed,” Lord Sheffield interjects tentatively.

“An earl, no less, with twelve thousand acres.” Lady Sheffield continues her disdainful diatribe, addressing the full table now. “Any other young lady would've fallen to her knees in gratitude that her parents were showing such care.”

Kate holds her fork so tightly that her fingers lose feeling, but she looks to Lady Mary, who handles the remarks with grace. Anthony watches Miss Sharma’s movements carefully, chewing the inside of his cheek to avoid an ungentlemanly outburst at Lady Sheffield’s tirade. If she continues the charade of composure, so shall he.

“This sauce is delicious, Lady Danbury.” Violet cuts through Lady Sheffield’s harangue loudly with feigned mirth. “Have your cook give mine the recipe.”

“It is the gooseberry, I believe.” Lady Danbury attempts to redirect the conversation to lighter matters. “Lady Sheffield, you've got quite the sweet tooth, I do recall?”

But Lady Sheffield pays her no mind, continuing her campaign against the Sharmas, against everything Kate has spent her life attempting to protect.

“And all for what? A mere clerk, was he?” She chuckles bitterly. “And with a child from a previous marriage to God-knows-who.”

With this remark, Kate can bite her tongue no longer. She would sooner speak her mind than draw blood.

“My mother has a name.” Her name is Shivani, and you have never asked. With this remark, a fire is lit and it burns all hopes she had for a pleasant evening.

Lady Sheffield tears Kate and Lady Mary apart perniciously, unraveling all of Kate’s carefully laid plans. She feels her heart crawl into her throat as Mary’s countenance contorts into bewilderment, Edwina’s into betrayal. Kate watches, horrified, as her plot is laid bare between salad and roast lamb.

“Anthony,” Lady Bridgerton says slowly. “Did you know about this?”

“I shall explain everything.” Kate’s voice escapes her more desperately than intended.

“I see this one has inherited your penchant for avoiding the truth.” Lady Sheffield addresses her snidely. “Or that's something she inherited from her father.”

Anthony’s hackles rise at the elder woman’s words. If Lady Sheffield holds no regard for decorum, no should he—rank be damned. 

Anthony raises his voice definitively. “That is enough.”

All eyes move to him in an instant.

“I can only think you've been exiled from good society because of your deficient manners rather than any other sin.” He takes a moment to appraise the Sheffields with unconcealed contempt. “Since the moment you arrived, you have failed to show the proper respect for the Sharma family, and I will not stand for it. Lady Mary has done admirably in raising her daughters.”

He is fortunate in his foresight to pluralize this statement. In truth, it is spoken with mostly the elder Miss Sharma in mind.

“They are intelligent, kind, loyal women.” He pauses a moment to look at Kate. “And a credit to both their parents.”

He watches as she sucks in a breath, her brow knitting softly, and hopes that she understands that he means every word. “And since you clearly do not wish to jeopardize your social standing by associating with such company,” he continues, addressing the full party, “I suggest you do not. You may leave at once.”

“You cannot be serious!”

He pays the protestations no mind. They have had enough opportunities to perform civility. If they cannot pretend to attend to their duties, then perhaps, just this once, he shall not either. 

A plan begins to form in the periphery of his mind. Tangled somewhere amid distasteful thoughts of the estranged earl, heated musings of the skin beneath Miss Sharma’s skirts, and the encroaching dread that has invaded his every thought for the past week, weaves a hopeful thread. He turns to address the footman at the edge of the room.

“Please send for Lord and Lady Sheffield's carriage. They can wait outside.” He refocuses his gaze to the flustered couple. “And do not trouble yourselves for an invitation for the wedding, for you shall not receive one.” 

Earlier this evening, Anthony’s mother had offered a word of advice, a means of escape from this betrothal he had thought was too foolish to consider seriously until now. Her words tease his mind as he turns his back to the remaining party: a man may not change his mind, but a lady might. He must play these next moments with great care.

Kate sputters, uncharacteristically at a loss for words as she begs for forgiveness. She watches, helplessly, as the party scatters from the dinner table and the dull headache that has been plaguing her all day finally crescendos to a roar, pulsating beneath her temples. It is incredible how a scheme she has spent years weaving could be unraveled by one evening spent tugging at loose threads. Lady Bridgerton, Lady Mary, and Edwina level her with disappointed glares at her as they leave the room, even as she pleads with them to stay. Lord Bridgerton does not spare her a passing glance upon his exit and the message in Lady Danbury’s glower is clear: fix it.

“Lord Bridgerton! Lord Bridgerton, I beg a word.” Kate hurries down the hallway as quickly as her dress allows, watching the viscount’s back go rigid as he stalks toward the staircase. 

“We must be going.” His voice is low and cold, and his eyes are fixed just above her shoulder. He is speaking at her, not to her.

Kate breathes heavily, her skull throbbing so intensely that she can barely hear her own thoughts.

“Please.” His eyes flick to hers at the hushed petition, and her head finally goes quiet. 

This was not part of his plan. Granted, this plan was crafted in a matter of moments and had no clear steps or exact outcome beyond immediate and amiable disengagement, but it is predicated on leaving Miss Sharma’s presence at once. To be seated at the same table with her was one trial of his character, to be sure, but to be alone with her was simply a torture. Not because he detested her, but because she so clearly detests him when he desires her more with every breath taken in her presence. He had moved quickly, spoke shortly, and avoided her eyes, as if inspecting the frame of a painting. But with a single word, he is at her mercy and must look her in the eye. Anthony, despite his talk of duty and dismissals of his own heart, cannot deny her this.

Anthony follows Miss Sharma into a sitting room and she turns to him in supplication, urging him not to direct his wrath at her sister.

“I am not,” Anthony assures her coolly.

He is scarcely able to focus on anything but her at this moment, and reminds himself not to yield to her eyes, her warmth, her scent. This façade must be maintained, for the sake of his family and hers. He opts to return to their old rapport: sparring with barbed tongues, lest he say something he regrets, something truly honest.

“It is clear she was as much in the dark as I was about your schemes.” His words are pointed and any attempt to remain gracious in her entreaty is abandoned at this remark.

“Schemes, they were not schemes.” Kate is offended. It is one plan. Truly a plot at most. Certainly not a scheme.

Lord Bridgerton ignores her clarification, choosing to continue his thorny remarks.

“I take it there is to be no dowry. Now that the Sheffields have withdrawn their support.”

“You care about a dowry?” Her forehead creases and the slight pain in her head returns. “It is because of what you just did that the Sheffields withdrew it.”

It seems this man will not cease to confuse and frustrate her in equal measure. Though his allegation of subterfuge is not entirely untrue, he has not been the subject of any deceit. In fact, Kate has been quite clear from the start that he ought to keep far from Edwina. Her opposition to their courtship has not yielded; has only grown as he has clouded her mind and haunted her dreams. Yet he denies her demands at every turn. And now he stands before her, playing the tragic hero as he shreds her sister’s hopes at her feet. 

He continues his spiel without reaction to her retort, as though his words have already been measured and simply part of a recitation.

“It is regrettable, to be sure.” Lord Bridgerton says this lightly, like he may as well be lamenting a misplaced glove, rather than grieving a fiancée. “Clearly, both Miss Edwina and I have been misled and it is best to call off this doomed engagement before it is the cause of any more strife.”

He says this informally, but can barely stand to look in Kate’s direction as he says it. 

Kate’s every nerve is alight with fury at this man, who cannot muster a sliver of sympathy for her family or admit an ounce of culpability in this courtship’s failure. This superior, obstinate, irksome man is finally doing what she has fought for this entire season and has the gall to deliver it as a passing thought – an original one, at that. It is a decision that has come far too late.

“Tell me,” Kate demands, “what has she done?” 

“She has done nothing.” Lord Bridgerton’s head turns, his eyes boring into hers as his impression of indifference disintegrates. “It is you. You have made this match impossible.”

Miss Sharma is a colossal problem, not simply due to her constant objections to his advances on Edwina or meddling in their courtship. No, the young miss proves most troublesome in all the instances she does not attempt to be. He is most vexed by her presence in his dreams at night, her intrusions in his thoughts as he attempts to balance the estate’s accounts, her chest, warm beneath his palm as she promises, I am unharmed. How is he meant to feign gaiety for a marriage which will knit him to her in all the ways he does not desire? 

“But I am leaving for India,” she argues.

She does not know why she says this, suddenly fighting for a match she has been wholeheartedly against from its conception. He always does this to her, it seems: winding her with irritation to the point of breathlessness and utterly confounding her common sense.

“And it is not far enough,” Anthony bites out, louder than intended. He tempers his voice to harsh whisper as he continues, “do you think that there is a corner of this Earth that you could travel to far away enough to free me from this torment?”

He shakes his head as he watches confusion and desire paint her countenance in equal measure. He understands that war of feelings all too well, to be desirous of what one may never possess. He once thought, foolishly, that it would be consolation enough to have her near, even in the fringes of his life. But now Anthony knows this: if he cannot have her, he cannot be near her at all. She must be out of his life entirely. So enticed by her is he, that he cannot bear the simple task of exiting a dinner and entering a carriage. Where is his sense of duty? The weight of the word turns feather-light, cast aside with little care every time she enters the room.

“I am a gentleman,” he reminds her. “My father raised me to act with honor, but that honor is hanging by a thread that grows more precarious with every moment I spend in your presence.”

Despite his speech, Anthony fails to heed his own cautions. This must be said, before he loses his resolve and remembers his obligations. Before he takes the ring off her sister’s finger and is barred from sharing the same room, much less the same breath as her. He takes a step closer and hears Ka—Miss Sharma’s breath hitch briefly.

“You are the bane of my existence.” He holds her gaze with his own, pausing to drink her in. “And the object of all my desires,” Anthony exhales, watching her chest rise and fall.

Kate cannot be certain if she is breathing, unable to identify the sensation in her lungs. Lord Bridgerton’s speech has turned from a rebuke to a revelation. It is terrifying and a temptation all at once. He approaches her and she can smell him: oaky with a touch of citrus, perhaps owing his scent to a sandalwood soap. He whispers to her now as he continues his slow invasion of her space. 

“Night and day, I dream of you. And what I…” He exhales, stopping himself from admitting to the most salacious fantasies.

He scans Miss Sharma’s face slowly, watching as his breath fans across her cheeks and her eyes flutter shut. Anthony is certain he is not alone in this private desire. But what does she know of desire? Perhaps, he realizes, she is not informed of the acts he has envisioned them performing. And now he cannot help himself to ask. He bumps his nose gently against hers, a mirror of their first encounter in his study.

“Do you even know all the ways a lady can be seduced?” He pulls his head back to watch her eyes, hooded and hungry. “The things I could teach you.”

Kate breathes heavily, inhalations in tandem with his, waiting for him to continue his intoxicating torment as she contemplates many a manner of seduction. But he does not elaborate and she concedes this moment, trailing her nose against his and shaking her head lightly to clear the fog as she speaks.

“I did not ask for this,” Kate sighs. “To be plagued by these feelings.”

Anthony raises his hand, hypnotized by her words, her scent, Kate. He ghosts his fingers along the curls loose from her bun as Kate continues her quiet confession.

“Hiding from my sister. Being driven to distraction every time you enter the room.”

Anthony moves his hand further now, gently cradling Kate’s head with his thumb stroking gently into her hair and his palm pressed against her cheek.

“Then you agree.” He says this, nudging her face impossibly closer, his mouth a hair's breadth away from meeting her lips. “It is insupportable,” he declares softly, cresting his nose across her brow so he may press it against her other cheek.

Kate breathes heavily, her eyes barely open. Her face feels flushed and her head is spinning; she feels somewhat inebriated as she shakes her head.

“Impossible.” The word is uttered with little conviction, whispered into his mouth as though a shared breath, rather than a declaration.

Anthony’s fingers press into her hair as he slants his mouth above hers. Anthony cannot tell if the heartbeat he hears pounding is hers or his own. Perhaps they beat in tandem. He shakes his head and pulls away slowly, clicking his tongue in an attempt to dissuade himself from action on any further ungentlemanly instincts. He moves away from Miss Sharma briskly, pacing as he waits for the blood to return to his brain.

Kate’s chest heaves as she watches the viscount tread the carpet, his back turned, and blinks rapidly, beginning to sober. Lord Bridgerton whips around, with his stature restored. He faces her with hands on hips and teeth bared, but eyes desperate and darting about like a caged animal.

“If I wed your sister,” he says through gritted teeth, “it will bind me and you together for eternity.”

Kate’s heart cracks at this, and she cannot tell if it is for her sister or herself. Her brow furrows and she tries to shake the image of the union from her mind as Anthony continues.

“I will spend every day of my marriage wanting you, dreaming of you,” he exhales and pauses a moment, his voice softer as he draws nearer to Kate, “dreading the day when my last thread of honor finally snaps.”

Kate is rendered speechless and their eyes lock. 

Anthony straightens, his words measured and his tone insistent.

“Is that the future that you want for us? For your sister?” Kate huffs, aggravated at his line of questioning.

He speaks as if she did not beseech him to stay away from her sister and extricate himself from her future. She feels her urge to argue deflate as he meets her eyes. Past quarrels are of little import now. They are finally in agreement on the matter. Kate opens her mouth to speak. Feasibly to offer a solution, perchance to echo his pining sentiments.

Before he can know, there is distant chatter, presumably staff approaching the hallway. He and Miss Sharma jump apart, their heads snapping to the open door. Any illusions of privacy have been swiftly shattered.

This does not stop him from stealing another moment, despite the risk posed by every passing second. He leans forward, so tempted to stand cheek to cheek once more. He would like to say a great many words to her. To describe his dreams: the ones of long, teasing seduction and the ones of quick, passionate coupling. He would like to ask if she has dreams like his too. But there is no time. And, more importantly, he reminds himself, he is a gentleman, unchaperoned with a woman; with the sister of his intended.

So he simply says, “I must go,” and stalks down the stairs before his judgement fails him further.

Anthony snatches his hat and gloves from the footman, waiting dutifully at the foot of the staircase, then pauses as the brisk night air meets his flushed skin. No part of this evening had unfolded as planned. At every turn, Miss Sharma had proven a constant foil. Although, he notes, today’s effects, unlike her previous efforts, were entirely unintentional. Though his thoughts are still a bit tangled, Anthony hopes Miss Sharma sees one thing as clearly as he does: he cannot continue this engagement. His mother’s words turn again in his mind: a gentleman cannot take back his word, but a woman may. Surely Miss Sharma will make Miss Edwina see reason?

–

The door to Danbury House barely closes behind Lord Bridgerton as Kate makes a hasty ascent to her bedchamber, her hand fumbling against the banister in the dim stairwell.

Several minutes pass, spent pacing uneven circles on the carpet as she ponders her next move. Should she run to Lady Danbury? Edwina? Mary? What would she even say to any of them? Nothing expressly inappropriate had occurred, but it was improper, and Lord Bridgerton’s words all but promised that their interactions would become salacious, should their paths cross again. Any hope Kate might have had to mend Edwina’s engagement, salvage her sister’s dowry, or spare her heart has walked out the door with Lord Bridgerton this evening. Kate squeezes her fists tightly, carving crescents into her palms, and shakes her head to fight the hot tears pricking at her eyes. Must she fail her family at every turn this evening? Perhaps she ought to take a horse and bolt for Scotland or book an immediate return to India. No, that would be impossible without leaving her sister’s reputation in tatters. That train of thought was enough to sober Kate’s mind.

Once her heart slows and her hands grow steady, Kate pulls the cord for the lady’s maid, Anna, to prepare her for bed. Anna enters quickly, smiling politely as she begins removing Kate’s dress and unlacing her stays.

Between the young woman’s gentle hand at her shoulder and nimble fingers removing the pins from her coiffure, Kate feels her skin burn at the ghost of Anthony’s touch on her neck and jaw, and her eyes drift shut with the memory of his breath heating her cheek and lips. Kate’s heartbeat is pulsing in her eardrums so loudly she barely registers the maid’s exit. Her chest constricts and she exhales suddenly, realizing she had ceased breathing in the midst of her daze. Kate stands quickly, decisively; this stupor could not continue.

Kate lifts her hand to rap against the door and pauses a moment, taking in her sister’s figure, folded against the bedroom window. For all her frantic pacing and determination to set things right, she is hesitant to face this conversation. She would like to suspend this moment, Kate thinks, and let her sister live in her memory like this: face serene and framed by her soft curls, illuminated by the glow of the moon. She wishes she had not deceived her sister and promises herself, here and now, that she will not rob Edwina of her future, even if she will hate her for it.

She knocks.

“Edwina?”

Her sister turns her face, but quickly averts her eyes. She does not greet her. Kate takes a few tentative steps into the room, and Edwina finally shifts her gaze to her, eyes narrowing.

“Ever since the viscount has been courting me, I have sensed you were not being entirely truthful. And now I know I was right.”

Kate blinks and rubs her thumb at the hem of her dressing gown, as Edwina juts her head forward, imploring her to speak. But her tongue cannot wrap itself around a response as her mind races. How much does she know? Did she hear us? Did she see Lord Bridgerton—

“This business with the Sheffields and their fortune, you did not trust me enough to tell me what was really going on.”

Kate’s spiral is interrupted by Edwina’s words, relief and consternation rising in equal measure. Her gratitude for Edwina’s ignorance at Lord Bridgerton’s advances is immeasurable, but swiftly replaced by a gnawing guilt for her own complicity in these secrets.

“I am truly sorry, Bon, for keeping both you and Mama in the dark,” Kate begins.

Edwina breathes a soft, sardonic laugh, and Kate’s brows pinch together in devastation.

“After Appa died, I took it upon myself to manage our affairs. I wrote to the Sheffields, and after learning of their stipulations, I saw an answer to all our troubles.”

Edwina nods with faux interest, pretending to ponder her words.

Kate’s eyes well at her sister’s derision. Perhaps her sister was too young to remember the loss of their appa entirely, but Kate does. She remembers that time with stunning clarity. She can still hear the anguish in Mary’s crying, echoing through the house for weeks. She remembers the distress that gripped Edwina for the first year, as she climbed into Kate’s bed every night, unable to sleep without her didi reading to her, as Mary laid catatonic in her room. Most of all, Kate remembers the fear: so much greater than her grief as she worried that everything would slip through her fingers: her family, their finances, their home. Kate barely had a moment to rest, with her days spent poring over estate documents and pursuing respectable employment. Kate had barely a moment to mourn her appa, as she worried for Mary and Edwina’s future. If she could not secure them that, she had thought, how could she be promised a place in their hearts? 

As she stands before Edwina, fumbling with the edge of her robe and fighting back tears, Kate is desperate to express her embarrassment at the evening’s undoing and shame for her duplicity, but finds herself incapable of apologizing for her intentions; for doing what was required to provide for her family.

“I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping you free from this burden. But you must know,” she sighs heavily, “it has weighed on me every day.”

Edwina finally rises from her seat and Kate folds her hand in front of her, bracing herself for whatever comes.

“I am not a little girl anymore, Kate,” she says pointedly. “I am a grown woman now, ready to be a wife.”

Kate’s face softens as she takes in her sister’s words, meant to sound self-assured, but tinged with an air of indignance that only serves to make her seem all the more young. She wishes she could gather her into her arms again and read her a story, like when she was smaller. She is still so small.

“Yes,” Kate says finally. “Yes, I know.”

In her eyes, she knows Edwina as the toddler who thumbed at pages in storybooks, as Kate read to her in Tamil, or Hindustani, or English; the words unimportant to a little sister, wide-eyed and babbling. She recalls the child who shrieked when fish tickled her ankles as they dipped their feet in the cool waters of the river. She is the girl who stood on her toes to reach Kate’s shoulders as she taught her to waltz. For all her eighteen years, she is still so young. But Kate considers she was about as young when their appa died, when she became head of the family because she simply had to. She does not wish that burden on Edwina and will never pass it to her, but perhaps she ought to remind herself that she may be wiser, cleverer, and more capable than the child she carries in her memory.

Edwina sighs softly and fiddles with her hands, then straightens her back, her posture resolute.

“If Lord Bridgerton does not wish to end our engagement,” Edwina begins slowly, her eyes wide and head bobbing with agitation, “then the Sheffield fortune would not matter, would it?”

Kate takes in a sharp breath at this. Edwina had been considering the situation, clearly, but talked of the matter as though she were making the argument for serving duck instead of lamb for dinner, not trading her future for a dowry.

“Once I am married to the viscount,” she continues assuredly, “there will be ample funds to provide for all of us. He is as generous as he is wealthy. I am sure the viscount will provide for you and Mama too.”

She speaks as if the marriage contract is already signed, unaware of Anthony’s wanton behavior and coarse words mere hours ago. 

“He…” Kate trails off, considering her words carefully for a moment. “He might.”

It was true. Despite the improbability of her sister’s plan to wed the viscount, she was not entirely incorrect. He was a man of duty and honor above all; he would provide for his wife’s family and waive acceptance of a dowry, if only asked. Kate had not known this when she met him, nor would she ever make that assumption throughout their acquaintance, but she sees this now to be true.

“But…” Kate breaks from her brief daze at this enlightenment, now determined to form a new plan. “But, Edwina, this should not be your burden,” Kate says resolutely. She has carried her family this far, she must finish this and furthermore make right of her wrongdoings this evening.

“What burden would it be to marry the person I love?”

Edwina says it so earnestly, Kate might believe her, if only she believed her sister knew the heart of the man she claimed to love.

Kate does not know his heart, buried too deeply beneath his duties, and she certainly does not know his mind, as it so often changes without warning. What she does know is the man who lives beneath the facade of gentlemanly niceties: he is competitive, obstinate, and especially libidinous, even for a reformed rake. Yes, his polite laughter on a promenade, his even tone as he speaks of the weather, his eagerness to fetch a lemonade for parched debutantes at a ball were all enticing, if one were not to look too closely. His bright smile on the pall mall field and firm arms around one’s waist on the dance floor or the hunting ground were also not entirely unpleasant features.

But what does Edwina see in him? Kate must press the question.

“You love him?”

"Watching how nobly he defended us at dinner tonight, how could I not?”

That too, was a fair point in his favor. If Kate allowed herself to fantasize, to be a more foolish person, she would be quite inclined to agree.

“I want nothing more than to be his wife. His viscountess.”

The veneer, the gloss of the viscounty, is what Edwina loves, Kate realizes. Her sister has no understanding of this man when stripped bare of his title, and she certainly has deluded herself regarding the nature of a marriage with Lord Bridgerton. She cannot allow Edwina to continue down this path for a second longer.

“Bon. You do not know him. I…” she trails off. Where does one begin to untangle this? “I met the viscount once before, prior to our formal introductions with Lady Danbury.”

“What?”

“Perhaps we might sit down a moment—”

“I am quite fine to stand.”

Edwina holds up her hand as Kate attempts to approach her.

“Go on, then,” she says, with a hard edge to her voice. “Tell me.”

She crosses her arms and waits for Kate to speak.

So she does. Kate tells her of how they met in the woods on horseback: her on a breakneck jaunt through the park, Lord Bridgerton trailing in pursuit.

“He was quite charming, and I,” Kate clears her throat. “I understand how a person might be engaged by him.”

She attempts to say this sympathetically, but ends up blushing a little at the image of his smile in the early morning light, his cheeks flushed with exertion and the way his strong fingers gripped easily, confidently, at the reins of his horse.

“However,” she says, steadying herself, “he was not so charming when we met again.” 

“Kate,” Edwina cried, “how many times have you met this man before I did?”

“Twice, I believe,” Kate says guiltily. “But both were by happenstance, bon. When I saw him once again at the ball, Lady Danbury identified him to us. That is why I said I knew him. Only I did not.” She chuckled lowly. “Mere minutes later, I stepped outside to take some air and had the displeasure of overhearing his conversation with the other eligible gentleman. They were,” she pauses to measure her breaths, as she grows incensed just at the memory.

“They were vile. Worse, they were insipid, mindless creatures. They spoke of young ladies as though they were chattel to be treated as breeding stock; picking apart these women for the most miniscule of infractions while offering no intelligence or strength of character in return. One man simply suggested that they ought to find the least objectionable woman, marry her, and return to more pleasurable pursuits. And An.. Lord Bridgerton, he,” she sighs. “He spoke of a marriage of convenience, to a lady of noble stock and beauty for convenience. I was quite disappointed in him.”

She digs her toe into the carpet.

“And I told him as much upon my exit, after he found me behind the garden hedge. I also told him his horsemanship was deficient, but that is less important.”

“Didi!” Edwina would laugh at her sister’s candor with the viscount if her good humor was not outweighed by immense frustration.

Kate’s voice is softer now, but still firm.

“I did my research before coming to England, as you know, and more since we have been here. According to what I could gather from Whistledown, as well as being a notorious rake, he has never sought a love match. I heard him confirm it that evening. He does not wish for love in his marriage, Edwina. Besides his past proclivities and the company he keeps, this much should be important to you. You cannot marry him. Please, sister.” 

Edwina looks at Kate, fury and anguish painted on her delicate features.

“Why did you not tell me? Why wait all this time? It was not as if I was in short supply of suitors!”

“Edwina,” Kate says exasperatedly, “he has not said it as much as he has shown it. When has he ever attempted to give you great romance? And if you did not heed his warning, why would you care for mine?”

It is Kate’s turn to be angry, if just this once. For all she has done in service of her sister for the past eight years, why were her words so quickly disregarded? Her advice has been easily discarded the moment her sister entered high society and was cast as the diamond.

“Would you have even listened?” Kate bobs her head in frustration, as Edwina casts her eyes downward. “My words have not mattered to you – or to anyone, it seems – since we set foot in London. At every ball and promenade and with every caller that has queued down these halls, I have done my best to protect you, bon, to guard your heart. But I cannot guide you if you do not listen to me.”

Edwina looks up at her now, a touch contrite, and nibbles at her lip. 

Kate edges forward, “I concede that I did not tell you everything that I knew of the viscount, and for that I am truly sorry, but..” she shakes her head. “I thought that you would trust me now, as you always have.”

It is quiet for a long time, and Edwina finally sits on the corner of her bed. Slowly, Kate approaches and sits at the opposite corner; a tentative treaty forming. Edwina sighs and leans her head against Kate’s shoulder, and suddenly she is twelve again, asking her didi what the flutter in her chest is when the palace cook’s son, Tahir, brings her extra rasgulla wrapped in a cloth. This is the moment where Kate will hold her tight and whisper the answers to all her burdens, mouth pressed against her temple. But for now, her elder sister says nothing. 

Edwina finally asks, “Why would he say those things, then? At our dinner with the Sheffields? If he does not love me.”

Her voice has lost its edge, perhaps a touch despondent, but more than anything, she is simply confused. Kate looks at her sister a moment, considering her answer. She has pondered this question, among other things, this evening, and came to her conclusion: the answer is not love, but duty. 

“His reaction to the Sheffields was perhaps… outsized, but not unwarranted. While it may have seemed somewhat emotional, I believe it was perhaps strategic. Lord Bridgerton is an astute man; he will not act out of turn in mixed company.”

No, Kate thinks to herself, he prefers to act untoward behind closed doors, in shadows.

“Yes, he defied a man above his rank, but only to preserve his reputation and station. The staff here have eyes and ears, surely news of the evening would make it back to Whistledown in some fragments. It would be a greater point of gossip if he were not to defend the dignity of his fiancée’s family.”

It would also serve his greater goal of exiting the arrangement, Kate thinks, but perhaps she should not voice that.

Edwina nods, accepting of this theory, and sinks into her sister’s side. Kate lifts her arm to tuck the smaller woman against her, cocooning her in warmth and the scent of lilies. It is a difficult reality for Edwina to contend with, as her sister unthreads her feelings and future in a matter of minutes. Her mind begins to race: what will become of her dowry, her prospects, her future? It is too much to handle. Edwina looks up at Kate, who sees the alarm in her eyes, struck frozen like a doe spotting a hunter. Kate suspects her sister’s thoughts have followed the same track as her own earlier this evening, when the viscount pleaded for the end of the engagement.

“What happens now?”

“Do not worry. I will figure this out, bon.” She speaks with a quiet confidence as she tugs her sister closer, but her stomach turns uneasily.

There is more that Edwina does not know—so much more—but this is enough for one night. She can only hope her sister will forgive her for what she does next.

-

Anthony has barely slept a wink.

After returning home, much of the hours were spent listlessly turning beneath his bedsheets, imagining the innumerable variations of conversations Kate—because it is always Kate now, when he thinks of her alone—might be having with her sister, her mother, or God forbid, Lady Danbury. He falls into brief, sporadic bits of slumber, only to dream of her and wake with a jolt, more unraveled and on edge than before. He battles the urge to take himself in hand, to direct his mind from the feeling of her supple cheek below his lips, her scent upon his skin. He adds the sums of the next trip Colin has been petitioning him for – some nonsense about the Americas – and it works to middling success. He succumbs to sleep again, dreaming of dark thighs dressed in silk stockings, spread wide above the dinner table after he casts out the Sheffields and remaining dinner guests and locks the door behind him. He is soaked in sweat and tense with his pent-up release.

He reaches for his father’s pocket watch on the night table. 4:13am. Close enough to dawn. 

He rings for his valet to draw a bath and sits in the steaming water until his toes prune and the water grows cold, his fingers gripping the edge of the copper basin and his jaw clicking as he waits for a hint of sun to peek up at the moon, its pale face still staring back at him through the window. He checks the watch again. 5:01am. Late enough to towel off, dress, saddle a horse, and arrive at the park just after day break, where he knows Kate will go riding that morning.

As his horse sprints toward the park, Anthony jumps the line of hedges he knows she is fond of, seeking out the familiar patch of woods from their first encounter. He does not have to look long as he spots Kate, already dismounted and resting serenely against her mare. Of course, he thinks wryly, for all his restlessness and early start, Kate has still beaten him in this race.

Anthony approaches her at a trot, nodding in curt greeting.

“Miss Sharma.” He dismounts quickly, swinging his legs easily off the saddle as he speaks. “I see you continue here with your morning rides.”

“As do you, it seems,” she says evenly, her tone oddly formal for such a clandestine meeting. He turns, taking in her stiffened shoulders. He notes the lush curls, loosened from her braid, and longs to bury his fingers in them. He cannot help but soften. 

“I couldn't sleep,” he admits quietly. 

“Nor could I.” He nods, and both are glad to know they are not alone in their affliction. “Have you decided what you will do?” 

He strides toward her slowly, tapping his riding crop against his thigh as a reminder not to rush; she is not his to run to. “Long have I wrestled with it, but I see no other option.” He nods, an impression of decisiveness. “I will talk with Miss Edwina today, and see my way to ending things.”

He was resolved to this decision last night and sees no alternative today. His sleeplessness has proven that this is no passing ailment. His siblings accuse him of being a fatalist, or speaking in hyperbole, but he fears it is not dramatic to say this sensation may be incurable. Yes, this must be done. All ties must be severed if he is to have any hope of regaining his balance, of affixing his focus firmly on his family.

“It is the only way to ensure that the two of us can be rid of this impossible situation. Once the engagement is over, our paths need never cross again.”

Kate’s face crumples and he pauses at this, looking away. How he hates to see her like this. This silence is not a victory to be relished, won by trading witty barbs. He glances up again, catching her scent in the morning air, and knows that if he does not end this now, he will be lost entirely.

“It will be as if we had never met.”

“You cannot. You cannot do that. Not like this.” Her brows pinch together, just as they did at the dinner last night, suffering the cuts of the Sheffields’ remarks.

His heart aches at the sight and he averts his eyes, seeking respite from bearing witness to the pain he knows he has caused her. Does she not know his words wound him too?

“Miss Sharma…” he begins.

He does not know what ought to be said. He knows what he would like to say, if he were braver, or perhaps less cautious and more imprudent. If he were a poet, perhaps he could name the roots that have spread throughout his chest, growing branches every time he bears witness to her smile, or gasp, or, in this instance, tears.

“You cannot discard my sister's heart and ruin our family’s name. She is all things good and true. A kinder soul you will never find. She has loved me as well as any sister could, and I could not live with myself if I robbed her of her happiness and the future she deserves,” Kate’s words tumble out quickly as she pleads with him.

“Then what do you suggest? Surely your sister has been dispelled of the notion of marrying me? You have been against this union from the start, and after my outburst last night, she must see that my temper is quite unbecoming and a life spent by my side would be most unhappy for her.” His eyes bore into Kate’s, a plea for her to understand the words he leaves unspoken.

Kate bites out a bitter, watery laugh, wiping at her tears.

“Lord Bridgerton, I regret to inform you, but my sister has in fact declared her love for you after witnessing your behavior. Your defense of our family has not had the intended effect, I am afraid.”

Anthony blanches at this, but Miss Sharma continues on.

“She told me she believes you would provide for our family her husband, the same way you defended us in the face of nobility last evening. Despite our disagreements, my lord, I am inclined to believe she is right.”

Anthony sighs, removing his top hat to run a hand haphazardly through his hair. Why must she be so frustrating? How could she now, finally, permit him to marry her sister after fighting tooth and nail against it from the start?

“Of course I would, but Miss Sharma, I cannot—nay, I will not—marry your sister. It is entirely out of the question. You understand my.. The effect you have on me.”

He flashes back to the past eight hours of his life, spent slipping in and out of heated dreams, and shivers at the thought of such torment, multiplied for a lifetime spent laying next to her sister.

“That, coupled with her declaration of love for a husband who cannot love her as his wife… no, I cannot marry Miss Edwina. You must think me cruel if you still ask me to wed her. I am sorry, but I must deny you this.”

“I am not asking you to marry her, my lord. I would not do either of you such an unkindness.” Kate shakes her head at the absurdity of the notion. “Edwina deserves a marriage of love, or at least respect, which I know you would be incapable of granting her.”

Anthony grimaces at her assessment. The statement, however true, stings. He knows he will be a failure as a husband in all regards, to whomever he marries.

Kate straightens and continues. “I have dissuaded my sister, after much conversation, from pursuing a marriage with you further. I have a plan to ensure our mamas and Lady Danbury dissolve the engagement amicably, without tarnishing our families’ names.”

His interest piques at this. Of course Kate has a plan. Should he even be surprised that she continues to soothe every trouble? Anthony locks eyes with her and observes the waver in her gaze.

“This plan will only work provided...” She trails off a moment, gathering her courage. “Provided you marry me instead.”

Chapter Text

“Kate?”

The air that was once in his lungs has quite suddenly been expelled. How does one breathe again?

“Consider it, my lord. Truly,” she insists, searching his face for an answer.

His jaw slackens and a shallow gasp burns at his throat. Ah, yes, that is breathing. When he entered this park, Anthony had been staunch in this decision to part ways, despite his resignation. A broken engagement with Miss Edwina ensured he was never to see Kate again; to only look upon her in passing on promenades and visit her in fitful dreams. His fate was to live without her, and his curse would be to never forget her.

That is the issue at present. He had considered what she was asking and could not do it. He already spent every waking hour consumed by the thought of Kate when she was across town, behind the doors of Danbury House. How would he manage if his life, his home, his bed was full of her? If he were a greedy man, he would simply nod and let himself be bound to her for eternity. If he were a reckless man, he would have let Daphne announce his indiscretion at Aubrey Hall or reached a hand below her dress at the Sheffield dinner, so a footman might hear her moan beneath his fingers and good society would demand their betrothal.

But he is neither of these things. Never could he sentence her to a life without love, shackled to a man she despises and removed from the home she loves. His chest constricts when he imagines Kate on a ship to India, but it threatens to crack open at the thought of her married to him: her independence snatched away, the playful flame in her eyes extinguished and replaced with the ashes of the woman she once was. To keep her would be to lose her.

“No… no, Miss Sharma, I cannot.” Anthony shakes his head to dispel the image of Viscountess Kate Bridgerton, her face painted with contempt for her husband.

“You can marry me,” she insists quite firmly. “You must marry me, if not my sister.”

Bile rises in his throat. Either option is a walk to the gallows. Why is she making such demands of him? Is it not enough that he admits defeat? Anthony has conceded his failure in pursuit of the diamond, and, of course, proven himself utterly at Kate’s mercy in her presence. To bind their souls in marriage is a twist of the knife to them both, this she must know. What person would fetter herself to a man she loathes, a man who chases her touch in secret while he proclaims fidelity to her sister in public? Even a lifetime of wrongdoing should not earn her such a punishment.

Kate watches his face closely—features contorting in frustration and pain—and steps toward him like one might approach a skittish foal.

“Lord Bridgerton, please. I know I am not your perfect match. This is not the match I desire for myself either.” She laughs a little, light and a touch wry, at the simplicity of her statement.

For a time, she had believed in the stories she read to Edwina, in the love she witnessed twice over between her amma and appa, her appa and Mary. When she was a girl, nearly a decade ago now, she dreamed of ballrooms full of waltzes with young gentlemen who guided her steps with nervous hands. But dreams are of little use when one is destitute, aggrieved, and alone in the world, save a sister and mother.

Kate has long since tempered her fantasies of love matches with men she will never meet, abandoning the phantoms of a distant dream for the sake of her family's survival. Rarely has she examined this choice. Neither does she regret it. Only when she meets strange men with winsome smiles in the woods does she retreat to youthful imaginations of sweeping romance and tender courtship. Only when she is laughing brightly, knee-deep in mud, she might pretend he laughs with her because she is adored. Only when she is in the space between waking and sleep can she convince herself that Anthony holds her closely in their waltz because she is cherished.

Kate still believes in love, of course. She is not so cynical as to deny its existence. But recent years have taught her it only comes to a lucky few. Those few who are not bereft of a dowry, a title, a father. She is not one of them. Lord Bridgerton, she knows, is of the cynical set. Whether he does not believe in love’s existence or simply finds it distasteful she cannot be sure, but she is certain they are of the same mind: love cannot have a place in their marriage.

Kate clears her throat, dispelling any levity injected by her laughter.

“You have ruined Edwina’s only hope for a dowry and in the same turn, sought to break your engagement, which is the only thing that might offer her protection. It is all but promised that our name will be worth less than the dirt beneath your boot once word is out.”

He has the good sense to look chagrined at this. Anthony’s grand plan had been so entirely focused on his own freedom from the engagement that he had simply seen Miss Edwina as an obstacle to his escape. Not once did he not consider that he might be a hindrance to hers as well.

“The ton already looks at us with a wary eye and Whistledown will no doubt be delighted to write of the downfall of the diamonds who made a fool of the queen twice over. Edwina will be mired in scandal and left without prospects. You are the only chance to salvage our reputation.” Her tone leaves no room for challenge to these facts. “Marry me and supply Edwina’s dowry, so she might follow her heart, truly. Whether it leads her to a duke or a scholar or a prince. Whether he is royalty or a member of the clergy, she should have the freedom to choose. You owe her this.”

Kate’s appeal pierces him. He recalls Daphne’s season, how little choice he gave her. Kate’s refusal to fail her sister in the same way is yet another reminder of his shortcomings.

“What of your heart? Are you not owed your freedom too?” His questions are a refrain, repeated from their conversation at the ball a few weeks ago.

“What I, what either of us desire, matters little.” She says this simply, neither a revelation or a rebuke. Everything she does is for her family; that is her choice, without question. She knows he would say the same.

“If we do not wed, your family might be ruined as well. Surely, one broken engagement is no true scandal for a man of your stature, but it will not end there. Once word is out, the Sheffields will talk. I know their character, I have corresponded with them for years; they are callous and conniving, among other things, but they are conceited above all else. Whether my sister means anything to them is of no importance in the face of their reputation. They will not stand idly by and allow a Sharma to sink their name lower.” Kate’s lip curls as she remembers their words the night before. These people could not even manage to perform civility for one meal. The Sheffields would attempt to lay waste to the Sharmas and the Bridgertons if another wedding they arranged is thwarted.

“Once they catch wind of this, Lord Sheffield will play Edwina’s great defender.” He did the same in his letters, Kate recalled, waxing poetic of his affection for their one and only beloved granddaughter, claiming great woe at her absence from their lives and his solemn promise to provide and protect Edwina, so long as Kate did as instructed and found her a suitable match. “He will make all sorts of claims: that you were vulgar and malicious; that you raised your voice in noble company, to a lord above your station; that perhaps you behaved indecently with his granddaughter behind closed doors and that was the true nature of your argument.”

Anthony’s stomach turns at this. Just the mere idea of the act with Miss Edwina is nauseating. So too is the accusation.

“It was never my intention to cause your family harm, truly,” he says. “However much I wished to extricate myself from this engagement you must know this.” Despite his indifference toward Miss Edwina, he did not wish her ill will, nor did he seek to ruin her. “In fact, I only spoke out of turn because they questioned your family’s honor, your dignity. It would have been inhuman to remain silent.”

Kate looks at him grimly. She is certain he would react similarly, had these people attacked his own family. “I know that you had no truly ill intent.”

Anthony nods, grateful that she does not think him so underhanded, his guilt easing. In the recesses of his mind, he knows there was a secret hope that night, the notion that his temper might alarm Miss Edwina and spur her to end their betrothal. But to voice such an thought would prove he is an utter cad. Kate’s low opinion of him needn't worsen.

“But even so, although you acted with just cause and good reason, they will turn it against you and our families. Your mother and Lady Danbury will fight their words formidably, I am sure, but they shall not have the upper hand and we will appear desperate in turn.”

He sees the battlefield laid out in his mind and knows she is right. The Bridgertons and Sharmas shall be left plucking shrapnel from their wounds if they do not plan carefully.

“They will fire their first rounds before we can form our defense,” he tells her.

“Precisely,” Kate nods sharply. “Since the start of my correspondence with them, Mary’s parents have been clear in their intent to make their return to good society. It is why they insisted on such requirements for Edwina’s suitors. The moment they hear you have broken the engagement, I suspect they will attempt to force your hand into marriage with her, just to make their way back to the ton. They may still deny their promise of Edwina’s dowry and ensure any hopes for your sisters’ prospects are ruined by their slander.”

Kate has played this scenario in her head a thousand times over. Though she cannot promise they would drive such a campaign—especially given Lord Bridgerton’s popularity, wealth, and relation to a duke—something tells her the Sheffields would abandon good sense in their pursuit of vindication. The look in his eyes tells her he believes the same.

“But all is not yet lost. The Sheffields cannot spin this story if we tell our own first. No one but ourselves knows the truth of your engagement to my sister and we must use this to our advantage.”

“You said you have a plan.” Anthony nods.

“Edwina and I will talk to my mother and Lady Danbury upon my return. We will explain that she has found your behavior unsuitable and cannot continue the engagement. Mama and Danbury will be quick to action, and the three of us will call upon your mother at Bridgerton House for tea this afternoon.”

“What of Miss Edwina? Will she not wish to end the suit in person and return the ring herself?”

“I told her last night that I will take care of this. It is a mess of my own making. She was simply a casualty and I refuse to cause her any more pain.” Kate shakes her head vehemently. “No, we cannot have Edwina present for this conversation. We must tell them everything." She takes a deep breath and reconsiders. “Well, perhaps not… everything.”

Anthony twists his mouth grimly. He has no inclination to relay the full extent of their interactions to his mother, nor should he like to earn Lady Mary or Lady Danbury’s ire. Kate certainly feels the same. However, he suspects the primary reason for this omission is still for the sake of the sister, even though she shall not be present.

“We will share a version of the truth, omitting private exchanges. We must craft a story of the engagement’s end: it was amiable, done without malice, and most importantly, the decision was Edwina’s… and guided by the Sheffields.”

“That is not a particularly funny joke,” he says flatly.

“That is because I do not joke,” Kate tells him. “I know we despise them, but you must set that aside and think clearly. If we make them heroes in this tale, they will have little reason for dispute. They may still deny her claims to their fortune, but they will not sabotage their standing among the upper set by exposing the events of last night if we speak well of them. Especially once we spin the same yarn to the queen.”

“My god, Kate, the queen?” Anthony rubs at his temples. He knows they would have to petition her for the end of his betrothal to Miss Edwina and the beginning of his to Kate, but he would prefer not to venerate these vipers to the queen of England.

“I do not like it either,” she bites. “But it is the only promise we have of their compliance. They will not go against the crown and once the queen grants the end of your engagement, Edwina will be safe from any libel by connection.”

“I understand that you would not want the Sheffield’s money, even if they offered it. But if Miss Edwina is to remain in high esteem, then there is no reason for us to be wed! Why can I not give you the money and let it be?”

Her strategy is sound enough, but the final act of her plan still makes little sense in his mind. Not unless, perhaps, she holds some great feeling for him.

“Besides the fact that it would save our families, it would explain why you’ve given us such a sum,” she supplies.

“Kate,” he says, his voice catching. “I would give this to you freely.”

She pauses at the sincerity of his promise.

“I do not want you to,” she says softly. “And even so, there would be questions.”

"Questions?"

“Consider it," she begins. "If this arrangement continues long enough, people will ask how Mary can afford apartments while Edwina is being sponsored for endless seasons at Lady Danbury’s expense. They will wonder why I do not return to India to seek employment when I am without prospects in London." Anthony's countenance clouds with pain at that particular notion. "And what will happen if Edwina does marry a schoolteacher or a second son? His money will perhaps support their life, but it surely will not provide for Mary, and no one will believe it is the Sheffields supporting her after decades of estrangement. Will you fund their lives forever?”

“Gladly,” he says contentiously, refusing to acknowledge the logic in her argument. He would pay for Kate’s security ten times over if given the chance.

“And what of you and your family? Your future bride, she…” Kate trails off, flicking her braid behind her shoulder, and crosses her arms. “Will she not notice that you are siphoning funds for two households? Will your viscountess not question how you manage your family’s affairs?” She feels a great dread at this thought. Whether it is at her being a threat to Lord Bridgerton’s honor or the notion of a faceless wife by his side, she does not bother to inspect. “No gentleman of sound mind would provide for his ex-fiancée’s family, unless there is something monumental to hide. The act itself, no matter how sinless, would be questioned if brought to light.”

She does not forget that Lady Whistledown will still print condemnation of the queen herself. No one is promised protection from her pen. Yet Anthony remains ever-obstinate.

“It is insupportable. I cannot do this to either of our families.”

“If we marry, your family’s honor would be secure, and mine would have the protection of the Bridgerton name, even if there are whispers.” 

He huffs and idly rubs his thumb across his lips, pensive. “You know, Eloise has been quite single-minded in her hunt for Whistledown’s true identity as of late. Perhaps she will unmask the author, so I can duel the beast and put an end to this,” he suggests irritably.

“Lord Bridgerton!” Kate’s exclamation comes out somewhere between admonishment and incredulity. “Please do not go to such extremes.”

“Of course, a marriage is a much less extreme course of action,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It is only one’s life.”

“And a duel is not?” She raises a brow.

“The customary length is mere minutes, Miss Sharma,” he says, willfully obtuse to her true meaning. 

Kate’s eyes flash with agitation at his ability to circumvent good sense. “You might recall that dueling is also a felony.”

“That bears little significance,” he scoffs. “It is punishable by death to kill a deer in a royal forest. It is illegal for a woman to open a bank account without her husband’s express permission. Much of England’s laws are quite frivolous, do you not think?”

Her eyes narrow.

“I think most would find marriage much less dangerous and requiring fewer guns,” she counters.

“Most would not be married to you,” he snaps.

“Nor they to you, my lord. Perhaps Her Majesty would issue me a rifle in this instance."

“That would not be much help to you then, considering you cannot properly hold one,” he reminds her haughtily.

The nape of her neck itches at the recollection of his breath sweeping across her skin, his palm skimming the side of her breast.

“That was an English gun,” she grits out. “I will ask for an Indian rifle to be added to my trousseau, so I can assure you I will not miss.” She leans toward him, raising an eyebrow in victory.

Anthony’s mouth gapes briefly, distracted by imaginations of Lady Kate Bridgerton wielding a gun, dressed in silk stockings and little else. He is not opposed to the image.

“I am sorry,” Kate says suddenly, realizing she may have taken her provocations too far. “I forget myself. I believe I was attempting to propose marriage to you, and have somehow ended with a threat on your life.”

“Do not be sorry. Although I do relish it,” he teases. “I believe I have grown accustomed to your opinion of me. There is no use in concealing it now.”

“No, Lord Bridgerton, truly,” she says, contrite. “I am asking a great deal of you. The very least I can offer in return is civility.”

Her remark had been wholly inappropriate, given the gravity of their circumstances. How does she so often manage to discard all decorum with this man?

Anthony stands bewildered, watching Kate retreat into herself. While he did not appreciate it at the start of the season, he now quite enjoys her candor and quick wit as much as her beauty, which only appears to bloom further with each passing day. Just as he ruminates upon the slope of her nose and the swell of her breast, he looks forward to matching her verbal parries, sharpening his tongue so he might best his sparring partner in their next repartee. It is unbecoming, and rather frustrating, to watch her slip on the mask she wears with everyone else. He does not wish to be everyone else to her.

Kate continues, unaware of the viscount’s keen study of her freshly composed countenance.

“I promise you, my lord, I can be better. Less this,” she gestures to herself, the woods, with her riding crop. “I will be all the things a viscountess should. I will not tarry with unchaperoned morning rides. If I ride, I will sit side-saddle. I will attend ladies’ teas and speak of embroidery, and avoid talk of hunting. I can be polite and avoid arguments and smile when it is required.”

Anthony shakes his head. Does she truly think this act pleases him?

“I know it sounds quite implausible, but I have managed it with every other gentleman and lady in the ton.”

“I do not want this.” He hates to see her so easily transformed.

“My lord, I understand that we are not suited,” she says hurriedly, “I am a thorny person, I admit,” she winces at her recent barbs, “but I assure you, I will be more well-mannered and you will find your way to see that we might be… good companions. Friends, even.”

The word sounds wrong to her ears, but she does not know how to define what they ought to be. She cannot even define what they are to one another now.

“Friends,” he echoes hollowly. He cannot fathom a friendship where one yearns to map his acquaintance’s body with his tongue. “You know how I feel about you; it defies logic and it surely defies your desires.” He thought she felt it too, she said as much last night, when they stood nose to nose, his hand cradling her cheek. Perhaps Kate woke this morning with a change of heart, or, more sickeningly, perhaps that evening she was simply conceding to his desires and not her own. “I am sorry, no.”

Kate’s stomach drops and her breaths grow shallow as her family’s future slips further from her grasp with his every word.

“It is impossible.”

Her hands are somewhat numb and she drops her riding crop to the soft ground at his words. All her planning cannot be for naught.

“Please. Please, Lord Bridgerton.” She grows frantic. “Anthony.”

His name falls from her mouth, raw and anguished. It is not how he wishes to hear her say it for the first time.

“Kate,” he says softly, “Kate, Kate, no. How could you ask me to do this?” He feels the furrow in his brow deepen, matching hers, and he is certain their pain is mirrored too. How could he wound her like this? “We cannot carry on, this is unthinkable.”

“You must do this. You must marry me. You must, and you can,” she pleads, “because this feeling that plagues us so, it will pass. It will become tenable, it will become bearable, and soon enough, it will be as if we never felt it at all.” She nods vehemently, a few tears falling unbidden as he shakes his head.

She does share some attraction then, it seems. He is relieved to know he is not alone in his torment, but she must not burn for him the way he does her if she believes her own words to be true.

“It is mere passion,” she declares, calmer now. “You shall tire of me and we will find our way to a pleasant partnership.”

Anthony studies her for a moment. Her cheeks wet, riding cloak buttoned at her throat, and hair whipping across her brow, somewhat tangled from the breeze. Even now, he is on fire in her presence, breathless at her beauty. If she thinks his attraction to her is a novelty, she is quite mistaken. His flame will not weaken and the more time he spends with her will only serve to stoke its embers.

“You are wrong,” he declares evenly, “on every count.”

She huffs a bitter laugh and hastily wipes away the dampness on her face, tucking a tangled strand behind her ear. Of course he must correct her in identifying the qualities which would make her a deficient wife.

“As you well know, I have never intended to have any overwhelming feeling in my marriage. I do not think we will ever temper this… passion we share, but I would not leave your family unprotected for such a reason.” He pauses, searching for the words to craft his confession.

How can he express that his passion might consume them both? That he would forget his family and hang the king if he could live nestled between her thighs? That he would never forgive himself for forcing her into a union that would extinguish her spirit?

“What is your reason then, my lord?” She questions him impatiently. “If it is not that you find my wit unacceptable, or because my manners are not genteel?” Her words are sharp. “I know I do not fulfill all your requirements for a wife, my lord. I am not of the same stock as you or Edwina, I have no true family or title, I—”

“Would you let me speak,” he nearly shouts, clipping her rant before it can begin.

Kate huffs a breath and he shakes his head, placing his hands on his hips.

“Maddening woman,” he mutters to himself, turning his head. He raises his eyes, looking at her below a tilted brow. “It is none of these things that precludes me from marrying you. Please do not pretend we are so different, Miss Sharma. You speak as if I believe we exist in different universes. Your father was a clerk, and Lady Mary is not your mother by birth, but you were raised beside royalty, yes?” She nods. “That may not mean anything to the Sheffields, but you are good enough for me.” More than, he thinks.

He pauses a moment to collect himself.

“You would be welcomed by my family,” he says, thinking of Daphne and his mother, sure to stitch ‘I told you so’ in their next patch of embroidery, “and the ton will not question your rank, should we marry. I shall see to that; appeal to the queen if I must. So please, do not do yourself the disservice of thinking yourself so low. You are not some miller’s daughter.”

“And what if I were?” She does not know why she asks, or what she wishes his answer to be.

He pauses at this, considering that if she were not a gentlewoman, he might’ve taken pleasure with her by now. Maybe he would have been rash, abdicating his role as viscount and absconding with her to Gretna Green. Or perhaps they may never have met at all. He cannot say entertain of these ideas aloud.

“It matters not what may have been, only what is. Otherwise, we may stand here for a fortnight debating the improbable. What if I was a second son? What if our fathers had not died? What if you were the diamond?” His mouth forms a soft frown and he looks suddenly mournful for the lives they might have led.

“These questions do not lead to the answers we need now. I ask you, Miss Sharma. Kate.” He reaches for her braid, seeking her softness, her steady breaths fluttering against his outstretched palm. “How can you ask me to do this to you? To trade you for your sister in a marriage you have opposed from the start…” He shakes his head, unable to finish. “I have never questioned your fortitude, Kate, and I am inclined to be selfish and say yes.”

Her breath quickens at this.

“If I must marry one Sharma sister, I am much more content for it to be you,” he admits, voice low, and hand nestled in the dark plait at her shoulder.

Kate shudders softly at his touch.

“Why?”

“Because, Miss Edwina is lovely, but she is not you,” he says plainly, stepping closer now. “There is this… pull between us. We have tried to ignore it, and as stubborn as we both are, this feeling has not yielded. Every time I am in your presence, I find it has grown even stronger despite my best efforts and I cannot spend the rest of my days waiting for the remains of my resolve to crumble.”

Her eyelids grow heavy and she nods, knowing that his lust for her is explanation enough. If the duchess had shared what she’d seen at the Hearts and Flowers ball, they would already be wed today. They are likely to not be so lucky in future encounters, she thinks, which seem to grow more improper by the day.

“But it is not just that.”

Kate’s eyes drift up to his.

“I respect you, Kate. My family respects you. And I know yours does too. You molded your sister into the diamond. Her success is a credit to you. If my time courting her has proven anything, it is that you would be an excellent viscountess.”

For a second, she feels seen.

“You barely know me, my lord,” Kate says, mouth twisting around the words. What compels her to disagree with him now that he is so close to accepting her proposal, she is not sure.

“I know you are formidable, astute, exacting. You place family, duty, and honor above all else. I know you are made of tougher stuff than most other ladies of the ton,” Anthony says. I know you will carry on when I am gone, because you have done it before.

Her cheeks warm at his words and she steps forward, emboldened, their noses nearly touching.

“Then why will you not marry me?” Frustration oozes from every word.

“Because you do not care for me! I will not inflict my presence on you a moment longer than I must.” He will not force himself upon her, no matter the strength of his desires, and he hates to think that she would suffer a lifetime by his side, in a marriage lacking love and possessed of great duty. “You do not deserve to be chained to a man you hate. I cannot burden you with that.”

“Anthony,” she laughs mirthlessly, “I do not hate you.”

His eyes cloud with hesitant disbelief and Kate repeats the promise.

“I do not. Despite all our…” she searches for the right word, “disagreements.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow at her choice of vocabulary, forgoing his instinct to challenge her just this once. They both know they share much more than a penchant for spirited debate.

“Truly. How could I when you defended my family so nobly last night? I do not know your heart well enough to love you.” Anthony’s shoulders tense at this and panic strikes her. “Nor will I,” she adds quickly, soothing any fear he may have of a love-struck wife. “But I know your mind, your actions, enough not to hate you. We are quite alike, much as it pains me to admit it,” she says. “In time, after we have exhausted all arguments and the ardor has faded, we will be allies, aligned in our duties, dedicated to our roles.”

He swallows, opting to not to argue this denial of their fervor, which he knows is innate, ingrained in their every interaction. She had deluded herself if she truly believed it would simply disappear, but Anthony cannot decipher why he was so distressed by her insistence in this. Wasn’t this what he wished for all along: a distant partner, bonded by duty and the Church of England and little else? He must question her certainty, one last time, before he ties her to him until the end of his days.

“Will it not be a great burden then? Being married to a man like me? I am quite abrasive. Stubborn. Demanding, some might say.”

She leans her head forward, the corner of her lips tugging wryly.

“As I said, we are alike.”

Anthony snorts. She’s right, but her irreverence for his question borders on the absurd.

“Besides,” Kate’s tone softens now, “what burden would it be to marry the man who would save my family?” She says it simply, earnestly. At peace.

Anthony drinks in her visage, cheeks and chin dappled with spots of sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves above their heads and her forehead smooth, free of the crease that settles in her brow when she is distressed. There is nothing in her words or her eyes to challenge, the decision made. He sighs, accepting he has done his best to protect Kate’s future, and concedes her yet another victory in this park.

“Very well. It will be done. I shall marry you.”

He nods and mounts his horse quickly, riding away before she can breathe a word of thanks.

He knows she must think him rude, cowardly even, to accept her hand in marriage without sparing a second glance. But if he had turned back, Anthony fears there would be no hiding his true feelings.

At the sight of her face, open and serene at the prospect of taking him as her husband, the dam would burst and he would let her carve out a spot in the space between his ribs, whether she wanted him to or not. If he looks back, Anthony knows, he will forget his vows. Not the whispered promises to honor her virtue, but the ones he made at eighteen and again a decade later, to not be ravaged or made a fool by love. She will marry him to save her family, and it will serve him well to remember that. Whatever infatuation afflicting them will remain just that. He will not let her corrupt his heart, nor will he lay claim to hers.

He rides for Bridgerton House, spurring his horse faster, hooves marking a rhythm in the ground that races as fast as his heart.

Chapter Text

Kate skips breakfast, feigning a headache. In lieu of scones with clotted cream, her practiced monologue turns in her mouth, the words repeating until they are the only ones she knows.

She hides in her chambers and waves off the lady’s maid who knocks at her door, opting to dress and ready herself alone. It is best that she busies her hands. Beginning to unwind her hair from its plait, she goes still at the memory of Anthony’s warm fingertips burrowed in the coiled curls. It feels a shame to shed such a souvenir so soon. She will keep the braid, she decides, opting to twist it into a bun at the back of her head, tucking a few stray pieces until her face is framed by a halo of loose tendrils. It is less ornate than the usual styles Anna gives her, but it feels right. Certainly, it is the rational choice—she can think more clearly without a thousand pins digging into her skull.

Once her lilac day dress is buttoned and her thoughts are collected, Kate braves the descent down the staircase. Mary, Edwina, and Lady Danbury await her arrival in the dayroom and beckon her to join. Kate tenses as she takes a seat in a solitary chair and looks to her sister for support. Edwina, for her part, avoids Kate’s eyes. She twists the betrothal ring on her hand around and around and back again, as if winding and unwinding a clock. So, Kate deduces, she has not told them.

Kate clears her throat. “Edwina and I spoke last night.” Her gaze flits to her sister again, who finally looks at her. “This engagement to Lord Bridgerton must be ended. Today.”

The ensuing conversation goes as well as one could expect. Edwina remains quiet; nodding at all the right moments and only speaking when absolutely necessary. Kate recites her script carefully, explaining that her sister found the viscount’s behavior with the Sheffields unsuitable, exposing his true nature of which her elder sister had warned, and thus led to her desire to dissolve the union.

Mary, through it all, barely looks at Kate. She has hardly looked at her, much less spoken to her since the night before. Now, though, Mary’s eyes shift to her younger daughter, warm and soft, edges crinkled with confusion. “Edwina, is this truly what you want? I thought... I thought perhaps there was some affection between you and Lord Bridgerton? This can be forgiven, I am sure,” her eyes dart to Kate, who flinches at the accusation that ebbs beneath her words. “If you wish to marry him, we can see to it.”

Edwina sighs, still fiddling with the ring. “I thought there might be,” her voice is a bit wobbly, but she nods and looks at her mother squarely. “But Kate has helped me see the truth, beyond his poor comportment at dinner. He cannot offer me what I want; what I deserve. He does not seek love in his marriage. That is reason enough.”

Mary swallows. After a long, considering moment, she nods in acceptance. A lack of love is certainly reason enough.

Edwina reaches for her sister’s arm and turns to her, silent and a bit despondent as she slides the ring from her fourth finger and drops it in Kate’s outstretched hand, the band still warm from her skin. Kate turns the delicate piece in her palm. It is lighter than she expected. For what ought to seem like a shackle, it is beautiful, nearly weightless. Still, it feels stolen. Even though it has been promised to her mere hours ago, it is not entirely hers. She presses the ring into her fist and her stomach twists at the images flashing in her mind: Lord Bridgerton on one knee outside their carriage at Aubrey Hall, Kate a ghost in his presence as he proposes to her sister. The pearls brand her palm.

As Kate contemplates the weight of the ring, Lady Danbury’s eyes burn holes into her scalp and she twitches under the dowager’s scrutiny. Despite the intensity of her examination, the elder woman has not uttered a word throughout the entirety of Kate’s careful explanation of the previous evening’s events. Only occasionally did she arch an eyebrow, sprinkling a skeptical “mhm,” or a derisive “hmph,” every so often. Now, she finally speaks.

“I suspect there is more to this story, which we will not be privy to without the viscount present. Am I correct in that assumption?”

“Perhaps.” Kate twists her hands in her lap and looks at the dowager. “The three of us will be expected at Bridgerton House this afternoon.”

“I might ask how you know that we are expected by the Bridgertons, seeing as we have received no invitation,” Danbury raises an eyebrow, “but that seems a pointless question.” Edwina glances at her sister as though attempting to straighten a crooked puzzle piece. Danbury raises her cane and stands from her spot on the settee next to Mary. “Come now, let us not lose any daylight, Miss Sharma. We have a wedding to unplan.”

___

The grandfather clock in the corner of the Bridgerton House dayroom measures the seconds quite loudly in Kate’s opinion. The enormous home, which she had expected to be loud and full of the laughter that filled the rooms of Aubrey Hall, is uncomfortably quiet. While not as sprawling as their country house, the mansion is still massive. She is not blind to the Bridgertons’ wealth, but the luxury of their simplest rooms still takes her by surprise. Knowing that this would soon become her home only multiplies her astonishment. 

Perched nervously on the edge of the couch, Kate flits her eyes between the women in the room: Lady Danbury, Lady Bridgerton, Mary. Her eyes shift to the clock again. It has been mere minutes, but time appears to move much slower this morning. Will her days always feel so protracted? Will she forever feel out of place in this house? The door opens suddenly and Anthony enters, silencing any anxious thoughts of her future.

He glances at the ladies, offering brief greetings as he enters, and halts when his gaze falls upon Kate. Her heart pounds and she holds her breath as their eyes meet, feeling quite exposed. She is certain her pulse is louder than the ticking that fills the room.

“Ahem.” Lady Danbury purses her lips and Anthony nods at Kate curtly in silent greeting.

He takes a seat at the opposite end of the settee. Though they keep a respectable distance, her body reacts as of he is pressed against her side, her skin buzzing at the sight of the muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Anthony, why did you call us in here?" Lady Bridgerton's tone is gentle but her words are plain. "The Sharmas appear on our doorstep without your betrothed and without invitation. Clearly it is quite serious.” She eyes the guests in the room warily. “Is this about the Sheffields? What happened last evening was inexcusable. You would be well within your rights to—”

“I will not be marrying Miss Edwina,” he interrupts.

She blinks. “Does Miss Edwina know that?”

“Yes, this should be no great surprise to her.” Anthony turns to Kate for confirmation and she nods fervently.

Violet’s brow furrows, trying to piece together the time Anthony may have had to speak with Miss Edwina. “When was this decided?” 

“Last night?” He scratches at his chin. “Or perhaps this morning. Somewhere in between, it became quite clear.”

“Well then,” she says slowly, “this should be good news.” She thinks of Anthony’s edginess and unrest since the beginning of his engagement. “There will be talk, of course, certainly after last night. But we will plot the best path forward and any scandal shall fade for us all in due time. Perhaps you will find your viscountess next season.”

Anthony begins to rub circles against his temples and Kate grips the sofa’s arm, frozen. “There is more, I’m afraid.”

Mary tilts her head, bewildered. Her daughters have not told her any more than this.

Anthony pauses his attempts to stave off a headache and lets out a grunt, moving toward the bar cart. In a few swift moves, he uncorks the decanter and pours a finger of whiskey.

“It is a little early for a drink, darling,” Violet says, a touch apprehensive.

Anthony does not sip from the glass and instead hands it to his mother. “You will want this.” He deposits the bottle on the center table besides the ladies’ untouched teacups, then addresses the group. “I am going to have my viscountess this season. I will be marrying the elder Miss Sharma.”

Mary nearly shouts, covering her mouth to stifle the sound. Agatha sucks her teeth and thumps her cane against the carpet. Violet, on the other hand, is quite overjoyed.

“Oh, Anthony!” Her eyes flash with delight and she clasps her hands to her chest. “Have you told her of your feelings? When did you propose?” She looks at Kate, still paralyzed on the couch and jolts. “Have you proposed?”

“It is not like that,” he halts her avalanche of questions. “We share no feelings—not the kind to which you are referring. And I have not proposed, exactly, but the matter is settled between us.”

Mary shakes her head, muttering Unbelievable, and Danbury watches as Violet’s stands, her face morphing into a glower.

“What did you do, Anthony?” Violet demands. The memory of the night before returns to her, of Miss Sharma asking for a word alone with her son. Were they left unchaperoned? How had she not noticed?

“What? I have done nothing!”

Mary faces him, eyes blazing. At her withering glare, Anthony feels as though he should be read his last rites. “Have you compromised her virtue?”

“Not in the slightest,” he grinds out. Dreaming does not make it so.

Mary ignores him and looks to Kate, her anger at her daughter’s scheme abandoned. “Has he done something to you Kate, did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Of course not, no.” Her voice is soft but it is certain.

Violet looks between the pair now. “Surely, then, you can provide some explanation for the end of one engagement and the beginning of another overnight? And sisters, Anthony, truly.” She shakes her head, imagining Daphne and Eloise or Francesca similarly entangled. “Did you ask them to trade the betrothal ring over the breakfast table?” 

Anthony levels her with an exasperated glare and ignores the question. She grabs the abandoned whiskey glass from the table and Danbury follows her lead, pouring from the decanter into two teacups, handing one to Mary.

“Lord in heaven.” Violet swallows the whiskey and presses the tumbler to her forehead wearily. “So then,” she sighs, “tell us.”

Anthony and Kate take turns delivering an abridged version of the story: of Kate’s plea to let Edwina end the engagement with her dignity restored, of their marriage erasing the issue of scandal, and, most unfortunately, the Sheffields’ role in the story they must spread to the ton.

“Surely there is a more reasonable solution than roping our family into another marriage plot?” Violet’s voice is marked with disbelief. “Especially after the last deception with the Sheffields.” Her words are edged with anger for her oldest friend, but Anthony understands the implication toward Kate all the same.

“Do not,” he jabs a finger in her direction, “make accusations of Miss Sharma. If anyone was deceived it was she. She was foolish in her trust of them—they are vile creatures—but to label her a schemer is entirely untrue.”

Violet leans in her seat, taken aback at the vehemence of his defense of the woman.

Anthony drops his hand, but his countenance remains fiery. “If we did not have this house, these estates, this money… If I could not promise my sisters the futures they deserve, I would do whatever it takes to see to their happiness. Just the same as Kate has done.”

His mother inhales and appraises him slowly, nodding. “So now it is Kate.”

Lady Danbury turns to her ward. “How long has this game been afoot, child?”

“It has been no game. I promise you, I take no joy in this. If anything, these weeks have been agony. Mary,” she looks to the woman who has barely met her eye all day, “you must know that everything I do is for you and Edwina.”

“I am so very disappointed in you, Kate.” Her voice is soft, but the words cut all the same. “How could you write to my parents and ask this of them? After everything they have done to me and said to you, why would you anchor Edwina’s future to these people? I want nothing to do with them. And now this." She looks between her daughter and the viscount. "You will break your sister’s heart.”

“I am protecting her heart,” Kate counters fiercely. “She and Lord Bridgerton are not suited, that has been clear from the start. I am sorry that I betrayed your trust, but I had no other options. When Appa died, we lost you too, in a way. I shouldered every burden I could because I feared you would disappear entirely. I balanced the ledgers; I knew how low our funds were and they only dwindled by the day. I was desperate.” The words tumble out now, angry and wounded. She cannot be punished for this sacrifice any longer. “I wrote to the Sheffields three months after Appa died.” Mary gasps softly. “I pleaded for their support, even a monthly allowance. Do you know what they said?” She squeezes her eyes shut. “They said they would not help until Edwina was of age. They told me I ought to use my dowry to provide for us until then. I would be too old to debut in society by the time of her season anyway.”

“Kate, no.” Mary’s eyes water. Anthony falls back to his seat on the couch and balls his hands into fists. His skin prickles with fury at the realization that her decision not to marry was yet another forfeiture of her future, rather than a choice made freely.

Kate shrugs lightly and her mouth twists into a sad smile, belying her pain. “Yes, Mary. The last of it paid for our passage here.”

She was naive back then, barely Edwina’s age, and her desperation blinded her to the Sheffields’ treachery. They cast out their own child, ignored Kate's existence, and did not attempt to lift a finger when Milan Sharma died. Kate was well aware that she mattered little to these people, whose letters were laced with disdain for anyone bearing the name Sharma. She knew they would gladly do the same to her as they had to Mary, but she was foolish enough to believe they would not do the same to Edwina. For Edwina was born faultless. She is perfect and unblemished and incomparably special. Even the Sheffields could see that, she had thought.

So Kate is embarrassed and angry, yes. But she bears no regret for her choices. “I did what I had to," she says evenly, head lifted to face the small audience before her. "I would do it again to grant my family their security." She looks to Mary now, voice wavering. "I am so sorry for lying. But that is all I can be sorry for.”

“Oh, darling.” Mary stands trepidatiously, then wraps her daughter in a tight embrace. “I have failed you," she whispers fiercely against Kate's ear. "Both of you girls. I am so very, very sorry. I never knew.”

Her apology does not remove the years of hurt and worry that Kate had soldiered through alone. It does not undo the loss of her dowry or her youth, as she grew into the head of a household while grieving immeasurable loss. But it is a beginning.

After a long minute moment of more hushed apologies, Mary leans back, brushing a hand over Kate’s face. “You do not have to do this. If you do not wish to. I will work, we can seek employment here or in India. I do not want you to make another choice that is not your own.”

“I have chosen this freely,” Kate promises, shaking her head. “It will be no burden to marry Anthony.”

His hands unfurl at the sound of his name on her tongue, still a novelty, and especially in the presence of company. He reaches for her fingers on impulse, sliding his palm across the cushions and looping his pinky with hers. Just the small press of her finger against him is a salve, quelling the angry itch that has spread over his skin. He knows she already told him she was sure of her decision, but it is an odd comfort to hear her repeat the vow again without hesitation. Perhaps she will not be as miserable by his side as he once thought.

“Alright then,” Mary retreats to her chair. “If this is so, then why did you not tell me this morning with Edwina? Why do you not wear the ring now?”

Kate sighs and grasps for Anthony’s hand, entwining their fingers further. “Edwina does not know. She cannot know.”

Lady Bridgerton laughs a little, incredulous, and Lady Danbury rolls her eyes.

“You cannot be serious,” Mary says, “after everything we have just discussed. Deception is not the way.”

“Your sister has a right to know,” Danbury agrees. “Until this morning, this was her marriage which you are now using to secure her a new future.”

“That is precisely why I cannot tell her. She will either hate me because she still holds some misplaced affection for Anthony, or she will marry the first man who is kind enough to accept her without a dowry to stop me from making this decision. Edwina deserves a chance to find love without such a burden, with whomever that may be.”

“Kate—” Mary starts.

“Please,” she continues, “Only for a few weeks. So she might restore her heart and her reputation among the ton. We will talk to the queen to end their betrothal and petition for our own, Edwina will return to society, and once she is well enough, we shall announce our engagement.” 

Anthony looks at her puzzled and a bit disappointed. Weeks? This particular timeline was not discussed in their grand plan this morning. Still, he agrees. If only to avoid a great debate, he tells himself.

“It is decided then.” He squeezes her fingers in solidarity. “We shall petition the queen at once, ask for her blessing, and spread the story that the Sheffields,” he voice becomes icy, “have been a great support to Miss Edwina. All will be well.” He smiles tightly.

As the matriarchs stand to bid their farewells, Anthony tips his head to Kate’s, his breath brushing the shell of her ear. “Could you spare a moment?” She nods and he rises, clearing his throat. “Miss Sharma and I will be having a quick word in my study.”

Lady Danbury looks at him, unamused. “Door. Open.” 

___

Anthony closes the door to the study.

“Shouldn’t we…” Kate gestures to the door with her free hand. 

Anthony turns, her left hand still enclosed in his right. “What will they do,” he asks drily, “force us to marry?” 

Kate exhales softly, torn between admonishing him for his flippancy and laughing at the absurdity of the situation. His face turns serious.

“I am sorry. For much of what was said there. My mother, yours, even Danbury, it was… unfair to you.”

“Much of life is unfair, my lord,” she says airily.

“Do not make light,” he responds, frustrated. “You deserved none of it, Kate. Honestly, it is beyond aggravating that they cannot see beyond some omissions to appreciate everything you have done. It is,” he runs a hand through his hair, choosing to cease his rant before he says something unkind. In truth, he would gladly cut down the three women with his words until they were thoroughly chastised. If Lady Danbury or Mary would like to pass judgment, then perhaps they should have actually done something, rather than idle while Kate carried their family. His mother had no room to judge her either, not when she had acted much like Mary in the face of her grief, from the sound of things.

“Thank you.” Kate says a bit woodenly, unused to this kind of advocacy. She has rarely had an ally, much less a defender.

“I mean it.” He runs his thumb absentmindedly over her knuckle where a ring should rest. “I never knew that you—" He stops himself. "What you have given up for your sister is immeasurable.”

“It will be measured by her joy in the years she spends married to someone she loves. I have not doubted my decision for a minute.”

“And you?” His brow creases, searching her face for an answer. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Once upon a time,” her breath hitches as he tugs her closer. “When I was younger, and my father was not…” His fingers dip past her palm and skim her wrist where her pulse flutters. “Every girl has dreams of her future. Even the obstinate, stubborn, disagreeable ones.” She smirks.

“Have you dreamed since then?” His question comes out a whisper and she shudders, returning to fantasies of his arms against her back, her hands in his hair. 

“Sometimes.”

“Of what?” Anthony asks wolfishly.

“Irrelevant.” 

He chuckles and she heaves a harsh exhale, breath fanning against his lips.

“Do you truly expect us to hide this from your sister—from the ton—much longer? I meant what I said last night, Kate, you consume me. And I know this reaction to one another,” his free hand skates up her arm, raising goosebumps in its wake, “is mutual. Regardless of how you feel about me, this fact is unwavering.” He knows she may detest him, disagree with him on nearly everything, and likely will resent him for his treatment of her sister for the rest of her days. But this pull between them is magnetic, unstoppable, unignorable.

“It is beyond logic,” she shakes her head to clear the fog. Despite herself, Kate’s right hand reaches for the edge of his jacket, running the material between her fingers. She yearns to nudge her hand below the wool and press her palm to his chest again, to feel if their hearts still beat in tandem like the day she was stung.

“And now that you are to be my wife,” he thumbs at her ring finger again, “it is all I can think about.” Imaginings of their bodies entwined swim through his head now: Kate, astride above him, her hands grasping at his hair as he tastes the deepest parts of her. After she spoke his name this morning, he now has the desire to hear her shout it.

Kate's eyes slide closed at this and she presses her face against his shoulder, then drags her nose to his neck. He is intoxicating. “I—”

“Lord Bridgerton!”

Kate yelps and jumps away from Anthony, her words forgotten. She looks toward the door. Lady Danbury’s voice, though muffled, is clearly rancorous.

“Lord Bridgerton, open this door at once.”

Anthony huffs a sigh and looks to Kate, their brief spell broken. “One moment, Lady Danbury, we are just finishing our conversation,” he calls out with manufactured brightness.

He moves toward the door but Kate stops him, still grasping his hand. “Wait.” She reaches into a small slit in the skirt of her dress. “Your ring. I will not be needing it for a while. You should have it back.”

“No,” he curls her fingers closed, the ring now tucked in their closed fists. “Keep it. It will be safe with you. Even if you do not wear it, it’s yours.” He lifts their hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to her fingers.

A cane rattles against the study door. “Lord Bridgerton, I am not above lockpicking.”

Anthony drops Kate’s hand and crosses the short distance to the door, pulling it open to find Danbury mid-swing. “It has been unlocked this entire time, Lady Danbury,” he says easily.

“Hmph.” Lady Danbury grunts at him. “We must be going.”

Anthony steps aside, presenting Kate to the dowager. “Miss Sharma for you, with nary a hair out of place.” Danbury scrutinizes her appearance thoroughly, humming when she decides the young lady passes muster.

“So you are a gentleman for once.”

“Indeed, I always am.”

The two women toss him wry looks at this and allow him to escort them to their carriage. “Until next time, Lady Danbury. Miss Sharma, allow me.” He offers a hand to guide her into the coach.

If Anthony’s hand lingers too long or flexes at the young lady’s touch, Lady Danbury makes no comment. And if Kate presses hand to her mouth, skimming her knuckles against her mouth as they depart, she does not acknowledge that either.

Chapter Text

“So there is to be no wedding?” Queen Charlotte pouts.

“I am afraid so, ma’am.”

Anthony has said as much at least ten times by this point. Kate and Edwina, too. There are only so many ways one can say such a thing, but still the queen remains persistent in her questioning. He wonders if she is simply incredulous or if she intends to wear down his resolve enough to make him change his mind. Unfortunately for her, he would sooner stand blindfolded on the racing track and dodge horses than stand beside Miss Edwina at the altar.

“Well then,” she sighs, perhaps finally accepting the truth of the matter. “This is quite the disappointment. I was supposed to have peacocks.” She frowns.

Anthony fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course her devastation was for the great loss of spectacle, rather than a love match.

“That is quite a shame,” Edwina says, her words measured and syrupy, “but I do believe it is for the best. Lord Bridgerton and I will remain friends, of course, but my sister and grandparents have helped us see that we are not suited. I am so grateful for their guidance.”

“Ah, the Sheffields, yes, those dreadful people.” The queen waves a hand, then looks at Lady Mary. “Apologies if I offend, but I doubt I do. I had thought you had little association with them after your season. They said as much at every ball and musicale and garden party after you left our shores.” She hums a little, nose wrinkling at the recollection. “I do not entirely fault them for their ire, as I felt my pride was quite insulted as well.”

Kate sucks in a breath at this and winces, clutching her teacup. Perhaps she has underestimated the queen’s embarrassment, still simmering after all these years.

“But,” she continues, “their squawking became so tiresome. Truly, every event without ceasing, they would rail on about it. Even after they overcame the scandal, I left them off every invitation just so I could have a sip of sherry in peace.” Her eyes widen dramatically for emphasis. “Those parents of yours are particularly gifted at sucking the air from a room, do you not agree?”

Mary bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and answers evenly. “They can be quite single-minded.”

“Hmph, yes,” Charlotte agrees, “I am not surprised they haven’t changed in that regard, even after eighteen years. Why then, did you return to them? And heed their guidance, as you put it, this time around?”

Kate jumps in now, her words rehearsed and eager. “It was I, actually, who began our correspondence.” She attempts to paint the veneer of a fond smile, as though replaying a tender memory and not one of the more devastating moments of her life. “They were so thrilled to know Edwina wished to debut in London and invited us to visit with them. Lady Sheffield has been keen to meet her beloved granddaughter,” she gestures to her sister beside her and sets down the teacup. “And Lord Sheffield even offered to provide her dowry.”

“Has he now?” The queen’s eyes glitter.

“Oh, yes.” It is not entirely a lie; he did promise it, at one point in time, with a few caveats. If she happens to omit its provisos or recent revocation to fit the required narrative, it is no a crime. “They have been so very generous and our reconciliation has been most joyous.”

Anthony snorts, then coughs, a poor attempt to veil the sound. She has half a mind to dig her heel into his boot. Even without words he manages to contradict her.

The queen turns her attention to the viscount now. “It seems you feel another way on the matter?"

Before he can make a snide dig at her family’s purported saviors, Kate cuts in. “I believe Lord Bridgerton did not take kindly to the Sheffields' protests to the marriage at first. But he has since seen the logic in their feelings.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, they quite agreed with my assessment of the match.”

“And what was that, Miss Sharma?”

“Over the course of my acquaintance with Lord Bridgerton, I have found that he is a very… particular person,” she says carefully. “A charming person, certainly, but he and my sister are not well-matched in the truest meaning of the word. In their roles, yes, they are quite finely paired, but I do not believe they would find happiness in a marriage. They are far too different.”

"Different in what manner?"

"After we became better acquainted at Aubrey Hall, I observed that Lord Bridgerton could be quite stern, even a bit self-serious when it came to his duties. He was stubborn, too; set in his ways, unlike our dear Edwina, who is so agreeable. I thought perhaps these things were a side effect of their ages, as the gap between them is not insignificant, but I believe they are simply cut from different cloths. There is no use attempting to alter their fabrics.”

Anthony bristles. In a single breath she has managed to call him ill-humored, imply he is old, and insinuate that his irascible demeanor is simply a pre-existing defect.

“Would you not agree, sister?” Kate asks sweetly.

“Oh, yes,” Edwina nods, “Lord Bridgerton was a perfect gentleman, but after Kate shared her concerns with me, I brought them to the Sheffields, my beloved grandparents.”

“That is when they asked to meet the man betrothed to their granddaughter, you see. While there were no great dramatics, they made it clear, with much respect for Lord Bridgerton, that they did not find him suited for Edwina and counseled her to follow her heart.”

“And where does your heart lead you now?” Charlotte tilts her head curiously.

“I am not so sure. I would like to give myself time,” Edwina says slowly, thinking of what comes next for the first time since she handed her sister the Bridgerton ring. “Eventually, I shall hope it leads me to a gentleman who is kind. Who is noble and sure of his duties, but perhaps not too serious. Who will listen to me and laugh with me. I think he should like poetry too.”

The queen’s eyes sparkle and she leans forward conspiratorially. “Then we must have a ball. Your re-introduction to all such gentlemen of the ton. I will host it here at the palace.” She smiles, positively giddy. “Oh! And we will have the peacocks.”

___

As the Sharmas make their exit from the sitting room, Anthony lingers.

“Your majesty, I hoped I might have a private audience with you.”

She looks at him, intrigue and a dash of befuddlement marking her features. “Is there more to this story you wish to tell me, Lord Bridgerton?”

“Yes, if I may.” She nods, clearly enthused. “Nothing salacious,” he adds quickly, noting her excitement. She deflates at this.

“Go on with it, then.”

“Right. So.” He clears his throat and his cravat is suddenly much too tight. “Miss Sharma and I are to be wed.”

“But you just ended your engagement?”

“The elder Miss Sharma,” he clarifies.

“Hah!” The queen covers her mouth with a gloved hand, strangling the sound. The mirth in her eyes dies quickly. “You are quite serious.”

“Indeed.”

“First you came here, betrothed to my diamond, claiming a love match. Today you return spinning a tale of an engagement with no true affection, and now are declaring marriage to the sister.” She clicks her tongue. “Lord Bridgerton, your attentions have shifted so rapidly I fear they may change again with the next breeze. What next? Shall you be courting the young ladies’ mother next time we speak?”

Anthony shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Your majesty, I know the nature of the situation is unusual, but I assure you, I am singular in my intentions. Miss Sharma and I would like to ask for your blessing.”

“If Miss Sharma would like my blessing, then why is she not in this room?”

“I am afraid Miss Edwina is still not aware. Miss Sharma could not join me here without raising questions. It is a delicate matter."

Her eyes narrow. “Explain yourself.”

“At the start of this season, I was determined to find a wife,” he begins. “I am not getting any younger; I will need a viscountess if I am to carry out my duty and continue the Bridgerton name. The young ladies I had considered so far were often lacking in meaningful talents, which would be required for a viscountess. When Miss Edwina was named the incomparable, I knew that she would be fit for the role. My search ended with her.” Anthony nudges a finger beneath his cravat. “But Miss Sharma was against my pursuit of her sister.” 

Anthony weaves a careful patchwork of the broader details of the courtship, forming a tapestry of half-truths. He omits his more improper encounters with Kate, excluding details like the curve of her clavicle beneath his fingertips and the clarity of her laughter as he ruins his boots trudging through mud. Instead of these things, he simply says that Miss Sharma—and the Sheffields—made it apparent that marriage meant two different things to himself and her sister.

“And she was quite right,” he admits. “My role as Viscount Bridgerton comes before all else. My marriage is only an extension of the role, rather than an act born of great feeling or a desire for companionship. It would be unkind to demand Miss Edwina remain in an arrangement that would not provide the feeling she deserves.”

“Then you do not love the elder Miss Sharma either. Does she not deserve some feeling as well?” Her question cuts and he feels like an utter cad.

“With respect, it is not about what is deserved or desired, it is about what is demanded.” He searches for the words to explain the predicament diplomatically. “Miss Sharma and I understand one another. She is closer in my years than her sister. She is experienced in managing a family and an estate, however small, for nearly as long as I have. We have both molded our sister into your diamonds.” He looks up at the queen, unwavering now, more resolute with every word. “Our roles, they align. I, as the head of my family, she, as the head of hers. Neither were by our own choice and only the result of great loss. We are yoked to each other in those respects. We do not have the luxury of choice, we cannot escape our roles. But married, we may face these difficulties together.” 

Anthony knows there is more to this. That the dreams of Kate's body entwined with his still continue and his breathlessness in her presence defies the sterility of his speech. But hearing his thoughts out loud, he feels foolish for not seeing the practicality in their arrangement sooner.

Queen Charlotte tuts. “I see. How pragmatic of you.” Her voice drips with boredom. “You know, I am not blind. She is quite beautiful. Striking, one might say. Even a reformed rake might notice. Might even be tempted to seduce a spinster and hope he will not be caught and found in need of a special license.” The queen’s tone is nonchalant, but the accusation is clear.

“I have not jeopardized Miss Sharma’s virtue,” he counters hotly. “We require no special license.”

“Oh, good. I’m afraid I am at my limit of dispensing special licenses to Bridgertons. I will permit you this marriage,” Anthony breathes a sigh of relief, “once you have proven yourselves.” 

He tenses again. Can anything ever go according to plan?

“I assume you can maintain decorum with Miss Sharma through the rest of your courtship, yes? We would not want the rumor mill to run amok and tarnish my diamond or her sister.” She bares her teeth to the viscount, a facsimile of a friendly smile.

“Of course, ma’am,” Anthony nods, chastened. “I am a gentleman.”

“Very well, then. I will be watching you, Lord Bridgerton.”
___

Four days later, Kate finds herself restless, buzzing throughout Danbury House like an angry hornet in a disrupted nest. At Agatha’s orders, Kate and Edwina have not been permitted to leave the home until the ball, lest a passerby see Edwina promenade sans engagement ring. Even the stablehands have been forbidden from tacking up a horse for Kate’s morning rides. If rumor of a clandestine meeting in Hyde Park with a certain viscount were to spread, Danbury warned, it could spell the end of their plan.

Momentarily, Kate had considered sending coded a note to Bridgerton House, just so she might ask Anthony whether they were betrothed in the eyes of the queen or not. Ultimately she casts the notion aside—the risk of a footman with loose lips is too great. So Kate stays shut in, pacing the halls while her sister reads and embroiders and debates hairstyles with their mother for her second debut. Tonight, word of the broken engagement will spread once Edwina arrives at the palace without a fiancée in Viscount Bridgerton. Whether Kate herself will arrive in the same condition remains to be seen.

Pulling on her glove, Kate takes an appraising look in the mirror. Her dress is the purple of a summer iris, layered with lace and studded with small crystals that shimmer in the waning sunlight. It compliments her complexion rather wonderfully. Lady Danbury’s emerald tiara and necklace glitter with less subtlety, but equal elegance. In this moment, she thinks she could pass for a viscountess, if only every stitch of her ensemble were not borrowed. At this thought, Kate’s eyes dart to her dressing table and the pervasive, gnawing apprehension of the past four days is quickly replaced with sorrow, swift and choking as a kick to the chest.

It is buried in the depths of the table’s drawer. As she lays in bed at night, chasing sleep that never comes, she can see the ring through the grain of the cherry wood and hear it rattling in its hiding place. It is impossible, maddening, a trick of the mind. And still, she is haunted by the piece, rolling the pearls around in her hand every night, watching as they glow incandescent in the moonlight.

She walks toward the table and opens the drawer, her stomach turning when her fingers find it. Days ago when Anthony told her the ring was hers to hold, she attempted to slip it on her finger, to imagine a life with the band branding her skin. She nearly vomited. His intention was kind and earnest and she knows she should care little as she has no claim on his heart, but she cannot bear the thought of wearing the piece again.

The last time it was on her hand, Anthony told her that nothing had passed between them, that the thought of a marriage to her was unthinkable. Not to mention, she had barely been able to remove the piece last she had worn it. The thought of the ring stuck on her hand for eternity, a cruel reminder of his casual rejection rather than a symbol of any true adoration or fidelity, is a suffocating thought. Her face burns with shame at the memory of Anthony kneeling before her sister with that ring, as she stood cast aside, a ghost.

Hot tears prick at her eyes and she blots them quickly. She will not cry over this. She will not fall to pieces over a diamond when she is not one.

Drawing a steadying breath, Kate pulls a slim velvet pouch from the depths of her dressing table drawer. Her amma’s bangles, now her own. Perhaps her most cherished possessions. Tonight, she will wear them, a reminder of something that is hers alone.
___

A march down the aisle may very well be the longest walk any young lady or gentleman ever takes. It is no surprise, then, that feet might tire, trip, or indeed grow cold entirely. Even diamonds and viscounts, it seems, are susceptible to such an ailment. An official explanation for these abandoned nuptials remains to be supplied. Perhaps if neither party’s toes are too trodden tonight, we shall observe the two dancing around the truth. Fear not if you received no invitation to St James, gentle reader, for my eyes are everywhere.

Whistledown breaks news of the failed engagement first.

The ball’s start is only a few hours away, but Anthony is irritated nonetheless when Eloise bursts into his study, scandal sheet in hand. They had outmaneuvered the gossiper for the better part of a week and avoided all risk of exposing the engagement’s end before the queen could announce it. The blasted chit would be the death of him. The report is vague, blessedly. Speculative at worst, more curious than anything, but it could ultimately become incendiary.

As Anthony’s carriage winds its way through the city, he plots the various ways to kill an author with one’s own quill. When he runs out of options, his thoughts eventually wander to Kate, once the subject of fury, now occupying his mind with concern. Has she read the latest Whistledown? Does she know the queen might support their marriage? How many times will she dance with him tonight?

The carriage rolls to a stop, halting his swirl of questions. He walks through the gardens, then the palace halls, both already full of partygoers trading hushed laughter and whispering as he passes. Fashionably late thanks to the latest Whistledown issue, Anthony quickens his steps, craning his neck in search of Kate as he enters the mouth of the gilded ballroom.

“Lord Bridgerton,” a voice stops him. He turns, chagrined, and dips into a deep bow.

“Your majesty.”

“Looking for someone?” Her powder blue wig, so pale it is almost white, sways as she leans in, and the rubies around her neck wink at him mockingly. “Your fiancée, perchance? Oh, but which one…” The queen lifts a brow as she sips from her glass of port.

Anthony’s jaw clicks in irritation as he searches for a response that will not have him hanged for treason. “I am only observing the party, ma’am. And looking for you, of course, to thank you for hosting us this evening.”

She hums, not buying a word of it. “How thoughtful and entirely out of character of you. Did you happen to see the new Whistledown, by chance?”

“I did.” He tenses anew at the reminder. “I am sorry that you were not able to announce Miss Edwina’s second debut yourself this evening.”

“Oh, it is no great loss.” She waves a hand. “Whistledown often appears to be a half-step ahead, but she does not know everything. I still have enough surprises for the evening.” Her mouth ticks up at some secret victory. “Enjoy the ball, Viscount Bridgerton. And remember: best behavior.”

Anthony bows once more and turns back to the dance floor. As the violinist announces a minuet, his eyes find her. For the briefest of moments, he thinks that the candelabras lining the room go dim and the chatter surrounding him has quieted. Even at this great distance, he swears he can smell her, clean and sweet and something warm. His feet carry him toward her and he drinks her in: body draped in purple, face framed by a few soft curls, her neck dripping with emeralds. She looks every bit as regal as the night she cut him down to size at the conservatory ball, but shines with the same easy beauty she radiated on the pall mall field. How she was not considered a diamond is beyond him, ]though he knows he once dismissed her as quickly as the rest of the ton.

Clearly, Thomas Dorset has noticed the same. Anthony’s face sets in a frown as the doctor tips his head toward Kate, a good-natured laugh escaping her lips. He knows that he should not interrupt them, should not cause a scene so shortly after his dip with Dorset in the Serpentine. He should search for a glass of champagne. He should keep his distance and shake a few hands with the lords he recognizes from Parliament.

“Miss Sharma.” Anthony steps between the pair and bows, bumping the other man into his periphery. Kate’s smile gain a hard edge.

“Lord Bridgerton.” She does not bother to curtsy. “Mister Dorset and I were just discussing your swim in the Serpentine. Should you like to go for another in her majesty’s fountain?”

He ignores the comment and turns to her companion. “Apologies, Dorset, I did not see you there.” Tom snorts and Kate barely suppresses a roll of her eyes.

“No apology necessary, Bridgerton,” Tom says, regaining his space by Kate’s side. “I cannot condemn anyone distracted by Miss Sharma this evening.” He smiles winningly as Kate blushes and Anthony would quite like to knock his teeth out.

“Miss Sharma,” Anthony tries again. “Would you have this next dance with me?” She hesitates. “We have much to catch up on.” Kate twists the bracelet on her wrist, then dips her head, allowing him to lead her to the floor.

The first strains of an accordion play and Anthony guides her into his arms, his hands trailing from palm, to wrist, to shoulder. “You are not wearing a dance card tonight,” he observes.

“Seems a waste of parchment when I have never used one.” She says it lightly but Anthony still flinches at the thought of Kate’s card, empty and ignored.

“At the next ball, then. I will need to reserve a dance with you and I do not wish to duel with Dorset for it.” She laughs, but offers no comment. “These are quite beautiful,” he says, nodding to her bracelets.

Kate's face softens and she finally looks at him, truly, for the first time that evening. “They were my amma’s. My first mother.” His breath catches and she leads their next step, traveling in a chassé.

“What was her name?” 

“Shivani.” She has not spoken her amma’s name since she set foot on English soil. Saying it now feels like uttering a prayer, invoking her spirit in the halls of St James. “No one here has asked.”

Anthony nods, remembering the Sheffields’ cruel snub. “Shivani,” he repeats. “It is a beautiful name.” He can see a little girl bearing the same name, a compact version of Kate, running the grounds of Aubrey Hall. He clears his throat as the strings pluck a bittersweet tune. “And your father?”

She smiles. “Milan.” She laughs a little suddenly. 

“What?”

“I think he would have liked you less than I did.” Her smile is mischievous, dazzling, and he cannot even feign offense as she says it with such little malice.

Anthony barks a laugh. “I would not fault him for it,” he admits. “I would not wish for my daughter to marry a man like myself either.”

Kate takes a deep breath, drawing nearer in his arms. “So…”

“The queen will grant us a marriage,” he says softly enough for only Kate to hear. “Provided we maintain decorum and cause no scandal.”

Kate slackens in his embrace, relieved, then tips a brow. “I believe there is only one of us who will need reminders to maintain decorum.”

Anthony whips his head around, squinting as he catalogues the faces surrounding them. “Who among us might that be?”

Kate lifts her hand from his shoulder to swat him lightly. “There is only one of us who has interrupted polite conversation with a complete lack of civility or propriety.” He follows her eyeline to Dorset, who waves to her with a lemonade in hand at the edge of the dance floor. Anthony bites back a groan at the man’s open pining.

“There is nothing polite about the way he looks at you, Miss Sharma.”

“He is a friend,” she protests. “And it is much more polite than the way you look at me.” Anthony sighs irritably and tugs her body an inch closer. The lace of her dress tickles his fingertips through his gloves and her breath flutters against his chin. “Perhaps you are the reason the queen demands we perform some amount of decency.”

He smiles at this, almost cockily, Kate thinks. It is infuriating how little she is irritated by such behavior nowadays. Instead she is more focused on the constellation of moles on his chin, leading to the swath of hair that she knows is tucked beneath his starched collar and cravat. She hates that she finds him so beautiful. She hates that she finds him funny and sometimes even kind. She hates that she can never love him, will never wear his family ring without it meaning something to her. He dips her gently, a broad hand bracing her back, and she swallows at the sensation of his pinky grazing her bare spine.

“You know,” he whispers, “you did not have to list my every flaw to the queen earlier. Perhaps then she would not think I need to be watched so closely.” She shivers at the low timbre of his voice before processing his words as he pulls her upright.

“I believe you can thank yourself for your reputation, my lord,” she says somewhat tersely. “Besides, I do not believe I listed your every flaw.” She blinks widely, all false innocence. “But if you’d like, I shall be happy to provide you an exhaustive account. It should only take me a fortnight.”

“Hm.” He smiles. “I would offer you the same, but I do not wish to run London dry of ink.”

“How noble of you.”

“Was that a compliment?” He flashes a victorious grin and her pulse races.

“Lord Bridgerton, you confuse mockery for flattery.”

“You wound me,” he says, feigning affront.

“Was that a compliment?” 

The final strains of the song plays as she smiles teasingly, but he does not release her from his arms, a phantom vice pinning his feet to the floor.

“Anthony,” she whispers, nudging him gently. He lets her slip from his arms and the world feels quite empty. 

Kate steps back and begins twisting her bangle once more, avoiding his gaze. Chatter fills the room in place of the ended music. Maybe she should fetch some lemonade or seek out her sister or observe the peacocks in the gardens. Maybe she should do anything but stand here with her heart in her throat. 

The bangle clasp snaps and she gasps softly, embarrassed as it clatters to the marble floor. Perhaps possessed or on sheer instinct, Anthony lurches to the floor to retrieve it. He looks up at her on bended knee and she stumbles, the floor suddenly gone beneath her. His position below her is heady and melancholic in equal measure, as her mind flashes to his proposal to her sister, the one she thought was for her. The ring she thought was for her.

Before either can say a word, gasps and murmurs ripple through the room. Kate staggers back and snatches the bangle, worrying they have already caused a commotion. Blessedly, all heads are turned away from her and Anthony, save for Dorset, and fixed on the ballroom’s entrance. She peers around a few bodies and spots the subject of the excitement: The Sheffields.

Kate turns to Anthony, startled as the duo approaches the refreshment table. “Did you know that they would be here? Did the queen tell you?”

“No.” His hands form fists by his side. The queen’s words reverberate in his mind: I still have enough surprises for the evening. Is she testing them? Punishing them?

Kate’s mind races, reordering the steps in her plan. They were meant to call on the Sheffields another day, after the announcement of the dissolved engagement. An afternoon tea at minimum and a promenade at most; somewhere she could maintain some command of the situation, should they have another outburst. A very public ball hosted by the queen was not what she had in mind for this reunion.

As she balances her options for handling the pair while the eyes of good society look on, the queen claps her hands together, pulling focus to the front of the room.

“Everyone, your attention.” The guests move in unison, congregating before the queen’s seat. “Thank you all for attending this evening; I so enjoy a party. Even better than a party is a good surprise.”

Anthony and Kate look at each other, a silent exchange passing between them. Is she launching the Sheffields back into the ton?

“As you all no doubt know by now, my diamond is newly eligible again, and still radiant as ever.” She gestures toward Edwina, who curtseys shallowly as the crowd claps politely. “It may seem a surprise indeed, but not to me. It is a blessing that Lord Bridgerton and Miss Edwina have heeded the advice of their families and their sovereign, parting as friends.” She smiles somewhat smugly and nods to the Sheffields.

Kate can hardly believe her luck. It is a gift the queen has given her, announcing an amiable end to the engagement and acknowledging the Sheffields in one fell swoop. Anyone, Whistledown included, would be mad to contradict her majesty’s version of the story. The Sheffields, too, shall be discouraged from causing a scene after the queen has painted them with a flattering brush. It is more than Kate could have wished for.

The queen continues her speech. “It is with great pleasure that I announce one more surprise this evening, and no, it is not the fireworks or more peacocks.” She winks and the room laughs on cue. “Everyone, please help me in welcoming my nephew back to St James.”

Chapter Text

Kate thought the mamas were brazen when Lady Bridgerton announced Anthony’s intentions to marry this season at the conservatory ball. She now realizes, in the presence of a prince, that their shamelessness knows no bounds.

Following the queen’s dramatic preamble to Prince Friedrich’s entrance, a degree of mass hysteria erupts. Kate makes her way toward Edwina as a wave of high-pitched shrieks and delighted gasps ripples through the room and she spies mamas pinching their daughters’ cheeks and pushing up their breasts. Lady Cowper is the boldest among them, elbowing her way through the sea of debutantes to reach the prince with her daughter in tow.

“Your Grace.” Lady Cowper nods to Cressida, who curtseys, heavy yellow curls rolling forward on her head as she leans forward. “Surely you remember my daughter from your last season in London.”

The prince, to his credit, makes no indication that he cannot recall her face nor her name. Instead he smiles pleasantly and bows. “Of course, ma’am. It would be lovely to share another dance with you, Miss…”

“Cowper,” she responds a bit sourly, knowing full well he does not remember here at all. She covers her irritation by batting her lashes and dipping her head forward, intending to look beguiling. Unfortunately for her, the prince has already become distracted, his eyes cast over her head.

“Yes, well, we must have another dance together, Miss Cowler.” His words fade as he abandons the young lady and she huffs.

“We have not danced before,” Cressida calls after him. She sighs at his departure and mumbles, “and it is Cowper.”

Friedrich steps confidently, his smile brimming with enthusiasm this time as he reaches his destination. “Miss Sharma.” He nods to both sisters. “And Miss Edwina. It is a great pleasure to meet you both. My aunt has told me much about you.” He bows to both women, who hastily curtsy in return. The prince reaches for their gloved hands one at a time to press a chaste kiss to their silk-covered knuckles in greeting. Kate first, then Edwina.

It takes a great deal of Anthony’s willpower to not rush to Kate’s side and place a hand at her back. It is a bizarrely possessive reflex, he knows. She is not his fiancée in the eyes of the ton, they cannot expect other young ladies or gentlemen to treat their acquaintance with such deference. Even when he had a fiancée—a very public one, in fact—Anthony had not felt a similar instinct regarding Miss Edwina. It is his reactions to Kate and Kate alone that confound all reason and tempt him to abandon good propriety. 

Repeating the refrain of the queen’s words and Kate’s reminder to maintain decorum, Anthony approaches the trio with a genial bow. “Ladies,” he nods. “Your Highness, it is wonderful to see you in London again. I do hope you have been well.”

Friedrich chuckles, his laugh kind but tinged with irony. “I am quite well, Lord Bridgerton, thank you. My travels keep me well-occupied. I might ask the same of you and your sister. I imagine she and the duke are well?”

Anthony grimaces and attempts to mask his discomfort with a grin. It does not work and Kate turns her attention to him curiously. “Ah, yes,” he tugs at his waistcoat a bit awkwardly. “They recently welcomed their first child; a boy. Augie. She is… they both are quite happy.”

“Ah.” Friedrich smiles. It is a tender thing, his smile; soft, if a bit sad. The corners of his eyes crinkle and he sighs. “Children are always a blessing. I am glad to hear her life is full.”

At the prince’s words, a lock turns in Kate’s mind. He was acquainted with the Duchess in some manner. Perhaps friendship, perhaps more. She recalls reading of the prince’s attentions for the diamond last season, but did not know the extent of his pursuit. Whatever the circumstances, he was clearly quite fond.

“And what of you, Lord Bridgerton?” Friedrich gestures to the viscount. “I see you have done away with the mutton chops.”

Mutton chops? Kate scrutinizes Anthony’s face and attempts to paint a portrait of his cheeks covered by offending facial hair. Her mind conjures an image of a rather undistinguished Lord Bridgerton, with sideburns that resemble two dead possums stuck to the sides of his face. She scrunches her nose to dispel the thought.

“Yes, I prefer a clean shave these days,” Anthony responds. “I found myself far too busy and itchy to maintain them for long.”

Friedrich laughs. “I cannot fault you for that. They are still in fashion in Prussia, but the members of the French court have spent the past month demanding their removal.” He strokes his cheek and looks at Kate and Edwina with a twinkle in his eye. “I suppose I will have to hear what the English have to say.”

Edwina giggles, her cheeks gaining a rosy hue, and Kate shakes her head wryly. “I am afraid I must disappoint you. My sister and I are not English.”

“Even better,” Friedrich smiles winningly. “I shall seek your opinions to find global consensus on my grooming.”

“Very well, then,” Edwina says with mock seriousness, her eyebrows drawn as she assesses the prince’s visage. “We will counsel you with the utmost honesty.”

The young man laughs, short, loud, and earnest, drawing all eyes to the quartet. “I will hold you to that promise then, Miss Edwina. Miss Sharma,” he swings his head to Kate, surprising her. “Would you do me the honor of sharing this next dance? I see you have no card, but perhaps you might make an exception this evening.”

Edwina’s eyes widen and Kate’s cheeks are on fire at the question. She blinks silently before remembering herself and nods. “It would be an honor.”

“The honor is all mine.”

The prince clasps Kate’s hand firmly in his own and Anthony sinks his teeth so deeply into his lower lip that he is sure he will draw blood. He can already imagine the conversation that will unfold, the prince detailing his rocky acquaintance with the Bridgertons and his failed suit with Daphne. Another wave of anxiety swallows him as he thinks of Prince Friedrich courting Kate. He could provide her the life she deserves and perhaps would desire: full of travel, riches, perhaps some greater kinship or love that he cannot offer.

Anthony knows the queen would bless their union, exalt it even. He considers her words about Kate, in the face of his sterile speech about marriage for the sake of their dutiy.

“She is quite beautiful. Striking, one might say.”

“Does she not deserve some feeling?”

Could this be his test from the queen? His punishment? Did she send for her nephew so he could watch his fiancée be romanced by a prince? A rock sinks to the pit of his stomach, growing into a boulder as his thoughts spiral. His hands tingle and itch as he retreats to the edge of the ballroom, Edwina trailing slowly behind. He flexes them and realizes he is losing feeling in his fingertips.

The prince guides Kate to the center of the floor where a few couples mill about and the band sits, their instruments poised for a quadrille. Friedrich glances toward the queen and she nods, clapping her hands. On her cue, the band begins a lively tune. The fiddle plucks a moderate tempo, allowing for conversation without worry of breathlessness. 

“Thank you for being my first dance partner this evening,” he says as they begin a mirrored series of steps.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Kate responds with a measured smile. “How could I refuse?"

He frowns briefly. “I am sorry if you felt you had to. I did not intend to make you dance if you do not wish to, just because I happen to be a prince.” He thinks for a moment, lips pursed and pushed to the side of face boyishly. “Do you wear no dance card because you do not wish to dance?”

Kate smiles warmly, her shoulders softening as they travel the floor, side by side. “No, not at all. You have done me a favor, truly. I wear no dance card simply because I am more often focused on the suitors filling Edwina’s.” And I am never asked if there is a blank space on mine. “I quite enjoy dancing. In fact, I taught my sister nearly every step she knows.” She nods to Edwina, pulling his eyes to the young woman smiling at them from a distance.

“Well then,” he returns his focus back to Kate, “I am sure she is an excellent dancer, if you are any indication.”

“Flattery will not get you very far with me, Your Grace,” Kate warns amiably. She lifts her skirts and circles him, smiling as she skips to the rhythm of the tune. 

“That is too bad, then,” he responds easily, catching her hand for a spin as he does so. “I was going to tell you that your dress is exquisite. The way the diamonds catch the light is quite captivating. But I will keep that to myself,” he winks, “seeing as it will get me nowhere.”

Kate laughs, her face on fire. A cocktail of equal parts pride, embarrassment, and girlish glee fill her at the compliment. Unsure of how to respond to such sweet words, she sidesteps them altogether.

“Do you like diamonds very much then?” 

“Only in the right light.” 

His answer is clever, but she understands. “It was good of you to ask after the Duchess of Hastings.” His forehead folds his confusion for a second. “Miss Bridgerton. Daphne,” she supplies with a whisper.

“Ah, right.” He smiles a bit wistfully. “I still remember her by a different name sometimes. But I am glad of her happiness. I know she would not have found it with me.”

She smiles as they turn, pleasantly surprised by his graciousness. “You would have been within your rights to give Lord Bridgerton the cut, but you did not.” He tilts his head curiously. “You took no opportunity for petty remarks or unkind manners.”

“I am well-practiced in the art of diplomacy. I just spent the past month in the French court cleaning up after Napoleon. One Bridgerton will not be the end of my savoir faire.”

Kate shakes her head and hums thoughtfully. “You ought to know that I consider myself an excellent judge of character. I know we have only just been introduced but…” She hesitates a moment, examining him one last time. “I have a strong hunch that you are a good person, in the truest sense of the word. Treat my sister well, Your Highness, and you shall stay in my good graces.”

He chuckles. “My aunt was right about you.”

“How so? I am almost afraid to ask.” Kate bares her teeth, bracing for impact. 

“She said you were unflinching,” Friedrich says. “Even when speaking to royalty, you do not cower or bend easily to our wills. It is most admirable, Miss Sharma.”

“I think you’ll find I am quite inflexible regardless of my dance partner’s station. Obstinate, some have said.” she says plainly.

He spins her swiftly, a somewhat dizzying turn. “And is there someone treating you well?”

“Pardon?” She blames her disorientation on the choreography rather than the sudden turn in his line of questioning.

“You said I ought to treat your sister well, Miss Sharma. I only wish to know if someone cares to do the same for you.”

Their dance comes to a close and Kate looks to Anthony for a moment, his eyes tracking her every step. She flicks her attention to Edwina who also watches her, but with a gaze far less incendiary. 

“I take quite good care of myself,” she hedges, “but I thank you sincerely for your concern.” Kate’s tone softens, knowing the man harbors no ill-intent. Despite this, his question prickled and she does not wish to dwell on its very complicated answer.

Prince Friedrich bows graciously. “Well, I thank you for a pleasant evening indeed. My spirits are cheered, if not by the music, then the good company.”

“Mine as well.” She curtsies. “Perhaps you would like to dance with my sister on your next set? I believe the two of you will have much to discuss.” She nods to Edwina, who gives a little wiggle of her fingers in greeting. “You may even compare notes on our box steps.”

“A splendid idea, Miss Sharma. On one condition, however.”

She eyes him warily. “Name it.”

“You must tell me the truth of my sideburns. You are the only person whose opinion I know will remain honest.”

She laughs at the absurdity of the request and steadies herself for a moment with a hand against his arm. “I think you might keep them if you feel truly convicted.”

“But?”

“But I believe a gentleman looks his best clean-shaven.”

The pair walk toward Anthony and Edwina, standing an arms length apart but clearly awaiting the duo nonetheless.  “Bon,” Kate says. “How about a dance?”

Edwina’s eyes are alight with pleasure as the prince turns to her and offers a hand. “May I, Miss Edwina?”

She nods, tempering her excitement, and turns to Kate with one last wide smile before he leads her away. Kate looks on, smiling as her sister giggles at something her dance partner says, swishing the beaded skirt of her apricot dress.

She releases a relaxed sigh, content at the evening’s turn of events. The queen has sold their story of the dissolved betrothal, the Sheffields have been acknowledged by the queen, and her sister is dancing with a real life prince. It is better than Kate had planned. Though the unprecedented appearance of Mary's parents is a festering sore that will need to be treated at some point tonight, she will bask in the victory for a brief interlude. The only other matter niggling at her mind is the issue of Anthony’s behavior during their shared dance and, worse, her reaction to it.

Kate flicks a curl from her forehead as she takes her place by Anthony’s side, her eyes still fixed on her sister’s movements. “Congratulations on your maintenance of decorum, Lord Bridgerton. I did not know you were capable.”

"The night is still young, Miss Sharma," he responds drily. Anthony grips his hands tightly behind his back, spine rigid and signet ring biting into his palm. "Did you enjoy your dance with His Royal Highness?"

"I did," Kate says brightly. "He is surprisingly endearing."

Anthony does not speak, only humming in response.

“He said my dress was exquisite," she adds.

He snorts derisively. “Of course he did. That is what he tells every young lady. Daphne told me last season when the two were courting." He leans toward Kate, speaking from the side of his mouth conspiratorially. “I believe one could don a burlap sack and he would compliment its stitching.” 

“Oh.” It is the only answer she can manage.

The words sting. Despite the jest of their delivery, she feels a bit foolish for believing Friedrich’s flattery so easily. For a few minutes tonight, she made the mistake of feeling beautiful. Desirable, even. Not in the carnal way that Anthony so clearly craves her, but in the way that many eligible young debutantes are. She felt like the subject of respectable, innocent interest. Such are the pitfalls of dancing with a charming prince, she reminds herself.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to take some air.” She steps away from Anthony before he can respond. He moves to follow her and she stops him before he can stick himself to her side. “Please, Lord Bridgerton, no scenes. Best behavior.” He nods, defeated and a bit confused. “Keep an eye on my sister for me.”

With that, Kate leaves, her feet carrying her to the expansive garden, walls of wisteria and lush green vines surrounding her. She walks deeper into the greenery, stepping over a wandering peacock on her way. Her pace quickens, moving past bodies of other partygoers and beyond neatly trimmed rose bushes until she is leaned against a tall hedge of pink bougainvillea. She sighs and presses a hand to her chest, swiping fingers below her necklace to rest against her clavicle. Her pulse thrums quick and strong against her palm. She can finally breathe again.

She does not know how long she stands there replaying her evening's dances, until her moment of respite is interrupted by a snide voice piercing through the opposite side of the hedge.

“...dancing with the prince, no less! Truly, how desperate.” Kate’s ears perk at this. Was this woman gossiping about Edwina? Surely her dance with a royal would not be a subject of scandal, even coming on the heels of a broken engagement.

“I know, my darling,” a placating voice answers. “She is a thorn in our side to be swiftly removed. We must simply maintain propriety for the time being and let the matter resolve itself once she returns to India.”

It is the Sheffields, she realizes, talking about her. She stiffens and crouches lower, hoping to better conceal herself as the pair circle a patch of gardenias. As the two continue to denigrate her quite loudly, Kate hears a soft rustling behind her. She turns her head and nearly yelps at the sight of a man lurking behind her.

“Anthony,” she whispers harshly, “what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you quite the same,” he whispers back. “I was searching for you.”

She tugs on his sleeve and pulls him down to crouch behind her. “Be quiet,” she demands. Then, she turns to him, suspicion in her eyes. “Why were you searching for me?”

“Your sister has danced twice more and you did not return. One dance was shared with an untitled philosopher. When you did not intercede I became acutely concerned for your health.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “Thank you for your concern, my lord, but I am well. As I have already informed you, my sister should be free to marry whoever she wants, no matter his rank.”

Anthony’s brow furrows in mock concern. “Truly, Miss Sharma, are you feverish?” He raises a gloved hand to her forehead, which she swats away. “Perhaps we should call for a surgeon,” he says gravely.

“Enough,” she bites, already irritated by his antics and still sore from his earlier remarks following her dance with the prince. “The Sheffields are speaking.”

The pair turn their ears to the earl and countess as they carry on their conversation. “Neither she nor the viscount should be allowed to cavort with royalty after their disrespect.”

“I quite agree,” Lord Sheffield replies, his voice bitter as wormwood. “But we cannot cause a scene. The queen has welcomed us back to court. We must remain silent for now if we wish to keep in good standing.”

“I will not stand by as they sully our name in private and parade around the queen’s court in public! Neither girl has any good breeding; no dowry, no title.” Her pitch rises as she grows more incensed. “The elder one is beyond her years and out of her depth. Her very presence here at St James is an abomination.” 

Anthony stands at this, furious. He has heard more than enough to warrant whatever scene he may cause. Kate reaches up behind her to keep him in place, tugging his jacket again before he can act without thought.

Unfortunately, his unbalanced stance and her heavy grasp sends him tumbling. He falls forward, sprawled partly against the hedge and mostly against Kate’s back. His face smashes into her hair, destabilizing a few pins. He spits a loose curl from his mouth and sweeps his nose against her neck and ear as he does so.

Lord Sheffield takes a few steps away from his wife, attempting to locate the source of the sound. “Who goes there?”

Kate scrambles below Anthony, the full weight of him pressed against her back, his hips flush against her backside. If this is not Hell—pinned to the ground beneath the firm body of a man who does not love her, steps away from her tormentors, and a stone’s throw from the rest of good society—then she will suggest the devil get creative. She cannot imagine a punishment much more humiliating than this.

Anthony groans, his elbow smarting from the fall against the hedge, and realizes that his other hand is wrapped around Kate’s waist, his palm flattened between her stomach and the ground. His bicep flexes and his grip tightens momentarily, despite himself.

“Get off me,” she grits out, wriggling underneath him.

“I am trying,” he insists, his arm still wedged against her. If only she would stop moving, then perhaps he could think properly.

As the sound of footsteps draws nearer, Kate rolls and shoves Anthony off her body with a grunt. She stands hastily and smooths the creases and bramble from her skirts, rounding the corner of the hedge to face her detractors.

“Lord and Lady Sheffield. How good it is to find you here.” Kate’s words are hollow and her smile is a flat line.

“What are you doing here?” 

“In the garden? I am simply observing the flowers and enjoying the evening air, same as you.” Kate looks between the pair innocently, as if she has not overheard their denigrating remarks. “Oh,” she says suddenly, “perhaps you were referring to my presence here at St James?” She lifts her chin. “I was invited here personally by Her Majesty after our private audience earlier this week.”

Lady Sheffield’s jaw unhinges a little and a strangled noise escapes her throat.

“It is so good that you could make it as well this evening,” Kate continues. “The queen has told me you have not received an invitation to a ball in nearly twenty years. It would be a shame if you did not receive another after tonight.”

Lord Sheffield opens his mouth to speak before his wife can jeopardize their tenuous position among the ton.

“Miss Sharma,” Kate’s head snaps to the opposite hedge, where Anthony emerges from behind the Sheffields. “There you are,” he greets her smoothly with a bow. “Her Majesty has been asking after you. I was sent to fetch you.” He nods to the earl and countess in front of him. “Lord and Lady Sheffield, what a pleasant surprise to find you here.” Anthony offers them no bow or handshake in deference, despite their station.

Lady Sheffield scans the viscount dubiously, her eyes like hot coals singing holes in his trousers and waistcoat. Anthony folds his arms behind his back, refusing to cow to her bilious gaze.

“Didi!” Edwina’s sing-song voice makes its way through the dense bushes.

Kate bites back a groan at the ever-sprouting series of guests in this garden, though she welcomes her sister’s presence in this instance. With any luck, her appearance may diffuse the Sheffield’s ire. That small hope is dashed as she sees Edwina approaching with Mary in tow.

Lady Sheffield squares herself to face her daughter as she approaches. “Well, it is good to see you have not run away this time.”

Mary’s hands curl into fists at the jab and she coaxes herself to relax them. It will not serve her well to rehash the circumstances of her exit from London two decades ago with Milan Sharma by her side.

“I was just taking some air on the balcony.” Mary’s response is delivered measuredly, but her hands tremor slightly. Kate knows she was rattled by her parents’ appearance earlier that evening and had watched her exit the ballroom hastily with Lady Danbury by her side. Now she knows where she disappeared to.

“I was enjoying the high view of the gardens, but the peacocks were too lovely to ignore. I have not seen one since our time at the palace in Mysore. Do you remember that, girls?” She allows no room for her daughters to answer. “It was such a lovely time and the maharani was a dear friend to Kate and Edwina during our time there. Anyhow, I could not pass by an opportunity to see one up close again.” She pauses to watch a bird strut by, its teal and purple plumes bouncing proudly with each step.

Lord Sheffield scoffs, boiling at his daughter’s nonchalance in the face of their fury. “You have some nerve showing your face here after you snubbed the queen all those years ago. You destroyed us, do you know that?”

“I think you have managed the destruction of your reputations entirely on your own,” Anthony reminds him.

“Lord Bridgerton—”

“Please, let us dispense with our quarrels, shall we?” Anthony places a hand on his hip and takes an irate breath through flared nostrils. “You should be incredibly grateful that I am a gentleman, because it is only for the sake of these young ladies that I do not call you out. But do understand that my restraint has its limits,” he says lowly, “and I am more than happy to continue my target practice with Miss Sharma as my second.”

Anthony juts his chin at Kate, whose eyes grow into saucers at his insinuation.

“I believe it is in all of our interests to uphold some amount of civility,” Kate interjects, a warning to all parties.

"I agree entirely." He nods and faces the pair with a contemptuous smile. “Unless you do not wish to remain in good standing with the queen. Miss Sharma or I will gladly report the details of any uncivilized conversation we share with you the next time we are invited to St James for tea.”

Kate fights a smile as she blinks at the Sheffields, doe-eyed and daring the duo to disparage her family further.

“No matter what story you have sold her, we will not give any of you a single sovereign. Edwina will have no dowry and your mother will have no allowance.” Lord Sheffield's threats sound rather petulant.

“You have nothing to fear, sir,” Kate says. “You are released from our bargain the same as we are.”

“Oh, yes. I would not dream of taking a single shilling from you, even if you had offered.” Edwina says it so sweetly and with such a lovely smile that a passerby could easily mistake her words as a kindness. The Sheffields do not. “We merely thought it best to craft a story that will protect all of our names among the ton. They can be quite a fickle bunch. Do you not agree?”

Kate cannot help but chuckle a little at the cheek of her sister.

“Very well then,” Lady Sheffield bites, brisling at the young lady's good humor. “Enjoy your time playing dress up in borrowed jewels, because you will be back in India as a governess when this season ends.”

“I have no plans to return to India. I will be remaining in London for the foreseeable future.” Her voice gains a hard edge. “I am afraid I am not a thorn so easily removed after all. And these,” she twists her wrists, the bangles rolling against her forearms, “are not borrowed. They are mine and they will be mine until the day I die, just as they were my amma’s.”

“Her name is Shivani, by the way,” Anthony supplies. “Her mother. You ought to at least know the name of the woman you scorn and regard as a footnote in the tragic loss of your good name,” he spits.

The countess ignores him and scoffs. “My goodness, Mary, your daughters will be destitute by this time next year and pawning this one’s bracelets to buy bread.” She gestures to Kate and clicks her tongue. “How you have failed this fantastically as a mother is beyond me.”

At this final cut, Mary abandons all concern for civility and politeness. If she must sink to their level one last time, so be it. Her meekness has reaped her no rewards. 

“If I have failed as a parent, it is only because I was raised by selfish people who never showed me how to be a good one. All I have ever known is that I wanted to love them in all the ways you never loved me.” Her voice cracks a little. “But my children require more than love. They needed me to be strong for them, to be brave; to pick up the broken pieces even when I was scared, but I could not do it because you never taught me how." There is a growing heat in her tone, a righteous ire burning brighter with every word. "But that is what Milan did for me twenty years ago. When you exiled me from the only life I had ever known, he was strong enough for the both of us. And that is what Kate has done for us again. Because she is her father’s daughter and she had no other choice.

“I am well aware that I failed her as a mother, the same as you did me. But at least I can see that plainly now. At least I am not as blind and stubborn as you.” She pauses to take a shaky breath and stop a tear from falling and Kate’s heart lurches in her chest, desperate to wipe away the pain that is painted on Mary’s face. “You will never look beyond your pride because it is the only thing you have left to cling to, like a child with a blanket,” she spits. “I am blessed to call Kathani Sharma my daughter. And I am especially blessed that no part of her has come from either of you. Edwina and I may share your blood but that is all we share. No matter what the ton thinks or what Lady Whistledown reports in the morning, know this: whoever my daughters marry and whatever they make of their lives will not be a credit to you.”

The group remains quiet after Mary’s speech, thoroughly stunned. Kate stands in rapture, awed by Mary’s honesty. By her protection. Her pride. The recognition of her sacrifices seals a small fissure in her chest. She has always known that Mary promised to love her as her own daughter, but tucked away in Kate’s mind was the worry that she never could. The worry that she would always have to earn a place in her family by doing, rather than by simply being.

And then Kate thinks of Anthony, too: his memory of her mother’s name and its invocation in her defense. She was not wrong when she thought her mother’s spirit filled these halls and gardens at the mention of her name. Shivani, her name the keeper of life and death, still flourishes in corners of Kate’s world, long after she took her last breath. These thoughts—Mary, Anthony, Amma—are enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Well,” Lord Sheffield clears his throat uncomfortably. He appears deflated, even a bit chastened. “I suppose we will not share all of that with the rest of the ton?”

“Indeed,” Anthony agrees politely. “And I will not tell the queen that you both are a pair of irredeemable shit-sacks. We are even. Farewell, my lord, my lady.”

Lady Sheffield gasps, affronted, and raises her chin haughtily but Anthony simply grins and waves the pair away. As they return to the palace, the sound of their receding footsteps is replaced by a few soft sniffles. Anthony turns to face the Sharmas, finding Mary wiping at her face with a shaky hand.

“Are you alright, Lady Mary?” His smile is quickly replaced by concern.

At the sight of Lord Bridgerton’s waning smirk, Mary chokes out a laugh between her tears. “I cannot believe you said that.”

“Mama, I cannot believe you said that,” Edwina responds, still open-mouthed at her mother’s words.

Mary straightens, sniffing, and wipes away a final errant tear. “It was long overdue.” She reaches a hand to Kate’s face, cupping her cheek. “I am ever so sorry, my dearest Kathani.”

“It is okay, Mary,” Kate shakes her head.

“No,” Mary returns fiercely. “It is not. I made a promise to your father—and your mother—to always care for you and I failed.” Kate’s eyes well with tears. “You were a child, Kate. You lost so much. And then you lost me to my grief.” And then you lost your future, too. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Mama, I will always forgive you.”

Anthony shifts and turns his back while the three women embrace, feeling like he is an intruder as Mary whispers apologies to Edwina too. After a long beat, Mary clears her throat and steps back, holding both her daughters’ hands.

“Kate, we should be going. Please escort your sister inside and ask Lady Danbury to call for the carriage,” Mary instructs. 

“Oh, I had hoped we would stay to see the fireworks,” Edwina says, sounding much like the little girl who bartered new Latin conjugation for candies from Kate.

“I think we have had enough excitement for one night, bon.” Kate’s voice leaves no room for argument. “Besides,” she says, her voice turning mischievous, “I cannot wait another second for you to tell me about your dance with the prince. Particularly your opinion on his sideburns.”

The two laugh at some secret joke and face Anthony as they prepare to make their exit. “Lord Bridgerton,” Kate calls politely. Her shoulders soften and he turns his head to her. “Thank you.” There is no undulating speech or decoration to her gratitude, but the weight of her words is powerful enough to stir a flutter in his chest, stoking warm embers beneath his skin. Their eyes meet briefly and a lump forms in his throat, barring him from any response beyond a slow, heavy nod.

Edwina watches him curiously, eyes darting between the two as they linger before one another wordlessly. Finally, he speaks.

“There is no reason to thank me. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Kate’s serious visage cracks with a small, sly smile. “I did not know the phrase ‘shit-sack’ was so formal. I will be sure to employ it next time you test my patience.”

“Didi!” Edwina clutches a hand to her chest but Anthony laughs.

“I will hold you to that, Miss Sharma.” He bends in a small bow and allows the young ladies to make their exit.

“Mama, are you coming with us?” Edwina tilts her head.

“I need just a moment here to collect myself. I will be right behind you,” she promises with a smile. Mary and Anthony watch as her daughters leave the garden and approach the front of the palace. Once their figures become small dots in their periphery, Mary turns to him.

They stand together silently for a long minute, Anthony shifting awkwardly on his heels and straightening his spine as Mary watches him.

“I am not sure what you heard my parents say, nor do I know Kate has told you.” She arches a brow and Anthony realizes his small misstep in saying Shivani’s name. “But I thank you for your words with the Sheffields. And with Kate.”

Anthony nods. “Of course.” Then, suddenly, “Kathani.”

“Pardon?”

“You called her another name. Not Katherine?” He thought he knew her true name already; had already tasted its sweetness on his tongue. But, of course, there is always more to uncover about Kate Sharma. She is a kaleidoscope of a woman, revealing fractions of herself in new shapes and hues every time he tilts his head. He wishes to know every shade of her.

“That’s right,” Mary smiles. “The English often do not know how to say or spell it. Nor did I when I first met her.” She smiles fondly at the memory of the girl who ran to her the first time they met, saffron-colored skirts clutched in her small hands. “Kate became a nickname after she came to Mayfair as a child. But her parents called her Kathani.”

Kathani. Her name is music. It should be said all the time, he thinks. Better yet, it should be sung.

Mary pauses and evaluates him quietly, bemusement painting her features as she attempts to solve this riddle of a man. A few days ago, she would have smacked the viscount across his pretty face if they were left alone together. Now, she finds that impulse has lessened, and it is not for the sole act of challenging the Sheffields. 

There is something different in Lord Bridgerton’s countenance, his words. He is still imperious and mulish and all the things Kate warned her he would be, but he is so much less severe. In rare moments, like the one occurring now, one might consider him gentle. Soft, even. She would not go so far to accuse him of being fond but… Her mind turns to the day he and Kate revealed their engagement at Bridgerton House. What did not surprise her was how he sprang to her daughter’s defense—he was clearly no stranger to vexation—but rather how he softened at her touch. 

She is not entirely blind. The pair was oddly familiar during their dance earlier, before her parents’ arrival. They appeared to be comfortable in close proximity, if her somewhat obstructed vantage point from the balcony was any indication. Lord knows what she had not seen pass between them this season, beyond their bickering, that has brought them to this point. Neither will she reveal what she has observed nor what she suspects, but she will be watching him closely all the same.

With a ladylike bob of the head, Mary bids him farewell and he does the same, making their way back to the palace. After a few steps, Mary turns to him with a raised brow and knowing smile. She points to his jacket.

“You have an armful of thorns, Lord Bridgerton.”

Chapter Text

Gentle Reader,

It appears the queen’s ball was quite a dramatic affair.

While yours truly was not in attendance, rest assured that I did not miss a step. More shocking than the peacocks and fireworks display were Her Majesty’s guests. I do not refer to the Prince of Prussia, but rather the intriguing presence of the Sheffields, who were ousted from good society on Her Majesty’s accord. It seems old wounds have been mended for her diamond's sake, but do they fester still? Perhaps the queen’s physicians ought to prepare for triage.

Whispers tell me the pair of vultures circled the ballroom as though poised above a carcass before fleeing the scene. What might cause such disturbance, you ask? None other than Miss Kate Sharma taking to the floor with Prince Friedrich, claiming his first dance of the evening. Though her behavior at the start of our season was particularly prickly, the duo seemed quite lively in one another’s company. Have we written off the sour spinster too soon?

Meanwhile, the formerly affianced diamond was spotted exchanging a polite word at the edge of the ballroom with Viscount Bridgerton and later dancing pleasantly with the prince herself. Shall the diamond be the next crown jewel of Prussia or will her sister?

With a host of balls on the horizon, one thing is certain: no one can dance around the truth forever. Your move, Your Majesty.
___

Whistledown’s timing is impeccable, as always. The gossip rag is dropped on Anthony’s desk again by Eloise, minutes before departing before another ball, just as the last one had. Whoever this author is, she is no fool. This will become a pattern, he is sure: handing out scraps of hearsay on a silver platter to the entire ton moments before they gather for the next soiree. It is both a poke at the queen, leaving her little time to move the next chess piece, and an assurance that the subjects of her report will be under intense scrutiny that evening.

Skimming the paper, he sighs. He should be grateful that nothing inflammatory had been written about him or his family. Instead, he is fixated on the words about Kate. The jabs at her character sting a little: prickly, sour. Only a side effect of Anthony’s presence, he knows now. Clearly, she has the capacity to be delightful in anyone’s company but his own. Anyone, including Dorset and the prince.

His hands tighten around the paper as he sits at his desk and Eloise watches his descent into deranged irritation from the doorway.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, thank you,” he bites out.

“The report says nothing of note about you,” Eloise responds incredulously. “I thought you would be happy, but I should have realized that is an emotion you no longer recall how to express,” she grumbles.

Eloise leans over to snatch the paper from his hands and smoothes the wrinkles from its edges. “I see no issue here.”

Anthony leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose as his sister perches herself on the edge of his desk, rereading the sheet again. He knows she is right; Whistledown could very well have written about a bevy of questionable behavior: his dance with Kate, their tumble in the gardens, his dressing down of the Sheffields. Not that Eloise—or any member of his family—knows about any of these things.

Unfortunately, his mind is possessed by ruminations of Kate and the prince. Were they really so engaging to watch? Was he truly such an enlightened conversationalist? Kate’s ceaseless giggling and enduring smile would seem to suggest so. His past exchanges with the Prussian had been pleasant, but incredibly dull. He is like Dorset with sideburns and a crown. At least Dorset could suture a cut if Anthony split open the man’s lip with his fist.

What could Kate see in either of them? She is sharp, intelligent, and suffers no fools. She ought to be bored by their company and rankled by their inability to trade barbs but instead seemed jovial and at ease with them in a way she never has been with Anthony.

The thought makes his jaw tighten and his neck burns in some measure of anger and humiliation. Kate is his fiancée in no one’s eyes but their own, but she is his fiancée all the same. He spent the whole evening itching to place a palm firmly at the base of her neck, to trace his fingers down her spine and let them live on the small of her back so everyone could see how plainly he wanted her. That she was his and she wanted him too.

Eloise sets down the paper again and pivots her attention to her brother. “Are you still concerned about the Sheffields? I do not know what was said to cause the end of your engagement to Miss Edwina but they do seem incredibly disagreeable, if Mother’s and Whistledown’s words are true.”

Anthony snorts. “They are a dangerous combination of stupidity and venom, but what they lack in tact they make up for in self-preservation. They are only a cause for concern if they forget how intimidating Miss Sharma or I can be.” He thinks back to the pair’s hurried exit from the queen’s garden. They were affronted, but cowed to them nonetheless. He can only hope their acquaintance will remain this way.

“I am sure Kate should have them under control, then. She is most formidable.” She swings her legs in a manner most child-like as she picks at the fingers of her evening gloves.

“Indeed,” he muses. Then, “you call her Kate?”

Eloise shrugs, the heels of her slippers kicking the leg of his desk with every swing. “We are friends. I am most grateful that you and her sister are not marrying, honestly. Not just because we would tear that poor girl apart,” Anthony winces, “but it will allow us some more time together before she leaves for India. I have so many books to share with her,” she informs him brightly.

Oh, how joyous she will be once Anthony’s newest engagement is announced, he thinks wryly. Her foot thumps again at the desk and she shifts, disrupting his stack of correspondence.

“Eloise, will you stop that?” He grabs the stray papers sliding toward the edge of his desk. “You are going to knock over my ink at this rate.”

“Oh no.” Her eyes glitter mischievously. “I should hate for it to spill on my party dress.”

“Do. Not.” Anthony raises a finger in warning. “We are leaving for Lady Trowbridge’s ball in a matter of minutes.”

Eloise leans to the side, walking her fingers to the pot of ink while Anthony shoots daggers at her. She tips the pot onto her dress, the black ink blooming against her spearmint skirt. 

“Oops.” She smiles, all teeth and faux innocence.

“You are insufferable,” he chastises her, deadpan. “And you will be telling our mother, not me.”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “Mama,” she shouts, “terrible news.”

“Oh Lord above, Eloise, what now?” Violet’s voice carries from the hall.

Eloise hops off the edge of his desk and winks. “Have fun for me tonight, dear brother.”
___

Anthony enters the conservatory ballroom briskly, the elder Bridgerton brood, sans Eloise, trailing further behind. His sister's stunt has delayed the family’s arrival and he stalks the floor edgily in search of Kate. She is already here, he is sure. He is buzzing, the hairs at attention on his neck as they always are in her presence. He had hoped to welcome her; to lay a stake in the marble floor that demanded no man shall pass, royalty or otherwise.

He feels utterly demented, perhaps even more so than when he was engaged to the sister. Following the queen’s ball, he realized that he is often adrift without her in his arms. That night he had lain awake, his mind still turning over the events of the ball, consumed by the simple memory of her in his arms for their minuet. Shrouded in silk sheets atop an empty bed, his skin itched with the irritation of a fresh sunburn. For as much as she bickered and poked and detested him so, she was a balm to his unrest. He craved the warm, steady touch of her hand beneath his.

That night, Anthony did not imagine stripping Kate of the lilac dress that made her glitter in the candlelight like a rare jewel. He did not wish to have her hands threaded in his hair as he suckled at her breast or feel her fingers grip urgently at his hips as he pressed himself inside her. That night, instead of taking himself in hand and recalling the curve of her backside against his front or fantasizing about her tongue thrust into his mouth, Anthony dreamt of her nestled against his side. In lieu of filthy moans and his name breathless on her tongue, he thought of her soft sighs as she slept. Does she snore or talk in her sleep, he wondered. Is she fitful like him, twitching and tangled in sheets, or is she as measured in her breaths as she is in her words? He wishes to stay awake for an entire night so he might look upon her and know every version of Kathani Sharma, even the one who was lost to sleep.

When he awoke to sunlight warming his cheek, daybreak had come and gone. It was the first morning in ages that he had not woken before the rest of the world, eyes heavy and head pounding from insomnolence. He had rolled over almost anticipating her presence, despite knowing full well that her shape in his bed had been a phantom’s. Despite the absurdity of the notion, he felt a brief wave of disappointment at her absence. Though she might never love him, Kate may share his bed. His lips twitched at the thought of her, his wife and bedmate, heavy and warm against his side as he rose in the morning.

Now that he had allowed himself this small imagination, it could not be undone. The following nights had been plagued by the ghost of her. Clothed in cotton and bathed in moonlight, Kate came to him as his mind battled the waking world’s problems and lured him into slumber. His mind often raced with an abundance of worries: Benedict’s schooling, Colin’s overspending, Eloise’s impertinence. In the past three days, however, he had succumbed to sleep with a troubling ease. Is this the man he is becoming? No longer simply burning in her presence, but completely moonstruck whenever they are parted? It is a terrifying sentiment.

As if beckoned by his musings of her, Kate appears at his side. She is radiant as ever, because this would not be proper cosmic penance if she did not grow more beautiful with each passing day. She is swathed in cerulean silk, crowned in a layer of silver lace. It is a new dress, he thinks, the color only a few shades off from his family’s signature hue.

He wears his standard midnight overcoat with a crisp white waistcoat tucked beneath, but he thinks he may ask after the color of her dress some other time, just so he might match her. That is something decent husbands do, is it not? She favors blues and purples, he notes, which is not such a far cry from his daily uniform. Surely, it would be no great leap for him to introduce some variety to the wardrobe. He makes a mental note to request a fitting for some new pieces from his valet.

“Lord Bridgerton.” Kate dips her head and the edges of a smile twist at her lips.

Her head is still swimming from the events of the queen’s ball: her dances with Anthony and the prince, the confrontation with the Sheffields. For what may be the first time, she is grateful to see him. Despite the confusion and frustration this man has caused her, he has shown himself to be… something different. She does not believe she had misjudged him at the start of this season, but perhaps she has miscalculated the exact sum of his parts. He is arrogant, stubborn, and aloof, to be sure, but he has also proven himself a passionate, unflinching ally. Kate does not know what draws her away from conversation with her mother to approach him, but she feels an unyielding pull that carries her across the floor, like the tide reaching for the moon.

“Miss Sharma.” He leans down to grasp her gloved palm in his own and raises the warm hand to his lips in greeting. His lips do not linger but his hand does, squeezing gently and circling a finger to the base of her wrist. Kate’s fingers twitch, curling imperceptibly into his own.

His finger taps at something wrapped around her wrist. Flicking his eyes from her face to her hand, he smiles warmly.

“I see you found yourself a dance card.” A warm grin breaks across his face at the knowledge that she remembered his request to reserve a dance.

She rolls her eyes a little and fidgets with the card. “Only to keep you from dueling Dorset.”

He clicks his tongue and brushes his fingers against hers as he reaches for the paper square. “May I?” Kate rolls her wrist in reply and his smile quickly fades, forehead furrowing. The prince has already claimed a dance. So has some man named Bagwell, and Lord Lumley, too.

He attempts to assemble his features in something resembling polite nonchalance as he signs his name for one dance, then another.

“Anthony,” Kate admonishes, pulling her wrist back. “That is more than enough."

“You do not wish to have my name fill your dance card?” He quirks a brow.

The cheek of this man, she thinks. Before she can volley a response, a hand claps on Anthony’s shoulder, startling both of them.

“What’s this talk I hear of dance cards, brother?” Benedict flashes a grin at the pair, all teeth. If he were not so charming, Kate would find his amusement grating.

Anthony tenses under his brother’s grasp. He has already had his fill of mischief from his siblings this evening. “It is nothing,” he says quickly. “I was merely reserving a dance with Miss Sharma.”

“Ah.” Benedict’s eyes brighten. “I did not know you were in the mood for a dance this evening. How unlike you, Anthony.” He clicks his tongue. “Is that why you practically ran from our carriage to the ballroom?” He is positively gleeful reveling in Anthony’s discomfort.

Anthony rolls his shoulder, displacing Benedict’s hand and Kate presses her lips together to suppress a small laugh at his irritation.

“We were late,” he snaps. “Forgive me for my attempts at punctuality.”

“Well,” Benedict turns his attention from Anthony to Kate. “I believe the only Bridgerton you have had the good fortune of dancing with this season is my charming brother here. Now that you have a proper card, I would be remiss if I did not ask for a space there myself, Miss Sharma.”

Kate dips her head and extends her hand to the second Bridgerton, who flips the card in his palm.

“Oh my,” Benedict whistles lowly. “Two dances, Anthony?” He raises a brow, waiting for his brother to respond. Anthony, for his part, avoids all eye contact and picks a very important and imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve.

“Sign the blasted card, Ben,” Anthony mutters.

Benedict acquiesces, signing his name for a quadrille, then looks between the pair. “Am I safe to leave you two together? I hope that no one will be maimed before we take to the floor.”

“Please leave.” Anthony pinches the bridge of his nose and Benedict raises his hands in defeat.

“I will see you soon, Miss Sharma.” He bows most properly.

“Likewise, Mister Bridgerton.” She bows in return, almost mockingly, and the two laugh at their impressions of propriety.

Good God, Anthony thinks, will he have to contend with his brother tonight, too?

“Lord Bridgerton.” Kate interrupts his thoughts. “I wanted to…” She lowers her voice. “Thank you. For the garden.” Her cheeks heat at the memory of her body pinned below his by the hedge of flowers. “For the Sheffields, I mean,” she clarifies.

“Of course.”

How could he not defend her? How could anyone? The memory of their heinous words makes his shoulders tense and his throat tighten. He is grateful that Lady Mary finally grew a spine as well, but finds himself furious that it had not happened sooner. How long would she and her sister have allowed Kate to be berated if he were not there, he wonders.

“It was nothing, really.” He is uncomfortable with her gratitude, unaccustomed to this sincerity or tenderness.

She tilts her head, solemnly. “It was not nothing to me.”

When it comes to this man, she is a maelstrom of many things: puzzlement, fondness, frustration. Everything is too muddled, too intense and ever-changing to be demystified. Perhaps if she felt less for him, she might be able to put a name to this storm. But because she cannot, she says nothing. Instead, she reaches forward, unsure if she intends to touch his hand, his arm, his face. She settles for straightening his already straight cravat. He swallows underneath the feather-light touch of her fingers above the silk.

“Kate, I—”

Before he can unpack this particular thought, a cellist at the edge of the room begins plucking an unfamiliar, andante melody.

“I believe this is my cue,” Kate tells him. She retracts her hand and he mourns the loss of her touch instantaneously.

Summoned by the sound of strings, Prince Friedrich materializes beside them and a nervous breath of laughter escapes her mouth at his appearance.

“Your Highness.” Kate dips into a curtsey and the gentleman waves his hand.

“Please, enough formalities. Shall we dance?” He extends a hand and Anthony’s chest burns at the sight of Kate’s palm slipping into his. 

Anthony turns his back from the pair and does not bother to bow in the presence of royalty.
___

“He is a most impressive astronomer, too,” the prince says. 

He has been praising the composer of the evening’s score, William Herschel, since the first notes of the oboe echoed through the room. Friedrich has requested this composer specifically for their dance, he told her, for he quite misses the sounds of home.

“He lives in Slough now, you know. It is just outside of the city. I would quite like to meet him and pick his brain.”

Kate smiles kindly at him, rather amused by his excitement. “I think he will not turn you away if you appear on his doorstep, Your Highness.”

He blushes a little and chuckles. “I think I forget myself sometimes.” He pulls his hand from her shoulder to scratch behind his ear. Then, “Call me Friedrich, please.”

“Oh, I could not,” Kate stammers.

“Truly, you would be doing me a favor. I have spent a month in French court and am with the English for the foreseeable future. I am addressed so often by a collection of titles that I think I am beginning to forget the sound of my own name. Please.” He looks at her imploringly.

“Very well,” she concedes, worrying her lip between her teeth. She knows the feeling all too well, knows what it is to be called every name but her own. At least, until three nights ago. “Friedrich.”

He beams, effervescent.

“Tell me something, Miss Sharma.”

“Kate,” she offers. She will not give him her truest name—it feels far too great an intimacy—but she will extend this one to him.

“Kate,” he corrects himself. “Are you or your sister admirers of astronomy as well?”

“I am afraid the only talk of stars and the moon that my sister is roused by is that of Lord Byron.”

“And you?”

She mulls the question over a moment. “Lord Byron is alright, I suppose. I am no great admirer of his writings or that of any astronomers, I am afraid.” He smiles, not offended in the slightest. “I prefer the ancient poets and the modern novelists.”

“Ah,” he perks at this. “Which novelists? I am most excited by the author of Sense and Sensibility.”

“Oh, I adore her,” Kate gushes. “She is a new favorite of mine since I have raided Lady Danbury’s library.”

“Have you read her latest?”

“Naturally,” she grins.

The music draws to a close and Friedrich bows. “I believe my next dance is with Miss Edwina, but I look forward to our next conversation.”

“Likewise.”

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. “Have you ever visited the royal library?”
___

Kate’s next dances are a blur of men’s monologues and wandering hands.

A Mister Bagwell rambles nervously about his dreams of becoming an antiquarian—a very respected field, he tells her many times—and she barely manages a word in edgewise. She does not fault him though, noting the beads of sweat that have gathered at his hairline.

Lord Lumley is slightly less nervous but similarly loquacious, going on about Lord Byron’s latest works and his aim to master the poet’s style himself. He attempts to invite himself to Danbury House for a demonstration of his skills. Kate, for her sister’s sake, politely declines.

Benedict Bridgerton, at least, is a delight. Although she can quickly understand why Anthony so often seems fatigued by his siblings’ antics, if Benedict’s storytelling is any indication. He talks breathlessly about his love for art and his current education, jumping between descriptions of concepts, classmates, and escapades with his new friends. He is just as quick-witted as Anthony, but far less embittered. He banters with Kate easily, tossing well-meaning jabs at his brother’s expense now and again. Despite the knowledge that he says these things in jest, Kate bristles. Duty is an abstract concept to him, she realizes, and Anthony’s is a punchline. Despite this, he is still a pleasant companion and she finds herself tentatively accepting an invitation to practice her watercolors with him soon.

Lord Fife is the most unfortunate of her dance partners. He speaks very much about very little and Kate regrets offering her dance card to him in place of Edwina’s. Between snide comments about fellow men and women of the ton and musings of next week’s weather, his left hand manages to find itself slipping from her shoulder blades to the small of her back. Kate’s annoyance flares at his unabashed indecency and she treads on his toes every time he attempts such behavior. By the time their dance is done, Fife leaves the floor with a limp.

Kate sighs, already exhausted, with a handful of dances to go before she can make her excuses and depart.

Anthony, for his part, has been unable to watch Kate dance with the prince or any other man for that matter. He had stalked the floor, listening to her peals of laughter as the prince spoke animatedly. Just observing her, so relaxed in his arms, was too great a torture to bear. Rather than subject himself to such punishment, he spent the past half hour on the conservatory terrace listening to the rise and fall of each song, counting the sets until it would be his turn to dance with her. He looks to the edge of the greenery where he had encountered Kate eavesdropping so many weeks ago. He wonders what would have happened if she never overheard him and the other men all those nights ago. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. 

“Miss Sharma.” He taps her on the elbow now and she jumps, a hand flying to her chest.

“Oh.” She softens at the sight of Anthony at her side. “I thought you were Fife again. I do not have the vitality to fight him off again,” she shudders.

The divot in Anthony’s brow deepens. “What has he done? Where is he?” If he must land a blow on this weasel of a man tonight, so be it.

“Do not bother with him, my lord,” Kate says, pulling his focus back to her face. “I believe I have rendered his feet useless. He is likely crawling home by now.”

“Ah,” he chuckles. Of course she brought this man to his knees as well.

The next dance is a few minutes away, and the room has slipped into a lull of sporadic violinists tuning and scattered laughter from partygoers who are clearly in their cups. Still, he pulls her hand into his, poised for a waltz. The message to Fife or any other curious lords is clear: Miss Sharma’s next dance belongs to Lord Bridgerton.

As she steps forward, he notices a wince cross her face.

“What is the matter?” His mind races and he sees red. “Did he harm you?”

“No, no,” Kate responds hastily, balancing a hand on his forearm. “It is my shoes. My toes are pinched,” she admits.

“Oh.” His hand travels from her elbow to her wrist as he contemplates a solution. “You know,” he says slowly, “we do not have to dance this set.” The forfeiture of the waltz pains him, but he does not wish to make her tread glass just so he might feel her in his arms. “Come,” he tells her, offering his arm. “We can take the air and return for another set.”

Kate takes his arm with surprisingly little argument.

The pair exit the ballroom step outside onto that same terrace from their second meeting. Both shift somewhat uncomfortably at the memory, their eyes darting away from the hedge in avoidance. 

Kate walks to the short set of stairs and sits at the top, sighing in relief at the weight taken off her feet. Anthony smiles, joining her, his hip snug against her own. Anthony feels movement against his legs, hears her skirt rustling as her thighs shift rapidly. A shoe flies out from below her skirt, landing in the grass, and he laughs. Kate kicks the other slipper from her foot quickly, sucking in a hiss of air at the sensation of the cool evening air on her stocking-covered toes.

“Much better,” she announces.

They sit there a long while in companionable silence. Anthony’s chest warms at the sight of her: forehead smoothed, eyes half-shut, and shoulders rounded as she rests her elbows on her knees. A light breeze pulls at the loose tendrils of hair framing her face, one of the curls tickling his cheek. He resists the urge to tuck it behind her ear.

The gentle strains of a violin and twinkling piano float through from the distant ballroom. Schubert, a waltz in B minor, Kate is fairly certain.

“I think this is us.” She nudges Anthony’s shoulder. “Did you wish to…”

“No, no,” he tells her. “Do not wound yourself on my account.” He motions to her slippers scattered on the lawn.

Kate looks at him consideringly. His skin is nearly luminescent in the moonlight, scattered with a constellation of chocolate moles and dotted with the beginnings of stubble at his chin and cheeks. His lips, wetted by his tongue, are a warm pink. She imagines they are soft, like the petals of a freshly bloomed flower. She wants to feel his hand on her waist again, his breath on her skin. She is close enough to smell him, clean and oaky and slightly sharp with the smoky tang of whisky. She wants to suck the flavor from his tongue, become drunk off the taste of him. She blushes at the idea.

She stands now, shaking herself from salacious thought, and offers him a hand. “Shall we?”

He takes the proffered hand hesitantly and Kate hauls him up until their chests touch. “Here,” she says, leading him into the grass, behind the hedges she hid against last time she was here. “Shall we, Lord Bridgerton?”

With the moon lighting their path, the two dance. First formally, with shoulders back, spines straight, and feet turning in a crisp triplet in time with the music. Soon enough, though, they are out of rhythm, spinning in loose circles across the lawn.

“Does this still count as a waltz?”

“Oh yes,” Kate wiggles her eyebrows, “it’s Viennese.”

The rest of their dance is silent, save for their shared laughter as they stumble through their altered waltz. She laughs in a way he is certain she has laughed with no one else tonight. His arms tighten around her, both slung around her hips, rather than one at her shoulder and another at her waist as propriety dictates. She is so warm against him and he has the briefest wish to remove his gloves and stroke her warm back with his fingertips.

Kate leans into his touch, her arms looped around his neck, and touches a finger to the mole beneath his chin. She drags her hand lazily from the chocolate drop to the chestnut hair curling at the nape of his neck. How easy it is to leave the world behind with him, she thinks, for better or for worse. 

Their steps slow and his fingers stroke the base of her spine, tightening and spreading over the silk as he spans the bottom of her back, dipping dangerously low. Kate’s breath shudders and she presses her face in the hollow between his shoulder and chest. In his boots and without her heels, Anthony can nearly tuck his chin over her bent head. 

The smell of her hair invades his nose and he sighs, ruffling a few loose hairs in her updo. He is still struggling to identify her particular scent. Floral, but not overly so, slightly green and spiced. She smells like the earth and honey. She smells like crisp summer mornings in the woods and the first fruits of spring. He cannot believe he has lived so long without knowing this scent.

Kate softens and removes her arms from his shoulders. “I think the dance is over,” she whispers. His face is a hair’s breadth from hers but neither move a muscle.

“Ah, yes.” He realizes now that the music has stopped. He does not know when this occurred.

“Perhaps I should find my shoes.”

“Right.”

“And we can have our next dance indoors,” she suggests.

“Gladly.” He removes his arms from her waist and allows her to step back, breaking the spell. As much as he would like to live in this moment for an eternity, he also wishes for the rest of the men of the ton to see her in his arms.

Kate smiles and bends to pick up one of her discarded shoes, her dress casting small beams of light in the glow of the moon.

Anthony’s mouth twists up at the sight and he leans back easily against the hedge. “You know, Miss Sharma, your dress is exquisite.”

Her smile flattens as she stands. “Do not.” A small part of her still feels sore at the reminder of Anthony’s prior comment, as though a thorn has embedded itself below her skin.

His brow quirks at her tone. Does she not know that she is beautiful? Or is she defensive of some feeling she holds for the man? Surely Anthony’s dance with Kate was just as lively and far more engaging than any she has shared with the prince.

“Please spare me from being the punchline of your joke. And Friedrich, for that matter.”

He burns at this, all pretense of humor cast aside. “You call him Friedrich now?”

“He asked me to," she counters defensively. “And I am not in the habit of refusing royalty.”

“You are not in the habit of listening to any man,” he retorts. “Does he call you Kate?”

“He does now.”

His eyes narrow. “And what do you speak of with him? When you call him Friedrich and he calls you Kate?” His words drip with disdain for the man.

“Many things,” she says sharply. “He is quite interested in my mind, which is a rare gift,” she jabs.

“Hah,” he barks. “I imagine there is very little in his.” This insipid prince and his ridiculous facial hair. What could he say to Kate that could be so interesting? What ideas of hers could he pretend to comprehend? He has barely met her.

A fire lights in Kate’s eyes. “There is plenty in his mind. We speak of diplomacy with the French, his interest in astronomy, a shared adoration for the modern novelist.” She crosses her arms, nose high in the air. “In fact, he has invited me to visit the royal library as his guest.” She omits the detail that her sister has been invited as well, but she knows the revelation does the trick she hoped it would.

An awful, dark thing claws at his chest, spreading twisted roots between his ribs. He cannot recall what it is to breathe. He doesn’t like that someone else, royalty or not, might appear to be courting her first. He should be the one to present her as his fiancée, as his wife. He should be the one to bring her to libraries and museums and balls and take her home afterward and make her come undone underneath his mouth. There should be no one else.

Anthony examines the shapes and shades of her face, studying her anew. Her skin is golden and warm, beckoning for him to taste. Her eyes, almonds, live beneath upturned, inky brows. He wishes to feast on every part of her; imagines her sweet and honeyed like a ripe fig on his tongue. Her lips are parted slightly, open to him like a budding tulip. He wishes to press his finger into her mouth and drag it against her tongue. He wants to trace the bow of her top lip and press the same wet finger against his own. To taste her mouth on his own without the two ever touching.

Despite this frenzy of envy and lust, there is a certain pride, too. Her tongue is inhibited in the presence of these men, he knows. She is not so polite with him. This prince does not share the same heat she shares with him, he knows. Does he know the warmth of her breath on their skin? The silken touch of her curls wrapped around their fingers? Have they felt the softness of her breasts or backside pressed against their bodies? Do they know her mother’s name, or Kate’s own? 

“And what does he know of you?” He steps closer, until the tip of his nose bumps against hers. “Does he call you by your true name, Kathani?” Kate’s eyes slide shut and she exhales harshly.

No, he decides, these men do not know her at all. They may hold her in their arms, dancing all night, and still they may only imagine her. He promises himself when they are married that he will claim every inch of her body, as no man can. 

She promised herself to him for her sister’s sake but he wonders now, could she marry someone else? Would she? The prince might accept her without a dowry, if the queen has told him the truth of the Sheffields and he is besotted enough. But her reaction confirms to him she desires him with equal ferocity, despite how much she wishes to deny or suppress this flame.

“You will never burn for him,” he whispers against her ear.

“Do not speak of me as though you know me,” she bites out. She pushes his shoulder and digs the heels of her slipper into his chest. “You do not possess me.”

“Yet you possess me,” he counters. He is greedy, he knows, to wish for her to feel the same, to ask her not to consider a future with anyone else. “Do not forget that we are engaged. Making the matter known to the ton is a mere formality. You will be wearing the Bridgerton ring soon enough.”

Kate’s blood turns to ice in her veins at the mention of the ring. “As far as the ton knows, I am not attached to anyone, and most certainly not you,” she spits. “These men are seeking my approval so they might court my sister, which is a familiar phenomenon,” she says pointedly. “I will not wear a ring now to soothe your ego.”

“If you think I raced with you in the park or danced with you at Aubrey Hall because I was after your sister, then I have overestimated your intelligence, Miss Sharma.”

“Oh, you—” Kate cuts herself off and resists the urge to hurl her slipper at his head. “You men. You hypocrites.” She turns away from him and paces the lawn in an effort to calm herself. “I ought to call you out myself. I very well could,” she threatens.

“Go ahead,” he provokes her, invading her space once more. “Shall I duel you? Will Lady Danbury be your second? Come on now, Kate. If we’re going to have it out, let’s do this.” His chest heaves with exertion.

Kate squares her shoulders and stares him down. “Not here,” she responds evenly.

“Very well.” He exhales, deflating a little. “I will meet you tomorrow?”

Kate nods sharply and snatches her other shoe from the grass. She huffs, pushing past him as she slips her shoes back on and walks back to the conservatory. 

“Good evening, Lord Bridgerton.”

So much for their second dance.

Chapter Text

The carriage ride across Grosvenor Square is entirely too short for Kate’s liking. Before she knows it, she is deposited at the mouth of Bridgerton House. She blinks her eyes rapidly as she exits, adjusting to the unusual brightness of the morning sun. 

She has barely slept, her night consumed by frustration. She fumed quietly, kicking the covers to the foot of her bed as her body grew feverish with indignation. Her morning was spent tugging at the loose threads of her pillowcase and mumbling arguments at the ceiling as she awaited the sun’s dawning.

This would have been a wonderful morning for a ride, she notes, stepping onto the gravel drive. Crisp and bright, no humid haze of fog to slow her pace or cause her braid to stick damply at her neck. It is another small sacrifice she adds to the ever-growing pile, the relinquishing of this little freedom for the sake of her family. Despite the demand to give up her rides coming from Lady Danbury, she resents Lord Bridgerton for it all the same. She resents him so very much.

Kate raises her hand at the door, gently tapping the brass knocker against the door, jumping a little when it opens. For all of her fury, she is still flustered, her argument discomposed and tangled in her head.

Kate thanks the footman as she enters, informing him that she has come at the invitation of Lord Bridgerton following Lady Trowbridge’s ball. The young man attempts to lead her into the dayroom, where she hears rambunctious chatter filtering through the crack in the door.

“Actually,” she says abruptly, “His lordship told me he would receive me in his study.” 

It is a lie, of course, but Kate cannot bear to face questions from the rest of his siblings or attempt to speak to Anthony in code while his family acts as their audience. If she has any hope of ridding herself of this anger that burns hot in her stomach, she must share it with him plainly.

“Would you mind escorting me to Lord Bridgerton’s office?” She attempts to arrange her mouth in a reassuring smile. Apparently, it works.

The footman opens the door, announcing Kate’s presence, and Anthony’s head snaps up from his paperwork at her arrival. The thumb and forefinger of his right hand are mottled with ink and his morning coat is already shucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the early hour. 

She suspects that he has been working since daybreak and is overcome by a sudden urge to pluck the quill from his hand and guide him to the couch, to demand that he grant himself some brief respite and a cup of tea. It is a bizarre instinct, made only more confounding given how unbearably aggravating she has considered him for the past twelve hours.

Once the footman is waved away and the door is closed, Anthony’s polite smile turns stony. “What are you doing here?” 

He flings his stack of papers to the side and Kate’s goodwill fades as quickly as it appeared. She hopes he gets a paper cut.

“Truly?” Kate snaps. “Is this how we are to begin? Can you not pretend to have some civility, my lord, or have I not earned that from you?”

Her eyes blaze and his crackle with equal embers.

“I waited for you this morning,” he says, hushed and accusatory. “I was there before daybreak, in the woods, and you never came.”

Kate barks a laugh. “Forgive me, my lord, did you write a letter? Did you send some secret message that I have missed?” She rolls her eyes and moves to stand squared against him from across his desk. “I have forgotten that I should have read your mind.”

“My apologies, Miss Sharma. I will give word to Whistledown directly so you might have the details of our next meeting in writing.” He throws his hands up. “This did not seem to be a problem after our dinner with the Sheffields,” he points out. “The very next morning, we both came to the park without speaking of it.”

Because I knew you would be there, Anthony wants to say. And he knows she thought the same, had sought him out in the same spot of their first meeting.

“Yes, well,” Kate picks at the edge of her netted glove. “I am still barred by Lady Danbury from riding unchaperoned.”

“Since when have you heeded Lady Danbury’s advice,” he scoffs.

“Since my family’s survival depended on it,” she snaps.

Anthony’s brows pull together in confusion. “I thought that was just until Edwina had made her re-debut? She is back in society’s good graces; I see no point in punishing you.”

Kate laughs wanly. “It is to be expected. I’ve already done enough damage to my family. I cannot risk my sister’s reputation even further.” She presses her lips together and shakes her head, avoiding his eyes. “I would ask that you attempt to do the same. If not for me, then out of some sense of duty to them.”

Anthony heaves a sigh. “Kate, I am trying. I would not have agreed to marry you if I did not feel some deference to your family or hold a certain… regard for you.”

“It does not often feel like it.” Her eyes turn to him, wide and pained. “God,” she mutters, pressing the back of her hand to her head, as though checking for a fever. “This is your problem, Anthony. You consider no one’s duty but your own.” Kate shakes her head. “And then you blame me for your lapses in it.”

Anthony’s chest puffs in offense at her words but he slumps in his seat, knowing full well that her words are not without merit. 

“I am sorry,” he says, deflated. “Time and again, I have not acted as a gentleman should with you. If you do not wish for my… advances, I will, I must, I shouldn’t have ever..” He screws his eyes shut and runs a hand through his hair. “I will not sink to the level of the likes of Lord Fife. If you do not desire my name on your dance card or even my presence in our marriage bed, I will not ask these things of you.”

It’s a lovely sentiment, Kate thinks, but not at all what she is asking for. She stares at him, a hand on her hip and jaw slightly slackened, as though he is speaking in tongues.

“You may be the densest man alive.”

“Pardon me?”

“Anthony,” Kate says sharply, clenching and uncurling her hand to ground herself. “I think we have already agreed that we share a certain attraction. Let us not lie to ourselves and undo what little progress we have made.” She exhales tremendously, a weight lifted at her own candor.

Anthony leans forward, intrigued. “So there is something we agree on.” His brow lifts. 

He thinks back to his words the night before, the ones that turned their flame to ash: you will never burn for him. What she says now confirms their truth, though.

“What fresh grievance do you have with me, then? Tell me what I have done to cause such scorn.”

Kate bites her tongue. She could begin with the morning they met, catalog everything from his challenge in the park to their second spat at the conservatory. But then, she would be stood before him until sundown.

“I will keep this brief,” she tells him evenly.

He scoffs and covers his mouth with a finger. “Unlikely.”

Kate throws her head to the side, unamused.

“Pardon me, Miss Sharma, but you are not famous for your brevity when campaigning against me,” he says drily.

“I have plenty to say but I do not wish to raise my voice and draw attention, so I will try to only air grievances of the utmost importance.”

Anthony waves a hand before her, a signal to begin.

“Firstly,” she says cooly, “your behavior last evening.” 

“Yes,” he says, exasperated, “I have heard I was most unforgivable, but I cannot fathom what I have done to earn your ire after sharing a dance and some pleasant conversation.”

He shrugs, feigning confusion, only further irritating Kate. His performance is that of a child with a ring of icing around his lips, claiming he has no knowledge regarding the disappearance of the last slice of cake.

“Oh, come off it, Anthony. My God,” she seethes. “You cannot see beyond your own ego or jealousy. Even at my expense you cannot let go of it. It was a pleasant evening,” she confirms, “until I made one mention of the prince.”

Anthony scoffs on instinct and Kate claps her hands in disbelief at her allegation being proven so quickly.

“That! Right there,” she exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger. “I did not appreciate your insinuation that I would fall at the feet of any man who pays me a compliment, or that you own the right to my affections.”

Anthony raises a hand to his chest as if Kate has knocked the wind from his lungs. She leans forward, persisting.

“The second another man is mentioned or breathes in my presence, you act as if I am an object to be stolen.” 

Kate bends over his desk and jabs at the wood with her finger, punctuating her words. 

“You are no better than Lady Danbury, assuming placing me under lock and key will keep me under your thumb. I will not be possessed. You do not own me.”

Anthony flaps his mouth open and braces his hands against the desk’s edge. Kate straightens to keep her gaze level with his, brown irises burning holes into his pupils and prepared to duel.

“Let me be clear.” Her voice is leaden, hard and smooth. “No man will own me. Despite what you and your peers think of women, we are not broodmares and we are not chips in a game of cards to be traded or lost.  I chose to marry you, proposed to you of my own volition. I am—women, we are self-possessed.”

Her challenge demands satisfaction. If he apologizes for this particular streak of possession, she will lower her weapon. When most gentlemen meet at dawn, guns drawn and seconds at their side, disputes often die before either party fires. Unfortunately, Kate knows that Anthony is much like her: obstinate, inexorable, unwilling to give up the gun.

“I do not presume to own you,” he huffs bitterly.

He knows he will never have any meaningful claim to Kate’s heart, much less her mind. This much has been clear since the day he met her. He sees the way other men look at her, the ones who wish to make her their own. Princes, doctors, earls; all of them eager to proclaim Kate is theirs and theirs alone. They are fools, Anthony knows. Kathani Sharma is not one to be possessed.

Still, doubt and jealousy spread through his chest, encroaching like wisteria, their thorns sharp at his ribs. He does not fear these men for their ability to possess Kate, nor his own inability to do so in turn. No, he fears Kate’s ability to possess them, same as she does Anthony. She is willful and obstinate and intelligent and wonderful. She has every opportunity to change her mind, to choose anyone but Anthony, and he knows that if she wants to, she will. 

He cannot tell her this, though. Whether it is a lack of words adequate enough to express this feeling or simply his pride that prevents him from saying these things, Anthony is unsure.

“I just think,” he continues, “we both ought to remember that we are betrothed and should behave as such, whether the ton knows it or not.”

Kate scoffs at his obvious deflection and crosses the room, ten paces taken as she prepares for battle.

“You were engaged to my sister a week prior and did not behave as such.” She arches a brow, entirely unimpressed, and Anthony rises now too, ready to take aim. 

His mind runs over a million moments together: in the library, in his office, in the garden and the woods. She is right again, as she so often is.

“That is different,” he insists stubbornly.

She huffs. “How?”

“You know how.”

Anthony’s eyes grow dark, heavy, and Kate shifts, turning her head to escape the heat of his gaze.

“I do not know,” she says, head still turned away. “All I know is that you are a rake, surrounded by like-minded men, who expect to marry docile women who turn a blind eye to their mistresses. So how am I any different? Is this what I ought to expect as your wife? To be wed, bed, and bred; to be possessed without promise of fidelity?”

Her tone is accusatory. He sucks his teeth, a finger pressed against his lips as he formulates a retort.

“I meant the promise that I made to you a week ago in those woods,” he says hotly. “I will honor you as my wife, Kate. This passion between us will not be tempered—”

“You cannot know—”

“I do,” he says firmly. He cannot name this feeling, greater than lust, more powerful than simple desire, but he knows it is etched in his bones, engrained down to his marrow. 

“And even if this feeling does fade,” he continues, “that does not grant me license to take mistresses or join anyone but you in bed.” 

Anthony looks at her intently, the unspoken words clear: I would hope you do the same. 

She nods. There is no one else for her, no one else that sets her soul alight as this insufferable, infuriating, arrogant, beautiful man does.

“Last night I told you that you possess me.” He looks at her openly, lips parted and chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. “I meant it.”

Kate licks her lips and nods, a few weeds of worry unrooted in her chest at his oath. Nevertheless, she pushes forward.

“You have me, Anthony. We will be married soon.” 

Anthony’s lungs deflate, releasing a breath he did not realize he had been holding.

“But please, do not ask me to return to living on the fringes of the dancefloor until then. You cannot punish me for speaking with another man or demand that I dance with no one but you,” she says, adamant.

“Of course.” Anthony shakes his head. “I am not so daft that I would attempt to change you or control you. I wish to be a partner, not a dictator.” 

He takes a moment, considering the envy that itched at his skin all evening, his flesh searing at the simple sight of Kate by another man’s side. 

“My jealousy is not your burden.” He says it as much for her sake as his own.

Kate exhales, pleased. She did not expect this matter to be settled so quickly.

“Thank you,” she nods.

This ceasefire only lasts a moment, though, and Anthony’s brief bout of surrender soon gives way to small defiance. 

“But, Kate,” he begins slowly, “just because I don’t possess you does not mean I will not protect you.”

“Protect me from what,” she asks derisively. “Thomas Dorset offering me a glass of lemonade? The prince asking after my opinion on his grooming?”

“The Sheffields, to start,” he says hotly. “Hang propriety, I will call them out if they speak against you again.” He stands, finger pointed at the study door as if the pair lie in wait on the other side. “And the same goes for any other man who dares disrespect you.”

Kate bristles. She can fight her own battles, has done as much for years.

“I have never asked for your protection,” she asserts, “only for my family.”

“And yet you have it! You have my protection now and you will continue to have it as my wife.” 

Anthony moves from behind the desk, starting to pace as he drags a hand against his jaw. He cannot fathom why she insists on disagreeing with him at every turn, even to her own detriment. He must make her understand.

“Beyond the Sheffields or any other gossipers, there are men, Kate.”

“Yes, I am familiar with your kind,” she bites. 

“You have no idea what some of these men think.”

Her eyes narrow. “I have some idea.”

“If you thought me a rake or ungentlemanly,” he shakes his head, “you are fortunate not to hear what they say when they are in the presence of men alone. It demands retribution.”

Perhaps Anthony would have conceded Kate this victory if he had not gone to White’s last night to quiet his mind after the ball. If he had not heard these men, speaking openly of Kate as though she were a plaything rather than a person. But he had gone to White’s, had heard these men spew vile japes at her expense. He will not back down now. But neither will she.

“Enlighten me, then, my lord,” she demands coolly. “Tell me what these men say, how they speak of me.”

Anthony pinches his nose and grinds his jaw. He does not wish to relive it, to recite their foul words, but begins recounting the conversation to Kate as best he can.

“Did you see today’s Whistledown?”

“You read gossip now, Fife?” Lord Cho laughs.

Fife scoffs. “Only so I might have some idea of the Sharma sisters’ prospects.”

“And?”

“The Diamond is polished and apparently the sister is in the Queen’s good graces, too.”

“Pity,” Cho replies. “If either of them were ruined, I’d have a much easier time bedding them.” 

Both men laugh and raise their glasses, unaware of Lord Bridgerton’s presence at the opposite end of the room.

“You could always throw your hat back in the ring,” Fife suggests, “wedding and bedding either is not a terrible prospect. I’ve heard rumor that the Sheffields are offering dowries for both of them now.”

Lord Cho shivers, “The Diamond, perhaps, but the sister? I’d have a better chance of survival if I tried mating with a bear.”

Fife claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Ah, then you have not lived. If she is so wild now, imagine how she must be in bed. Or out of it.” He pauses and laughs, sipping his drink. “Truly, the best women to bed are the ones you must break, like a stallion. The fun is in the challenge,” he winks and pantomimes pulling a pair of reigns at his hips.

Cho pauses thoughtfully, considering his friend’s analogy. “She is an attractive woman,” he concedes, “and it appears she has charm enough for a prince to dance with her twice.”

Fife nods. “I shared a dance this evening with Miss Sharma. I tell you, what she lacks in charm, she makes up for with more ample endowments.” 

The two chuckle in agreement, but their laughter is quickly interrupted.

“That is quite enough.”

The mens’ attention turns toward Anthony, who stands above them, glowering.

“Bridgerton! Tell us,” Fife asks, “why did your engagement end? A few of us have a bet going.”

Anthony smiles tightly, reciting the lines he has sold to the Queen and the rest of the ton. “Miss Edwina is a lovely young lady deserving of the utmost respect.” His words are light but his voice is heavy as stone. “We simply were not suited.”

“Hmm.” Cho hums into his glass. “And here I had hoped you had tried on the diamond or her sister for size.”

Anthony slams a fist on the table, rattling a glass of whisky. 

“You are vulgar. You are crass. You are an embarrassment to your families’ names.” He looks at Lord Fife. “And if I am not mistaken, you have pox on your prick.” 

He rears back, hands folding behind his back and eyes sharp as knives. “I believe you have forgotten that you are speaking of young ladies who are far above you in the eyes of the Queen. I suggest you keep their names off your tongues.”

“God,” Fife scoffs. “You’ve become quite the wet rag.” He taps a finger to his chin. 

“You know, I noticed you and Miss Sharma disappeared from the dancefloor around the same time.” His lips curl into a smile. “Have you been sampling the sister, Lord Bridgerton, or is there still an opportunity for me to have a taste?”

Anthony strides across the room, zigzagging from desk, to bookshelf, to fireplace, to door, and back again as he recounts the conversation to Kate in the study. His movements are dizzying and turbulent, like a boxer throwing himself against the ropes of a ring. He has sanitized their words but still finds himself equally angered and nauseous as the first time he heard them.

“How long did it take for you to say something?” Kate stays planted on the carpet, carved from stone as Anthony whirls around her.

“Maybe a minute?” He runs a hand through his hair, then rests it on his hip. He cannot be certain how long he attempted to tune them out and maintain decorum, but he knows it was not long.

“And how long does it take you to defend other women?” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed.

“Excuse me?”

“I assume they’ve spoken like this before. I heard similar conversation at the first conservatory ball. So tell me, Anthony, what of other women? Of Miss Goring or Penelope Featherington?”

“I…” he lowers his head, toe digging into the carpet in shame.

“You would not tolerate such talk of your sisters, so why do you chastise these men with exception? It is because you speak like them, you think like them.” 

“Not anymore,” he insists vehemently.

“But you have long enough, clearly.” She shakes her head and her stomach turns. Whether this sensation is because she is disgusted with the man she met at the start of this season or with herself for wanting the man who stands before her now, she is not certain. “You should not have to know a woman to have her made human to you.”

Anthony nods, conceding. He is hardly human to himself. “I have defended young ladies before but not as fiercely as I should have. Not as I defended you.”

Kate tilts her head. “And how exactly did you defend me?”

Rather than answer in words, he flexes his hand and avoids her gaze. She sees it now: his hand, the one dotted with ink, is marred with a purple bruise, only a shade darker than her day dress. It blooms at the base of his knuckles, spawning small, sickly yellow sunbursts below his first and middle fingers.

“Do not be alarmed if Lord Fife has an eyepatch at the next ball,” he warns.

“Anthony,” she admonishes him, her voice a whisper without edge. “Violence is no defense of my honor.”

He smiles woodenly, eyes hollow. “I have dueled for my sister’s honor before. I’d argue this is an improvement.”

Kate inhales sharply. “When?”

“Last season,” he admits, rubbing a thumb across the heel of his palm.

Not even a year ago, Kate realizes. Something dark and cold twists in her gut at the thought. A terrible image flashes through her mind of Anthony, laid motionless on the grass of Hyde Park as the sun peeks through the trees, cool dew wetting his skin and warm blood staining his shirt. And all for what? This fear knots in her stomach, weaving itself into fury.

“If this is your definition of protection, then I do not want it. No issue is worth your life.” 

“Kate—”

“I mean it, Anthony. Your protection is not honorable if I do not ask for it.”

“What should I do, then? When Fife and Cho or any other man speak of you out of turn?” He shakes his head fervently, tormented at the thought. 

“Tell me,” she says, like it is the simplest thing. “Let me decide what we should do. There are easier remedies to disputes than those found at the end of a barrel.” She moves to cover his hand with her own. “Or at the risk of a broken hand.”

Anthony nods silently in assent. He will not risk what few years are left of his lifetime, what little time he has left with Kate, for foolhardy pursuits of justice. Besides, he tells himself, she has defended herself formidably for the better part of a decade. She will continue to do so when he is gone.

Still, he cannot help himself but be contradictory, if only a little.

“It is not broken,” he grumbles, turning his palm upward until his fingers are flexed around her own.

“Promise me, Anthony, no duels. Not for me or anyone else.” Kate has to hear him say it, make this promise to untie the ropes of worry that bind tightly within her.

“I promise.”

Her thumb rubs soothingly at his wrist, a small reward for this forfeit. If he will lower his weapon, perhaps she can too.

Anthony nods but gnaws his lip. “I do not trust these men,” he mutters.

“And you think I do?” Kate laughs. “I do not trust the men of the ton as far as I can throw them, with few exceptions.”

“Am I one of those exceptions?”

She purses her lips. “Depending on the day.”

“What about Dorset,” he presses.

“He is. So is Friedrich,” she tells him. “Your brother, Benedict, too, if you’d like to challenge him to a duel for my honor as well.”

“Would you have chosen him?” He asks it so quietly that Kate barely makes out his words at first.

“Who, Benedict?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Dorset. Or, hell, maybe the Prince of Prussia, too.” Anthony deflates, the fight leaving his body.  “It’s all I can think about, Kate,” he admits. “That one morning you will awaken and realize that you are beyond me. That you do not need what I offer. Perhaps someone kinder, or richer, or better titled, or not titled at all will grant you the future you desire.” 

Or maybe the future she desires does not exist with any of them at all, but awaits her in India. This prospect might scare him the most.

“Anthony.” Kate sighs and closes her eyes tiredly, running her teeth over her lip. “My future lies with you. That has not changed and it will not.”

“But why?”

She sits on the couch and pats at the cushion next to her. At her invitation, he collapses into the sofa, pressed against her side. 

“I do not know how many ways to tell you this, but it is no burden to marry you, Anthony.” 

She rests a hand on his exposed forearm and he nearly jumps at her hand spread on his skin, warm through her netted glove. 

“Not just for my family but for the friendship I thought we had begun. But also,” her hand falls gently to his knee, “for the attraction we share.”

He feels braver now with her fingers dancing at the juncture of his knee and thigh, so he asks, “has your desire faded at all?”

She shakes her head and her touch grows firmer. “Yours?”

“I fear mine has only gotten worse.”

Anthony raises his hand to the side of her face as if guided by some spirit outside of his body. So magnetized to her is he that he does not realize that he is cradling Kate’s cheek until he feels the pressure of her jawbone nudging against his skin.

He looks at her now, his vision no longer clouded by anger. This is the first time he has seen her in the light of day since the last time she was in his study, his family ring wrapped in the shared space between their hands. This is the first time he has felt the flesh of her cheek beneath his fingertips since the Sheffield dinner, velvet-soft and curved comfortably against his palm. This touch is a blessing, a reminder that he should be grateful, rather than greedy.

Their faces grow closer, drawn together by a force beyond their control. He can feel the soft puffs of breath, exhaled through her nose every few seconds. It would be so simple to slide his eyes shut and simply kiss her, in every way he has dreamed of kissing her.

Before he can close the meager gap, Kate’s fingertips rise in the space between their mouths, barricading his lips.

“Anthony,” she starts gently, pulling her hand from his parted lips. “there is more.”

Kate wraps a hand around her waist and moves the other from his knee to rest at her chest, like vines of ivory protecting a precious flower from winter frost.

“You mocked me last night.” His brow folds and her lips tug in the beginnings of a frown. “Your dress is exquisite, do you not remember?”

Anthony rolls back the evening in his mind, the sentence that shifted Kate’s mood land made their moment in the moonlight crumble.

“That upset you?” He had been poking at the prince, not Kate. He has never known her to be so sensitive to such barbs, unless… “Do you have affection for him?”

“Your ability to circumvent my point is astounding.” Her lower hand fidgets in the skirt of her dress. “I am under no delusions that a prince would court me, but it would not matter if I were. It does not grant you the right to wound me.”

Anthony’s brows shoot to his hairline. “I did not aim to wound you,” he exclaims.

“But you did,” she insists. “Your intentions matter little. The outcome is that you mocked me and it hurt.” 

Her eyes shut briefly. It is an embarrassment just to admit this, but she knows she must. 

“This was my first ball with a dance card,” she says softly. “The first time I danced with more than one gentleman and allowed myself to imagine that they did not all have designs on my sister.” 

Anthony falters, falling back in his seat.

“A prince complimented me,” she says simply. “A prince. And I allowed myself to feel beautiful.”

His heart cracks and he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. 

“You are beautiful, you are the most… You took my breath away the day I met you. You still do.” Anthony shakes his head. “I am so sorry, Kate.”

His head falls heavily into his hands, elbows braced on his knees as he apologizes, scarcely able to look at her.

“In truth,” he tells her, lifting his head, “I believe every man here recognizes your beauty. I never imagined that you did not.”

“I know that I possess some measure of beauty,” she says. “But I do not possess the age or dowry or rank that would grant me such kindness from most gentlemen, much less a prince.” 

Kate straightens, prepared to finish her list of Anthony’s misdeeds. “And then…” Kate falters a moment, bracing for her most tender wound to be bared. “And then in the garden, you mentioned the ring.”

“The ring,” Anthony echoes her in confusion. “Do you not like it?”

“No.” She attempts a smile but her eyes well, mortifyingly. “I love it.”

She pulls the small ornament that has been weighing like an anchor in her skirt’s pocket all morning.

“It is a beautiful piece,” Kate says, turning the ring in her hand. “But it belonged to someone else.”

“Kate, you are a Bridgerton,” he returns insistently. “Or, you will be soon enough,” he corrects himself quickly. “This ring is as much yours as it was my mother’s.”

“But it was not just your mother’s.” Her polite smile turns wobbly. “It was my sister’s too. And I cannot.. I can’t…” A tear creeps from the corner of her eye and she blinks quickly, humiliated at her body’s betrayal.

Anthony raises a hand to wipe at her tear and she flinches. He pulls away quickly, as if he’s been burned.

“And I know it is foolish and I should not ask this of you.” She feels childish, like a girl of two and ten pleading for a new ribbon or a second helping of dessert, rather than a woman of six and twenty negotiating the terms of her marriage of convenience. “But I need a different ring, Anthony. Anything but this.”

Kate places the piece in Anthony’s hand, closing his fingers into a fist atop the delicate band. She looks at their hands, closed tight as a clamshell around a precious pearl as she speaks again.

“That day you proposed to Edwina. I thought it was for me.” Her voice starts small, barely above a whisper, but grows stronger as she continues. “Every time I look at that ring, all I can see is you on one knee before my sister. I was humiliated,” she admits, voice gritty with grief and anger. “I watched you like a ghost. I watched you deny me and say that a marriage to me was unthinkable.”

It is Anthony’s turn to flinch now. He wants to smack himself, dig his quill into his palm, let her rebuke him until he feels sufficiently condemned. Yet again, he had acted rashly, submitted himself to basest desires and hurt Kate in his attempts to deny this unyielding want. Is there any wound of hers that has not been born of his own hand?

“Kate, I am so sorry.” He chokes on the words, voice breaking. “What I did was unforgivable. It was cruel and thoughtless and I will spend every day of our marriage undoing the hurt I have caused you, if I must.” He places his free hand gently atop hers. “If you’ll have me.”

Kate nods slowly. “Everything I have here is borrowed. My dresses, my jewels, my bed.” My husband, she is tempted to say. “Nothing is mine. My life stopped being my own the day my father died.” 

“Yeah.” His voice is soft, nearly breathless. He knows this loss, knows what it is to be made an imposter in his own home.

“I cannot allow one more second of my life to not be my own. If I am to marry you, it cannot be with this ring.”

“You will never have to look at it again,” he assures her. He runs a hand over his face, a fresh wave of shame washing over him. “God, I am so sorry,” he repeats the refrain over and over. “I will say it every day, every hour—”

“This is apology enough for now,” she interrupts. “But I will hold you to that.”

He nods briskly, jaw tight. He will make this up to her somehow, even if this mission takes the rest of his life.

“The pearls are beautiful, you know,” she remarks, squeezing her fingers between his hands. “I would love them if they weren’t hers first.”

Anthony dips his head, understanding. Perhaps he is the same as a pearl. 

“I will get you a new ring,” he promises. “You will be able to wear it in a fortnight.”

Kate’s face contorts and her eyes widen.

“No one in their right mind would declare intentions so quickly.”

“I have rarely been accused of being of sound mind.”

Kate laughs a little, dabbing at the lingering dampness at the corners of her eyes.

“I suppose we should begin to court, then? Set the table before we ask for the Queen’s blessing,” she suggests.

“That would be a start,” he nods. “Maybe I accompany you at a ball?”

“Three balls,” Kate counters. “And a promenade, at least.”

Anthony wrinkles his nose. “That could be a month’s time,” he protests impatiently. He cannot wait so long. “Two balls and a promenade.”

Kate’s eyes narrow. “And a row on the Serpentine.”

Anthony nods, pleased. “And a row on the Serpentine,” he repeats.

He offers his hand and Kate accepts, shaking it firmly to close the deal. They both smile a bit at this renewed alliance, their anger purged and the future in hand.

“You know,” Kate tells him, hands still clasped, “there is not a day you will not vex me.” she tells him, eyes narrowed.

He smiles and nudges her shoulder lightly, at ease in familiar territory. “I am counting on it.”

Kate chuckles gently and Anthony’s smile turns soft in return. He sees quite clearly now that cannot marry anyone that is not Kate. He has probably known as much from that first race in the woods. How grateful he is to hear her laugh, witness her smile, hold her hand in his own. 

He retracts his hand and rests it on his lap. It would be easy to allow himself the small fantasy that she could ever love him, that she could want him as desperately as he does her. In moments like these, he must remind himself that he will not live forever. He must remind himself that she has chosen him for the sake of her family’s future and any feeling she may hold for him is skin deep: desire, plain and simple.

Anthony ought to be satisfied at this turn of events. If he was told at the start of this season that he would find a formidable woman, an excellent ally, and enthusiastic bedmate for his viscountess, he would be ecstatic. Now though, this victory feels dulled. Something unnamable is missing from this equation, some qualification he has missed on his list of requirements. What this might be, he does not wish to uncover. Kate is perfect as she is and Anthony cannot risk picking at some undefined desire.

Their smiles fade and the less savory details of their courtship remain unspoken: telling their siblings, namely Edwina, and navigating the watchful eyes of the ton.

Kate reaches forward, her pinky extended. “Allies.”

He curls his smallest finger around hers in agreement. “Allies. Come what may.”

Boisterous laughter and footsteps leak through the study door and Kate pulls back. 

“I should be going.”

The two rise, crossing slowly to the door.

“May I walk you to your carriage?”

Kate shakes her head. “I asked the coachman to wait for me at the next house. I think it’s best if we do not draw attention. For now.”

“Of course,” Anthony tugs the sleeve of his shirt and clears his throat.

He opens the door a crack, peering into the hallway. 

“Coast is clear,” he whispers over his shoulder.

Kate sneaks past him and he grasps her wrist gently, seeking her hand one last time.

“Thank you,” he tells her, earnest and hushed.

Kate dips her head in acknowledgement. Heat creeps up her neck as Anthony raises her hand to his lips, raking her knuckles across the seam of his mouth.

“Until the next ball, Miss Sharma.”

“Better than a duel, my lord.”

Anthony sighs, watching her figure retreat and exit Bridgerton House, slipping silently through the door like a shadow. If it were not for the ring left pressed in his palm, he would not know that she was here at all.

A pair of hands descend suddenly on Anthony’s shoulders and he startles, turning to face their owner.

Benedict stands behind him, lips curled into a puckish grin. “Well, brother. I think we have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

“Is it too early for a drink?”

Anthony grumbles and shoves Benedict into the study, shutting the door swiftly behind them. Benedict laughs, stumbling toward the bar.

Benedict turns, assessing his elder brother. Despite Anthony’s relaxed state of dress, his posture is more like that of a man in a straight jacket: back rigid, arms twisted across his ribcage, face twitching with obvious agitation. He releases a lighthearted sigh at this evaluation, amused at how quickly he can wind Anthony into irritated discomposure. For as much as the viscount boasts his stoicism, Benedict has yet to see it maintained, his countenance always crumbling in the face of a prank or jape made at his expense. It appears today is no different. 

Though, he considers, Anthony was likely already rankled from Miss Sharma’s visit. She, like Benedict himself, possesses a natural talent for vexing the viscount. Her skill is quite impressive comparatively, given that she has had mere weeks to find the gaps in Anthony’s armor and has managed to lance through them time and again with impressive accuracy. 

He stifles a chuckle momentarily at the memory of his dance with Miss Sharma the night prior, pressing a finger to his mouth and focusing on a decanter of whisky to avoid his brother’s glare.

“Tell me, what do you do for pleasure, Miss Sharma?”

“Pleasure?” Her beautiful brow creases in confusion and a dash of suspicion. She reminds him so much of Anthony at this moment that it is almost laughable.

“Yes, Miss Sharma,” Benedict exhales, his cadence teasing and teacherly. “Pleasure. Enjoyment. Fun. Are you not familiar?”

Miss Sharma, to her credit, fights the obvious itch to roll her eyes and instead answers him drily.

“I do believe I am acquainted with the sensation.”

Benedict pretends to think for a moment, then clicks his tongue in feigned remembrance. 

“Ah, right. I do recall you finding great amusement at my brother’s expense on the pall mall field.” Benedict guides her into a loose twirl, looping his arm over head. “He came stomping into the house covered in mud, complaining about his boots.”

Miss Sharma laughs at the memory as she spins; sharp, sudden, warm. Without seeing her face, her smile is evident. Benedict laughs too, delighted. She clearly finds equal entertainment in Anthony’s torture.

“You know,” Benedict leans down, whispering conspiratorially, “my brother has made great noise about you from the night you met.”

Her eyes snap to his as she turns, jarred. Benedict draws his head back as Miss Sharma completes the circle, centering herself neatly to face him.

“Is that so?” Her features are composed, forehead smooth as she asks, but Benedict detects a small note of excitement, some intrigue beneath her impassive exterior.

“Indeed,” he promises, smiling. “The night of the diamond ball I believe he spoke more of you than your sister.”

Miss Sharma inhales sharply and the corner of Benedict’s smile falters.

“Nothing terrible,” he assures her quickly. “Anthony’s words are no worse than that of any child throwing a strop.” Benedict bites his cheek, chewing back a chortle at the memory of a particular fit during a round of fencing, tossing his épée to the ground petulantly. “In truth, it has all been quite entertaining. I find your ability to vex him rather impressive.”

Miss Sharma’s lips twist upward and her eyes widen at the compliment.

“I hope you will continue your campaign to humble the great Viscount Bridgerton. Lord knows he needs it.”

“Oh,” Miss Sharma smiles slyly, eyes brimming with something secret as her gaze flits to Anthony, who watches them curiously from the edge of the room. “I intend to.”

As he and Miss Sharma danced, talk turned to other, more cultured pursuits. They spoke breathlessly of art: Benedict’s newfound love for oil paints and intimate portraiture and Miss Sharma’s particular affection for watercolors. He also managed to land a few more well-placed jabs at Anthony before the dance was done, in which Miss Sharma surely found great humor. By the end of their turn on the floor, Benedict had found himself inviting her to visit the Academy and practice her brushstrokes by his side. 

She is a force of nature, Kate Sharma. If such a force visited Bridgerton House unannounced this morning, speaking to Anthony and no one else, then she certainly did not come on polite terms. No, despite whatever odd tenderness Benedict witnessed at the end of their meeting, the two had come to blows. Whether it was over some small matter, such as Anthony’s skill at a quadrille, or something larger, like his effect on Miss Edwina’s prospects, Benedict cannot be sure. 

Regardless of the exact argument, there surely was one, if their muffled voices filtered through the study door were any indication. And, given the pair’s previous track record, Benedict estimates that Miss Sharma had the first and last word.

He pivots and reaches for a pair of crystal glasses, pouring a generous splash of Scotch into his elder brother’s cup. He will likely need it to soothe the sting of Miss Sharma’s sharp tongue.

“Never too early for you, brother.” Benedict smiles, pleased with himself as he passes the glass to Anthony. Anthony rolls his eyes, the small dig in Benedict’s words not unnoticed, but accepts the drink nonetheless.

Anthony sips, long and slow, as he sinks into an armchair. He does not know how to explain Kate’s presence in his study unchaperoned, nor can he be certain of what his brother has seen or heard.

“So. You and Miss Sharma.” Benedict’s lips curl around the rim of his glass, his chuckle echoing into the tumbler as he sips.

Anthony tenses at his brother’s tone, far too suggestive for his liking. Has Benedict seen him kiss her hand or heard them speak of their engagement? His heart races at the thought of some secret observer, an unwelcome ear pressed to the door as Kate bares her heart and lays its wounds at his feet.

“It is not what you think it is,” Anthony cuts in quickly.

Benedict’s head ticks to the side curiously. He had come here to tease his brother, to ask what great misstep Anthony had made in Miss Sharma’s eyes this time, but his reaction is odd. Skittish, even. There is a certain edge to his tone, one more tempestuous than usual that gives him pause.

“What do you think I think it is,” Benedict asks slowly.

Anthony’s eyes narrow. “What did you hear?”

“What do you think I heard?”

“I do not have time for games,” he says crisply.

“I have all the time in the world,” Benedict grins, settling into the sofa. “I am more than happy to sit in this room until you tell me why Miss Sharma was here without announcement, why I heard shouting in your study, and why I saw you kiss her hand as she left.”

Shit. Shit.

“Shit,” Anthony mutters, forehead dropping into his hand.

Benedict chuckles a little, a soft exhale as he pulls a sip from his glass while Anthony shifts uncomfortably in the armchair.

Anthony raises his eyes to assess Benedict. He could lie, he thinks briefly. Tell him that Kate came to deliver her sister’s engagement ring along with one last tongue lashing. Anthony pats the small ring, now nestled in his trouser pocket, and he knows he cannot fabricate another falsehood about this—about Kate —any longer. She deserves to not be kept secret. It is the honorable thing, he decides.

“This is not how I planned to share this news.” He scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly quite exhausted as all fight leaves his body.

“What news, brother?” Benedict sets down his glass, eyeing him warily.

“Miss Sharma…” Anthony sighs. “Miss Sharma and I are to be wed.”

Benedict stands, crossing to his brother’s chair.

“What have you done,” he whispers sharply. “Did you compromise her? Did someone see?” Benedict’s voice raises with each question before he sighs, his chest deflating. Of course, he thinks, this explains everything. “Lord,” he mutters, “it is Daphne and Hastings all over again.”

“Why do you think I have done something untoward? Must everyone assume I am a villain? I am a gentleman,” Anthony huffs, indignant at this interrogation.

“Forgive me,” Benedict raises his hands in mock apology, “but I can see no other reason for the two of you to marry.”

“There are other reasons,” Anthony snipes.

“What,” Benedict asks incredulously. “Love?”

Anthony’s heart stutters staccato in his chest.

“Duty,” he responds firmly. “To ourselves and our family.”

And so he recites their version of the truth, telling Benedict of his and Kate’s first meeting in the park and the one following, where she proposed a marriage of convenience for the sake of their families’ social and economic survival. He tells Benedict about their altercations with the Sheffields and the broad strokes of a shared attraction. Affection, however, he clarifies, is off the table.

“My God,” Benedict sighs, now seated on the sofa once more. “This is absurd. Both of you. You are both absurd.”

“We are not absurd,” Anthony protests, his chest puffing.

“Anthony,” Benedict exclaims, “you are secretly engaged to your former fiancée’s sister. With whom you cannot have a conversation without argument. With whom you say you share attraction but no great affection. Every bit of this is absurd.”

“We do not always argue,” Anthony snaps defensively. “Sometimes we simply talk,” he says, softer now. “She is a formidable ally and an excellent…” Anthony pauses a moment, seeking the right word. “Companion.” He runs his thumb over the signet ring on his opposite hand. “And we have laid much argument to rest. I have apologized for my part and I will continue as long as I live.”

“Brother…” Benedict trails off, unmoored by this confession. In no recent memory can he recall a time where Anthony has admitted fault or humbled himself before anyone, Benedict included. 

He draws in a tentative breath and speaks gently, all pretense of play gone from his voice.

“Do you love each other?”

Anthony’s eyes raise slowly and he shakes his head.

“Kate could never love me.”

Benedict presses on. 

“Do you want her to?”

Anthony frowns, head lolling to the side in contemplation. 

“Well, no.” His words sound hollow to his own ears. He hunches forward, elbows resting on his knees, and twists at his signet ring.

“Then what is the issue at hand? You have what you say you want: a model viscountess and a marriage without great affection. And yet, you sit here,” Benedict waves a hand over his brother’s figure. “Grieved.” 

Anthony says nothing, hands fidgeting.

“Do you love her?” His words are whispered so softly they are nearly inaudible.

“That is irrelevant,” he answers flatly. He lifts his head to meet Benedict’s eyes. “I do not wish to love her and she does not wish to love me.”

“Anthony,” Benedict prods softly. “That does not answer the question.”

Anthony, again, says nothing.

—

“Thank you for bringing us here,” Edwina says, voice breathy and awestruck. Her words bounce off the arched walls of the King’s Library as her head swivels left and right, taking in the innumerable shelves stuffed with leather-bound books.

Kate acts much the same as they enter Buckingham House’s east wing, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of literature. It is almost unthinkable for one room to possess so much knowledge. 

Much of her days at the palace back home, if not spent in the gardens, were consumed by explorations of the vast library, scouring shelves for English novels and Sanskrit poems and academic journals. Still, she finds herself equally reverent now as every time before.

Friedrich turns to the women, a bright smile painting his face. Yellow sun filters through the vaulted ceiling’s windows, spilling over the lofty shelves and casting a halo around the prince. He looks younger like this, Kate thinks, with shoulders relaxed and head crowned in sunlight.

“Truly, you are doing me a favor,” he tells them. “I believe I can name every book in this room—it is a delight to have a captive audience. To share this with someone, rather.”

“Ah yes,” Kate clicks her tongue and turns to her sister. “Bon, I believe we may have been tricked into a reading of Lord Byron’s complete body of work.”

Friedrich laughs. “I assure you both, you are under no threat of poetry recitation. I know Byron is not to your tastes, Miss Sharma.”

“I would not mind,” Edwina remarks kindly, almost shy. “Perhaps not a performance—I have heard enough of those—but I should like to read them. With you.” She smiles. “If you would like to read them too, Your Grace,” she adds quickly.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He nods fervently. “I think I would gladly read anything with you, Miss Edwina.”

Kate watches this exchange from the side, Edwina and Friedrich unconsciously inching closer as they speak. Her lips twitch as she notes a subtle flush bloom at her sister’s neck, complimenting the pink shade capping Friedrich’s ears.

“Could you call me Friedrich?”

“Friedrich,” Edwina nods definitively.

“Or Freddie, maybe,” he offers.

Edwina blinks quickly, taken aback.

“Apologies,” he says hurriedly, “I forget myself, you do not have—”

“Freddie.” Edwina brings a gloved hand atop his cotton-clad forearm, a smile growing as he calms. “Perhaps you could call me Edwina.” 

Her eyes dart briefly to Kate, awaiting a reprimand for this breach of propriety. Kate turns her head, feigning ignorance as she scans the spines on the shelf behind her. Who is she to deny her sister this small freedom?

“Edwina.” Freddie covers her hand with his own, nudging it to loop loosely around his elbow. “Shall I show you the collection of Byron?”

“Please.” She dips her head demurely and the pair wander to a far corner of the room.

Kate watches as the pair pull books from the shelves, stealing glances at one another’s profiles when the other is not looking. Friedrich reaches for a ladder, scaling a few rows of books to reach a larger tome. Edwina leans a shoulder against the bookcase, a small pile of books clutched against her chest as she watches him.

The scene is quite sweet. They are both sweet. But sweetness, Kate knows, is not all there is to love, nor to a marriage or partnership. A quality cup of tea is composed of more than simply sugar. She will allow them this affection; Edwina is deserving of it in abundance. But she will observe the pair closely, measure the prince’s words and actions, each time weighing their intention. Kate will not relive the events of these past weeks and allow another man to make a fool of her sister or squander her goodwill, royalty or not.

Kate returns to another shelf lined with poetry, this collection not contemporary or of English origin. She pulls a few slim books from their slots, poring over the delicate pages of Hafiz’s and Rumi’s lyric musings. Her fingers skim a series of leather-bound spines, stopping when her fingertips reach a supple black leather book, its edges rimmed in gold foil. She slips the book from its home and her heartbeat falls out of rhythm when she reads the cover: The Meghadūta.

She skims the first few pages, surprised to see its opening lines are not written in the original Sanskrit but Old Tamil instead. 

She has a copy of the book tucked away in her trunk, the first ever English translation from Kolkata. Kate had purchased the book mere days before embarking for England, reading the story more than a few times on the course of her voyage. It had been a rare indulgence, an unnecessary expense, but Kate had promised her that she would give it to Edwina, a token to be remembered by when she said goodbye.

Holding the book feels like grasping a small fragment of home in her palm, another reminder that she carries pieces of her parents with her, whether she returns to India or stays in England. She flips through the pages recounting the yaksha's long journey home and turns to the very last.

Removed the curse, restored to his wife,

And blessed with ceaseless joy their everlasting life.

With every translation, Kate finds new beauty in the reunion of the parted couple, new poetry in each rendition of the yaksa’s homecoming. Maybe, she thinks, reading its final lines again, home is not a place at all. Perhaps it is made of people. Her heart will find a home here, too.

“You read Tamil?”

Kate jumps, so lost in her thoughts that she did not hear Prince Friedrich approach.

“Sorry to startle you.” He dips his head apologetically and Kate offers a warm smile in return.

“It is alright,” she says, closing the book. “Tamil was my mother’s tongue.”

His brow wrinkles. “Lady Mary?”

“No, Your Highness,” Kate begins carefully. “Edwina and I are not—that is, we were—we have different mothers. Lady Mary is not mine by birth.”

“My apologies,” Friedrich replies earnestly. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Shivani.”

“Lady Shivani Sharma?”

“She was not titled. Nor was my father.” Kate’s words are clipped and concise. “I believe only Edwina is of noble blood.” She smiles tightly, wishing for this moment to be over.

Friedrich ponders this a moment.

“Is that why you do not wish to court, Miss Sharma?”

“Pardon me?”

“Do you restrict yourself from courting because you do not desire it, or because you do not believe yourself, or—or your station rather, desirable.” He clears his throat and runs a finger around his collar as his speech falls into discomposure.

“My apologies, Miss Sharma. I fear I continue to overstep today.” He tugs at his jacket, wiping a dampened palm at its side. “I am usually much better at diplomacy than this,” he chuckles.

Kate nods, accepting his apology. She knows he means no harm.

“My sister is my first priority. My family is my only priority.”

Friedrich dips his head, offering a gentle smile. Duty is a familiar friend.

“And what of you? I can tell that you care for your sister greatly,” he notes. “You would have asked Lady Mary to chaperone Miss Edwina today if you did not. I see how you have guided and taught her. Your sister speaks highly of you.” He sighs and Kate’s cheeks heat, unused to such compliments. 

“I cannot fathom why you insist on discrediting yourself at every turn.” Friedrich shakes his head. “You know, that first night I met you, I thought you were just as lovely as your sister. Your station or breeding—both yours and Miss Edwina’s—matters little.” He stands a little taller now, more stately with this renewed confidence. “You are intelligent, clever, and kind. My aunt told me that you were another jewel in her crown and said I should not discount you. You are not one to be overlooked, Miss Sharma."

Kate’s eyes flutter rapidly and her breath quickens. Surely, the Prince of Prussia was not… no. How utterly absurd. Still, she could not discount the notion, despite its extremity.

She looks to her sister perched by a window, pretending to read the same page of King Lear for the past five minutes. Kate squares her shoulders, willing the rise and fall of her chest to find an even rhythm. She will not entertain another suitor’s misplaced attentions.

“If I am being overlooked,” she says tightly, “then perhaps it is because I do not wish to be looked at.”

Friedrich’s forehead folds in puzzlement.

“Not even if a gentleman showed interest?”

“I am not looking.” Kate jaw burns, her teeth gritted so tightly that they may turn to sand.

“Ah.” His forehead smoothes. “I suppose I understand.”

Kate’s shoulders relax but her hackles rise again at the prince’s next inhale.

“But you clearly have some affection. Or is it kinship, maybe? Is that not worthy of a second glance?”

Kate gasps. Prince or not, how dare he be so forward to suggest he knows her mind, believing she has some feeling for him while he deigns to court her sister.

“I have no interest in Prussia,” she tells him, eyes narrowed and voice cool.

The fold in his forehead appears again.

“What?”

“Do not play naïve as you make innuendo,” Kate whispers.

“What innuendo am I—oh. Oh, heavens no,” he responds, flustered. “Miss Sharma, I have no designs on you. It has been made quite clear to me that your attentions lie elsewhere.”

“With my sister.”

“No.” The word is spoken as a question. Now Kate’s brow furrows, the two standing together as a pair of confused mirrors.

“Where, then?” What secret of her own interests is she not privy to?

“Well, with Lord Bridgerton, of course.” He says it with such surety, as though it is entirely obvious.

“Lower your voice,” she warns him quickly, noting how Edwina’s eyes flick between her sister and her book.

Friedrich leans forward, whispering. “Did you not know?”

“Of course I know, how did you know?” Kate whispers quickly, rearing back to search his face for clues. “Did the queen tell you?”

“I know because he is quite terrible at hiding it,” Friedrich retorts. “As are you, by the way.”

“Truly?” Kate feels a sudden nakedness. Anthony, she knows, is prone to acts of discomposure; his behavior is the very reason for this engagement. But she thought herself better guarded than this, less exposed in her desire than he.

“Truly,” Friedrich smiles. His nose crinkles a moment as her words catch up to him. “My aunt knows?” 

“Only as a matter of necessity,” Kate admits.

“Well, that’s all quite…” Friedrich raises a hand to his cheek. “I feel a bit in the dark, that's all,” he laughs. 

“By no fault of your own,” Kate says. “It is by design that no one knows. Not until Queen Charlotte gives us her blessing.”

“The ton does not know?” Friedrich’s brow creases. “But you have petitioned my aunt for marriage? How have you kept your courtship secret?”

“The ton does not know. Nor does my sister. And we are not courting.”

Friedrich’s face contorts into deeper confusion.

“But you are to be married.”

“Correct.”

“Yet you have not yet courted.”

“Also correct.”

“Which is why Edwina does not know.”

Kate nods and watches as his eyes widen in slow realization.

“And you do not want Edwina to know.”

“Not yet,” she answers hesitantly.

“Which is why you have not publicly courted.” The last pieces of the crooked puzzle come together as he tilts his head, looking at Kate anew. “My aunt already knows everything, then. And she is holding the marriage license hostage until…” Friedrich’s voice lifts, a question.

Kate’s eyes shift to her sister again, who has wandered to inspect a collection of Fielding on a faraway shelf.

“Until,” she whispers, “my sister’s prospects are promised and her good reputation is restored. Anth—Lord Bridgerton and I must remain on best behavior.”

Friedrich pauses a moment, lips pursed in thought. 

“Well, I… I cannot speak to your sister’s wishes, but I believe it is safe to estimate that her prospects are in hand.” 

He drops his head, suddenly shy, and runs a thumb across his palm.

“Do you mean to say then,” Kate begins carefully, “that you will declare intentions for my sister?”

Friedrich smiles faintly.

“Only when she has declared her own,” he says softly. He turns his head, watching the young woman leaf through a few pages of Fielding. “I know that my station can come with a certain… shine. I do not wish for my attentions to make me a distraction; a strategic option rather than one considered out of love. I have already learned that lesson from last season’s diamond.”

Kate exhales gently, taken aback at his thoughtfulness.

“There is a word we have, gemütlich. It has no direct translation, but it is used to describe a certain comfort or contentment; a warmth.” A rose hue blooms tamely on the apples of his cheeks. “Every time I am with your sister, Miss Sharma, I am overwhelmed by the sensation. There is no one like her.”

“I agree entirely.” Kate’s eyes find Edwina again, softening as her sister returns her looks with an excited smile. She fixes her gaze back to Friedrich. “Very well then, Your Highness. Should my sister wish for it, I might grant you my blessing.”

A grin breaks across his face.

“Thank you, Miss Sharma,” he whispers. “She is lucky to have you, you know.” He pauses a moment, leaning closer. “Lord Bridgerton, too.”

Kate simply smiles in return, saying nothing.

—

“You know,” Anthony mutters, “it is customary for a gentleman to call upon a young lady for a promenade.”

“Then you should have expected me to call upon you, my lord,” Kate replies easily, “since no part of our acquaintance has been customary.”

“An invitation, perhaps, would be expected,” he counters. “You appearing at the door of Bridgerton House with a carriage and twenty minutes notice is a touch more irrational, even for you.”

Kate laughs and braces her hand easily against his forearm as they stroll, more delighted than irritated by his jabs. Anthony sighs and sets his mouth into a frown, but she notes the corner of his lips threatening to turn upward and crack his frustrated façade.

A few paces ahead of the pair, Edwina twists her head back at the sound of her elder sister’s laugh. Kate schools her features quickly and jerks her head, encouraging Edwina to return focus to her companion, Matthew Bagwell.

Kate is no fool, she knows she cannot keep this arrangement from her sister much longer. When Kate had told Edwina that the viscount would accompany her as she chaperoned Edwina’s promenade with Mister Bagwell, Edwina had responded with mild suspicion and greater confusion. Why on earth would her former fiancé accompany her sister—his self-proclaimed enemy, no less—on a promenade with a prospective suitor? Kate claimed his presence would be an act of solidarity, to show unity between their families and prove that the viscount harbors no feelings of ill-will or affection for the elder or younger Sharma sister, respectively. 

Edwina accepted Kate’s answer with tepid enthusiasm, but she knows that this answer will not satisfy her sister much longer. Not when Kate begins attending balls on his arm or taking a private row along the Serpentine. Soon, Kate promises herself. Soon, she will tell Edwina.

“I think it would be best if I escorted you to the next ball, Miss Sharma.” Anthony says the words nonchalantly, as though suggesting she sample lemon preserves with her scone, rather than debuting their courtship to the whole of society.

“Pardon me?”

“I would like to escort you to the next ball,” Anthony corrects himself. “If I may.”

“I do not think that is entirely wise,” Kate hedges.

“Would it be wiser a week from now? Two? When will it be the right time, Kate?” Anthony asks.

She considers the question for a long moment and sighs.

“I do not know,” she answers honestly. “But I believe if we are to do this right, we should move slowly.”

“How slowly?”

“Perhaps we start with a promenade. Like today. Then we share time at a ball or two, ensure our interactions are obvious but respectable. By the time we announce an engagement, the queen and the ton will be on our side.”

“And your sister will be, too.”

Kate nods.

“You know we cannot wait forever, Kate,” he prompts her gently.

“I just need a little time. I cannot see her hurt.”

Anthony follows Kate’s gaze to her sister and dips his head in understanding.

“What color dress are you wearing?” Anthony asks suddenly. “To the ball?”

“Blue and gold, I believe,” she answers warily. “Why?”

“Perhaps we could… I would like to—if it is not too much—I would like to match my waistcoat to your dress.”

Kate scans his face, searching for insincerity and finding nothing but honesty etched in the divot between his brows and hope written in the curve of his lips. She offers a hesitant, irrepressible smile in return.

“I could be agreeable to that.”

Anthony nods crisply, his formality contrasted by the crinkled corners of his eyes. Kate turns her head forward to her sister and Mister Bagwell, attempting to ignore the warmth that tickles at her chest.

“They look quite good together, don’t you think?” Kate glances at Anthony, whose brows shoot up at her question.

“You actually seek my opinion on something?”

“Just this once, my lord,” Kate says drily. “Indulge me.”

Anthony licks his lips and flicks his gaze to Kate, her warm almond eyes upturned to him expectantly. In truth, he has barely spared a glance at Miss Edwina and Mister Bagwell during the length of their promenade, his attention fixated entirely on Kate. Though it has been a mere few days since he has last seen her, each moment spent in her presence feels like the very first.

He catalogues a series of details he is certain he has never seen before. For one, the honeyed hue that burns in her eyes when caught by the sun; flecks of gold to be mined from the depth of her irises. Her scent, ever-present, is more enveloping when carried on the afternoon breeze. Even as they walk through endless greenery—nepeta, phlox, dahlias, roses, foxgloves, spring bulbs, and rudbeckias—her sweetness is still her own, distinctly identifiable, entirely Kate. Her hair is less severe, a series of simple braids twisted with lavender ribbon to match her day dress. A stray spiral curls at the nape of her neck and he considers how it may feel wrapped around his fingertip. How is he meant to focus on anything but the span of shoulder or the weight of her fingers on his forearm at this moment?

Turning his mind from musings of Kate, Anthony clears his throat and looks ahead at the couple consideringly. Mister Bagwell gesticulates somewhat wildly, Miss Edwina giggling and nodding encouragingly.

“They appear well-suited enough,” he replies noncommittally.

“Enough?” It is now Kate’s turn to raise her brows.

“It is just—well, he seems like a lovely young man. A bit milquetoast though, I must say,” he chuckles.

“I do not think simplicity is a character flaw. Perhaps you find him dull because he is simply well-adjusted, my lord. Or maybe it is not because he does not speak with my sister as though he is conducting an interview with a new valet?”

Anthony rolls his eyes.

“As if you did not speak to me in the very same manner,” he scoffs. “‘What are you recommendations, who can speak to your reputation, how would you manage your accounts—’”

“Because I was not courting you,” Kate retorts, cutting off his incredibly inaccurate impression of her.

“And yet, here we are,” he smirks, covering her hand with his own in a tableau of courted bliss. “I believe our interview process has proven quite productive indeed.”

Kate’s eyes narrow and she pulls her hand from his arm, sweeping the path for nosy onlookers.

“Our arrangement is quite different from what I wish for my sister and what I am sure any of the mamas wish for their daughters.”

She fixes her eyes ahead, watching Edwina fiddle with the edge of her glove as she speaks to Mister Bagwell, more measured in her delivery, but equally engaged. There is an amity between them, Kate can tell. But she will not let her sister settle for friendliness, not for anything less than love.

Anthony’s steps falter and he inhales slowly.

“Kate, I am—”

“Anthony.” Kate rests her hand on his arm again. “If you are going to apologize again, there is no need. We have already tended to enough wounds this week. We have a lifetime for atonement.”

He nods, resuming their pace, and tugs his lower lip between his teeth.

“About the other day,” he begins.

“Anthony, truly, there is no—”

“I believe Benedict knows,” he says quickly, eyes darting furtively to assess Kate’s reaction.

“What?” Kate blinks rapidly. “What does he know?”

“Just about everything, I’m afraid.”

“That’s impossible,” Kate shakes her head. “How can you be certain?”

“I think, ah,” Anthony scratches at his ear, squinting as he looks up to the sun. “Because I told him.”

“Anthony,” she hisses. “Tell me you are joking.”

“I am not renowned for my humor.”

“Why would you tell him anything?” She shakes her head in exasperation.

“He overheard us arguing in the study,” Anthony whispers. “Not everything, but enough that I could not simply lie.”

Anthony reaches for Kate’s gloved fingers, gripping them between his own.

“I promise you, Kate, nothing will come of this. We can trust Benedict. Lord knows I have kept enough secrets of his.”

Kate exhales slowly and nods, squeezing his fingers briefly in return.

“In the interest of transparency,” she starts slowly. “I believe Prince Friedrich knows as well.”

“Kate, you cannot be serious.” Anthony’s eyes widen, nearly bulging from their sockets. “How does he know?”

She shifts her head, avoiding his slack-jawed stare, and clears her throat.

“I believe I may have told him.”

"Why would you tell him?"

"Apparently, we are less adept at subtlety than I realized," she retorts. "One of us, anyway."

She casts a glance to his hand, reaching for hers again, and quirks a brow.

Anthony scowls, tucking his hands at the small of his back in defiance. He sighs, swallowing the urge to point out the hypocrisy of this revelation in light of her vow to maintain some amount of secrecy. Kate, he now realize, will not be swayed to make any decision that is not of her own accord. This choice, despite its urgency, will be made in her own time. And so he says nothing.

He waits, uncharacteristically patient and unusually quiet, watching the sun shift against the curve of her cheek and listening to her steady breaths as they round the end of their path. He lingers at her side as they approach the awaiting carriage, grazing her gloved pinky with his own. Kate's steps stall and she glances at her sister's turned back before meeting Anthony's eyes. Her brow softens and she stills, hooking her finger against his.

"Kate," he speaks gently. "Whatever strategizing or worrying or wondering you are doing, you are not alone in it any more. I am with you in this." He tightens the curve of his knuckle against hers. "Come what may."

Kate nods and Anthony reluctantly releases her finger from his own.

"Come what may," she repeats, the words echoed from their last morning in the study.

"So," Anthony begins. "This gown you're wearing tomorrow evening. Would it happen to be Bridgerton Blue?"

Chapter Text

The days between Kate’s promenade with Anthony and the next ball pass in achingly slow succession. She has not been outside—not meaningfully, anyway—since that day. She is only permitted to walk Lady Danbury’s grounds or chaperone Edwina to outings with interested gentlemen. These outings, of course, are only at the dowager’s discretion. No strolls through the woods and certainly not any rides in the park—chaperoned or otherwise. 

Her mornings are filled with deliberately drawn-out sips of chai, long consideration of Danbury House’s bed of marigolds, and careful avoidance of Lady Danbury’s burning gaze. Her evenings trade tea for brandy, flowers for books, and Danbury’s watchful eye remains the same. The hours between are spent searching Edwina’s face for signs of grief, disdain, betrayal; some hint of knowledge of her elder sister’s plot.

By the third day of this purgatory, upon her fourth circling of the gardens, Kate is certain she feels her brain itching; some twitching buried behind her skull demanding a scratch of stimulation. She pauses, letting her eyelids slide shut as she leans her head against the column of a gazebo.

In this new place behind her eyes, she is riding on horseback, her hair untied and brushed by the wind. She smiles involuntarily, imagining herself flying through Hyde Park, lungs full with crisp morning air. Kate envisions herself guiding a horse over hedges, clearing the brush at breakneck speed. Her mind turns then, to one fateful morning with a vainglorious, frustratingly handsome stranger.

Anthony. His smile—from that day and a dozen others—is seared in her memory. Though her mornings, afternoons, and evenings are meticulously planned and well-accounted for, this man from her first ride in the park consumes her nights. Without fail, without permission, he permeates her unconscious mind with maddening ease.

Kate knows, logically, that she cannot blame him for this subliminal intrusion. It is entirely her own mind’s doing. And still. Still, she would like him to stop. Stop slipping into her dreams, stop clouding her quiet moments with quixotic fantasies.

He comes to her unbidden, his hands banded around her back, twisted in the hem of her nightdress. In these dreams, Anthony smiles that same lofty, stupid smile below her and she dips her head low to kiss him, her hair curtaining them from the world outside her bed.

In others, the pair race in the park, covering miles of grass until they dismount with hearts pounding. He presses his mouth to hers tenderly with no intention to do anything but kiss her. This victory tastes sweet.

Kate’s thoughts linger on this invention, the ghost of his lips on hers, and she sinks back against the gazebo pillar.

“Miss Sharma.”

Kate jumps, nearly shedding her skin as she straightens and turns wide eyes to this intruder.

“Lady Danbury,” she nods.

“Enjoying the gardens?” The dowager lifts a brow.

“As much as anyone can,” Kate answers evenly, pasting what she hopes passes for a smile to her lips.

“Yet it appears your mind was anywhere but here.”

Lady Danbury crosses in front of Kate, stepping into the gazebo. She lifts her skirt and sits primly on the bench nestled inside.

“Please sit.” Her words are more a demand than an invitation.

Kate draws in a quick breath and steels herself as she joins her host.

“I have been watching you,” Danbury starts.

Kate snorts, unable to contain herself.

“Yes, you are not particularly subtle,” she retorts.

“Neither are you,” Agatha returns pointedly. She sighs, noting the younger woman’s stiffened posture. “You have been quite unlike yourself these past few days. Withdrawn, disinterested, and surprisingly conciliatory. I’ve considered checking you for a fever.”

Kate’s eyes flicker, unsure if this is Lady Danbury’s acerbic attempt at kindness or a judgment of her failings as a ward.

Agatha watches her carefully, notes the young miss’s assessment of her intention. She extends a hand, patting Kate’s forearm gently with her fingers. She should have known Miss Sharma would withdraw from a peace offering; the girl is just as wary of the vulnerabilities of honesty as she is herself.

Finally, Kate nods, closing her eyes as she does so, as if the act pains her somehow.

“I do not feel like myself, that is true,” she admits. “I am just… suspended. Waiting.” She shakes her head.

“For?”

“For the moment I must break my sister’s heart,” she answers quietly. “Waiting for Queen Charlotte to rescind her blessing or for Lady Whistledown to expose us or for Anthony to realize that I am a terrible mistake.”

Danbury opens her mouth to speak, perhaps to refute these fears, but Kate continues.

“I am trapped,” she says, snapping her head to the dowager.

“In this choice?” Agatha asks.

“In this house,” Kate exclaims. “I cannot breathe. I cannot spare a moment to myself without a set of eyes on my back or tread a corner of these grounds that I have not already seen a hundred times,” she says in a rush. “I need my morning rides again.”

Lady Danbury shakes her head, silencing her pleas.

“It is not wise,” she tells her plainly.

“Why,” Kate demands, “why must I be guarded like a child, when you promised that I could return to my rides once Edwina’s good name was restored?”

“Because your sister’s good name was compromised from your very first ride, Miss Sharma,” Danbury says, exasperation coloring her voice. “To allow you back in those woods, unchaperoned again, may very well jeopardize the Sharma name for the last time.”

Kate’s face grows hot, her stomach turning at this prospect.

“I do not know what you are referring to, Lady Danbury. Perhaps you may speak it plainly.”

“You met Viscount Bridgerton in the park. More than once.”

Her tone is not accusatory, but still makes Kate feel as though she has been charged with some great crime.

“Do you have any evidence of this? Any findings for this claim?” Kate counters.

“Perhaps the fact that you had negotiated a marriage deal by dawn the morning after the Sheffield dinner? I believe you omitted that detail during our last visit with Lady Bridgerton.”

She shifts, disconcerted. Lady Danbury continues.

“Perhaps the matter of your extreme reaction to the viscount at the start of this season, then. Tell me, had you met him before that first ball? Alone?”

“This is absurd.” Kate rises from her seat, flustered.

“You called him Anthony. ”

She freezes, caught.

“A moment ago, you said, ‘Anthony may realize that I am a terrible mistake.’ I do not think it wise for you to risk communion with any man in the woods, particularly one with whom you are so familiar.”

“I am sorry,” Kate whispers, sinking back to her spot on the bench. “I have been careful with my words,” she promises, “this is the only time I have not—”

“Kathani,” Lady Danbury interrupts.

She turns, jarred at the use of her given name, such extreme informality.

“I do not blame you. But I do not think it is wise to take such a risk.” Agatha draws in a gentle breath and closes her eyes. “When I was a young woman, I…” Her eyes open again, filled with wistful melancholy. 

Kate holds her breath.

“I know what it is to be blinded by feeling. To perhaps act without thought.” She speaks softly, reverently. “I have lived it and I have witnessed it.”

Lady Danbury nudges Kate now.

“Neither of us are fools, Miss Sharma,” she continues. “But we are not immune to certain… passions,” she says carefully.

“Lady Danbury,” Kate cuts in.

“Miss Sharma,” she returns archly. “Let us dispense with the notion that I have not witnessed how you two look at one another.”

“Very well then,” Kate concedes. “But grant me my morning rides,” she insists. “If I am to remain imprisoned here—”

Lady Danbury rolls her eyes. “Imprisoned.”

“—imprisoned,” she continues, “then please, let me ride again. I will go before daybreak, I can take a maid if you’d like.”

“Am I to believe any maid of mine would keep pace with you?” Danbury chuckles.

“Please,” she repeats, imploring. “I will not tarry with Lord Bridgerton, I will not even tell him I have been allowed on these rides again.”

“I do not doubt your sincerity,” Lady Danbury starts, “and it brings me no joy to withhold this from you.” She sighs. “But I know Lord Bridgerton. He will search for you in the park. He will ride every morning with the hope of finding you there.”

Kate knows she may be right, that Anthony had been doing exactly that after the morning of their engagement in the woods. But certainly, she thinks, he has not been in search of her since she informed him of this prohibition.

“Ask him, if you’d like,” Danbury says, rising from her seat. “At tomorrow evening’s ball. Ask him if he has looked for you.”

Lady Danbury offers Kate a hand to stand. She joins her upright, stupefied.

“I believe I have a fair understanding of his effect on you, but I am not sure if you are entirely aware of your power over him. Miss Sharma.”

Kate’s cheeks warm.

“I believe I have some knowledge,” she hedges.

“Hmm, I’m sure.” Lady Danbury scans Kate’s face briefly, eyes narrowed in search of something. Her pursed lips soften after a moment and she taps her cane softly in thought.

“You ought to know this by now, Miss Sharma: you are not a mistake.”

___

Anthony spends four days acutely aware of Kate’s absence. Through every morning deflecting his mother’s questions over tea, in afternoon fittings spent sparring with Madame Delacroix, and his evenings working his way through a stack of numbing correspondence, she is noticeably not there. Not there to distract him or touch his hand or raise her eyebrows disapprovingly or craft some spectacular insult. And it is terrible that she is not.

One pale morning, he wakes with an incurable itch to ride at Hyde Park. 

He does not pause as he rises from bed, shaking remnants of sleep and dreams of Kathani Sharma from his mind. He does not stop to wonder why he has such an urgency to his movements as he prepares his riding kit or mounts his horse.

It is not until he is past a mile of thicket, heart pounding from exertion as he reaches a clearing, that he stops. He swivels his head quickly and dismounts from his horse, his boots growing glossy from dew-coated grass.

Lungs burning and brow damp, Anthony wipes a palm across his brow, then runs a hand through his hair. He looks around again, squinting in the pale morning light.

The sound of brush rustling reaches his ears and he turns suddenly.

“Kate—”

His words deflate at the sight of his horse stamping in the grass.

Kate. Of course. The distracted days, this restless morning, his haunted nights. He has simply been in search of her. For how long, he cannot be certain.

Rather than remount and ride back, Anthony chooses to walk home through the park. He guides the horse steadily, reins looped loosely in his hand. The sun grows brighter as he walks, warming the skin of his cheeks and neck. Birds call to one another, echoes of distant song carried through the canopy of trees, and a cool breeze threads through his hair.

How much more pleasant it would be, he thinks, if Kate were here. Maybe they will walk these woods when they are married. He would like to ride here each morning, picnic and walk with her. He would like to watch her braid come undone in the wind and twist her curls between his fingers. He’d like to lay in the grass until the sun hung high, watching it turn to honey on her skin. Anthony would like to do everything with her and absolutely nothing at all.

A sharp breath escapes Anthony’s chest as his horse stamps. He realizes suddenly that he has been completely still, stuck in the fantasy of his future wife.

___

Anthony arrives at the next evening’s ball uncomfortably early. So early, in fact, that he is one of the first few to arrive and make deeply uncomfortable small talk with the event’s hosts, Lord and Lady Trowbridge.

As musicians tune and pluck strings in steady staccato, a slow stream of guests trickle into the ballroom. With each entrance, Anthony’s head snaps to the doors, his anticipation for Kate’s arrival growing stronger by the minute.

The doors click open once more and Anthony groans at the sight. Eloise, arms crossed, and their mother chagrined at her side. The pair trudges over to him, Eloise mocking a curtsy in greeting and Lady Bridgerton barely containing a roll of her eyes in return.

“I see we are in fine spirits tonight,” Anthony remarks drily.

“Ask your sister how she has already managed to get her slippers covered in mud,” Violet says tightly.

“Ask Benedict,” Eloise retorts. “It is his fault.”

“Where is Benedict?” Anthony cranes his neck, scanning the room for his brother.

“Still licking his wounds by the carriage, I’m sure,” Eloise says.

“His—? Never mind.” Anthony presses two fingers to his temple and exhales, tempering his frustration. “Please, Eloise, do not cause a scene this evening.”

“You speak as though I am the dramatic one,” she replies, her nose creasing. “Just because I am a woman, I do not—”

The doors click open again and Anthony turns. He smells her before he sees her. She is floating toward him on the air of some damnable, unnamed flora. Stepping past his sister and mother, Anthony is met by the sight of Kate. Something in his throat loosens.

She is a vision in sapphire. The blue silk glows with a galaxy of fine golden flowers along the hem of her skirt, the edge of her sleeves, and the deep scoop of her neckline. Her hair is kissed by moonlight, a scattering of pearls pinned in her loose chignon. In the glow of the room’s candlelight, Kathani is incandescent.

“I have been waiting for you,” Anthony says, a touch breathless. He lifts her gloved hand to his lips and lingers, holding her gaze as presses her knuckles against his parted mouth. It is now Kate’s turn to feel breathless.

“Here I am.”

Her mouth twists as Anthony rises, drinking in his features. The slope of his nose, the glint of his teeth, the shape of his smile. Her heart stutters as she documents his beauty, smells the amber and tobacco of his skin. She would quite like to press her lips to his cheek and taste him. To feel the angle of his jaw on her tongue and leave a pink stain behind, staking her claim.

“You wore blue,” she smiles, noting his uncharacteristically colorful cerulean waistcoat. The satin fabric is covered in a rich gold brocade that looks upsettingly attractive on him.

“So did you,” he nods, a warm grin splitting his cheeks.

“Ah, brother, there you are!” 

Benedict materializes by their sides and strikes playfully at Anthony’s shoulder. Kate realizes then, quite suddenly, that their hands are still attached. Flustered, her hands fly behind her back as she dips her head in rushed greeting.

“Good evening, Mister Bridgerton.”

Benedict tilts his head inquisitively.

“Who is this Mister Bridgerton? Unless Gregory has smuggled himself here in my jacket, you should dispense with that formality. We’re friends, Kate,” he smiles and lowers his voice, “soon to be family.”

“Could you please be anywhere else but here,” Anthony snaps.

“Over there arguing with Eloise?” Benedict points to their younger sister, glaring daggers from across the room. “I think I’ll take my chances with you.”

“What’s gotten her so upset?” Kate asks, peering over the brothers’ shoulders at the glowering young lady.

“According to her, I’m being avoidant and ‘keeping secrets,’” Benedict scoffs. “She’s right, by the way, but I’m certainly not admitting that.”

“What great secret are you keeping?” Anthony's eyes narrow.

“Yours,” Benedict replies crisply. “And now my shoes are muddied and my toes are trodden.”

“Ah. Yes.” 

Anthony clears his throat and tugs at his waistcoat. Kate, in turn, picks at the edge of her gloves, desperate for a new topic of conversation.

Benedict’s brows fly to his hairline, head cocking as he takes his future sister-in-law’s gown.

“Now I see why he was so desperate to borrow this from me,” he says to Kate, patting a hand on Anthony’s chest.

Anthony, in turn, smacks his sibling’s forearm.

“Do not touch me,” he snaps, rolling his neck.

“Really, Anthony, it’s very sweet,” Benedict chuckles patronizingly. 

“You borrowed this?” Kate’s nose crinkles in amusement.

“Yes, to match you,” Anthony replies irritably. “I only asked Benedict because Madame Delacroix could not competently create the waistcoat as requested.” He pauses, shuffling his feet. “Nor would she share the swatch she used to make your gown.”

Benedict makes a poor attempt at stifling a snort and Anthony raises a finger.

“Do shut up.”

“I haven’t said a word.” Benedict raises his hands in feigned innocence. He flicks his gaze to Kate, whose eyes are intently fixed on her feet.

“Miss Sharma, may I have a dance this evening? I fear my trampled feet will not make me a great dance partner, but I can compensate with good company.”

Benedict offers a grin and Kate instantly understands why so many ladies of the ton find him dashing. She also realizes in this moment just how much he looks like his elder brother when he smiles.

She nods, acquiescing, and extends her arm in offering.

“Of course, Benedict. Though I cannot promise I will not add to your suffering,” she laughs. “I am afraid I have a leaden foot.”

“I suppose you’re worth the risk,” he smiles charmingly.

As Benedict scrawls his name next to her first dance, Kate spares a glance at Anthony, who’s been surprisingly quiet, unpossessive in the face of this exchange. His jaw is tense, she can tell, with a thumb cradling his jaw and forefinger tracing his lower lip.

Kate tilts her head low and catches his eye, cocking a brow in warning.

His brow furrows in turn. Have I said anything?

Her lips twitch. No, but your face has.

Anthony smiles broadly, too broadly, cheeks split but baring no teeth. Better?

Kate holds back a laugh and nods imperceptibly. Better.

Benedict steps back, his dance claimed, and Kate steps forward, closing the gap between herself and Anthony.

“Miss Sharma,” he breathes softly. Kate.  

The hand drops from his chin, his features soften. “Please forgive me for my excitement.”

“Lord Bridgerton,” Anthony. “I will not fault you for it.”

“Thank you,” he returns solemnly. “Truly, I do not intend to unkindly, but he is an intolerable child.”

A smile plays on her lips.

“I believe that is something you may have in common.” Anthony’s lip curls and Kate motions to his vest. “Madame Delacroix might be inclined to agree.”

Anthony shudders.

“I should hope that is where our commonalities with her end.”

“Ah, what a pity.” Her eyes glitter with mischief. “I had hoped you’d like to follow your brother’s lead in signing my dance card as well.”

“Please,” Anthony huffs and leans down, grabbing Kate’s wrist to reach the slip of paper. “I would have covered the entire card with my name if he had not interrupted us.”

“You get two,” Kate says quickly, warning. “I must dance with other gentlemen tonight.”

“I know, Kate,” he sighs, voice hushed. “I trust you. It is just…”

Anthony’s words fade as he rises, catching Thomas Dorset’s eye as he enters the ballroom.

“You must dance with someone else this evening, too.”

Kate’s words snap him back into focus.

“What? Absolutely not,” he responds hotly. “I have no interest in stumbling through a country dance with some girl who cannot string together a sentence. Nor am I interested in being hounded by her mother.”

“Is this how you speak of your sisters?” Kate returns edgily. “Or mine? Is this how you spoke of Edwina?”

“Of course not,” he shoots back.

“It is not, ‘of course not.’” Kate shakes her head. “I heard how you spoke at that first conservatory ball.”

“And you saw how I was chased by every eligible young lady and her mother. My displeasure is warranted. I do not wish for that again.”

“Oh, how awful for you to be subjected to so much affection, Lord Bridgerton.” Kate raises a hand to her heart. “I will hold you in my prayers tonight.”

Anthony’s nostrils flare and he leans closer.

“You do not understand,” he starts, exasperated.

“Yes, of course I do not understand,” Kate retorts.

“I do not wish to dance with more debutantes, I am enga—”

“Miss Sharma, Lord Bridgerton.”

Kate and Anthony whip their heads in tandem to greet Mister Dorset, who has silently sidled up to the pair.

“Are you always at one another’s throats?” the doctor chuckles.

“This was actually a very friendly discussion,” Kate replies, nervous laughter coloring her voice.

“Yes, it sounded quite, ah, spirited from across the room.”

A touch of scarlet creeps up Anthony’s throat. 

“Miss Sharma is a very lively conversationalist,” he pinches out.

“Indeed.” 

Dorset’s agreement is offered limply, no effort made to pretend he is engaged in any conversation with Anthony. His eyes instead linger on Kate’s face and track down her shoulders.

Anthony fights every traitorous bone in his body that itches to kick the man in the shins. Somehow he does not think Kate—or the queen, for that matter—would take too kindly to such an act. Whistledown, however, would be thrilled.

“Would you spare me a dance, Miss Sharma?”

Kate extends her hand.

“Happily, Mister Dorset.”

Anthony’s hand flexes at his side as Dorset grins and grants himself Kate’s second dance.

“Miss Sharma,” he says abruptly. “Mister Dorset, please pardon me. I must fetch myself a glass of lemonade before the first set begins.”

He knows his exit is odd, curt. But he could not spend another moment in the presence of a man so clearly enamored by his fiancée. 

It is no fault of Kathani’s that the man does not know she is betrothed, nor is his infatuation. Nonetheless, bearing witness to another man besotted by the great Kate Sharma was too painful. His words from their tête-à-tête in the study came back to him as Dorset stood before her: my jealousy is not your burden. And so he has refused to make it hers ever again.

A terrible pang twists in his gut. Here he stands, unable to observe mere minutes of another man’s fawning over his… Kate . She endured this sensation for weeks.

Awash in self-loathing, Anthony sets down the glass of lemonade. The drink is bitter on his tongue.

“Is it not very good?”

“Miss Featherington.” Anthony’s countenance relaxes. Penelope is the least dangerous of her sisters.

She’s dressed in a frosty yellow frock that matches the lemonade. The dress, when paired with her orange hair and green gloves, makes the young lady look like a bounty of citrus.

“That is a beautiful necklace,” he remarks genuinely. The red jewels contrast starkly against her pale skin like a porcelain bowl of cherries.

The young woman blushes, a pink flush covering her cheeks.

“Oh I don’t—I mean, that is, thank you,” she responds, flustered. “It’s new.”

“How are you enjoying the evening?”

“It is.. alright,” she hedges.

Anthony lifts a brow.

“Eloise is in a mood.”

“Ah, yes,” he sucks his teeth.

“And Cressida Cowper said my dress looks like a lemon square.” She sighs. “It was derogatory.”

Anthony rolls his eyes.

“Cressida Cowper is an acidulous person who will find herself blessed if she marries a fourth son.”

Penelope squeaks a pitch so high that Anthony briefly worries he has stepped on her foot.

“I cannot believe you said that,” she giggles, throwing a furtive glance in Cressida’s direction.

“I really shouldn’t have said that,” he says suddenly. “I’m trying to use… better words.”

“But she is a terrible person.” Penelope’s nose crinkles and she whispers. “I don’t think there are better words for her.”

Anthony finds himself torn between amusement and complete surprise. Who knew that timid Penelope Featherington had a sour side?

“Are there any dances this evening you’re looking forward to?” Anthony redirects.

“The country dance that starts the set is always good fun,” she says fondly. “I quite enjoy watching it.”

“Watching?”

“Oh, yes. I rarely get.. I do not like to..”

“May I have your first dance, Miss Featherington?”

“Oh.” Her voice halts. “Have you not filled every young lady’s dance card already?”

“The only dances I am set to share are a quadrille and a waltz with Miss Sharma, and a cotillion with you. If you will have me,” he responds winningly.

“A waltz? With Miss Edwina?” The youngest Featherington’s eyes grow saucer-like and dart around the room, seeking said Sharma sister.

Anthony wheezes and knocks a fist into his chest, hoping the noise is confused for a cough. Not in the next ten lifetimes would he willingly waltz with Edwina Sharma. Penelope turns to him again, concerned.

“I am parched,” he replies hoarsely. He takes a sip from the acrid cup of lemonade and suppresses a wince. “And you are mistaken,” he continues. “I am dancing with the elder Miss Sharma.”

“Ah,” she says, the word drawn out and stretched like the slow drip of molasses from a spoon. “Perhaps I have misremembered, but I believe the two of you did not have much affinity for one another at the start of this season?”

She poses the question carefully, as though threading the eye of a needle, as though she has not been informed of their hostility by Whistledown’s gossip rag nor witnessed any of their famed spats.

Anthony laughs, somewhat comforted by the memory of his quarrels with Kate. She kept him sharp.

“Yes,” he answers. “But she was merely protecting her sister’s best interests. I would do the same. And,” he adds, “she was rightfully skeptical of my intentions, after everything she’s read of my reputation from Whistledown.”

Anthony shakes his head and Miss Featherington nearly chokes, her face flushing. Perhaps he should not have referenced his salacious endeavors.

“But,” he soldiers on, “now that her sister and I have realized she was correct in challenging our match, Miss Sharma and I have become dear friends.”

“Dear… friends,” Penelope repeats slowly.

“Good friends,” he amends. Was dear too affectionate?

“Well then,” she nods. “That is very lovely.” She purses her lips for a moment. “But still, you do not wish to dance with any other lady this evening?”

Anthony feigns a sip from his glass, delaying a proper reply. He refuses to sign the dance card of any other debutantes who flutter about, clearly eager for more than mannerly socialization, from this evening until the end of his days. Perhaps it is unwise, telegraphing his intentions so clearly, but he does not care. Maybe the ton will assume he is acting gentlemanly, not dancing with anyone but the family of his former betrothed in some act of respect. Although, when has Whistledown or anyone held an opinion of him made in good faith? It is unlikely.

“Indeed, my feet are quite tired,” he says. “But I will make an exception for you, Miss Featherington.” He nods to the floor, where a small cluster of couples prepare to dance. “Shall we?”

She beams.

While Lord Bridgerton signs her dance card and leads her to the center of the floor, Cressida Cowper glowers.

As their country dance runs its course, conversation turns from one topic to another in dizzying fashion. Miss Featherington begins by asking after Colin, oddly invested in his travel itinerary, then moves on to more questions about the Sharmas: How well are you and Miss Sharma acquainted? Does Miss Edwina plan to dance with Mister Bagwell a second time this evening? Which sister is Prince Freidrich courting? 

These questions are, of course, peppered with offhand commentary on the surrounding partygoers: musings on the mottled bruise near Lord Fife’s eye, a keen observation of how many sherries Lady Danbury has managed to imbibe in the span of eight minutes, and unabashed amusement at Eloise, pulling faces with every step of their dance.

Anthony, despite his steadfast attempts to remain engaged in the frenetic discussion, has remained magnetized to Kate. With each turn, his eyes drift disobediently to her, intensely aware of the angle of her elbow, the curved line that carries her shoulder to the nape of her neck.

Benedict swings his arms high and careless, slinging Kate in sloppy circles around their section of the floor. She looks shockingly young as she twirls, with thin curls loosening from her pearl-pinned hair and shoulders shaking with glee. 

His mouth is dry. He is breathless. His toes hurt?

“Oh, Lord Bridgerton,” Penelope covers her mouth with a gloved hand. “I am so sorry.”

Anthony squints and shakes the sore foot, realizing he has lost pace with the surrounding couples. He reaches quickly for Miss Featherington’s lost hand and reclaims their spot to complete the dance.

“No apologies required, Miss Penelope,” he assures her. “It seems my mind is traveling further than my feet,” he quips.

“I am often a chatterer if no one stops me.” She looks to Eloise for a moment and smiles. “I will not blame you for finding it all quite boring.”

“I promise you, Miss Featherington, I was not bored in the slightest.”

As the musicians conclude the song, the floor erupts in generous applause and cordial curtseys. Anthony remains still.

“Truly,” he continues. “Give Benedict one sip of brandy and he will fancy himself a raconteur. The nonsense I have endured…” Anthony shakes his head, refocusing. “All that is to say this: I find you utterly delightful. I see why Eloise holds you in such high esteem and Miss Sharma speaks of you kindly.”

“Miss Sharma speaks of me?”

They simultaneously focus their gaze on the young woman, still trading bright-eyed witticisms with Benedict.

“Yes, just a week ago, upon a visit to Bridgerton House,” he says softly, the admission floating out absentmindedly.

Kate’s words from that impassioned row in his study float through his mind: You should not have to know a woman to have her made human to you. He is grateful to her for reminding him of his duty to other women, that Anthony ought to amend his rules and she shall not be made an exception. He is gladdened and ashamed all at once.

Penelope, oblivious to this inner turmoil, lifts her brows.

“Huh,” she breathes, studying the woman.

Lady Trowbridge claps, signaling the next dance, and Anthony is snapped from his stupor.

“Will you excuse me, Miss Featherington? It’s been a pleasure.”

—

Anthony spends the next set outside. 

He knows it may be foolish, childish even, to not continue polite conversation with Miss Featherington or ask after his mother’s sanity as he mimes sips of sour lemonade. But he cannot bear the thought of watching Kathani dance with Thomas Dorset, pretending he is blind to her while every hair on his body stands in her presence. If he is to preserve the sanctity of their alliance, Anthony knows he must grapple with this unwelcome ardor on his own. As he does all things.

He stands now at the precipice of a hedge maze, the brush no more tangled than his mind. The air around him is stale and oppressively hot, stickier than it ought to be for such an evening. Anthony makes a momentary note to correspond with the local farmers about the heat’s effect on their crops. He brushes a hand against a series of purple primrose, lifting a finger to his nose afterward without thought. It does not smell of her.

Sweat prickles at his forehead and neck and he lifts both hands to loosen his cravat. With his luck, he is certain to return for his waltz utterly drenched.

“How perfect,” he mutters.

Resigning himself to this fate, Anthony lowers himself to the ground, pleasantly surprised at its coolness beneath his thighs. He sighs and drags a hand through his scalp, confounded by his own vexation. He plucks a flower from the thicket and spins its stem between worried fingers.

Anthony cannot interpret how undone he’s become. Why does he sit at the mouth of a garden, cravat hung limply and hair missed, while a party carries on mere feet away? Such a state would be humorous were it not so unsettling. 

He does not want this. He has never wanted this, to be so plagued by maladies greater than lust, particularly for a woman meant to be his wife. To be so afflicted with something unnameable and entirely incurable is maddening in its own right. They ought to be friends; had agreed to it a mere week ago in his study. Allies, spouses, and bedmates— that was the agreement. 

And yet. 

Anthony still cannot sleep without dreams of Kathani Sharma. He cannot last the span between breakfast and tea without wondering what she may be doing at that very moment or what the day’s tasks might feel like by her side. Nor can he stomach the thought of another man desiring her as wholly as he does—he can barely manage to watch her dance with a gentleman who is clearly besotted. 

Worse than that, he cannot stomach the thought of how he treated her, and so many other young ladies before her, at the start of this season. She had every right to berate him as she did the night of the conservatory ball and every day after that. Just weeks ago, he would have treated her the same as any other woman in line to marry him. He would have been dismissive, abrasive, self-aggrandizing. And he was, he realizes, pulling petals from the primrose. While in pursuit of her sister, whom he treated like a child, he still tried to make Kathani Sharma small. He scoffs. As if anyone could do that. He was a fool for trying.

And then, he thinks a particularly awful thought. How many other women has he made small? He runs an excruciating tally in his mind. Daphne, Eloise, Miss Edwina, and Miss Goring. Siena. He swallows. All these women converge in his mind: the young ladies he has interviewed and the courtesans he has spent an hour with, all dismissed as one does as easily with a footman. How callous. 

Reminders of his sisters are especially painful, how quickly he has discarded their desires and dreams. Yes, of course, Anthony has had to deny his siblings many things, his tenderness chief among them. But this is greater than that. He is grateful to not recognize himself as that man that nearly forced his sister to marry Nigel Berbrooke, but he is ashamed by the memory all the same.

How many other women have he and the other men of the ton attempted to strip of their personhood? And how many of these men have been successful in this pursuit? He ruminates on young ladies like Penelope Featherington, so docile and meek until proven she will be treated like a person. How many people, he wonders, have told her that she ought to be quiet?

He notices suddenly that the air is incredibly. The music from the last set has ended. How long ago, he does not know. All that is certain is he must make haste to meet Kate inside for their waltz.

Anthony stands, smoothing his jacket and straightening his sleeves. Before he departs, he plucks one more primrose. 

His footsteps are halted by a figure in the doorway.

“He lives.”

Kate steps forth from the shadows, her visage illuminated by moonlight.

“Apologies,” he says breathlessly. “I lost track of time in the gardens.”

Kate scans his features warily.

“Do not make this a habit,” she says.

“It is my solemn vow,” he replies, crossing a hand to his heart.

“What is that?” Kate points to the peek of purple below his white gloved hand.

“Oh.” He had forgotten the primrose entirely. “It is for you, for your—may I?”

She nods and Anthony steps closer, enveloped her by her sweet scent. He raises a hand, skating past her cheek to touch her hair and tuck the stem in a braided bit of hair above her ear.

Kate does not shy from his touch, nor does she turn her gaze from his, etching the crests of his face. Anthony cannot meet her there, cannot look into her face too long without feeling burned or blinded. Her eyes are too wide, too bright, too full of moon.

He busies his hands in her hair, lingering longer than intended. He taps the petals, pressing the flower firmly in her curls.

“There.” The word is near-silent and the world is still.

Anthony’s mouth parts and Kate’s tongue darts out to wet her lower lip. 

No, not here. He steps back and offers his arm.

“Shall we, Miss Sharma? I would hate to miss our set.”

“You do not wish to recreate our last garden waltz?”

Anthony tenses and she bumps his arm with hers.

“I am joking,” she says, searching for a smile from him but the line of his mouth remains unmoved. “Let us go inside.”

She loops his arm through his, carrying Anthony through the threshold of the ballroom. As they find their place on the dance floor, her hands travel upward: one rested on his shoulder, another meshed with his hand. His other hand winds warm and low at her waist.

“Kate, I am sorry.”

“What for?” Her forehead furrows. “For that dance in the garden? I told you in your study, I am past it—”

“And I told you I will apologize for the rest of my life, need be,” he interjects. “But, no. It is not for that. It is for how I have conducted myself tonight. With you and Mister Dorset.”

“Ah. Mister Dorset.” Her features settle into recognition.

With this, the music begins and their feet move in three quarter time. So too, do their words.

“Yes, him,” Anthony nods. “I also find myself regretful for so many other things.” He pauses, eyes shifting to find Eloise and his mother at the edge of the dance floor. “But, for now, I will simply offer you my penitence for this.”

“I greatly appreciate your progress in not challenging Dorset to a duel,” she says with a mildly confused chuckle. “And unless you have managed to threaten him between his signing my dance card and our dance a few minutes ago, I cannot find any action worth an apology.”

Anthony laughs to himself, face twisting in something akin to frustration. Of course, now that he asks for Kathani’s admonishment, she tells him it is no longer needed.

“But it is more than my actions,” he insists, “it is the nature of my thoughts. Of you, of the men who look at you…” 

Anthony exhales and closes his eyes, his nose grazing Kate’s scalp for a moment. He pulls back and blinks, desperate for her to understand. All traces of humor have been wiped from her face.

“Anthony…”

“He does not wish to be your friend. Nor did I when we first met, if I am being entirely honest.”

Kate’s mouth snaps shut.

“But I have held this narrow idea in my mind for so long,” he continues, “this notion that our relationships, our roles, are entirely defined by such desires. Greater than that, I could not fathom a world where someone knows you, Kate, and does not do everything in his power to spend the rest of his life in your presence.”

“I recall you tried that,” she returns quietly.

“I was a fool,” he says sharply. “I am one still. I was threatened by you, your mind, your—everything. It was fun, I must admit, being challenged by you. But I tried to diminish you all the same. And I am sorry for it.”

Anthony pulls his hands back from her body, tucking one behind his back and turning a palm outward. Her hand slides into his, their positions mirrored, and they turn. Kate’s eyes widen, her brows pulling together.

“I thought I was no longer jealous of Mister Dorset, I know you do not desire any future with him.” He says this like it is any other fact, but searches Kathani’s face for any flicker of proof that his words do not ring true. Her features remain unmoved. “But I find myself unsettled by a man who has not once thought the way I thought about our roles as men and women.” He breathes shakily. “A man who has not made you feel invisible.”

The pair moves fluidly, rigid elbows softening as they travel in triplet steps, a wave of blue rippling across the marble ballroom floor.

“Thank you.”

She does not offer reassurances about that. He is fine with that, he does not deserve them.

“Will you talk to me, when you feel these things?” Kate asks finally.

“I am trying now,” he tells her softly.

“Promise me you will always try. Even when we are married,” she says.

“I imagine it will be much easier when we are married,” he smiles.

It is a wonder how easily these words fall through their lips: when we are married. What once seemed an impossible fate is now a pleasurable future.

Anthony leans forward, his mouth just above the shell of her ear, his voice ghostly quiet.

“I am engaged to you,” he whispers. “And I am counting the days until this charade is ended and we do not have to whisper in the corners of a ballroom in order to share our truest thoughts.”

He pulls back, lifting Kate’s right arm with his left for a slow spin. 

“But until that day comes,” he continues, “I will exercise great restraint and remove myself from instances where I cannot. Perhaps with greater tact than earlier. But I hope to not encounter such emotions in future endeavors.”

She draws back, a little breathless from his proximity. His scent, heady and human and entirely him, lingers.

“What makes you believe you can learn to change so quickly, my lord?” Kate asks cheekily.

“I am an excellent student, Miss Sharma.” He straightens and some of the old Anthony, the self-assured lord she met in the woods, returns. “I am very motivated,” he smiles, “and I find you a particularly powerful incentive.”

Kate rolls her eyes but still laughs, her face burning beneath his gaze.

“And because I trust you. I should find little reason to worry about this when I believe in you entirely.”

She mulls over his words, pulling her lip between her teeth.

“And when a man says or does something you dislike? When he signs his name on my card or asks me about the weather?”

“I will defend your honor when necessary—”

Her eyes narrow in warning.

“—non-violently, but unless you or your honor are threatened, I will not interfere.”

“Very well. And what of our disagreements? Shall we never bicker again?”

Anthony bites his cheek.

“I believe we will always find more things to bicker about than these,” he says playfully. “But I suspect we may find a new method for conflict resolution.”

As the dance ends, Anthony pulls Kathani closer for the briefest of moments, his left hip bumping her right, his insinuation entirely clear. Her response is laughter: soft and low, unfurling from her throat like a spool of velvet. He cannot wait to hear this every day.

The two pull apart, clapping for the cluster of musicians at the floor’s center.

“Shall we?” Anthony tilts his head in the direction of the refreshments table.

Arms tucked behind their backs, they wander in the direction of drinks and small bites, where Penelope, Eloise, Edwina, and Mister Bagwell huddle around a platter of sweetmeat biscuits.

Kate peels away from Anthony, wrapping an arm around her sister’s shoulders.

“How are you enjoying the evening?” she asks.

Edwina turns up her head and grins.

“It’s lovely.” She reaches up to squeeze her elder sister’s hand. “I was just talking to Mister Bagwell about Roman antiquities. It is incredible what has been discovered in just the past ten years.”

Anthony, in an attempt to mirror his fiancée’s approach, slings an arm around Eloise’s shoulder.

“Hello, sister.”

“Ew,” she says, her nose wrinkling as she shrugs off his arm. “What are you doing?”

“Being familial,” he returns irritably. “Is that not allowed?”

“Not in public,” Eloise says, lifting a cup of tea to her nose.

Anthony’s forehead furrows.

“What is in that?”

“Tea.”

“What is in the tea?”

He looks to Penelope, who shifts uncomfortably at the question and moves away from the siblings.

“You know, Eloise, I was just about to leave—”

Anthony snatches the cup from his sister’s hand and sips. It is bitter with bourbon.

“Where did you get this?”

“Where do you think?” Eloise crosses her arms and he follows the nudge of her elbow: Benedict.

Anthony sighs and runs a finger around his collar.

“Do you have more?”

“I am not telling you,” she huffs.

Anthony holds out his hand expectantly and, after a long stalemate, Eloise reaches into the top of her bodice to produce a flask. 

Lifting two cups of tea from the table, Anthony turns into the corner of the room, pouring a healthy amount into the warm liquid. He screws the bottle shut and slips it back to his sister.

“There’s still a bit left.”

Penelope, though removed from the scene, gapes at the exchange. Eloise guffaws.

“Are you gravely ill, brother?”

“Not at all.” He draws a sips. “In fact, I feel better than I have in ages.”

Anthony withdraws and moves back to the Sharmas and Mister Bagwell, who is deep in some story about the ancient ruins of a temple. Miss Edwina appears completely enthralled.

“The lake itself was once referred to as—”

“The Mirror of Diana,” Edwina cuts in excitedly.

“Yes,” Bagwell says, leaning in. His reddish hair bounces as he nods.

Anthony taps Kathani’s elbow with his own and she looks up.

“Tea?”

“No, thank you.” She waves a hand. “The English make a weak cup.”

“This one is a bit stronger,” he whispers.

Kate takes the cup cautiously, clinking the porcelain with his quietly. When she sips, her brows raise.

“This is an improvement,” she swallows, walking a few meters away from Edwina and her suitor.

“Happy to oblige.”

They sip quietly, observing the din of the room. Clinking plates, the click of heels, and raucous bursts of laughter form a cacophonous symphony that drown their words to anyone but themselves. 

Eloise catches Anthony’s eye as she exits the room with Miss Featherington, presumably ducking out early. Rather than stop her, he offers a wave farewell. He sips again and turns his attention back to Kate, who watches her sister intently.

“Kathani.”

Her eyes flicker to meet his.

“I have been meaning to ask you about your time since we last saw each other. Have you been well?”

The question is stilted, awkward. He drinks more. Kate smiles wryly.

“These past days have been impressively tedious. This is the first evening I have moved through the world without a chaperone and still, I am surrounded.”

Anthony frowns.

“What of your rides? Did Lady Danbury not return them to you?”

“No, despite her earlier promise, Lady Danbury has still insisted that I abstain from all activities that bring me a modicum of joy.”

“Why?”

“I believe you are the reason.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Kate responds drily. “She believes you still wander the woods in search of me.” She shakes her head. “And, apparently, we cannot be trusted to control ourselves around one another.”

“Absurd.”

“So I said as well.”

Anthony swallows and Kate tips her head.

“Anthony.”

“What?” The word comes out too sharply for an innocent man.

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Have you been riding to Hyde Park in the mornings to look for me?”

His silence is answer enough.

“Anthony…”

“Yes, I have,” he admits softly. “Of course I have.”

Kate’s brows furrow in response, but he continues.

“My days have been particularly empty as well. I realize I have been looking for you around every corner.”

He scans the room to avoid her expression. Whatever it may be—pity, irritation, embarrassment—he does not wish to see. As he searches the room, his eyes land on an observer. He does not know how long she has been watching. Anthony drains his cup and looks at Kate.

“Would you hate me terribly if I reneged on our quadrille? I am sure Mister Dorset would not mind another dance with you.”

Kate sucks in a breath and the corners of her lips quirk down as she considers the question. She musters a serene smile and nods.

“Of course not, my lord. We have many more dances left in this lifetime.”

Anthony opens his mouth to speak, but she carries on.

“I ought to check on my sister. Have a pleasant event, my lord.”

Anthony moves a hand to thumb at her gloved fingers, the motion hidden by her skirt.

“You as well, Kathani.”

With great effort, he removes himself from her side and approaches an unamused Danbury.

___

The next morning, Kathani does not wake of her own accord. Instead, she is roused from tender visions of Anthony’s mouth on a shared cup by a series of gentle knocks at her door. 

At first, she is certain she is still dreaming. A inky blue glow fills her room, illuminated by the last moments of a waning moon. It is too early, or perhaps too late, to be awoken for breakfast. Rubbing tired eyes with the heel of her hand, Kate throws back the covers to cross the room and fumble for her doorknob.

When she pulls back the door, no one appears. She pokes her head out, peering down the hallway in search of a ghost. She looks down and squints, a square pile of fabric and a scrap of paper resting at the threshold. 

Kate leans down to collect the odd offering and retreats back to her room. She recognizes the feel of it, she realizes, rubbing the fabric between her fingers, velvety and cool. Her riding habit.

She rushes to the window and uses the moon to cast its light on the paper’s inscrutable text and her hand jumps to her chest as she reads Danbury’s writing.

Please return within the first hour of daybreak.

Chapter Text

The world is asleep. Slim fingers of a shrinking silver moon slip between branches and illuminate a verdant forest floor. The air is dense, thick with the threat of fog. This misty, muted morning is a near-perfect one for Kate’s return to riding.

Were it not for her horse’s hoof beats drumming steady beneath her body, she would think she was flying. Brush and bramble fall behind her in a blur and Kate’s lungs burn with exertion. Heart pounding and hair floating, she taps a heel into the horse, spurring her faster. She grins.

A new sun creeps to cover the moon and its warmth skims Kate’s cheek. She is not sure how long she has been riding, sprinting breakneck as though she is being chased, but the slow-rising dawn reminds her she should return soon. Still, she pauses, praying that the daybreak does too. Chest heaving, she sheds a glove to wipe her brow and pat gently at the horse’s side.

After a long, quiet minute, Kate tugs her glove back on and returns the reins to her palms. She leans down, stroking the mare’s mane once more.

“Shall we?”

On the jaunt back, Kate finds herself feeling lighter than days before. Some weighted thing has dislodged itself from the home in her chest and she remembers what it is to breathe. Despite her friendship with Anthony—for friendship is all it is—Kate is grateful that he has given her the grace of seclusion in this morning ritual. To convince Lady Danbury of this allowance, unfettered, while trading his sole retreat for her own, does not go unrealized.

She wonders for a moment what he said to the dowager to permit an act she was so recently, so vehemently opposed to. Whatever his words may be, Kate feels quite indebted to him for it. As if I were not indebted enough already, she thinks. Despite this thought, a warmth spreads through her chest, her cheeks. Simply because he cares. Anthony cares for her, in some way greater than lust and in another quite similar to a friend. Kate does not wish to examine the extent of his care, to measure hers against his. Perhaps if she does, she will be forced to see its stark disproportion. He is finally acting as the gentleman he once claimed to be. This should be some solace, answer enough. And still, she would like to ask him why he cares for her at all.

Upon her return to Danbury’s stables, Kate pauses. Standing before her is Daniel, a young man of six and ten, and her favored stable hand. She is unused to seeing him here before mid-morning, much less in these early hours she always spends in solitude.

Sensing Kate’s trepidation, he offers an open hand to collect her reins and takes a small step forward. “Everything is all right, miss. I was told to meet you here this morning.”

“Ah, I see." Of course Lady Danbury would keep a watchful eye on her return to riding. “And how are you this morning, Daniel?”

“Very well, miss.” He removes his cap and ducks his head.

As their hands cross over the thick leather straps, Daniel’s fingers stay fisted awkwardly. Kate pulls back but the boy pauses, tapping her hand with his furled one.

“It’s a message for you, miss.”

Kate’s brows furrow, the line growing deeper as the young man shoves a wad of paper from his palm to hers atop the reins.

“Daniel, I do not think this is—”

“It is from Lord Bridgerton.” Her protests die at this admission. “You ought to read it inside.”

Bewildered, Kate peels back a glove and tucks the note inside. It seems Danbury was not behind the boy's presence at all. She tears off from the stables and hustles toward the estate, throwing a quiet “Thank you!” over her shoulder as she goes. The slip of paper scratches against her palm with every step.

She slips into the house quickly from a maid’s entrance, careful not to disturb its guests, still lazy with sleep. Once she is ensconced safely in her room, door locked and body crouched at the foot of her bed, Kate reads.

I hope your ride was pleasant. I have found tea with the lady of the house to be decidedly less favorable. One might consider owing her mood to the early hour, but I trust her distaste for my company will stand the test of time.

Should you not share her opinion of me, please find me on the Serpentine at half past two this afternoon for a row (not our usual kind). I will be the gentleman by the boat. Dry, this time.

Yours,

Anthony

Kate reads the note once, twice, again. She hears his voice in each word, sees the humor in his looped letters. A smile creeps across her lips as she imagines him, huddled in some corner or with paper pressed against a flat wall of the stable, writing the letter out of Danbury’s view. 

In retrospect, the barter makes greater sense: Lady Danbury could only ensure Anthony would not hunt for Kate each morning if she held him in her custody. And still, he asks her to accompany him for a row. The invitation is both a jab at the dowager’s inclination toward the couple’s separation and a nod to Kate’s stipulation at the start of their courtship: Two balls and a promenade. And a row on the Serpentine. All but one of these are complete, she realizes. 

With startling clarity, her future locks into focus, staggeringly close. Through all the past weeks’ subterfuge and stolen waltzes and secret conversations, Kate has known that Anthony would be her husband. Scanning the black ink once more, though, she somehow finds it much more real. She will be his and he will be, always, yours, Anthony. The prospect does not frighten her as expected. In fact, she finds herself sanguine for the state of their alliance, their friendship. Her pulse stutters at the consideration of their bedroom and she passes by that though quickly. No, that one is not yet real enough and must remain confined to private fantasies. 

Why, then, does she find her hopefulness fading, something much colder taking its place? She knows this feeling, has faced it before at seven, at six and ten, and now again, this gnawing notion that perhaps her family will no longer be hers. Kate draws in a slow breath, eyes shut as she folds the paper into small squares with unsteady hands. Before she and Anthony’s intentions are declared, she must tell Edwina first. Kate knows who she will be to Anthony, who he must be to her, but perhaps her sister will decide she is no sister at all.

This small fear persists as Kate disrobes, bathes, and dresses herself again, only roiling the ache in her stomach more. She is not hungry, but knows she must still eat. She descends the stairs for breakfast, note tucked in her pocket for safekeeping, dreading Edwina’s presence at the dining table and nevertheless wishing for her sister at her side.

The tableau that welcomes Kate is Mary, spooning cream onto a scone next to Edwina, who is split between passing a pot of marmalade to her mother and politely refusing a cup of tea from a visibly ill-humored Lady Danbury.

“Darling, there you are,” Mary greets Kate brightly, waving her into the room.

Edwina turns her head to face her sister, her smile wide and toothy as Kate approaches. “Did you sleep in again, didi?” 

Kate presses a kiss to her sister’s hair and lowers herself into a chair. “Something like that.” Lady Danbury tuts from the opposite end of the table. “I also did a bit of reading.”

Reaching past the tea, Kates plucks two squares of seed cake and swipes a generous layer of butter atop. To her plate she adds a plump orange and ripe plum before sinking back into her seat.

“You seem to have worked up quite the appetite reading, Miss Sharma,” Agatha says slyly, sipping from her teacup.

Kate tucks into her meal, feigning hunger and ignoring the comment for the moment. It is better that Edwina does not know of these morning excursions beyond her first encounter with Anthony, she rationalizes. The fewer people who know, the better these secrets will be contained.

“You know,” Kate starts, peeling the skin from her orange, “you look a bit tired, my lady. Did you have an early start?” Faux innocence adorns each word.

The elder woman smiles, amused at their game. “I always do, child.” She settles her cup in its saucer. “Although this morning made me wearier than most.”

The two women chuckle and return to their breakfast, while Mary looks between the pair, her brows knit in mild confusion.

“Forgive me, am I missing something here?”

“Not in the slightest,” Kate promises.

“You know we enjoy a morning parry, Mary.” Agatha pats her friend’s hand. “Keeps my old mind sharp.”

Edwina shrugs, the matter resolved, and turns to Kate as she pops a segment of orange into her mouth. “I need to speak with you after breakfast,” she whispers. Kate freezes. “Meet me in my room?” She nods, unable to form coherent speech.

The next twelve minutes are dreadfully long, Kate’s appetite further dissolved by her sister’s words. Whatever Edwina wished to speak of, it was clearly serious if she needed to confront her privately. The sisters abandon the table and abscond to Edwina’s bedchamber, locking the door behind themselves.

“Come sit.” Edwina moves to her window seat, patting the cushion beside her. Kate swallows and smooths her skirt as she settles in, Anthony’s note weighing at her waist like a stone.

Edwina looks up to her sister’s face, brown eyes wide and blinking quickly, before she returns her gaze to her lap again where her fingers knot against themselves. She takes a long, steadying breath, then opens her mouth.

“I cannot stop thinking about him,” she says in a rush. Blood surges to Kate’s ears and she fights to hear anything but the dull rush of her own regret. She ought to know from experience: Anthony Bridgerton is not a man easily forgotten.

“Him?” Kate asks, her voice barely a whisper.

“Yes, him,” Edwina says desperately. “ Them. Friedrich, Mister Bagwell. It is all so.. Much.”

“Oh,” Kate breathes out.

Edwina snaps her head to Kate. “You do not understand. When I am eating, when I am reading, when I am dancing with Colin Bridgerton, he is there in my mind, interrupting me. I cannot stop it.”

“Oh, bon.” Kate wraps an arm around her sister’s shoulder and tucks her head beneath her chin. “I am not unfamiliar with the feeling. It can be quite maddening when it is out of your control.” She releases a tired exhale, remembering the late nights and daily aches of her time at Aubrey Hall. “But I promise, it is a very common experience when you care for someone.”

Edwina pulls her head away from her sister’s embrace. “Even when I… think of Friedrich at night? In my bed?”

Oh. Oh.

Kate levels her gaze with her sister, hoping her words sink in. “Listen to me. This is natural, it is not immoral or strange.” Edwina nods, half-believing. “Most married people are lucky to feel such affection for one another. You’ve seen the Sheffields, haven’t you?” 

The younger woman giggles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Kate’s smile softens and she withdraws her arm from Edwina’s back.

“Perhaps these feelings will pass, perhaps they will persist. It only matters what you want.” She pauses, studying her sister’s features. “What do you want?”

Edwina groans, leaning her head back against the glass. “I hardly know what I’d like for dinner.” Kate chuckles. “I think,” she starts slowly, “I think I would like to simply spend more time with them both, know them better. Lord knows I did not do this the first time.”

“I think that is a very sound decision,” Kate says truthfully. “Take whatever time you need.”

“I am afraid I may have to begin courting soon.”

Kate shakes her head, nose creasing. “Why on earth would you have to? We are under no contract with Sheffields.”

“Does that not make our situation all the more urgent?” Edwina asks. “Certainly Lady Danbury will not welcome me and Mama for another year. I feel I must do something .”

“You must do nothing,” Kate asserts vehemently. “I have told you before and I will say it always: I have this in hand.”

“Didi, how?”

“About Lord Bridgerton…”

Edwina sits up slowly, raising her head from the window. “What about him?”

Kate tugs her lower lip between her teeth, pensive. She sits here now, on the precipice of verity, wondering what is right. 

“He and I are meeting today for a row on the Serpentine.”

“You are not serious.” Edwina huffs, disbelieving. “For what purpose? Shall you try to drown him for good this time?”

Kate laughs shakily. “Certainly not. We will be meeting because—, so we might further prove our goodwill to the ton and privately discuss an allowance.”

It is clearer now to Kate that Edwina holds no great grief for the failed engagement, but still, she tells herself, sharing this plot could jeopardize everything. Could spur her sister into a decision, a marriage, that she is not ready for. Yes, she will tell her later, but not now. Not now.

“An allowance for who?” Edwina asks, voice marked with suspicion.

“For all of us.”

“But that is—, it is too much to owe, too much to ask. Didi—” Edwina stops. “You said for all of us.”

“I did.”

Edwina’s face clouds with hesitant hope. “Does this mean you’re staying in England?”

Kate nods. “I am.”

Edwina jolts forward, wrapping Kate in a crushing embrace.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Edwina mutters into Kate’s shoulder, voice muffled by cotton. “I do not wish to know what I would do without you.”

Kate smiles, squeezing her sister back, her throat tight. A rogue tear pricks at her eye. “Nor do I.” 

I have never wished to leave you, she wants to say. Kate does not move, does not end this moment squeezed against her sister’s side. She breathes deeply and presses a cheek against Edwina’s head. She smells of honeysuckle. She is everything sweet.

“I do have one demand for you, though.”

“Name it,” Edwina replies, pulling back from their hug.

“You must promise me that you will follow your heart. We are in no hurry; you will have next season, too.”

“Promise.” Edwina’s eyes twinkle. “And now you will too.”

Kate nods, forcing a smile. “Perhaps.” She swallows, the small lie burning on her tongue.

___

Anthony scrubs a hand through his hair and presses his thumb and forefinger to tired eyes. His new morning routine of sharing uncomfortable eye contact with Lady Danbury over scalding tea will surely take some adjustment. It is not ideal to trade rides in Hyde Park for telepathic interrogation, but he reminds himself that it is well worth Kathani’s return to freedom. And, he considers, it is only a temporary arrangement. Once he and Kate are married, they can ride as often and freely as they’d like. Perhaps past sunrise.

Comforted by this notion, Anthony removes the hand from his face and returns his focus to the stack of parchment before him. After sifting through the pile on his desk for a few minutes, he flicks his wrist up, reading his watch. Quarter to ten. Plenty of time for an errand before his meeting with Kate, he decides. Standing, he crosses the room and opens its large oak door, poking his head into the cavernous hallway.

“Eloise,” he calls. His words echo, bouncing off powder blue walls and back to his own ears. “Eloise?” he tries again.

“What?” Her exasperated answer booms back to him. He sighs, attempting to remain measured.

“Could you come here for a moment, please?”

“I would rather not.”

Anthony realizes her voice is traveling from the day room, just down the hall. 

“Please? It is a brief journey.”

“Then you should fare it yourself.”

“I would rather speak in my study.”

“Why? Something important to tell me?” she hollers back.

He posts a hand on his hip and closes his eyes, collecting himself. He hears the soft rustle of fabric and the harsh snap of a book before Eloise appears before him.

“Well, what is it? I am sure I am in trouble for something again,” she grumbles as Anthony guides her into the office.

As he clicks the door shut, she whirls around, defensive as ever. “If it is about my leaving last night’s ball early, you should—”

“It is not about that,” Anthony interrupts. “It is not about anything, really. You are in no trouble.”

Eloise deflates and cautiously accepts the handwaved offer to sit in the chair opposite her eldest brother.

“What, then?”

“I wish to… apologize.”

“For?” She arches her brow.

“Many things.” Anthony exhales slowly. “Chiefly, for not listening to you. If you do not wish to attend balls and dance with men you despise, you should not be forced to resort to ruining dresses to get out of it. Should you wish to skip the next few events this season, I see no harm in it.”

“Are you dying?”

Anthony releases a reluctant huff of laughter. “No.”

“All right.”

The siblings sit in brief silence, both quietly assessing the other.

“Would you like to spend—”

“You know, it is not all bad—”

They chuckle at their simultaneous attempts at conversation, until Anthony prods her to continue.

“I was simply saying that every ball is not a complete nightmare.” She picks at her skirt. “I like watching from the sidelines when Penelope is around.”

“Oh, yes,” Anthony smiles. “She is surprisingly lively, that one.”

“You have spent time with Penelope?”

“Yes, I have,” he replies, affronted.

“Frankly, I did not believe you recalled her name.”

“Eloise,” he says flatly.

“I mean it,” she says, her pitch rising. “Forgive me, but I thought you only speak to women you find attractive, or as part of some game I hold no interest in.”

Anthony retreats back in his chair, hands folded loosely on his lap. “Is that truly what you think of me?” he asks, sobered.

“Do not tell me that it bothers you when you have always behaved like it,” she scoffs.

“I am working on that,” he concedes quietly.

Eloise’s dismissive expression falls. “Anthony. Are you okay?”

“I hope you can forgive me, Eloise.”

“Pardon?”

“All these years, all the ways I have dismissed you. If I have ever made you small—”

She snorts. “No man could ever make me small.”

His lips twist, sardonic. “No, perhaps not. But still, I tried. And I am sorry for it.”

Eloise looks down at her hands, fixated on the intricacies of her palm.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “You know I have… I have never truly felt like you’ve seen me. Maybe this is the first time.”

Anthony winces at the confession. No, brotherly love has been Benedict’s forte. He has not been gifted that luxury or had much aptitude for it.

“I am sorry for that, too. I hope this will not be the last time.”

“So, what now?”

“Oh.” Anthony blinks, jolted by her quick pivot. “Well, now I had hoped that you might join me on a trip to The Temple of the Muses.”

“You want to take me to a bookshop?”

“Yes. That is, if you do not have any interest in berating me at present.”

“Oh no, it is much too early in the day for that conversation, brother. I am sure I shall find time to yell at you another time.”

“I have groveled at earlier hours in this room.”

She flicks her head, filing this piece of information for another day, then sets her features, determined.

“And then what?”

“Then what?”

“After you take me to a bookstore and spend an amount equal to Benedict’s tuition on me, then what? How does my life change in any measure?”

“If there is something you wish to do: reading, or traveling, or something else I do not know about, I would hope that you will talk to me. And I promise to listen.”

Eloise narrows her eyes, testing the waters. “What if I wish to become a farmhand for a week?”

“Then I will send a prayer for this season’s crops.” Eloise crosses her arms at the quip. “But I will listen, and do what I can, if you are serious. It would be no less foolish than whatever Colin does with our funds.”

She cracks a grin at this. “That is… good, I think.” She pauses. “Our mother, surely she will not—”

“Leave her to me,” Anthony nods. “Should she have any opinion here, it is none of your concern.” 

“Sound theory. We shall see how it performs under fire.”

Anthony rises, circling the desk until he is stood before his sister. He unwinds his hands from his back, offering her a hand, most gentlemanly.

“Let us start with a book.”

___

Arms anchored by tomes of text, Anthony groans as Eloise adds another to the stack. “I said a book.”

“And I said an amount equal to Benedict’s tuition. Can you not afford it, brother?”

He trails her to another room of the shops, its walls lined high with novels. “I can afford it,” he huffs, “but I am not certain I can carry it.” 

“If you cannot keep pace, you are more than welcome to sit in a corner and act as a trunk for my purchases,” she says airily.

“Sold,” he agrees immediately, dragging himself to the nearest section with a chair. He settles into the wood seat, dropping his sister’s books in an unceremonious heap at his feet.

Anthony examines his hands, creased from the corners of hefty spines, and flexes them slowly, blood returning to the fingertips. Raising his head, he scans the surrounding stacks. Shelves that scale the shop’s walls, packed tightly with fresh fiction. There are a few familiar titles in French: Cendrillon, one of Daphne’s most loved; Barbe Bleue, a favorite of Colin’s; Le Serpentin Vert, admittedly one of preferred texts as a boy. Purely for his education in the French language, of course.

In no mood for fairy tales or the French, his eyes wander further, flitting until they reach spines embellished with English words. His throat closes as he reads one name. Robinson Crusoe. As if tethered by some otherworldly force, Anthony finds himself rising from his chair, feet carrying him to the shelf until the soft red cover is wedged between his fingers. The book is pristine, crisper and brighter and weightier than the one at the old country house. Still, touching it is like touching her. 

Anthony is brought back to one night in the Aubrey Hall library, the moment so clear he can taste it. Kathani Sharma, swathed in white cotton and bathed in moonlight, her fingertips a hair’s breadth from his own on the worn cover of the book. His eyes search her chest for the bee sting, only visible when illuminated by a flash of lightning. He should have touched her there and felt her flesh beneath his fingers, should have flattened his palm against her breastbone and quieted their torture by opening his mouth against her, tasting her honeyed tongue. He should have read with Kate, her hip pressed against his thigh and their backs to the window. He should have asked her what she likes to read. He should have proposed to her that night. There is much he should have done.

Throat finally loosened, he swallows. He molds his hand around the book, its spine not unwomanly, not too unlike the curve of her wrist. Spurred by spontaneity, his free hand pulls another copy of the book from the shelf. He should have a copy for the house in London. Kate should have one too. He slides the set beside Eloise’s stack of purchases and returns to the chair. 

Then, inquisitively, he begins sifting through Eloise’s pile. Many of the heap are fiction: novels written by ladies or, most ubiquitously, A Lady. He turns over a few small handfuls, then pauses on Sense and Sensibility. He has heard of this one. After sinking against the seatback, Anthony thumbs through the first few pages.

A swift, harmless kick to the shin jolts Anthony from his engrossment.

“You can take my books to the till now.”

“Heathen.” He snaps the book shut. “Has no one taught you manners?”

“I have learned all sociability and grace from you, dear brother,” Eloise says pleasantly, all teeth.

Anthony scoffs and rises. “You can carry those.”

“Chivalrous, aren’t you?” Eloise tuts mockingly as she scoops up her books. “What would Mother say?”

“Something very pious, I’m sure,” he replies dryly. “Where did you get this book?”

Eloise pulls the novel from her brother’s grasp and raises her brows. “Why?”

“I am not illiterate, I may wish to buy myself one as well.”

She laughs. “As if you have read anything that was not a ledger in the last decade.”

“I read at night when I cannot sleep, if you must know.”

Head cocked and arms crossed, Eloise blinks. One might assign pleasant surprise to her expression, but Anthony is rarely so hopeful.

“What do you read?” The question is asked with quiet curiosity, no barb woven in its delivery.

In lieu of words, Anthony simply raises the twin copies of Robinson Crusoe from their place by his feet. Her face goes soft.

“I liked that one.”

He glances at the title again to confirm they are discussing the same book. “Father read Robinson Crusoe with you?”

“No,” Eloise  replies, incredulous. She says the word like it is obvious, like he is ridiculous for asking. “ You read it with me.” Anthony’s forehead folds inward and he racks his brain for the memory. “We did not finish it. You started with me before he—,”

“Right, yes,” Anthony interrupts. No need for her to say it. He runs an idle thumb across his lip. 

A faded afternoon plays in his mind: a seven-year-old Eloise laid on her stomach, head rested across her forearms. Anthony on his back, knees bent, a linen blanket sandwiched between the siblings and a swath of grass. They take turns reading passages aloud, turning pages until one’s voice is hoarse.

“I am sorry I had forgotten.” How much of his family has he forgotten since that awful summer? How much of himself?

“It is all right. I believe there is much we have wished to forget from that time.” She looks down, briefly looking much like her seven-year-old self in that moment. “Over there,” she says suddenly, jabbing a finger to her left.

“What?” Anthony shakes his head.

“The book, by the lady. I got it over there, on that table.”

He follows her gaze to a small oak table, tucked in a corner of the labyrinthian shop.

“Thank you,” he nods, rising from the chair. “Perhaps we could finish this one together.”

She takes a hair too long to answer him. “All right.” The word is spoken strangely, like the long creak of a poorly oiled door. As though even her voice is unused to such easy agreement.

Eloise raises a knee briefly, propping up the books in her left arm that have become wobbly. She clears her throat. “Well. Be quick about it, now.”

The pair take their leave in turn, peeling in opposite directions. Once Anthony has finished procuring his books, he steps outside into a pea soup afternoon, spotting his sister next to tidy piles of parcels.

“Shall we?” He kneels downs to collect the library laid out on the pavement, motioning to a footman for aid.

“Where to now, brother?”

“Perhaps the market,” he offers, assisting Eloise into their carriage. He attempts to say it casually, hoping it sounds so. The thought appeared to him in the shop, realizing, as he read, that he has never given Kate flowers. How many bouquets has she received, arranged, watered? How many cards attached bore Edwina’s name? He does not enjoy the image conjured in his imagination, of Kate standing among a garden of roses in Lady Danbury’s parlor, none of them for her.

“The market.” She raises her eyebrows mockingly. “Do you mingle with the common folk now?”

“Hush, you.” He hauls himself inside and shuts the carriage door. “If I have dirtied my hands on a farm, I believe I will survive a few stalls with you.”

By the time the pair have reached the market, the sky has turned mottled and ashen, a thin mist ever-present in the air. Rain, it seems, will be inescapable. He will need to make quick work of this place, before the stalls shutter and he misses his chance to meet Kate on the Serpentine. Preparing an excuse to meander toward a row of florists, Anthony opens his mouth.

“I have a very important errand and I will find you shortly after.”

Bewildered, he watches Eloise dart in the opposite direction with purpose. Whatever his sister’s mission, her excuse was far less elaborate than his own. Still, he is grateful for it. Free from watchful eyes, Anthony passes through two shops, exchanging pleasantries with a friendly floriculturist now and again. By the third shop, he is uncertain what he is looking for, only that he has not seen it yet. Then, with a step to his left, he finds the answer to his search. He smells them before he sees them, but he knows it is her. 

He turns quickly, hoping to find Kate herself, blooming in purple silk, mouth twisted as she says, “you found me.” Naturally, he is ridiculous in his hope. Before him instead are a mass of wide white flowers. Lilies. Anthony laughs to himself. Kate smells of funeral flowers. Of course she has managed, in life, to remind him of the only good thing about death.

He reaches out a hand, rubbing a velvet petal gently between his thumb and forefinger. He is reminded of his same act in the gardens at their last ball, his penitent communion with a wall of flora. Despite Kate’s words of forgiveness, Anthony is not sure he will ever be granted absolution. Nor should he. He cannot right his abundance of wrongs, but he shall never repeat them. He will repent daily, will offer her solemn oblations regardless of past sins. It is the least she deserves.

Before their confrontation in the Bridgerton House study, Anthony would assume the book would be a perfectly adequate gesture of goodwill. Thoughtful, even. Now, though, despite their partnership being one of friendship, he is determined to err no more. Kathani Sharma is a uniquely special woman and ought to be treated as such. She deserves the treatment befitting a lady, befitting the future Lady Bridgerton. Anthony shakes his head. How he ever considered offering her a tarnished ring without second thought, he may never know.

After painstakingly curating a fistful of flowers, Anthony approaches the florist. “Could you help me?” He walks away with a hefty bouquet, abundant with pink and cream lilies—the very essence of Kate, white and pale purple tulips—a symbol of renewal and friendship, studded with bits of deep magenta lilac—it looked beautiful. He carries the bouquet back to the carriage protectively, as though cradling a small child among a stampede, feeling bizarrely defensive of the plants. After repeating the significance of their wellbeing, Anthony hands the flowers to his footman for safekeeping.

Leaning against the carriage door, he sweeps the market, searching for his sister. In the distance, he can see her fuzzy figure, hand reaching for a pamphlet of some sort from a young man in a tweed flat cap. The pair lean their heads close, almost conspiratorially, to speak. Is she laughing? Before he cannot be certain, she whirls around and forges a path back to her brother. Anthony looks up quickly, feigning observance of the changing skies. The landscape has turned ghostly, the sky collecting charcoal smears of clouds.

“Are we going home?” Eloise asks breathlessly. Anthony checks his pocket watch. A half hour until he must meet Kate.

“You ought to return and unpack your new library.”

“You are not coming?” She frowns. If he were a fanciful man, he might believe she appears disappointed.

“Not yet,” he answers. “I have an appointment with Miss Sharma.”

“Please, Anthony,” she sighs. “Do not entertain that girl again. You will give her false hope only to disappoint her.”

"Of course not, Eloise,” he scoffs. “I am speaking of Miss Kate Sharma.”

“The sister?” Her eyes are wide and unblinking.

“Yes,” he replies firmly. “If you have any questions, I will answer them at home.”

He watches her jaw set, tongue wedged between her teeth as she considers her words.

“I have no idea what your intentions are. Do not,” her eyes narrow, “be a nightmare. I like her.”

Anthony grins and shakes his head. “I do, too.”

___

By the time he has arrived by the Serpentine, the grass is clear of people and the sky has muddied with dark pockets of rain. His shirt is clinging to his back, this time damp not from river water but the first misty minutes of rainfall. Aware of the humidity-curled hair matted against his forehead, he wipes a hand against it, hoping he does not look wrecked and ridiculous. He is grateful that he had the foresight to ask his footman to send a carriage to meet him at the Serpentine.

“You’re early,” a voice calls out.

“Yet still later than you,” he shouts back, smiling.

Kate’s upper half is leaned out of a carriage door, her lower half following suit, legs swinging out of the frame. She makes her way toward Anthony in the dewy grass, shielding her eyes from the thin haze of rain above. 

“I am sorry,” he begins. “It appears we will not have our row today.” He glances at the shifting skies then back at her face, illuminated by a sudden crack of lightning. She jolts. “Are you all right?”

“Startled, that is all,” Kate replies quickly. She takes a breath in, features settling into a pleasant smile. He can tell she is somewhat unsteady. “And unless you wield power over the weather, Lord Bridgerton,” she continues, “there is no reason for apology.”

“Kate,” he presses. “Are you all right?”

“Anthony.” Her reply is whispered, despite all sound being drowned by thunder. “I am certain.” Despite this assertion, he cannot find relief in it. Her words are betrayed by the twitch at the corner of her lips. 

“Is it the storm?” he asks gently, stepping closer. She shakes her head. “Is it me?”

“No,” she exclaims, affronted. Then, quieter: “it is everything else.”

Bereft of words, there is a sudden temptation to touch her shoulder, her hair, her cheek. A desire burns deep, to pull Kate close and promise that all her worries are his own, too. It is only natural; whatever they may be, he is surely the root of them. Despite his own will, or perhaps because of it, Anthony reaches forward, hands unburdened of gloves. His bare hands cover the top of hers, cool as morning dew and covered in thin blue lace.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” again. 

He tightens his grasp, thumb moving across her knuckles. She shivers. Still, he believes her. He moves his thumb again. As suddenly as he has touched her, Kate removes her hand from his grasp. She raises it to shield her eyes, surveying the body of water before them.

“Is there anything I might do to distract you?”

“Hm. On second thought, a row does sound nice.”

“Regretfully, I will not be climbing into a death trap with you on the River Styx.” He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, mouth momentarily glinting in the shape of a sideways smile. “There is still plenty of time for us to argue if you insist on avoiding my questions, if that is the sort of row to which you are referring. But I would prefer we attempt to maintain some civility.”

“Civility?” Kate purses her lips, a posture of contemplation. “I did not know you were familiar with that word.”

“Miss Sharma, I assure you.” He crosses a hand over his heart. “I am a gentleman.”

“Pity you wish to be gentlemanly now,” she sighs. “I had hoped you would be good for something today.”

“Miss Sharma,” he gasps scoldingly. “Do you take pleasure in our quarrels?”

“It is a means for exertion,” she says, playfully aloof. “Quickens my pulse, engages my wit. Not too strenuously, mind you.”

“That is a relief. I would hate to make a lady break a sweat.”

“Then I suppose I should not disclose that we met under such circumstances.”

“So you admit that your victory was an act of great effort.” His eyes shine.

“It was an act of some effort. No more than any other morning. And,” she continues her correction, “I do not believe I am a proper lady in the eyes of the ton quite yet.”

“Does that mean you will no longer ride astride once I make you one?”

She bumps him with his shoulder. “Certainly not.”

He does not fight the turn of his mouth as she leans against him, her presence pleasant and weighted.

“How was your morning ride?”

“Better than your tea, I imagine.” She flits her eyes up to catch his wince.

“Your imagination proves correct.”

“Go on, then.”

“When we were not avoiding eye contact in excruciating silence, I was being interrogated. I feel that I may have had a simpler time convincing Napoleon he was not an emperor.” Kate turns her head to quiet herself. “I can feel you laughing at me.”

“What was the subject of your interrogation?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Oh, yes. And, naturally, a reminder of my demerits as a suitor, lord, and husband.”

“What exactly did she say?” There is a light smile playing at her lips, but he sees the flare of defensiveness rising beneath her skin, the thistle in her question.

Anthony deflects, tries on an unbothered shrug. “It is nothing I did not know already.”

“Tell me.” She says it firmly, gently.

“Kate.” Anthony squares his shoulders, mimicking her tone: unmoved, but not unkind. “Do you still wish to marry me?”

“Of course.”

“Then certainly anything that Lady Danbury has to say, anything that we have already that day in my study, has no value in repeating.”

“Anthony.” Her lips pull upward. “It is not that I wish to know so I can reconsider or find some new fault to hold against you. I am asking because it is uncalled for and I will be asking her to never do it again.”

“Oh.” There is no familiar response to this, no known phrase to accept defense from anyone but himself. “All right, then.” So he shares the dowager’s slew of questions and accusations in short: his courtship of her sister; his indecent behavior with Kate, starting with their first encounter; his reputation as a rake, his potential as a philanderer. The sum of these things all a threat to Kate’s good standing and, of course, her heart.

“I am sorry.” Kate replies, stone-faced. “That is beyond the pale.”

“Is it?” Though unpleasant, his lashings are not undeserved.

“Does she think I am blind to these things? They are the very reason for our animosity at the start of this season, the very reason I begged her to bar you from visiting hours.” She huffs a quiet laugh to herself then, a bitter little thing. “Though, I will add, that those were not good enough to dissuade her from supporting my sister’s engagement to you.” She shakes her head, drawing in a steady breath. “If Lady Danbury doubts my judgment or ability to ask you these questions myself, then she ought to address me.”

“I cannot imagine she thinks you incapable, Kate, not after everything you have done for your family.” No one could. The suggestion is absurd, unthinkable. “Perhaps she thought herself protective, looking after you as she does for you sister.”

“If she wishes to look after me or my sister, after our futures, then she would know that not meddling in my marriage is the best place to start.”

“Kate,” he tries again. Somehow he has found himself fighting on the behalf of his own warden.

“No, I mean it, Anthony. You are doing more for us than anyone ever could or ought to. She has no right to insert herself in my life, my decisions.” Her chest rises and falls shallowly. “Every time I think we have understood one another, she proves I am a fool for thinking so. This is not her place. She is not my mother.” A weak flash from the dim clouds illuminates her frown.

“Kate,” he whispers.

“No, it’s all right, I am—,”

“Kathani.” Without question or permission, Anthony takes a small step, shoulders and hips shifting toward hers, closing the respectable distance between their bodies. With all the tenderness mustered in cradling his flowers, Anthony gathers Kate into his arms.

“Of course not. No one has or shall ever take her place.” This promise is made with fingers skimming smoothly across her spine. He repeats the words again. Kate shifts her head against his sternum.

“I am sorry,” Kate nods, eyes closing. “My frustration with Lady Danbury has more to do with myself than anything else. This is not your problem.”

“You have caused me no harm, Kate. The only opinions relevant to our marriage are mine and yours.” Anthony pulls back to search her eyes, hands settled above her elbow. “But tell me, what has you so unsettled?”

“Beyond the skies splitting open?”

“It is a spring storm,” he says gently.

Kate sets her jaw and looks at a spot by her feet. “It is my family. My sister,” she confesses finally. “I need more time with her.”

Anthony nods. “Understandably.” He molds his lips into a shape resembling reassurance. There are only so many things he can control. Time has never been one of them. “I will do whatever I can.”

“I know you will, I know.” She pauses, lips pressed together, on the precipice of unswallowable truth. “I just.” The tip of her tongue squeezes between her teeth. “I thought that the more time I gave us, the smaller the wound might be. Now I worry that the longer I wait, the wider the wound grows. I do not know if such a thing could ever be mended. It seems that every decision I make for my family might be its undoing.”

“Kate. If it were Edwina who had done this, could you forgive her?”

“Of course. She is my sister.”

“And you are hers, too.”

As Kate opens her mouth to answer, the heavens open. Fat raindrops fall from small black clouds, marring her cheek. Several more follow suit in rapid succession, turning her day dress into a mottled sea. 

Anthony turns his head to the sound of hoofbeats: his carriage.

“Make a dash for it,” he shouts.

In time with his words, Kate lifts her skirt and barrels toward the carriage. Careening inside after her, Anthony shuts the door behind them.

___

Kate settles herself inside, teeth chattering. Despite the sudden soughing of the wind and sway of trees, it is not cold. Quite the opposite: the raindrops stick hotly to her skin, the breeze outside warm. She tries to suck a slow breath between her teeth but can barely manage to open her mouth. It is agitating more than haunting, the fact that she cannot control her mind or body at the appearance of anything more than a sprinkle of rain. How long will her body betray her? How much more of her life will be plagued by this paralyzation? If she is to live out the rest of her days in England, she ought to be better than this. Then, more than the tremor of her teeth, Kate realizes that her hands are trembling. She grips them tightly in her lap, determined to ignore the sensation as she watches Anthony loosen the sodden cravat from his neck.

“Hell,” he huffs, still standing and hunched beneath the low, curved roof. “Is everything a race with you?”

Kate blinks, swallowing a kick of nausea, a burning in her throat before she speaks. 

“Winning is a natural instinct,” she replies, a touch too late. There is the tug of a wry smile at her lips, distractedly performed but not incongruent with her words. Anthony’s chest is heaving, a pale patch matted with dark curls tantalizingly displayed from the open vee of his white shirt. It is the only section of his skin that is not soaked. Despite her disquietude, she cannot manage to tear her eyes away. He is a welcome distraction here. “Pity you got drowned again,” she pokes quietly.

Kate is decidedly less drenched. Still, her skin is slick, wayward curls stuck flat to her face. Dark cotton clings at her chest and she is keenly aware that their gazes are not dissimilar.

“Well.” Anthony clears his throat. “At least you got wet too, this time.”

Their eyes are immobile, locked on one another’s without care for the puddles they are surely making or the unnatural twist of Anthony’s spine as he bends himself to the roof’s will. He turns his back to her then and sheds his jacket, which does not help her ogling. The muscles of his back jump as he busies himself on a hunt, putting aside packages, upending bench cushions in his wake. He bends low and she bites the inside of her cheek before an indecent sound can slip out. Her hands steady themselves in her lap, her lungs fill.

“Did you chase me in here to watch you renovate your carriage?” Kate asks, attempting casualness, peeling off her gloves and indelicately unpinning her hair. She can do this, she decides. She is made of sterner stuff than any storm.

“Get you dry,” Anthony mumbles. He rises then, unfolding his knees. “Here we are.” With what limited showmanship and grace the small space allows, he presents a thickly coiled blanket.

“Well done.” She thanks him, collects the proffered fabric, and begins to towel off her skin and hair, mindful to dampen no more than half of the blanket. After her best efforts, Kate juts a handful of fisted fabric in his direction. “Your turn.”

“Oh. No.” Anthony seats himself on the bench across from her.

“If you are being chivalrous, I release you from that duty. You are sopping.” There is an edge of irritation in her insistence. Why does he now decide to maintain decorum?

“No more than my last visit here.” He waves a hand and peers behind the thin curtain on the window to observe the dance of raindrops. A thud against his shin pulls his attention.

“Take it,” Kate rattles her foot between his boots again. “Or your next lecture from Lady Danbury will be held at your bedside as you battle pneumonia.”

Anthony opens his mouth to accept but is paused. Kate straightens her shoulders, aware of their slight hunch, suppressing a swift shiver of her spine. His mouth flattens and she curses him silently for seeing through her so clearly. He slides next to her on the dry bench, elbows bumping as he shifts.

“Thank you.”

Anthony seats himself tightly at Kate’s side, closing the nominal gap between their bodies. Here, she can feel the spread of her thigh against his, how the drying ends of her hair brush at his chest. If she were his wife, if they knew one another well enough, she might press her hand against his clavicle, steady herself on his skin. If he were her husband, he might reach a hand into the soft twist of her hair and move his fingers steadily on her scalp. She would lift her face to his and he would kiss her sweetly, slowly, just because he could. If he were the same rake he was on the twelfth of April, he would hook her leg over his own, crowd himself around her, put his mouth behind her ear. If she were the same woman who met him in the woods, she would guide his hand inside her dress and grant him every secret place her body holds. She is neither of these women. He is neither of these men. They do none of these things.

After patting his hands and face dry, Anthony turns to her. “I thought I might try to surprise you.”

Without further explanation, he reaches down for the parcels at his feet.

“For you,” he says, lifting the lid from the box and collecting the bouquet from its hiding place. He fists the bundle of flowers in front of his heart, the bunch so broad their petals brush softly at her own heart too.

She raises a hand to reverently stroke a tulip, a favored shade of purple, surrounded by breaths of vibrant lilac. The bouquet is abundant with her favorite flower. They are beautiful. More than that, they are hers. 

“Oh, Anthony.” Kate’s face contorts, a flurry of feeling. For a moment, her lip trembles and she is nearly consumed with too much feeling. Too much gratitude, too much warmth, too much grief for the past eight years of her life that went by without receiving flowers. She swallows it all, unable to speak these things. So instead, her face breaks out into an unsteady grin, one wobbly and welcome. And she simply tells him, “I adore lilies.”

“I know,” he nods.

“You know?”

“I mean to say that I—you smell like—I have smelled you—”

“You have smelled me?” Kate’s brows raise in surprise. Before he can refute or revise this statement, she laughs. There should be no shock in this, because, of course, in their silent moments, he has noticed her the same as she has him. Yet, she finds the knowledge unsteadying. When was the last time she was seen? Or, in this instance, smelled? “Your strangeness has served you well. These are very beautiful.”

“And, tulips?” she asks, surveying the surrounding flora.

“Yes, tulips. My mother said that they—never mind.” The skin of his neck turns red, Adam’s apple bobbing. She leaves it be. She is wise enough to know what these flowers mean, what they mean to one another.

Kate takes her time to fawn over the delicate plants, fingers testing creamy petals as she breathes in their scent. When she looks at Anthony again, he is beaming. The sight settles something inside her.

“What?”

“It is just,” he presses his index finger over his mouth, covering the white gleam of teeth. “This feels like the first thing I have done right for you, done properly without correction.”

Kate nods. “Indeed. There will certainly be no lesson from Danbury on floral arrangements.”

He drops his finger, all teeth again. She could kiss him.

Nudging Kate again, Anthony trades her bundle for a book, its title obscured by paper and string. She turns it between her hands, considering its weight. Carefully, she unfolds the wrapping paper. She exhales harshly and smoothes a palm over the cover. She remembers. With his hair falling against his forehead and shirt open, rain dropping gently at the window, he is a mirror of himself that late night at Aubrey Hall. Everything is different and nothing has changed.

“I thought perhaps, on days like these, it might be a comfort.” Anthony ducks his head. “It has been to me.”

Before she can respond and thank him, tell him that night is burned in her memory too, he deposits another book in her hands.

“In case you find the first novel too juvenile.” He shrugs as though apologizing.

“Anthony.” Kate shakes her head. How does the most confident man she has ever met manage to couch his generosity in contrition? Every day, he finds new ways to exist in constant contradiction. She tears off the paper and smiles. “Sense and Sensibility.”

“I bought myself a copy as well. Thought I could broaden my horizons.”

Shaking her head, Kate’s grin widens. “Was Pride and Prejudice too exact?”

Anthony frowns. “I have not read that one.”

“Perhaps for the best.” She would hate to hear his assessment of Elizabeth Bennet.

“I suppose you do not have a copy?”

“I am afraid there was not much room in my trunks.”

“If there are any books you had left behind, I am certain we could find them here,” he promises.

Kate runs a thumb over the embossed leather, considering the handful of unimportant books she left behind in India and the libraries that await her in Anthony’s home. Her home.

“You know, Anthony,” her eyes remain fixed on the book cover. “Whatever story you have told yourself about your fecklessness as a husband is untrue.”

Beside her, Kate feels Anthony tense. “I would not say it is as simple as telling myself a story.”

“Anthony.” She looks him in the eyes, brows knotted above them. “The only opinions relevant to our marriage are mine and yours, yes?”

He clicks his tongue, clearly displeased at his own question being turned on him. “Yes.”

“I am not blind to who you are. I see you.” She lifts a hand to card her fingers through his hair, arranging the damp strands until he looks like himself again. Much better.

“Sometimes I worry about how much you do,” he whispers, leaning into her touch. His eyes slide near-shut.

“Why worry?”

His breath puffs softly against her ear, their faces impossibly close. Again, she thinks, she could kiss him. Then: she should kiss him. If every decision she makes for her family is in vain, then she will at least make this one for herself. Just this once, when no one is watching.

“Lift your chin.” She taps two fingers delicately above his throat. Anthony swallows. 

Feather-light, Kate touches her mouth to his neck. Her lips graze at his jaw, silk-soft and hot as coals. He smells of afternoon rain and bourbon and citrus and ink. He tastes like salt and stubble and softness and she wants to sink her teeth in, wants to swallow him whole. Instead, gently, Kate charts a tender path of butterfly kisses across a map of moles until she reaches his ear. Tucking her lips behind his ear, she presses a tender kiss against the skin, like a secret.

“I have been wanting to do that,” she confesses, hushed.

Anthony lifts a naked hand to crest her cheek, raising her face to his until their chilled noses bump together, warm breath heating their lips.

She wants to capture every angle of his visage for eternal memory: the thick curve of his lashes, how the fold between his brows settles when his face is set with open desire, the glow of his pin-pricked skin. He is beautiful always, even more so now. His hand travels south to cup her chin, thumb making a painstaking path across her cheek.

“Anthony…” Her voice is husky. 

He searches her eyes, heavy and hooded. “Do you want this?”

She lifts her fingers to grip his hand and guides him closer. He hovers the pad of his thumb over the rosebud of her mouth, then presses the finger gently against her lower lip, soft as a petal. “Flowers,” he mumbles.

“Hm?” She leans into his touch.

“Flowers,” he breathes against her temple. He inhales slowly, dragging the tip of his nose from her hairline to her cheekbone. “Are not as soft as you.”

Her lids flick down quickly and she mirrors his movements, her thumb swiping down into the cleft of his chin as he speaks. She resists the urge to tap the pad of her finger against his teeth. His hand moves to the side of her face and his head tilts upward, away from her fingers. His lips stretch against her cheek slowly, with gentle pressure. He has kissed her there.

There is no witty remark from either party, no verbal tug of war, no more space between their bodies. Her mouth covers his, moving in the shape of a smile, and his lips curve in kind. They meld together experimentally, soft and yielding, mouths opening like morning flowers in search of rain. There is a fire burning beneath her skin, a flicker in her stomach. She is hungry, headily desirous. Licking into his mouth, in search of more, she is certain that she could taste him forever. With equal fervor, he presses into her, fingers entwined with her hair as his tongue moves with hers.

Once-tentative kisses turn greedy, with Kate devouring his mouth and Anthony suckling at her lip, her tongue, as though parched. They kiss ravenously, desperately, the entire season’s wanting—and waiting—poured into this moment. One of Kate’s hands tug gently on the hair at his nape and the other drifts smoothly down to his exposed chest and shoulder. Without question, Anthony slides a hand from her back, to her hip, to her skirted thigh. His palm burns like a brand, even through the layers of her dress, the precious metal of his signet ring icy on her flesh. She groans into his mouth and pulls him impossibly close.

“Oh,” she exhales.

Her hand falls from his hair, twining around his neck like ivy. Her fingers skate over the hard ridges of his shoulders, feel the sigh of his back as he softens against her touch. She is sparked with delight and envy for her future self, the woman who will study the landscape of his back through late nights and lazy mornings spent twisted in silk sheets. Kate will know the secrets of his second side better than she knows her own, so well she could commit them to canvas from memory. There is a slow circling of their hips, their shapes a question. Kate answers it for both of them, pressing herself tighter and lower against him. Anthony gasps, his hand freezing, then curling his fingers into her thigh, grasping a handful of her flesh.

Somehow, despite the urgency of their movements and the pressure between their bodies, Kate and Anthony’s kisses turn sweet, almost giddy. She finds it impossible to kiss him properly now, the smile of her mouth impeding the depth of their tongues. Kate takes a breath, straightening herself, repositioning her lips against his again. There is a small snap of lightning outside, nothing unordinary. But this sound freezes Kate, its noise less an ignorable crack and more a smash of glass against a wall. She yelps involuntarily, a convulsive catch of breath coursing through her body.

“Kate?” Anthony whispers, breathless. Immobile and frustratingly unable to answer him, she shuts her eyes. “Kathani,” he tries again. His hands find hers, covering them at the spot on his shoulder, his chest. He squeezes his fingers around hers until he coaxes out a twitch from her in return.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks against his neck. “I’m sorry.” The reaction she has all these years later makes her blood burn, turns her skin hot, makes her want to crawl inside herself. How can she not manage herself? She feels raw, exposed and puerile.

“If I have done anything to harm you, if I have hurt you here—”

“No,” she says firmly. “It is the storm.”

“Is it always like this?” There is no judgment in his question and she feels safe enough to answer honestly.

“Almost,” she says. “I find that it is worse when I am already troubled.”

Anthony moves her legs without asking so she is no longer straddling him, but her legs are draped over his lap, his arm bracing her back. He holds her quietly and without question, allowing her body to soften into the same curve of his own.

“Have you always been afraid of storms?”

“I am not so much afraid of them as I am,” she puffs out a breath, searching for the simplest explanation. But then, there is no more outrunning this admission. “My mother died during a storm.”

“Oh, Kate.” His face turns soft, near-crumbling.

She smiles poignantly. “I do not remember it too much, but what I do is awful. She was sick. We were three days into the monsoons when her cough started. A doctor came once, but.” Kate looks down at her hand, gently closed in Anthony’s. “He could not come to us again for a week. When he finally did, it was just to watch her die.”

“I am so sorry.” He rubs a hand between her shoulder blades and she leans her weight against his chest.

“That is why my father read to me during the monsoons after. To calm me.” She pulls at her lip with her teeth a moment. “I used to play in the rain on those first days of storms. I loved them: the flashes of lightning, the water, the way thunder would shake the earth. I miss being so unafraid.”

“That sort of fear is not a weakness, you know.” She shakes her head, dismissing his words. “I mean it, Kate. Do you think me weak for mine?”

Kate looks at him, spots the quiver in the corner of his jaw. She knows he means it, that he also is terrified she thinks less of him because of his earned phobia of an insect. A pang of compassion ripples through her and she turns her palm in his, kneading.

“No. I think you are brave. You are one of the most mettlesome people I have had the good fortune to know.”

Anthony slides his hand out from her back, moves to cup her jaw and runs and comforting thumb over her cheek. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me.”

He smooths that same hand over her hair, keeps his eyes fixed on her face until she dissolves in his embrace and the shudder in her shoulders stills. In quiet moments like these, with his hand weaved in curls and her mouth still burning, with his eyes alight with something that looks less like lust and more like tenderness, she can see the easy path to loving him. She will not walk that road. There are still other paths allowed to her, acceptable fancies to entertain. Certainly, any shaky imaginations of their marriage bed have been dispelled, replaced by the real thing here. She can explore this land, find safety in this escape with him as her husband. It warms her.

“Thank you,” Kate says finally. “For everything today.” She gestures beyond herself to the forgotten flowers and books, then turns her face back to his. “It seems that you have a knack for making me forget the rain.”

“I hope to perfect that knack.” He brushes his lips against the back of her hand. His face rises and their noses knock together.

A rap on the carriage door interrupts any hope for a third kiss. Perhaps for the best, Kate thinks, pulling back and slipping herself out of his grasp. Once Anthony started, there would likely be no stopping. Anthony positions himself on the opposite bench, returning his cravat to his collar, then opens the door. Kate twists her hair up as he does so, as presentable as possible, given the weather. The Bridgerton footman announces that the storm has passed and the Danbury driver has asked after Miss Sharma. Reluctantly, Kate and Anthony exit the coach, their respective footmen passing her gifts from one carriage to another.

Anthony walks Kate to her open door, arms tucked behind his back, the picture of gentlemanly respect. He lingers at her side, offering a hand to raise her into her seat despite the presence of staff. Kate pauses, her eyes catching the bouquet on her waiting bench.

“There is a quote from the poet Rumi that I like very much,” she says meaningfully. “It is not the thunder that brings the flowers, but the rain. It is about the way in which we use our words, but it feels more literal this afternoon.” She watches Anthony smile, his hand heavy beneath her own.

“Until the next, Miss Sharma.” He flexes his fingers, curls them imperceptibly around hers for a fleeting second as she climbs inside, then clicks her carriage door shut.

___

When Anthony returns home, heart hot in his chest, he sits at his desk. Shrouding the standard stack of papers from this morning’s work is a starched, folded sheet. Curious, he unfurls it: the new Whistledown. His stomach sinks as he reads the embossed headline, falls further as he sees his sister’s handwriting in the margins.

If I did have any questions, I think I will consider them answered. — Eloise

Anthony prepares himself and, finally, reads.

Gentle Reader,

I must commend Lord Bridgerton for his commitment to family. The Sharma family, that is. Oh yes, reader, this is no misprint or outdated declaration. The events of last evening’s ball has hastened my pen and printing press. While these words may make a reader wonder if the viscount seeks the Diamond’s hand once more, I assure you that his true pursuit is more intriguing.

Throughout the evening, Lord Bridgerton was observed frequently by Miss Kate Sharma’s side. Rarely arguing, the pair spoke more than required by any public show of convivial ceasefire. The pair shared one dance, a waltz, and they did not appear entirely indifferent to one another’s presence in such an intimate dance. A shocking amount of shared cheer and fondness was clear, even simply by watching them. Trustworthy sources attest to overhearing the viscount describe Miss Sharma as a “dear friend,” a far cry from their stance at the start of this season. While Miss Sharma busied herself with entertaining her sister’s suitors and dancing with other gentlemen (once with Mister Benedict Bridgerton brother and twice with Mister Thomas Dorset), Lord Bridgerton conversed with another less eligible wallflower, Miss Penelope Featherington, and claimed the poor girl’s only dance of the evening. He spent the rest of his evening pointedly ignoring the dance cards of every debutante in his path.

Certainly, a dance or two between acquaintances at any event is acceptable. Expected, even. But such a great change begs questioning if this is something greater than familial affection and gentlemanly kindness. I remind you that Lord Bridgerton has renounced his title of Capital “R” Rake, but the evidence may still prove otherwise. A Lady must ask then: is this an act of duty or desire?

Though the author's letter documents Kate's time spent with other potential suitors, her insinuations are damning, near-ruinous were Kate not already his fiancée. His eyes shut and the heel of his hand presses against his brow bone. There is only one person who can help them now, he knows. Anthony stands and pulls a velvet cord, rings the bell. After a minute spent pacing with the paper gripped in his hand, Anthony’s driver appears.

“Ready the horses again. I will be making my way to St James at once.”

Chapter Text

“I will admit some surprise that I did not have to summon you.”

Anthony, spat out of his carriage with little ceremony onto the damp lawn at St James, feels the earth shift beneath his shoes as he folds himself into a bow.

“Your majesty.” He straightens, his finally-dry shirt dotting again with small raindrops. “You did not have to greet me here.”

“Didn’t I?” She smiles tightly and his stomach turns.

Much as he is uncomfortable, he feels greater concern for the queen’s maid. The young woman’s arm is stretched high enough to dislodge itself from the socket, hoisting a parasol over the royal’s wig.

“Shall we get out of this spritz?”

Clicking comfortably down a maze of gilded halls, Charlotte throws a look over her shoulder. “Have you gained some clairvoyance, Lord Bridgerton, or are my early deliveries of Whistledown’s papers late?”

“Neither, ma’am.” Anthony scratches at his neck. “Instead of sorting out a suitor, it seems my sister has dedicated herself to the pursuit of the lady’s identity.” He thinks of her quick dash and furtive glances at the market that morning. “She provided me with an early copy from the printing vendor.”

“Has she shared its contents with anyone else?”

“No, ma’am.” Anthony recalls the page’s fresh ink and crisp edges. If Benedict—the only other person he imagines she would share it with—had handled the paper, he would know. Though, if he had, it would be nothing he had not known already.

The queen hums, sated, then stops in her tracks. “Which sister?” 

“Eloise, ma’am,” he ekes out hesitantly.

The corner of her mouth pulls upward as she stows away this detail. “Clever girl.”

They walk further, taking a sharp turn into a familiar room. She rings a small bell and a maid with a steaming pot of tea emerges from a pocket door. The speed of the girl’s appearance and exit is dizzying.

Queen Charlotte sighs, unaffected by the action, and settles into her plush seat with little fanfare. “So, Lord Bridgerton. Here we are again.”

“Yes, thank you for welcoming me back.” He folds his hands neatly in his lap, attempting not to become transfixed by the height of her candy pink wig.

She waves a hand. “I have little choice in the matter. A dispatch had been sent for you anyway,” she reveals, tipping the teapot toward her own cup. “Just a minute before I watched your carriage roll in. Your sister and I seem to have discovered the same trick.”

He cannot help but ask. “How long have you received early editions of the paper?”

“Since your first engagement.” She sips. He swallows. “I have a low tolerance for the smug and anonymous. This woman likes to imagine herself an equal adversary when she taunts me from behind a pseudonym.” She rolls her eyes. “I have found it is best to be the first reader and respond accordingly.”

Anthony nods, collecting fresh fragments of the past weeks’ puzzle. “Your nephew.”

“And the Sheffields.” She raises a brow. “Nothing like a good spectacle.”

“To distract and discredit.”

Her eyes glitter. “Exactly.”

Anthony fiddles with a cup, a quick stream of cream and a heavy pour of tea filling the china.

“You know, when you first told me of your betrothal to Miss Kate Sharma, I had half a mind to have you flogged in the courtyard.” Anthony’s back goes rigid. “I did not,” she says, her tone perfunctory. “But I could have.” 

She flicks open a fan, lips pursed, deliberating her next words. Anthony twists his neck, jaw pulsing as he waits for her to fill the silence.

She fans herself gently and continues. “I told you I would not permit you this marriage until you had proven yourselves in due time. Now it appears that time has run out.” She purses her lips and pokes the tip of her tongue out slightly, as one does when threading the eye of a needle. Anthony shifts, disquieted at her intensity. “When you were last in this room, you told me you wished for no great affection in your marriage to Miss Sharma. Tell me, are your feelings for this woman still much the same?”

His muscles loosen. This is not the path he expected to encounter. “I… I feel,” he knots his brow. “I feel many things for Miss Sharma. I do not know if they all have a name.” 

Anthony turns the signet ring on his pinky and feels gooseflesh sprint up his forearms. The memory of Kate’s warm skin pressing into the piece takes over for a moment. He is returned to a rain-sieged carriage, all hands and heater breath and an irrepressible smile hidden against her cheek. Here it is again. He flattens his mouth into a frown, feigning contemplation.

“I know she vexes me often and bests me in battles of wit. I know she understands my sense of duty better than anyone else, because she has lived it every day.” 

His heart twists in his chest, knowing that this marriage, though an act of duty, will have Kate sacrifice some closeness with her sister, her first oath. For Kate, this is only a spoil of losses. His fingers drop from the cold ring.

“I think she is the most heroic person I know,” he says, only realizing the truth of the statement as he speaks it. “I trust her, truly. With my siblings, with the estate, with the ledgers and bookkeeping, if need be. She is capable, kind, and I quite enjoy her company, even if she may not always welcome mine.” He laughs drily and reaches for the cup of tea on the table in front of him, as his tongue turns to cotton. “But perhaps that is for the best.”

“You are quite fond of her.” It is not a question.

“Yes, I am.” On this, he will never waver again.

Charlotte tilts her head, searching his face sideways.

“I quite enjoy a love story. My husband, the king and I, we were,” she laughs at some secret memory, “we were meant to marry for duty. A very practical union. But we fell in love.” Anthony nods. Their story is legend at this point. “I know I am fortunate in that regard. Few women in my station have ever experienced what I have. We are old now, and we have lost much.” Her eyes cloud, becoming distant in reminiscence.

“I have more children than I can count. Not all are still with us.” She says this delicately and Anthony nods gently. He knows two died young, one a mere four years ago. He cannot fathom that sort of loss. “Grief is an infectious thing. It wounds you and then lives in that wound, aching when you least expect it. But I cannot walk among the dead; I must live for the family I have left. For everyone who depends on me.” She turns her head to the cherubs painted on the walls, as though she is addressing her subjects.

Anthony gnaws at his lip. “Yes ma’am, I understand,” he says softly. “Everything I do is for them. I will be gone one day, and I must know that my family will be alright.” He will not allow anyone to be wrecked by the loss of him.

“My lord, I believe you miss my point. I am familiar with your loss, but I am not certain you are familiar with  the difference between living for others and being alive . Your family shall grieve your passing whether you fulfilled your obligations to them or not.” There is no room for argument in her tone, though he doubts their absolute truth. “You support their endeavors, I assume?”

He considers this a moment—Benedict’s art, Colin’s travel, Eloise’s independence—and nods reluctantly.

“Of course, but…” He trails off for a moment. “May I speak freely?”

She raises a brow, acquiescing. “Within reason.”

“My siblings do not carry the burden of being firstborn, a viscount at eighteen. I became a father to them before I was a man myself. I cannot yield to my desires and make them subject to my whims. If I lose myself to love, I fear I will not—” his voice breaks, embarrassingly. He straightens himself, looking the queen in the eye. “If I lose focus for even a moment, I may abandon my obligations.” 

He sees it now: running away to Gretna Green, eloping, the queen’s blessing be damned . He would do it, if Kate allowed it. If she only asked. The brief fantasy fades. “I cannot lead with my heart and forget myself. I will not lose them or...” Or lose her , he thinks. This is why you are sat here, drinking bitter tea, prepared to beg for leniency.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she sighs. “Why must you be so single-minded? Can you not ride a horse and balance your hat at the same time?”

“I beg your pardon?” He tilts his head, forgetting his good manners for a moment.

“Hear me when I say this.” He straightens at her command. “Love is not the death of duty.” Her eyes turn a touch wistful. “In fact, I believe duty necessitates it. Without love, we are unfettered from meaning.”

With these words, Anthony is eighteen again now, watching his father die and his mother grow a ghost, too. He is nineteen, cradling his youngest sister like a precious pearl as he says, For you . A kiss is dropped on her downy head as he repeats in a whisper, For you. He sees a flash of himself at thirty-one, doing the same with a child that looks more like Kate than anyone. His ears turn hot, disquieted by his own dormant sentimentality. How long has it been hiding there?

“Perhaps it is. Though perhaps I would not always call it love.” He says it suddenly, a little too sharp.

The queen hums, a touch bored at his avoidance to engage honestly. She thinks for a moment, but a knock at the door halts any further conversation. Undisturbed by this intrusion, she simply shouts back, “Send her in!”

Anthony stands for the stranger’s entrance, thrown when Kate enters, equally off-kilter. He assesses her quickly. She has changed into a different, drier, dress. This one is made of thick turquoise silk, with fresh gloves to match. Still, he spies a loose thread of hair, curly and rain-frizzed, escaping from her hastily pinned updo.

Breathless, she bows, eyes darting to Anthony as she takes a seat in the chair catty corner to his couch.

“Do not separate yourselves on my behalf,” Charlotte says drolly. “Please.” She gestures from Kate to the couch and watches the younger woman hesitantly relocate herself.

Kate crosses in front of Anthony stiffly, thighs shuffling past knees, her breath held though it does not help matters. She feels the heat of him behind her and wishes to reach out, steady herself with a hand at his hip to remind herself that they are in this together.

His forefinger twitches at his side, allowing it to catch at the smooth hem of her glove. Her pulse jumps. She shuffles her skirt, its front opening and closing like petals as she lowers herself onto the cushion by his side.

Anthony cannot stop watching her. Do I look different? she thinks. Perhaps everyone can see what they’ve done, the act written on her skin. Her spine straightens as she attempts to strip herself of this invisible evidence of impropriety. Anthony turns toward Kate involuntarily, knees shifting and touching her skirt. She jumps as though burned.

“Well, don’t you make quite the picture. Consider losing the stiffness for your marriage portrait, though. It is unideal to capture the essence of two caged animals in something celebratory.”

“My apologies, ma’am.” Kate settles, not pulling her hand into her lap when Anthony’s crosses the cushion. His fingers cover hers carefully, squeezing once, twice, until he can tell her breath has steadied. Still, her eyes dart between Anthony and the queen, then back again, a silent plea for permission.

“It is alright, Kate,” Anthony assures her in a whisper. His thumb slides over her silk-covered knuckles, an act he hopes is soothing. “Are you alright?”

“I am not sure.” She faces Charlotte again. “Am I? Are we?”

The elder woman reaches for a decanter of bourbon. “I am certain you will be.”

The queen brings Kate succinctly up to speed, punctuating her most salient points by sloshing a finger of alcohol into the trio’s respective teacups.

“I sent summons to Bridgerton House and Danbury House after the procurement of Whistledown’s early edition. These dispatches are vague,” she assures them, “in the event of any interception.” She hands the Whistledown copy to Kate, who reads the paper in record time.

Kate exhales shakily, a near-laugh. “Quite frankly, I thought this would be much worse.”

The queen’s eyes narrow. “Have you done much worse, Miss Sharma?”

Kate’s cheeks prick with heat.

“I have,” Anthony interjects. “That is to say, I have garnered a reputation in the past. I have acted entirely gentlemanly this season with my fiancée, but that does not mean the ton will come to the same conclusion, thanks to Whistledown.”

He offers a tight smile and Kate fights a deeply inappropriate eye roll. Entirely gentlemanly . It is a laughable assertion. She narrows her eyes and shakes her head subtly. He lifts his brows, an act equal to a shrug. Kate wonders if the rest of her life with him will be like this: a series of silent scoldings, exchanges inscrutable to anyone but themselves.

“Sure.” The word draws out placatingly, spoken as though smiling down at a child. Charlotte’s teeth glint as she watches the pair. “Now, there is no telling when this letter will be circulated, but I gather it should be by the early evening, when the last of this storm lifts.”

Kate loses any gaiety, thoughts turning grave. Her mind is on Edwina, who sits on the other side of these pink-papered walls. Edwina, who deserves none of the pain or ridicule to come. Edwina, who will endure it anyway. She slips her hand from Anthony’s grasp quicker than he can blink, her fingers curving instead around the belly of her cup. She does not sip. Touching him at this moment feels not only thoughtless, but cruel. A betrayal to the first person she loved, waiting for her in the next room.

“My sister—”

“I know,” Queen Charlotte interjects.

“But she does not.”

“Ah.” The queen raps her fingernails against the ornate arm of her seat.

“I need to—I will need a moment with her to share this news.”

All Kate’s prayers for one more day have lost their magic. The unspoken pleas she made to anyone listening inside her head as she unweaved her hair in the evening, dressed herself in the morning, or smiled at her sister over tea. All of them, in the end, futile. Though she would like to, Kate cannot blame the supernatural: her delaying has led her here, to a conversation she dreads. One more day , wagered in a whisper, would never truly impede the inevitable.

Her hands flex on the teacup, fly away, return to its handle, then fall into her lap for good. She fights the prickle beneath her skin, the threat of a fracture in her façade. A sudden desire to hide overtakes her. She is too exposed like this.

“Kathani.”

Anthony’s fingers hover hesitantly over her wrist. She lets his hand slip over the bone, settle into the space below her palm. Though she would like to, keeping herself from Anthony is an impossible task. This man, once the genesis of her fury, is now a salve for it.

The queen watches keenly.

“Tell me, Miss Sharma, do you love Lord Bridgerton?”

Kate’s chest is alight with pinpricks, a burst of dull thorns. She feels Anthony’s fingers tense ever so slightly. It is an impossibility.

“I believe I hold a great amount of affection for him.” She cannot bring herself to watch his face, to capture the tensing of his forehead and winced click of his jaw as she confesses to the crime of care. “In truth, he has driven me mad from the moment we met. He still does.” Kate hears him exhale softly. “Now I find myself unerringly fond of him. At times, it feels inexplicable.” She sighs a small laugh to herself.

“We were in a disagreement recently,” Kate shares, thinking back to their argument in his study. “I was livid, quite honestly, righteously so.” Anthony feels the tips of his ears redden. Must she divulge their worst moments? “And even in the midst of all that, our arguing, I wanted to sit with him and fix him a cup of tea.” The admission is nauseating to make, but necessary. “I have never wanted to fix any man a cup of tea.”

Charlotte chuckles throatily, lips sealed.

“You must know that I am dedicated to this union. More than a contract or legal matter now, this engagement is a partnership. It may not be the sort of love match most young ladies seek, but I believe this is—” Kate looks at Anthony now. She forgets why she avoided it. His eyes are wide and soft, almost shocked in their openness. “—so much better. I am not blinded by infatuation or naive hopefulness.” As she says the words, she believes them. If love has no place in their marriage, it will make room for every other aspect of supreme companionship. “We have known each other at our worst, first. He is one of the people I trust most in this world now.”

“This was meant to be a yes or no question, Miss Sharma. But I greatly appreciate your candor.” The queen smiles. “It seems you both share the same ability to circumvent a question. Perhaps a simpler one now. Do you love your sister?”

“More than anything.”

Something in Anthony’s chest cracks for her. Though he knows he would answer the same about his own siblings, it is different for Kate. Her sister is everything, because her sister is all she has.

“Good. There is a plan in place which helps you all.”

“Whatever I must do, I will do it.”

“Whatever we must do,” Anthony amends.

“Are your diaries empty two evenings from today?” The pair nod. “When you return home there will be an invitation to a royal ball. It is your engagement party.”

The air is kicked from Kate’s stomach. She tries to imagine Edwina attending happily, smiling wide for her sister and former fiancè, raising a glass of champagne in celebration of two traitors, no matter how good their intentions.

“That is quite soon.”

“Indeed,” Charlotte nods. “Soon enough to take the teeth out of the gossip. If you have my blessing and a soirèe seemingly prepared weeks in advance, Whistledown’s insinuations are simply evidence of your love match, rather than the accusation she intends it to be.”

“Love match,” Anthony repeats.

“Oh, yes.” She sips on her bourbon. Anthony and Kate do the same. “It is the only reason I could see myself supporting such a shift of affections. I had hoped you might be able to answer my questions more easily today, but I am certain you can sharpen your routine in the coming days.”

Though the offer carries this caveat, Kate is unable to fathom the reason behind this woman’s kindness.

“Why are you helping us?”

She reaches across the table, a silent request for Kate’s hand in her palm. “Your fate is tied to mine, my dear. Particularly if your sister marries my nephew. We must remain unimpeachable.”

The explanation is sound enough, but truth be told, Anthony believes she has a soft spot for Kate. She could have disallowed their union entirely and fed them to the wolves for the sake of her diamond. It would take much less effort.

Kate starts, stops, then starts again. “I appreciate this, ma’am, truly. But I owe you my honesty. I will not push Edwina toward Friedrich for your sake. She deserves the chance to choose her future. It is the reason we are seated here today, why I proposed to Anthony in the first place. I cannot compromise that.”

“Of course not.” Charlotte pats her hand, withdrawing. “I want the best for my Friedrich, same as you do your sister. Ultimately, that will be someone who wants to be with him, not someone who has been coerced to do so.”

Kate smiles, steeped in relief. In a battle of wills against the Queen of England, she was not likely to win.

“Now dearest, remove the gloves.” Kate puzzles at the sudden shift, but follows orders regardless. Charlotte sighs. “I thought I felt an empty finger. Really, Lord Bridgerton, no ring?”

“The ring is not ready.” Anthony shifts, tugging uncomfortably at his cufflinks.

“What do you mean not ready ? You had one before. I cannot imagine every suitable replacement from your family's collection has fallen down a well.”

“This has been an unconventional engagement, your grace,” Kate explains.

“Yes, but I believe a non-negotiable convention is a ring.” She fixes her attention back to the viscount. “Will this ring be ready in two days’ time?”

Anthony thinks for a moment. The latest addition should take a day at most. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Fabulous, I will be thrilled to see it,” she replies drily. “Make sure it is on your hand when you join the party, Miss Sharma. I would like to present you both at the start of the evening. Give them all something to talk about.”

A certain thrill courses through Anthony, though he knows it is a selfish one. The thought of himself and Kate, unbound by secrecy, his ring on her finger, is buoying.

“One more bit of housekeeping. I would like to waive the banns for you.”

“I am not—”

“We have never—”

Kate firmly cuts off her and Anthony’s crosstalk. “We require no special license.”

“That is heartening. However, I require a wedding, and I would prefer not to wait.”

“Respectfully,” Anthony starts, “the rest of this engagement has been unconventional . I owe Kate this much. And,” he adds, “this will ensure we remain unimpeachable .” Much as he is loath to delay calling Kate “wife,” it is better this way. The queen, it seems, realizes this too.

“Very well, then,” she concedes, a smile starting. “More time for us to plan the wedding.”

A sudden vision of peacocks and peonies and twenty piece string quartets floods Anthony’s imagination and he has the sinking suspicion that he has shot his foot to spare his arm. Kate slides her palm against his and he entwines their fingers easily. Her bare skin is a welcome comfort.

“I would love nothing more. Thank you,” Kate says. Her eyes are lowered in deference to the queen, but her fingers squeeze his as she says it.

The wait, he believes, is well worth it. The woman certainly is.

__

After being excused from the queen’s presence, Kate finds herself in another sitting room. This time, she stands in silence by the door. Her hands, gloved again, turn over one another tightly, a washing without water.

Edwina, fixed by a window with fretted patches of bluish light coronating her shoulders, appraises her sister’s strangeness.

“What is happening?”

“Bon.” Kate steps away from the closed door, a hand extended, then reconsiders.

Edwina makes no move toward her sister, despite the invocation of affection. There is a knot that has begun to tie itself inside her since Danbury’s maid knocked on her bedroom door with a rushed summons. It threaded itself on the graveled path here, grew gnarled when she was shuffled into and sequestered alone in this parlor. And now, her sister is here. Her sister, who owns every room and untangles every twisted string, now refuses to walk onto the carpet and sidesteps her question entirely. Whatever is happening, Kate knows. Whatever Kate knows, it is unpleasant.

“I fear this news will not be received easily, but there is no choice in its delivery.” Kate steels herself, willing her sister to accept these next words. “Lord Bridgerton and I are to be wed.”

“What?” The features of her face draw together in its center, a contortion of confusion. 

Kate remembers this expression from afternoons spent drilling minor chords for a Hadyn piece on the pianoforte. Why would anyone want to listen to something so sad? Edwina would ask, nose scrunched in bewilderment at the arrangement of her own fingers on the keys. 

“Why?” It is the only word Edwina can muster.

“Because,” Kate becomes intently focused on her fingertips, “he is the best solution for our family’s survival.”

“That is ridiculous.” Well and truly, she means it. Of all the things she could imagine before Kate entered the room, it was never this. The predicament would be laughable, Aristophanesean in its comedy, were it not her sister and former fiancé at its center. But no, Kate is more Oresteian, one of Aeschylus' doomed women, her fate sealed at the side of a husband she hates. Edwina throws her hands in disbelief and begins to pace. “I know that we are now without the Sheffield dowry, but that does not mean you must resort to a lifetime with a man you despise.”

“Edwina—”

“Kate, I mean it,” Edwina steams ahead. “I know you. You have never wanted to marry, much as Mama and I have tried. And to Lord Bridgerton ? No, you cannot give up your freedom so quickly, not for my sake.”

“I do not know if that is entirely true,” Kate responds quietly. She has not never wanted to marry as much as she knew the sort of marriage she sought was a complete impossibility, a grand delusion at odds with the reality of her family’s future. And, of course, there was her nagging lack of a dowry or noble blood.

“Of course it is,” Edwina insists immediately. Though she has never been the tactician of the two, she will be now. Surely, she thinks, she can find a way out that her sister—her self-sacrificing, stubborn sister—has not. “You should not forsake your future for mine.”

“I think you misunderstand…” Kate sighs and abandons her sentence. There is no purpose in correcting her sister about her previous desires and dreams. How does one attempt to say that she was resigned to break her own heart before this? That marrying Anthony may cause her fewer fissures than never knowing him at all? One does not. One cannot. “It is alright, bon. I have had much time to consider this decision. And I am glad to make it.”

Though the pendulum of this decision has swung from necessary, to altruistic, to somewhat selfish in Kate’s eyes, the statement remains true. And though Kate has voiced nothing of this evolution, Edwina freezes as if she has.

“How much time?” She asks slowly. “How long was this decision considered?”

There is a breath held between them now. Kate’s reply comes an exhale too late.

“It is not so—”

Edwina bursts, uninterested in decoding another roundabout answer.

“How long, Kate?” Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her short breaths spurring a spiraled inquisition.“Since my engagement ended? Perhaps since my engagement started? Since Aubrey Hall? Since the first day we set foot in this country?” The dig stings, but it is not a question without merit. Her face contorts from frustration to anguish. “Didi, you hate him.”

She says the words as fact, but a question still hangs in the air. Edwina waits for Kate to confirm what she knows is true. What she ought to have known sooner, if she didn’t trust her sister so blindly. So embarrassingly.

Kate covers her chest with a hand, stepping closer to cup her sister’s shoulder. They are swaddled briefly in the same patch of sun.

“Bon, please . I need you to understand me now.”

Edwina steps back, burned by her sister’s touch. Kate recedes, shrouded by shadows of the splintered panes.

“What is there to understand?” Edwina whispers harshly. “That you did not ever trust me to see this union through?” She takes offense at reasons she begins to invent in her mind: that Kate distrusted her capabilities as a viscountess; that Kate believed her too infatuated to be a competent match for a serious man. That Kate knew herself to be better suited as a wife and he saw it too. That they fell in love and laughed in secret when Edwina was not watching—because she did not know she ought to be.

“ No, bon, never.” Kate shakes her head vehemently. “You are the most wonderful, capable, loving person I know. Lord Bridgerton could not provide the marriage that I know you want. The sort that you deserve,” Kate insists. “After our dinner with the Sheffields, I… I knew that I could not ask you to repair that union—with your grandparents or with the viscount. It would be a betrayal of our parents, of yourself.” She takes a breath. “Despite mine and Lord Bridgerton’s differences, you were right: we have much in common. I asked this favor of him, so you might continue to seek the future that you wish and so our family could survive without the Sheffields' money or me returning to India for employment. And he agreed.”

“Favor,” Edwina echoes, a devastating half-smile accompanying the word.

Kate wonders idly if she heard anything after that turn of phrase. It is quite a clunky one, she is aware, likening a lifelong contract to sharing an umbrella. But that does not change the fact that he is granting them something generous indeed.

“So this agreement was made after our dinner with the Sheffields,” Edwina says slowly.

“Yes.” Kate nods heavily.

"How long after?" She wishes to count the days of her sister's betrayal, exact its hours.

“The day after.” Her voice is a near-whisper.

“I see. Is this the longest you’ve hid the truth from me, or have you kept other lies longer?”

Kate’s face turns briefly stony. However great her remorse, her ache for penance, she will not be punished for the decisions she made in the dark, when Edwina was a child and she was still one, too. “That is an unfair question.”

Edwina nods, a momentary display of contrition. “Answer this one, then: Why was this decided without my knowledge? I am not a child anymore, Kate. Do you truly think you can hide every difficult thing from me forever?”

“Edwina, you are my sister. My little sister,” she reminds her softly. “I have tried to shield you from everything because that is what I was born to do. Before you even existed, I was just waiting to meet you.” Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “You do not remember when Appa died, or when Mama seemed like she had followed him in spirit too. And I am so grateful for that. But I was there. I read the ledgers and paid our debts with my dowry, made money where I could and asked for help from the Sheffields where I could not.”

Kate chooses not to recount some of her worst memories of the aftermath: Mary’s refusal to eat; the tax collectors taking precious heirlooms as collateral; nightmares of her father’s crackling final breaths, only interrupted by Edwina, so small and unknowing, sneaking into her sister’s bed for comfort.

“I promised myself that I would not consider my future until you and Mama were taken care of. I have done all these things without regret, and I would do it again, bon. That is why I am still doing it now.”

“Kate.” Edwina looks at her with frustration and a small amount of pity. “You are not my mother.”

“I know,” she replies, a touch defensive. But who else was going to be?  She pulls her lip between her teeth, knowing she herself spoke those same words about Lady Danbury mere hours before: She is not my mother. Has her sister always seen her as so intrusive? A thing to be swatted instead of thanked? The thought stings.

“And I am a grown woman. Watching the most important decisions of my life be made without me. My courtship, my dowry, our family’s finances, my own betrothal—and its undoing—have been plotted behind closed doors, in rooms where I am not welcome.”

“To protect you. So that you would not ever be burdened with making the choices that I had to.”

“I never asked you to do that,” Edwina cuts in exasperatedly.

“I love you without being asked,” Kate replies fiercely. “I will protect you the same. It is why I invented this agreement with Lord Bridgerton. It gives you the chance to choose your future freely, truly.”

“Yes, but at what cost, Kate?” Her voice raises, cutting and clear, a razor’s edge. “You have given me everything and none of it is truly mine. How could it be? When you hand me opportunities you manufacture and pretend they are happenstance.” Edwina fists her hands in her skirts and blows out a long breath. “Lately, you have asked me what I want. How am I to know what I want, what I deserve? Nothing is a choice if it is simply handed to me, or if I am borrowing your dreams.”

“Bon,” Kate says gently. “I do not think it a borrowed dream to marry for love.”

“Certainly marrying a man you had wished for yourself would qualify,” Edwina corrects, her words a knife. Her countenance, though wounded, gains some tenderness. “It makes me wonder what other wishes of yours I inherited.”

Kate pauses, nonplussed by the kindness inferred from words that ought to land more maliciously. “What occurred with Lord Bridgerton has never and shall never happen again,” she affirms. “But if you decide that you no longer wish to wed at all, or that you would like a year to travel or learn or… I do not know what. Whichever dreams you decide are your own, they have been made possible now. All of them.”

Edwina, piqued, asks for the terms of her sister’s marriage contract. Upon Kate’s recounting, she is stunned. They are far more generous than any man would provide for his wife’s family, and offered unfathomable freedom for herself and her mother—more than she had imagined.

“If I did not demand to know all these things; if I simply accepted your engagement for what it was, how much of your negotiating would you have revealed to me?” Kate shifts her eyes, silent. This non-response is enough for Edwina, incensed again by her sister’s self-inflicted martyrdom. “How am I to understand your sacrifices when you do not allow me to see them? Sheltering me from the world is not protecting me, it is only leaving me more vulnerable.”

Kate’s face falls, stricken. “That was never my intention.”

“And yet it was the outcome. Think of how easily I fell for Lord Bridgerton’s charms, a mere imitation of affection in retrospect.”

Kate crosses her arms. “Not in retrospect. I told you quite presently.”

“Yes, but…” Edwina falters as she processes this fact. She starts again, quieter. “I wonder if I didn’t believe anything bad could happen, because after Appa, nothing ever did.”

Because Kate made sure of it.

Edwina sighs, deflated from her anger. “I do not hate you for loving him, Kate, I only wish you just told me. Everything. The dowry, the Sheffields… You gave up your life for mine. But it was my life, too. I should have had a say.”

Kate nods acceptingly, allowing her first tear to fall with the jostle of her head. “I love you more than anything, bon. I am sorry that I have not always loved you properly.”

Edwina’s mouth twists. The sisters stay unmoved, two chess pieces divided by latticed light.

One thing rings in Kate’s ears through this quiet moment, because it is the easiest and most obvious item worth objection: I do not hate you for loving him.

“I do not love him,” she announces, wiping her tears away. “We are amiable now, though. You were right to say we had much in common.” She smiles a little to herself, an imperceptible softening of her mouth. “He became easier to understand when I was not trying to keep him away from you.” Her face settles. “But he meant it when he said love would play no role in his marriage. That did not change with me.”

“That does not make me feel better.” Edwina replies, morose. “Honestly, I wish it had changed. I wish, for the first time, you were being entirely selfish and getting more out of your own marriage than the rest of us.”

There is no easy response to this. So Kate returns to her dissection of the phrase: I do not hate you for loving him.

“Do you hate me?” She steels herself for the answer she deserves.

“No. I could never.” Edwina returns, vehement. “You are my sister. I love you.”

Moved, Kate finally picks up her feet, arms poised to reach for her. But Edwina flinches, stepping back. Kate’s chest constricts and her countenance crumbles.

“Do not. Please. I cannot, yet. I just… I cannot speak to you any further right now. I will need time.”

“Alright,” Kate chokes out. She wills herself not to sob, not to reveal the fresh crater carved into her chest.

Edwina pats at her own damp cheek with a handkerchief until all evidence of pain is erased. She folds the square neatly, avoiding Kate’s misty gaze. “I imagine there will be festivities soon.” She waits for her sister to nod. “I will be in attendance, then. With kind words and a congratulatory smile. You will have one less thing to worry about.” She takes a calm breath. “And that is all I can do for you right now.”

Composed now, Edwina walks away, her voice echoing lightly down the hall as she asks for her carriage to be prepared. She leaves the door agape as she goes, taking a shred of Kate’s heart with her.

__

Anthony hears Kate before he sees her.

Though he was released from the queen’s chambers with express instructions to return directly to his carriage, both Anthony and Charlotte knew he would do no such thing. Why else would she have dispatched him without an escort from her staff? From the moment Kate abandoned her tea to attend to her sister, his mind had run unbound. He is itching to glimpse her face, to know from her simple expression if Edwina had accepted their union with grace—if she had accepted it at all.

Rounding corner after corner of St James’s winding halls, Anthony peers through cracked doors and holds his breath at the sound of every voice that, in the end, never belongs to Kate. Then, after what feels like his third lap on the second floor, he pauses. A brass-handled door, heavy and sealed, stands before him. Behind it, he hears her breathing.

At first, he is convinced it is magical thinking, the presumption that he can recognize Kate simply from a pattern of near-silent inhalations through a solid door. But it gains credence when he hears a heavier, ragged breath and sees the light shift at the bottom of the paneled wood, making way for a shadow. He does not bother to knock.

“Kate,” he whispers, turning the handle.

The door moves a narrow margin, then stops. There is a sound of shuffling and a sniffle on the other side. Untouched, the door swings wider, and he watches Kate, half-bent, brushing her hands over her skirt. He takes in her trembling fingers and bloodshot eyes as she straightens and shuts the door.

“I am fine.” Kate’s back is turned and yet she still delivers an unconvincing performance.

“Please.” He places a hand, slow and gentle on her forearm, vaguely terrified of spooking her. She shakes her head and sniffs wetly. The sound crushes him. “Oh, Kate.”

With one hand still resting against her arm, he uses the other to produce a handkerchief, presenting it at her front so his arms have bracketed her comfortingly, an almost-embrace. She makes no move to separate herself and he nudges closer, until her back is notched against his front. Kate allows herself this moment, sinking back into his immovable, wool-coated form. Their tableau, though intimate, is a platonic one. She is grateful for the comfort. Not for the first time today, she marvels at this man, once her rival, now a respite.

“I take it things did not go as hoped?”

Kate shakes her head, cheek chewed between her molars. Anthony’s skin prickles as her shoulders turn tense against his own. He cannot hear, nor feel, her breathing any longer. He rubs his thumbs, tender and cautious, over her forearms, then wrists. His remaining fingers settle at the pulse points below her palm. He attempts to catch her eye but she averts her gaze quickly, looking past him at nothing.

“You cannot hide this from me, if that is what you think you’re doing. Nor do I want you to.”

Kate exhales sharply, then swallows a quick inhale. “I do not want you to see me like this,” she insists, voice roughened and irate. 

“Why?” He wonders now if he is making this worse for her. If she is set to despise him for all eternity and he has misconstrued her fury for grief.

“You have already talked me through my emotions today. I do not like to—this is not who I am. I am not weak.” She slides a hand away from his touch to bat at a mutinous tear. His fingers follow suit.

“It is impossible for anyone to think you are weak. My opinion of you is not so fickle, nor is my mind feeble enough to forget everything else about you.” His hand cradles her cheek and it is entirely different from the way he held her in his carriage. Caring, yes, but not carnal in the slightest. It is somehow more poignant; potent and petrifying to hold her skin against his. “You do not need to be strong for me. We are strong enough for each other. Please, do not hide your hurt away.” 

Kate’s last, desperate thread of resolve is one of thinly woven resentment. It would be easier to cling to her fury at this man. Easier to place the blame solely at his feet rather than admit her hand in it. Easier than admitting how much she has wanted his embrace since the morning of their first meeting.

“God,” She grits out, sudden heat crawling up her neck. Kate sucks her lower lip backward, on the edge of expletives, and steps out of Anthony’s grasp, facing him fully. She sinks her teeth deeper into the flesh, threatening to tear her lip open. “I have always feared this.” The thread snaps and her tears fall in full, angry waves sluicing over the crests of her cheeks. “I cannot lose her, Anthony. I cannot lose her, too.” She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, begging the flood to abate. “She is all I have left.”

He is shattered for her and appalled by his own hand in her suffering, as the prevailing pattern seems to be. But guilt alone will not undo this.

“You will not lose her,” Anthony promises. “Tell me, what did she say?”

“That she could not speak to me,” Kate replies, eyes still sealed shut. “That I have failed her and hurt her. She would not let me touch her, Anthony.” She relays the details of their conversation further, her hands finally dropping from her swollen eyes as she does so.

“I am sorry,” he tells her in earnest. “Has she said she hates you?” He knows this, above all, has been her all-consuming worry.

“No.”

“That is a relief, then.” Anthony fits his hand into hers supportively and guides them to rest on a settee. “I know that… Well, certainly every family is different, but mine has.”

“Yours has what?”

Anthony blinks. “Said they hate me.” He relays the information as though it is obvious, inherent in his being. “Eloise, mostly. Colin and Benedict, sure. But Daphne, too. Especially last season, I was…” He exhales. “A cad, frankly. Far and away a worse elder sibling than you.”

Kate tilts her head at this revelation. “What happened, exactly?”

“My sister was the diamond, as you know. And I made decisions on her behalf which I was adamant were best.” They share a wry look. “If it were up to me, I would have hand-selected her suitors and she would be married to someone she hates at this very moment.” His face becomes awash with guilt. “She became rather entangled with someone. My friend, actually.”

“The Duke of Hastings?”

He nods. “I could not stomach it.”

“So the duel was…” She recalls his mention of it from their argument in his study.

“Yes,” he nods, mouth set in a grim line. “I take no pride in the act. It was priggish and thoughtless.”

“Well, if your friend was anything like you.” She dips her head and nudges his knee with her own.

“Exactly,” he replies, gravely serious. For once, his reputation proves useful with Kate. “I do not believe my objections were without merit but the way I went about it was deplorable. I destroyed my sister’s trust.” He scratches at his neck. “If I had simply allowed her to chart her own course from the start, it seems we would have ended things in the same place.”

“Anthony,” Kate shakes her head. “I do not condone what you did, per se. I believe if I were there we would have had a duel of our own.” She laughs mildly. “But what leg do I have to stand on now? You did the best with what you had.”

He dismisses her goodwill. “And it was not good enough.”

“The fact of the matter is,” Kate presses, “that no one will thank you for what you have done well.” She thinks of Benedict and Eloise, laughing conspiratorially about their eldest brother’s supreme sense of duty, blind to his sacrifice. “But they will certainly punish you for what you have done wrong.”

Anthony raises his brows. “The same could be said of you.” Cornered by her own argument, Kate clicks her tongue against her teeth. “And yet, after all this, we are not strangers to one another, Daphne and I.” He smooths his thumb over the back of her hand. “Give her time and take yours, too.”

“When did you get wise?” Kate attempts to narrow her eyes, but cannot manage the humor.

“I do not think myself wise. But if I have become more thoughtful, it did not occur in a vacuum.”

She offers a melancholic, meaningful smile in return. In short supply of the words to express her gratitude, she closes the gap between their upper halves and hugs him. Anthony’s breath hitches and he falters, returning the gesture in kind a moment later. One arm braces her waist as the other floats from the nape of her neck to a spot of skin between her shoulder blades. He feels Kate’s head nestle itself against his shoulder, her soft exhalations puffing lightly against his throat. He swallows and tucks his chin over her hair. Minutes pass in silence.

“Promise me something?” Kate asks into his neck.

“Anything,” he says.

“Any decision you or I make, we make together from now on.”

He shifts, forehead furrowing. The thought of sharing everything with someone, even a person as competent as Kate feels mildly alarming. Agreeing to burden her with the minutiae of dinner menus and maids’ schedules and sibling in-fighting; the greater load of ledgers and wage-paying and sharecropping—it feels too much to ask. Though, it appears, he is not asking. She is.

“Anthony.” She calls him back to earth. “I am so exhausted from making every decision on my own. Aren’t you?”

“Of course,” he says truthfully.

“Let us always be in one another’s corner then, yes? Like today.”

His chin shuffles up and down against her head in agreement. He pulls back to drop a kiss against her scalp and she shifts her face below his neck. “All right, then.”

As they embrace, Kate thinks of her sister’s words again. I do not hate you for loving him. Honestly, I wish you had. The memory feels like an indictment. Much as she feels compelled to, she does not run away from his touch now, leaning her head against his chest as he strokes small circles against her back. Anthony lets her sink into him, silent as her breathing slows. Despite his affectionate touch, she knows it does not signify the love her sister hopes for her. Even so, with all else lost, she will allow herself to seize said affection. It is what she desires and, for today, she will not deny it.

“Thank you for staying.”

He should be thrown by Kate’s gratitude, spoken as though he is getting nothing out of this moment, but is learning to accept it nonetheless. There is rarely any use in arguing with her. To Anthony, staying seems like the simplest thing in the world.

Chapter Text

When Anthony returns home from St James, he knows his secrets are no longer his own. There is a certain buzz among the staff, second glances and giddy smiles thrown in his direction without warning.

His valet is the first to extend congratulations, the words offered heartily as he removes the viscount’s jacket in the foyer. The welcome committee continues as Anthony hurries his way through the hall in search of his mother, with even the kitchen staff spawning to celebrate.

“We are so delighted for you and the new viscountess.”

Anthony exhales. “As am I.”

He finds Violet, finally, in the gardens, surveying still-damp petals and the soft-soiled beds of her prized flowers.

“Mother.” He strides quickly to her side.

“My darling,” she sighs. “I have the most interesting correspondence on my writing desk—”

“Yes, that is what we ought to discuss.”

“Really, I had hoped you would give me some warning that you were holding an engagement ball so soon. It will be impossible to have a new dress made with such short notice.”

“Do you need a new dress?”

“I would prefer a new dress to present my newly-engaged son and other eligible children before the queen of England, yes,” she replies drily. “And I would have preferred to have some input in planning the event. Truly,” she sighs, “between you and Daphne I worry that no child of mine will have a normal engagement. Is that too much for a mother to ask?”

“It is when Whistledown insists on inserting herself in our affairs,” he snipes. “She seems to have no better hobbies than sniffing around our family.” Could the woman not take up needlework?

“What on earth does Whistledown have to do with your engagement?”

“Was there not—?” His heart races, hopeful against his best instincts. “What correspondence have you received today?”

Bewildered by her son’s frenzy, Violet speaks slowly. “An invitation to your engagement ball, of course.”

“Of course.”

“A note from Lady Goring with details on our next game of cribbage.”

“Naturally.”

“And then a letter from Daphne with an update on Augie. Oh, he’s teething, now! Did you know—”

“That is all the correspondence you have received?”

“Yes.” She nods emphatically, despite her irritation at the interruption.

He laughs a bit incredulously. “Our queen is very good. Very good, indeed.”

As promised, Whistledown’s paper arrives an hour later. Through extended congratulations at Mondritch’s that evening—relayed by Benedict—Anthony finds that the monarch’s announcement was delivered sooner than Whistledown’s paper to every invitee in London. Now, he and Kate are a love match, cast more sweetly than salaciously as the lady’s letter had intended. And Whistledown? Well, she simply seems downwind of rumors about a party and some impending nuptials.

__

The next morning, Anthony is bizarrely late to rise. Warning signs of a yellow sun wink through his window, yesterday’s rain forgotten, when he finally stirs. It is only when he remembers the day ahead that he jolts upright. The ring. Worse, Lady Danbury.

He dresses hastily and descends the stairs two at a time. As he leaps into his carriage, he is grateful for his foresight in requesting it be readied in the early hours.

This indulgence of rest is unsettling, the act unlike him. He mulls over explanations as he journeys to Danbury House. Perhaps the prior day’s exhaustion has caught up to him, he thinks, calling upon the memories of frantic journeys to and from St James, the shudder of Kate’s shoulders as she stifled an onslaught of tears. Though a tide of guilt ripples through him at the reminder of her pain, another thought occurs: perhaps he has found some peace. Selfish though it may be, there is an undeniable comfort in knowing his and Kate’s reputations will remain intact, that their conversations and the brushing of hands no longer need be hidden in dark corners of any given ballroom. He thinks of her mouth on his neck, the smooth pulse of her tongue against his, and a powerful heat blooms through his body. He feels an embarrassing red flush has covered his neck and he tugs his white cravat a touch higher. Perhaps some things will remain confined to the back of a carriage.

What a relief it will be to hold her tomorrow. To see her today.

Tea goes as poorly as expected, if not more so. The dowager refuses to allow him to return to the very home he is currently inside without an official request. Despite the fact that she is the lady of the house and could approve his presence in a few hours’ time with ease. Despite the fact that he is requesting to propose to his own fiancée and must retrieve her ring in the interim. Splendid.

After an excruciating hour ticks by, Anthony is released and he makes haste for Bridgerton House.

Inside, Anthony makes a brief stop in his study and scrawls out a note requesting an audience with Miss Kate Sharma this afternoon, stamps and seals the paper, then foists it upon the first footman in his line of sight. Next, he must make a dash for the jeweler’s, because the man is not available for house calls today. Naturally.

At the sound of clattering plates, Anthony realizes an error: he has not yet eaten a crumb of food. Breathless, he enters the day room, ripping a scone from a platter. He does not bother with butter or jam or clotted cream—it will only slow him down.

“Good morning to you as well,” Eloise interrupts his chewing mockingly.

“Are you really getting married?” Hyacinth asks around a mouthful of grapes.

“Manners, dear,” Violet corrects gently, stirring a steaming teacup.

“Yes, do tell us,” Colin prods. “Are you really getting married this time? Or is there a third Sharma sister we ought to know about?” Disgusting flecks of brioche fly from his mouth.

“Manners, dear,” Benedict trills from his seat.

Anthony points a finger at Colin. “Do not—” he coughs. The dry scone has turned against him.

Benedict takes over for Anthony as his elder brother pours a quick cup of tea. “Do not,” he grumbles in imitation, “be rude. Miss Kate Sharma is your future viscountess and that is final.”

“Exactly,” Anthony agrees after a hearty swig.

“Pardon me for asking, considering your history.” Colin retorts.

“Perhaps we ought to discuss your marriage prospects instead?” Anthony pokes back.

“No, thank you.” He curls his lip. “It is far too early in the morning for one of your lectures.”

Anthony checks his pocket watch. “Colin, it is half-past eleven.”

“Exactly.”

“I think we should consider ourselves lucky to have Miss Sharma join the family,” Eloise says firmly, eyes unmoved from the book in front of her. Sense and Sensibility, Anthony realizes.

“Thank you, Eloise,” Anthony says with a small puff of pride. “I quite agree.”

“Hear, hear,” Benedict raises his cup. “Any woman who delights in besting our brother on the pall mall field is a good match indeed.”

“She has many great attributes,” Anthony returns.

“Yes, but her best is antagonizing you,” Benedict smiles. “Oh, and watercolors, it seems.”

“She likes watercolors?” Gregory asks.

Benedict nods. “So she tells me.”

“And she likes you?” Hyacinth tilts her head at Anthony.

He smiles into the edge of his cup. “So she tells me.”

“Do you love her?”

This question from Gregory throws him.

Anthony clears his throat. “Marriage is not just about love.”

“But Mother and Father loved one another.” Gregory’s nose wrinkles.

“Of course they did.” How could anyone forget it? “Not every marriage is the same, though.” He tries to make his voice gentle, to not cast his cynicism in the face of young hope. “Mine is not so simple.”

“Or maybe you are just making it complicated.” Francesca’s voice is so quiet he nearly misses it.

“How do you mean?” He should be irritated by the question, another unwarranted jab, but he instead feels particularly accused. His heart is thunderous and sore, the way a bruise throbs in the wake of a harshly pressed thumb.

She chooses to look at Gregory rather than her eldest brother, and shrugs.

“If there is something you would like to say, Fran, please. Say it.”

She looks at him, then, eyes so kind it hurts.

“I believe I just have.”

__

Anthony travels to Mister Brookes’s shop and back to Bridgerton House in record time. He is certainly running late, thanks in part to a detour guiding Gregory through some particularly tricky times tables after breakfast, and some delay owed to his jeweler’s inescapable chatter. A thin ring of sweat blooms beneath his cravat and he tears it from his neck gratefully the moment he is returned to the foyer.

He checks his pocket watch for what must be the thirtieth time that day. His timetable is tight, but manageable: check for a response to his note to Danbury House, freshen up, call upon Kate, propose to Kate, return home in time for dinner. Quite a simple series of events. He completes the first step easily, his presence approved by Lady Danbury, and he strides toward the staircase for step two. The effort is immediately derailed by the sound of a parlor door swinging open.

“Ah, brother. There you are!”

He whirls around at the greeting.

“Daphne?”

“Do not act so surprised to see me.” She props a hand on her hip. “Did you think we would miss your engagement party?”

“No—no, I—” he stammers in search of an answer. “I am merely surprised to see you so soon.”

“Yes, well. You and I have much to discuss. Come sit.” She gestures to the room behind her.

“Not now.” He flicks open his pocket watch again. “Perhaps at dinner?”

“I would prefer to speak privately. And presently.”

He sighs, patience worn a touch too thin for politeness. “So be it. But I am in a bit of a rush.” He nods at the stairs above them.

Daphne’s good manners, it seems, have waned similarly. “So be it.” She picks up her skirts. “I shall join you, then.”

It is an absolute oddity to have his sister trail him around his room. He has nothing to hide—the space consists of a neatly-made bed, two stacks of books, and nary a knick-knack in sight. Still, he eyes her uncomfortably as he rings the bell for a basin of water.

“I am not going to break anything, Anthony.” She rolls her eyes.

“Right.” He deflates. Somehow, he forgot she was no longer ten years old and prone to playing dress up with Eloise in his hats.

He collects the water from a maid and splashes his face and neck haphazardly, drying himself with equal haste.

“What has you in such a rush?”

“I need to propose to my fiancée.”

Daphne narrows her eyes. “Your engagement ball is tomorrow evening.”

“So you understand my urgency,” he replies, deadpan.

“Are you familiar with the order of conduct when proposing marriage to a young lady? Or is that only when you are dictating it to the rest of us?”

The dig stings a bit, but he shrugs it off. She is not incorrect in identifying his hypocrisy during her season.

“I know that my conduct with you last season was abhorrent. And for that I am sorry. Believe me when I say it has plagued me of late. If I could go back and allow you to chart your own course, well… It is too late for wishful revisionism, so I shall spare you.” He plows ahead as Daphne blinks, bewildered at the simplicity and ease of this apology, this self-awareness , from Anthony Bridgerton of all people. “You have not been present these past few weeks, so it bears informing you: my union with Miss Sharma has been wholly unusual.”

“Well, you certainly seem wholly unusual.” She laughs a little, some disbelief still lingering. “Please, enlighten me on the details of your union.” Daphne seats herself primly in an armchair, no room for argument.

He checks the time on his watch again and sighs.

“So. Were you caught again?”

“I beg your pardon?” Anthony crosses his arms over his chest, offended.

“Do not play coy with me, brother.” Daphne’s brow lifts but her tone remains steady, almost interrogatory. “I recall what I saw in your study the evening of the Hearts and Flowers Ball. That paired with Whistledown’s letter,” she clicks her tongue, “means I would not be surprised if that is the true reason for your nuptials. However glad I am that your engagement with Miss Edwina came to an end, I must ask if that is why.”

“If you must ask,” he replies, “then you must know that you are completely incorrect in your assumptions. In fact, I was certain that I ought to end the engagement with Miss Edwina shortly after our return from Aubrey Hall, for many reasons, and Miss Sharma agreed.”

“Hmm, so Miss Edwina did not call things off as reported.” Daphne hums, still unsatisfied with his vague explanation. “By reasons, you mean inappropriate conduct, I imagine. It would also explain your very timely apology about my season.” Well, she is half-right there. “Do I need to duel Miss Sharma for your honor?”

“Considering we are already engaged, with a wedding sponsored by the Queen of England? I think you can spare her.”

“Did Miss Edwina take the end of your engagement well?”

Sheepish, he nods. “After her sister spoke to her, yes.” He does not wish to mention her reaction to the second engagement quite yet.

His sister scoffs, incredulous. “You did not even have the mind to end the engagement with your first fiancée yourself?”

“Believe me,” he returns vehemently. “I wanted to. But circumstances have dictated that we do everything out of proper order.”

“Circumstances being you getting caught,” Daphne declares quickly. Her expression aggravates him, so assured of his impropriety.

“Yes. In a way, I was caught,” Anthony admits with a hefty sigh.

“Aha!” She shoots upright from her chair.

“Caught by Miss Sharma, that is. While collecting my thoughts on a morning ride in Hyde Park a few weeks ago. She took me by surprise.” He cannot stifle a smile at the memory of her temerity. “And proposed to me herself.”

Daphne squeals, then claps a hand over her mouth. “No.” Her eyes glitter at the fresh pearl of gossip.

“Yes.” Anthony nods emphatically. “Do not speak a word of it, of course. This is privileged information, not the official story.”

Daphne rolls her eyes. “Remember, I have one of those too.” He nods and she returns to the story. “So that is why you did not have a ring.”

“That, and she alerted me to the fact that I needed a new one.”

“Do not tell me that you gave her the very same ring as her sister?” Her brother’s silence is answer enough. “I could have told you not to do that.” She pinches the bridge of her nose until the secondhand embarrassment and firsthand fury passes. “All errors in jewelry aside, it sounds very romantic indeed. And, frankly, I am shocked that no one forced your hands. I have known from the start that the two of you were well-suited. I think any person with eyes and ears could tell that plainly.”

“Any person but me or her.” The corner of Anthony’s mouth tugs upward. “But I am inclined to agree. She is a very singular woman. And yet, I have found much of myself in her, too.” He pauses then, swallows thickly. “Though I am not certain about any romanticism.” He stops himself. What caveat is there to add? “Would you like to see the new ring?”

Daphne agrees, quite gravely. “I believe it is best that I do.”

Anthony tugs the ring box from its hiding place in his breast pocket and hands it to his sister. He cannot bear to watch her look at it, so he digs around for a fresh cravat instead as she removes the ring. His jittery fingers fumble an attempt to wind the blue silk around his neck and he hears her gasp behind him.

“Oh, Anthony.” Daphne’s eyes well. She finds a great pride and swell of warmth at the notion of her brother made happy, in love with a wonderful woman. “It is stunning.”

He turns around at her proclamation, a heavy breath released from deep in his chest. “You think so?”

“She will love it. Undoubtedly.”

His face splits open, cheered by Daphne’s approval. “Thank you. I, um, I worked a good bit on the design. I wanted it to be special for her.”

She nods. “I can see that.”

He returns to the task of arranging his cravat, but finds the material impossible to manage. “Sorry, could you—?” He flexes his fingers and gestures at the fabric. “Hands are a bit useless.”

“Of course.” Daphne smiles softly and ties his cravat easily. A comfortable silence settles between them as she finishes the knot, tucks it into his starched collar. “You did not tell me you love her,” she says casually, smoothing out the silk.

“Well.” He swallows as his sister steps back, then returns the ring box to his pocket. “I have not told her either.”

“Anthony,” she starts softly. What he means to express is that there is nothing to tell. He realizes too late that she has understood him differently.

“If I may,” he interrupts.“I have been clear from the start that I seek an amicable wife, with whom I may share a pleasant acquaintance. I am quite fortunate to have found more than that with Kate.” Fortunate is too weak a word, but there are few adjectives powerful enough to capture her potency. “She is an extraordinary partner and a dear friend. But that does not change the matter of love. It shall have no place in my marriage, no opportunity to cause the sort of wreckage that both she and I have witnessed. There is nothing rational in an attempt to outrun grief.”

Daphne shakes her head.

“I know you must think me hard-hearted.”

“Not in the slightest. But you and Simon…” She does not know how she never noticed their similarities until now, both so stubborn and so certain. “Please do not halt your life to spite death like my husband tried to. Do not halt hers, either.”

“I promise you, Daph. None of this is borne of spite.”

___

The hands of the sitting room’s clock chug with impressive sluggishness. Kate looks between the timepiece and her book once, twice, again. Only forty seconds have passed. She has not turned the page, nor even read a line. Everything today is measured in exact, excruciating metrics. They demand to be accounted for. She snaps the book shut—only a chapter in, anyway—and runs the mental tally for the third time.

Twenty-two hours since she first kissed Anthony. Six hours of muddled rest, dreams jumbled with Edwina’s cold eyes looking through her, Anthony’s warm hands on her spine. One hour in the dawn fog of Hyde Park on horseback. Fourteen minutes of a fluttering heart and fleeting disappointment when she realized he would not meet her in those woods. Thirty-one minutes endured at the breakfast table in a silent stalemate with Edwina, oscillating between supreme guilt and righteous indignation and back again. Nineteen hours since she broke her sister’s heart.

And now, twenty-six minutes spent pretending to read a book. He is eleven minutes late.

“Apologies, Miss Sharma.” Anthony enters the room guided by a maid, nodding in gratitude as she shuts the door upon her exit. He strides to her side, breathless. “I am ever so sorry. There were family matters and my own time management was lacking.”

While she does not enjoy the experience of waiting for any man, she can appreciate that this one is absolutely harried. She raises a hand as he continues profusely offering regrets.

“Anthony, enough. I am merely glad you are here.”

Kate runs a thumb and forefinger down his lapel, half in an attempt to anchor him, half to anchor herself. There is something about him today that compels her like no other day, a force that invites looking, touching, tasting. Perhaps now that the seal has been broken—their mouths meeting, their union blessed—she is growing greedy. Rather than stay sated by the first taste, she has gained a greater hunger. The thought of their impending wedding night crosses her mind again and she shivers. There is no world in which she will not crave him more.

Anthony, oblivious to this line of thought, skims a hand over her forearm. “Are you alright, Kate?”

“Quite.”

He meets her eyes then and an understanding settles in his features. Her own desire reflects back in his gaze.

Anthony coughs, drawing back.

“How are matters with your sister?”

Well. That is certainly one way to snuff out a libidinous imagination.

“Tenuous, if I am being honest.” Anthony’s hand pulses against her skin, a comfort and apology. “It is to be expected. I do not fault her for her frustration or deny her hurt.”

“But?” He knows her well enough to sense a caveat.

“But I have my own, too.” She sighs. “And it has sometimes felt…” she falters a moment. Perhaps this admission is unfair. Unkind.

“Tell me,” he prods gently.

“As though mine are secondary. Some flaw of character rather than a feature of being human, as everyone else’s are.”

When she descended the stairs this morning, swollen-eyed and sorry, she caught Edwina’s flinch. She flinched as if Kate should be disallowed the pity of suffering. As if Kate were not suffering properly; too much or not enough. She knows this reaction is insignificant, deserved even, in the wake of such betrayal. But she is not unfeeling. Nor has she ever been. She wonders if she has done her sister a disservice, hiding her grief so thoroughly in the wake of their father’s death. If she were not so adept at counting Edwina’s breaths until she could slip out of a shared bed during a storm, housing herself under a desk to muffle the shudder of her tears. Perhaps this entire matter would have been avoided if Edwina had seen her sadness sooner, been able to recognize its language in the lines on her face. If she had spotted her restlessness at Aubrey Hall, seen the pain in her protectiveness, maybe she would have never accepted that first ring. Maybe she would not be so disconcerted by the devastation painted plainly on her elder sister’s face.

“They are not. Neither secondary nor a flaw.” He takes his hand in hers, unbidden. “You need not hide them from me. Nor should you run from them.”

“I did go for a ride in Hyde Park to… to clear my head this morning.” Frankly, she went to cry. To exert angry tears and weep for herself in self-pity, for her sister’s pain, to shed enough that it might atone for her shame. She worries her lip a moment, then offers a bit of honesty. “Despite Lady Danbury’s embargo, I thought that you might be there."

“I am here now.” He moves to take her hand. “But I wish I had been there this morning.”

She attempts to find some cheer. “I suppose I shall just be glad that we have many mornings ahead of us for whatever we wish.”

“Do you wish to find me there tomorrow morning?”

Kate pauses, mulling over the question. It is tempting, almost too greedy to entertain. And yet, she finds herself agreeing. “That would be very pleasing, indeed.”

The pair nod in unison, eyes alight. Danbury be damned.

“You know, tenuous as things are with my sister, I do not blame you for the state of things. Not all of it, at least.”

“Still—” he insists.

“Truly.” He has worn his contrition for his behavior well enough. If there is anyone else to whom he might offer atonement, it is Edwina. Not Kate. “A great deal of this is my doing,” she admits. “Much as I prided myself for it, I am coming to realize that I have not prepared my sister in all the ways she truly needed. That is my failure.”

Edwina’s words delivered a sting, but she knows they were not unfounded.

“Kathani.” Anthony’s tone is firm, but kind. “If this is you failing,” he gestures loosely at the walls surrounding them, “with a sponsor halfway around the world, your sister as the diamond, and good favor with the Queen of England? We all should brace ourselves for your success.”

She decides here and now that she will no longer bother citing any emotion for him as a failure of character. Not when he has succeeded in making her feel so seen, in saving her family’s future.

“Will this sort of flattery continue once we are married?” She asks, a little playful. Her words are laced with some hope.

“That matter depends entirely on whether you accept my proposal,” he returns. There is a coltishness in the curve of his consonants, something endearingly clumsy in the way he reaches for the ring box inside his jacket.

“Well, then.” She does a brief impression of Lady Danbury, all stern and straight-backed. “Best get on with it.”

He ticks his mouth upward, then lowers himself from the couch to balance on one knee.

“What are you doing down there?”

“If I am going to propose to you, then I am going to propose to you properly. Would you mind not interrupting?”

If, he says. As though either of them has a choice. The scene—this unchaperoned pair in a sitting room, already openly engaged by the ton’s standards—strikes her as distinctly hilarious and she has the urge to double over with laughter. But then he opens the ring box and, oh—how could she laugh at something so lovely? She is at a loss for words.

“Kate, I want to marry you.” He is earnest in the sentiment. There is surety and clarity of thought. “I know we came about it in a most unusual fashion, but I believe we are building a life, a union, that suits us both. I do not want to marry anyone else and cannot believe I ever thought I did.” His face is so honest it is almost wounding to witness. “You are more than a mere list of attributes could ever capture. You are a woman of unparalleled wit, exceptional character, and acuity. And, honestly, a frustratingly first-rate horsewoman. You are a tremendous person, Kathani Sharma, and there is no better woman I could call Viscountess.”

“Well,” she breathes out. “You have made it difficult to argue with you here.”

“Worry not, I will still make it quite easy once we are wed.” He offers a shaky grin.

“That is a relief, then. I should hate for you to stop vexing me.” She swallows and nods. “I want to marry you, too, Anthony.”

She watches pride, relief, and anticipation spill over in his smile.

“Here.” He rises to the couch again and takes her hand in his, removing her glove with care. Rather than place the ring on her finger, he puts it in her palm for inspection. She lifts it with her right hand, its stones catching the light as she marvels at the piece.

A flower cluster of oval cut emeralds house a small purple tourmaline at its center. This centerpiece is dotted with a border of seed pearls. The green stones, set against the gold band, remind her of—

He does not look at her, his gaze, instead, remaining locked on the ring. “The ring itself was my grandmother’s, but the stones have been reworked into a new setting. Something that better suits your sensibilities.” The band, he tells her, is entirely new, entirely theirs. “And the emeralds are from a necklace of my mother’s. Not that I wanted you to feel everything was borrowed,” he says in a rush. “Merely that I wanted you to still have something of the viscountess before you. Of my mother.” He clears his throat. “And, um, well, your mother, too. I couldn’t help but notice the jewels in her bracelets.”

“Bangles,” Kate corrects absently, transfixed. Her vision is briefly blurry, but she blinks back into focus.

“Yes, bangles.” Anthony flicks his eyes to hers for approval. She smiles openly. “And I had the band etched after yesterday, after I realized—”

“Lilies,” she interrupts with a small, disbelieving laugh. Just as she thinks she understands him entirely, he surprises her anew. “My, how much you have changed from the man I met at that first ball.” He glows at the compliment. “You have outdone yourself, Anthony.”

“You like it, then?”

“I believe love is the better word.”

His throat constricts at the word, but he smiles pleasurably nonetheless.

“May I?”

She acquiesces, placing her hand in his. He slips the ring on her finger, awed by its glow against her skin. Kate is bowled over by the sight: Her hand in her fiancé’s, a ring entirely her own, both forever in their rightful place. She squeezes his hand, running her thumb over each fingertip. Something bursts inside her chest, bubbling and beautiful and bright. Like champagne beneath her skin. She cannot help but kiss him.

When she presses her lips against his, it is insistent but unhurried. They have a lifetime of opportunity for this. Now, she must kiss him to find a place to pour her gratitude by the glassful, to share the shimmer inside her sternum. Words are futile devices in this pursuit.

Their hands remained entwined as they kiss. Anthony squeezes her hand in turn, attempting to commit the crest of her knuckles, the swell of her palm, and the gentle weight of her fingers to his memory. The new fixture of her ring, though cool to the touch, brings a welcome warmth to his skin. His head feels fuzzy and light, an almost drunken halo surrounding him.

Kate presses her tongue against the seam of his mouth until it touches against his. She curls her tongue inside his mouth gently and he presses back, hungry and helpless to deny her. Their lips move assuredly and reverently, a steady and pleasurable rhythm. Kate pulls back every now and again, a hair's breadth between their mouth as she catches a breath, air puffing against his skin. Her free hand moves to the nape of his neck to scratch against Anthony’s scalp. He groans lightly into her mouth and pulls her closer with a hand behind her shoulder. He glides his palm from shoulder to neck to cheek, then draws back carefully.

His eyebrows crease as he runs a thumb over her cheekbone. “Are you alright?” He displays his thumb, glistening with a tear.

She laughs, bashful, and quickly swipes at her face. “I do not know when that occurred.” 

It seems her cup runneth over indeed. These few tears are welcome here. It is a relief to shed them over something good.

He offers his kerchief and she accepts gratefully.

“Thank you.”

He nods. They both know she is thanking him for more than a square of cloth.

Her hand, freshly adorned, has not left his. He raises the ring to his mouth and there is unbridled celebration in her chest again.

Behind them, the parlor door swings open suddenly, banging against the wall like a gunshot. Lady Danbury steps through wielding her cane as though ready to propose a duel or level a death blow at the sight of impropriety. If the pair were less distracted, they might accuse her of attempting to catch them in the throes of misconduct. But what she sees instead is Miss Kate Sharma’s wet eyes and Viscount Anthony Bridgerton’s soft smile.

Mary appears at the dowager’s side and stops in place at the scene.

“Oh, my,” she breathes.

Kate smiles at her, trepidatious but unable to temper her joy in this instance. “Mary, come see.” She beckons her and Lady Danbury further inside, who assess the ring and offer the obligatory compliments.

When Mary hugs her, though, it is not obligatory in the slightest. Kate is enveloped in motherly warmth, a shroud of orange blossom and bergamot, a whisper in her ear. “I hope this is all that you wish for.”

Lady Danbury watches the pair at a distance, warmed but a touch overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. When Mary eventually steps back, Kate rises from the couch and Lord Bridgerton follows suit. As she shows the dowager her ring, eyes roving tenderly from the jewelry to her fiancé, Agatha feels even more an intruder.

Chapter Text

All afternoon after Anthony’s proposal, Kate admires the jewels on her finger. With every page turned, they wink at her. As she scales the staircase in the waning evening sun, the etched band reflects buttery golden light. At dinner, Edwina compliments the ring quietly, as kindly as anyone in her position could. On instinct, Kate shoves her hand beneath a napkin. Even after their plates are cleared, she tucks her heavier hand behind her back. Its shine suddenly seems disloyal in her sister’s presence.

The next morning, she meets Anthony in Hyde Park amid pale gray mist. He greets her with a graze of his knuckles against her cheekbones and a deep, hungry kiss on her mouth. He does both like they are the most intuitive acts in the world. Rather than focus on the flicker she feels at the sight of his smile, she considers their monumental change in circumstance since their last encounter here. One proposal traded for another; an enemy turned ally.

Kate rids herself of her riding gloves when their lips part, slipping her hand into his. It is only with him that she does not feel indicted by her admiration of the betrothal ring. She revels in the moment, in the warmth of his palm and the way he runs a reverent finger around the ridges of the band. Strange, how small her shame feels, how far away her discipline or duty. Though her ring is the very symbol of these things, its effect is antithetical. Never has a reminder of her responsibility made her feel so buoyant.

The lightness inside her persists as they part paths, reluctant but steadfast in their restored focus: the evening’s ball. The feeling continues as she makes her way back to Danbury House, does not dim or fade even as the dowager bids her a brusque, all-knowing, Good morning.

“It is, indeed,” she replies.

—

Kate’s heels click hollowly against the white marble floor. She takes in the ballroom: walls draped with silk, chandeliers dripping with pink hydrangeas and wisteria, tables overstuffed with wine and port and petit fours. All remain untouched, props in an aborted stage production. Instruments, too, lay abandoned. Bows strewn atop a pianoforte and woodwinds flat on their bellies, a cello’s neck sticking out of a half-open case. It is unnerving to wander a gilded wasteland, as though a ghost. As though a stranger. 

Idle, she watches the final fringes of daylight fade through a set of wide, open doors. A stray peacock wanders across the grass, his bright blue plumes rippling on a breeze. There is a small twinge in her throat at the sight of another creature so far from home, never to return. She wonders if they shared the same soil and streams, scaled the same trees back in India. He struts past her without worry or second glance. Well, she thinks, at least one of us belongs here.

“You are matching.”

Kate jumps, throwing a hand over her erratic heart.

“It is only me,” Anthony approaches her with a small laugh as she turns, covering her hand with his.

She tries to mirror his humor, but the smile dies on her lips. It is a sudden feat to find laughter when his face is so close to hers, his scent so present, his hand separated from the skin of her sternum only by her own fingertips. 

His eyes drift to the juncture of her shoulder and throat. She swallows. His lips part gently and nostrils flare.

“You smell divine,” he says, voice gravelly and low.

He lifts his free hand, brushing the turquoise silk of her sleeve. He moves to graze her temple, then teases a few stray curls from her braided coiffure, adorned with diamond and emerald pins. She squeezes her fingers against his own, curling them against her collarbone in lieu of a reply.

“Are you well?” Anthony searches her eyes for discomfort. In an instant, a torrid moment turns tender.

“This is all…” Kate gestures to their surroundings. “Quite a bit to digest. It is difficult not to feel out of place.”

He furrows his brow. “How are you out of place at your own engagement party?”

It is difficult to find the words without sounding ungrateful. “I suppose I was never meant to have one.” She shrugs and his face shifts. “Certainly not here.”

“Are you unhappy?”

“God, no.” Her answer is quicker than a breath.

He exhales. “Oh. Good.”

“It is only a bit overwhelming. This is not my world, Anthony,” she says softly, “and it was never supposed to be.”

“But—”

“I know that I am welcome in yours. That your family and home will not turn me away at the threshold.” He nods. “But the ton is different. Less hospitable than one would hope. And this is all far more foreign than I had prepared myself for.” They share a long look at that, and he understands. “I must simply tune myself to play properly here.”

“Kate, please allow me to make one thing absolutely clear: you belong here. There is no fine-tuning required.” Anthony thinks back to her first proposal in the woods, her admitted fears of being an unfit viscountess. He thought these worries quelled, and perhaps they are. But it is now incredibly apparent that her fears extend further than her belonging as a Bridgerton. “If you have any doubt, for even a moment, that I do not think you are far superior to everyone else in attendance this evening, you need only ask.”

His belief in her is something stunning. It is a vehement honesty, a certain conviction she has not recognized in ages outside of any house of worship. She cannot help but reciprocate the veneration.

“I hope you know my position is much the same as yours. I have no great opinion of the ton and its conventions. I had no great opinion of you at the start.” He winces at the reminder of his recent past. “But I now hold you in higher esteem than any person I have met here. I would not marry you otherwise.”

Anthony feels like the lightest man on Earth. Simultaneously soaring and tethered by her testimony. How he has managed to fool the cleverest woman into granting him her favor and admiration, he may never know. But he will bask in the blessing and will not take such companionship for granted.

“I will stay close all evening,” he says, resolute. “If that is what you require to remind you that you belong in this world.”

“Preferably not too close,” Queen Charlotte calls from the front of the room. “I believe that is how we found ourselves here in the first place.”

The two introduce a respectable distance between their bodies as the queen and her consorts filter in. Among the ladies-in-waiting are Mary, Violet, and Agatha trading remarks on the decorations and hushed strategies for silencing Whistledown. Trailing behind are Prince Friedrich and Edwina, lingering close and sharing smiles behind gloved hands.

“Apologies for our delay,” Charlotte smiles distinctly unapologetically. “My nephew and I encountered Miss Edwina on our way in and became quite immersed in conversation.” Friedrich and Edwina both flush pink and steer themselves away from the flock of women chuckling at their expense. “Now, let me see this elusive ring.”

She stretches out her hand imperiously and Kate obliges. Anthony slips off her glove, cradling the swell of her palm gingerly atop his fingertips. Against the candlelight, the halo of stones arc a rainbow of color across the ballroom.

Charlotte’s mouth twists upward approvingly. “Lovely work, Lord Bridgerton. Worth the wait indeed.”

Anthony glows at the compliment as though he is wearing the ring himself and Kate aches at his smooth brow, the shine of his cheeks in the stretch of untempered joy. She has wondered this past day, amid her admiration of the piece: Why did he choose something so beautiful? The truth of the matter is that the ring has made this all better, truer, firmer for Kate. Just the same, it has made things much more complicated. This is not a ring created with a strictly cordial or phlegmatic partnership in mind.

The champagne feeling in her bubbles brightly at the sight of his smile and the soft touch of his hand. Her sister's words ring in her ears again. This time, they are not the ones of hurt she has replayed so often. They are the ones of hope. I wish you did love him.
__

A quarter-hour later, nearly the entire ton is packed into the ballroom, save for the Sheffields, who send their congratulations and regrets for her ladyship’s unfortunately-timed cold. Whether Lady Sheffield’s ailment is a fiction of her own designs or one imposed by Her Majesty is anyone’s guess. Whatever the truth of their absence, Kate is infinitely grateful to lower her odds of receiving snide insults and Anthony’s risk of another quarrel with the pair. The horde of guests, all in their best finery, stand rapt and buzzing as Queen Charlotte taps the side of her glass.

“We are here to celebrate no simple feat. Planning a party before any gossipers could pick up a pen.” She laughs wryly and the room follows suit. “I jest, of course. Privacy has been paramount these past weeks, as something so wonderful came to fruition.” She nods at the families by her side, Bridgertons and Sharmas, with Kate and Anthony at their center. “Two lives, bound together by a force greater than convenience or contracts or pleasantries. It is a fragile flower, one we must tend to carefully if we wish for it to blossom. I am most fortunate to have planted this seed myself, watered and watched it spring to life." She pauses meaningfully and directs her gaze at the couple. “A love match is a rare and beautiful bloom, indeed.”

The queen lowers her eyes briefly and Kate registers the implicit choreography of this moment, looping her left hand into the crook of Anthony’s elbow. It seems Anthony understands the required performance as well, guiding her hand gently to rest prominently on his forearm. With a nod of approval from their monarch, they gingerly remove her glove to reveal the betrothal ring. Kate feels her lungs seize, her smile flickering in irrepressible fear. Scattered inhalations, whispers, and sighs erupt from the otherwise quiet crowd. Her breathing settles. No one has cried out, called her an imposter or named their union a fraud at the sight of such extravagance on her finger.

When she looks at Anthony, however, Kate sucks in a sharp breath, as though an onlooker herself. His face is already turned to her, soft and open in a sort of affection that does not feel theatrical in the slightest. Even though her ungloved hand rests on layers of cotton, a spark jolts between her flesh and his arm. She feels his muscle jump beneath her fingers and she squeezes him infinitesimally. His eyes do not leave hers for a moment, embers burning warm and steady. She finds comfort in his gaze, but quickly grows unsettled by it, the kindness and concern apparent alongside his lust.

When had things changed so drastically between them? When have the lines between amiability and antagonism, carnality and care, disintegrated or transformed so? She wonders now if the ring has been that barrier’s undoing. Perhaps, then, the piece is a symbol of simplicity rather than complexity. Of a word disallowed from their union from the start. But no, she cannot entertain that notion with any certainty.

If there is anything of which she can be certain tonight, it is that the ring will be paid less notice than the look on her future husband’s face.
__

Partygoers mill about between their queen’s toast and the first dance, stuffing themselves with delicate pastry and fine wines. Small cliques form intuitively, with mamas cloistered in one corner and every eligible lord as far away from them as possible. Young debutantes cover most of the floor, trading speculation both romantic and salacious about the new couple.

Weaving their way politely through the groups, Kate hears “congratulations” more than she has heard any other word in her life. No instance is less jarring than the first. Comfortably receiving niceties from these people might possibly be a lifelong adjustment. But each time, she looks at Anthony when she says, “thank you.” His smile seems somehow wider each time, proud and handsome and happy. A word she would not use to describe this man she met in April, but is unavoidably true as she shuffles through recent memories. So when she is congratulated, it is earned. Her gratitude is sincere. She feels, in a way, that she has won something remarkable.

As they saunter between one cluster to the next, she cannot quit stealing glances at his features. Often, he is already staring at her, forcing Kate to avert her eyes each time she is inevitably caught. After a dozen of these moments, Anthony dips his head near her ear.

“What is the matter with you, Miss Sharma?” he whispers, low and playful.

“I have decided that your smile is most pleasing when it is true and naturally occurring.”

“Then I suppose my smile shall always please you from now on.” He grins and raises his brows. “I hope you can contain yourself in its presence.”

“I will do my best to remain unaffected.” She cannot muster the impression of frown as she would like, a smile dancing on her lips.

“I trust that you will not,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief.

The ball’s opening dance is a quick-footed number that sends ripples of laughter through her at her fiancé’s jaunty steps. In turn, his smile widens and he moves with greater exaggeration, pulling unladylike chortles from her.

“When did you develop a sense of humor?” Kate asks as they circle one another.

“Only recently,” he replies. There is a touch of false affront in his tone, but his smile never drops. “Once I discovered its effect on you.”

Her stomach flips at that.

“I am the reason Lord Anthony Bridgerton counts himself a changed man?” Kate challenges teasingly, on the precipice of something. 

“Oh, yes. You are much more manageable when entertained.”

“Manageable?” she guffaws.

“Please, darling.” The endearment, though facetious, still has an effect on her. “Let us not quarrel.”

“If we are to be wed, you ought to know that I do not take orders well, dearest,” she returns. It delights her to watch him lower his lids and bite his cheek to keep from smiling.

“There is no if.” He shifts his hand more firmly between her shoulder blades as their bodies draw nearer. “And I am already well aware. In fact, I am anticipating that.”

Kate shudders. “And you?”

“What of me?”

“Will you take orders, my lord?”

“I am not prone to it,” he replies, mulling over the idea. “But for such a formidable viscountess, I suppose I may be more receptive.”

God, it is almost unbearable how much she would like to kiss him.

“What a relief. I do not think our union would be effective if neither of us learned to yield.”

“Oh, I am certain we will still remain obstinate as ever. In fact, it would be quite a dull marriage if we were entirely amenable to one another.”

“You do not think we shall ever become old and predictable?” Kate asks.

“I imagine the last thing we shall become is predictable. Nothing about us ever has been.”

“I suppose that is true.”

Anthony clicks his tongue. “You are supposed to disagree with me if we are to remain interesting,” he chides her. “How am I meant to stay sharp if I am not crafting a clever riposte to your parry?”

“You consider yourself sharp?” Kate lifts a brow. “Presently?”

“No,” he sighs, turning Kate beneath his arm and then pulling her to his chest. “I find myself quite softened at the moment.” Her heart stutters. “An unfortunate byproduct of your presence these days, I am afraid. Entirely involuntary, but I am seeking to rectify it.”

She would like to respond. To tell him it needn’t be altered in the slightest. That although she knows he speaks in jest, there is no error to improve. That she finds herself softened too, more desirous and devoted than she ought to be when he speaks this way and holds her so. But such a response requires a reply of his own, one that she is both desperate and entirely terrified to hear.

As Anthony whisks her across the floor in sturdy arms, Kate’s attention flits to Edwina, who watches on from the sidelines with Mary. Her face, placid and poised, floods Kate with guilt. She does not recognize the arrangement of her sister’s features, so unlively that she seems a stranger. But she recognizes their construction. It is the same mask she wore this season, carefully assembled not to crack. It feels as though she is watching her former self, now through her sister’s eyes: a woman exiled to watch with the other wallflowers, while her future danced past her. How cruel she feels to flaunt her happiness when it is a reminder of her very betrayal.

Kate pauses, immobilized, and Anthony stumbles over her toes. Despite the pain, he flinches more than she does. And then Edwina’s veneer softens. Maybe it is purely pity for her pinched feet. Maybe it is something akin to understanding. Maybe she will not despise her forever.

Maybe she is too wishful a woman.

Kate’s attention returns to Anthony, now stiff in her arms as they continue their steps by rote. His disquietude is unignorable and she feels quite foolish. Perhaps his words were no jest. Perhaps he did wish to remove some sympathy or sentiment. Whatever the case, the flame that flickered between them moments ago has been snuffed.

She wishes she were brave enough to ask him what changed in a matter of seconds, but she would rather not watch him wince at the question or hear him list his regrets. She is intelligent enough to understand that his overfamiliarity is a risk to her own heart. That he may have realized his misstep in making her wonder, if even for a dance, that he might be inclined to love her. No, love is of no interest to Anthony Bridgerton, and there is no amount of persuading possible to alter such a stance. It will do her well to remember that as his wife.
__

Between sets, Anthony and Kate continue their grand tour of the ballroom and find a way back to familiar, safer witticisms. Though some reservation is still apparent in his speech, Anthony tucks her arm into his own, squeezing her hand or stroking her wrist now and then, almost unconsciously.

Queen Charlotte catches his eye from her seat, beckoning. He looks to Kate, who sets him free after a few swipes of her thumb against his palm.

“Lord Bridgerton.” Charlotte smiles slyly, “It seems you took my words to heart.”

He decidedly has not. But there is no value in that discussion, so he sidesteps an explicit confirmation. “I am forever in your debt. Truly.” Despite his discarding of her advice, his gratitude is sincere. She has done much for him and Kate. Too much to repay.

“So is everyone else.” She waves a hand imperiously. “You could name a child after me,” she says. “That is what most people promise to do.”

He fights an eye roll, though he knows it is not an inquisition. Will everyone be begging for an heir before he is even wed?

“I could offer you something better than that.” 

“Better than children?”

“Sooner, rather.” He leans forward, watches her brow stay suspended in interest. “I could help you sniff out Whistledown.”

She tuts, falling back against her chair. “Lord Bridgerton, must you always make things so complicated? I believe your sister is better suited to that particular mission.” She points a finger. “As your sovereign, I demand that you focus on one woman at a time from now on, please.”

He laughs despite it all, a stomach-aching one that bubbles against his ribs. The moment is so ridiculous, his laughter so rambunctious and contagious that Her Majesty, The Queen, joins him, too.

“Fear not,” he asserts as they calm themselves, “I cannot imagine splitting my attention from any woman but her. I believe that is how I found myself here.” His eyes drift inevitably to Kate, who threads herself through the dense crowd. Even at a distance, she is unmissable, incandescent. He is a mere moth to her flame.

“I believe my nephew will find himself in a similar predicament soon.” She nods to the prince, striding toward Miss Edwina with a glass of lemonade. The young lady beams at him as though he has delivered diamonds. “Now, about your sister.”
__

As Anthony and the queen trade some bizarrely boisterous laughter, Kate spies a handful of bowed heads and poorly concealed pointing. She follows their fingers, landing on Edwina and Prince Friedrich.

They are immersed in conversation, in their own world. The moment is striking. Her sister seems so vibrant, so self-possessed. She fiddles with the pink hem of her glove as the prince speaks, then seems to catch herself and halt the tick. Rather than continue to converse in parallel as they have so often done, Edwina faces her body toward his, unafraid to telegraph her endearment. Friedrich, emboldened, does the same.

“Perhaps another love match is in bloom?” Miss Eaton whispers behind a hand.

The surrounding young ladies hum curiously and Kate fights the desire to cut off their conjecture. Just once, she would like for Edwina to move through this society without hungry observers postulating about her prospects. But this is not her place nor her battle. She will not intercede any further without explicit permission. It is the least she can do now for Edwina, after everything. So when Kate approaches the pair, she says nothing of the chatter. Instead, she makes polite conversation with the prince while her sister sips lemonade.

Though Edwina avoids speaking to her elder sister beyond brief pleasantries, she still meets her eye now and again. Her cheeks flush when she realizes Kate has caught her own gaze lingering a touch too long on Friedrich. Kate offers a small headshake to soothe her sister’s embarrassment. Standing in the presence of such pure and obvious adoration fills her with a welcome warmth and deep relief. Her sister deserves to share this sort of affection. It is no cause for shame in the slightest.

As they part ways, she smiles at Edwina sincerely. “I am very glad to see you happy tonight, bon.”

To Kate’s surprise, she seems jarred by the comment. “Thank you, I…” Edwina hesitates, tugging her lip between her teeth, attention flitting between her sister and future brother-in-law across the floor. Edwina’s silent appraisal makes Kate feel suddenly exposed. After a moment, she speaks again. “I am glad to see you happy tonight, too, didi.”
___

Not every guest’s well wishes are so sincere.

Though Penelope watches Lord Bridgerton and Miss Sharma accept congratulations graciously, she recognizes the posture of salacious whisperers once their backs are turned. More than a few times, Penelope is tempted to slip into pockets of such conversation, but she knows it is unwise to engage so publicly. From the rushed invitations to her speech at the start of this evening, Queen Charlotte’s motive has been clear: discredit Lady Whistledown’s speculation about this union and force her to move on.

So Penelope opts to do what she does best: eavesdrop. From behind a floral display, she listens to a gaggle of debutantes deep in gossip.

“The viscount looks particularly handsome this evening, do you not agree?” Margaret Goring titters.

“Indeed,” Millicent Clifton blushes. “It is a wonder how trimmed sideburns and a proper smile can transform a face.”

Mary Ann Hallewell frowns. “I thought you were being romanced by Lord Fife, Margaret?” Priya Eaton nods at the recollection.

“That is very much over, thank you,” she replies hotly.

Cressida Cowper ignores the tiff, fixed on the viscountess-to-be. “It is too bad Miss Sharma has stolen him away the moment he is back on the mart.” She sighs. “Reformed rakes make the best husbands, you know.”

Cordelia Patridge scrunches her nose. “What does that mean?”

“Are we certain he has been reformed?” Margaret asks in a poorly-concealed whisper.

Cressida gasps and smiles. “You are wicked,” she giggles.

“I am sure they will have a very happy honeymoon,” Margaret says neutrally. “And then he will find plenty of time for every other young lady upon their return to the city.”

A few of the girls burst into a fit of giggles.

“True,” Cressida nods. “I do not expect he will be so enamored for long. Heaven knows what he sees in a spinster.”

Priya curls her lip. “Does no one else here recall that man’s hellish interviews?” Cordelia and Mary Ann hum in agreement. “The viscount is a very pretty face, but I hope for all our sakes that he remains enamored by Miss Sharma.”

Cressida rolls her eyes. “If soft hands and pretty words are what you seek, I am sure Lord Lumley will gladly provide. But some of us have other interests.”

“And what interests are those, Cressida?” Eloise elbows her way into the swarm. “Practicing the most grating singing pitch known to humankind? Setting women’s progress back a century? Alienating everyone you intend to impress? Well done!” She claps a few times mockingly. “I am ever so grateful that I shall never have to call you sister.”

Penelope stifles a snort as Cressida sputters and the horde disperses. Following the sound of her friend’s laughter instantly, Eloise winks and she pulls her from her hiding place.

“I cannot believe you said that,” Penelope says, voice high.

Eloise wrinkles her face and shrugs. “I should have said worse.”

As the two circle the fringes of the floor, Eloise informs her that Anthony has given his blessing for her to speak with Queen Charlotte about all matters Whistledown. She nearly freezes on the spot, but manages a supportive smile.

“No doubt we will root out the lady’s identity,” Eloise whispers triumphantly.

“How exciting. A bit dangerous though, is it not?”

“Not with the Queen’s Guard behind me.” She waves a hand like this is a very normal thing to say. “Besides, I have already uncovered her print shop on my own. Imagine what else we can do now.”

An anchor sinks itself in Penelope’s stomach at the thought. Imagine indeed.

Beyond Eloise, it is apparent that the infantry is out in force, issuing corrections when they overhear unsavory gossip. Even Prince Friedrich has been conscripted.

“Do we know the new Lady Bridgerton’s true family?” Lady Merton asks over a glass of sherry.

“I am not familiar with the Sharma name,” Lady Cowper returns, eyes narrowed in thought. “Is she not the granddaughter of the Sheffields?”

“I believe that is only her sister. I am not certain they claim the elder girl. Either way, those two old bats are not welcome company here.”

“A rotten pair of apples, then.”

“Indeed.” Lady Merton nods. “Perhaps for the best if they do not associate with her.”

“Oh, but what fun that wedding might be if they changed their minds.” Lady Cowper waggles her eyebrows and the two women laugh.

Prince Friedrich, eavesdropping and clearly at his limit, composes his face and joins the duo. “I do not find humor at the expense of an estrangement, but I would be delighted if you could enlighten me, Lady…?”

“Cowper,” she replies, white as a sheet at the interruption. “I believe you are acquainted with my daughter, Cressida.”

“Ah,” he nods. “The resemblance is quite apparent now.”

“I suppose,” she says quickly, “there is very little humor in such matters.”

“How wise. I am glad to hear we agree.” He smiles, bright and wide, raising his glass in a toast. “Shall we? To the future Viscount and Viscountess.”

“To the happy couple,” Lady Merton echoes.

Penelope anticipated the queen would levy a defense against ill rumors. It is in the monarch’s best interest, of course, to save face by protecting the Bridgertons’ and Sharmas’ reputations. What good would another tarnished diamond do for the crown? But she did not anticipate her battalion’s commitment.

By the dessert table, she observes another round of mudslinging cut short by the couple's allies.

“So the wedding will be in June? I expect we might have a Bridgerton heir by Christmas,” Lord Fife says, loading his plate with baked meringues.

“Michaelmas, more like it,” Lord Stanley chuckles.

“And how might that occur?” Daphne asks sweetly, reaching for a raspberry tartlet. “Would you like one, darling?” She turns to her husband with the casual offer of pastry. “Lady Danbury?” The dowager shakes her head.

“No, thank you, my love,” Simon smiles. “But I am interested in this theory our friends have.”

“Oh, it is not,” Fife turns red, “it is not appropriate conversation.”

“Ah, nothing worse than what I have heard at White’s before, surely?” Simon claps a heavy hand on the man’s back.

“But the duchess—”

“I am not unfamiliar with the process of creating an heir.” Daphne smiles serenely. Stanley coughs around a biscuit.

“So please, do tell,” Danbury insists with a raised brow. “How might the Bridgertons have an heir so soon?”

Fife scratches at his neck vigorously. “Some sort of miracle, I imagine.” Stanley nods mutely.

“Well.” Danbury swings her cane between the young men, catching both of their knees with the stick. “Imagination is a powerful pastime,” she says archly. “Perhaps you two should seek more productive hobbies.”

On and on it goes: Benedict chastises Lord Cho so charmingly it would seem friendly, if not for his white-knuckle grip on his shoulder; Violet and Lady Mary dispel concerns among the widows about the sum of the dowry; Miss Edwina insists she is delighted by the pairing to every person who insinuates otherwise. Penelope is exhausted just watching them. Rarely has she witnessed her work as Whistledown so closely. Nor has it often appeared so potent. For an hour, as she slithers between partygoers, she almost understands how it might feel to be a subject of the column. It is a tad overwhelming. Above all, she is slightly staggered by the volume and vehemence of the couples’ defenders. It is that which suggests a great endearment, an act of care rather than the obligation of a royal decree.

After enough sleuthing, she slumps against a wall and employs her second greatest skill: disappearing.

“Miss Penelope.”

She just about jumps out of her skin.

“Miss Sharma.” She straightens. “I did not know you could see me.”

“How could I not?” The woman laughs, not unkindly. “Though I suppose I understand the feeling.” She dips her head and takes a place against the wall beside Penelope. “I nearly turned into wallpaper a few times this season.”

Penelope winds a tendril of hair behind her ear nervously. “Right.”

Miss Sharma’s choice to remove herself from the center of her own party is odd. Any rational young lady of the ton would be thrilled to bask in the shine of a royal soirée, to saunter about the room.

“I know it is not very polite to hide away at my own party,” Miss Sharma says, as though reading her mind. “But I worry if one more person asks after the sum of my dowry or when we plan to have children or what flavor cake the queen might provide at our wedding, my skull might split open.” She raises her fingers to rub at her sore temples.

“Then I shall avoid such questions,” Penelope promises.

“I will remember your kindness,” Miss Sharma smiles, dropping the hands from her forehead.

Still, Penelope attempts to delicately pry. “I imagine you have charted the next twenty years or so, though.” They share a short laugh. “I always took you and Lord Bridgerton as a very meticulous sort.” 

“Certainly, we are. But we have already attempted such an approach to matchmaking.” Her voice turns from wry to impossibly soft. “In matters of marriage, it has become apparent that not everything is so predictable.” She looks back to Penelope. “Are you inclined to agree?”

“I think I am inclined to become a spinster with few prospects,” she answers plainly. “I think I am forgettable enough to be walked through if I stood in the center of the floor.” It is pathetic, she knows, but she still cannot stop herself from finding Colin. His back is turned to her, head bent in laughter with Benedict. He is the loveliest thing she has ever seen. “And if I am not ignored, then I am sure to be viewed most unfavorably in the eyes of the ton.” She picks at her netted gloves intently. “So such matters are of little concern to me.”

“Hmm.” Miss Sharma minds her thoughtfully. “I believe the same was once thought of me. And now,” she nudges the younger girl gently. “A Bridgerton is not too bad a prospect for a spinster.”

A quick shot of shame courses through Penelope, caught in the nakedness of her own pining. She returns her focus to the woman at her side.

“Forgive me,” she says quickly. “I have a penchant for dramatics. Truly, I am fine.” Penelope lightens her voice. “The wall and I are great companions.” She should be more mindful not to speak so bitterly among mixed company.

“There is no offense to forgive.” Miss Sharma waves a hand. “We women are relegated to the fringes of society, kept on the edge of things. If we feel invisible, it is by design, not any fault of our own.”

“You sound like Eloise.” Her friend, so adamantly opposed to everything this world has offered her on a silver platter, is not invisible in the slightest. She relishes her place on the fringes, clinging to the title of spinster like a trophy. Penelope envies the freedom and power inherent in her choice to shirk the status quo. The gift of not desiring love so deeply. “I have made peace with my invisibility. But it is not always ideal.”

Miss Sharma nods knowingly. “Do you wish to be seen?”

Penelope worries her lip, fresh thoughts on her tongue. This is all too intimate for an acquaintance, especially one she has painted so poorly with her quill.

“I am not sure,” she lies.

“Hmm.” Miss Sharma assesses her carefully. “For what it is worth, I have noticed you, Miss Penelope. I doubt I am entirely alone in that regard.” She shakes her head, some secret memory blooming behind her eyes. “Lord Bridgerton dispelled that same notion in me.”

“May I cut in?” Lord Bridgerton’s question is more an announcement, sidling up to Miss Sharma without reply.

“Speaking of.” She turns to her fiancé as he slides a hand over her gloved arm.

“You speak of me?” His thumb finds her wrist.

“On rare occasions.” She squeezes his hand. Penelope has the distinct feeling she should not be watching. “Do not let it get to your head.”

“Too late for that. My ego knows no bounds.” He smiles at Penelope, who confirms his excess pride with her silence and scarlet cheeks. Sparing her further discomfort, he returns his attention to Miss Sharma. “How is my fiancée this evening?”

“As well as she was a quarter hour ago. And wondering if you will ever tire of that word.” Miss Sharma sighs, then releases his hand with a swiftness that suggests she had only just remembered she was holding it.

“Which word?” He furrows his brow in false contemplation. “Evening? Ego?” Miss Sharma shakes her head, exasperated but entertained nonetheless. “Fiancée?” She nods. “Afraid not.”

Kate lifts and drops her shoulders exaggeratedly. “You see why I cling to you, Miss Featherington? He is a most disagreeable man.”

Penelope smiles with a small thrill. It is a novelty to be folded into such unusual gaiety.

Anthony scoffs in affront. “Hush now, or Lady Whistledown might hear you slander me.”

“Is it slander if she has called you disagreeable before?”

“I believe the word was—”

“Brusque,” Penelope finishes for him.

“Yes!” His face lights with pride.

“Congratulations, my lord, you have remembered Whistledown’s exact insults to your character better than I have,” Miss Sharma replies drily.

“I remember all of yours, as well.” He crosses a hand over his heart.

The words are offered cheekily, but they are steeped in affection. His hand, too, seems less a flourish than a genuine gesture. It is obvious, so close to his features, that his care is not a charade. The viscount’s change in countenance is indisputable. Miss Sharma’s, too. A curious blush creeps up the lady’s chest and her face flickers from teasing to tender to tepid in a matter of seconds. The moment fizzles between them.

“Please excuse the sparring.” Lord Bridgerton leans toward Penelope and scratches at his ear. “I believe this is the sole manner in which my fiancée and I express goodwill.”

She bats a hand. “I have spent enough time among Bridgertons to expect nothing less.” But clearly not enough among these two.
__

After another hour of merriment and dancing and toasts, the party is well and truly over. Sore-footed ladies and overindulgent lords stagger toward their carriages in droves, peacocks are corralled, and string-players turn quiet. Even his mother has left with Benedict and Eloise in tow, their heads bowed and clothes reeking of tobacco.

And still, Kathani is not by his side. She stands, spine straight and smile full, exchanging tired pleasantries with the final stragglers of the dwindling crowd. For someone so disquieted by the setting, he thinks she has taken to her role with ease. One could not infer her discomfort from such a distance. Nor, he suspects, could anyone tell up close. No one but him, perhaps.

All night, he has watched her, unintentionally or otherwise. Even as he took a turn on the floor with Miss Penelope and traded greetings with a slew of well-wishers, he was somehow acutely aware of her presence at all times. He still is now. He would happily blame his hovering on friendly concern for her wellbeing. Unfortunately, he is wise enough to know that excuse is entirely untrue.

This is a different phenomenon. It is as though he is adrift without her, unmoored by her absence. Perhaps he has always been. Even when she is in the same room, or in some cases, in his arms, she is no sturdier than sand. Once sated simply by her presence, he wants more now. More time, more touch, more talking, more her. Until tonight, he had hoped this occurrence was not his own doing. He thought this feeling was formed in the shadows, that the openness of their engagement would be its salve. But if this evening has proven anything, it is that his desire shall only grow worse in the light. It is something starved and strange, how he wishes to devote every moment unto her without question.

So Anthony searches for her again. This time, Kate finds him first, smiling fondly to herself as their eyes meet.

“There you are,” she says. “I have been looking for you.”

He knows the turn of phrase means little. He savors its weight nevertheless.

“And I, you.”

He slips a flute of champagne between her fingers, knowing Kate has had nothing but lemonade all night and likely craves something stronger. She sips, scrunching her nose at the tickle of its bubbles.

“You were remarkable tonight.”

“Flatterer,” she murmurs against the glass.

“I am no flatterer.” Will she ever take a compliment easily? “I am speaking sincerely.”

“Thank you.” She spins the stem of her flute slowly between her fingertips. “I do not know if I would have adjusted so remarkably to all this attention without you here, too.”

He nods. Much as he is accustomed to the ton’s fanfare, such scrutiny is still unsettling. “How are you adjusting to everything else?” he whispers, capturing her silk-covered elbow between his thumb and forefinger.

“Better to some things than others.” She sips slowly, swallows slower. He watches the bob of her throat in rapture. “It seems everything is changing. My world, my family, my name. Even the nature of our—” her eyes flick between their bodies, his hand on her arm, unable to find a name for their condition. Its intimacy is far removed from a friendship, unrecognizable from its initial contract. “I suppose tonight has only made it all more real.”

Of course. It is all so real. So full and vibrant. There is a tenderness that courses through him, a demand to give of himself relentlessly in her presence until he is spent.

Memories flicker through his head like the finite fizz of their champagne. Words shared by every other wise woman of his acquaintance. Francesca. Danbury. Daphne. Charlotte. And then, his mind turns anew: every look, every touch, every breath shared with Kate. Even this one.

Of course. How foolish he has been. How simple it all seems.

Why else has he been so greedy to give. To forsake all other vows not for base pleasures, but for her, always her. To discard a promise, to abandon an appointment, to beg for time to move just a bit slower so he might be able to give to her more wholly. At first, he thought he was plagued with guilt, chasing penance with every kind act. But now he sees quite clearly: they are all oblations.

“Do you feel that I have made things too complicated between us?” he blurts suddenly.

Kate pauses, considering a sidestep to the question, but finally nods. “Perhaps. But I suppose they have always been a bit complicated, have they not?” She offers a smile, but he sees how it does not reach her eyes entirely.

Anthony recognizes that look: faraway and utterly frightened. He has seen it in his own reflection, watched it pass Kate’s face like a shadow during tonight’s first dance. Understanding washes over him in an instant. He will not introduce further change or complication to indulge himself in an eager confession. One he knows she shall not ever return, for it was the bedrock of the very contract they toasted to this evening.

Though it is in this very moment that he finds a name for his affliction, it is the very next that he vows to never speak its name to her.

Love, he knows, is no simple thing.

Chapter Text

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is with a joyful spirit and conciliatory pen that I issue a correction. 

I raised a question in a recent issue regarding the nature and circumstances of Lord Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Kate Sharma’s engagement: Is it love, or a matter of amorous convenience? This author certainly leaned toward the latter. Why else would our most notorious rake turn his attentions from one sister to another so suddenly? But now, reader, we have our answer: it appears to be both. My little doves sing to me of a most affectionate appearance at the Bridgerton-Sharma engagement ball. More than mere performance, I am told of stolen glances and many a devoted word exchanged in quiet corners. Indeed, if this is the remedy to soften the hearts of our churlish viscount and a once-thorny wallflower, this union is a matter of the utmost convenience and necessity.

Anthony reads Whistledown’s paper nearly a dozen times before he believes its validity. Who knew he could so easily reverse the lady’s opinion with a public display of unadulterated, desperate pining? He would have stuck himself to Kate’s side sooner had he known this was the solution to their Whistledown woes. Of course, the gossiper has not removed all her teeth, sparing a few bites for Her Majesty. The lady’s suggestion that the monarch’s next round of matchmaking with a diamond and a prince may be another disaster in the making—winking at Daphne’s near-betrothal to the prince—is certain to rankle the queen despite this victory. Anthony sighs. He had so hoped Eloise might be asked to abandon her mission.

Setting the letter on his desk, Anthony ponders the written testimony to his great fondness for his fiancé. In the days since their engagement ball, he has wrestled with his decision to forgo his confession to Kate. Is it cruel not to tell her? Crueler to force a response? In dreams, she returns his impassioned honesty with equal fervor. In nightmares, she rebukes him; turns her stiffened back with overwhelming pity.

But in the worst of all these slumbered visions, she loves him, too. So deeply and easily it is like settling into the most familiar embrace. She loves him divinely through months of laughter and years of ledgers and what seems sure to be a lifetime of languid lovemaking.

And then she dies.

Often in his arms. Sometimes not. Or, in other iterations, he dies, because they all end one way or the other. One of them is felled by a bee, thrown from a horse, heart seized and impossibly stuck as he or she runs a quill over a meaningless sheet of correspondence. And the survivor is left ravaged by grief, throat shredded by screams and soul tattered irreparably in the wake of profound loss. The first time he wakes from the worst of these imaginings, he thinks his pillow soaked with sweat. It is only when he attempts a catch-breath that he finds his nose clogged and cheeks wet with tears.

Anthony is certain, now more than ever, that he is nothing like his father. If anything, he is too much his mother’s son. Just as Violet was wrecked at Edmund’s death, such loss will be ruinous to a man like him. And though he suspects Kate is made of sterner stuff than he; though he suspects she will never care for him in the same way—so wholly and ardently—it is not worth the risk of her pain. Her heart has already endured enough anguish for this lifetime.

However unsettling these hallucinations, he is grateful for the clarity they have given him. While his affection has been a great aid to bolster Whistledown’s belief in their match, he realizes now that he would be utterly out of his mind to tell Kate the truth. It would be unforgivably selfish to tell her. They have altered every clause in their contract but this—he will not complicate things for her further. He will not begin their marriage with the demand that she love him in return when he cannot love her in any thorough or significant manner. Love cannot be translated from noun to verb with the ever-present threat of grief dangling like a knife at his neck.

If Anthony is fated to love her, then this is the single kindest act he can imagine offering.

__

If asked a week ago whether she thought both Sharma sisters were likely to obtain a love match, Agatha Danbury would answer with a resounding, Yes. That is because she is a very good liar.

In truth, she believed that only Miss Edwina would marry for love, a byproduct of her elder sister’s orchestrations and self-sacrifice. It was one particular sacrifice that Agatha was certain sentenced Miss Kate Sharma to a lifetime of bickering, bedsport, and little other joys. By no means could Kate Sharma’s diplomatic marriage to Viscount Bridgerton result in love.

Agatha observed their sparring, shared lust, and overwhelming similarities over the course of the season, to be sure. In her experience, such things often spelled disaster, not devotion. But her experiences never included bearing witness to quiet expressions of endearment, offered tenderly alongside a bespoke betrothal ring. That was new.

The scene in her sitting room eight days prior was striking. A shared look with Lady Mary affirmed her suspicion: perhaps a love match was truly in reach for the elder Sharma sister. A guilty pit sunk into her stomach at the thought. The engagement ball only increased its weight like an anchor. Had she been ill-advised in her approach to the viscount and her ward this entire time?

She resented the girl for her resistance, punished the viscount for his insolence and flippancy with two young ladies’ hearts. If her charge, no matter how insolent, would be marrying him, she had the duty of righting his path and assuring his behavior in the marriage would be above reproach. That was the least she could do for Miss Sharma. But watching their proposal from the fringes and their dancing at the queen’s side, she grew certain that this was no public performance. With horror, a fresh revelation dawned on her: perhaps the pair, so alike and stubbornly set in their duties, simply did not allow themselves to wish for rare joys such as love. Perhaps, then, they did not recognize its face in one another. She would not put it past them.

After the ball, the consensus between Agatha, Mary, and even Miss Edwina appeared to be the same. In the carriage ride back to Danbury House, Mary began to appeal to Edwina’s empathy, a gentle request to consider Kate’s sacrifice despite her secrets, her right to happiness, too. To Miss Edwina’s credit, she needed little convincing. Though the issue of Kate’s betrayal was not settled for the young lady just yet, Edwina conceded to Agatha that she did not wish for Kate self-sabotage any further on her account.

And so, the three women agreed. Someone would need to speak with Kate. Of course, the carriage went silent then, mother and daughter’s eyes averted and suddenly shy. Agatha, naturally, was nominated to dirty her hands and initiate the difficult conversation. She so often is.

__

Kate’s chai swirls dizzyingly in her cup, milk streaming in pale circles among the dark tea until it reaches the perfect color.

“Perhaps you might stop stirring and find our conversation more stimulating.” Lady Danbury smiles oddly and Kate returns the expression tersely.

It appears every invitation from the dowager is merely a formal summons to be chastised.

Kate sighs. “I am not sure what I have done this time.”

Granted, Anthony has continued to abandon his morning tea with Danbury—a thinly-veiled hostage situation, really—to ride with Kate at dawn, but that is hardly her fault. And besides, they are exercising discretion. Truly. These past few mornings he has hardly touched her, save for a restrained kiss pressed to her temple or the rare, passionate embrace in the wake of her victory. All have been shared under the cover of gray skies and a heavy canopy of willow trees, shrouding them from the slim chance of observation.

If anything, their conversations have been productive rather than indulgent, with most of their time reserved for practical matters surrounding their wedding preparations. She spent the last few mornings explaining her preferred traditions—the haldi, sangeet, and mehndi—and this morning discussing new arrangements—a pew reserved for their departed parents, Mary to walk her down the aisle, marigolds and tulips adorning the altar.

All else is above reproach, what with the Queen of England and Lady Whistledown supporting the union wholeheartedly. Aside from her sister’s slowly mending heart, Kate cannot fathom any wrongdoing she must atone for now. Though if any person is qualified to remind her, it is certainly Agatha Danbury.

“Miss Sharma, I merely wished to speak with you about the matter of your marriage. This is a conversation, not a castigation.”

“Very well.” Kate sips, soothed but still a tad wary.

“A life of independence is more than a consolation prize for not having a husband. Many find it unthinkable, but some might even consider it better.”

The words are clearly rehearsed but she says them airily, like a fresh idea Kate has not pondered before.

“I know that. It is why I cannot sentence my sister to have a husband who will not love her the way she desires, the way she ought to be. Whether my sister wishes for solitude or marriage, I shall not fault her for either, so long as she finds happiness. I should hope you feel the same,” she returns sternly.

“I am not angling after Edwina’s prospects,” Danbury sighs. “What I mean to say is, I know that you have always favored your independence. We are alike in that way. And yet, as of late, this match has not seemed such an awful fate to you as one might expect. I must ask why you choose to resign yourself to it so easily.”

Something taunting dances in the lady’s eyes and Kate’s hackles raise, her lips settling into a firm line. You know why, she thinks, but the elder woman stares her down with an arched brow, unwavering in her resolve to hear Kate say the words out loud.

“Because everything I have done has been for her. For them.” She exhales gently, her shoulders softening slightly. “I will not stop now.” Her words come out as a hushed plea, rather than the affirmation she intended them to be. Kate’s brows knit together as she scrutinizes Lady Danbury’s face for some hint of understanding. She must see reason in this.

“And that is the only reason?” Danbury raises an eyebrow, imploring, but Kate says nothing. “Tell me, regardless of your sister, is this life—married to a viscount, loveless, never to return to your homeland—truly what you want?”

“Whatever wants I have do not matter,” Kate bristles. Yes, she wants Anthony’s companionship, too, but she will not bare such naked vulnerability with this woman.

Since the ring has adorned her finger—and perhaps even prior—Kate has avoided unraveling the very tangled thread of her own desire. She certainly will not attempt it here, in front of this woman who will likely judge her for its existence, the extent of its embedding.

“Sometimes, my dear, that is true. We cannot always cling to the dreams of youth. But you must consider what will happen when your vows are said and done.”

Has she forgotten the entire purpose of their agreement?

“Mary and Edwina will be safe, looked after. As long as their futures are protected, I will be at peace.”

“This marriage will far outlast the achievement of your family’s security.”

“Pardon?”

“You have devoted your life to their care. Lord Bridgerton will provide Lady Mary an allowance to support a comfortable existence, and his provision of Edwina’s dowry, coupled with her role as the diamond, will surely provide her whatever life she chooses. What will happen to you when you are no longer the steward of anyone’s well-being but your own?”

“I suppose I...” She trails off a moment. The last time she looked beyond her sister’s wedding, she saw herself in India, a governess to a stranger’s child—a new Edwina—on whom she would focus all her energies. These past weeks had been such a whirlwind she had barely spared a moment to consider the revisions made to her future.

“I know there will be much to do as Viscountess. Eloise has only begun her first season, Colin and Benedict will soon be in need of a wife or require further investment of the family’s finances in their education and travels. There is much to be managed. Not to mention Francesca; her season will be coming soon and I should hope to guide her the same as I did my sister.” She pauses at the thought of another season, another diamond, then carries on. “Then there is Gregory. If his struggles in arithmetic that Anthony mentions are any indication, I would like to be quite engaged with their tutors. Hyacinth is a bit of an unknown to me, though I hear she is quite… mischievous.” Kate gnaws at her thumbnail in thought.

“And that is just the children. Not to mention the home—no, homes, to be managed and maintained, wages to be paid, tenants and sharecrops to look after.” Kate suddenly feels a bit lightheaded at the thought of her myriad new responsibilities. She knows Anthony was often vocal about the duties of his role, but they seemed so overwhelming when spoken aloud. “Yes,” she said pointedly, “I think I will find myself quite busy, even when I am no longer my sister’s keeper.”

Lady Danbury quietly clicks her tongue at the young woman’s words. “Fascinating. The two of you are well-matched in your pursuits to avoid all talk of feelings in the name of familial duty.” Kate winces at the jab. “I ask what will happen to you, and you tell me what you shall do for everyone else. Perhaps you are better suited in your sense of obligation than we realized,” she says, standing up slowly, leaning on her cane. “Have a pleasant day, Miss Sharma.”

Lady Danbury turns her back, the conversation apparently closed. Kate scoffs at the flourish.

“Oh, surely we shall not end here,” Kate protests, her teacup rattling into its saucer. “You do not always get to have the final word simply because you have decided it.”

Danbury’s mouth twists in exasperation. “Enlighten me, Miss Sharma. What else is there to be said here?”

All of her resentment bubbles to the surface. “Perhaps we ought to speak plainly. I find myself being chastised for weeks at a time now with little logic or explanation. Anthony, too.”

“Very well.” The lady sits once more.

“I understand that I am your guest but I… I feel as though you defy my wishes at every turn or doubt my judgment at the very least.” Kate’s lips set in a grim line. “All season I fought for my sister to be steered away from Lord Bridgerton, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. And now that he is to be my husband, you take him to task over tea, belittling him for the very same concerns that were once dismissed when coming out of my own mouth. It is bewildering.” She meets the elder woman’s eyes. “It is hurtful.”

Agatha startles at the admission, then settles, angling toward explanation rather than apology. “I knew much of you before you had even arrived here. I knew the status of your dowry, the shape of your family’s finances. When you told me of your contract with the Sheffields, it only set things in a clearer light. Edwina must be the diamond, she must marry well. There was no way around that matter. What good reason would there be to dismiss an interested viscount and an infatuated diamond for some other, less certain or fortuitous match? Unless, of course, you were to marry too.”

Kate scoffs. Agatha’s eyes narrow.

“Might I remind you that I asked after matches for you at the start of this season? You were set on your own exile. If you had allowed me to intercede sooner, perhaps I could have had this entirely sorted. There were plenty of widowers or well-off, untitled men who would have happily married you, Miss Sharma.”

Kate thinks of Thomas Dorset and knows there is merit to her speech. “But they could not provide my sister a dowry, could they? They could not offer Mary an allowance, correct?”

What surety is there in a third son or a widower in need of a marriageable nursemaid? These are not the sort to so easily provide for a family such as hers.

“We do not know that for certain,” Danbury rebuts. “There is a great possibility that a match of your own could have alleviated the provisions required of your sister’s marriage. But without you being willing to entertain any option I attempted to place in front of you, it was doomed from the start.”

Kate’s stomach churns. Will it always be her fault? Her family’s finances, protecting Edwina’s chance to find genuine love, bringing them all to England in the first place? Everything, everything, everything. Always wrong, always because of her. Everyone else left blameless because she has let them bear no burdens. What a hateful sin, she thinks bitterly.

If she could marry for her family’s sake, she would. In fact, she now is.

“Are you accusing me of selfishness?” Kate questions sharply. “For not wanting to share a bed with some ancient, hateful man—”

“I would never place such a person in your path—”

“How am I to know that?”

“You are to trust me—”

“How am I to trust you?” She barks a laugh.

“Perhaps because I have housed you and clothed you and fed you—”

“And I am aware of what a righteous burden it has been. Hence why I am marrying someone who will—”

“Someone who has caused you great strife—”

“Someone who you championed until he was betrothed to me!”

“Not that you have ever asked—”

“How might I ask you anything, any simple question, when it devolves into this!”

They breathe heavily, exerted and at an impasse.

“Forgive me.” Kate presses her left hand to her forehead. The ring’s cool metal soothes her heated skin.

“Might we try again?” Agatha asks quietly. 

Kate slumps into the settee, chest collapsing. “Why do you detest me?” Her voice is smaller than she intended, less confrontational and firm than she hoped.

“Oh, my dear. I have made such a mess of this.” Agatha shakes her head. “Let me make one thing abundantly clear: I do not dislike you, Kate. For all your bluster, and much as we may disagree on our methods, we are quite alike. We are both bullish, self-possessed, intelligent, meddlesome, and slow to trust. I believe it is why we are quicker to hostility than honesty with one another.”

Kate concedes, allows her to carry on without interruption.

“I do not know everything,” Danbury admits, “but I often find I must pretend I know more. Certainly, you understand that feeling?” The woman’s ward nods. “Perhaps… Perhaps I have gotten things wrong. I suppose, even if you had been willing to enter the marriage mart, we would still be doomed by your first encounter with Lord Bridgerton. It would always make your sister’s most viable match impossible.”

Kate sucks in a breath. In her bones, she knows it too. This thing between them—however impractical—has been entirely inevitable.

“But I hope you can understand my motivations. My mistakes,” Agatha says heavily. “I realize you hoped for your sister to marry whomever she wished, but I understood how the Sheffields would view matters. Despite their tarnished position in society, they are foolish. They still hold on to a certain sense of entitlement to their old life, their old friends and foothold in the ton. They would not accept a second son or a young man from a family with nominal acreage. We needed a match for your sister that they could not dismiss, someone unignorable.”

“A viscount.”

“Precisely. I know you have done your research and had your own experiences with your Mary’s parents, but believe me when I tell you that I know these people in their bones.”

Kate releases a brittle laugh. She is far too familiar with their cruelty, even in the written word.

“You speak of ancient, hateful men? I have been forced to wed such a man myself. I understand that sort of cruelty innately.” She reveals this detail measuredly, as though it does not pain her more than an old scar. Kate knows better than to believe the display of indifference. “The Sheffields are much like my family. Had a titled, wealthy man of that nature expressed interest in Miss Edwina, I am certain they would force the match simply to regain their old position in society. That is why I snatched every opportunity to avoid such a predicament.”

“You must know I would as well,” Kate returns with an insistent whisper.

“I am afraid any measures you attempted would mean little in the face of this particular pursuit,” Agatha replies, not unkindly.

“I am afraid you are correct.” It pains her to admit, but Kate knows she would be ultimately powerless against the Sheffields’ demands.

“Like much of the ton, they are quite petty and single-minded. But these people, all of them, are fickle, too. Greedy and easily distracted. They will chase after a person like a favorite toy and discard you the moment their game has lost its thrill.”

Kate pieces her words together slowly. “You no longer speak of the Sheffields.”

Agatha nods curtly, eyes shifting.

“Is that what you believe Anthony has done with me?”

“These people like shiny things. Lord Bridgerton among them. And you, my dear, have a particular shine. You had read of his history with women.”

“Of course.” Her tone teeters toward frustration once more. “I had warned you and Mary and Edwina of his ill behavior ad nauseam, yet I was treated as head case for it.”

“Because he was the best chance your sister had,” Agatha insists. “He was her ticket to salvation.”

“And now he is mine.” She will not dismiss Anthony’s prior actions, but she will defend him fiercely now. He is too good to deserve anything less.

Sensing this ferocity edging Kate’s words, Danbury hesitates. Ultimately, she soldiers forth. “The manner in which he has approached the two of you is entirely different,” she begins carefully. “You have seen him with her—reserved, affected, ostentatious. He addressed her at a distance—like a business transaction, as acquaintances. Because those were his intentions. He came to her as a viscount would a diamond. All actions above reproach. But with you, it was…” She lifts a brow.

“I know.”

Kate is suddenly struck with understanding. The early morning tea, the refusals of her morning rides, the admonishments doled out to Anthony at random. It was all a protection, rather than a punishment. She is at once nauseous at the implication and moved by these acts of care, however misguided the lady’s methods may have been. She suspects this attempt at conversation may be another endeavor. Is this how it feels to be mothered? Kate wonders briefly.

“So certainly you understand my perception that this is more of the same rakish pattern. I did not believe for a second that he would harm your sister in any way in marriage. He would have treated her with respect and caution, never put her reputation in jeopardy. But he had not done the same to you. The circumstances of your coupling were troubling, to say the least.” She releases a most unladylike huff. “He had approached you in his old ways, been reckless and unkind. I know you are capable of taking care of yourself but I could not, in good conscience, trust him to. I knew you were in a bind and I could not force you to separate yourself from him, so.. so I supposed I would remind him to be good to you, to be faithful. If that is all I was allowed to do, then it was what I must.”

Kate sees herself so clearly in her sponsor now that it is almost laughable how she never noticed their similarities before. Still she interrupts. “While I understand your efforts, your words about Anthony are entirely unwarranted. I swear to you, he is nothing but upstanding—”

“Please, Miss Sharma. If I may continue?”

Her tone is soft enough that Kate allows herself to deflate and nod in silence.

“I do not think this of him any more. Ever since... Ever since yesterday afternoon, witnessing the two of you on that very settee. There has been a shift. I am perhaps disappointed to hear that it is not for the sake of love, but it does seem like your volatility has simmered into true tenderness. So I will not remand you nor Lord Bridgerton further, if you have made peace and he treats you as he ought. I only ask you these questions today because I must make sure you will be alright, Kate.” She covers the young woman’s hand with her own. “I know you will not ask yourself, and I worry that no one else will.”

“Oh.” Kate swallows thickly. She cannot will any further words from her throat. 

“I apologize that my approach has been a bit… abrasive.” Agatha has the good sense to wince at the memory of her recent behavior.

“I believe we share that flaw,” Kate chuckles wetly. “I could apologize for the very same.” She stares down at her abandoned teacup for a long moment before raising her head once more. “For what it is worth, he does treat me as I deserve. It is better than I had anticipated in all regards. He is better than I believe any man here might be.”

Though she does not voice it, the two know the weight that her words imply. It hangs heavy between them.

“In the spirit of a renewed approach, I hope I might ask you one more question?”

“I suppose it cannot harm.”

Agatha considers the language of her question for a minute, considering how best to improve a very imperfect recipe; how to balance her oft-needed pragmatism with some measure of care.

“Do you ever wish for love, Kate? For no one but yourself? The romantic sort.” She hopes she has treaded gently enough.

Kate thinks of Edwina’s words, her wish for her elder sister’s love. Kate thinks of the champagne in her chest that rises in a frantic fizz at the mere mention of Anthony’s name.

“I suppose I have been very intentional in my decision not to entertain such a wish.”

Though her methods this season have left much to be desired and caused her sister harm, the greatest crime she can assign herself in this particular instance is cowardice. Avoiding her feelings and denying Anthony Bridgerton has always been an act of duty, never malice.

“But you have wished for it, then? At some time in your life. Your independence was once an act of necessity. Perhaps one of fear, as well. But your insistence that this is nothing more than a marriage of convenience is most certainly a fearful act. I tell you, Kate, not as a chastisement, but as a lesson I have learned in the most difficult manner: if you already love someone, there is no use attempting to disallow it.”

Her words are delivered with a soft touch, but they reach Kate like a slap. That is the truth of her predicament, isn’t it?

It is utterly terrifying, nauseating really, to want something. To want someone. Openly. She has not wanted for anything in so long. Has not wanted as she does now, without reservation or protective measure. It is foolish and harebrained and selfish, really, to wish for any amount of love when Anthony will so clearly give her everything else in the world. Everything else, but this.

___

As it turns out, once one is no longer skulking in the shadows or making furtive trips to the jeweler, being engaged is quite an easy affair. Certainly, there are the idle gossipers and sideways glances, the shopping and tailoring and menu planning. That is not to mention the redecorating efforts at Bridgerton House that have been foisted upon him. Thankfully, the queen is taking great care with the ceremony and wedding breakfast, allowing the personal touches that he and Kate have appealed for.

Twiceover, the banns are read, and a fortnight comes and goes with relative calm, in spite of such chaos. The nightmares come in fewer fits. He finds ways to make concealing the truth of his heart a touch more tenable. Kate winds her way closer around the blasted thing anyway. With each passing day, Anthony and his fiancée continue their spirited morning rides, sometimes trading competitive canters for gentle walks as they converse. She asks after his siblings’ interests and idiosyncrasies and favorite dishes, and details pour out of him in easy excess. In turn, he speaks of the touches she might add in the decorations of their chambers, of her favorite dishes, and the progress of her trousseau.

She laces her fingers with his as their feet trample on tender grass. Something warm and honeyed shines bright in her eyes. A question, perhaps. Or maybe it is an answer.

“Every day, I wish—I want,” Kate shakes her head and pauses. She upturns their pressed palms and observes the twining of their fingers. “I am so glad to marry you, Anthony. At times I only wish it would happen sooner.”

He is compelled to kiss her then, though he has tried valiantly not to put his lips on hers these past weeks. It did not seem fair, when such dangerous emotion lay in wait, poised to spring inside his chest. But there is an unbearable lightness borne of her hand is his. So untethered is he by Kate’s simple presence, that she is the very thing that must ground him to this earth again.

“I should very much have liked to marry you a month ago,” he whispers, face drawing near. “I would have married you from that first day in the park.” He decides this is honest enough, close enough to confession without sharing any specific sacrament.

“You would?” Kate’s eyes flicker with a small measure of surprise.

“I would.” He nods and Kate steps closer. “Would you want that?”

“I would.” She nods, the tip of her nose nudging the bridge of his with the motion. They are practically of one flesh now, so immediate that she can feel the width of his smile as it spreads.

“And now I will marry you in a week.” He kisses the corner of her mouth. “It feels a lifetime has passed since I met you, Kathani.” He kisses the opposite corner. “Perhaps we shall fill this last week with talk of nothing but the future,” her breath fans across his chin and cheek, “and we might let another lifetime begin with that vow.”

“A week,” Kate groans, “is a very long time,” she nips at his lower lip, “for just talking.” With that, she crushes her mouth to his.

Kate’s ringed hand weaves into the cropped hairs at the nape of his neck and tugs him impossibly close. The metal of her rings bites cooly at his scalp and he savors the sting, sighing into her mouth as she draws every breath from his lungs to her own. If he were to meet his end like this, succumbing to Kate’s kisses, he supposes he can make peace with such a fate. He considers this borderline romantic flippancy with which he approaches his own mortality for a half-second, then discards the thought entirely. There are much more pressing matters at hand.

With renewed focus, Anthony returns Kate’s vigor, roving one hand from her jaw to her wind-tousled braid, twisting his hand in her curls with a guttural groan. Her scent floats to him on the breeze, and though he is loath to part their mouths, he must indulge in her flesh. Kate’s frustrated whine turns to a startled, breathy moan as Anthony noses down her neck and suckles at the underside of her jaw. He laves his tongue over the juncture of her throat, then grazes teeth, feather-light atop the galloping pulse at the hollow of her collarbone. And God above, she is still the sweetest thing: musked and flowered and salted and warm with wanting beneath his tongue. He thinks he quite understands the point of communion now, the consuming of another’s body as worship. Anthony shudders at the reminder that one must drink, too.

He is a week away from drinking that most holy cup.

Kate, never one to remain inert, scratches down the back of his neck and dips a hand below his collar. She presses a firm palm against Anthony’s spine, then drags her blunt nails between his shoulder blades. He shivers at her touch, at the possession inherent in her insistence.

“Enough,” Kate huffs, chest heaving. He wonders a moment if he has ventured too far, but the concern abates as she rips his mouth from her neck and mirrors his previous ministrations herself. She sucks harshly at the scattered moles below his jaw and sighs, a cat with cream on her tongue. “Have always wanted this,” she whispers. There are other mutterings he cannot make out, murmured against his skin and indistinguishable in the haze of his own head.

“ Kate ,” he exhales. He does not know why he says it. Whether he is begging for her mercy or relentless wreckage; if he is simply reminding himself that she is there, lest he float away. He repeats her name several times, an entreaty, three apiece with every breath. “Kate, Kate, Kate.” Perhaps he is busying his mouth so other words do not fall out. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Desperate to have her mouth on his again, Anthony holds a hand to her cheek and lifts her face to his. Fierce and almost frantic, their kiss is all tongue and teeth and hungered touches. Her hands fist in his shirt and his fall to the swell of her backside, the lean slope of her thighs. He wants to know the softness that hides in the crook of her knees. How her face contorts as he throws a calf over his shoulder and spreads her folds apart with his fingers. Perhaps that is where she will smell her sweetest.

His hands move further, dragging against the dark teal cotton of her riding skirts. Kate says nothing, but the jolt of her hips and sharp moans from her mouth serve as strong encouragement. A small voice in the back of his mind tells him to stop. He ought to do this right. But what even is right? What is traditional or sanctified when he and Kate have defied and redefined such terms at every turn? If she wishes for him to take her here and now, to suckle at the tender flesh between her thighs on the forest floor, who is he to deny his wife her desires? Wants such as these would be so effortless to fulfill.

In the distance, a horse whinnies and it snaps Anthony from his hungered haze. “Kate,” he draws back reluctantly.

“Hmm,” she leans forward. Again, the horse sounds. This time, she hears it too.

They jump apart, holding still as the noise of the beast fades. Exhaling, they right themselves and their rumpled clothing.

“Perhaps we should—”

“I wonder—”

The pair smiles, and Anthony is certain his cheeks are ruddy with exertion and a small amount of embarrassment. “I wonder, eh…”

“Perhaps we should wait?”

Anthony nods, a touch relieved to be on the same page regarding this matter, too. “Precisely.”

“I worry once we start we shall have a difficult time stopping,” Kate says, settling her shaky breath with a hand over her chest.

Anthony is dreadfully inclined to agree. “What is a week, anyway?” He attempts the question nonchalantly, but it exits his mouth strained and unconvincing.

Kate smiles a little to herself, then looks at him with wry mischief. “I daresay Lady Danbury may have had a point about the danger of our morning rides.”

Anthony cannot help it, really, given the absurdity of the moment and the glow of his wife’s face. He laughs, so loud and so unabashedly that it is a wonder they are not discovered. The mirth does not abate as Kathani joins too, relentless and ridiculous ripples of laughter bursting from her chest.

__

For the ensuing week, Anthony and Kate make good on their promise to keep their hands to themselves. Save for the haldi ceremony, of course.

Kate does not realize how on edge she has been about her sister’s presence for their celebrations until Edwina enters Danbury’s drawing room, armed with turmeric and a timid smile. Though Kate would do the same for her sister if she were to wed Anthony—anoint her with gold and whisper promises of good fortune even as her own heart screamed at her in protest—she understands Edwina’s pain is entirely different. Entirely personal.

So Kate does not stretch out her arms assuming she is worthy of any affection. But she still finds herself delighted when Edwina squeezes her shoulder. When Edwina allows her to apply swipes of haldi to her forearms without flinching. These small affections breed small hope.

The ceremony runs blessedly smooth, with Mary and Danbury even ceding to break convention—as the pattern seems to be for this pair—and allowing the elder Bridgertons to join at the tail end of the event.

Colin warmly accepts two swipes of the paste on his wrists. Eloise sneaks in a third smear on Colin’s chin, surely staining the patch of stubble she pronounces is “truly heinous,” much to Colin’s dismay.

“Shame,” she shrugs. “Suppose you will have to shave it.”

“Eloise!” Colin groans.

“Come on, El.” Benedict shakes his head. The remand is dulled by his grin. “What else will we mock him for now?”

Eloise’s eyes light up. “Oh, plenty.”

Kate meets Anthony’s eyes in silent exchange.

Should I laugh?

It should warrant a reprimand.

But that beard is so terrible.

Benedict and Eloise continue to snicker at Colin’s expense until it is their turn for the paste.

“Remind me, sister, what does this symbolize again?” Benedict asks, drawing small swirls with the spice on Eloise’s elbow.

Kate watches the smooth track he traces, lines of paste turning into petals on his sister’s skin. He is a true artist, indeed. She continues to watch in contented silence until Anthony nudges her shoulder.

“Hm?”

He tilts his head toward Benedict. Oh. Oh, of course. He called her sister. As he will forevermore. She is so unused to hearing that word from anyone but Edwina. Now she will hear it seven more times over.

“It is to spread the wealth of a couple’s joy and celebrate the union. We mark them with a symbol of prosperity and protection. So the haldi is spread on us as a blessing by our elders and loved ones.” Kate smiles, glancing at Mary. When she and her appa wed, Mary had let Kate paint her with it, returning the favor, too. “And now we share it with you, so that you might have the same good fortune.”

Eloise leans forward. “What do you mean? What good fortune?”

“Yes, what good fortune?” Benedict echoes, fingers frozen.

“Well,” Kate says slowly. She looks between herself and Anthony with an emphatic nod.

“No. No,” Eloise scrubs frantically at her skin, catches herself and chuckles anxiously, then rubs again. “Sorry. Just. No, thank you.”

“I will abstain as well,” Benedict nods, raising his stained palms to ward off his well-meaning hosts.

“Do not be rude,” Anthony jabs a finger at his brother.

Kate catches his elbow, fighting a laugh.

“Truly,” Violet clicks her tongue. “The two of you are so disrespectful.”

“Apologies.”

“Sorry.”

Ben and Eloise settle, eyes cast downward, and Kate can imagine them quite clearly in the dawn of their youth. She wonders if Gregory and Hyacinth are quite similar as well.

In a demonstration of goodwill, Mary and Violet dole a few swipes on one another, giggling at the danger of a love match as matrons.

“Agatha?” Violet offers.

“I side with your children on this one,” she says with a playfully raised brow. “Best to stay safe. I prefer not to share my stock of whisky with anyone, thank you.”

Kate turns to Anthony, a smile dancing on her mouth. Jacket shucked and sleeves rolled, he offers her the soft inside of his forearm without question. Though his saffron-colored neckcloth remains fastened, Kate believes she can spot the faint tracks she left behind from their impassioned morning in the park.

Her suspicions are confirmed when she meets his gaze, eyes darkened and heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted as though he too is reliving that memory. She runs her fingers over his silken skin, gentle and reverent. She marvels at the shape and feel of him; at the smattered dark hairs that hedge his skin; at the subtle difference in shades where the sun has reached him. Anthony’s eyes flutter shut at Kate’s touch. She takes desperate delight in how potently she affects him, even now.

As Colin threatens to fling the flecks of paste from his beard at Eloise, Kate remembers they are with an audience.

She begins to spread small fingerfuls of haldi atop her fiancé’s forearm, from elbow to wrist and back again. Kate takes her time, then trades one arm for the other in silence. So fixated are they, that neither notice the looks crossing Danbury, Violet, Mary, or Edwina’s faces. 

Anthony, chasing the chance to touch her in return, dips a finger against his own skin. Though Kate already bears the paste over her arms and hands, he dots a small fleck on her nose, right next to that mole he aims to kiss the moment they are married. He cannot believe he has been remiss in doing so thus far.

“I think we have spread the wealth well enough,” Kate smiles.

They look back at their siblings, jesting and jostling with increasing escalation.

Eloise flinches as Colin juts his stained chin toward her cheek. “Don’t you dare threaten me with marriage and that despicable chinstrap.”

“Yes, you must pick one,” Benedict says, poking his brother in the ribs.

“It is a love match,” Colin cries in protest. “And this is a goatee. It is very sensible on the continent right now!” Their bickering is only broken by the sound of Benedict’s echoed mocking and Edwina’s stifled laughter at the outsized exchange.

“Children, please.” Violet attempts to corral them through gritted teeth.

Violet’s rebuke is cut short by Benedict’s shriek as Edwina lands a sneaky swipe of turmeric on the back of his hand.

“Miss Edwina, I thought we were allies,” he gasps.

Colin scoffs. “You speak as though that word means anything to you—it certainly does not on the pall mall field.”

Edwina smiles, teasing but a tad reserved. “I am afraid my loyalties lie squarely with the Sharmas.”

—

Later, when the Bridgertons bid the Sharmas and Danbury good night, Kate retreats to her room to slough off the paste and chase some much-needed rest. She is surprised then, to hear a hesitant rap against her bedroom door.

Padding over quietly, she cracks open the door.

“Bon—Edwina,” she corrects. Perhaps the endearment is too familiar. “Is everything alright?” Her brow knits in gentle concern.

“Of course.” Edwina chews on her lower lip and shifts on her feet. The rightness of things is not obvious in her posture, and less so in their stilted exchanges as of late. But Kate lets the observation go unspoken.

“What is it, then?”

Edwina steps back, a small bowl of rosewater revealed between her hands. “I thought I might help you clean up.”

It is the first time her sister has offered her aid in… who knows how long. Struck silent, Kate simply allows Edwina inside.

She starts with Kate’s arms, careful and focused as she slides the water over her sister’s skin repeatedly, turning circles with a soft cloth. “I would not wish you to be stained,” Edwina murmurs.

Kate swallows around a thick lump in her throat. “Thank you,” she croaks.

Edwina looks at her sister plainly now when she speaks. “You would have done the same for me.”

Kate knows she would. “Still.” She takes the risk of reaching for her sister’s hand. Edwina does not pull away. Kate gives her fingers a squeeze. “Thank you.”

The sisters fall silent again as Edwina focuses on the task at hand, saving her sister’s nose for last. She coils her finger idly around a loose curl framing Kate’s forehead.

“I love when you wear your hair loose. You look so…” Edwina’s lips twist ruefully. “I am sorry it has taken me so long to consider if you ever needed my help.”

Kate smiles gratefully, but there is some small regret, an apology coloring its corners. “I believe that was by design.”

Edwina nods, casting her eyes downward. They catch the shine of emeralds on her sister’s hand. She stares for a moment, even goes so far as to press her fingers against the band, but she has no particular reaction. Then, without warning, she laughs. Just a little. Just enough to startle Kate.

“Sorry, didi. It is only. That is the family you are marrying into, you know,” Edwina says, brows arched.

“I know,” Kate sighs, allowing herself to lean into her sister’s touch. “Is it not wonderful?”

—

Anthony fiddles with the tie of his cravat—this one a pleasant shade of lilac—and considers the surrounding ballroom. Truly, his mother has outdone herself. Particularly for a party of such intimate size.

A sangeet, Kate informed him, was meant only for the wedding party and their guests—a pleasant relief from the dull chatter and poorly maneuvered grasps at gossip he is so often subjected to by the bon ton. Given this is no society function, it also has the welcome effect of allowing Francesca, Hyacinth, and Gregory to attend.

Anthony gathers everyone around the floor to share an extended country dance. He grasps Kate’s hands in his, twirling her beneath his arm until she is dizzied and allows Hyacinth and Gregory to toss him between them until their faces are red from exertion. Francesca, he guides through the fray, an unspoken agreement shared between them to keep their steps simple amid the frenzy. He smiles at Simon as he shuffles through the steps beside an ever-nimble Daphne, chuckles at the way Benedict lets Eloise lead him across the floor.

Kate nudges him as Penelope unsticks herself from the wall and joins a jovial (and clean-shaven, thank the Lord) Colin among the flurry. He continues to watch the two circle one another like small, shy children, even as Kate redirects her eye to Edwina and her sister’s chosen guest, a prince of all people.

He does not miss the way his mother’s eyes shine with delight at the scene.

For fourteen minutes, Anthony is the liveliest, lightest man he has ever been. For fourteen minutes, he is not weighed by the duties of parliament or considering the state of the family’s coffers or whether Hyacinth will one day hate him for how much he says the word No . For fourteen minutes, he is simply a brother blessed to have his family gathered in one room. He is a man joyful beyond measure, impassioned and grateful for the woman he is two sleeps away from calling wife.

For fourteen minutes, he wonders if this is how it felt to be Edmund Bridgerton.

Even when the dance is done, Anthony wonders if every day of a man’s life could feel so free.

—

It is not difficult to steal away from the party. Despite its small size, the guests are raucous and, for the most part, mildly inebriated. He had hoped to find her here, perched on a stone bench beneath the wisteria-enshrined gazebo, but still his heart leaps at the sight of Kate. 

“What are you doing here?” she calls out warmly.

He is not close enough to be seen. She knows him strictly from his footfalls. The notion makes him feel drunk with hope, though he has not touched a drop of liquor.

“I thought you were meant to be playing host,” Kate says, extending a hand.

Anthony seats himself next to her, hip against hip, and smiles warm as a lamplight. “I would be remiss in my duty, then, if I did not attend to the guest of honor.”

“So smug.” She rolls her eyes and sighs, but rests her head upon his shoulder.

“I thought it clever.”

“That is why it is smug.” She bumps his elbow with her own, then releases a rather dramatic yawn.

“Sorry,” she laughs. She dabs at her eyes gently, mindful not to smudge her kajal.

“Are you alright?” Anthony slides a steadying hand along her spine.

“Simply tired,” she promises. “You are a very lively host.” 

Anthony laughs, swiping at his dampened forehead. The cool air is welcome. “I admit, I did throw myself at this full-tilt.” He pauses, jaw clicking through his own yawn. “I think I prefer your parties to the English sort anyway.”

“You have not seen the half of it,” she says, tired eyes alight. “Our dances, the music, the food…” Kate sighs. “It is the very best.”

“Perhaps you could show me,” he replies eagerly. “Back inside, you might show us the steps or share a certain song.”

She shakes her head, touched. “Truly, I am much too useless to offer any chords or choreography tonight.” She yawns again. “I should be taking my leave, anyway.”

“Already?”

“I have mehndi in the morning.”

“Ah.”

“Two days,” Kate pats his hand. “All will be worth it.” 

“It already is.”

They sit in comfortable silence a moment, but Kate senses something unsettled, a quiet buzz about him.

“Is there a reason you sought me out here?”

“Does any man need a reason to seek out his wife days before their wedding?”

“Often, yes,” Kate replies drily. “I believe it helps mitigate acts of outrageous impropriety.”

Anthony clicks his tongue. “You will not seduce me so easily, Miss Sharma. I am a gentleman,” he insists imperiously.

Kate laughs airily. “Very well, my lord. What troubles you then?”

“There is no trouble at all. In fact, I find we may be in lockstep here.” He covers her hand with his, thumb running over knuckles. “I have been thinking of our honeymoon.”

“Oh?”

“Let me amend.” He straightens his posture. “I have been enlightened, truly, by our conversations about your traditions. It is a gift to understand them, to share them with you.” He brushes his finger against the freckle on her nose. 

He withdraws and reorients himself abruptly. “And I am so sorry, truly, for how my siblings behaved at the haldi. Mother had nearly dragged them out by their hair in the end and I gave them an earful in the carriage.” He sticks his face in his hands. “ God, they are monsters sometimes. I adore them, but they can be downright abominable.”

“Anthony, please.” Kate peels his hands back. “I had a wonderful time. To have a house full of noise and people, whether they be quarrelsome or harmonious,” she gestures to the house behind them, “is an enormous gift. It feels like…” She thinks of home. Of early mornings spent chasing Edwina on the banks of small streams, their appa following fast behind. The three would scream gleefully in pursuit, shrieking as they splashed one another with handfuls of water. “It feels as though I am becoming family. Properly. No matter how improper they may be. Honestly, the worst thing about that night was Colin’s goatee, and it appears that matter is sorted.”

He chuckles at the joke and accepts her at her word. They are doing better with this honesty bit, lately.

“Well, then. Anyway. Our honeymoon.”

“Right.”

“Though my siblings pride themselves in their irreverence, I do not. Through all our talks of your world, of your life before this one, I have not seen it. With every passing word, it feels like there is something new to learn, something else I do not know. There seems to be so much left to learn about you, Kathani. I wish to know it all.” He waits to gauge her reaction. Her face is drawn in tenderness. “I know you are at peace with this being your future, but I should like to bring you the comforts of your past, to see it myself, too.

“I have thought, in these past few days, that we might take an extended honeymoon. A proper trip to India. I could see your home, visit your favorite place, experience everything you have spoken of in full measure. And then, too, we could return with your favorite comforts. Perhaps silks or spices or whatever may remind you most of India.”

Just this afternoon Kate had considered her trousseau, after picking up a final piece from Madame DeLaCroix. She scattered the contents of her trunks across her bedsheets, counting the finer wares from her new life, the things she brought with her, and those left behind. DeLaCroix’s work was beautiful. But the Parisians do not wear sarees or know how to say lehenga without choking. Many of the gowns and gloves and stays brought her joy—chief among them a gauzy nightdress, a lace-trimmed emerald gown, and a new riding habit Anthony had commissioned for her as a surprise. She cherishes them all. But she is still missing something essential.

Kate had packed her best dresses and some modest jewels, a few favorite books, what was left of her mother’s belongings, and her father’s letters. But back in Chennai, in the house that was no longer hers, she left behind paperweights and old texts and the angle of the orange light which poured into the foyer at sunset. She left behind giant, girlish dreams, and all-too-recent griefs. She does not miss everything, would not wish her future were different for a moment, but she still misses enough. The ache for her old home lingers, but its contours are different than they were months or weeks ago.

She squeezes his hands in lieu of words, eyes stinging.

“Is that a yes?” Anthony asks softly.

“That sounds wonderful,” she nods. “But, I cannot. Not right now, at least. Not when my sister…” Kate gnaws at her lip contemplatively. “I love her so dearly.” Anthony runs a thumb over her knuckles. He knows. He knows. “And I am not saying this out of some sense of punishment or self-sacrifice but I… we are so close to something good. I can feel it. If she is betrothed in the time we are away and married before we return, I could not forgive myself. Not when she is coming to our wedding. Not when she might want me to show up as her sister. Not mother or father or governess or all the roles I have played at before. I want to be there when she is ready for that. And I want to be ready, too.”

“Then it is decided,” Anthony says simply. “We have Aubrey Hall for now. There is plenty of time for other holidays.” His hand coasts against her cheek and he drops a comforting kiss to her temple. “I had thought we might have such a honeymoon after the season ended, anyway. But if your sister has yet to wed and you wish to stay in place until she does, then we will do just that.”

Kate smiles into his hand and moves her mouth to the swell of his palm, a brief gratitude.

He rises from the bench eventually, offering her a hand. They ought to return to their party.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” I love you.

Chapter Text

The two remaining days before the wedding tick past all too quickly, all too slowly. All at once.

That morning after the sangeet is plagued by a vicious storm. Though Anthony laments a missed meeting in Hyde Park with his intended—especially given that they will not meet tomorrow either—there is a small snatch of relief that she was waylaid by the mehndi. He knows her discomfort in the rain and would not wish Kate to ride in such a tempest. The thought of such recklessness slices him with nausea. That, again, is the danger of loving her.

He stays at home amid the downpour, since Lady Danbury informed him at the ball the night prior that she no longer desired to attempt interrogations over morning tea. She even went as far as to offer him and Kate her genuine blessing and commented on their “fine pairing,” leaving him utterly gobsmacked. Whomever’s divine favor Anthony has accidentally invoked, he is eternally grateful to them.

Though the first day passes in relative quiet, deluged by rain and rarely divorced from his desk, the next is spent wandering drier ground in the early hours, bleeding into an afternoon of slightly giddy unrest. 

Anthony can hardly attend to the ledgers and letters he is attempting to settle ahead of his honeymoon, much less focus on the novel by A Lady. He is too distracted by imaginations of Kate across town reading it, too. Of course, he imagines more than that. He imagines them together, turning pages in quiet contentment. He imagines her legs tossed over his lap on a settee, his free hand running over the bare skin of her ankles with few words passed between them. He imagines late nights in the library, her chasing prose by candlelight as he rounds out a rebuttal to a parliamentary proposal. He even manages to imagine an early morning not spent racing in the woods or rutting against a tree, instead bed-bound in a lazy embrace, Kate’s head on his chest as their eyes scan the same page.

It is all so sickeningly saccharine.

Yet Anthony does not stop imagining. Not even as Gregory turns frustrated at his times tables, nor as Hyacinth mockingly shouts incorrect answers from across the room. Not even as he chastises Hy or proudly tells Eloise he is only a chapter behind her in Sense and Sensibility when she wanders into the garden with her nose pressed between its pages. It does not cease when Colin wonders aloud if his chin looks at all yellow and asks Do you have any books on Indian customs? nor when Benedict announces boisterously that they will be going to Mondritch’s for a celebratory drink this evening. Only when Simon and Daphne gather in the dayroom for tea, Francesca and Violet tinkering with a new Mozart piece in the corner, does he cease all his conjecture.

When Simon passes Augie between their hands and Anthony balances his nephew on his knee, his mind quiets. The child is so small and soft and smelling of sleep. Anthony presses an idle kiss to the boy’s head, swiping the tip of his nose reverently against his plump, downy cheek. How has it already been a decade since he has held Hyacinth like this?

Augie shoves one hand into his own gummy mouth and twists the other against Anthony’s nose, shrieking delightedly as Anthony laughs.

“Well done, you,” he congratulates the boy. Anthony shifts his weight in his arms so Augie stands, wobbly-kneed, atop his uncle’s legs. “He may very well be running amok with us on the pall mall field this summer,” Anthony announces proudly.

“Please do not wish that upon us,” Daphne protests, sighing somewhat forlornly. “He is already a bit unruly, and that is without being corrupted by you lot.”

“Corrupted?” Anthony balks.

“Do not pretend you will not conspire with my son to steal Colin’s ball the moment he can walk,” Simon teases.

“Please,” Anthony scoffs. “That is a horrible strategy.” He pauses a beat, considering. “It would be easier to assign Colin and Gregory as Augie’s coaches, let them squabble and chase him around, and move their wickets in the meantime.”

“There we are,” Daphne leans back in her seat, triumphant. “Corruptor.” She says it with a wry, pleased smile. The sunny corners of it warm him. How far they have come since the last season. “Besides,” she sighs, “I should like him to stay small for a little while longer.”

Anthony turns his nephew in his arms once more, cradling him now. He is almost too large now to fit the span of his forearm. He nods. “I quite agree.”

How quickly had Hyacinth outgrown her newborn skin? Where was he, the last time he held Gregory like so? When was the last time a pair of small, grasping hands had reached upward, compelling him to gather them in his grasp? Which of his siblings was the last to know him as nothing but a comfort?

“Ah,” Simon clicks his tongue. “I believe that is often why we have second children. You get them small again.”

“We?” Daphne raises a brow.

“Two is better than eight,” Simon shrugs, refreshing his wife’s tea.

“Indeed, I will make no effort to compete with my mother on that account,” Daphne chuckles.

It strikes Anthony, how easily his friend has slipped into a different soul. The same body, sure, all the memories and mind intact, but the rest of him wholly new. It is at once unsettling and wonderfully, rewardingly strange. What happened to the life-long bachelor and father to none? Though he does not wish for Simon to return to his old self in the slightest—in fact, he is thrilled for his sister to have such an outcome after last season’s scrapes—Anthony cannot fathom how one finds himself so effectively altered.

Augie fusses, then. Nothing outsized or angered. He is likely tired, Anthony thinks mildly.

Simon straightens quite immediately, hands outstretched. “I can take him back.”

“We are managing quite well. I do not mind.” Anthony chuckles. “You forget I am not unpracticed.”

Daphne stirs her tea, brow raised lightly as her eldest brother rocks her son into gentle rest. “Do you wish for one soon?”

The question seems so incongruous that Anthony can do nothing but sputter. In truth, he has hardly allowed himself the indulgence of this imagination. Such is the danger of loving the woman meant to mother his child. No longer is the act one of mere duty, but weighted by something more. The changes in her body; the terror in his own as their child emerges. Every fantastic and frightening thing is intensified tenfold in the wake of such unshakeable emotion.

But then, there are the simple bits. There is Augie in his arms, full-bellied and warm-cheeked. There is a most beautiful viscountess in his bed. There is Kathani in his heart. How difficult it is to deny the specters of his future that grow more solid with each passing day.

He allows for some conjecture again. Looking at the child cradled in his arms, Anthony marvels at the very existence of him. Anthony imagines he will feel the very same with his own son. He wonders at the glow of Augie’s skin and considers his own daughter’s complexion. Her eyes. Her humor. Her dark, downy hair. He finds himself hoping she is all Kate, in the end. Augie shifts against him and he spies a smile dimple dotting the boy’s cheek as he smiles in sleep, the mark not unlike Daphne’s mole. Perhaps some bit of Bridgerton genes would not be all bad.

“You need an heir,” Daphne sing-songs mildly. She laughs as he startles, mouth hidden by the edge of her cup, taking clear pride in teasing her most uptight brother.

Anthony clears his throat, attempting some amount of authority in his tone. “Allow me to make it to the altar first, please.”

__

Anthony wakes the morning of the wedding utterly restless and entirely at peace. It is a sensation both at odds with itself and the headache he ought to have from the night before.

Rounded up for drinks by Benedict, Colin, and Simon, as promised, he did not leave Mondritch’s until a full bottle of scotch was dispensed among the four men. And another bottle after that. Although, Anthony is quite sure that he had barely drunk a third of a bottle, certainly not a half. He felt drunk enough without aid, recklessly delighted and more impatient with every passing minute.

“Come on,” Benedict had drawled, goading Anthony into unwrapping a cigar. “Certainly a smoke among brothers shall not make the second hand move slower.”

And so Anthony had agreed, ashing a truly fine tobacco quite hurriedly, as though it would, in fact, hasten the clock.

Benedict chuckled at the sight of an ever-anxious Anthony, his nervousness worth cheering on, for once.

“I am afraid you are incurable.” Benedict had grinned, wrapping long arms around his brother’s back. “My sincerest congratulations.”

—

It is only when Anthony is at St James that his hands start to shake. After he has risen with the sun and taken an early bath and shave. After he has clothed himself simply with steady hands and climbed into a carriage with a copy of The Times and The Morning Post (neither of which he reads). After he has received congratulations from the royal consorts and been ushered to a private room by the palace staff. After he sits on a chaise and unlatches a small trunk, his hands gain a small stutter. He wishes his father were there to steady them.

He slips from one starched shirt to another, ties his neckcloth alone. He smooths back his hair while hunched over a mirror, then wonders if he looks too tidy, perhaps even fussy. He runs a hand through the front of his locks, loosening a few waves. Well, now did he seem unkempt? Unconcerned with the day’s proceedings? That would not do.

Before he can faff with his coif further, there is a knock at the door. “Dearest?”

“Mother?” Anthony tugs the brass handle, allowing Violet inside. “Is all well?” A sour flame prickles in his stomach and for a hateful minute he imagines Kate halted by doubt, back turned from the altar.

“Entirely,” she assures him, a hand at his elbow.

Right. He plucks the ill imagination from his mind as quickly as it had taken root.

“You look so handsome,” She remarks quietly, smiling at a loose lock atop his forehead. “So… grown.”

Anthony swallows thickly. “Thank you, Mother.” All fears surrounding the state of his grooming are wiped away.

“I know it may not be customary to have your mother in your dressing rooms, but I wanted to check in.” Violet picks at a non-existent thread at his lapel and keeps the quiet bit inside. That it is perhaps more customary for a father to be there instead. “How are you feeling?”

“I am well,” he nods. “Truly.”

Violet takes her hand in his and flicks a fingernail over his signet ring. And then the quiet bit inside falls out anyway. “I wish your father could see you like this.”

Anthony blinks, stinging eyes averting from his mother’s. Since the sangeet, he has been struck more acutely by the reminders of all the ways that his father is not here. Even though Edmund ought to be dancing at Violet’s side, dispensing haldi on the back of Kate’s hands, and straightening his son’s cravat the morning of his wedding, by some awful stroke of fate, he is not. Every milestone is a fresh joy and raw grief, hand in hand.

“All I have ever wanted for you is happiness,” Violet continues. “For you to know the joy of an exceptional marriage. And now, I see you, marrying a woman for whom you hold such clear… tenderness.” She smoothes a finger over the back of his hand. “You are trembling,” she remarks.

“It is no concern,” Anthony assures her immediately, removing his hand from her grasp.

Violet winces at the withdrawal, then fixes a small smile on her face. “It was not a censure.”

Oh. Right.

“Are you sure you are well, Anthony?” she tries again.

He has half a mind to snap. No, of course he is not fine. Has not been for the better part of a decade. Could anyone tell? Did anyone care? But then, there is another biting, defiant instinct. Yes, of course he is fine. He is marrying the most spectacular, vexatious, canny woman he has ever known. In fewer than forty minutes, half her name will be his. What grief is there to be found in such remarkable fortune? Instead, Anthony chooses neither option and attempts a new approach.

“I am a bit at sea,” he admits quietly.

“About today?”

“Not about Kate. About everything that comes next, I suppose.” Anthony shakes his head. He sounds nonsensical. “It is just nerves. I have been restless.”

“Of course,” Violet agrees easily. “You know, I was a bundle of nerves the day I wed your father. Not because I was scared or uncertain, but rather because I was so overwhelmed. Brimming, really, with feeling. It was difficult to contain.”

Anthony nods. Perhaps that is it. Though there is more than mere joy abundant in him—worry, fervor, and delight are in spades—perhaps he is simply overflowing with emotion. That is a comfort. And yet.

“I am grateful for you here, Mother.” Anthony squeezes her hand between his own. “But I would be lying if I did not say I wished father had a word for me today, too.”

“Oh, Anthony.” Violet tugs her son’s hands tighter. “Edmund would be so proud of you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” she insists. “If he cannot be here, then allow me to speak for the both of us.” She settles into a small couch, inviting her son to sit alongside her. “You are making the most wonderful choice today.” Violet’s gaze is piercing, unavoidably direct. “Not just to marry Kate, but to cease your pursuit of a marriage strictly defined by duty. I know you have been… hesitant to harbor any affection for a wife. And frankly, I have had my reservations about your resolution to do so.” Anthony stifles a weary sigh and she charges forth. “But I have noticed a great change in you these past weeks. I do not know if we ought to assign love to that equation.” She says the word hesitantly, gauging her son’s tensed shoulders. “But I believe that this is all sorting itself out rather well, do you not agree?”

Anthony nods rapidly, a weight lifting from his chest. “I do,” he says softly.

“You are leading by example, Anthony. In everything you do, whether you wish to or not.” His jaw pulses as he chews at his cheek momentarily. He is well-aware of that fact. “You following your own heartbeat, seizing companionship with a wife who sparks passion rather than stick to a safer course? That is a choice, Anthony. A massive one, for you, I dare say.” Violet smiles widely. “Your siblings and I are not blind to that bravery. And every day you choose her, choose your happiness, I believe you are made all the better for it. I think your father would feel the same as well.”

Anthony marvels at the statement, feeling his brief tremors sap from his skin all at once. Loving Kate is one of the most selfish and unavoidable acts he has stumbled into in a long while. He cannot find much bravery in that particular accident. Still, his mother’s words buoy him. If binding himself to Kate makes him worthy of his parents’ pride, yields some joy for the siblings he adores, then he is all the more certain of the rightness of this choice. He is all the more grateful to Kate for endowing him with such privileges.

“I hope that is true.”

—

Halfway down the hall from Anthony’s room rests a spiral staircase and a maze of gilded doors. Behind one such door is a sprawling suite, stuffed with yellow sunlight and red velvet curtains and silver-trimmed goosefeather cushions. They are beautiful accommodations. It is a shame, Kate thinks idly, that she does not have the presence of mind to appreciate them in the slightest. The only thing she finds it possible to focus on is the man a few dozen paces away. The man meant to be her husband in the next half-hour. Well, that, and her blasted hair.

She is stood by a long mirror, warring with a most noncompliant hairpin—a fight that is no fault of the very talented coiffeuse—when Mary enters, then halts in her tracks.

“Oh, Kathani,” she gasps.

“What?” Kate drops her hands, heart racing sharp and sudden. What fresh problem is there to solve this morning?

“No, it is not—” Mary composes herself and sets a soothing hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You are so beautiful.”

“Oh,” Kate laughs shakily.

She takes a moment to assess her own reflection. That one tricky pin and unruly lock aside, Kate finds herself agreeing.

Though the Bridgerton coffers covered the cost of her trousseau, Queen Charlotte had demanded to pay for the creation of Kate’s wedding garments and have her maids see to her preparation this morning. She has spared no expense nor talent.

Her hair is elegantly yet simply arranged, owing more to its natural curls than to the art of the stylists. They had insisted on dressing her hair with ornaments, though—her twisted braids crowned with a most lovely scattering of fine-wrought gold lilies. Several coils of hair are loosened, as though the embellishments have grown alongside her threads of hair. Her eyes are lined with deep brown kajal and rimmed with dabs of soft gold, pulling honey from her irises. The rest of her face is rather simple, mouth and cheeks flushed with a soft, rosy pink. She wears her amma’s bangles and her own betrothal ring, matching a very small pair of emerald- and diamond-dotted jhumkas. (A wedding gift from Anthony.)

Kate’s satin gown has been subtly dyed a very pale purple—a nod to her favorite color, yes, but also a fine union of the Bridgerton color and the traditional red of wedding garments back home. Against Madame DeLaCroix’s suggestion, Kate had fought for a fuller skirt featuring a petticoat to create some volume, along with a lower waistline than may be considered fashionable. Her skirt, in execution, replicates a lehenga, the hem of her bustline meeting the seam of her skirt in similar fashion to a choli. Though she cannot bare her midriff to the Church of England or the whole of the ton, the marriage of her cultures brings Kate a small thrill and surprising amount of comfort. The gown pairs beautifully with a diaphanous overlay and lace-trimmed veil, their borders embroidered with dramatic flowers and vinery in intricate gold and blue lamé thread. It is the most decadent thing Kate has ever worn. Her mehndi, too, has some variations modeled after the embroidered patterns, so skin and silk alike look as though they are woven with the same thread.

“I suppose I feel quite beautiful.”

“As you ought to,” Mary smiles, tipping Kate’s face downward to kiss the top of her head. Without words, she pulls the rogue hairpin from Kate’s hand and fastens it into place against her scalp. “There we are,” she murmurs.

“Thank you.”

Mary stalls for a long while, taking in Kate’s visage quietly. 

“You look so much like her,” she says finally. “Shivani.”

And suddenly Kate is blinking back tears. “You cannot tell me these things after I am painted,” she smiles wetly, gesturing at her eyes.

“Well then I must apologize doubly. I have something to give you as well.” From her pocket, Mary produces a delicate gold chain with a small pendant, its shape not unlike a petal. “This belonged to her. It belongs to you, too.”

Kate’s chest is sliced open, sharp and raw at the sight. She remembers running her little fingertips across that thread as a child, twisting the pendant between thumb and forefinger until it turned warm against her skin as her amma read stanzas of Rumi or sang lines of Kālidāsa as she drifted to sleep.

“Where did you find it?” Kate says a bit dumbly, touching the chain as though it will turn to dust in her hands.

All these years, she had assumed it was lost to time. Perhaps it was done by Kate herself amid the shuffle of debt collectors. Maybe her father had passed it into the wrong hands when he was too deep in a pit of grief to track the whereabouts of his wife’s jewelry. She had no hope of its recovery until now.

“Among some of your father’s things. In a pouch tucked inside our bedside table. I do not know how we managed to miss it all the years, but… seeing it before we left India gave me some hope. She wore this at her wedding.” Mary presses the necklace into Kate’s hands. “It made me think that perhaps she knew you might need it while you were here, too.”

“I had no idea. Thank you, Mary.”

“Well, of course you had no knowledge. I did not tell you.” Mary peers down at her gloved hands, wringing themselves slowly. “That is something I ought to be better at. Talking to you. As a mother ought to.”

Kate takes in the woman’s anxious limbs and worried eyes, and suddenly feels rather guilty. Perhaps it hurts her to speak of a woman she has never known, a mother who Kate loved first and will love forever, as much as she does Mary.

“Does it... does it hurt you, that I so often call you Mary, rather than Mama?” Kate asks carefully.

“Of course not,” Mary returns with rapid vehemence. “I have never sought to replace your amma. I am here to further her wish to see you secure and happy, same as your appa’s. That is why I am so glad—truly, overwhelmingly glad—that I found her necklace and that I am able to share it with you today. You ought to be able to speak of her—in grief or gladness—as freely as you like. And you ought to call me by whatever name you wish. I hope you do not feel you have owed me any censorship?”

Kate hesitates.

“Kate,” Mary exhales.

“It is not often,” she assures her. “It is just that—” Kate swallows, “—I am so aware of the fact that neither you nor Edwina have ever known my amma.”

“That is all the more reason to speak of her,” Mary insists.

“But… you and Edwina have always had one another. And you had appa, for a time. You were whole on your own.” Kate flicks her eyes downward to wind the chain around her fingers. “I was more an outlier, than anything.”

“Is that what you think?” Mary’s eyes burn with distress. “Is that why you have made yourself so…” Her words turn quieter, aflame with urgency. “You never had to earn your place in this family. Kathani, I have loved you from the day I met you. You came into my life as a daughter, and I never saw you as anything else.”

Kate’s eyes well once more and Mary continues.

“You are just... So good at looking after yourself, after everyone, really, that I often just allowed you to,” she admits shamefully. “It was easier to forget your youth. Especially when I was bound to my own grief so tightly.” Mary shakes her head. “I know I apologized once before, but I must say it again. I am sorry I have not been a better mother to you, that I did not pick up in your father’s stead as I ought to. I was so afraid, and I thought you fearless.” She strokes her cheek, gaze insistent as she meets Kate’s eyes. “You should feel no need to call me Mama when I have not allowed you to act as a daughter should. But you should know that you may call me whatever you like. And that, from here on, I am trying to be as brave as you have been all your life.”

“Oh, Mama.”

And now Mary is crying as Kate’s tears recede, whispering kindnesses into her hairline. You are so loved, Mary tells her. You are more precious than anything. I am so proud to know you.

Kate allows herself to be pulled into Mary’s arms, to be soothed rather than offer soothing. Kate’s hands twist against her back and she tucks her chin atop her shoulder as she whispers back, “You have loved me better than I could have hoped.”

Some minutes later, with Mary’s face dried and Kate’s kajal miraculously unsmudged, mother and daughter find their way back to lighthearted chatter.

“In the interest of bravery, I must ask you something,” Mary says after fastening Shivani’s necklace around Kate’s throat.

“Is something the matter?” Kate nudges.

“Quite the opposite.” Mary sets her shoulders. “Your sister has told me she is doing better since your disagreement. That time has helped her sort some matters out. And that you both have been making a mend of things.”

Kate nods. She has sensed the same in Edwina, especially since the haldi. “I do not hear a question in there.”

“I only preface with that because I worry you will deny yourself out of some sense of responsibility or deference to her desires.” She sighs. “Do you love Lord Bridgerton?”

“I—” Kate’s forehead furrows in confusion. “Sorry?” Perhaps if this were a question regarding the function of dowries or the speed at which one of Danbury’s stronger horses could jump a fence or even how Napoleon might best escape from Elba, she would be better equipped to answer.

“Kate,” Mary prods gently. “It is not a particularly subtle shift we have noticed in you. The both of you.”

“Did Danbury put you up to this?”

“No. Rather, I put her up to the last round of questions.” Mary raises a brow. “Are you going to answer?”

“I do not… I do not know.” Kate sighs. “Or, if I am being honest, perhaps I do. But I am not… The marriage Anthony and I agreed to is an amicable one, a rewarding partnership, to be sure, but love is… entirely out of the question. It is not part of the agreement.”

“Can agreements not be amended?”

“Not this one,” Kate insists quietly. She is neither tactless nor greedy enough to ask for that from him, not so self-regarding to assume that his recent actions are reflective of such emotion.

“And you are certain of that? You have asked?”

“It is no easy thing to ask,” Kate hedges.

Mary sighs in sympathy. “How are you to be certain if you do not share your heart?”

The notion is horrifying and heavy. To rip oneself open and hand another person her beating heart is nowhere near as safe or simple as Mary makes the suggestion sound.

The suite’s door cracks open then, sparing Kate from providing an answer.

“Didi?” Edwina peers inside, then enters as Kate welcomes her with a waved hand. “I am sorry to interrupt, I know we must be quick.” Edwina leans forward, wrapping her sister in a rash, slightly stilted hug. “You are the most beautiful bride.”

Kate shakes her head with a smile. “That honor is reserved for you, whenever that day might happen.”

Edwina huffs. “Can you let me pay you a compliment? Please?”

Kate flushes, embarrassed, then allows herself a timid laugh. “Alright, then.”

“I am glad you are the one getting married today,” Edwina says, all quiet and earnest. “Are you nervous?”

Kate thinks for a long moment, considering the sprawl of her future unfurling from this day forward. There is some agitation she might ascribe to the presence of the ton at her wedding. That, and some miniscule, residual guilt surrounding Edwina herself. But nothing further. Despite the complex coalescence of her emotions, of her desire for Anthony, worry is not counted among them. Not anymore. 

“Not in the slightest,” Kate answers honestly.

“Oh, good,” Edwina exhales. “Very good. I am glad to see you looking so happy. Perhaps that is why you are so beautiful today.”

“I should think all the gold and diamonds have something to do with it,” Kate quips.

“Stop that.” Edwina brushes the small deflection aside, mouth pursed in irritation. “Please allow yourself this.”

“Okay,” Kate agrees more solidly now. “Okay.”

Edwina grants Kate one more hug after that, whispering wishes of the utmost happiness at the end of the aisle. Her words are as good as a blessing. They are better than any haldi money could buy.

As Edwina and Mary turn to leave, her mama reaches out once more to squeeze her shoulder.

“Have courage,” Mary reminds her.

—

Kate thinks it curiosity that leads her to pace the palace halls in the last twenty minutes of her life as an unwed woman. That, or too much energy spooled in a body unused to staying still without a task at hand. She is not sure what she is seeking as she wanders the halls, until she sees it, sees him—Anthony.

Of course.

She searches for him even when she does not intend to. Isn’t this how it has always been? Finding him without thought or intention, an immovable object in her path.

Even a dozen paces away, she is attuned to the way his face softens and a smile spreads his lips. With a shared, silent head nod, they move toward a door tucked around a corner. Perhaps it is courage that guides her to the privacy found behind a closet door. Perhaps it is something else.

“It seems I have sought you out,” Anthony says, latching the door shut behind them.

“It appears I have done the same,” smiles wryly.

“Kate, you are…” Anthony is rendered speechless at the sight of her. The notion delights Kate, honestly. It is a boon to know there is something in this world that might quiet him every now and then. Even greater to know that she is such a thing.

Anthony drinks in the full visage of his wife, standing at the center of a cluttered closet in a dress fit for royalty. He looks at Kate as though she glows iridescent in stained-glass filtered sun, as if she is not actually surrounded by hazy light and a halo of dust motes. His eyes burn into her, molten and tender, unrepentant in their rapture. Kate knows her mama and Edwina have said it already, but here, now, under the heady focus of his gaze, is the most beautiful she has ever felt.

“God above, Kate,” Anthony whispers. “You are a garden.”

His fingers trace the diadem of lilies adorning her hair, the gold trim at the hem of her sleeve. They skate further down, ghosting along the ink spread across her forearms and hands. The mehndi. His name is hidden somewhere among the flowers, if he remembers Kate’s explanation correctly.

He ought to be careful not to indulge in extreme sentimentality today. But he is finding he cannot help it. Not when he has not seen his wife in days. Not when he finds her beckoning him like a specter of supreme beauty. Not when his mother has said his father would be proud to watch him marry Kate. So he will allow it now, just for this day. It is a justifiable indulgence.

“You are quite handsome today, as well.” Kate draws close to him, runs a thumb against his hairline and forehead, then settles the pad between his brows.

“I am glad to hear you find my presentation acceptable.”

Kate swats at his shoulder, stepping closer still. “More than acceptable. Pleasing, even.”

Anthony’s lips are briefly wetted by his tongue. His teeth glint as he takes a soft inhale. “And if I wished to please you always?”

With that question, and his body pressed so near to hers, Kate’s mind is returned to a room at Danbury House, the night before her life irreversibly changed course. She is returned to a man who teased the ways he might unravel her, who revealed the way he was already untethered from good comportment himself. His question now is a second offering. This time, she answers.

“I will not deny you that, Anthony. Ever.” Kate grazes a kiss against the hinge of his jaw. “I swear it.”

Anthony glows at her words, even more at the feeling of her soft lips and warm breath upon his skin.

“And I would swear the same to you,” he says.

He yearns to share every ounce of his flesh with her until she is sated, will take from her as she wishes it. He will gladly consume and be consumed in equal measure, whatever Kate can afford—either act will sate a man as starved as he.

Kate draws back, her pulse fluttering and eyes fixed on her fiancé’s mouth. She blinks a few times before managing to arrange a sentence. “Perhaps we swear some more,” she offers, a spirited glint emerging in her eyes. “Perhaps we make our own vows before reciting words that are not our own.”

“Very unusual,” Anthony says with faux solemnity, pretending to ponder the idea as a smile plays on his lips. “I like it.”

And he does. Although it is very sentimental indeed, it is also very them . And honoring one another is a very necessary thing on an occasion such as today. So it is, in fact, a very dutiful thing to make tender vows in a clandestine cupboard.

Hands entwined, they offer one another some common oaths: respect, honor, fidelity—to one another and their families. He asks her to promise him to be honest, to hold him accountable so he does not go too far in admonishing his siblings or burying himself in work, as he has before.

Kate pauses at that request. “This means we will surely argue,” she reminds him with a raised brow.

“Oh, certainly,” Anthony agrees robustly. “I quite enjoy arguing with you.”

Kate laughs. “And will you enjoy settling our quarrels as well?”

Anthony nods. “I think we both shall find we enjoy putting our disagreements to bed.” 

“Maybe I should abandon my vow in front of the vicar then?” Kate says, challenging. “To obey you always, if I am to disagree with you so often.”

“Maybe so,” he shrugs. The corner of his mouth quirks upward as he winds a hand around the small of her back. “I prefer our own promises anyway.”

“You know there is not a day you will not vex me,” she tells him, eyes narrowing playfully.

He smiles, at ease in familiar territory. “I am counting on it. You are very beautiful when you are vexed.”

Kate clicks her tongue. “When did you grow more endearing than aggravating?”

“Perhaps around the time I started paying you compliments.”

“Hmm,” she hums. “Shall that continue as well?”

“What should I tell you?” Anthony asks. He lowers his head to kiss her hand. It begins with the betrothal ring, his mouth poised above her knuckles as though sealing a final promise. “Shall I tell you that you are remarkably clever?” He moves to her bangles, slow and careful. “That I find your willfulness abominably attractive?” He grazes his lips across the mehndi on her wrist. “That you are a better shot and finer on horseback than I?” His touch is intensely intimate, despite being such a restrained thing. It is utterly intoxicating. “Should I mention again that you are the object of all my desires?”

Before his lips can crest past the cleft of her elbow, Kate takes hold of his face, redirecting his path. The tension is too much. She is taut, poised to snap, if she cannot quiet his mouth with her own. He complies with Kate’s kiss, equally fervent in his passions.

Their vows are spoken. Their hands are entwined. Today is their wedding day. All that is missing, really, is the altar and some ordained man to make their pledge true according to a church they both care little for. So Anthony decides, here and now, that this is their first married kiss. Without the eyes of a judging god or hungry ton descending on them, they have made oaths of their own and sealed them as such. He gets to be hers, she has to be his. That is all there is to it.

Anthony tugs Kate tighter against him and moves his tongue into her mouth. They meet at once, their motions teetering between languorous and lustful. She strokes her tongue back insistently, flicking against the back of his teeth, then further into the flesh of his mouth. Kate is quite delicious when she is devouring him in a kiss, he decides. Anthony returns her passions profoundly, oscillating between licking at her tongue with slow strokes and suckling lightly at her lower lip.

Kate groans airily at the latter ministration and he does it once more. Their hands separate so she can tuck her palm against the top of his collar, feel the skin of his neck without risk of obvious disruption to his state of dress. Similarly seeking her skin, Anthony slides his hands from her back to shoulders to nape, allowing himself the brief intemperance of a curl wound around his forefinger. He twists and twists, as their kisses turn from heated to unhurried. Sweet, even.

He winds his finger in the loose lock of hair once more, then hears a faint snap and the tinkling of metal hitting the marble floor.

“Oh,” Kate breathes. Her necklace has come undone.

They both crouch to the floor quickly to capture the chain, and rise in tandem. Anthony holds the delicate gold thread in his palm, contrite.

“May I?”

Kate nods silently, allowing him to circle behind her. She fiddles with the bangles on her wrist, oddly fixated with their gems as he lifts the necklace over her clavicle.

“This is new,” Anthony remarks, fixing the clasp back at her nape.

Kate nods, still twisting a bangle. “It belonged to her.”

“Shivani,” he says softly.

She nods, swallows around an uncomfortable lump. “I had forgotten about it. I did not even know that it existed until this morning.”

“I am sorry.” Anthony grimaces at Kate’s obvious upset. He could curse himself for his own clumsiness. “I should have been more careful with it, I—”

“No, it is alright,” Kate assures him. “I am not upset with you in the slightest. It is more that… Sometimes I am worried I will forget her.”

Oh. Well that will not do. He draws her into a hug, careful not to crush her hair on his lapel.

“How will I not,” Kate continues, “when I am forgetting things as important as these?” The admission buzzes against his chest. “I am the only person here who ever knew her. And it’s like I am—these memories—”

“Like swimming against a current,” he murmurs.

Kate draws away, allowing his hands to slip from her back. “Yes,” she breathes.

He knows the guilt of forgetting. The pain of no one else holding those moments with you. The desperation of it all.

“I understand. Quite entirely, Kate. I really do.” She looks upward, comforted by the honesty on his face. “It is terrifying when you remember what you have forgotten. To feel that you might be the only one to safeguard what is left.”

“I think that is the matter entirely,” she nods. Her thumb and forefinger pull the pendant back and forth across the chain. “I feel I am holding onto what little I can and so often watching it fall from my grasp.”

“If it is of any help, I would like to know whatever I can about her. Whatever you wish to tell me. And…” Anthony hesitates. For all their planning, all their arrangements and agreements, this is one topic they have not broached. But it feels an important matter now. “And our children will know all about her. Your father, too. Perhaps they will have their own namesakes.”

Kate’s face crumples and he briefly wonders if he has upset her, devastated her in some way. Instead, its fissures smooth again, unfurling into awed elatement.

“Here you go,” she shakes her head, “being utterly wonderful and saying the exact right thing and astonishing me completely. Whatever am I to do with you, Anthony Bridgerton?”

“I suppose you could marry me?” Anthony offers, gently playful. “If you still wish to, that is.”

Kate laughs now, the weight of the prior moment sapped from the room. This foolish, beautiful man. "You know what I want."

He knows, feels it in his bones. But he still wants to hear her say it. “Then tell me.”

"I want to marry you." She presses a hand to his cheek. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life. Despite how much you vex me, despite your deficient horsemanship and your penchant for a proper squabble, I have never wavered." She lifts the same hand to smooth that single line between his brow again. “You never cease to surprise me these days. I quite like that.”

It is too close to a declaration of ardent devotion to say she also quite adores his kindness, his avid and unfettered attentions, be them through words or touch. It is too raw to admit that she dreams about him domestic and soft and lazy, unbound from any particular action. It is too terrifying to admit that she desires him as he is—simple, plain, unadorned. Anthony.

“Hmm.” Anthony beams at her teasing. “I shall try my best to remain unpredictable.”

“See to it that you do, husband.” Kate lifts her chin. “I shall do the same. I should not wish you to grow bored of me.”

Ridiculous woman. "I cannot fathom ever tiring of you.”

Anthony hooks a finger under her chin and watches the morning light filter across her face through the squared window panes. She is achingly lovely. He cannot wait to be her husband.

Kate leans forward to press one more painfully gentle kiss upon his lips. It tastes a little like gratitude.

"I shall see you at the end of the aisle, then,” she says, lips twisting tenderly.

—

Mary walks Kate through the chapel. As arranged, she seats herself beside Violet in a half-empty pew. The rest of the bench is lined with three small bouquets of flowers—one apiece for Shivani, Edmund, and Milan.

Anthony watches Kate approach him with an awestruck smile, like it is the first time he has seen her today. He does not hear the organ’s chords or harpist at play, nor the church bells that announce his wife’s entrance. He does not need much fanfare to produce a reaction—the vision of her does well enough. She is somehow more beautiful now than she was ten minutes before. Perhaps that is owed to the unpolluted light of the chapel, or the marigolds in her hand which draw the honeyed hue from her eyes. Maybe it is the soft swell of her lips, a leftover from their concealed kisses that only make him wish to touch her mouth all the more. Maybe it is the way that she looks at him, too. Like this is not a death march nor a business deal, but a very happy thing for her indeed.

If he were a poetic man, he might think she looks luminous, or radiant, or some other glowy word that describes intense and obvious felicity emanating from every pore. He supposes he must look quite the same. Though, he supposes, on himself, that word looks a lot like love.

When she meets him at the altar, there is an ease to their greeting, a humor allowed by knowing their true ceremony is done—this is merely a performance for everyone else’s benefit. Amid the shuffle of the congregation taking their seats, Anthony leans toward Kate conspiratorially.

“I am glad you showed up,” he whispers, nudging her shoulder with his own. “I was not sure you would.”

“That is good to hear,” she returns with a sly smile. “I should hate to be predictable.”

And oh, how unpredictable Kate’s heart is. For when they recite the vows of the Church, she only hears those traded behind a closet door. When she looks at her fiancé—moments from being her husband—she sees not a viscount, not Lord Bridgerton, but her dearest Anthony. And when he kisses her, chaste and unhurried with a hand on her cheek, her heart beats with an answer so loud she can no longer ignore its song. All through the ceremony it rings out, strong and insistent.

There is nothing in their vows—made in neither chapel nor closet—that speaks of love. She and Anthony made certain of that. But when every other phrase is an ode to the act; when this infernal man holds her so gently as she grieves; when he carries on about the ways he delights in her; when her thumbs coast the line of his cheeks in this final kiss, she is gone. Their binding is her undoing.

Despite his intentions and her best efforts to abide by a singular, unusual vow, Kate has erred. Though she once believed it impossible, unthinkable, there is no denying now that this is the naked truth. She is awfully, irrevocably, unpredictably, entirely in love with a man she has promised not to. The realization nearly sinks her.

There will be no unloving him.

Chapter Text

The day’s wedding festivities fly by in a flurry of rowdy footsteps, raucous laughter, and constant-flowing drink. Though Anthony often sticks to a tidy pour of brandy or whisky, he allows himself the indulgence of celebration, just this once. Not to say he downs a full cask of wine, of course, but over the course of an afternoon, he manages to put away the better part of a bottle. There is little else to do with his hands, otherwise he might be entirely too tempted to touch his wife most unchastely in front of the whole of the ton.

Perhaps that extra bit of drink, then, is why he finds himself wandering over to an old friend standing at the edge of the ballroom, and, for once in his life, allows himself to ask for guidance without reservation.

“I have been meaning to tell you, I am glad that you and Daphne made it to town on such short notice,” Anthony opens.

Simon laughs, a bit breathless from his latest turn about the floor with Daphne. “Are you quite serious? We would not miss this for the world.” 

“You would have every right to,” Anthony counters quietly.

It is a thought that has plagued him every now and again. Though the matter is settled among the three of them, especially with his sister besotted with her husband and delighted by her son, Anthony still knows that he nearly ruined her happiness.

Simon shakes his head. “Daph would not have heard a word of that. We are family now, Bridgerton. For better or worse, any love or forgiveness she has for you is mine, too.”

“Then perhaps you are a better man than me.”

“Ah, I am not certain of that,” Simon smiles into his glass of sherry. “I am merely changed. But that is no product of happenstance. Besides, I believe you had every right to call me out as you did. Perhaps without your intervention, Daphne and I would not have wed at all.”

“Huh.” Strange, how the pendulum had swung for his own self-regard: from righteous, to reckless, to crude, then back to the start. Maybe he was all of these things last year, all at once. There is not one specific column in which to itemize his behavior. “Still…”

Anthony drifts to memory of Daphne’s particular willfulness, less apparent but equally prescient as his own. Her insistence about his interactions with Kate at Aubrey Hall. Her admission that courting Simon was a scheme to circumvent Anthony’s own meddling. Her punch thrown squarely and without hesitation at Berbrooke.

“My sister was quite enamored with you, if I recall correctly. I imagine you would have found your way to the altar one way or another without my involvement. She is not one to walk away from a challenge.”

“I am aware,” Simon agrees. “I have seen her in the heat of pall mall.”

Anthony makes a sound between a chortle and a scoff. “Are we truly so combative on the field?”

“ Yes ,” Simon replies, voice sharp and emphatic. “Why do you think I safeguard my son so seriously?”

Anthony laughs. “I am afraid you will not find an ally in my wife on the green, either. She is a menace.”

“Well if you find her fearsome, I shall not cross her,” Simon feigns a shudder. “But I am glad to hear it. You need that.”

“I am afraid I might.” Anthony shakes his head with a small huff. “Though I hope we will not end each game in the mud.”

“Ah, yes,” Simon chuckles. “Daphne told me about that.”

“I am sure she has told you much else,” Anthony realizes awkwardly, scratching at his neck.

“Indeed.” He sips again, watching as Anthony’s gaze wanders until they settle on his wife across the room, chatting animatedly with Prince Friedrich and Miss Edwina. Simon’s smile flickers with mirth. “You love her, then?”

Simon asks it as a light, cursory thing. But Anthony knows the weight of the word to his friend, a man who swore, side-by-side, that such an ailment would never plague either of them. So he keeps his answer simple.

“It is a complicated matter.” There is no use in lying, no way he can say a comfortable, outright, No.

“You sound like me a season ago,” Simon snorts. “And we are aware of how that matter resolved itself.” The man grins like a cat with the canary, scanning the crowd for his wife now, too. His eyes track Daphne, her hands linked with Eloise as the younger woman tugs her toward a tower of macarons.

“Indeed,” Anthony murmurs.

Though he has seen the couple interact, has watched their love grow and a child bloom in its wake, Anthony still feels taken aback in moments such as these. The casual pride, care, and warmth emanating from a friend who once was anemic in all these things remains a fresh wonder. Playing witness here often feels intrusive, blinding as fresh sun to shrunken pupils in the dead of winter. Not unwelcome, particularly when his sister is the subject of such happiness, but a constant adjustment nevertheless.

“How did you manage it, Bassett?” Anthony asks finally. It is the thing he has been aching to know since the moment of his approach.

“Falling in love with her?” He shakes his head. “That was the easy bit. Allowing myself to feel it, to live it—that was the tricky thing.” Simon spins the stem of his near-empty glass between fingertips. “I had spent so much of my life grasping toward something more like death. An existence entirely borne of spite, really. And she is… Daphne reminded me I was alive. She forced me to feel the way my blood beats, to follow it. And that made me realize that there were a great many other things worth living for.”

When did Simon begin to prefer poetic puzzles to plain speech? Sensing his friend’s muddlement, Simon continues.

“Look. I will not gesture toward the details of our initial friction—those remain between my wife and I. But they matter little. You and I have different problems, but I believe the great lesson for the both of us remains the same.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“That if you do not live the only life you have, if you choose to deny yourself the fullness of its pleasures to spare yourself its pains, you will not live some other, passable life while you wait for death to come. You will not live any life at all.” He levels Anthony with a serious, comforting look. “It is a bit terrifying, in truth. So be patient with yourself as you try for it. But it would be a greater indignity to not try for it at all.”

Anthony chuckles a little, disconcerted by Simon’s intensity and spirited support. “I am not sure if I am worthy of such hope.”

“What is worthy?” Simon scoffs. “My father was worthy of a title and estate, but I was not worthy of his regard. Is your wife unworthy of the utmost affection, or is it only you who is undeserving?”

Anthony flinches, then shakes his head. It is not that Kate is undeserving of anything. On the contrary. The only thing she is perhaps unworthy of is a husband such as him, who cannot love her wholly, as any man of sound mind ought to.

Simon soldiers forth, his tone a touch softer now. “I do not believe my mother was worthy of her death. Nor your father worthy of his. But worth is irrelevant. What matters is what you want . Whether you are willing to attempt life with the risk of failure and unwelcome alterations and the surety of everything’s end. That is the great game.”

Anthony exhales, slow and a little shaky. His jaw pulsates as he works over his friend’s words. “That is a rather hefty gamble.”

Simon looks again to Daphne, dusting crumbs from her sister’s dress with stifled laughter. “And the reward is all the better for its risks.”

Anthony finds Kate once more. This time, her eyes are on him already, and she gives him one of those rare, blushing looks that tells him she feels caught. He feels his mouth twist involuntarily, heart lightening at the sight of her. He is inclined to agree with Simon, as he gazes upon his wife in this light.

He is, in fact, a betting man. But Kate is a better gambler than he. Perhaps she is a better gamble, too.

—

Simon’s words echo the entirety of his carriage ride home. Home with Kate by his side. Kate, his wife. Wife, he repeats once more in his head. God, how good it feels to say.

“Yes, husband?” Kate turns to him with a warm smile and raised brow.

Oh, hell. He has been saying it out loud.

“Nothing, sorry,” he murmurs, a tad mortified.

“No shame in it, Anthony.” Kate shakes her head. “I must admit that I appreciate your excitement. It is a relief, considering how this whole thing between us started.”

He knows that she refers to their contract made over furious words in the woods, or perhaps to their weeks’ worth of heated spats as he courted her own sister out of spite. That she takes comfort in the contrast of their communication now. Even so, Anthony’s mouth twitches at the memory of that first fateful morning in a foggy park, a most bewitching woman challenging him on horseback. What a relief indeed to have married that mysterious, wonderful woman.

“Indeed,” Anthony nods. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and drops a kiss to that favored freckle on her nose. “I suppose you are right, wife.”

“Ah,” Kate smiles, “that is the sentence I imagine I will hear for the rest of my life.”

She makes the quip cheekily, clearly meaning no harm. But still, the phrase rest of my life raises bile to his throat. He swallows it back quickly. Musings about one’s own mortality do not make for a good honeymoon.

“Right you are again.”

They exit the carriage outside Bridgerton House as sunlight slips into the horizon and are welcomed inside the empty house by an eager staff. Much to Anthony’s relief, his family remains at St James, mincing words with people he frankly could not be bothered to entertain. Not when he has a wife to attend to.

While the carriage ride from the palace passed achingly slow, these next minutes somehow move even slower. There are Kate’s kind greetings for all the housestaff and genuine attempts to learn their names. Then there is the shuffle with her luggage delivered from Danbury House and the brief tour from Mrs. Wilson, who will not be dissuaded from informing the new Lady Bridgerton of the townhouse’s layout in excruciating detail. There is the fussing from the cooks, the constant questions to ensure they need no dinner or celebratory drink to close the evening.

Kate is, of course, effusive and patient and contemplative as she hangs onto every word from the butler and maids, cooks and valets alike. It is grating how good she is at this, since he would like nothing more than for her to be as impatient and imprudent as he. He would much prefer she dismiss them all, allow him to swing her into his arms, and be rushed up the stairs two at a time to their chambers. But no, Anthony thinks a bit miffed, he has a very wise wife and polished viscountess at hand. So he is cursed to watch Kate ingratiate herself most expertly with their housestaff while he fights the impending tightness in his breeches every time he glances in her direction.

Finally, blessedly, they are released from conversation. Without a second glance back, he hastens Kate upstairs, buzzing with anticipation.

“Would you like a hand this evening, my lady?” a young woman at the top of the stairs asks politely.

Anthony nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of her. She is one of the newer lady’s maids, he thinks. Moira, was it? She looks at Kate with a wide-eyed eagerness and repeats the question.

Kate, for her part, stumbles as well, off-kilter at the arrival of another face.

“Oh, certainly that would be—”

“We shall have no need—”

Kate snaps her head to Anthony, whose words interrupt her own, then tries again. “That would be greatly appreciated.”

Anthony stifles a very petulant groan and flexes his hand.

“I do not think you require assistance to remove some hairpins and a corset this evening, Kate.”

She lifts a brow. “I do not think you should have any say in the matter of my undressing.”

“I think my opinion is particularly relevant, actually,” he returns, jaw tense.

How is it that, on the precipice of bedding his wife, he is somehow furthered from both bed and wife? It is made even more irritating now that he is trying to take heed of Simon’s words; to cast aside trepidation and act with explicit greed. Perhaps he should have attempted greed sooner and carried on with Kate in the park a few mornings ago.

“Just because you are a particular man does not mean your particular opinion holds any bearing in how I conduct myself,” Kate volleys.

“Perhaps it ought to.” A small smirk dances at his lips. “I have heard rumor that wives often take heed of their husband’s words.”

Kate huffs in jest. “I took no vow of obedience, as you recall, so I shall not adhere to any such rule.”

Anthony clicks his tongue. “I suppose that is true.”

“Let us cease this petty argument, then.” Kate cocks her head. “I should hate to quarrel before we consummate our marriage, my lord.”

Anthony shakes his head at her intentional wind-up. As if that does not serve to make him desire her more. He nearly kisses her squarely on the mouth, simply because he has no other clever retort at hand. But then that poor maid squeaks in discomfort and he is reminded that they are not alone. (And that she has earned a bonus with this week’s payment.)

“Um, so shall I—”

“Yes, sorry,” Kate interjects, flustered. “If you could direct me to the proper quarters, I would be most grateful.”

Moira makes her way down the hall, his wife following suit. Anthony stays fixed in place as Kate steps further away, but catches her hand once more before she is out of reach. She turns back to face him as he does so. At the last second, she presses a hasty kiss to the center of his palm.

And then, with a wink, she is halfway down the hall.

—

Kate assumed that she and Anthony would fall into one another easily. Immediately. But with the great preamble of meeting his staff and readying herself a room away, the act of intimacy begins to feel increasingly weighted with pretense. More monumental than an unplanned interlude in a carriage or closet or under a canopy of trees in Hyde Park.

She reminds herself of Mary’s words earlier that day, attempting to hold fast to the belief in her own beauty in one hand and her bravery in the other.

The second that Moira takes her leave, Kate allows herself a deep breath and moment of silent self-assessment. She shakes her fingers through her curls, loosening them just so. With heavy jewels stripped and decadent dress traded for a gauzy nightgown, she expects to feel disenchanted with her own reflection. Though Kate is wise enough to recognize her beauty as of late, there is still a dormant and particular fear of a spell being broken. Is all magic doused when she is no longer adorned with the trappings of royalty? Without gilding, is the lily made plain?

Surprisingly, she does not think so. Her hair cascades full and loose down her back, twin pieces toward the front tucked back, allowing small curls to frame her face delicately. Though she stands barefoot and without undergarments, the thin nightdress cuts her figure nicely. Perhaps she ought to feel too simple. Instead she feels quite young, quite vibrant. Quite aglow.

She moves to the door that leads to the viscount’s chambers but pauses once more, reaching back to the vanity for a few scant ornaments. Kate fixes the betrothal ring back on her hand and the thin diadem of lilies to her head. Perhaps she chooses them to remind her of the ceremony before as she faces the one ahead. Perhaps she wears them as a little armor, a comfort in her small courage. It simply feels right.

Anthony is turned away when Kate enters, lighting a final candle among a cluster on a sideboard. She watches the twitch of his back through a billowing white shirt. The flex of his forearm below rolled sleeves and the shape of his mouth as he extinguishes a match turns Kate’s tongue parched and sends her skin prickling with heat.

“I had fixed to light a proper fire, but I think it a bit too warm to—”

He turns, mid-sentence, and is struck silent at the sight of her. As he so often is.

Kate’s scalp is flecked with the halo of repoussé lilies, a holy glow in the flickering candlelight. Long, lush tresses float over her shoulders, begging to be touched. He marvels at the expanse of her skin, burnished and beckoning even when shrouded beneath the sleeves of her pale blue peignoir. How he longs to expose every inch of her in veneration, to wind his fingers through her hair, to mold himself so deeply inside her that he resides in the place behind her ribs.

Dead match still in hand, a thin finger of smoke billows upward. With irony, Anthony realizes he has essentially laid out an altar for this woman; a votive offering to the wife he has worshiped since the morning of their first encounter.

And now, tonight, another consecrated first.

“Kathani,” he whispers. He wants her worse than ever.

Kate’s breath catches at his open hunger. That same foolish fire she has seen so many times before burns bright in his eyes. Its presence sets her at ease. The two of them are the same as they ever were, save a few stolen vows and a slip of paper binding them by God and country. That, and her new name. Of all these things, only the third might take some amount of adjustment. But any worries that she is rendered unremarkable without finery, any fears that this evening would be one weighted by duty—those are dissolved entirely.

She lets herself drink him in now too, drawing nearer on instinct because her body will not allow for a hair’s breadth of distance between them. He stands barefoot and in similar undress, his shirt undone to reveal a swath of chest hair and braces hanging loose at his hips. Kate loops her hands into the straps and tugs him toward her until there is no further closeness to be found. His thigh presses between her own and her hands fall from braces to grip tightly at the waistband of his trousers. She feels unsteady and short of breath, as though she might fall from the edge of a steep cliff.

Backlit by the orange flicker of candlelight, he is a man aglow. He is so beautiful, so present, that it makes her entire body ache. And he is so entirely hers. Kate would like to sink her teeth into his skin, bury herself beneath his bones, seep into him until the oneness of body and spirit is undeniable to any witness.

“Goddess,” Anthony whispers, fingertips coasting along the halo nestled in her hair. He noses against the crest of her cheek indulgently.

“Heretic,” she sighs. One hand lifts from his trousers to find the skin of his lower back.

He shakes his head, nose bumping against her cheekbone with the motion. “Zealot, more like.”

“You speak of sacrilege.” She tips her head back, allowing him to lap at the column of her neck.

“Impossible.” He suckles slow and gentle at her jaw and throat, turning to light flicks of tongue and teeth that draw fractured, quiet moans from her. “If this is not a sacrament, then I will gladly burn for it.”

Hang the Church of England. He has no need for saints or scripture. He has set himself upon a most holy shrine here.

Kate flicks her curls over her shoulder and guides his mouth to the dip above her collarbone. Unconsciously, her hips begin to circle his, chasing the hardness she feels growing thicker against her with every passing second. The throbbing at the apex of her thighs is positively thunderous. While Anthony covers her clavicle with open-mouth kisses, she angles herself closer to his clothed cock, seeking satisfaction. He gasps, sharp and low, at the sensation and pulls his mouth from her skin.

He looks at Kate, feral and famished. She does not need to ask if she is beautiful. If she is doing this right. The answer is apparent on his face and in the flex of his hand against her waist.

“You will drive me mad.” There is no ire in his words. Merely awe.

“I believe that was our promise.” Kate means to deliver the words teasingly, but they exit her mouth nearly slurred. With eyes half-lidded and swaying in his arms, she is drowsy with desire.

“How grateful I am for that,” he pants into her ear.

Kate peels his hand from her cheek, bringing it between the sliver of space between their faces. Repeating her hurried affection in the hallway, Kate drops a kiss to the inside of his palm. But this one is slower, more sensuous. Though she did not think it possible, she watches his eyes darken at the motion. She then presses their twined hands against her chest, a mirror of that fretful exchange over a bee sting at Aubrey Hall. She burns hot at the memory. Those beautiful hands she has seen and felt in myriad ways—tentative and tender as he slipped his ring upon her finger; tense around a quill and marred with dark ink; leather-gloved and flexed confidently around a set of reins. The hands she now longs to feel upon the most intimate parts of her.

“Anthony?”

“Yes, wife?”

“Take me to bed.”

Ever-obliging, he guides Kate to silken sheets, casting aside her peignoir before settling himself above her.

Anthony peels the nightgown’s straps from her skin and then gasps, something almost pained, at the revelation of more skin. He runs a palm, rough and reverent, from arm to chest and back again.

“I never considered your shoulder,” he whispers, achingly soft.

He cannot fathom it, how he yearns for her so wholly. Just when he thinks he has understood the depths of his own desire, he finds himself drowning in it once more, feet floating far above the floor. He wonders if he will ever brush against its limits. Or, he thinks fleetingly, is that another great curse of love—longing limitlessly?

Perhaps that is the sort of wanting that Simon alluded to; the kind that necessitates greed.

Anthony laves his tongue against her shoulder self-indulgently, delighted as she writhes and winds an arm around his neck in return. He would like to devour her. He is bolstered by the fact that she seems to wish to devour him too.

Kate turns her own mouth against his neck, moving between frenzied exploration with her tongue and nipping against the mild bruise she left behind a few days prior. She is sure to add a few more to the collection tonight. With a few well-placed nips of her teeth and soothing licks of her tongue, she charts a course along his jaw and toward his mouth.

“Kate,” he groans. With great effort, he lifts himself up, bracing his weight on his elbows. Her mouth chases his chin upward, undeterred. “Kate,” he tries again.

“What?” She weaves a hand into his hair.

“Perhaps we should discuss the… the act of—”

“Is this how you conduct yourself in bed with a beautiful woman?” She twists an irritable hand against his scalp. “I thought you might be better-practiced in seduction.” He shudders at the memory of their encounter at the Sheffield dinner. A promise made in the heat of a forbidden moment. Kate sighs, similarly affected by the recollection. “Do you aim to interrupt my every overture?”

“I aim,” he grits out, “to ensure your comfort.”

“Do I appear uncomfortable?” Kate hooks a leg high around his waist.

“No. But—”

“I am familiar with the mechanics of the act, my lord,” she huffs.

Anthony frowns. “It is certainly not a mechanical act.”

“No,” Kate replies more softly this time, pulling his face to hers with steady, soothing hands. “I expect it will not be like that with you.”

It is her turn now to run her nose along the slope of his cheeks and breathe him in deep. He smells of warm amber and bright citrus and dark earth. She is incapable of words; of little else except filling her lungs and lips with him. Her mouth moves damply along his hairline, to forehead, then chin. With her tongue urgent on the shell of his ear, Kate sighs.

“Now, if you do not mind.” Kate pulls back to meet her husband’s heady gaze. “You look quite handsome and I would very much like to kiss you.”

Unable to stall her hips or ignore the thrust of his own any further, Anthony nods. He shall have to trust that she feels safe with him here, that she will be honest in voicing any discomfort along the way.

He drops his mouth to hers and she reels him in with hot and hurried hands. Their kiss is a ravenous thing. Anthony’s fingers dip below the hem of her dress, now rucked up to her thighs, and swipe at her opening. She bucks in response to the grazing touch, but he retreats quickly, drawing a glistening hand to his face.

“Christ, Kate.” He puts his fingers in his mouth and moans. Her pulse quickens at the sight. “I have to taste you.”

Without further preamble, Anthony drops his mouth to her body, tugging the top of her nightdress downward and showering every fresh patch of flesh with hungry kisses. He pauses at the revelation of her breasts. Her nipples are pebbled and surrounded by slight gooseflesh, desperate to be warmed. Who is he to deny such a need? He covers one with a hot, swirling tongue, greets the other with firm, kneading fingers. Kate’s back arches high and she reaches one hand to hold his head in place against her chest. The other falls over his hand in approval as he continues to massage her breast.

Anthony raises his head briefly to observe her hand in his, the betrothal ring catching glimmers of candlelight and clinking quietly against the signet on his small finger. Her hand, delicately dotted with mehndi, lays naked against his without consequence. That sight alone makes him reckless with need.

He dives his head low again, both hands kneading and grasping at her breasts, his mouth switching attentions from one breast to another repeatedly. A tug of his teeth against Kate’s nipple draws a ragged moan from her mouth and he grins up at her, teeth glinting devilishly around the flesh. He laps and suckles at the skin gently, then bites down once more. At the same time, a hand dips between her legs and he dips a finger ever-slowly against her entrance. Kate moans again, tucking her head against the pillows to stifle the sound.

“Oh, no,” Anthony clicks his tongue. “I must hear you, wife. How else might I ensure your comfort?”

“You… you—” Kate’s chest heaves and her eyes flutter shut. Arguments are futile at present.

Anthony goes for it again, sucking and then flicking his tongue in circles as she seems to enjoy. He scrapes his teeth ever-slow against her skin and presses a forefinger into her quim. Kate’s cunt draws him in, but he pauses at the second knuckle, allowing her time to adjust. This time, Kate does not respond quietly. She moans, loud and deep and low, head tipping back in ecstasy so her chin is pointed toward the ceiling. Curses fall from her lips invariably as he screws his finger deeper inside her and returns his measured ministrations to her chest.

Eventually, he continues his descent, bolstered by her vocalizations, and reaches the apex of her legs. While Kate strips the shucked nightgown from her body, Anthony tugs his shirt off in tandem. Kate sighs, equally relieved and awed by his bared body. She runs her fingers along his mouth, catching his teeth against her thumbnail, and then continues lower, stroking at the coarse hair of his chest and taut muscles tugging at his stomach. When her fingertips coast along his waistband, Anthony grabs her wrist and presses a tender kiss to her palm.

“You are so beautiful. Just like this.” Anthony reaches upward to gently cradle Kate’s head, stroking his thumb reverently against her brow bone. The crown of lilies has nearly slipped from her head now, askew against a pillow. Her pupils are blown wide and lips swollen from brushing his own. She looks ravaged. She looks divine.

With renewed focus, he returns to the task at hand. Pushing a finger back inside her, Anthony laves at her thighs, drawing dampness onto his tongue from the flesh and thatch of hair hedging her cunt. He will not waste a drop. He wishes to drink of Kate and only Kate from this day forth, he thinks, brushing his tongue briefly against her clit. There is no holier cup.

Anthony removes his finger once more from her quim, though he is loath to leave her warmth, and she whimpers at the withdrawal. He laps at her cunt with fanatical focus, tongue dipping against her entrance and then swirling firmly at the bud above until she is bucking uncontrollably against his face. He bands an arm around Kate’s stomach to hold her in place and he moans into her at a particularly generous gush of wetness from her core.

“Oh, Kate.”

“Anthony,” she whines, arching again.

He turns the palm on her stomach upward, grasping for her hand, and she tugs it up to her mouth. She draws his index finger between her lips, still wet with her slick. They moan in tandem this time.

“The sounds you make,” he rumbles against her thighs. He digs his free hand against the curve of her leg and hooks a calf over his shoulder. He runs his thumb over the cleft of her knee before returning to her cunt, spreading her open with his fingertips. “Look at you,” he whispers.

Once more he suckles at her cunt, their eyes meeting as he drinks, juices dripping down his chin. She is soft and succulent and something sweet; she is ripe, open flesh; a stone fruit. She is the finest wine. He grows more intoxicated with every sip.

“Anthony, Anthony,” Kate chants. His name becomes the only word she can form as he traces tight, insistent circles around her clit and moves a finger deep inside her. At the addition of a second finger, she releases a groan so guttural it nearly sounds a sob. She sinks her fingers into his hair, guiding him tightly against her.

“Come on, Kate,” Anthony says into her skin. The timber of his voice tips her further toward the edge. “Need you to come for me,” he entreats. He feels her walls pulsate around his fingers and he hooks them upward, ever so slightly, as he continues his attention on her clit. There is a tremble of her thighs and a sudden gasp and then she is gone, falling apart against his mouth and throbbing around his fingers. He continues moving against her as she mutters incoherently and twitches, finally ceasing when she tugs at his hair mildly.

“That was—I…” Kate’s chest heaves with exertion and she abandons the rest of her sentence. He nods anyway. He knows.

Anthony’s motions are measured as he covers her body with his own once more. With their faces inches away, he licks her slick from his fingers and Kate watches intently. The moment he withdraws his hand, she slants her mouth against his own, groaning at the taste of herself on his tongue. Musked and honeyed and tinged with a slight bitterness, she finds her own release rewarding twice over.

“Anthony,” Kate mumbles against his flushed mouth. “I need you inside me tonight.”

He sheds his trousers, the final barrier, immediately, then knocks her knees open until her thighs are hiked high around his hips once more. She whines a little, breath hitching at the sight of him. She runs her fingers against his length, fingers wrapping against him. He is thick and heavy in her hand, velvet to the touch. Kate wonders briefly how he might taste, how the weight of him would feel on her tongue. She wishes to consume every inch of him a dozen times over.

Anthony bites back the urge to ask if she is ready, if she is certain, as she guides him toward her entrance. He knows.

Slowly, he presses his cock into her and moans lowly at the sensation. Kate draws him in fiercely, her cunt a white-hot vice around him. It is outrageous how phenomenal she feels, how perilously close he is to taking residence here forever. After a minute of breaching her bit by bit, Anthony reaches the end, and sheathes himself in her fully. His head is spinning. Surely, there is no more oxygen in this room nor any blood in his body elsewhere but his cock. He withdraws halfway and then returns with a draw-out thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

Despite his measured movements, Kate gasps, a sudden and sharp intake of breath, and jerks upright.

“I will stop,” he says hastily, ready to remove himself at once.

“Do not stop,” she growls, sitting up to grasp at his retreating back.

“Kate—”

“Do not.” She drags his mouth to hers and swallows his protests with a particularly voracious kiss, leaving no room for further debate.

She tips backward toward the bedsheets, taking him with her, and locks her ankles over his waist. Her hands scrabble against his shoulders and back, demanding that he stays close, becomes one with her flesh. Her hips are unyielding and frenzied and his own follow suit, driving into her faster with every breathy moan plucked from her chest.

Kate’s cries soon turn ragged and she is full—so overwhelmingly full of Anthony—and her mind is addled from it all. There is nothing but him, nothing but his fingers and mouth and cock and his chest moving deliciously against hers. There is nothing between them and yet she is not close enough. But then she is; she is there again, teetering toward her climax as he carves out a space inside her that is for Anthony and Anthony alone. He hits that sacred spot again and she whines sharply with every thrust now.

“Do not stop,” Kate tells him, time and again.

“Not for the world,” he promises, mouth full of her breast, “ viscountess.”

She bucks high, back arched like a woman possessed, and she gasps. She sees the question in his eyes: Are you alright?  She grips his back tighter, refusing to let him falter for a second.

“Say it again,” she breathes into his ear. She sees the understanding in his eyes now, too.

“Viscountess,” he hisses, voice silken and low.

Her eyes roll backward as he repeats himself once more. It is all so real now.

Kate’s hips thrust wildly and she can feel it, that insistent itch spreading upward from where he is hidden at the root. Anthony feels it too, spine tingling and bollocks turning tight, her cunt spasming beautifully around him. Kate’s chest turns hot and she drags his mouth up to her own.

“Come with me,” she begs against his tongue.

Though Anthony would like to watch her come undone first, he would never withhold a thing if his wife wishes it so.

With a handful of fevered thrusts, they fall in tandem, kissing messily and swallowing down one another's huffed moans of pleasure. Anthony shudders as he spills into her, shoulders rippling with relief, and Kate’s thighs and arms shake around him in raw exhaustion.

After a long minute slumped against one another, their breathing finally eases to a normal pace. Anthony moves to roll off of Kate, but she holds him fast. Her husband lays flush and heavy atop her, his spine tacky with sweat as she strokes his skin with feather-light fingers. She is full and sated, so gratified in a way that she has never known possible, so contented that she could weep. She would like to stay like this a little longer.

Anthony settles against Kate, one arm wrapped around her waist and another stroking her curls, their faces nestled comfortably into one another’s necks. The flutter of her breath on his skin nearly lulls him to sleep.

In due time, he pulls out of her carefully, the pair hissing at the sensation. Despite his release running slowly toward the sheets, Kate does not wish for him to stand and fetch a cloth. Nor can he find any desire in himself to do so either. They roll over together, her head now resting upon his chest. She can hear the erratic thump of his heart, the rush of his blood against her ear. It is a great comfort.

After endless weeks of anticipation, this day has proven to provide tenfold relief. Anthony could not be more grateful, but frankly, neither could he be less surprised. He has always known Kate would be his making and undoing; the greatest partner in every conversation or contract or act of intimacy. He has yet to be proven wrong.

Kate shifts her head upward to look at him. “Was this…”

“More than.” Of course her mind has wandered to the same place. “It is better than I have ever… It is beyond what I have dreamt.”

Kate’s body warms at his words, glowing from fingertips to toes.

“Of everything between us,” he continues, “I have never once questioned this, Kathani.”

“I admit, I feel much the same. I cannot fathom tiring of this.”

For all her certainty that this was mere passion, that it was bound to fade, she finds herself agreeing. And this thing? What she once assumed was an unhealthy mixture of hate and heat has turned out to be more the latter than anything. It is absolute attraction, pure and unfathomably potent. She recognizes it now, through the reverence and reservation found even in Anthony’s most searing touches. He holds her, even in this chaste moment, with unadulterated affection.

Perhaps that is why Kate cannot help herself, then. She reaches up to stroke Anthony’s face, running her knuckles along his temple sweetly. And then she kisses him, pouring all unspoken feelings from her mouth into his own.

She kisses him with absolute want—the overwhelming sort that only exists when they are together. She kisses him with the kind of desire that only survives because it lives in absolute solitude and would rather die than make demands. Anthony’s lips respond in kind.

It is solidified for Kate, in that kiss, that she will ask nothing of love from him. What they offer each other is complete and uncompromised pleasure, in whatever form they need. To have such insatiable desires tended to by her husband is more than she could have ever wished for. It is as greedy as she ought to get.

She will remind herself how wonderful and rare it is to have that pleasure in hand, should she ever find herself wishing for love once more.

When they pull apart from that lazy, tender kiss, Anthony buries his nose into Kate’s hair and keeps a palm pressed against her cheek. She smells of flowers, still, but sweat too. He inhales deeply, attempting to detect a newer note—something earthen and oaky. With a start, he realizes—she smells of him. Suddenly, he is half-hard again.

And, well, if he is to practice greed—and his wife is rapacious in her pursuit of pleasure, too—he considers it no great sin to indulge her inclinations.

With that in mind, he runs a hand over the slope of her bottom and joins their flesh once more.

–

After a more languorous round of bedsport, Anthony and Kate part reluctantly and ready themselves for sleep. Though she remains a few meters away, separated by the simple fact of a door, Anthony finds himself anxiously awaiting her return to his bedside.

When she emerges once more, hair plaited and nightdress reaffixed, he simply lifts the bed linens and opens his arms to her. His limbs wrap comfortably around her until she is covered in him, wisteria on brick.

“I do not care for the emptiness of a bed without you,” he admits quietly, mouth pressed to her temple. 

Kate sighs, nodding against his chest. “I have little interest in the viscountess’s chambers this evening.” She is already beginning to doze, but keeps a hand running back and forth atop his arm.

“I doubt we should have any need for them,” Anthony yawns, the sentence slipping out without thought.

Kate stills her movement and tilts her head to read his face.

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course.” He hooks an ankle around her calf as if to prove his pleasure in her presence. “Unless you do not—”

“No.” Kate presses a finger to his lips and he holds her hand in place there to deliver a gentle kiss. Her pulse thrums hummingbird-fast in her throat. How is she to remain stoic in the face of such easy affection? It is impossible. “I am quite comfortable here,” she smiles.

“Perhaps more comfortable if you were unencumbered by skirts?” Anthony suggests, brows lifted. He toys with the hem of her gown.

“You are ridiculous,” Kate huffs, biting back a smile.

“I am practical,” Anthony insists. “I do not think it unlikely that I should reach for my wife, morning and night,” his hands climb higher up her legs, “seeking her,” fingers crest her thighs, “just like this. ” His digits dig into the swell of her backside.

Kate hums deep in her chest. “So it is merely a suggestion of utility,” she retorts breathily.

“It is a suggestion of equity,” he corrects, reminding her of his own nudity. “I should hope you will seek me similarly.”

Kate slides upward to catch his mouth in a languid kiss.

“I am amenable to that.”

She lifts the dress from her body and allows it to drift to the floor. Anthony holds her torso upright so she is straddling him, thumbs rubbing slow circles against her stomach.

“You know,” Kate smiles with a wickedly competitive glint. “You have not yet found your name among the mehndi.”

Anthony hums, tugging her closer until her hands are braced beside his head. “I will inspect every inch of you if I must.”

She tuts and shakes her head. “It is no great secret. You might find it, if you only look at what is right before you.”

Anthony reaches for her hand, as he has innumerable times that night, as he has always been desperate to do. He spots it quite immediately, then. His name is hidden along the side of her smallest finger.

“Of course,” he smiles, covering the skin with his mouth.

Pleased, Kate curls herself into the crook of Anthony’s arm and allows her body to sink into sleep. As she drifts, Anthony loops his pinky with hers and settles their twined fingers atop his chest.

Greed, he has decided, feels quite good.

—

In the morning, Anthony is roused by the sound of soft birdsong and light so bright he must assume the clock is stumbling toward midday. It is a rare awakening. Even more unfamiliar is the shape of a woman beneath his sheets.

Kathani carries on with dreaming and he watches her, feeling as though he still is, too. How many times has he imagined her here, just like this? Too many to count. Last night’s dreams are among the tally, too.

But dreams do not allow one to account for the simplest of details. The ones that he is privy to now, which make him keenly aware of his privilege; that he is in no dream at all.

A sleep-loosened braid strewn across a pillow. The pace at which Kate’s eyes shift beneath closed lids. Her deep, even breaths, puffing warmly into his neck. The absent-minded curl of her ankle around his calf. How her left hand folds across her heart, burrowed between their bodies. And when she rolls away from him, the way a sliver of morning sun catches her cheek, casting her entire face with an otherworldly, aureate glow. She is so devastatingly dear to him, in all these details.

Unable to keep Kate at arm’s length, Anthony shuffles forward, tucking his arms around her nude form. He is careful not to disturb her as he wraps himself around her. He does so enjoy how smooth her face looks wearing the veil of sleep. Despite his precaution, she stirs in his embrace, hips wriggling as she wakes slowly.

Ah. There it is. That terrible tempest. That unbridled burning which shall always plague him in her presence, whether waking or in sleep. He slinks a hand round Kate’s hip and sighs against the curve of her ear as she presses herself backward against him. Her back becomes flush with his chest, his hardening cock notching against the cleft of her arse. He is contented by the shiver she offers in response, the slow roll of her neck as she leans into his touch.

“Did I wake you?” he whispers.

“I rather think the sun did that, though—oh.” Kate abandons her sentence at the sensation of an involuntary thrust against his cock, sending sparks to her cunt. She grasps at his forearm, pulling the limb tighter across her ribs as she chases the feeling once more.

Anthony’s blood heats at the wanton gyration of her hips against his own, the way her nipples harden without his touch. He drops his mouth to her shoulder and bites down, slow and desperate. It is the only thing he can think of to ground himself, when he is so untethered, so surrounded by her—skin and scent and body and blood. It is dangerous, almost destructive, how deeply he desires her.

He would let her tear him apart with her teeth, lay waste to him if she liked, if only she would ask. If only she would let him worship her, too, take her apart piece by piece so he might know how every bit of her tastes—blood and bone and marrow. He would let her play on his sinew and make it a song.

“Awful news,” he whispers, all tongue and teeth at her skin. “That feeling we once spoke of,” he runs the tips of his fingers atop her thigh, “it has not passed.”

Kate reaches a hand around the back of his head and knits her fingers tightly against his scalp. She clings to him as she turns her face to him, lips parted and eyes shining like liquid gold. She shifts her hips against the sheets.

“You must know,” she whispers, “I think I want you even more terribly now,” eyes dropping to his mouth. 

Even in the midst of such a heated statement, Kate’s pulse flutters and she swallows, a touch terrified at the vulnerability her desire leaves her with. It is quite a brave thing to say, all things considered. She fists her fingers tighter in his hair.

There is no explaining the fire that licks hot and insistent at the inside of her ribs. She has long cast aside all attempts at rationalizing the feeling, all attempts at extinguishment, too. It burns because it must. It burns because the match was lit upon her marrow.

If Kate holds any great wish, besides that foolish one of love, she would like to find herself etched into Anthony the same as he is embedded in her. If she might peel back his tender flesh and brush against his bones; sink her mouth into his muscle or lap at an open vein, perhaps she could find herself hidden there. She would like him to swallow her whole, too; to roll her around on his tongue until she is made anew. She would like them to pick each other clean.

“Then we are well-suited.” He moves his mouth closer to hers, hovering just above. “I dreamed of you so often in my bed, even while you are in it.”

Kate kisses him then, hungered and fierce, and he returns her passion quickly. With the hand not banded around her waist, Anthony drags a palm down her body urgently. He traces the crease below the swell of her arse, then runs a finger across her slit. He presses his hand there with greater insistence, spreading her soaked folds apart with his fingers.

Anthony sucks in a sharp breath at the slick feel of her quim, then gasps sharply as Kate bites down on his lip, a little vicious. She quickly soothes the sore skin and suckles. He sighs, thumbing roughly at her clit as both retaliation and reward.

“Speak to me of these dreams,” she demands, teeth tugging at his lip again. “Tell me all the ways you have wanted me.”

He pulls his mouth from hers, moving to her ear. “There are too many to name.”

With that admission, he sinks two thick fingers inside her. Her walls constrict around the intrusion and she punches out a noisy set of moans as he begins a steady rhythm.

“We must leave for Aubrey Hall soon,” Anthony breathes. He pauses his fingers inside her.

“Must we?” Kate reaches behind herself to take his cock in hand.

“I am afraid so.” He nips at Kate’s earlobe. “I intend to fuck you properly, and I should like you to express yourself loud enough to deter neighbors from considering a visit. We certainly cannot do that here,” he flicks his tongue against her skin, “with my family down the hall.”

He is wild with wanting, but such sounds will not do.

“Then perhaps,” she counters with a whisper, “we must simply be quiet.”

“Do you really think yourself capable of that, Kate?” Anthony asks, sly and smirking as he starts pumping his fingers inside his wife anew.

“Do you?” Kate pants defiantly, twisting her hand around his shaft in firm strokes.

“Fuck,” he bites out. Without deliberation, he slots his mouth over hers for another kiss and ruts into her palm.

“I have dreamed of you just. Like. This.” Each word of his is punctuated by a particularly deep thrust of his fingers inside her. “I have wanted you beneath me as you were last night,” he breathes against her tongue. “I have wanted to taste your cunt dripping down my throat. I have imagined all the ways you would feel as you fell apart on my mouth. Did you know that? How I thought about your cunt clenching around my fingers?” He crooks his fingers inside her and swallows her moan with a filthy kiss. “And your thighs—God, your thighs, Kate.”

Anthony removes his fingers from her cunt and she whimpers at the loss. His slick hand moves to grasp at the silken flesh of her inner thighs, eyes fixed on hers.

“That night after our dinner with the Sheffields, I… I dreamed of casting them out, same as before. I dreamed of sending everyone away and locking the door behind us. Of tearing every stitch from your body until you were dressed in stockings alone.” He traces an imaginary seam across her skin. “I dreamed of you with your legs spread wide for me upon the dinner table. Dripping,” his fingers move to her quim once more, “like honey. Begging for my mouth.”

Kate’s head tips back, on the precipice of pleasure.

“I would fucking feast on you, Kate.”

“Show me,” she breathes, hand twisting roughly around Anthony’s cock.

She does not need to ask twice. He wishes to sup from her every morning as the sun climbs high, hear her voice turn raw with pleasure as the larks take air.

He extricates himself from Kate’s grasp and works his way down her body like a man starved. There is little patience from either party for the slow reverence of the night before. Anthony suckles at the tender flesh between her legs unrelentingly, working her open with his hand at the same time.

Kate shudders and flails against the mattress, overcome as he dines on her cunt. She throws a hand over her own mouth and presses teeth into her palm to quiet herself. Anthony pulls his head back briefly to catch her eyes, hooded and hungry.

“I want to hear you, now,” he says, voice gravelly and whispering. “Tell me of your dreams, Kathani.”

Her heart races at the suggestion. It is not for lack of imagery, but rather the exposure of such explicit eagerness. She worries if she might somehow seem too earnest in her pining. As though sensing some hesitance, Anthony lifts a brow. Kate shakes her head quickly, dispelling her own doubt. That counts as some courage, yes? Though perhaps she will avoid a few of the more tender details.

“Where shall I begin?” Kate asks as Anthony’s mouth returns to her quim intently. His eyes remain fixed on hers. “Perhaps with how I dreamed of meeting you on horseback and riding you astride? Or maybe with the dream of you lifting my dress at the races and using your mouth for more than poor bets? No. No, I think I should speak of the dream I had after our last argument in Lady Trowbridge’s gardens.”

Anthony groans in embarrassment at the memory. He doubles his efforts upon her clit as penance.

“Do you remember what you said?” She buries a hand into his hair, tugging at the root. “That I did not burn for anyone like I did for you? I was… absolutely… furious,” she pants, “with you.”

Anthony lifts his mouth a moment. “Kate, I am sorry—”

“I know,” she interrupts, returning his lips to her cunt without consequence. “But you were not wrong. And then you said... that I possess you.” His eyes darken in remembrance. An affirmation. “You drove me absolutely mad that evening, but that—that did, too.”

Kate’s breaths come in shorter, faster sets as Anthony sets a breakneck pace with his tongue and fingers. The sound of his fingers scissoring inside her is entirely lewd and it drives her further to the edge.

“I dreamed that night that I put my teeth on your skin to prove it. That I took your tongue into my mouth and grew drunk merely from the taste of you. I dreamed of being fucked by you and fucking you in return, with little care for who might come upon us. I dreamed that I wanted everyone to see us and know.”

A slew of curses fall from Anthony’s lips, buzzing against her clit.

Kate continues babbling with fleeting coherency, admitting to the most salacious fantasies as Anthony carries her to climax. She crooks her knee over his shoulder, nearly around his neck, as she comes. Kate keens, desperate to stifle all sound but finding the effort near-impossible. Anthony swiftly moves his free hand up to her breast and Kate grabs it gladly, binding their fingers together and using both to cover her lips. She comes quick and sharp, the release crackling through her like a bolt of lightning.

Though she is sensitive and shaky, Kate does not waste a second to catch her breath. She pulls Anthony’s soaked hand from her cunt and grasps his torso with demanding hands, until he has slotted his body over her own.

Anthony plunges into her swiftly and Kate fights a groan at the stretch of him. As he bottoms out, she takes his slick fingers into her mouth. The act both muffles her moans and draws them forth anew, his quill-calloused fingers pungent with her release. Anthony, too, groans at the sight, his head dropping to the pillow beside Kate to stifle the sound. Even as he drives into her at a breakneck pace, Kate laughs breathily at his reaction, taking his hand from her mouth and twining it with her own.

Anthony’s hand hinged at her hip grips tighter as he buries his face against her chest, busying his mouth with other matters. Kate pants, using one hand to keep his head in place against her breasts and another to dig into his back, demanding he not break pace. She lifts her hips from the bed to meet his wild thrusts, the sound of skin on skin utterly obscene to their ears. There is barely any air to breathe now, much less for speech. 

Through hushed whimpers and muffled moans, Kate and Anthony fuck furiously. With no small amount of reluctance, Anthony removes his mouth from her chest, littered with small marks and slick from his attentions. He is far too close to climax for his liking. He watches her face: the twist of her brows, the sweat beading at her hairline, the small gasps stuttered from sealed lips. She is blessedly close too. He reaches for her wrist, lifting himself up a little higher, and guides her hand between their bodies. Without instruction, Kate begins to circle her own clit with her ring finger. Sparks run through her at the feeling of her own finger slotted between their flesh and she nearly pauses at such intense stimulation. But there is a look in Anthony’s eyes, demanding and debauched and desperate, and she will stop at nothing to unravel alongside him.

Her finger moves in tighter circles and Anthony crooks a hand behind the cleft of her knee, lifting her leg so he can drive in deeper.

“Oh, fuck. Anthony.”

His cock is heavy and thick and intoxicating, so urgent and present inside her that she could swear she feels him in her throat. Her toes curl at the prospect of being so thoroughly, irreversibly fucked. With her opposite hand, Kate claws at his neck and crushes her mouth to his, her blood singing at the sting of teeth, of his hips slamming against her own. She comes then, every cell of her body on fire. It is like her body is submerged, ten feet deep in a pool of pleasure and she is simply subject to the sensation. She turns weightless in Anthony’s arms and he pulls her limp hand away from her cunt as he continues thrusting, his rhythm turning erratic.

He takes Kate’s soaked hand and draws her two fingers into his mouth—the ones bearing his ring and the other with his name. He hums around the digits at the taste of her slick, at the raised gemstones upon her fourth finger. Kate moans at the feeling, slightly sick with jealousy for the jewels upon her hand. I would turn into a pearl for you, she thinks.

Anthony comes just like that. His climax rips through him as he licks his wife’s hand clean and watches her eyes burn with a small amount of possession, of envy for her own hand. 

He briefly considers retreating, spending elsewhere but inside his wife with whom he has not properly contemplated children. But he is selfish and does not wish to cease, not when this feels so unfathomably wonderful. Not when Kate is falling apart around him and taking him with her, clutching persistently at his neck and shoulders. Not when she is tearing her own hand from his lips to claim them herself, moans passed back and forth between their open mouths.

They come back to earth slowly, hearts racing and chests flushed.

He cannot help himself afterward from covering her in kisses, tender offerings atop inflamed skin. Kate smiles and he gifts her with a grin, both a little delirious.

“Perhaps we should speak of dreams more often,” Kate breathes cheekily.

Anthony huffs a laugh. “Gladly. But first…” He presses a kiss into the side of her neck. “Aubrey Hall.”

Chapter Text

There’s a touch of familiar nausea in Kate’s stomach as she sets foot on the gravel drive of Aubrey Hall.

Though her husband’s hand is placed firmly in her own, guiding her out of the carriage, she cannot help but turn her mind to the last time her soles touched this ground. She had watched Anthony pass her by to propose to her sister, felt her heart sink into her stomach and hot shame grip at her throat.

She pauses to take a small, shuddering breath. It’s silly. He is hers, now, and she is his. Even if it is not quite in the way she might wish, they are one another’s enough. This should be enough.

Watching his wife’s face turn ashen, Anthony grips her hand in his own, puts his mouth to her knuckles.

“I am so sorry, Kate.” He whispers the apology against her ring.

She brings their joined hands to her own lips, an unspoken elegy for the mistakes of their past. His genuine regret is inherent in his tone and in the reverence of his touch. That alone settles her spirit. 

And then he takes her steadied soul, throwing her completely off kilter. Without a breath, Anthony sweeps his arm behind the bend in her knees and lifts her into his arms. Kate squeals in shock and clutches at his shoulder. In one swift move, he has her cradled to his chest. If this is her husband’s attempt at distraction, he is managing quite successfully.

“Unhand me,” she demands, half-hearted.

“Not likely.” Anthony stubbornly shakes his head.

“You are ridiculous.” She cannot manage to say it without looking at him too tenderly.

“Perhaps I am.” Anthony accepts the accusation easily. 

If a man is made ridiculous by tending to his wife’s happiness, so be it. She shall have no need to set foot on this path if it causes her harm. He will have every piece of gravel thrown out and replaced if she so wishes. He will rewrite every corner of this estate with fresh memories in her honor. It is the least he ought to do.

“Are you glad of my ridiculousness?” He lifts a brow.

“I suppose so.” Kate’s hand swipes at the wrinkle on his forehead. “Yes.”

She smiles up at him, soft and warm. Her expression alone could almost make him think she says the word with love .

“Good.” He places a kiss on her nose. “Then I am glad to be ridiculous.”

And so Anthony carries Kate the length of the drive, over the threshold of Aubrey Hall, up its stairs, and into bed.

—

Their first full day in Kent begins with a morning ride. It is a welcome return to form for them, a boon to race at breakneck speed. They dally in the wide open green for hours, not the slightest bit compelled to turn around and make for home at the first hint of daybreak.

It reminds her of that first ride and every one after, all spent chasing after one another in some fashion. Even in the midst of their engagement, those mornings in the woods were blessed ones. Kate’s best days were made so by stolen, sacred moments with Anthony, tucked beneath the thick arms of an ancient oak. These intimacies were stolen in snatches, returned quickly to the horizon at the behest of insistent sunrise. They were always circling one another those days, brushing closely to start a spark, but never quite long enough to catch flame.

This morning is different.

This time, when they dismount and tie their horses to twin branches, Kate and Anthony do not shroud themselves under the shade of heavy trees. They lounge upon long, dewy grass with a basket beside their bodies, the wicker brimming with biscuits and preserved fruits and thick, amber pots of honey.

They speak of very much and very little: the beauty of their wedding, the pleasure of the nights that followed, the pleasant passage of their ride to Kent. Talk turns to family eventually, as it so often does, with Kate fretting a little about leaving Mary and Edwina to their own devices and Anthony echoing the sentiment for his own family. They feed each other all the while.

As they linger on small woes and great joys, Anthony allows himself the comfort of a hand around Kate’s hip. It is one of the simplest pleasures he finds himself seeking constantly, his flesh upon hers. Even in domestic scenes such as these, when his touch holds no intention of turning heated, Anthony yearns for the contact. To be near Kate’s side is simply not enough. He must be made one with it.

His commentary on Gregory’s tutelage tapers as his fingers press into Kate’s waist. It is an oddity, how his own selfishness, this daily desire to mold himself to Kate, dually eases his anxious mind. Perhaps this salve might serve him well when he next considers his own mortality or the inevitability of their future griefs.

Anthony offers Kate the last half of a scone slathered in fig jam. She refuses his generosity, splitting the bread down the middle. She presses its remains into his mouth, allows him to mirror the motion as he tucks a sliver between her teeth. With soft lips and prodding fingers, they capture small bites in tandem. The simple utility of a shared bite is turned into a silent sacrament.

“Hold still,” Kate whispers, thumb catching some crumb at the corner of his mouth.

Anthony’s eyes darken with every brush of her fingertips on his lips. He catches her wrist with his thumb and forefinger and her eyes turn hooded as he licks a dark streak of fig from the lines of her palm. Kate holds her hand to his mouth in rapture as the sun bleeds orange against their backs. A prickle of heat runs through her, all for him.

“We should be going,” Anthony murmurs. They are all too far from the comforts of their bed for his liking.

Kate shakes her head, hand shifting so she can press her thumb along the seam of his mouth.

“Kate, please,” Anthony insists around her finger. “I want you.”

She nods at that. “So why wait?” Her thumb dips against his tongue. “When I can have you here.” Kate surges forward, capturing his mouth in hers before he can protest further. “I thought you aimed to have me properly here, my lord? If you would like me loud enough to deter our neighbors, there is no better place than here.”

There are no nearby estates for miles, rendering Anthony’s remark from the other morning more hyperbole than an actual possibility. Still, concern seizes him. If anyone were to see them—to see Kate—indecorously exposed, he could not forgive himself. He ought not risk her reputation.

“Kate,” he tries again, groaning into her mouth.

“I told you that I dreamed of meeting you on horseback and riding you astride,” Kate continues, climbing into his lap. She pauses and pulls her head back enough to catch his gaze, thumb still tracing the sweet bow of his lips. “Do you wish to deny me my dreams?”

She is brave in asking this. Though she is keenly aware of Anthony’s interest in her pleasure, Kate still braces herself for him to reject her plainly. Perhaps such a request is too wanton a thing for a wife to ask of a husband, reformed rake or not.

She is proven a moment later that she is right to be brave. She is wrong to doubt him.

In lieu of words, Anthony winds a hand into Kate’s curls and returns her mouth to his. It is true: he cannot deny her. Whatever her wish, he might grant it. Let them be found, he decides. Let him loathe himself if need be. If he is to be honest, he has dreamed of her in every iteration imaginable—this one included.

“As you wish,” he pants into her mouth. “Viscountess.”

Kate clutches at his shoulders and grapples with his overclothes at once. Anthony’s hands join hers, tearing at his braces and untucking his shirt from his trousers. They execute the effort with little finesse, hands moving blindly as their mouths remain locked together. After releasing his falls, she topples him backward until he is flattened against the forest floor. Kate’s chest heaves against Anthony’s deliciously and her loosened hair falls around their faces like a curtain, shrouding them from the sun for a moment.

Lips loosening, Kate lifts her head to sit upward. Anthony’s fingers move against her scalp, gentle but imploring.

“Wait,” he whispers.

Too beautiful, he thinks. She is too beautiful like this—curls cast in gold sunlight, skin damp and dappled with sweat, her face flushed with fresh victory. She is too beautiful in every light, he is finding. Too impressive at every angle. It is overwhelming.

Anthony presses his face into her neck and breathes her in. She is figs and grass and lilies and stables and sweat. He is frustratingly overcome by the delight in his discovery of her scent, changing its contours to match the shape of her morning. He wonders how she might smell by night. He wonders whether he will ever tire of such small novelties as these or if their presence will persist. If history serves as proof, then it is, in all likelihood, permanent. It will, in all likelihood, continue to grow greater roots. It is too much to bury. It is too much not to love her.

With a slow kiss to the hinge of her jaw, Anthony pours his affections against her skin. He cannot say the words. Not without his throat seizing. But he can tell her in his touch. Surely, that is safe enough for the both of them.

Sunlight seeps through her hair and warms his exposed cheek. Anthony shifts his hands to trace the slope of her waist and covers her ear with his mouth.

“Take what you need, Kathani.”

A relieved moan escapes Kate’s throat and she tips herself backward. Gathering her skirts to expose her stocking-clad legs, she grinds down on her husband’s hardened cock and sighs. Anthony’s hands rove the length of her thighs, groaning as his fingers dip beneath the seam of her stockings. One hand finds her quim, hot and dripping onto his trousers. Kate bucks at the touch. She wants him too much. Too much for speech, too much for teasing.

“I want you here,” she pants, tugging his hand up to her breast.

Eager, Anthony rips her riding habit from her shoulders and pulls harshly at the neck of her dress to expose her breasts. Kate gasps at the sensation, nipples hardening from the cool air and rough rip of cotton on her skin. Anthony leans upward, mouthing at Kate’s neck as he kneads her breasts. Her back bows as Anthony plucks at a nipple and suckles on a sensitive hollow beneath her jaw.

Levering herself on her knees, Kate reaches her hand between their bodies to pull his cock out from his trousers and notches him at her center. He is obtrusive at this angle beneath her, cockhead wide and insistent as she sinks lower on him. Kate moves slowly, hissing at the intrusive stretch. Her thighs burn at the protracted pace, but she continues her steady descent and groans roughly when she is finally fully seated.

It is almost overwhelming, to have Anthony buried inside her like this, to have him at her mercy. Beginning to move, Kate runs her hands over his abdomen, nails catching on the downy line of hair running from stomach to chest. Anthony bucks beneath her involuntarily and groans, then stills himself. He returns his focus to her skin, one hand caressing her thigh and another massaging her breast.

Every tender touch of his flesh feels all-consuming as she begins to ride his cock in earnest. Her palms curl against his chest, clutching at his heart. She watches his face flicker with intense pleasure, lust, fondness, and no small amount of greed. The equity of their wanting is obvious and it only spurs her to fall against him deeper. Their hips slide against one another’s and Anthony hits a spot so secret within her that her breath hitches. She shudders, sinking down to capture his cock against that spot once more. They pant in unison, Kate’s voice catching on a broken moan. Her clit grinds wonderfully against the base of his cock with every bounce of her hips.

A pressure builds in her slowly, swelling from her center and radiating outward toward her throat, her thighs, her chest. All the while, Kate watches him watch her, reading the focused twitch of his brows and the delirious hunger in his gaze. All for her.

In moments like these, the loving and unloving moves upon her like tides on sand. She is impacted, succumbs, and surfaces once more. She is happy to drown in his presence, basking in the rapture of his attentions. At once, it is impossible to ignore her abject affection and similarly all-too-easy not to voice. There is no need. There is no threat of a lurking chaperone, no dubious wager for a sister’s dowry, or the threat of anyone’s marriage contract but their own. There is nothing but Anthony and Kate. They owe each other nothing but what they have avowed. Here, this is their duty. And it is absolutely fulfilling.

Chasing her own impending release, Kate bows her body backward and grinds herself down faster. Anthony’s hand jumps from thigh to backside, bracing her. His hips jump upward and Kate meets them furiously. Her palms flatten against his chest and she is so close. Anthony can feel it in the flutter of her walls around him and drives into her a little quicker.

Competitive as ever, Kate squeezes around him in retaliation and feels his bollocks tightening against her as they slap against her skin. She has half a mind to draw Anthony’s climax from him first, but she can smell the stubbornness on him.

Anthony flicks at Kate’s nipple with a determined glint in his eyes. In this instance, he is resolute that they ought to err on the side of tradition—his viscountess should win every race.

Spurred on by his insistent touch, Kate digs her fingers into the flesh of his forearm and jerks her hips higher. Bright moans fall from her mouth as she impales herself on his cock again and again until she bursts with a shout, pitching forward as her release ripples through her body. Anthony catches her as she comes, her body abuzz with pinpricks of pleasure. Her walls pulsate around him and he follows her climax a half-dozen strokes later. He comes hot and fast, a shattered moan falling from his lips as pleasure shoots up his spine. Their mouths meet again messily and Anthony’s arm locks Kate’s pelvis flush against his as he rocks into her.

Thighs burning and arms trembling, Kate collapses against Anthony gently. She breathes heavily as she lowers her upper half onto his chest and Anthony runs light fingers over her back. He removes his softening cock from her and she sighs at the sensation of his release, running warm against their legs as she shifts to lay atop him more comfortably. She has an idle thought of her courses, due in three weeks’ time, which comes and goes without consequence. That is perhaps a conversation for another, less naked hour.

“We have made quite a mess of things, haven’t we,” Kate chuckles against his chest.

Their carefully-packed basket lays on the grass next to scattered clothes. Surely, Anthony’s trousers have been made unwearable, and both of their bodies have turned sticky with sweat.

Anthony smiles, dropping a kiss against Kate’s mildly matted hairline. “I would say it is a rather hearty success.”

—

If Anthony’s affection for Kate might remain static, unmoved, he could perhaps make peace with the feeling. At every great juncture, he has thought as much. From the first ride. From each charged moment in dark corners and hidden behind closed doors. From the moment he kissed her in a carriage. From the slip of a ring on her finger. From the vows taken in a closet. In all these things, he has tread a tender line—that thin boundary between taking more than he ought to of Kate, of pouring out more than he can of himself. It is a line woven by care, concern, and duty . And yet, though he is all too aware of the gravity of grief, of his inability to offer her the sort of love she deserves, Anthony’s restraint is too often reduced to vapors.

There is little peace to be made with a thing as demanding as love, it seems.

With each passing hour, Anthony finds his obsession with Kate gaining intensity. He is entirely insatiable, entirely at her mercy. Any hour, any way she wished him, he would offer his body to her without question or regret. Especially with Simon’s encouragement of intemperance replaying in his ear, it is no great challenge to slip into that sort of greed. Indeed, it is a familiar, much-awaited relief. But sharing such intimacy only feeds the same hunger inside him, extinguishing and expanding itself in equal measure, an ouroboros of desire.

That is to say: by teatime, he has grown ravenous for her once more.

Kate finds him in the study, drifting toward a slim stack of correspondence on his desk. “Busy?” she asks.

He drops one of the letters from a tenant regarding a mended fence. “Not the least bit.” He decides easily, in that moment, that he shall forward the stack to Benedict at Bridgerton House.

“Hmm.” She lifts a brow with a question she does not voice.

“What?” Anthony implores.

She shrugs, mouth twisting in a smile. “I thought duty did not cease for a viscount.”

“Ah,” Anthony says, circling his desk to crowd Kate against its edge. He cups a hand at the side of her face, slings the other around her hip. “This is my duty,” he whispers against her lips.

Kate’s eyes flutter shut. How easily he turns her teasing into another sort. How quickly she finds herself wanting for his touch. How clear it is that he wants hers, too. It is almost unfathomable.

“I do recall that vow," she says. “Among some other promises.” She tugs his lower lip between her teeth before soothing the sting with a soft.

“I should hate to be remiss in my duty.” Anthony follows suit, teeth and tongue taunting the seam of her mouth. “What promises are these?”

“One such promise,” she scratches her nails against his scalp, “was of a lesson. In all the ways a lady could be seduced.”

Anthony's eyes darken and he draws his head back.

“Do you not consider yourself carefully taught?” The hand at her waist moves further, caressing her backside. Her hips sit flush with his and she grinds her center against him tantalizingly. “I have thought you a rather quick study, Kate.” His mouth dips dangerously close to hers again. “Are you dissatisfied with your instruction, my lady?”

Kate breathes heavily, in tandem with Anthony, waiting for him to continue his line of questioning. To move his hips. To capture her mouth in a kiss. But he does none of these things, staying suspended as she grows taut and flustered. She shakes her head lightly.

Anthony trails his nose against hers, inhaling heavily at her temple. “Use your words, Kate.”

She swallows. “No, I am not lacking in satisfaction,” she replies, the answer fanning against his cheek. “I have a most exemplary tutor.”

Kate feels his hardness quicken against her pelvis. He is an inch from stealing the air from her lungs. Still, he will not move his body into hers. Instead, he drags his lips over the crest of her cheek, the cleft of her chin, the slope of her jaw. He covers her with warm, wanting breaths. It is an infuriating torment.

“Then what more do you wish for?” Anthony asks. “Name it and I will give it to you, darling. You need only ask.”

She wishes for all of him. In every sense of the phrase. She wishes to carve out a place inside herself for Anthony alone, to settle into a sacred space within him. She wishes to come as close to him as humanly possible without sharing the shameful contents of her heart. But he will give her everything in the world, save that request. This simple fact is well with her soul, truly. He has given her more than she could have expected of this life. The future she made peace with when her appa died cannot hold a candle to the life she leads now. Why selfishly ask for more?

But Kate is greedy enough, in small ways. As she has always been—hasn’t she? Even when Anthony was not her betrothed, she basked in the brief, heated moments that had him burning bright before her. Even when she knew it was wrong. Maybe she was weak. Maybe this is weakness still. Or maybe this is something akin to courage, to continue asking for more. Now that she has had a sip, she wishes for a glassful. She wants him by the bottle.

So Kate will take whatever Anthony is willing to give, though she is still learning how. When the taking is so pleasurable, when watching him give is so rewarding, it almost feels like love. She would like to learn this—learn of seduction and intimacies—learn what he is good at and make herself great, too. If that is the closest she can be to loving, then so be it. It does not harm matters that she finds great rapture in the acts. Besides, she has always enjoyed a stiff competition.

“I would like to learn how to seduce you, my lord,” she admits, voice hushed.

To her great chagrin, Anthony huffs a laugh. “Kate,” he exhales.

“What?” she bites.

He drops his forehead against hers, brow furrowed. “You already do.”

Anthony has failed in every attempt to keep Kate at arm’s length, the better part of a season spent lusting after her desperately. And that was the state of things before he realized he loved her. These past days of pleasure coming to fruition have only served to worsen his condition.

“Do you truly not see that?” he asks, quite serious now. “Why, even this morning…”

“I suppose I do,” Kate concedes. She knows he burns for her. It is foolish to imagine otherwise. “But I wish to… become better practiced.”

Ah. Well, that is certainly bearable. It is his husbandly duty, really. In fact, such action is encouraged by the queen of England, by God. Who is he to deny such a lofty request? That is a pious sort of pleasure, indeed.

“Of course,” Anthony smiles. “You will not be lacking for an eager partner.” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, a touch that both soothes her skin and sets it aflame. “Let us speak of seduction, then, if that is what you wish,” he whispers. “The things I could teach you; the places we might practice.”

Kate nods, scratching her nails against his skull.

“I intend to fuck you in every corner of this place,” his fingers coast from her thigh to her ribs, "in every manner imaginable.”

“Name them,” she says, fingers tugging at his roots.

“It would be easier to name all the ways I have already wanted you,” he returns. One hand massages her backside while another ghosts along her skirted thigh. “I wanted you in the woods, that day of the hunt. If I could have lifted your skirts and buried my face between your thighs without consequence, I would have.” Kate’s heart shudders in her chest. “I always considered the park after a morning ride.” He nips at her earlobe. “You made good on that wish this morning, Viscountess.”

“You liked that?” Kate pants.

“Did I not make my pleasure clear to you?” Anthony presses his hips into her now and she hisses. “I did not think it was kept secret.”

“It is no secret. But I want to hear you say it.” She wishes to find the space inside him which she occupies, to burrow bone-deep and never exit. Let him tell her how she takes root.

“Watching you get greedy for me, feeling you grow slick just at the thought of my cock in you? It is unbelievable, Kate.”

She once told him that what she wanted mattered little. And now she wants and she takes so fervently. It brings about a tender sort of pride for his wife, who wishes for more than the best for others now. It also bears a vicious strain of vanity for himself, the man who makes her so frantic with desire that she cannot deny herself his touch.

He continues his speech. “You telling me what you wish for—like this morning, as you are right now—and knowing that I will be the one to grant it? There is nothing quite like it.” There is no stopping him now, as he considers every aspect of his own desire, the potency of her presence on him. “I wanted you here in my study, that night of the Hearts and Flowers ball. Perhaps against the door. Or here,” he snaps his hips against hers again, then lifts her up quickly to sit on the edge of the desk. He licks a stripe against her neck. “You glowed that night. Did you know that?” He skims his lips over hers teasingly but does not indulge her with the kiss she seeks. “That you glow when you are vexed?”

“Ah.” Kate snaps her hips against his, sharp and petulant. She needs more. “I must be radiant now, then, hm?”

“Incandescent.” Anthony affirms, mouthing at her jaw.

“Is that how you like me? Vexed?” Kate’s nails bite into the flesh of his neck and lift the silk of cravat.

Anthony removes his mouth from her neck and beams. His smile is a canine thing, glinting and sharp.

“I like you every way, Kate.”

He kisses her, finally. Their lips move luxuriously against one another and Kate gasps into his mouth.

“What ways are those, Anthony?” She twists her hand into the hair at his nape. “Tell me.” Her other hand pushes his jacket from his shoulders. “Do you like me quiet? Shall I attempt shyness?”

“Never,” he growls.

He dips his fingers into the neckline of her dress and seeks a hard nipple with two fingertips. She whines sharply.

“Are you certain?” Kate challenges him, locking her legs low on his spine. “I thought your wife ought to be meek. ‘Wed, bed, and bred’ was the phrase, was it not?” Anthony groans in regret, but she holds his head in place so he cannot avoid her searing gaze. “I do not think it fitting of a viscountess to be tupped in the woods or to ride her lord husband astride. Perhaps I ought to learn to be docile. More proper.”

“We both know I like you best when we are at odds; when you have challenged and summarily bested me.” He rolls her opposite nipple between his fingers now. “When you are making demands.” Kate guides his face to bury itself between her breasts alongside his hand. “And claiming victory. Taking what is yours from your husband.” He rucks up her skirts and digs rough fingertips into her thighs. “Or is it unclear to you that I am quite at peace being servile?”

Anthony sinks to his knees and spreads Kate’s legs obscenely, exposing her damp center to the air of his study. With vigor, he feasts upon her cunt, licking hot stripes along her core. Kate falls back onto her elbows, watching as her husband traces a finger around her entrance. He teases her without breaching until she is twitching against his hand in search of friction, then begins a slow, steady thumbing of her clit. All the while, he suckles at the apex of her thighs, scattering kisses across the silken flesh and dragging his tongue and teeth over the hard lines of her hip bones.

Kate bucks again, impatient and imperious. “Anthony, move.”

He grins, then ducks his head and suckles at her clit in earnest. He sinks a finger, then two into her heat and she moans loudly at the fullness.

“Fuck, Kate.” Anthony’s hips jerk involuntarily, catching on nothing. The sound of her pleasure alone is heavenly to him.

Anthony rotates his wrist, palm parallel with the floor as he strokes her walls. The new angle of his knuckles, paired with the hook of his fingertips is a revelation. He holds her eyes as he sets pace and attends to her clit with his mouth, adjusting his ministrations with every fleeting expression that crosses her face. Kate’s hips follow a rhythm of their own accord and he catches up to her tempo. At once, her moans crescendo into something broken, a series of near-wails.

“Oh, fuck,” Kate gasps. “I need you.”

The admission cuts him like a hot knife, a bloodletting of desire pouring from his veins.

“Just like this, Kate,” he says against her thigh. His thumb takes over the pace set upon her clit.

Kate looks down at him, dazed, and grasps at his forearm. She rolls up his starched sleeve, seeking the heat of his flesh. She realizes now what he means: that her desire for him is seduction enough. To see her set into a frenzy for him is enough to turn him wild. The simple power that she wields is nearly impossible for her to conceive.

She grips her right hand tight around his forearm, grounding herself in space and time. Her left remains shoved in his hair, burying his face further between her thighs. She will take for herself, for him; she will take enough for the both of them.

Her climax finds her quickly. Flesh breaking out into sweat and a halo of frizz borne of her loose chignon, Kate is made a mess against Anthony’s tongue. He does not cease even as aftershocks find her, scattering goosebumps atop her skin. It is only with her limp hand tapping on his shoulder that he takes pause and removes his face and fingers from her center. Even so, Anthony does not break eye contact.

Pulling his fingers from her cunt, Anthony wipes them atop her thigh, smearing a handful of slick over her skin. He then dips his head and sucks the flesh into his mouth, running the flat of his tongue and the tips of his teeth over the patch until Kate is moaning softly again. 

“This is how I like to have you, Kate.” This is how I am seduced.

“You must have me unraveled?”

“Thoroughly debauched.” He kisses her thigh one last time. “Well-rewarded.” Runs a finger over her sensitive, spread cunt. Her pelvis stutters in response. “Vocal.” His thumb slips in easily once more and she gasps loudly. Just as quickly as it entered, the digit is removed.

“Funny,” she laughs breathlessly. “Our entire acquaintance, I had always wished to quiet you.”

Anthony smirks cheekily and rises to hover over his wife. “You only need ask for my mouth on you, then.” His arms cage around her sides.

Kate sits forward quickly, surging so her nose bumps his. “Do not misunderstand me. I certainly do not mind when you speak like this.” She licks into his mouth filthily, just enough to make him moan. Her hand seeks his damp one and draws it over her breast, squeezing her hand atop his as a guide. “But what of my mouth on you, my lord?”

Anthony pants at the thought, her breast pillow-soft beneath his palm. Before he can become distracted with it, she guides his hand to her face. His thumb drifts from her cheek and loiters at the corner of her mouth.

“How might I fuck you properly?” Kate asks. She draws the pad of his thumb between her lips.

“That—that is not… required,” Anthony stammers. He is too enticed by the soft suckle of her tongue on his fingertip. She does not owe him such service in the name of equity. “Watching you come apart on my cock. Seeing how well you take me. That is my greatest pleasure. Besides,” he tugs on his finger, taking her jaw lower with his hand. “I want to hear you, Kate. You cannot make sounds with a full mouth.”

“Oh, no,” Kate tuts, watching guilt work against the abject thirst painting Anthony’s features. Her teeth tap warningly against the round edge of his thumbnail. “You vowed to tend to my every desire? This is my desire, husband. I am not so fragile that you need deny me such a wish.”

A heavy exhale escapes him. “Are you certain?”

“More than,” Kate promises. An ambitious glint lights her eyes. “I deserve every opportunity to best you.” Her fingers dance at the fall of his trousers, nudging the cloth aside slowly. “And I should be very glad of your talents as a tutor.”

Anthony hisses at the curl of her hand around his cock. In a split-second, he caves to her demanding touch.

As Kate cleaves his waistcoat from his body, Anthony tugs at the laces of her dress until her breasts are bare above her loosened neckline. She looks absolutely corrupted like this: bosom heaving with impatient breath, hair wrecked from her pleasure atop his desk, skin littered with sweat and the damp marks of his mouth. A greedy creature gasps inside him at the sight. There he goes again, heart thundering for her all too loudly.

Kate’s hands dip against his stomach and shoulders as she lifts his shirt. She skims her nails against the line of hair leading upward from his pelvis, dips her head to flick her tongue against his nipples and traces the ridges of his ribs. There. There is where she might like to live.

Their eyes catch as she lingers over the fourth bone beside his sternum. His hand is cupped behind her ear, fingers twining with the roots of her disheveled hair. He is so beautiful above her: suspended in satisfaction, a halo of the shrinking sunset settling across his shoulder blades, at once shrouded and blindingly exposed by the light. Kate loves him. She knows that fact is plainly written in every kiss she burns against his skin.

She loves him. And it’s okay. It really is.

As long as he remains ignorant it is equally simple for her to ignore. That is what she tells herself, though the thought buzzes in her brain with the frequency of a lie. But she has tempered far worse than this, has she not? Including her own maelstrom of attraction, back when it was insurmountable, unthinkable, entirely scandalous. What are the stakes now, to dote on her husband and pounce on him at every opportunity? They are paltry in comparison to the threat of scandal. Entirely insignificant when weighed against the thought of losing him forever.

Perhaps that is why she proposed a marriage of convenience in the first place. Perhaps it was less about the state of her family’s affairs, though they were no small matter to contend with. Perhaps she knew, somewhere deeply hidden, that it was more convenient for her heart.

Sure, the admission that her heart has betrayed her, that this passion will not pass is a terrifying conceit. Though she conceals it well, Kate walks with an open wound; a vulnerability waiting to be laid bare. Sure, in truth, she would wish to have Anthony wholly. But Kate would rather have Anthony in fragments than not at all.

By the time Kate has slipped low to the floor, her knees settled on Anthony’s thickly folded jacket, she has left a trail of kisses to the top of his trousers. With deft fingers, she tugs the pants from his hips, pressing her mouth reverently to the freshly exposed skin. Anthony takes that final step, discarding his last threads and baring himself completely before his wife. It feels as though he is naked for the first time before her, somehow.

Gently, he curves a hand over her cheek. Kate turns her head to drop a kiss on his palm before continuing her torment against his skin. The small affection sends a stutter through his chest.

Achingly slow, Kate wraps her lithe fingers around the base of his cock once more and presses her lips lightly against his head. Anthony groans low and immediate. Both the touch and sight of her lips, glistening with the moisture gathering at his tip, are intoxicating.

Kate licks an achingly slow line along the underside of his cock, sparing a moment to dip her tongue against his head again.

“Instruct me,” she reminds him, cock in hand. Her eyes glint with the hint of a game.

Earnestly, Anthony shakes his head. “I told you in truth, you are a quick study.” A flicker of doubt passes over her features. “I will tell you what feels good; if something ought to be different.”

Kate nods, soothed, and continues her approach. She tongues at his slitted head, suckling briefly as he has before upon her clit. Anthony releases a shuddering breath in response. Licking the length of him again, she traces a vein with the tip of her tongue. It earns her a groan.

Kate dips her head and draws him into her mouth more fully. He rests heavy on her tongue and tastes of musk and sweat, sex and salt. Though she has kissed him after he has brought her to release with his mouth, she would quite like to taste him after he has been inside her. She braces a hand against his thigh and another on his backside as her mouth moves lower, swallowing and suckling until she cannot move any further without tears pricking at her eyes.

Experimentally, she moves her hand from Anthony’s arse to the base of his cock, fingers dipping to touch his bollocks. He nearly jumps at the sensation. She draws her head back slightly and he sighs. She lowers her mouth again, a painfully slow pace not dissimilar to the leisurely one she started with in the woods this morning.

“Christ,” Anthony pants. “May I?”

As best she can, Kate nods.

Carefully, he guides her with a light hand, hips bucking shallowly against her lips to set a different rhythm—a bit less sedate; more intentional, but no less indulgent. She sorts out how to create the right sort of suction and his eyes nearly roll back into his head, but he refuses to break her gaze from his own. He luxuriates in every sensation as Kate keeps pace with his hips. She has captured him in warm, wet velvet. He does not ever wish to leave.

After a catch-breath, Kate twists a hand down Anthony’s cock and tugs at the flesh of his arse with her nails, suckling and swallowing wetly against him again. Pinpricks gather at the base of his spine and he can feel his bollocks tighten as every thrust meets her tongue. The vision of her mouth stretched around him is too much, not enough. He needs more.

“Wait,” Anthony shouts, body shuddering at a particularly skilled swipe of her tongue. He pulls his cock from her mouth, though it is near-torturous to do so. “I need you,” he insists, lowering himself til he is face-to-face with Kate on bent knees himself.

“You have me,” Kate pants, brow furrowed.

“I need to be inside you, Kate,” he begs, tugging at her hips. An arm wraps around her waist.

“Was I not—”

“God, no,” Anthony returns sharply. “For what it is worth, you are not lacking in finesse. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Was she serious? He nearly spent in her mouth after mere minutes. “But I am fond of fucking you, viscountess,” he admits with a smile. “If you are amenable?”

Feverish, Kate nods. There is a thrill that runs through her at the frantic desire that dwells in her husband. One that only she awakens. She tugs him forward until they topple back onto their clothes, strewn in haphazard piles across the study floor. The room has grown shadowed now, but a low fire burns in the hearth, a small mirror of the night following their first fateful waltz.

There is the distant sound of torn thread and then her dress is sinking low, slipping from Kate’s body in Anthony’s unyielding hands.

“Sorry,” Anthony smiles. He doesn’t look it.

“I liked that one,” Kate comments idly. A frown passes quickly.

“I shall buy you ten more,” he promises. One hand covers her breast and another moves to her hip, drawing small circles on the skin with his thumb.

“Wasteful man,” Kate croaks, tipping her head back.

“A glutton,” he agrees, taking the opportunity to suckle at her throat while he massages her skin.

Kate lifts her thighs around his waist and her soaked slit glides over his cock with the motion. Anthony’s hips buck involuntarily and he moans.

He looks down at her face again and she nods at his unspoken question. Removing his hand from her breast, Anthony winds Kate’s hand with his own and releases a shuddering exhale as he enters her. Her dark eyes are blown wide and her fingers flex around his in response to the intrusion. Her free hand presses hotly against his back, urging him to move. When he does, she sighs prettily, almost sounding like relief.

Hips rocking, they drop their heads between their bodies, watching together as Kate’s cunt is speared on his cock over and over again. Anthony buries himself inside her rapidly, then switches to long, languid strokes, staving off the build of his climax once more. Before his hips can retreat, Kate bucks against him, harder and higher.

“Fuck me properly,” she insists.

Obediently, he drives further into her cunt. He moves within her ferociously, seeking and taking and delivering pleasure with every demanding stroke. Anthony kisses her fiercely as her hand roams his back in a frenzy, digging her fingers into the flesh and encouraging his pace.

“Yes,” she pants against his mouth. “Just like this—oh.” Her legs tremble around his waist as he bottoms out against her heavily.

The reaction spurs him further and he begins rambling as he pumps into her assiduously.

“I need you to come, Kate,” he says quickly. His release is building all too soon. “Can you do that for me? Please? I need you to come,” he repeats, like an oath.

“Yes—yes, I’m close.” Kate’s mouth falls open without sound and he holds this angle, hips pounding as she peaks quick and sharp. She attempts speech again, stutters turning to a shout at another overwhelming thrust of Anthony’s hips.

Anthony’s orgasm finds him shortly thereafter, a white-hot sunburst of pleasure screaming through his body. His body ripples atop Kate, but he does not cease moving. He can feel it in the squeeze of her cunt around him—she can reach her climax once more. So he fucks her through his own release, their trembling bodies damp sweat and chests rubbing slickly with every rut of their lower halves.

The sound of his cock moving within her is utterly obscene—the sight, too. They are covered in shared slick, her desire and his spend coating their skin noisily with every stroke. Again, he recalls briefly that he ought to consult his wife on the matter of children more meaningfully. However, the idea always seems to occur to him at the most relevant and equally inconvenient instances.

“Anthony, I feel—” Kate’s words halts as her body stiffens and curls upward into him at a fresh jolt of pleasure.

“Tell me,” he prods gently.

“Full,” she groans. “So full.” Still, she digs her heels against him.

She lifts her hands to reside in his hair and he noses at her underarm, inhaling deeply. “You smell phenomenal.” She is pungent with pleasure, sweat-soured and flower-sweet. He would sip of her here too.

The primal sight rouses her, driving her toward her second turn. Kate comes with a shout, pulsing around him, the world going white behind her eyelids. Her hands grapple with his skin and hair, scattering pink half-moons across his shoulders in their wake.

They hold themselves together like that for a short while, Kate’s hands stroking lazily against his back until her breathing slows. When they part, finally, it is reluctant and careful. Without reason, he finds himself pressing a generous series of kisses to Kate’s cheeks as their bodies lose touch.

Afterward, though it is a touch too late, Anthony rings for tea service. He cannot will himself to parse through the scraps of their clothes that decorate the floor, nor imagine costuming himself for a proper dinner at a table. So he requests chai and brandy and sweetmeats—honey cake and ginger biscuits he knows are already tucked away in the kitchens. Kate, for her part, insists upon a few of the lemon squares that Anthony is partial to.

He watches her, a bit awed, as she sifts through spices and stirs at hot water until it is fragrant. All while she sits on the floor, half-clothed in his shirt, wrists and knees and collar glowing in the firelight. He wonders if she would accomplish less if she had greater access to a mirror.

They trade sips of tea from warm cups, Kate instructing him on how to fix a proper cup—because the English sort is a weak excuse for one. The pot is drained rather quickly and Anthony, though he still is fond of a breakfast tea, does not disagree with Kate’s assertion. Eventually, they pour a dose of brandy into the fine porcelain cups when they are emptied. He feeds her again, and just like this morning, Kate halves every bite. She delights in sharing even her simplest pleasures with him.

“Here.”

He nudges her with a lemon square, powdered sugar coating her lips with the gesture. Instinctively, Kate reaches to tear off a portion of the pastry but Anthony grasps her hand, halting the attempt.

“No,” Anthony shakes his head. “I wish for you to have this one. Just you.”

“But these are your favorite.”

As are you, he nearly says.

Kate blinks hesitantly. Though the cook baked a batch in advance of their arrival and has practically rationed them at mealtimes, she is certain this is the last lemon square.

Anthony shrugs, adopting what he hopes passes as a companionable sort of affection. Whatever that is.

“I wish for you to have it, Kate.” He wishes for her to have everything, doesn’t he?

Well, then. Who is she to deny her husband this?

Kate eats the square slowly, savoring each bite. She lets the pastry melt against her teeth with no small amount of veneration. She lets it taste like adoration.

When she is finished, Anthony grins. He is somehow sated by her consumption. He draws her fingers between his lips, licking the remnants from her skin. 

Drawing her face closer, Kate pulls her hand from his mouth. She tilts her head thoughtfully and strokes his stubbled cheek. Then, she leans forward and touches him with a sharp tongue, at once sour and sugared. Anthony smiles against her mouth, pleased, and presses a kiss there once more.

There, in the study, is another corner claimed.

Chapter Text

In the end, Anthony does not have to teach Kate much of pleasuring him with her mouth. In fact, she takes to it quite quickly, starting by waking him one morning, then growing bolder and swallowing him down under the dining table after he has made a mess of their meal, rucked up her skirts and drank from her until she was drained. She is quite proud of her newfound skills, pocketing fresh knowledge of her own body and his with each passing day.

She is learning Anthony in many ways; in all the ones that matter and also the ones that don’t. In the restlessness that finds him about midday, when he has not touched the correspondence upon his desk. In the quirk of his brow and quick flip of a page when Sense and Sensibility ’s plot takes another surprising turn. She knows the curve of his mouth when he wishes to kiss her, the time of day he is most inclined for a turn about the gardens, the set of his shoulders when he is soothed by her touch. His appetites, inflections, and idiosyncrasies are all second nature to her now.

It is funny, in retrospect, how much and how little she knew of Anthony before they wed. How she knew his fury and fear before she saw the back of his neck, soft with sleep. How she met him, a challenger on horseback, before she learned that her own pleasure was his favorite prize. How she witnessed his desire and denial, woven with the same thread, before she learned his love of lemon squares.

She is learning all these things now. They only serve to let her love him more.

This thought should strike fear within her, but it does not. Truly, it is all too easy to luxuriate in the wonder of such minutiae without concerning herself with their consequences. It is a simple self-deception, to sleep in his arms and rise in his bed, to be fed from his hand and feasted upon by his mouth. 

Simple, to ignore the great many ways that Anthony acts like a man who might love her.

Like the press of his mouth on her spine when he thinks her asleep. Like the pride he takes in preparing her chai nowadays. Like the grasp he takes of her hand when she outfoxes him in a game of chess.

Simple, to ignore that little fact of her loving him. Simple, to avoid assigning greater meaning to the flashes of feeling that dance upon his face so often.

Love is barely even a wrinkle in the material of their marriage thus far. She merely tucks it away inside her, alongside every other secret she once held.

–

Anthony watches his wife suspended in time, pall mall mallet loose in her grip. She is mid-swing, tossing some jape about poor sportsmanship his way when the sunlight slings itself through thick branches and scatters across the lawn. In an instant, Kate is transformed.

She pauses, resting on the handle of her mallet as she watches the horizon catch fire, painting itself with pink and orange hues. An indiscernible expression crosses her features. It looks a bit like yearning.

“I think I have finally sorted out your favorite shade of sunset,” Anthony says. He slides a hand around Kate’s waist and settles himself behind her.

Her head bobs in affirmation against the crook of his shoulder. She does not even need to turn her head for him to see her, to know the answer written on her face. Anthony sighs contentedly and drops a kiss to her temple.

Nearly a fortnight has slipped by like this. He is not sure how he’s managed such uncomplicated domestic bliss, but he is grateful for it all the same. A honeymoon, he has decided, is a most wonderful thing indeed. Or perhaps, that is just the effect of a honeymoon with Kate.

Anthony had once wagered that such a span away from Mayfair would leave him unfocused, more susceptible to unforeseen burdens. Of course, he knew that he and Kate would find it a fine time to explore one another. But sooner or later, duty would knock at the door. Mothers or siblings or tenants would come calling and remind them that there was more at hand than their own gluttony.

Though it is much quieted, that nagging fear still lives in him. It makes itself known nearly every afternoon, just when he is settled with a novel or distracted by the shine of his wife’s smile. Just when he has forgotten the meaning of duty, he is struck with the memory of its existence. He rushes to his study and rifles anxiously through the sparse letters from Benedict on his desk. 

Francesca has much improved her piece of Mozart. Colin is reading a most interesting text on Indian customs. Gregory has taken to fencing. Be warned: Hyacinth has, too.

Each time, there is nothing of consequence within them. Even Eloise’s vague notes with insinuations of her hunt for Whisteldown remain uneventful. The threat of duty shrinks with each unsealed envelope. All is well.

At another time, the realization that his family fares fine in his absence might have been a wounding one. But as it stands today, it is a great relief. Anthony would stay like this happily, Kate idle in his arms, for another fortnight if he could. He shifts his hands tighter around her waist.

As if reading his thoughts, Kate turns her head and delivers a kiss to his chin.

“This sunset,” she says. “It reminds me of Chennai. My old home.” Her fingers cover his, lacing together lazily. “In the summers, Appa would leave the doors and shutters open to catch a breeze. At sunset, there was this beautiful orange light that would come through the foyer from every angle. It was like someone had spilled saffron on the floor.” She smiles to herself and looks at the lawn again, ablaze with burnished hues. “It was a little like this.”

Anthony savors the details, commits this vision to memory. He shall try to alert her to every sunset like this one from now on.

“I wish I could see it,” he tells her.

“You will someday.”

A flood of warmth fills him at the surety of her voice. 

He thinks of the hand that clutched his heart when she first told him she would be leaving for India, never to return. Its grip is gone now. When she leaves for India this time, it will be with him.

“How glad I am for that,” he exhales.

Kate runs a thumb over the back over her husband’s hand. Her heart stumbles at the earnestness in his admission, at the way he clutches her hand, insistent to follow her across oceans.

“Perhaps I could paint it for you in the meantime,” she suggests, inspired. “When we return to Mayfair. Benedict offered to dabble in some watercolors with me.”

“Then dabble you shall,” Anthony agrees.

“I cannot promise I will be any good,” Kate warns. It has been ages since she’s picked up a brush, though she admires the medium mightily.

Anthony rolls his eyes. “I can. When have you ever done anything poorly?”

“Hmm,” she taps her mallet on the toe of Anthony’s boot. “A certain pall mall match and a rather dense patch of mud come to mind.”

“Ah, but you were an expert saboteur,” he rebuts. “That is the real skill of the game. And you committed completely to the competition, even when it meant sullying your dress.”

Kate fixes him with a knowing glare. “If I gave up every time you sullied my dress, I would forfeit every game of ours.”

“They are quite fun to sully,” Anthony hums. He ducks his head, stealing a quick kiss.

“Less fun for the launderers, I imagine,” Kate mumbles against his lips.

Anthony turns her in his arms briskly so they are chest to chest, mouth moving upon hers with greater insistence. His hands slide against her skirts and Kate moans, licking into his mouth. Her mallet remains clutched tightly as she wraps her arms around his back.

“If your mind is on the launderers while I am ruining you,” Anthony huffs, “I worry I am not ruining you well enough.”

Kate laughs unabashedly, breaking the kiss. She lifts a hand to fiddle loosely with his collar. “Do not worry yourself with my ruin. If there is anything at which you excel, it is that.”

Anthony grins at his wife’s encouragement. “Shall we return inside so I might demonstrate my excellence, then?”

“And forfeit another pall mall match to you?” Kate nips at his lower lip. “Never.”

As quickly as she slipped into his embrace, she leaves it. Sly smile upon her face, Kate approaches her ball, briefly abandoned in the grass. He watches her, amused, as she feigns strategic deliberations, lining up her shot with the next wicket with intense focus.

The difference between a pall mall game played among eight people and a game played among two people is often lower stakes, less competition. Not with Kate. She is hell-bent to fix his loss on this lawn.

There are four days left here at Aubrey Hall. Four days remaining to watch his wife wreck him at lawn games and chess, four days to learn what shift of his hips makes her cry loudest, four days to cradle her in his arms while pretending that his love for her does not lie looming between them.

She swings the mallet and her ball flies clear across the field, nearly swallowed by a burning horizon as it travels to the next wicket. He adores watching her like this: unfettered by the weight of any decision but her next bit of gameplay. Selfishly, he wants more than four mere days of the people they are here in Kent.

Kate turns to him gleefully, affecting a proud, ostentatious curtsy. “Your move, my lord.”

Anthony leans against his mallet, tongue between his teeth for a beat before he speaks. “I think we ought to extend our honeymoon.”

Kate’s face shifts rapidly, expressions synchronous with the shifting sun. For a brief moment, he wonders if he was wrong to propose such a thing.

“Truly?” she asks finally, a little breathless.

“Sure,” he nods emphatically. “If it is what you—”

“I do,” she interrupts insistently.

Is it so easy? Kate wonders. To wish for more and have it granted? The notion equally unmoors and anchors her.

She launches herself into her husband’s arms once more, tells him to take her to bed. What is one game forfeited? There are plenty more days ahead for pall mall now.

–

The next day is like the one before, unfolding in mirrored moments.

Kate and Anthony wake wrapped in cream-colored cotton, legs tangled between them. They greet each other in the pale morning light with hazy kisses, eyes half-closed as hands wander one another’s backs. The pair take breakfast in partial dress, donning whatever fashion they could manage without the help of staff. 

They eat with great inefficiency, hands entwined on the tabletop as they pass pastries between their lips, apply marmalade to toast, and slice into steaming yellow eggs, watching their yolks pour out on white plates.

Each moment is of little importance. They savor them all anyway.

By the time midday reaches them, Kate has settled herself on a chair in the gardens, determined to catch up to her husband’s place in Sense and Sensibility. He is a surprisingly quick reader for a man more acquainted with the lines of ledgers than novels of leisure.

There is an ambling breeze today that was missing yesterday. It runs past her every now and again, ruffling the pages at her fingertips. The breeze carries something sweet each time it passes her nose—lilac, she thinks. It comes to her again, earthen and delicately green. Hyacinth, she realizes.

She laughs to herself a little, then. When had she last read a book with few other thoughts occupying her head? When had she taken the air and stayed still enough to identify the scent of a flower? What other small pleasures had she ignored before idle days like these?

It is in these slow moments that Kate finds intense familiarity with Anthony, his afternoon spikes of anxiety and quick rushes to the study to review his correspondence. Everything feels all too easy. There must be something dire they have forgotten. Though she is merely reading a book, there is a silent voice within her that worries she is somehow squandering her time. What is her time for, if not solving some great problem?

Perhaps it is this quiet concern which guides her to close her book. Or, perhaps it is the sneaking suspicion that Anthony is feeling the very same restlessness which guides her to his study.

Sure enough, Kate finds her husband seated at the desk, quill in hand, scratching intently against a sheet of parchment.

“You are early at it,” she says fondly. She cannot fault him for his apprehensiveness. It is hers, too.

“How do you mean?” Anthony glances up at her, brow furrowed.

“You are usually not frantic until nearer to four o’clock.”

He withdraws his pocket watch to read the time. Two o’clock. He runs a hand through his hair.

“I am not frantic,” he pouts.

“I see that,” Kate replies evenly, suppressing an amused smile.

She sits on the edge of his desk and angles the paper toward her eyes.

It is a jumbled series of half-thoughts, matters of wages and modiste accounts and allotments and grain stores and parliamentary duties, with the odd inquiry regarding his siblings' tutelage shuffled in between.

There is no clear organization to them, these items of state and siblings and staff, these items large and small. But she sees their correlation quite clearly. Her husband is making a list of everything that could go wrong.

“I thought I might inform Benedict that we are extending our time here,” he explains, scribbling another line on the sheet. “But then I realized I did not explicitly inform him to forward any important missives to Aubrey Hall.” He drops his quill on the desk and rubs a thumb over his sore palm. “What if that is why his notes only contain good news? Or maybe he has forgotten all these things. I… I do not know.” He sighs. “That is why I must write them.”

“Well,” Kate says, “it is a rather dense catalog. Perhaps we should still leave as planned. At this rate, we might reach Mayfair before this letter does.”

She says it in jest but there is an itch of concern in her voice. Perhaps another two weeks of shirking his duty for her sake is too much for him. Fine in concept, but poor in practice.

Anthony watches his wife’s face falter amid her jape and he is suddenly overcome with a different sort of solicitude.

“No, Kate. No, certainly not.” He pulls her forward from her perch on his desk and onto his lap. “I will hear of no such thing. We are staying here.”

He lifts her hand to his lips and scatters a few kisses atop her knuckles. Though he has lost a quarter hour committing every concern to paper, there is nothing of greater importance than this.

Kate sighs and her posture softens, spine sliding against his chest. Here she goes, fretting again, as though her husband has not promised to honor her every whim. It is a wonder how she still manages to trick herself into minimizing the extent of his care for her. They are partners in this, after all. It would do her well to remember that.

She pulls their joined hands up and presses a kiss to the side of his curled fist.

“Good,” she whispers.

Anthony’s eyes close at her touch and he swipes his thumb against her skin before he finds his voice once more.

“I am only concerned that I have not prepared Benedict fully. How shall I know to help him if he does not know to ask for it?”

“I might ask you the same.” Kate gestures to the abandoned quill.

He raises a brow. “Not funny.”

“I make no jest.” She levels him with an imploring look, soft but stern. “Anthony, you promised to be my partner in all things and I have promised the same to you. How are we to do that if we do not share such worries?”

A small knife of shame twists inside her, Hypocrite inscribed on its hilt.

“Perhaps you are right,” Anthony concedes.

“Perhaps I am,” Kate smiles gently. “You have been my greatest ally these past weeks.” She means it, truly. Though it has taken a great deal of discomfort to adapt to his constant kindness, she would wish for nothing less now. “Allow me to return the favor?”

He laughs a little. “I feel I have done you very few favors, Kate. But if this is what you wish for…”

“It is,” she nods.

Of course, she wishes for a great many things. But this will do neatly for now.

Sheet grasped between both of their free hands, Anthony accounts everything on his list, each item that turns in his mind over and over like spokes on an anxious wheel. Between each line there is a pause, a catch-breath and small shift of his eyes that entreats her to tell him he is thinking too much for his own good. So this is what she tells him. Even so, much to her vexation and amusement, he disagrees. 

“If I do not consider these things, then who will?” Anthony insists.

By now, Kate understands he is perhaps experiencing the same sort of discomfort she has felt before. To breathe so freely, without the weight of worry; to disappear to the countryside for a month without the promise of punishment for such frivolity; it is entirely alien to them both.

“Allow me to walk you to a point of logic?” Kate counters.

Anthony pitches a brow. “You can certainly try. But I do not believe I am a man easily led to rationality,” he admits, a touch of self-deprecation in his tone.

“I thought you fancied yourself a very sensible man indeed?” she returns, a fond smile upon her mouth.

“I did,” he sighs. “And then I met you.”

“I am to blame?” Kate gasps mockingly.

“Clearly, yes,” Anthony teases. “Though my double-sided list of woes bears no mention of your name.”

“I could fetch you a fresh sheet to list your complaints, my lord?”

Kate makes to leave his lap but Anthony’s arms hold her fast in place.

“You shall do no such thing.” He huffs and places a definitive kiss on her cheek.

They laugh a moment, the levity welcome in such a conversation, before they settle again. Of course, Anthony is not foolish enough to blame Kate for his more erratic instincts. They have always been there, haven’t they? It is not untrue that Kate nearly drove him to madness this season, simply by the mere circumstance of her presence, of her breathing. But then, it is not untrue that Kate has been his greatest salve, his truest confidante, his favorite comfort above all others. He supposes both facts will always remain true.

He wonders, for a moment, if Kate might think the same of him. He discards this thought quickly. Best not to linger on it, especially when either answer would be a bruising one.

“Alright, wife,” Anthony nudges her. “Guide me to some sense.”

“I do not aim to brush aside your concerns, Anthony, but I wonder…” Kate pauses, smoothing a thumb over the crease in his forehead. “What will happen if something is truly wrong while we are away? I understand what it is to be entirely alone with your family’s survival in your hands. It was a great deal of duty to bear. And I did not have a viscountcy, tenants, or six more siblings.”

“I beg to differ,” Anthony scoffs. She has braved unbelievable obstacles, ones he has little faith he could navigate himself. It is an incomparable feat.

As though Kate can hear his thoughts, she raises a hand to halt him.

“Enough. I am not attempting to tally the measure of our pain. It was quite the same and quite different all at once.” He swallows a protest and nods, squeezing her hand. “What I mean to say is: you have done this alone for so long, but you are not so alone anymore. It is a strange sentiment. One that I am struggling with myself.” She gives him a meaningful smile. “However wonderful it may be. It is almost…”

“Unbelievable.”

“Indeed. Perhaps too good to be true.”

Anthony nods, comforted by her understanding. It is not that he is ungrateful. But he is unfamiliar with a world in which he is not alone.

“But perhaps it is not,” Kate pushes gently. “If there is one thing I have learned between you and Lady Danbury, and even my mama, it is that I am supported. And you are as well.”

Something akin to relief settles in his bones. His duty seems a distant thing when she speaks of it.

“Benedict is of age and maturity, prepared enough to handle day-to-day affairs. Your mother is capable of launching your sisters into society and hosting balls—certainly she can support him.” She searches his eyes for confirmation, finds its presence before continuing. Her hand runs along his arm soothingly while his dances at her shoulder, in her hair. “Danbury is a fierce ally of your family, a dear friend to your mother and companion to the queen. There is your sister and the duke, who came to town for our engagement ball at the drop of a hat. And then you have me, of course.”

“Of course,” Anthony echoes softly.

His hand begins to rove through her braid as they converse, weaving and unweaving it. He is anchored by the action.

“So I ask you once more. What will happen if something is truly wrong? If you are not the only person to solve every problem?”

“I suppose… someone else might intercede.” The words are foreign on his tongue.

“I suppose so.”

He offers a slow nod, lip between his teeth.

Kate ceases speech and leans into his steady touch upon her scalp. Anthony’s hand moves away then, a bit sudden as it reaches to crumple the paper.

“Do not.” She covers his hand with her own and notes the pensive position of his mouth. “You do not need to discard it to prove anything to me. Still send it if you wish.”

The way in which Kate so clearly sees him, the lack of shame he feels for his own shortcomings in this moment, nearly sets his eyes stinging.

“No,” he breathes, hand returning to rest in her hair.

He will just draft a notice of the extended honeymoon to Bridgerton House. Nothing more.

“Are you certain?” Her fingers brush his jaw.

“It’s alright,” he insists honestly. “I trust them.”

I trust you.

–

That night they have lazy, languid sex—the sort allowed by the impotence of time.

Though Anthony had been in no rush for their bedchambers, he could not stop reaching for her throughout the rest of their afternoon and evening. He patted gently at her hands while they read, thumbed the sleeve of her dress as they took tea, and fondled her knee constantly over the course of dinner. Even as they disrobed, he was more occupied with revealing her skin, of chasing each exposed inch with his mouth. It seems he must touch her at all times to stay sane. So be it, he thinks. A small price to pay for a clear mind.

After freeing Kate from the confines of her cotton dress, Anthony dedicates twenty minutes to taking his wife apart with his tongue. She holds herself up on propped elbows, watching with hazy fixation as her husband devours her. Even when her arms tremble, she cannot bring herself to lie back and lose this view of him.

He is beautifully focused, the sinewy muscles of his shoulders flexing as his neck dips and twists, as his fingers plunge between her thighs. Sweat beads on her neck. She is delirious with desire. His devotion to sating her hunger only makes her crave him more.

“Anthony,” she whines drowsily. She slides a hand against his scalp and pulls.

“What do you need?” he asks, suckling at the skin of her inner thigh.

“I need you,” she pleads.

“You have me,” he promises, reaching for her hand. She grasps it urgently.

As he speaks, he replaces his mouth with his opposite hand at the entrance of her slick cunt. He twists three fingers inside her, moving deep and stretching against her walls. She tightens and throbs around his digits and he continues pressing in and out, building a steady rhythm. He laps at her clit attentively, sending small shockwaves up her spine.

Kate shudders, eyes screwing shut. She shakes her head. Nothing makes sense. He is here, right here, and still it is not enough. She is aching for him.

“Please.” She clutches at his hand desperately. Her other hand cradles his jaw, then winds around to cup his neck.

Anthony watches his wife, her face painted with anguish.

“What do you need, darling?” he asks again.

“I do not—I don’t…” Kate shakes her head.

Even though she has only had one glass of wine with their meal, Kate feels utterly inebriated. Every inch of her skin is on fire. Her flesh is too loud, too hot, too urgent.

“That’s alright,” Anthony soothes her. His thumb runs over her knuckles. “I have you.”

He alternates skillfully between fingers and mouth, gaze fixed on her face as he adjusts every movement to match the roll of her hips, the flush of her chest, the words she cannot speak flashing in her eyes.

For a few delirious minutes, Kate feels like she is suffocating. It is as though the room has been emptied of air. She half-expects to see the candles snuff themselves, wisps of smoke rising in the shadowed corners of their chambers. She cannot recall how her lungs are meant to expand and contract beneath her ribs. She can hardly recall anything but Anthony. His thick fingers, his warm tongue, his soft lips and sturdy shoulders all nestled between her thighs. And then she gasps, lungs burning with new breath. Her climax is upon her.

Her skull is thick and full of cotton as she comes, a slow-rolling set of waves crashing through her. Each one inspires a sharp inhalation from Kate’s mouth. Anthony withdraws his fingers from her gently, littering kisses across her stomach and hips and rubbing slow circles against her thighs as she settles.

Though she has little strength, Kate hauls Anthony up her body. She does not need him halfway upon her. She wishes to be subsumed, submerged, awash in him entirely once more.

As his weight covers her, she pulls him into a sloppy, demanding kiss. He sighs contentedly into her mouth and pulls away briefly to fit his arms behind her back. With no interest in even a mere inch of distance, Kate follows him upward, wrapping her limbs around his torso. Anthony sets himself upright with an appreciative little huff of laughter for Kate, who seats herself on his lap.

“Do you need a moment?” Anthony asks softly. He tucks an errant curl behind her ear and strokes a thumb against the hollow of her cheek.

Kate shakes her head stubbornly, leaning into the touch of his palm. “No.” 

Her arms and legs curve tighter around his back. She is insistent: they shall not be parted.

Anthony plunges forward this time, kissing Kate messily. His hands run over the expanse of her spine, through the thicket of her hair, over the swell of her arse. They move as one, entirely enmeshed, clutching at one another’s skin as though they are absolutely starved. Kate grinds down against his lap, her ankles locked against the small of his back.

After some time spent kissing, mouths only parting for a few spared breaths, Kate lifts her hips and sinks slowly onto Anthony’s cock. A shaky exhale escapes her as she settles onto him. He guides her waist gently, enters bit by bit until he is buried inside her. Kate trembles and her head lolls forward against Anthony’s shoulder as the base of his length presses at her entrance.

They start slow and drowsy; hips rolling, torsos flush, fingers digging into flesh. Soon, their skin dampens, chests and stomachs and thighs sliding slickly. It is a languorous, heavy-headed fucking. Every rut against one another feels unbelievably weighted. Each snap of their hips is a nailing of every bedpost, a fixing of its frame to the floor. 

Anthony’s abdomen ripples with effort, every press upward into Kate’s hot cunt making him feel a little more unwound. Her pebbled nipples catch against his chest with every bounce on his cock and the sensation turns him drunk. He groans into Kate’s mouth, braces an arm against her back and curls its hand against her neck as she grinds against his lap a little more frantically. She fucks herself onto his cock and he meets her every thrust until she turns boneless in his grasp and he nearly topples backward.

Parting their lips, they collapse sideways against the sheets and Kate’s hair dangles off the edge of the mattress. They have collapsed halfway off the foot of the bed, somehow traveling the length of the thing. Still entwined, Anthony’s chest rumbles against Kate’s with a disbelieving chuckle at the sight.

He cups a hand beneath her head, throws his opposite arm behind his neck. She is panting with exhaustion, eyes half-lidded, but still she reaches for him with a blind hand. Without question, he covers himself in her once more.

“What do you need, Kate?” He presses a kiss to the underside of her jaw, the spot that bobs in her throat when she swallows. “What can I give you?”

He moves to roll them over so she is atop him once more, but she shakes her head.

“Anthony, I cannot,” she says, words staccato through little labored breaths.

With what small reserves of restraint he has left, Anthony shifts to remove himself. Her legs rise against his hips, stilling him.

“No, no, that is not—” Kate sighs. “I wish to, but I need you to… to…”

He nods, knowing what she needs. He feels it now in the tired tremble of her thighs, sees the equal fatigue and determination in her eyes.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises softly.

Kate is his wife and bedmate, yes. Of course he is concerned with her pleasure. But she is a greater thing than that. She is his companion and confidant; lover and friend; competitor and champion; partner in body and soul, mind and spirit. She is the easiest thing to acquiesce to.

Without words and on intuition alone, he arranges her on her stomach and she sinks her face against the pillows.

He feels as though he is suffocating until he is back inside her, a breath stuck in his throat. Anthony settles atop her back and Kate mewls softly, as though comforted. He slides into her and she sobs with relief at his entry. A flood of oxygen fills him and he lets his weight rest more heavily upon his wife as he thrusts into her tight, fluttering cunt.

Kate moans sharp and high, long and low as he alternates his strokes. He holds back a handful of curls that cover her cheek so he can hold her gaze, watch her face contort at the sensation of each thrust. Each twitch of her brow and tug of her lips and sound poured from her throat spurs him further.

She looks utterly debauched beneath him, so beautifully wanton. She is always so beautiful, but perhaps most as this, when she is so openly desirous. When she so obviously wants him. It makes him ache for her. It makes him reckless. It makes him grasp every inch of her desperately. Though there is no way to get closer to Kate at this moment, he is insistent to attempt it.

He drops his mouth to hers urgently and she reaches back, grappling with his forearm. If he were a sentimental or foolish man, he might trick himself into thinking she suffers a similar affliction.

Tongues and teeth and hips move in graceless unison. They murmur useless words and gurgle unintelligible noises until they turn noiseless, until they are empty of thought, until they are nothing but bodies made of skin and breath and sex.

Kate shatters like this, limbs quaking with exhaustion, entire being alight with sparks. She is taken apart, turned into small atoms that float into the atmosphere; she is a white cloud shredded by the shine of a hot sun. Anthony’s weight upon her—his arms on her arms, his chest molded to her back, his hips against her hips—turns her whole again.

Sated by the sight of her pleasure under his hand, Anthony hurtles toward his release. He is rapturous, flying as he follows her to the height of his climax. He falls against Kate after a few wild final thrusts, weightless as he spends white-hot inside her.

After they have returned to Earth, found their limbs and voices once more, they take care to clean one another. They move slowly; ineffectually, really. There is little rush to their motions.

When they are returned to their bed once more, they remain entwined, face-to-face on a shared pillow.

Kate looks at Anthony, eyes soft. She murmurs so quietly he nearly does not hear her at first. He can barely watch her lips form the words in the dark.

“That was unlike anything I have… unlike any other time we…” She sighs. “Every time we do this, I think, Surely, this is it. It cannot be matched, it cannot be bettered. ”

“And yet.” Anthony nods, smiling a little to himself. “I know.”

It is always matched, always bettered. Had he not warned her this would happen?

He raises his hand, hypnotized by her words, her scent, her every aspect. He ghosts his fingers along the curls loose from her braid as Kate continues her quiet confession.

“I have never known it could feel like this, Anthony.”

“Nor did I,” he whispers back, earnest and simple.

He has always known the danger of their desire. Its power is unlike any other he has encountered. It is not one to wane.

Though their eyes slide shut and they begin the shuffle toward sleep, their bodies continue searching for one another. In the dark, he can hear her hands smoothing over the skin of his shoulder as she settles against his chest. He holds his breath for a few seconds, searching for the sound of her blinking, of her ankle shuffling against his. Kate listens for the little echo of his breath following hers, a quiet canon. His heartbeat lives beneath her ear, a steady-tempo song. As she whispers a final Good night, Kate swears she can hear his smile, the soft pull of it over his teeth.

They would quite like to live like this forever. 

–

Dawn comes in a downpour. It does not bode well.

Anthony paces the hallway, lit with damp patches of daylight, clothes in disarray. He alternates between wringing his hands, turning over his father’s watch, removing and replacing the signet ring from his smallest finger. Doing anything, really, but returning to his wife in their bed.

Coward.

He just needs a moment. That’s all. He loves her too dearly, is too full of nerves to face her like this. After sparing another glance at the timepiece, Anthony settles. A small smile works upon his lips. He loves her. It is as simple as that. That is all he needs to steady himself today. To steady her, too.

He hears Kate call for him faintly, and he cannot ignore it, urgent feet carrying him to the door. Whether his body is working with or against his fragile heart, he does not know.

“Anthony,” her voice is frantic now. He curses himself for leaving her alone.

“Kate,” he bursts through the door. “I am here, my love, I only needed a moment to—”

His words die in his mouth at the sight of her.

Kate writes against the headboard, brow soaked with sweat and eyes wild with worry. The cream-colored sheets beneath her are soaked with crimson.

“No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “No, no, this cannot be happening.”

He watches her face turn ashen as pain wracks her body and she clutches at her swollen stomach. A surgeon hurries in from the hallway with his kit, a midwife following with an armful of fresh cloth.

“Please, Anthony, please.” She is begging desperately, clutching his hand in her clammy one.

It is then that he loses all ability to breathe. It is then that he becomes completely pointless; a ghost, as he will be for the rest of his life, if she is to become one too.

Kate screams in agony, voice raw as the doctor issues commands Anthony cannot heed, as he is told to make a choice, as Kate is told there is little chance. She is in his arms and then she is not, more pain than person.

And he is useless, utterly nauseous and ineffectual, a boy made of bile and indecision as he watches her die, as he feels her fingers go stiff against his.

–

“Anthony.”

He wakes, thrashing, to Kate’s hand on his chest. Her voice is calm in his ear.

It is all a vicious dream. Obviously. That fact does not stop him from nearly emptying the contents of his stomach. He has not had a nightmare like this since the days before their wedding. What a fool he was to consider them cured.

She repeats his name again, gaze flickering until they find his eyes, wild with terror. Kate joins their free hands, guiding them to her sternum. Her other palm remains fast on his chest, rubbing soothing circles against his skin as he attempts to suck in a set of panicked breaths.

“Kate, I-I cannot, I’m—” Anthony is choking on his words. Speech only makes things worse.

Kate draws closer to him slowly, like one might a spooked horse.

“Feel my heartbeat, Anthony,” she encourages. “Breathe with me.”

He captures handfuls of her heart as instructed, rooting himself to reality through her touch. As the minutes pass, the pace of his pulse and breath evens, keeping time with hers.

“It is alright,” she promises. “You are unharmed.” She harbors a heavy thought, he can tell. Her lip catches between her teeth, a contemplative cast to the motion. “I am unharmed. ”

That is what breaks him. Anthony’s breaths turn ragged and damp, his shoulders slump and he crowds her close, until their arms are wrapped around one another’s backs and he is nosing at her hair. Kate lifts a few fingers to his cheeks, swiping spots beneath his eyes. Her fingers come back wet. His mouth tastes of salt.

He would like to be embarrassed, he really ought to be. But he is too frantic to make room for shame. Overcome with equal worry and relief, he holds Kate fast against him. She is here. She is real. She is alive.

Kate clutches Anthony close, watching carefully as he settles. Her heart aches for him, hurts for his grief. Though his pain is different from hers, made manifest in full-bodied panic, it is one she knows well. Hers is a lightning strike, a fear that freezes. It sets her spine stiff, her mouth quiet, spurs her into a secret sort of loneliness. Anthony’s is a different sort of storm. The kind that rips roots from ancient trees, rattles windows, wrecks him utterly. She understands why he aims to bury it, just as she does.

She hates to see him like this, but is grateful for it too. Grateful to return the favor of comfort, to wipe his face of tears. Grateful that he did not run away like the first time. Did not hide as she is wont to do.

“What did you dream about?” Kate asks finally.

“I do not wish to speak of it.” He holds her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. “Please.” His voice is hoarse.

She nods and he sighs, relieved. She can ascertain enough already.

Kate presses her ear flat to his chest as she slides back into sleep, one hand twisting into the fine hairs at his neck, another heavy on his ribs. There is something devoted in the flutter of her breaths over his breastbone that makes him nearly split in half.

How can a thing as simple as this be so dangerous? How can he ache for her so wholly? 

Here, he holds Kate entirely in his arms, his devotion and grief for her in twin hands. It is almost unbearable. If this is what it is to have her, he cannot imagine the wreckage of losing her. His chest tightens again, heart squeezed too small inside the cavity that he is choking on it. How is anyone expected to live like this? 

She must be asleep by now. Even so, he cannot suppress his need to reach for her, to tell her through touch that he loves her too much for their own good. He drops feather-light kisses to her eyelids. They twitch infinitesimally beneath his lips. It reminds him that she is here. She is real. She is his.

–

Kate wakes to a blue dawn and an empty bed.

She does not know how Anthony slipped from the sheets without notice. But then, that is because they have always risen together. She reaches a hand to his side of the bed. There is still a hint of warmth.

Though awakening alone causes a small twinge in her chest, she does not fault him for seeking his own peace. She knows where to find him.

As suspected, he is riding fast on horseback at the edge of the grounds, reigns in an iron grip. He does not greet her in speech as she approaches, merely nods. His mouth is firmly set but his eyes flit between Kate’s face and hands, the sun and leaves, Kate again. As though he wishes to say something. He says nothing.

They ride in relative silence, moving from a quick canter to a slow trot once a sweat has broken on their brows. Anthony finds himself watching Kate constantly, unintentionally. She keeps perfect pace with him, never falling behind or moving ahead, so she is an unignorable presence. He cannot find it in him to speak, for the one thing ringing in his mind is I love you.

Once they dismount he wraps her in an intense, wordless embrace. He nearly lets it fall finally from his mouth, the truth of why he does not wish to be parted from her. Though he had abandoned their bed that morning to quiet his mind, to silence words he worried he might scream, the relief he felt at her arrival had been immediate.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for looking for me. For finding me.”

“Of course.” She says it like it is the easiest thing in the world.

They walk their horses back toward the estate through long, tickling grass. It is a beautiful morning, one fit for meandering while the air is crisp. Anthony’s feet guide them forward, and Kate realizes where they are headed. Though perhaps her husband does not.

As he veers left, she catches his elbow between her fingers.

“Um. I am not sure if you…” Kate tips her head.

He looks in the direction she is gesturing toward: the untrampled patch of grass, the slim bench, the tree with the odd, gnarled root and the low-hanging branch.

“Oh.”

Anthony lingers a while, contemplative, and she nearly decides for the both of them.

“You should meet him,” he says.

An expert in avoiding this spot, Anthony so rarely finds himself seated at his father’s headstone. Maybe that is cowardice. Maybe that is plain grief or guilt. Whatever it may be, he feels far less of the usual tension that fills him when he approaches the plot.

Seated beside Kate on the bench, he takes her offered hand and lets their laced fingers rest between their bodies. He introduces Kate to a slab of cement and she reacts as though it is normal, endearing, even.

“Do you think he might favor some fresh flowers?” Kate asks.

She gestures to the wilted bunch upon Edmund’s headstone. Likely a bouquet from Violet during their visit to Aubrey Hall some weeks ago.

“Yes, I think he would.”

“We can arrange that. What sort might your father like?”

Anthony’s first instinct is to laugh, but it turns small and brittle in his mouth.

“He would like whatever my mother likes,” he says quietly, jaw pulsing. “So he would probably ask for hyacinths.”

“Ah.”

“But he… I think he most enjoyed irises.”

“Good taste. I quite like those, too.” Really, she liked the minor myth as a girl; the goddess who danced between heaven and earth.

Anthony nods, tucking away that piece of information.

“The flower—hyacinth—any relation to your sister?” she asks lightly.

Anthony looks down at his free hand, flexing and unflexing at his side. “More or less.”

Kate observes him carefully as he answers. It is obvious that she has struck a nerve. This morning is a tightrope walk, a measured set of footfalls and light words aimed to keep her husband from startling again. She does not resent it. He has done it for her enough. But she cannot solve it if she does not know its roots.

Before she can chart her next step, Anthony opens his mouth once more.

“I suppose I ought to tell you of my nightmare.”

She squeezes his hand. “I suppose you should.”

“My mother had a difficult delivery. With Hyacinth.” Kate squeezes his hand in sudden understanding. “After my father died, she was already so…” There is an anguish that sticks in his throat when he thinks about that day. He swallows around it. “That day, she nearly died. Hyacinth, too. And perhaps it was the pain, but my mother said she wanted to. That she wished she were dead, too. I truly think she meant it,” Anthony tells her thickly.

His breathing turns sharp and quick. He breaks off to take a slow, shuddering breath before continuing.

“I had a doctor telling me to make a decision: her or the child.” Kate’s stomach turns at the suggestion. Anthony appears equally nauseous. “I listened to my mother scream and beg to be taken seriously or put out of her misery and it was—I could not—”

“Oh, Anthony.” Kate’s brows draw together. “Such a choice is unthinkable. You should not have been asked to make it.”

“All is well, now,” he says, perhaps more for his own benefit than hers. “I suppose I should be past it. But still that day plagues me, Kate.”

“Of course it does. Remembrance does not make you weak,” she supplies softly. “Only human. It makes a great deal of sense that you dreamed of it last night.”

“No,” he returns quickly, voice rough. “I dreamed of you.”

Kate’s lips part, a little Oh slipping from them.

“I dreamed of you in that room, bearing our child and you—you were so… I could not save you, Kate.” He does not know what else to say, does not wish to recount the blood or the terror in her eyes or the coldness of her skin as death took her hand.

“That sounds quite awful,” she says sincerely. She knows those sorts of dark dreams well. “Do you have nightmares often?”

“They have happened before. Ones about you, more recently,” he admits. “I am prone to some bouts of panic, particularly concerning your safety.”

Kate nods. She had first assumed the frantic response to his dream had been in some relation to his father or a memory of her beesting—Anthony’s reaction was similar. It is perhaps a new realization that his response is not solely bound to the past, but to Kate’s present wellbeing.

“I had not considered…”

“That I care for you?” Care is too small a word, but it is the one he uses.

It is ridiculous how this simple statement makes her heart float.

“Of course I know that.” She shakes her head. “That is… I care for you, too.”

Anthony closes his eyes tightly, pained. Kate is etched in his very marrow, sewn into the fabric of his being. There is no unembedding to be done, no cause to make him love her less. The notions that she might feel anything less than that, or that she might love him just as deeply, are equally distressing.

“When my father died, my mother followed in spirit. And she only was worse after Hyacinth. After that day. And I thought—I knew that I could not bear to do that to someone.” His eyes are full of dread when he looks at Kate. “That is why I sought a marriage without love.”

The words fall from his mouth and she ducks her head to look at their joined hands. She watches a fraction of hope filter through their twined fingertips, slipping past like water in the cupped hands of a fool. It serves as a reminder: this is that marriage.

Anthony looks at her face, drawn in discomfort. “You disagree?”

“I think love is one of the bravest things a person can choose,” Kate counters hoarsely, some small courage burning inside her. “My appa did. He did not lose himself in my amma's death like Mary lost herself in his. And I do not blame her,” she amends quickly. “I do not think her weak for feeling the weight of his loss. But I… I think it is a powerful, courageous thing to allow love in again after such great grief. It honors them, in a way.” Kate glances at her betrothal ring, still fixed on her finger though she is a married woman. “I think my amma would be glad to know my appa loved someone again. And I know they both would be proud of the happiness I have found here.”

She looks at Anthony meaningfully, bolstered by her own speech. A marriage without love is perfectly fine. This one is far better than she could have hoped. But that does not mean she values love any less.

“How do you bear it?” he asks. “How do you manage to speak of your parents without… I feel as though I lost my father a first time and a hundred times more since then. Every time I hear his name or look at his portrait or find some memory, I am losing him again.”

“I think that is how it goes,” Kate returns. “For as long as we are alive and they are not. It can be daunting to live with, burying and unburying the ones we love. But it is not so dark a thing, always. I am so grateful for the memories I have of my appa. The ones of my amma are harder, but there are pieces of her, some stories or mementos I am honestly terrified to misplace.” She thinks of the bangles and necklace she wore on their wedding day. “Even though they are gone and I would trade anything to have them back, there is a gift in recollection. We lose them to memory, but it is also how we keep them alive.” She rubs a thumb over his skin. “That, and by our own living, too. They would wish us to.”

Anthony nods heavily, moved. “That is a very brave sentiment. But you are braver than I.”

“Not always,” she smiles. “But often enough.”

Anthony shakes his head, thinking again of his dream. What would he do if Kate died and there was a child left behind? Could he comfort himself with memory? Be brave enough for the both of them? Perhaps. He did it for Hyacinth when they lost his father. But then, perhaps not. He has never lost Kate.

He imagines a screaming babe, so fragile in his arms and knowing so little of the world. A daughter, knowing nothing of her mother. A son, knowing the odor of fear on his father, the stench that cannot be wished away nor suppressed. A child become adult, absorbing a father’s fear, stricken by blind anxiety, lashing out at those around him. Just another person destined for damage because Anthony is too much like his mother. A tenth viscount as incapable as the ninth.

A child is an ill-timed thought. One he has attempted to render abstract at the most relevant moments and sidestep, feigning ignorance of the risks they take every instance they lay together. A child should be a happy thing. And the idea is, in some ways. The thought of himself and Kate here in Kent, a child with her mother’s curls toddling in the grass as Kate’s stomach swells with the next. He is filled with such tenderness that it nearly bowls him over. But the very next thought is that same one of an imminent danger. He is not quite ready to welcome it.

He wishes to be selfish—enough to love Kate without considering the consequences. He wishes to be brave—enough to carry on if she is lost. But somehow he is both. Somehow he is neither. Both courage and cowardice govern the ultimate choice to disallow an admission of affection. He still does not trust himself to grieve better than before.

As though she has read the thoughts racing through his mind, Kate speaks.

“Is it terribly selfish that I wish to wait for a child?”

Anthony breathes a heavy sigh, the tension leaching from his bones.

“If it is, then count me terribly selfish, too.”

Kate nods, relieved. The concept had turned in her head every now and again, most often when Anthony was inside her, both of them at the height of pleasure. That was no time for such talk, she rationalized, and then that time inevitably passed. Until now.

At the very mention of childbirth, Kate often turns queasy. She recalls Mary’s loud and long-winded labor with Edwina with too much clarity. It was one part of her future as a governess that she appreciated, in truth. Though that does not mean she does not dream of a child. Quite the opposite.

From the moment Anthony placed that betrothal ring on her hand (or perhaps even sooner, if she is honest with herself), Kate contemplated the features of their future child. A daughter bearing Anthony’s smile and Kate’s own keen sense of humor, a son as tender as his father with eyes like her own. She has considered every iteration and combination of their best traits, transfigured in new life. Her heart constricts at the thought of Anthony cradling an infant that carries her amma’s name.

She will be ready to realize that idea someday, but perhaps not so soon as other young ladies of the ton. And besides, Kate is enjoying her time with Anthony too much to interrupt it.

“That is a comfort, I must admit,” Kate says.

“I have, ah. Been meaning to say something about that,” Anthony returns haltingly.

This is what they tend to do, isn't it? Do not address a thing until they must. Let the truth slither beneath the door rather than turn the handle themselves. Try to wrangle the wriggling thing when it has already gotten too great for words.

“Perhaps that is why you dreamed of it,” Kate suggests.

Anthony turns her hand between the two of his. “Perhaps so.”

“In the discussion of our marriage contract, we made no provisos regarding children,” Kate says carefully. “I understand my role requires bearing an heir—”

“Only if you wish it,” Anthony interrupts vehemently. “I mean it. I have enough brothers for heirs and spares alike. I did not marry you simply for the sake of duty.”

Kate swallows, not entirely sure how to respond to that.

“I do wish it,” she says finally. “A child. Just not so soon. Do you?”

“Yes, I do,” he says honestly. Despite his dread, he is desperate to let himself want such a thing. “Eventually. I meant it when I said our children should bear your parents’ names.”

“Perhaps we might delay a moment, then. If it suits you?”

“If it suits us both,” Anthony amends.

Kate nods gratefully, watching the steady stroke of his thumb against her palm. “I only wish to give us a bit more time to… settle into this partnership. To learn one another better.”

“I am amenable to that.” Anthony smiles, a genuine and relieved thing. “Shall I consult our solicitor to draw up a revised contract?” he asks, a hint of humor in his tone.

“Hmm-mm.” Kate leans forward, leaving a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Consider it sealed.”

Anthony pauses, resting his forehead against Kate’s gently. “Thank you. Again. For this morning. For everything.”

“Of course.”

She always says of course. He sometimes cannot understand being worthy of such surety. He accepts it from her nonetheless.

“I am glad to have you here to myself for another fortnight.” Anthony’s brow softens as he says it, his gaze full of abject tenderness. “If you have not grown weary of me?”

I am fond of you even when you are wearisome, she nearly tells him. But then she sees it—that needy flicker of devotion she is learning to decipher—and the affectionate jape dies on her tongue.

“Never,” she tells him plainly.

–

When Anthony’s valet informs her that a letter addressed in her name has landed on the viscount’s desk, Kate thinks little of it.

She and Lady Danbury have exchanged some letters, lighthearted news and brief updates from the countryside and city alike. Mary, too, has sent a few notes wishing Kate well on her honeymoon and asking after her enjoyment of married life. Her most recent letter has informed Kate of Mary and Edwina’s plans to settle in a small estate outside of the hustle and bustle of Mayfair upon the season’s end. So Kate waits to unseal the envelope until after luncheon, assuming it will be more of the same.

The first line of the letter stops her cold.

Didi.

Then she is unfurling the paper quickly, unable to let herself imagine its contents, for better or worse. Kate skims the words, catching the most salient phrases.

I hope this letter finds you well.

I am sincerely sorry to intrude, but I should hope to speak with you upon your immediate arrival in Mayfair.

All is well, rest assured. There is a personal matter of some small urgency with which I would greatly appreciate your advisement. I do not wish to put it to paper, only due to some sensitivity.

I have wrestled with this matter for some days now, determined to solve this for myself. But the truth is, I cannot do this without you. You have always aimed to do what is best, even when you were imperfect. I trust your guidance as I attempt to do the same.

Wishing you the utmost happiness and awaiting your return with love.

Yours always,

Edwina

–

Kate tells him as soon as she reads her sister’s letter. They cannot stay another fortnight. He understands, does not resent her for the request. He would do the same for his family.

Their final, full day at Aubrey Hall is bittersweet, laden with the weight of the anxious days before and the responsibility ahead.

That night, they lay together one more time before they abandon the people they are in Kent, before they return to the people they are in Mayfair. They cling to each other in the afterglow, unwilling to let go.

Chapter Text

Much of Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton’s journey to London is spent debriefing one another on family matters and crafting subsequent battle plans.

Kate shares updates on Mary’s plans to sort out a dower house and extends her mama’s appreciation for the robust allowance from the Bridgerton coffers. She spins on Edwina’s possible reasons for requesting an immediate audience with her; informs her husband that Newton would be residing in their rooms, despite his grumbled protests.

Anthony notes Violet’s insistence to co-host a ball in the countryside with Kate later in the year; shares his desire to find his mother a dower house of her own; warns that Colin will likely corner Kate with discussions of Bombay and Chennai; alludes to Hyacinth and Gregory’s most recent tiff; passes along Benedict’s request to paint their marriage portrait. Also unveiled is the not insignificant matter of his donating a hefty sum to ensure Benedict’s acceptance into the Academy.

“He is a gifted artist,” Anthony assures her quickly.

“I believe it,” Kate pats his hand and casts him a knowing look. “But he may find out eventually. Perhaps it is best to tell him sooner?”

Anthony nods in agreement, resigned and relieved at once. And that is it. She does not offer judgment or admonish him for using his means to circumvent merit. Would she not do the same for her sister’s dreams, if she had the chance?

Of everything discussed on the road from Kent to Mayfair, Kate had been certain that Edwina's vague missive would remain the greatest mystery. To her shock, Anthony divulges an even greater bit of intrigue: Eloise’s campaign to unmask Lady Whistledown, alongside Queen Charlotte herself.

“You are joking.” Kate searches his face for some hint of humor.

“I wish to heaven I were,” Anthony sighs. “I would have kept it from you if I could, but I am not certain of her itinerary. You may encounter her entering and exiting royal carriages at odd hours.”

“Are we the only ones to know?”

“So it seems.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I imagine she has confided her endeavors to Benedict or Miss Penelope Featherington, but I am not certain.”

Following that particular exchange, Kate finds herself quietly rejoicing once more in their decision to delay procreation. These children—adult or otherwise—will surely be a handful on their own.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says abruptly, some ten minutes later. “About Eloise, I mean.”

“You are… welcome?” Anthony’s brow folds curiously, but it does not stop him from reaching for his wife’s hand.

“Perhaps it is an odd thing to be grateful for,” Kate chuckles, squeezing his fingertips. “But in the name of proper partnership, I quite like that we share every matter at hand—important or otherwise.”

Anthony mulls over her words, silently considering their final days at Aubrey Hall. It is no burden for him to aid Kate or her family, no strain to share a favored pastry, no harm to hold her as a rainstorm rattles their bedroom windows. No, it is, in fact, an honor—a point of pride, really—to be trusted by her so wholly, to be present for the woman he loves so dearly. Even the sacrifice of an extended honeymoon was made simple by the relief on Kate’s when he told her, I understand.

It was terrifying to relive that day of Hyacinth’s birth, to offer up his worst memories and ask Kate to witness his greatest worries. But, Anthony can concede that, perhaps, his wife feels similarly honored to do so.

He must admit, he—they—feel firmer in this union upon peeling back such vulnerabilities. From their engagement to their marriage, every ounce of honesty has only served to strengthen their partnership. Strange, how a thing he so valiantly attempted to outrun has become their greatest virtue.

“I am grateful for a great many odd things,” Anthony returns finally. “Seven of which are my siblings. So I shall find it easy to be grateful for this, too.”

His hand finds her cheek and he tips her jaw upward, just a little. Kate leans into his palm and his thumb coasts the crest of her cheek reverently. He wishes to talk with her endlessly, or gaze upon her face without words, or kiss her without great reason (merely because he can). He must choose one.

She chooses for him.

Kate runs the back of her fingertips through the soft hairs at his temple, cups her hand around his jaw. For a moment she is simply looking. Just as he is. And then she is kissing him. An unhurried and tender thing; gentle and chaste and warm.

As the wheels on the carriage turn, he can feel how close they are to home. Perhaps it is the texture of the street or the hue of lamplight filtering in through the window shade that tells him so. It is both because and in spite of their impending arrival that he welcomes her kiss, pressing his lips back to hers for more.

For these last few minutes, the world remains theirs and theirs alone.

“Are you ready?” Anthony asks, a touch wry. His hand still lives on her cheek.

“As ever.” Kate straightens her spine and smiles against his wrist.

They approach Bridgerton House amid a foggy evening, their carriage greeted by a blue flame in a streetlamp, housestaff and a horde of siblings spilling onto the gravel drive. For Kate, the sight is a dizzying one. There is an immutable warmth to the clamoring children, an ease she finds among the elder set and the employees whom she recalls from her wedding night. The house is inviting and familiar, despite its grandiosity.

Nothing about this scene is imposing. However, it is a little much.

“It is good to have you back,” Eloise exhales, wrapping her eldest brother in a hug.

Anthony returns the gesture, surprised yet grateful, and leans backwards with a ticked brow.

“Sorry.” His lips twist in a small smile. “Did you say that it is good that I am back? Me, Anthony? Shall we fit you for spectacles or check for a fever? Surely you are thinking of Benedict or some other brother.”

“You are taking too much joy in this,” Eloise huffs, breaking their hug. “I rescind my welcome. Go back to Kent.”

“I have missed you, too.” Anthony chuckles fondly and squeezes her shoulder.

There is no further time for retort as Eloise bounds toward Kate, jostling her new sister in a hearty embrace.

“It will be a boon to have you here.”

Kate grins, returning the hug. “I quite agree.”

“Have you grown weary of him yet?” Eloise asks. “I imagine you find yourself still bickering with my brother quite often.”

An excessively adoring laugh falls from Kate’s lips. “We bicker plenty.” Over tea and backgammon; over assessments of the Dashwood sisters; over who must eat the last bite of pastry or find their pleasure first. “It is one of the many reasons I think I shall never tire of him.”

Beside them, Benedict and Colin crush Anthony in the center of a hug. Gregory wriggles between them, turning Anthony’s mild indignation into immediate acceptance.

The scene is endearing. Touching, even. But Kate would be lying if she denied that her favorite reunion is with Newton, whom Hyacinth produces proudly in her small arms.

And on it goes. The newlyweds are swallowed in a series of embraces and volleyed between innumerable conversations. By the end, Kate finds herself immensely grateful for her mother-in-law, who sweeps her inside quickly before a dozen more hands can find her.

In the foyer, Violet grasps Kate’s shoulders gingerly and beams. “Welcome home.”

–

The next few hours unwind in a comfortable chaos.

Over a dinner of roast duck, there is ceaseless, overlapping chatter from all corners of the table. Hyacinth and Gregory swat at one another with stalks of asparagus in a farcical bit of fencing. Violet attempts to intercede, unsuccessfully. Colin, when not requesting a third helping of biscuits, peppers Kate with questions about the food in Bombay. Anthony attempts to spare his wife, but she quiets him with a hand on his wrist.

“It is alright,” she promises, eyes shining with mirth.

This is her family now, and they are a blessedly unconventional sort. It warms her to be immersed so immediately, even if their volume (both in number and in noise) requires some minor adjustment. Their obvious, unpretentious closeness was one of her favorite aspects of her first visit to Aubrey Hall. In truth, there had been a small worry that wove through her upon her second visit to the country estate, a concern that perhaps she would remain only witness to the Bridgertons’ warmth, rather than be made a part of it. Every minute that has passed this evening has proven that worry incredibly wrong.

So Kate answers Colin’s inquiries gladly, tells him of her favored foods and spices and enjoys the proud gleam in her husband’s eye as he passionately informs his brother of the best manner to craft a proper cup of chai.

“Is that all you did in the country, brother?” Eloise teases. “Perfected the art of tea?”

“Not entirely,” Anthony chuckles. “I shall have you know we’ve been reading Sense and Sensibility,” he tells his sister proudly. “It’s quite engaging.”

“You mean you are still reading it? I finished that book ages ago,” Eloise says, crinkling her nose. “I understand you had much to busy yourselves with during the engagement, but you have been confined to the countryside for a fortnight. Surely you could have finished the novel then. What on earth were you doing with all your time?”

Anthony’s knowing eyes find Kate’s just then, an undercurrent of desire present in his gaze. She feels her cheeks warm at the memory of their days, most hours spent testing the limits of furniture or their own flexibility. She quite suddenly requires a sip of her wine.

“Oh, yes, do tell.” Colin leans forward with mock interest. “How did the two of you spend all those long days and nights? Spare us no detail.”

Anthony’s expression turns mildly murderous before a thud sounds from beneath the table.

“Uncalled for,” Colin grunts, reaching down to rub his calf.

Benedict cackles.

“What joke am I missing here?” Eloise asks crossly. She prods Benedict’s shoulder until he flicks her hand away. “Tell me!”

“Much of a honeymoon is getting to know one another, Eloise,” Violet says quickly, silencing Benedict’s retort. “Talking and gameplay and suchlike.”

“Exactly,” Anthony agrees gratefully. “We played pall mall.”

“Mighty long game,” Benedict smirks into his glass.

“Say, did you two end up on your backs in the mud again?” Colin quips.

“No,” Anthony answers pointedly. “As it happens, the game is best played without the interference of siblings.” He covers Kate’s hand with his own on the tabletop, turning his focus back to her with a fond smile.

Benedict hums and leans back in his chair, watching the pair with a pleasant curiosity. Colin returns to chewing, all teasing abandoned for the sake of a bruised shin and the promise of plum pudding. Eloise considers pushing further, but then thinks better of it.

“Oh,” Eloise exclaims, a fresh question coming to mind. She lays a hand on Kate’s arm as the elder woman raises her glass. “Did you get to have many morning rides?”

Kate sputters, nearly choking on her wine. Wiping her mouth, she croaks out a Yes , but the answer is drowned out by Benedict’s chortle, noisy even through the hand covering his lips.

This time, Anthony cannot feign irritation or chastise his brothers and he joins the laughter. Kate, too, is caught in the infectious discomposure, her eyes watering at the absurdly innocent double-entendre.

“I do not know what is so amusing,” Eloise huffs. “Heaven forbid a woman have hobbies.”

–

By the evening’s end, the siblings splinter into separate corners of the house. Eloise and Colin drift upstairs—she with her books, he with a pen and parchment—to draft a letter to Francesca in Bath. Violet retires to a sitting room to focus on a pesky patch of embroidery and Kate is tugged into a parlor by the two youngest Bridgertons, who beg to show off the tricks they have taught Newton in her absence. It is an obvious attempt to circumvent their bedtimes. She entertains them anyway.

Anthony, meanwhile, is halted in the hallway by a hand on his elbow.

“Could you spare a moment?” Benedict asks, head tilted in the direction of the library.

Inside, Anthony leans upon the doorframe, pensive. It is so very unlike his brother to seek a quiet word behind closed doors. He wonders, briefly, if something truly has gone amiss in his and Kate’s absence. Worse, if he has learned the truth of his admission to the Academy.

“Is everything alright?”

“I had meant to ask you the same,” Benedict returns, seating himself in an armchair. “Honestly, I was a bit concerned about the state we would receive you in this evening.”

Anthony’s forehead furrows. “Why would that be a matter of concern?”

Benedict ticks a brow. “I received two conflicting missives from you a mere day apart. The first, stating that you aimed to extend your honeymoon for another fortnight. The next, a reversal of that very decision. I worried that you and Kate had perhaps…”

“Oh,” Anthony exhales, deflating with relief. He flops into an adjacent chair. “Kathani and I are well and truly alright. More than,” he says honestly.

Alright is not a word worth assigning to a person as wonderful as Kate; not an adjective relative to a partnership as treasured as theirs. It is a weak and entirely inaccurate descriptor of the marriage he has found himself in.

“I can see that quite clearly,” Benedict smiles. “I feared we would find you falling out of the carriage mid-argument, but the two of you appear to be well and truly besotted.”

Anthony swallows a smile. It is no secret, he knows, that he greatly adores and admires his wife. Nor should it be. The open fact of his affection, its obviousness to observers, is something he is finding himself better acclimated to with each passing day.

“We still bicker,” he adds, a bit uselessly. “If that concerns you.”

“Of course you do.” His younger brother chuckles. “You remain yourself. Kate remains Kate. I cannot imagine marriage stripping you of all arguments.”

“Certainly not.” Anthony smiles unbidden at that. He is reminded of Kate’s teasing shouts on horseback, her strategic taunts over a chessboard, her insistence after wrecking the dining room that they really ought to confine their amorous exploits to the bedchamber for the sake of their staff. (Anthony had disagreed vehemently and swayed his wife with the rather underhanded tactic of returning his mouth to her cunt.) “But our arguments are rather different from those in our early days.”

“Hmm, I’d say since that morning I caught you two at odds in the study—”

“Eavesdropped,” Anthony corrects.

“Yes, since that morning I happened upon a pair of raised voices,” Benedict rolls his eyes, “I have found you both rather content with one another.”

“We are. Very much so.”

“Just content?” Benedict prods. “Not captivated?” Absolutely. “Enamored?” Entirely. “In love?” he finishes softly.

Anthony finds his tongue has turned to cotton, his heart too fragile to allow his lips to form an answer. So he simply looks at his brother—ever the romantic; that pining, hopeful poet—and begs him not to force the truth from his mouth. Benedict demands nothing further, merely nods and offers a far too gentle smile.

“I admit,” Ben starts again, “It was a bit vindicating to know you wished to lengthen your honeymoon. That you trusted me to carry on. And, of course, that you enjoyed yourself so thoroughly,” he tacks on quickly. “It felt good to be useful in some ways. In the ways I perhaps was not after Father…”

Anthony’s tongue dances on the back of his teeth. There is one urge to deny his own sacrifices, to bury them further. There is another urge to thank Benedict for seeing them at all. Both press against his enamel in equal measure.

“You did plenty,” he says finally.

“Not enough.”

“You were young, Benedict.”

“And you were, too.” He shakes his head. “I feel as though you gave me a year’s worth of preparation but even so, I found it rather daunting to spend a fortnight in your shoes. I cannot fathom bearing that weight with such little knowledge, at all of eight and ten.”

The urge for gratitude wins quite unanimously, then. “Thank you,” Anthony says thickly. After a heavy breath, he continues. “For what it is worth, I never would have allowed you to do any more than you had. You know that, right?”

If Anthony could spare anyone’s youth in the wake of that awful summer, he had thought, let it be his siblings.

“I do know that. I understand it better now. But, Anthony? Please allow it now. I am a decade older. If there is ever anything that I might do to support you—in more than your honeymoon or a tour of the continent—you need only ask.”

Only. As though saddling his family with the responsibilities of his role is a small and simple favor. But he thinks of his promise to Kate some days ago, to trust them—Benedict, his mother, her—and finds himself nodding in assent.

“Very well. I will aim to practice that particular request. Though I cannot promise it shall come too easily,” he warns.

Benedict laughs at that. “I would expect nothing less from you.”

“I remain myself,” Anthony echoes, wry.

“So,” Benedict sighs, the smile drifting from his lips. “Why did you leave Kent?” The corners of his eyes crinkle softly, telling Anthony he is not inquiring out of accusation. No, there is the implicit assumption written within these small creases of his skin: You left because you love her. Because staying would make that fact impossible to stifle.

“Because of Kate’s family.”

“Ah. And that is not love?”

“I believe that is duty,” Anthony corrects him quietly.

“Hm. Convinced yourself thoroughly of that, have you?”

He did, in fact, leave Kent because he loves her. Because he loves her too much to ask her to stay. To never leave him. To love him back. Because, if he does not say the words, then it cannot make his actions a mirror of their meaning. Because, perhaps here in Mayfair, he can keep it a secret from her still.

But it is true that he also left for the sake of duty. Because he understands Kate’s fealty to her family completely, for it is the same as his. Because his duty now is to her, too.

Not for the first time, he is reminded here—love is not the death of duty, but rather what gives it breath. He is somehow more convinced of that notion now.

–

By luring the two youngest Bridgertons to bed with promises of Robinson Crusoe, Anthony expertly allows his weary wife to escape into a warm bath. She adds this act to the laundry list of reasons she adores him as she sinks into the suds.

Half-awake, her ears perk at the sound of his voice, hoarse from storytelling and hushed by the late hour.

“Kathani?”

“In here,” she calls.

On instinct, her arm reaches backward, blindly meeting his firm torso with the motion. Anthony catches her arm and scatters a few small kisses on the skin—wrist, forearm, elbow—before marrying their fingers.

“Join me,” she yawns, a hand dipping into the lukewarm water.

He shakes his head and sinks to his knees instead. “I shall refresh myself in the morning.” Forearms resting on the basin’s edge, he sweeps a free hand across the stray hairs framing her forehead. “I’m knackered. And it appears you are, too,” he notes as a yawn creeps past her lips. “Let us go to bed.”

“Can we not sleep here?” she mumbles.

“I do not wish to awaken as a prune.”

Kate sighs, too tired to argue on account of her own laziness. “Very well.” She makes no move to exit the tub and lets her eyes drift shut.

There is some rustling of fabric in the periphery, perhaps Anthony shedding his shoes, shirtsleeves and the like, but it does not faze her. Not until her husband’s hands reach beneath her knees and behind her back does Kate open her eyes once more. Anthony lifts her from the copper tub and swiftly shrouds her damp skin in cotton, then carries her back through to their bedchamber.

He prepares her for bed with quiet focus, offering a nightgown which she refuses with a slight tilt of the head. It would feel odd to sleep against his body clothed now, even if they have no amorous intentions.

“Will you take those off, too?” Kate gestures to his breeches with her chin. He sheds them without a second thought.

She allows him to braid her hair and he does so slowly, pressing his nose to her roots every now and then, dropping kisses to her ears or cheeks at random. He massages her scalp, too, just as she taught him in Kent, though there is no oil warmed between his palms.

Kate is a bit bereft of words—or thought, really—as she crawls into bed. Anthony, too.

Still, he finds himself speaking.

“I am sorry if they are a bit much.” He mumbles the apology more than says it, his mouth pressed against the back of Kate’s shoulder.

Kate twists her head, turning her body in suit until her sternum greets his. Despite the dark, her eyes find Anthony’s face rather clearly and she swirls the pads of her fingertips gently into his temples.

“I would not wish for them to be anything less,” she says with unadorned honesty.

Her fingertips continue to flutter over his face. She traces the divot between his brows as he speaks, the ridge easy to find in the shadows of the room.

"I had wished to stay in Kent longer but… it is good to be back," he admits. “I only hope you do not find yourself overwhelmed by their, ah, enthusiasm.”

“I should say the same to you, then.” She hums a small laugh and Anthony sweeps a thumb against her waist, where his arms remain snugly slung. “Your family adores you,” she murmurs.

He chuckles. “They adore you. And much as I loathe to admit it, Newton, too. I am afraid I am a mere accessory.” He kisses her jaw, smiling still, but the jape strikes her.

She sits up in bed, weight resting on her bent elbows. “Do you truly believe that?”

“Not entirely,” he answers slowly. “Perhaps I believed it more a few months ago. Weeks, even.” Kate’s hands move to cover his cheeks. “Honestly,” he continues, whisper-quiet, “if you had asked me at the start of this season? I would wager they hated me.”

Anthony’s eyes flick downward as he says it, ashamed to confess such a thing. That is perhaps why he misses the way his wife’s face crumples, how her eyes track the contrite cast of his features.

“How could anyone hate you?” she says, refusing to entertain it. Her hushed words are more an admonishment than a question.

“You certainly did.”

“And look how poorly I managed that.” Kate leans closer, pulling his face flush with her lips until she has covered every inch of it—nose, eyelids, ears—with soft pecks. “It is impossible to hate you, Anthony. Even when I purported to, I did not.”

Anthony’s eyes find hers, so warm and open with hope that it makes her heart turn. “Truly?” he breathes.

Her lips meet his in the bruised blue-dark, sweeter than any salve as she whispers truly on his tongue.

“I never hated you for a moment,” he confesses in return. Her curved smile upon his mouth is his absolution.

“Your family,” she starts again. “You know they do not hate you.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She bestows another kiss upon his cheek. “Are you certain of their affection? Or will I have to convince you of that, too?”

He considers his answer a long while, thinking of a great many recent memories. Eloise by his side in the bookshop; Benedict holding the house together gladly, offering an ear this evening in the library; Colin, full of questions about his wife, his wedding, his honeymoon; the three of them, all boisterous and delighted at the haldi and sangeet. Daphne, too, unwaveringly supportive in this past mess of a month. Francesca, ever-quiet but concerned in her own way. Gregory and Hyacinth, left snoring halfway down the hall after begging for one more page in this evening’s books.

Not in the past decade has Anthony felt so welcome in his own home.

“I am perhaps more convinced of the affection of this house than I have ever been,” he promises.

Kate swallows, a silent smile covering her face before Anthony’s lips follow suit. She basks in it, aglow at her husband’s assiduous attentions. Though they do not take pleasure in one another’s bodies tonight, it is a small gift to know that there are other joys to be found in a marriage bed; that their own affection is not a fleeting thing confined to the country.

As they slip toward slumber, Kate’s thoughts turn to her sister. Edwina will come calling tomorrow afternoon, escorted by Lady Danbury. It will be an odd thing, to host her sister in a new home, with a new name and new husband.

All these adornments once meant for Edwina.

The thought seizes Kate for an awful moment, then passes. Her sister would not be happy here. Nor would Anthony. That, she knows with absolute certainty. With her husband's arms woven around her ribs like ivy, Kate sighs contentedly.

She is so very happy. Anthony, too.

Happiness aside, it will be easy for her to feign ignorance of her feelings here, if this evening is any indication. Amid the melee of Bridgerton House, full of eager bodies and demanding estate business, her love can remain a quiet thing. It will be easily drowned amid such noise.

–

Kate enters the sitting room with her copy of Sense and Sensibility in one hand, a plate of honeyed cake in the other. She is too early to receive her sister, the rest of the Bridgerton brood still breaking fast, but she cannot sit still, cannot speak politely with Violet about her favorite blooms, cannot stomach a bite of bread.

She is ever-grateful for her husband, who had ushered her out of the parlor with a slice of cake and a kiss on the cheek. Listless, she wanders the halls, until slipping into this room for a bit of respite.

“Ah, the never-ending novel.”

Kate’s eyes land on a settee in the corner. Eloise is lounging with her legs tossed over the upholstered arm of the couch. She makes no great effort to rearrange her position. Kate suddenly wishes she had brought Robinson Crusoe instead.

“Seems so.” She waves the book. “I truly am enjoying it quite thoroughly. Though I believe I will enjoy anything which our good Lady pens.”

“Oh, really?” Eloise brightens, sitting up properly now. “Have you read Pride and Prejudice?”

“Only a few times,” Kate smiles. It had been one of many novels to keep her company amid rain-riddled eves and afternoons. “And you?” she asks, settling next to Eloise.

“Only a few dozen times,” she grins.

“I did not take you for such a fan of her novels. I thought you might turn your nose up at romance.” She thinks of their interlude over chai at Aubrey Hall, Eloise’s fearful reaction to the haldi, and her expressions of discomfort, the night prior, as Kate and Anthony had discussed their honeymoon in the vaguest of detail.

“Ah, but she is not just a writer of romance—her works are social commentaries too.”

“Indeed,” Kate smiles. “I find her a delightful satirist. Honestly, it is a bit of a comfort that someone else from this world recognizes its ridiculousness.” She laughs lightly, picking at the edge of her cake. Her stomach is rumbling rather insistently now, she realizes.

“Oh, I quite agree! Goodness,” Eloise sighs forlornly and takes her sister’s hand into her own. “Where were you three months ago? I could have used you when my mother shoved a very heinous feather on my head and trotted me around the queen’s court.”

Kate laughs supportively. “In all likelihood, I was secretly riding a borrowed horse astride in some place I should not have been.”

Eloise’s eyes roll into the back of her head. “I adore you.”

“And then I returned to the ton and trussed up my sister all the same.” Kate sighs, a grimace settling in. “I am much the same as your mother.”

Eloise contorts her mouth in thought. “Well, your situation was different. Miss Edwina is the diamond,” she rationalizes, “she loves this world, was practically born for it.”

“I do not think any diamonds are born, but simply molded by matter of necessity,” Kate replies slowly. “Just as your sister, the duchess, had to set a precedent for your debuts and matches with her own, my sister’s marriage would dictate our family’s future.”

“That all sounds rather grim,” Eloise grumbles. “I am glad to divest myself of such an awful practice.”

Kate does not bother to raise the fact that Eloise can only relieve herself from such responsibility because of Daphne and Anthony: her elder siblings, at whom she wrinkles her nose. Her elder siblings, who have made the difficult decisions so she would not have to.

“The alternative is worse,” she says softly. “You are one of the lucky ones, Eloise. I am, too.”

“I am glad to hear you think yourself lucky.” Eloise nods, thoughtful as she thumbs the corner of her book. “I suppose I had thought you brave. Both in remaining unwed and for marrying my brother.”

Kate smiles warmly then. the past few weeks fresh in her mind. “I do not know if bravery was involved in either decision, if I am honest.”

“Though I understand the joy of marriage very little, and loathe as I am to lose another intelligent woman to the institution, it does indeed seem to suit you.” The younger woman smiles also, a secret in the twist of her lips. “Perhaps one day I will be persuaded of its merits. Though I find that very unlikely,” she sniffs.

“I thought I understood the merits of marriage before wedding Anthony, but I admit I am still learning the depths of its joys.”

“Somehow, the strangest part of this is you calling him Anthony.” Kate hums, passive. To her, it is the easiest thing. Eloise leans forward then, a clear question in her eyes. “Might you share with me some guidance about marriage?”

“I—I suppose,” Kate returns cautiously. Is she fit for such a thing? Yes, she’d dare say so, now. “What do you wish to know?”

“What really occurs on a honeymoon? I know it is more than lawn games.”

She freezes, eyes wide, a deer spotting its hunter. “What do you think occurs on a honeymoon?”

“I do not know!” the young woman returns, her frustration apparent. “Though I assume it is something impolite because only my brothers know of it.”

Kate swallows, then sets her cake aside, the decision made. It rankles her too, in all honesty, that so many young ladies of marriageable age are left ignorant to the activities of a marriage bed. She cannot, in good conscience, allow another to be so nescient about these matters. At least, in the abstract.

Heaven help her. And let Violet Bridgerton forgive her.

–

“Danbury’s carriage is approaching the drive.”

For the past hour, Anthony has been eyeing the house’s gravel path, a finger tugging the edge of his study’s curtain rather than thumbing through the latest papers on his desk. He knows his wife is nervous and he should like her to have some amount of preparation before her sister crosses the threshold, even if it is a mere minute.

Still, Kate’s nerves do not account for the flustered response that his words receive. As he pokes his head into the parlor, Anthony observes his wife and sister recoil from a conspiratory posture. Eloise’s hand flies backward, smacking a crumb-covered fork against a porcelain plate. Kate, to her credit, maintains some modicum of composure. 

“Oh, goodness,” she says, raising a hand to settle her quickened heartbeat. “How the time has gone.” She ekes out a startled little laugh, most unlike her natural sound. “Thank you for informing me.”

Eloise hastens to exit, avoiding her brother’s confused gaze, and Kate moves to follow suit. Before she can slip from the room, Anthony halts her with a hand on her wrist.

“Are you alright?” He rubs a thumb against her pulsepoint comfortingly. “If you should find yourself apprehensive about your sister, I can—”

“No,” Kate exhales a breathy laugh, one more her own. Her stiff posture softens and she shifts her palm so it slips into his. “No, I am fine.” She squeezes his fingers firmly as proof. “I am perhaps a bit concerned for her, of course, but I am not afraid in any sense.”

Her husband’s worry is touching. So sweet it makes her chest ache. But, truly, he ought to be more concerned with his own sister. The temerity of her questions are unlikely to decrease now that Kate has promised a review of some anatomical texts to accompany her inelegant analogies. But that is not a matter worth mentioning at this particular moment.

“Well, I would certainly never accuse you of being afraid.”

“That is very generous of you.” Kate leans forward, kissing the corner of his mouth.

Anthony smiles, countenance softened by her assurances. “But all the same, I am glad to hear.” He takes this opportunity of closeness to steal another small kiss. “In any case, I shall be in my study if you…” He abandons the sentence. He is the one who so often needs her.

“Thank you,” she tells him anyway.

–

After the sisters are settled, Anthony retreats to his study in an attempt to make himself scarce. He does not wish to impede their reunion. There are a handful parliamentary acts that require his review ahead of a vote anyway, some issues regarding the importation of wine and manufacturing of wool and the like. But it is all so banal, he can hardly stand to read it. Perhaps if these were matters of the Treasury or some revisions to a bridge he could find the interest to flick through the stack of dry text.

“Lord Bridgerton.”

His study door swings open without a knock and, for once, Anthony is glad for the company.

“Lady Danbury.” He rises from his seat and gestures toward an open armchair. “Are you joining me this afternoon?”

“If you will have me,” she smiles.

Perhaps he is seeking a distraction, or perhaps he is truly glad for the dowager’s company. Whatever the case may be, Anthony acquiesces immediately.

“Brandy?” he asks. “Or whisky?”

“Please,” she sniffs, settling into the chair. “It is far too early in the afternoon.”

Anthony lifts a brow in silent question.

Danbury crosses her ankles. “Whisky.”

He grins.

“How do you find married life?” she asks as he crosses the room to collect glasses and liquor. “You two seem quite besotted.”

“That appears to be the common consensus. Marriage has suited us quite seamlessly, to be honest.” He pauses, hand hovering on a glass, mouth poised on the edge of honesty. “It is so easy to be married to her, I sometimes forget what it would be like not to be.”

“Ah, yes. Easy. To bask in its benefits and avoid its implications.”

Anthony shifts uncomfortably at her words. They are said without contempt, which somehow makes them worse.

“What implications are those?” he asks Danbury, depositing a glass in her waiting hand.

“Oh, every marriage has many.” She takes a sip, eyeing him shrewdly. “I daresay you are less ignorant to them since last I saw you.”

“I do not know whether that is for the better,” he admits, thumbnail tapping against the crystal of his own cup.

“Depends what you do with the knowledge.”

How long can he quiet it? How much further can he compress it? Love, it seems, threatens to seep from the seams of him. It is obvious to everyone, save his own wife. With each passing day, he is less certain whether that fact is a stroke of strange luck or terrible misfortune.

Marriage to Kate is an unmatched marvel. She is clever and kind, unparalleled in both intelligence and beauty, a quick study in practical matters of estate and intimate matters of their bedchambers. She is uninhibited in her desires. She does not flinch in the face of his worst fears. But he still does.

“I remember when you were so small,” Danbury says, drawing him from thought. “Just a babe. Little Anthony in leading strings.” He chuckles, mind turning to fond memories of the time spent pestering the older woman as a boy. She was always much like an aunt to him, more a mother to Simon. In retrospect, he has very few recollections of his youth devoid of Agatha Danbury. “I remember a time before you knew how to be afraid of anything. Look at you now. A man. A viscount.”

Scared to speak the truth to your own wife.

“I am terrified to lose her,” Anthony admits.

Agatha nods. She neither needs to ask nor push him further. She was there when he was eight and ten, too.

“I am glad you love her enough to fear it,” she says finally. “Better that than a union without feeling.”

He ponders the words slowly, nodding. “I quite agree.” The pair sip in silence for a few moments, before Anthony speaks again. “You know, you ought to call upon our family more often, Lady Danbury. Not just as a chaperone, but a guest. I know my mother would favor your company but I myself would too.”

She has been here for the past years of his life. Should she not be for the next?

“Oh, I would hate to be an imposition.” She shifts a fist uncomfortably against her cane.

“You are not one. And even if you were, I would grin and bear it. I have spent enough early mornings being interrogated over a pot of tea, I’ll remind you,” he teases.

“I will remind you that I did not take great pleasure in that ritual either.”

“I am aware how greatly you value your sleep and detested my presence before calling hours. But you did it for Kate, did you not?”

“I did.” It is impossible for Agatha to hide the fondness in her tone. Ah. He can perhaps see how his love for Kate has been made obvious, too.

“You have done so very much for her. For the people who matter most to me. You gave my wife a home before you had ever seen her face. You gave my closest friend some semblance of family before he wed my sister.” He pauses to swallow a thick tongue. “You were my mother’s greatest friend in her grief. Perhaps her only one.”

“Well, if that is your only reason for the invitation, there is no need to repay me,” she rebuts firmly. “I was only—”

“Let me be clear: I wish you here not in some sort of repayment, but because I truly value your company and counsel. I know Kathani does, too.” His speech leaves no room for further rebuttal. “But if you are uncomfortable with that fact, then I will gladly list all the times I have been in your debt and allow us both to pretend that is why I wish to have you among my family.”

“Alright then,” Agatha concedes, chuckling against the rim of her glass. “You may begin enumerating my many good deeds. We have the entire afternoon ahead of us.”

–

“He has proposed?” Kate asks, brow furrowed.

“Yes. No. Sort of.” Edwina says all three answers like they are questions.

“He has sort of proposed?”

“He has proposed the notion of a proposal.”

“You realize this grows more confusing the further you explain.”

Edwina sighs heavily, shaking her head to clear its clutter. “Friedrich told me he loves me.”

“Oh, bon,” Kate breathes. Her hand covers her mouth.

“He loves me and he wishes to propose. And he asked if I would be amenable. That is, if he were to propose in front of the ton or the queen’s court, he wished to know what my answer would be.” Her face is downturned, fixated on the fingers worrying the silk of her dress, so it is difficult for Kate to read her opinion on the matter.

“And you said?”

“I do not know!” Edwina yelps, eyes wild and searching, an animal in a trap.

“Then that is answer enough, yes?” Kate lifts a soothing hand to her sister’s elbow. “If you are not certain of marrying him, then you should not. You are under no contract. You do not need to marry for his sake or ours, only for your own. Only for love.”

If her sister wishes to wed Bagwell, so be it.

“Therein lies the problem,” Edwina groans. “I love him, didi. So much.” She sighs, some of the scattered, anxious energy dissipating with this confession. “You see now why I need your guidance desperately.”

Kate blinks. “Frankly, I am unsure what guidance I ought to offer. And I remain unclear of the particular issue.”

When Edwina first swept into Bridgerton House, she had gathered Kate in an embrace so robust, it nearly knocked her off her feet. Kate had been bemused but slightly comforted by the affectionate display. As she shepherded her younger sister into the drawing room, Edwina had begun chattering nonsensically, pacing the rug before taking a seat, standing once more, then sitting again. 

Now, though her dilemma remains unclear, two things are readily apparent to Kate. One: she is well and truly troubled over it. Two: it has absolutely nothing to do with her elder sister.

“I have made a mess of this haven’t I?” Edwina falls back against the couch cushions.

Kate wraps an arm around her shoulders supportively. “Perhaps I might attempt to ask some questions to help us sort it?”

Edwina nods. “Please.”

“Firstly, what has become of Mister Bagwell?”

“Oh! I am afraid there is little to say. I enjoy his company greatly,” she says brightly. “He is an intellectual equal and excellent companion but…” Her brightness fades with the words left unspoken. “It pales in comparison to what I feel for Friedrich.”

Her words are familiar. It puts Kate to mind of a particular doctor, kind and companionable and warm, his laughter easily offered, his temperament unaltered by a toppled boat in the Serpentine. The remembrance of this man inspires no radical emotion.

“I understand entirely,” she promises. “And you are certain you love the prince?”

“Oh, yes,” Edwina replies without a moment’s hesitation. “I love Freddie.” She sighs, warm and wistful, saying the words like a precious secret. “I realized it when you were away on honeymoon, when I had nothing to fill my days but him—rows and reading and promenades—and it was still not enough time. I realized that it was because I wished for every day with him.” Her cheeks tinge pink at the memory. “But, if I am honest, I think I have loved him even sooner than that. And every time he kisses my hand or sends daisies or brings the first edition of a novel I have only mentioned offhand in his company, I know he loves me too. I know it in the way he looks at me. In the way he listens.” Kate’s mouth parts in wonderment, heart twisting tenderly in her chest at her sister’s words. “Oh, I love him. So greatly it is overwhelming at times. I would love him without wealth or title. With nothing but himself.”

She is a touch relieved, in truth, that Edwina is not blinded by the fantasy of crowns and castles and silk gowns. But, more than that, she is so glad she will have love. Kate gathers her hands between her own and smiles, broad and giddy. This is all she has ever wished for her sister. And it is greater than she could have dreamt. It takes some effort not to turn misty-eyed as she speaks again.

“Edwina, that is wonderful news. I am thrilled for you, truly. But… what issue remains?”

“The issue is that he does have these things, Kate. Great wealth and great title,” she says, worrying her lip between her teeth briefly, “and I am quite frightened.”

“Frightened?”

“Yes. I thought I was going to be a viscountess. But watching you, Kate? Even during your engagement, you inhabited this role so easily.” She shakes her head. “I know I could not do what you have. I was made to be a debutante, not a lady; a bride, not a wife. If I cannot adequately match a viscount, how could I marry a prince?” She swallows, as though battling a bout of nausea. “How can I be expected to be a queen?”

“Oh, bon.” Kate’s face turns soft. Now she understands.

“I would sooner marry him without his title. Truly, were he not a prince, I would be wearing his ring right now.” She smiles, self-deprecating. “I am so out of my depth.”

“That is untrue.”

“Even now, I cannot make a simple decision to marry the man I love without begging for my sister’s guidance.”

“It does not sound so simple a decision,” she returns gently.

“Every day I delay my answer, I worry he will rescind or doubt my commitment.” She dabs at her eyes, turning damp with tears. “But the sooner I say Yes, the sooner everything changes. I love him. I truly do. But I do not know if that is—if I am… enough.”

Kate grits her teeth. It wounds her to hear Edwina speak of herself so poorly. As if she was not once the center of her elder sister’s universe.

“You are more than enough. If you do not believe that fact simply because I say it, then believe it for all the reasons that made you the Diamond. You are lovely at court. You are genteel and witty, well-versed in literature and history, gifted in three languages and four instruments and all forms of dance. The queen herself sought to match you with the prince. That was not a decision made in haste or by happy accident.”

“Mama has said the same,” she replies. “But I cannot help thinking—”

“Stop thinking,” she interjects firmly. She can see the wheels turning, constant cogs telling Edwina that she will fail. It is a useless practice. “Because above all these things, these ornaments, you are kind. You are wise and clever and capable. Despite everything we have endured in recent years, you remain the gentlest spirit I have ever met, bon.” Kate pauses, considering the child she knew for nearly two decades. The girl who waded through streams with her elder sister and knew her favorite turtles by name. The young woman who sits by her side now. “You possess the tenderest heart I have ever known.

“And you promised me that you would follow your heart,” Kate reminds her. “It is the most courageous thing you can do. So do not consider the trappings of his position. Choose neither for riches or comforts, nor responsibilities or concerns. Choose Friedrich because he is who your heart beats for, who you wish to spend all your days with. Choose him because he is a partner and a friend in all things. What matters, above title and duties and all else, is the character of the person by your side and the love that you share. It will only aid the difficult moments. When you are uncertain, he will make you sure. And when he is overwhelmed, you will make him light. It is what you are for one another that will determine how well you do. And what you are, Edwina? It is wonderful.”

It is then that Edwina finally allows the tears to fall. She folds herself into her sister’s embrace with relief and gratitude.

“Thank you, didi.” She sniffles a few times and Kate runs a soothing hand along her back. “I am going to be engaged soon,” she whispers, the words accompanied by a watery laugh. “To Friedrich.”

“To Friedrich,” Kate repeats with a gentle grin. But her heart aches as she says it, thinking of what comes next: her sister, so far away in Prussia. “I am glad of it and he is a fine fellow. Though selfishly, I admit I once hoped you would choose Bagwell, simply so I might have you close.”

“Imagine how I felt,” Edwina returns softly, voice mild and muffled against her sister’s dress. “Thinking of you returned to India.”

Kate squeezes her tighter then. Such a fate is unfathomable now. “It is a blessing I was not.”

“You are happy, then, with the viscount.” She phrases it not as a question, but a confirmation.

“The happiest,” she affirms neatly. She cannot stop the stretch of a smile as she speaks. “These past days with Anthony have been so wonderful that we nearly extended our honeymoon another fortnight.”

“Didi!” Edwina gasps and pulls back from their embrace. “Whyever did you not?”

Kate glances away guiltily.

“No, tell me you did not,” she says, aghast. “Kate, not for me.”

“Not… entirely.” She winces at her own lie.

“If I had known you intended to stay in Kent, I would have never sent that letter.” Edwina sighs. “When will you stop putting the rest of us before yourself?”

“Honestly, bon, I do not know. I think I am better at it these days, but I do not mind so much anymore. The same could be said of Anthony. It is what makes our partnership so… easy. That understanding. We will always have a certain duty to our families. But we are not so alone in it any longer.”

As Kate says it, she knows that it is true for herself and her husband. They have neither abandoned duty nor desire, but married the two. A feat she did not think possible until recent days.

“Well, I suppose I can accept that,” Edwina says slowly. “But either way, I am immensely sorry for interrupting your honeymoon.”

“All is forgiven, I swear it.” Kate laughs lightly. “I am only glad you are alright.” The sisters sink into the couch cushions, settled. Then, a sudden thought occurs to her. “Edwina, do you know what occurs on a honeymoon?”

Chapter Text

Another fortnight flits by, this set of weeks more hurried than the ones of their honeymoon.

Kate's days establish a rhythm. Her mornings consist of early rides in the park, when she can spare them, or, more frequently, a tumble in bed. At midday, she is often engaged in a round of spirited discussion with Eloise or a quick tup in the library with Anthony. Most afternoons, she aids Gregory with his arithmetic as her husband searches for a more patient tutor and entertains Hyacinth’s display of tricks taught to Newton—the latter of whom grows plumper and more spoiled with sausages by the hour. By early evening, she is planning the next week’s menu with Violet, learning the house’s ledgers, or budgeting Colin’s next trip at Anthony’s side.

Though the tasks shared with her husband are habitually derailed by his insistence to bury his head beneath her skirts or slip a warm hand into her bodice, Kate does not mind their inefficiencies. She is equally interested in distracting him, her mouth hot on his jaw or suckling at the hollow above his collarbone when he is absent-minded enough to discard his cravat and reveal that sacred strip of skin. If their days had fewer demands between the two of them, she is fairly certain they would rarely make it past their bedroom door.

She is grateful for Edwina’s acceptance of Prince Friedrich’s proposal. Both for the sake of her sister’s happiness, and because it is the only reason she accomplishes anything outside of Bridgerton House. Preparations for their engagement ball and wedding are no small undertaking, but she is so glad to be a part of them. Though the English and Prussian royals are overseeing most of these events, Kate has chosen to tend to Edwina’s trousseau, haldi, and the smaller details in between. What sort of sister would she be, if she did not ensure that the pale pink peonies Edwina favors are present at every party? If she could not promise her walk down the aisle will be to a romantic piece of Pleyel? No matter her new duties as a married woman, these things still signify.

It is helpful that she is away from her husband’s side so that he, too, can focus on his own preparations. Namely, arranging for Benedict to assume the duties of viscount once more, so Anthony can accompany her to Prussia. She will be glad to steal away with him there. Though her focus shall remain on her sister’s nuptials and contending with the pomp of another royal court, it will be an extended honeymoon of sorts. A small thrill courses through her at the prospect. Anthony, once so insistent on a union beholden to the burdens of his title; a union which he swore would so often part him from his wife, shirking such his duties for her.

It is almost too wonderful to believe. Kate perhaps would not allow herself to trust such a gesture, were it from anyone but Anthony. Anthony, who wakes her with soft fingertips dancing against her ribs. Anthony, who scatters kisses on her cheeks like sunlight filtering through a thicket of branches. Anthony, who gazes upon her with such unfettered warmth that she feels her skin is touched by flames.

Anthony, whose every act feels like love.

Though the word never passes between them, it weighs on her, ever-present. It is threaded within his touch, bound in her every breath. Ignoring its presence is uncomfortable, but never unbearable. It is a sensation akin to a well-embedded splinter or a too-tight corset. It is a material inconvenience made easily mutable when the rest of her flesh is so deeply sated, her life so wholly pleasurable.

Only as another fortnight falls upon her does Kate realize that her courses are rather delayed. In fact, they have not befallen her since she bore the surname Sharma.

It is another detail that she finds surprisingly simple to silence.

–

“What on earth are you doing here so early?”

Anthony blinks at the sight of Benedict in their sitting room and plucks his father’s pocket watch from his waistcoat to confirm that it is, indeed, eight o’clock.

“Breaking my fast.” Benedict plucks a grape from his plate and tosses it into his mouth.

“Before noon?”

“Consider it practice for my second assumption of the viscountcy.” He flashes a smile.

“We do not have a meeting in the diary, correct?” Anthony flips through its pages in his head. It would not surprise him if he had forgotten an appointment. These days, it seemed his attentions were divided between two subjects: Kate, and everything else. In that order.

“He has lessons at the academy today,” Kate adds helpfully.

Of course, she is perfectly attuned to everyone’s agendas, he thinks. It is a simple display of competence, but it makes him wish to carry her back up to their bedroom all the same. He tightens his arm around her waist, thumb swiping low against her hip.

“Indeed I do,” Benedict says. “We do not have an appointment today, brother, but I had rather hoped I might have one with your wife.”

“Why?” He does not trust the mischief in his brother’s eyes.

“I have not forgotten your promise to practice your watercolors with me,” he says to Kate. “I would like to make good on that and have you join me at the academy.”

“Oh, I would love to.” She raises a hand to her chest, touched. Benedict’s gesture inspires more emotion than the moment requires but she cannot help it. For how long will she be astonished at how easily this family has accepted her? It shows no sign of abating. “But I am afraid I cannot rearrange my schedule on such short notice,” she says regretfully. “I have promised a conversation to Gregory’s new arithmetic instructor at eleven and owe the modiste a visit before taking tea with my sister and her fiancé to discuss the details of their engagement ball.”

Anthony frowns. He hates the small downturn of her mouth, the quick flash of disappointment in her eyes.

Benedict waves a hand. “Of course. Forgive me, I forget that not all our days are as free as mine.”

“It is quite alright. Truly, it means the world to have your invitation. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Surely it will be no harm for you to move your morning appointment,” Anthony interjects hastily. “Just this once?”

Kate turns to him with surprise and considers the suggestion carefully. “I suppose I could shift the conversation with Gregory’s tutor, but I do not wish to delay his lessons or—”

“I will do it,” he offers. “Or you can simply find time to speak with him tomorrow. It is no issue, truly.”

She lifts her hand to slide against his chest.

“You are too generous,” she says hesitantly, eyes fixed on his lapel. “If I am honest, it feels like much of my time in recent days has been dedicated to my family and not yours.”

“Ours,” he corrects gently. “There is no yours or mine.” He taps her chin with his fingers, tipping her face up to his. “I do not measure how you spend your hours on others, but I have tallied what little time you grant yourself.”

“I have been granted plenty,” Kate says with a soft smile. Can he not see how much pleasure she is given every day? How abundant her new life is with joy?

“Enjoy yourself today,” Anthony insists. “Please.”

Of course, the only request he makes of her is to serve her own desires. His lips are lifted, creating that little dimple for which she has a particular weakness. She would quite like to press her mouth to his and run her thumb against that small divot in his cheek.

Benedict, who has been watching their exchange with quiet interest, chimes in then. “If my brother advocates for resigning from one’s responsibility, I suggest you take the opportunity at once,” he says mirthfully. “I would rather like to encourage this attitude.”

Kate laughs fondly and lifts her hand off her husband’s chest, remembering they are with an audience. Anthony makes no attempt to remove his hand from her waist.

“I will do so on one condition.”

“Name it,” Anthony says.

“The next time Cook makes lemon squares, you must eat the last one.”

He scoffs. His tendency to demand she have the final piece of pastry has been a recurring point of contention, despite the fact he favors them more than she does.

“You drive a difficult bargain. But if these are your terms—”

“They are,” she says firmly.

“Then so be it.” He tugs her forward, sealing their contract with a kiss.

Benedict sits his half-full plate on the table, his appetite lost. “I think I rather miss when you two would argue.”

–

The academy is beautiful. Even its walls and ceilings are ornate, panels adorned with tapestries and large-scale paintings surrounded by heavy gilded frames. She could lose herself in these halls for hours if Benedict did not shepherd her quickly through the west wing and into his studio.

When she enters, Kate sees an easel and blank canvas waiting for her alongside an assortment of fresh brushes and a sturdy palette full of rich watercolors.

“I hope you do not mind if I continue working on a piece?” Ben asks.

“Of course not,” she says absently. She is too focused on the care and planning obvious in these small objects. To be thought of, in such a way as this, is a great deal indeed.

They work in tandem, the studio silent save for the soft drag of brush stroking canvas or rippling into a basin of water to shed its last shade. The act is soothing, quieting her mind in a way entirely different from riding. The precise, detailed motions require a certain focus that snuffs her thoughts into a serene hum.

Kate leans back from the easel after some time, rolling her tired wrist in her hand. She glances at her brother-in-law’s canvas as he adds a few pigments to his mixing palette.

“Oh, that’s beautiful, Benedict.”

“I am trying to let her skin catch the light,” he says, dabbing at his subject’s cheeks and shoulders with a thin brush. “But it is still not quite right. The shadow and sense of perspective…” He runs a pensive forefinger over his mouth.

Ever-so-briefly, he looks like Anthony, deep in thought and calculations. The sight makes her heart hurt, like a thumb upon a bruise. Though he is a stone’s throw away—a hasty ride through the park and she would be in his arms—she misses him.

“I am no artist, but I think it is excellent.” She touches a hand lightly to his elbow, interrupting his ruminations. “I can hardly wait for you to begin working on mine and Anthony’s marriage portrait.”

Benedict preens a little at her praise and nudges her arm. “What is yours of?”

“A tree,” Kate returns drily. “Quite unromantic.”

He steps closer to peer at her illustration, a depiction of dappled orange and pink light peeking through lush fronds.

“Ah, but the angle is something special,” he says. “Almost like one is looking upward, among the branches, rather than straight-on. It is quite unlike most pastoral works.”

She tilts her head contemplatively. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

It had not been Kate’s intention to upend the standards of scenic stylings, but when she began sketching the landscape some forty minutes ago, she found herself drawn to a distinct childhood memory. One of her amma scaling slim branches for a perfect view of the sunset while Kathani watched in awe from the ground. Before she was big enough—brave enough—to start climbing, too.

“Thank you for the invitation,” she says warmly. “It has been so long since I last picked up a brush. I had forgotten how much it calms me.”

“Kate, you are family now. You needn’t thank me for anything,” Benedict shakes his head. “In fact, you ought to know that there will be so many invitations from us that you will find yourself fatigued. Do not worry about saying yes to them all.”

She tucks a stray curl behind her ear self-consciously. Perhaps he can sense her eagerness.

“I suppose I am only excited to get to know you all. To have a family like yours is not something I aim to take for granted.”

She is still acclimating to this sort of consideration, which Anthony heaps upon her daily. The sort that accounts for her wants. She had not realized such care could come from the rest of his family, too.

“I do not think anyone could accuse you of taking anything for granted.”

“Even so. I suppose that I still seek to make a good impression.”

“The only person who ought to concern themself with good impressions is Anthony,” he snorts. “And if there is anyone who ought to be grateful, it is us. He is so… different with you around. So much more himself. The way he used to be, before… He honestly has begun to remind me a bit of our father. In all the best ways, not in the manner he has tried to be for so long.” Benedict turns the signet ring on his small finger and smiles a little. “It is good to see him like this. To see him be so good to you.”

“He is good,” she echoes. “More than.” She teeters on the edge of sharing more. Of naming all the ways that he is wonderful to her, to everyone. Of asking for more morsels of the person Anthony used to be, from the young man who grew up beside him. “You saw him this morning. He offered to take on my appointments as though he is not already drowning in duties.”

“Exactly what I mean,” he nods. “I believe for Anthony, that is something of a grand gesture.”

“It is for me, too.” Kate smiles softly to herself, ensnared by sudden fondness.

“How lucky I should be to find half your joy,” he says with a crooked, boyish grin. “The two of you are doing more to convince me of the merits of marriage than any of my mother’s lectures on love matches.”

“Is this your way of telling me you are ready to enter the marriage mart in earnest?” She laughs.

“I do not know if ready is perhaps the correct term. Though really, is anyone particularly prepared for love?” Benedict muses.

“It is alright not to be ready. Heaven knows I was not.” Her cheeks heat then at the unintentional slip, the suggestion that love is a very present thing in her heart. “What I mean to say is, I think you may never be perfectly poised to marry anyone. Not until you meet that someone. No two people are ever entirely qualified for such a task. But you adapt. You grow together, until you are made right and ready for one another.”

“Very wise, sister. Perhaps too wise for the likes of myself.” He pats her hand. “Best for me to remain off the mart until I develop a taste for self-reformation.”

Kate rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “That is entirely fine. I do not know if I have the constitution to help manage both you and Eloise at the moment, in any case.”

“Oh, you needn’t concern yourself with her prospects,” Benedict says flippantly. “I have it on good authority that Eloise is otherwise occupied.”

She lifts a brow. “That is a rather cryptic way of phrasing things.”

“Alright.” He leans forward. “In the spirit of familiarity and also because I am dying to share some bit of gossip, I will tell you.” He pauses, taking a deep, dramatic breath. “Eloise is seeking out Lady Whistledown.” The words escape him in a rush. “She was commissioned by the queen herself.”

“Oh?”

“But you cannot tell Anthony,” he adds suddenly.

“Whyever not?”

“Well, Anthony does not know.”

“Anthony is the one who told me.” Kate crinkles her nose. “Is that all?”

“You knew?” Benedict balks. “Anthony knew? I rather thought if he got word of this, he’d have locked Eloise in her room and swallowed the key.”

“Ah,” Kate sighs, a little laugh slipping out. “The Anthony you are basing your assumption on has changed.”

“Apparently so,” he murmurs, a bit stunned.

Perhaps she has learned him better than Benedict, in some ways.

“And what of your old assumptions?” he asks after a moment. “Are those changed either?”

“What assumptions might those be?”

He levels her with a knowing look. “Those of a loveless marriage.”

Kate’s heart stutters in her chest. She feels somehow exposed.

“I do not see why they should,” she says stiltedly. “Your brother is not one to go back on his word.”

“No,” Benedict says softly, “he is not. But one’s loyalty to an oath does not make him incapable of lying. Even if only to himself.”

–

Anthony tugs at his waistcoat, thumb idly toying with one of its heavy silver buttons. St James is lively tonight, the ballroom packed with the ton’s most illustrious peers, members of the Prussian and English court, and at least a dozen dignitaries. Thus far, he has been successful in his singular goal this evening: to avoid conversation with all of them. His wife is less fortunate.

He holds a hand against her waist while she smiles dutifully at Mary and Edwina’s side, bows politely as she dips into one curtsy after another. Prince Friedrich introduces the four of them to the entirety of his court and every ambassador in the room. There are a few who speak a foreign language which Kate can understand. He watches with no small amount of pride as she slips into another tongue; her, Edwina and this person whose name he has already forgotten, laughing and making cordial conversation.

After some time being trotted around the room, Kate lays a hand on his chest. “I’m rather parched. Might you fetch me a glass of champagne?”

It is a request clearly made out of pity for his tired feet and dwindling social stamina. He adores her for it. If they were not in royal company, he would kiss her soundly.

“Certainly, my lady.” Anthony presses a chaste kiss to her gloved hand and takes pleasure in the soft blush that dusts her cheeks. That will have to do for now.

He stands by the refreshments and watches her continue to greet a bevy of foreign faces, chin high and smile wide, as Edwina and Friedrich speak delightedly with each new companion. It is odd to observe the scene from a distance, knowing that he might once have been in Kate’s position all but a year ago, with his own sister’s hand in the prince’s instead. He is glad for every minor moment that steered them away from such a fate. Daphne and Simon are deliriously happy and Clyvedon is far enough away as it is.

He tugs at his waistcoat again, smiling a little at the sensation of velvet beneath his palm. It is the same fabric as Kate’s skirts tonight. Though Anthony does not give a fig about Prussian stylings, he had caved to being fitted for a handful of new vests and jackets, if only to match her latest finery. Another negotiation easily won by his wife. He does not mind her victory in the slightest.

Many of these recent days have been spent considering contracts. Not merely those between himself and tenants or his sister-in-law and the Prussian prince, but those between himself and his wife. From the trivial, everyday accords—pastries and appointments and their next novel—to the great ones—the private oaths sworn before their wedding, their marriage pact made material in a siloed corner of Hyde Park.

In essence, their initial assurances remain the same: Anthony has gained an accomplished viscountess and preserved their families’ good standing in return. In practice, there is nothing missing. Therein lies the issue. They are not lacking, but are, in fact, abundant with more than they had agreed upon. Tenderness, devotion, affection, worship. All these things exist beyond their initial terms. It is perhaps why the intangible, intimate vows exchanged in a palace closet feel firmer than their first agreement in the park.

He considers, then, the contracts he made with himself. To never lust for her. Never touch her. Never kiss her. Never wed her. And now the last: to never love her. He has transgressed spectacularly every time. 

His thoughts are interrupted at the sight of Kate approaching, her skin and smile luminous in the ballroom’s bright candlelight. Her skirts float behind her as she moves, blue as midnight and embroidered with silver flowers and scattered pearls. She is a walking constellation. He would like to lay beneath her for hours and chart the paths of thread that stretch from shoulder to hip, count the pearls that call to him like the northern star.

“There you are,” she smiles.

He kisses her cheek, lips lingering on the bone as he replies. “Right where you left me.”

He will always wait for her, always orbit her like the most precious planet in his universe. He will always wish to claim her heart as she has claimed his. Despite his best efforts, he will always love Kate. These facts are immutable.

Though he is terrified to love her without reservation, though he does not know if his love might be returned, Anthony would, perhaps selfishly, like to try.

Prussia, he thinks, will be close enough to a second honeymoon. And thus, Anthony draws a new contract with himself. With his mouth pressed to his wife’s skin, standing in the same ballroom where he first realized he loves her, he is resolved: he will find the words to tell her in Prussia.

“I cannot bear to let you out of my sight.” He huffs, saying it like a jape, though he knows it is anything but. “It is rather intolerable to be parted from your side.”

“A discomfort easily remedied.” She laces her fingers with his. It warms her to hear him say it. “Remember when we could not stand to be in the same room?”

“Remember when we could not find a single matter on which we agreed?” Anthony recalls wistfully.

Kate laughs. “There is plenty on which we still do not agree.”

“Naturally. We promised one another to remain unpredictable.”

Her lips twist at the reminder of their vows and she reaches for a glass of champagne to cover her pleased smile.

“Have I mentioned that you look ravishing this evening?” Anthony leans forward and drags his lips to the shell of her ear, his voice a whisper. He delights in the small shiver that ripples through her in response.

“This evening and every other,” Kate murmurs, equal parts amused and affected. “Might I mention that you look rather dashing in your new coat, my lord?”

Anthony puffs his chest at the compliment and Kate cannot stifle her mirth. Over the past month, she has visited the modiste with Edwina to settle her sister’s trousseau and purchase herself a few dresses fit for Prussian court, this one included. She knows her husband does not know cerulean from cyan; could not name a blue other than Bridgerton, and still he was easily swayed—eager, she would argue—to match every stitch of his wardrobe to her own. She is keen to return home tonight and surprise him with a token of gratitude, a frothy new negligee encrusted in French lace.

“You might,” he says, a touch smug.

The rest of the evening passes by all too quickly in a series of light-footed quadrilles and minuets, champagne and idle chatter. There is no shortage of sly gossip among the crowd. Though neither Kate nor Anthony pay them any mind, she is aware of the eyes on her stomach, the titters that pass between young ladies each time her husband bestows a kiss upon her cheek or hand. It ought to make her self-conscious, careful to consider how it might reflect on her sister and the prince. Instead, it makes her glow.

Let them watch, she thinks. Let them all see that rare and precious jewel, this four-lettered thing that lives in every touch she shares with Anthony. Though she may not be courageous enough to name it aloud, the ton certainly can. She is bolstered, too, by her sister. For each time she looks at Edwina, she is either too enraptured with Friedrich to pay her sister any mind or she is looking upon Kate with such pride, such glee, that Kate cannot manage to summon any amount of guilt.

By the final boulanger, both Kate’s feet and heart are sore. She is at once joyous for Edwina’s future and shattered at the thought of saying farewell. Though she will leave with her sister for Prussia in two days’ time, her journey back to London will be one made alone.

Well, not entirely alone. The mere thought of parting from Edwina and Mary for good comes with the threat of tears, but the reminder that she is doing so with her husband by her side is a comfort.

She squeezes Anthony’s hand as she bids her family good night and steps into their carriage. She will need him near for every goodbye.

–

Kate has every intention of seducing her husband upstairs, draped in her new lingerie and shrouded in the privacy of their bedroom. Unfortunately, Anthony is rather gifted in the art of persuasion. He lures her easily to his study, swearing that a staircase is too great an impediment to a very immediate need.

“I have missed you,” he sighs against her hair.

“I have been right here,” she laughs softly. But she understands. “I have missed you, too.”

He sweeps her into his arms and deposits her on his desk, fluttering sheets of parchment and tossing quills and ledgers to the floor unceremoniously.

“Anthony,” Kate huffs. She means to say his name as an admonishment but it comes out as a plea.

“Kathani,” he breathes. “I love the way my name sounds on your tongue.” He is greedy to hear it again. He is greedy for a great many things.

His hands pluck the pins from her hair delicately, his light touch at odds with the way he toppled the contents of his desk mere moments ago. Impatient and buzzing with want, Kate draws him into her embrace, her lips hot and urgent against his own.

Their tongues flick against the open seam of each other’s mouths, messy and desperate as they move in search of greater friction. She slings her arms over his shoulder, clutching him closer so his chest is crushed against her own. Kate cries out at the sensation, her nipples peaked beneath her chemise and stays.

Anthony groans in response, his fingers twisting tight against her scalp until she is panting. His cock is hard and heavy against her velvet-covered cunt, twitching as Kate hooks a leg around his hip. He continues kissing her feverishly until her hair tumbles around her shoulders, blanketing them both in the scent of lilies. His hips buck into hers and she grinds back against him, needy.

One hand still wrenched around her roots, Anthony tips her head back and licks a hot line along her skin, from bosom to jaw. She gasps and her breaths turn shallow as he does it once more, nipping at the tender flesh of her bosom. Kate arches into his mouth, her breasts particularly sensitive to his touch. She grasps his hand, guiding it into her bodice with a deep groan.

“Anthony,” she whines and he lets out a satisfied sigh at the sound of his name falling from her lips. “I need you, I need you here.”

“As you wish,” he whispers against her jaw.

He suckles down her neck to the cleavage that spills from the top of her dress, extracting breathy moans from her mouth.

“You are insatiable as of late, viscountess.”

It is true. Though their honeymoon has passed, their appetite has not abated. It is unfathomable how deliriously they need one another. Despite her previous assertions, Kate knows it is no passing fad.

It is because she loves him, she knows. That fact has been plain as day since she bound herself to him at the altar, though he certainly has not noticed it. All the better for it, she has told herself, for she knows the contract she signed: everything but love is hers.

Though, lately, that clause feels more like a crutch than an eternal truth. She is a coward who has sold herself the lie that it is brave to bury her love. Perhaps, now, she will be brave enough to break this contract. Perhaps in Prussia, she will speak the words that creep high in her throat, although they might never be returned.

But for now, this is all the courage she can muster. To bare herself and ask for pleasure so plainly—to allow herself the luxury of loving—is already greater bravery than she thought herself capable of.

With his free hand, Anthony peels her skirt upward, fingers chasing the fragile flesh of her thighs.

“Where else do you need me?” As one hand snakes higher toward the slick apex of her hips, the other tugs her bodice down, exposing her breasts fully.

“Everywhere.” Kate moans brokenly.

She finds his cock, trapped beneath his trousers, and palms it firmly. She rubs in circles, the same pattern he traces against her soaked undergarments, and bites her lip proudly as he bucks into her touch and moans prettily against her breast.

Anthony’s hand roves all over, cradling her jaw, her wrist, her hip. All the while, his mouth remains fixed on her chest, alternating between long, languid laps to shocking little bites against the peaked buds. He soothes the sting with a stream of cool air until she is begging him to cover her entire breast with his mouth once more.

She crushes his head against her chest as he obliges, convinced she could come just like this—his mouth tending to her sensitive nipples and his palm pressed against her swollen core. Just as Kate’s breaths quicken and stutter, the study door slams open.

“Anthony, I need to speak with you—” Eloise freezes, fingers poised on the door handle and cheeks stained with tears.

“Oh!” Kate exclaims.

“Shit,” Anthony chokes.

Her hand flies to her chest in a feeble attempt at modesty. Anthony blocks her body from his sister’s view and fumbles to rearrange her dress.

“Oh, god.” Eloise covers her reddened face and averts her eyes hastily. “Sorry to intrude, I—I should have knocked or realized the hour—”

“Eloise, it is entirely fine,” Anthony asserts, though his wild eyes and frantic breaths say otherwise. “We were merely—”

“I know what you were doing,” she says, her face pinched and nauseated. “I am simply grateful you are clothed.”

Anthony halts his movements, brow furrowed inquisitively at his sister’s reply.

Kate’s face prickles with embarrassment, both from Eloise’s sudden intrusion and her husband’s sideways glance. Certain that she is no longer indecorously exposed, she dismounts from the desk. As Anthony regains his own composure, she beckons the young lady into the study.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asks.

Eloise’s eyes shift rapidly between Kate and Anthony as she swipes at her wet cheeks. “It is related to my, um…” She pauses, searching for some lie.

“If it is about Whistledown, Kate knows,” Anthony tells her carefully. He closes the door behind her. “You may speak freely.”

Kate nods encouragingly, extending a comforting arm to her sister-in-law. “But I am still glad to leave you two to speak privately. It will do me no harm to allow your personal matters to remain just that.”

Eloise shakes her head, leaning into Kate’s embrace of her shoulders. “No, it is fine. I could perhaps use both of your guidance.”

Anthony and Kate guide Eloise to a settee by the low-lit hearth and allow her to slump between them, elbows curved around her knees. Gently, Anthony extends a kerchief and rubs a hand on his sister’s shoulder.

“Tell us what has happened, Eloise.”

For a while she is quiet, the silence broken only by a few sniffles and the slide of the cotton kerchief across her cheeks.

“I might be in love,” she whispers finally.

Anthony’s jaw unfastens slightly and his mouth dries quite suddenly. That is what has his sister in such a state? When had she even found the time to entertain a suitor? Certainly not at some ball, when she has skipped nearly every one of them this season. She has no callers, no friendly promenades.

Eloise has Penelope. Eloise has Whistledown. Eloise has her novels. That is his understanding of her universe.

Just as he inhales to speak, Kate’s hand covers his as it rests on Eloise’s shoulder. Wait, her eyes warn. He nods.

In the silence, Eloise speaks once more, words tumbling forth with sudden force. There is her hunt for Whistledown, of course. And then there is a print shop. And then there is a boy—a boy called Theo, she says—who works in this shop. And Theo is thoughtful and kind and real and full of experiences and ideas she has only read about. And Theo has made her think quite differently about a great many things. He has made her feel a great many things. But then, today of all days, things changed.

"Sometimes I wonder if you see me, Eloise,” Theo sighed. “As I am and not as you imagine me."

“Whatever does that mean?” she scoffed.

“As a real person. Not an idea or an escape. Not another novel you will abandon when you are satisfied with its conclusion.”

Eloise shifted a hand to her hip in frustration. “Say plainly what you are accusing me of. I do not deal in metaphors.”

Theo’s eyes flicked downward before finding hers again. “When all of this is over, when you find Whistledown and claim your reward, will I mean anything to you?”

“Theo.” Her posture softened and her hand found his. “Of course you will.”

“Think about it, El.” He covered her palm with his fingers. “We walk in different worlds. I need to know if we have a future, or if this—here and now—is all we have.”

She gaped at that, floundering for words, for thought. “I cannot say—that is, I am…” The simple hint of a future was a foreign and heavy though.

“I am well on my way to loving you, Eloise,” he whispered. “I do not know the contents of your heart, nor do I wish to compel you to share them. But the only path I see forward is—”

“—Gretna Green,” Eloise finishes, tears falling freely. “He thinks the only destination is marriage or a severing of our acquaintance.”

Anthony is nauseated. Wholly sickened at the notion of his sister sprinting to Scotland with a fellow he’s never met. It is worthy of a duel, he thinks grimly. He sees Kate catch the thought shimmering in his eye. He shakes his head—he will not act on it. He promised her in this very room that he would not duel again. Besides, it would be hypocritical, given he was mad enough to consider making the same offer to Kate mere months ago.

But this is Eloise. As stubborn and self-assured as she is, she is naïve and vulnerable, too. Young and full of dreams that have always been defined by her own impossible idealism. He swallows and attempts to reorient himself, to focus solely on what Eloise requires in this particular moment.

In this moment, he is unendingly grateful for Kate, who squeezes his fingers between her own before quickly pressing her lips to his knuckles behind Eloise’s hunched back. She looks at him with so much belief that he does not know where to place it, how to receive it. As though he is a thing worth great faith. Her certainty both heartens and humbles him.

“Do you love him?” Anthony asks.

Eloise blinks in surprise. She did not expect this, of all reactions, to be her brother’s first.

“If Theo were a man of the ton, I think I would love him.” She says it with a wet, humorless laugh. “Or maybe it is because he is not one that makes me wish to love him.”

“But you do not, then?” he infers gently. “Love him, that is.”

“I do not know what I feel. I do not know what I want. I know I do not wish to be married. Perhaps that wish will not remain so forever, but I am certain that will remain true for now. But I care for him so greatly and he is—I have never met someone so—” she pauses, sobbing in earnest now. “Why must I change my entire life or lose him forever? Why can we not just remain exactly as we have been, as we are now?”

Anthony and Kate share a worried, sympathetic glance. Because it is ruinous. Eloise catches their shifted gazes and continues, insistent.

“There is nothing scandalous at hand, truly.” She swipes at her cheeks furiously. “It is so unfair. He is one of the few men who have not chastised me or looked at me sideways for being unladylike. And he is the first who has encouraged me to be so bold. In fact, he—he embraces me for it.” She looks to her brother’s wife imploringly. “Surely you understand, Kate.”

“That is very rare, indeed,” she returns quietly. “But Eloise…”

Anthony catches Kate’s eye over his sister’s head. They are not unfamiliar with courting scandal. They understand its risks and rewards entirely.

Kate’s glance flickers downward, to the girl compacted between them, as though she is attempting to disappear. Her expression offers a question. He nods, a quiet answer.

They understand that she is entirely unsure. Entirely too young. She cannot make any meaningful decisions tonight.

“Perhaps you should take some space. From the season and your search,” Kate tells her carefully. “From Theo, too.”

“Only until you are ready to decide,” Anthony adds, sensing his sister stiffening at the suggestion.

“And if my decision is to marry a man without title or means?” Eloise challenges.

Anthony’s chest turns tight at the thought. He sighs heavily, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“Then I will be here to help you find a way through,” he promises, “whenever that time arrives.”

Eloise deflates, all fight seeping from her bones as she agrees.

Before Anthony can look at her, his face etched with apology, Kate already knows. Her husband must stay behind for his sister. Just as she would for hers.

He cannot come with her to Prussia.

Chapter Text

After Eloise is calmed and ensconced in her room, Anthony and Kate return to their own chambers, weary from the evening’s unexpected turn.

They shed their clothes quietly, velvet skirts and starched shirtsleeves forgotten in a heap. The garments on the floor feel foreign, costumes belonging to the people they were an hour ago—two lovers, weightless with wanting, heightened by hope.

Back in the study, Anthony had wondered for a moment if he might tell her, then and there, that he loves her too much for speech. That he cannot wait for impassioned words made poetic in Prussia. Perhaps there is another version of himself and Kate, versions whose clothes lay scattered on the floor of his study rather than his chambers. Perhaps their other selves are entwined on the carpet, bodies soft and sated with pleasure, preserved by the turned lock of a door. Perhaps that Anthony might look at Kate, her face aglow with firelight, and tell her that his heart has belonged to her from the start. Perhaps that Kate might hand him her heart in return.

Or perhaps not.

There is no conjecture that can reveal the contents of Kate’s heart to him, no trick to unwind the clock and keep Eloise from cutting in at such an inopportune time. Perhaps it is for the best that she did. Perhaps his wife’s answer would be worse than no answer at all.

Despite their shared exhaustion and the heaviness of their bones as they climb into bed, Anthony cannot sleep. Aside from his own anxieties, his mind is thick with worry for his sister. Chief amongst his many concerns for Eloise, he fears that she might slip out of the house in pursuit of a pipe dream. He curls a hand around Kate’s bare back, tensing each time a phantom floorboard creaks or a branch taps against the window.

“Eloise is not leaving her room,” Kate murmurs against his chest.

“I thought you were asleep.” She shakes her head silently and nestles nearer into his skin. Her closeness is a comfort. With his arms wound tightly around Kate, her soft breaths stirring against his collar, it is rather difficult to hold fast to fear. “You cannot be certain,” he sighs, still not entirely soothed.

“Nor can you. It will do you no good to stay awake all night, waiting to catch her. Besides,” Kate lifts her head to face him properly, “it is not as if she has not already been stealing away to meet this boy. If she is determined not to heed our advice, she will find a way out of this home.”

“Exactly.” He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Who is to say she will trust my word and wait? She is impulsive.”

“But she came to you tonight,” she reminds him gently. “Despite the risk, she told you about this… Theo. Let that count for something.” Kate lays a hand on his cheek and he grips her fingers, desperate for something to ground him. “She is scared, Anthony. And you have proven yourself trustworthy. She will do nothing rash right now.”

He lifts Kate’s fingers to his mouth, pressing kisses to her skin. He knows she is right. Eloise is willful—she will do as she wishes, in spite of the rules or any wise counsel. But what she wishes for now is her brother’s guidance. He must believe that she will hold fast in that wish, at least until morning.

And then what? If she is to stay with him in Mayfair, how best might he help her when daybreak comes? Shall he subject her to a lecture on the error of elopement? Task her with tallying the pros and cons of her options? Inform their mother of the issue? No, none of these seem particularly wise for a person such as Eloise.

Though he considers other solutions, ones beyond Mayfair, they are swiftly followed by their counter-arguments.

Send Eloise to Kent? She does enjoy the fresh air and open space. But Mother may become suspicious and Eloise could feel confined out of shame rather than care. Worse, she could think his aim is to separate her from Theo with distance, driving her into his arms out of spite. He would not put it past her to steal away on a horse (provided she could sort out how to saddle one without aid).

Take Eloise to Prussia with himself and Kate? Some distance and a fresh perspective may be just the thing to unmuddle her mind. Not unselfishly, he most likes this plan, which would spare him the parting from his wife. But only he and Kate have been invited—it is unlikely to win the Sharmas any favor to attend a royal court with an uninvited guest in tow, much less one who has not been outfitted for Prussian court. Besides, he cannot imagine what enlightenment the girl might gain from the pomp and pageantry of a new set of royals and their customs. Eloise is already a holy terror in the English court… and that began before she befriended a radical.

While no option seems perfectly suited for his sister, it appears that remaining in London is likely the best among them.

Kate, conscious of her husband’s racing mind, turns her mouth and captures his lips with her own. Their fingers remain entwined as she kisses him, soft and assured, a salve that quiets his fretful thoughts.

“You know this means I cannot accompany you to Prussia,” he mutters mournfully in the dark.

“I know,” she sighs, smoothing her thumb along the harsh divot between his brows. “I knew the moment Eloise entered your study.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

He misses her already.

–

Just as the night slips by in a blink, Anthony’s morning bleeds into the afternoon all too quickly.

It is the last day he and Kate shall have together before she is sent in a carriage bound for Prussia. They should be spending these final hours packing the last of their trunks and bickering over which books to bring. Kate ought to be perched on his lap as he pens a final list of duties for Benedict to review, whispering tawdry promises in his ear or beguiling him to allow Newton to accompany them on their journey.

Instead, he is alone, writing conciliatory correspondence expressing his regretful absence at the upcoming nuptials. He finds Benedict breaking fast and tells him that he shall not need his younger brother to play viscount after all. He speaks at length with Eloise about her wishes for the next weeks, settling on a feigned illness that offers her a reasonable reprieve from all social engagements and her hunt for Whistledown.

Anthony hardly has a moment to breathe, much less eat, though Kate has been thoughtful enough to slip in with biscuits, tea, and a soft touch to his temple. Some time around two o’clock, after Eloise has left his office, Kate cards her fingers through his hair as he sinks into his chair, coaxing him into a few bites of fig tart. Indulgently, he leans into her touch and catches her fingertips between his lips. He nips at the pads gently, then skims his mouth across her knuckles.

As he chases the silk of her skin, he watches her eyes turn a shade sorrowful. Though she certainly understands his duty to his family, he cannot help but wonder if he is disappointing her terribly by sending her to Prussia alone. To say goodbye to her own family alone.

She is no stranger to sacrifice. He hates that he has asked her to make another.

“Thank you,” he says finally, lips pressed to her palm in lieu of the other words he wishes to say.

“Of course.”

–

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

These words are their constant refrain as Kate weaves in and out of Anthony’s office to bestow him with fresh tea or an organized bundle of parchment or a chaste squeeze of his shoulder.

Each time he thanks her it is with no small amount of wonder. He says the words, then lays his lips upon her skin—cheek, wrist, chin—his manner delicate and deliberate. As though her every innocuous act of care is powerful and astonishing. As though he is acknowledging the rarity of something he has not earned. As though he does not do the same for her, time and again.

His incessant gratitude strikes her strangely, though she supposes it is no different than her own frequent expressions. They thank one another in excess, then dismiss each other’s gratitude all the same. While she knows it is awe which inspires her appreciation, she wonders if it is guilt that presently guides his.

So today, when he tells her, Thank you, she simply says, Of course. What she truly means to say is, Of course; I love you. But she cannot tell him that now. Not when he is so raw with concern, so capable of bearing a bruise.

Not when she is, too.

While Anthony busies himself with familial duties, Kate’s day is filled with the mundane undoings of her own desires.

She directs Anthony’s valet to unpack his trunks. There shall be no need of them. Removes the new negligees from her own belongings along with her other ornamental undergarments and nightclothes. There will be no one to admire her in the slips of silk or tear at the decorated hems with hungry hands.

She erases the frivolous items in her itinerary; time carved out before a feast or after a ball to indulge in a turn about the gardens with her husband or a pot of chai and round of chess in their chambers. Sentiment still gets the best of her and she allows herself to slip a few more sheets of parchment among her writing tools, so she might pen him a letter or two during those hours instead.

There is no reason for her to act so dispirited, no reason to feel so far from her husband already, despite their present separation of a mere few walls. Preparing for a mere month apart from Anthony Bridgerton should not feel like readying oneself a funeral. Indeed, this is a very happy occasion, she reminds herself. A wedding. Her sister’s wedding, to a genuine prince who adores her wholly. Has this not been her greatest wish for the better part of a decade? She ought to be abundant with elation for Edwina’s future. Instead, she stands among half-emptied trunks, fixated on her own acute and temporary loss.

While she is disappointed, there is no blame to be held for her husband’s absence. She does not fault him for his sense of duty. In fact, she loves him for it, for the fierce and unwavering loyalty he holds for his family. If Anthony were to abandon his sister and come with Kate to Prussia, he would not be the man she loves. But still, she is saddened. To be without him. To bid her first family farewell, without his hand to cradle hers in the carriage home.

There is room to be disappointed with herself, however, for lacking the fortitude to tell him the contents of her heart. Last night, she promised herself honesty in Prussia. Today, more than once, she considered it in his study. In truth, there will never be a good time to make herself vulnerable to the ache of rejection.

–

Despite his best efforts, Anthony is unable to attend dinner. Naturally. The clock is conspiring against him.

Around five, he learns that other members of this house—people who are not pretending like Eloise—have actually fallen ill. A terrible summer cold has torn through the staff, sending two housemaids, a footman, and the butler to their sickbeds. Mrs Wilson delivers the news, pallid and damp at the hairline.

Anthony assesses her grimly and sends her to convalesce for a few days as well, unwilling to entertain her protestations.

“Our ship shall have no chance of righting itself without a recovered captain,” he reminds her gravely.

She heeds the instruction half-heartedly, knowing there is little room to argue with her own importance among the housestaff. “Very well, Lord Bridgerton.”

The next hours are lost to sending for a doctor to see to the health of those ill and rearranging assignments for the servants still standing.

With Clara accompanying Kate to Prussia, their house is without a half-dozen staff for the next month and his mother without a lady’s maid. One fortuitous consequence of Anthony’s decision to abstain from travel is that his valet will remain in London, too. So he requests that one remaining housemaid also acts as a lady’s maid, promotes his valet to butler, and simplifies the duties for the footmen and maids in the meantime. Silverware does not truly need to be polished so often. Finally, he prays that no other great issues arise in the next fourteen days which only Mrs Wilson can solve—for she is entirely irreplaceable.

Though satisfied by the small victory of these restructured assignments, it still does not entirely soothe the sting of the day’s small losses.

He resents the nature of his responsibility sometimes, particularly on evenings such as these. His wife is down the hall, doused in candlelight and surrounded by his siblings. Perhaps she is leaning over to Colin, asking after his experiences in Berlin, so she might be better armed for her travels tomorrow. Or maybe she is turned toward his mother, making some comment about the roast lamb and her handiwork with the table’s centerpiece. Whatever her conversation may be, he cannot join it. All day, his wife has been but a room away, faced with his empty seat, and he has remained here, faced with some fresh problem or a sheaf of parchment demanding his pen.

Briefly, he glances at Edmund’s portrait on the wall. He wonders how his father accomplished it all. To manage a housestaff and their wages; to cast parliamentary votes and visit tenants; to oversee coffers and crops; to recall every name of his neighbors in London and the country. To do all these things and so rarely miss a meal. To be a great viscount and greater husband and father, still. Anthony wishes he could ask.

A moment later, he recalls that he can ask; that, more often these days, he does ask. Though he cannot turn to his father, he has Kate. And in her absence, he has Lady Danbury; Benedict, too. While his wife is not yet gone, perhaps he might still lean on his brother for help. Anthony would hate to be so burdensome and ask to borrow his brother’s time when it is his viscountcy to steward. But then again, Benedict had waved that worry away weeks ago, when he and Kate returned from their time in Kent.

“If there is ever anything that I might do to support you—in more than your honeymoon or a tour of the continent—you need only ask.”

Considering his brother’s earlier words, Anthony returns his quill to its inkwell. Benedict could always use the practice, supposing he and Kate should ever steal away to the countryside again, or visit her sister once she is settled in Prussia. It is a useful thing for him to ask this favor, now that he thinks of it.

Anthony casts a look at Edmund’s portrait again. For once, he does not seek reproach or discontent in his father’s gaze for the man his eldest son has become. Here, his father does not look at him the way his mother so often does. Rather, he finds Edmund looking upon him with a small smile. Were his father still here, it is easy to imagine he would be quite glad that his sons trusted one another so very much. It is easy to imagine he would be quite glad in his son’s choice of wife, too.

His family is found in the parlor, having retreated there for sweetmeats, card games, and well-meaning arguments regarding the rules of whist. Anthony pauses in the doorway, thumbing at the jamb as he watches the scene fondly. All but Kate and Eloise are here, ostensibly having retreated to their chambers. Even Newton plays a part in the commotion, tracking figure-eights between Hyacinth’s feet as he begs for scraps of pastry.

A chuckle escapes him at the sight and Benedict turns his head at the noise, eyes alight as they find Anthony.

“He lives.”

Anthony rolls his eyes with affection and tips his head. Benedict, following the gesture, strides out of the parlor and into the hall.

“Have you eaten?”

“Ah, no.” Anthony’s forehead crinkles in bemusement. It is not the greeting he had expected. “Not since some fig tart earlier in the afternoon.”

“Hm. That will not do.” Benedict crosses his arms. “Kate will want you to have eaten.”

“I—what? No, thank you. My hunger is of little import. There is another matter I wish to discuss with you, actually.” Anthony straightens his cuffs in a small attempt to reorient himself. “Have you had much practice managing the housestaff?”

“Beyond the duration of your honeymoon, no. It was a rather tidy affair.”

“Things are rather untidy at the moment,” Anthony sighs. He goes on to detail his conversation with Mrs Wilson, the new assignments drafted on his desk. “See to it that these arrangements are fitting, will you? And if you have the time, could you have a word with the doctor once he’s finished his visit? If that is too taxing for the evening, it is perfectly fine—”

“I would be happy to,” Benedict interjects.

“You are certain?”

“Entirely.”

“Well, then.” Anthony offers a stilted nod, a little off-kilter at the ease of asking and receiving. What was once quite complicated seems so simple as of late. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” A slow smile spreads on Benedict’s face. “It is quite good to be needed. To be trusted.”

A twin smile twitches on Anthony’s face. His brother is these things. Needed and trusted. He reminds himself to ensure that he feels it more often.

As his brother takes his leave toward the office, a final request comes to Anthony’s mind.

“Ah, Benedict? I should like to spend what is left of this evening with my wife.” He lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “See that we remain uninterrupted.”

–

“There you are.”

Kate lifts her head from her copy of Robinson Crusoe to greet her husband. She is freshly bathed, skin wrapped in a silk robe and hair fragrant with lilies as she lies atop the bedsheets.

“I am sorry.” Anthony leans forward, pressing his lips to her temple as he loosens his cravat.

“Why, whatever for?”

She reaches upward as she asks, fingers tangling in his roots as she holds him in place. It is a moment of easy, unpracticed affection; Kate scratching soothingly against Anthony’s scalp, him inhaling deeply at her hairline between feather-light kisses.

“I do not aim to neglect you,” he sighs, voice thick with regret. His breath flutters the fine curls which frame her forehead.

“Anthony.” She twists her face closer, her second hand lifting so she can run a thumb along his cheek. “If there is anything of which you could be accused, it is not neglect.”

There is a sharp hint of stubble pressing against her palm and the fragile skin below his eyes is paper-thin, purple-hued. She can feel his weariness seeping into her skin, the weight of the day’s problems contained in the lines of his brow. Who could claim Anthony Bridgerton careless?

“Still,” he insists, seating himself beside her on their bed and setting aside his boots. “This is not the sort of marriage I wished for us. One where we are parted so often.”

“I thought that rather was,” she replies hesitantly. “The sort of marriage you wished for.”

“It was the sort of marriage I thought would be… comfortable. But I cannot imagine anything I desire less with you.”

Her heart is in her throat, but she forces herself not to react to this revelation. It feels like some trick to let herself believe that his words amount to a loving sort of confession. Nor does she acknowledge the fact that much of their marriage does not seem to be the sort he once wished for, the sort they initially agreed to have. There has certainly been no particular rule regarding soft touches such as hers, no requirement for sentiment such as his, but she would wager that an exchange like this one—an exchange held in a shared bed, no less—was not what her husband had imagined when he agreed to wed her. Yet, the breadth between an allowance of affection and a declaration of something greater is vast. It is best, then, to leave her own admission unsaid.

Rather than remark on any of these things, Kate asks, “Have you eaten?” She rises from the bed at the shake of Anthony’s head. “I had a plate set aside for you in the kitchen. Shall I ring for it?”

“No.” He stands too, halting her with a hand at her elbow.

“Are you certain? I have no desire to tire you further.”

Despite her question, Kate drifts closer into his body, into his touch. His fatigue is obvious—even so, she finds him achingly handsome like this. Anthony’s fingertips burn through the silk of her sleeve, rumpling the cool fabric until there is nothing between them; only his palm on her forearm, flesh upon flesh.

The answer is written on his face, in the slow drift of his eyes as he takes in her form. “I have been apart from you all day, Kathani.” He ducks his head to skim his mouth against the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “For all the times I thought of this bed today, it was never for the sake of sleep. I have no hunger for anything but you.”

Gooseflesh prickles her skin at his words and warm breath. It still awes her, how much they both want, that such a thing has flourished rather than faded.

“Now tell me, Kate,” he says, bumping his nose gently against hers. “What do you desire?” Anthony’s fingers press into her hair as he slants his mouth above hers teasingly, a hair's breadth away from meeting her lips.

“You.” The word is uttered into his mouth like a shared breath. “Always you,” she declares softly, heart pounding in her chest.

“Always you,” he repeats, pulling her impossibly closer into his embrace, his mouth.

Kate cannot tell for certain whether his words are a mere echo or something more, for his lips are now on hers, finally— finally. And her head is quiet, mind numbed with the deep, immeasurable sort of pleasure that only Anthony can offer. Searing heat pools low in her stomach and she is positively aching with arousal, her thighs slick at the thought of her husband’s head between them, his cock stretching her cunt.

“I need to feel you, Anthony,” she pants between the tangle of their tongues. Her hand dips below the loosened collar of his shirt, fingers digging into the skin of his shoulders. “Give me something to think about when we are parted.”

She craves the brand of his hands on her hips, to trace the constellations left by his lips and teeth when her bed is empty in these next weeks. Even more, she would like to mark him, leave her husband with these scant souvenirs to remember her by. If she cannot slip her soul beside his own, etch her name on his bones, so be it—she can still embed herself skin-deep.

It seems he feels similarly, sliding the robe from her body and covering her naked flesh with a touch that is both reverent and rough. His fingers curl around her waist insistently, as though her wishes to imprint the patterns of his skin against her own. She will welcome it if he does.

Shirt shed, his bare chest slides hot against hers, the soft, coiled curls rubbing deliciously against her breasts as they continue to kiss. Kate’s hands rove his body without destination, urgently mapping his skin with raked nails. Together, they remove his trousers, that last vestige of modesty, until his hard cock rests heavy between her thighs.

With a hand on his arse, she tugs him closer. His cock slips between her legs and a groan escapes his mouth as it grazes the slick seam of her cunt, coating him with her leaking arousal. Kate moans against Anthony’s mouth as his head catches on her clit. Her hips chase the feeling.

“Kathani, wait.” Anthony draws back, squeezing the base of his length despite his ache to be inside her. “I just need…”

He lowers himself to his knees, tracing a path down her body with his tongue as he goes. One arm snakes behind her back to brace her as she sways forward, drunk with desire. Another falls upon her chest and cups her breasts in his hand. Kate’s nipples pucker with pleasure against his palm. He laves them with his tongue before sucking a bruise into the underside of her breast and she keens at the feeling, her hands fisting into his hair.

He continues downward, trailing his nose against her dripping center. With a gentle touch, he guides her to sit on the bed’s edge before covering her slick core with his mouth. Staring up at her from the apex of her thighs, he appears like a man starved. Not once does he look away, consuming her cunt with deliberate mouthfuls as he watches her face. Every sigh and twitch and smile goads him further, two fingers sinking slowly inside her wet heat as he flicks a flat tongue against her bud.

Kate keens, her head tipping back as his fingers curl just so, as his mouth sups at her sweetness. She throws her thighs over his shoulders and grinds herself against his face, too far gone for gentle coaxing.

“That’s it,” he murmurs encouragingly. He loves her like this: uninhibited and desperate to be devoured, falling apart around his fingers and tongue.

He stays there, sucking her clit and stroking at her walls until she seizes and floods his mouth with her release. Her hands tremble along his scalp and spine as she beckons him upward so his body covers hers, soft and supine against the bedsheets. He relishes in the flutter of her heart beneath his ear as he litters open-mouth kisses across her breast, the hungry strokes of her hands along his back as she returns to her body.

They exchange no words after that, but none are needed. There is an entire conversation in their eyes; lips and tongue, touch and teeth. In the way his breath fans across her cheeks. How she holds his gaze while her hand guides his hard length to her entrance. The soft rearrangement of his features when he slots himself against her dripping folds. Her gentle purr of relief as he finally pushes in, slowly sinking into her heat.

Anthony sets a sedate pace, deliberate and burning. His hips draw back languidly until he is nearly removed from her throbbing core, then snap sharply back into place, her clit grinding against the root of him. It is a measured, unfaltering rhythm; a tugging of a thread that turns them both taut. The room is silent, save for the sound of skin upon skin, harsh breaths, and languorous kisses. Their mouths meet filthily with every coupling of cock and cunt, something sacred and profane in their every touch.

Kate whines, sharp exhalations slipping from the shared space between their mouths as Anthony’s hips drive against her a little faster, a little heavier. One hand twists in his hair, another grapples with the damp skin of his lower back. Her legs fall open wider as she invites him deeper inside her still, if such a thing is possible. Like this—lips and hips joined, chests crushed together, hands wound with skin and hair—there is no part of his flesh unbound from hers. 

As his nimble fingers find her bud, she shatters around him. Nipples pebbled and hips undulating, Kate chases every last ounce of pleasure that ripples through her core. Anthony’s steady pace finally starts to stutter as his wife’s walls contract around him and her moans pour down his throat. His body tenses and he withdraws from her heat suddenly, spilling on her stomach as he has since the final days of their honeymoon.

Though she misses the sensation of his release leaking from her core and dripping down her thighs, there is something about seeing her skin marked with his seed that sets them both alight. Sitting upright, she drags a finger through the fluid, pale against the dark bronze of her flesh. She dips the pad into her mouth, salted and sticky with her husband’s desire, and licks it clean. It is only fair, is it not? If he is allowed to drink from her, so too should she drink from him.

To her delight, his eyes grow dark and heavy, tracking the motion of her hand as she swipes at his seed again. This time, he grasps her wrist and lifts her hand to his own mouth, wrapping his tongue around the digit. She tugs his face closer, fingers still dancing at the seam of his lips, and presses her tongue against his, licking into the heat of his mouth. There she can taste them both, his desire and hers in perfect concert. It is everything she has ever wished for.

A few minutes later, she lays sapped against the sheets and watches him clean her with insistent tenderness. He runs a damp cloth over the drying fluid until her skin is soothed, then presses a lingering kiss to the smooth stretch of her stomach. His gentleness nearly sends her reeling.

Though she is adept at ignorance, she cannot avoid the second secret that swells inside her.

It is unknowable now, whether she is with child. But she knows she is without courses. Regardless of the outcome, shouldn’t her husband know, too? For so long, she has made every decision in the dark, deciding it noble to hide her hand from those she helps. And where had that gotten her? England’s shores, the court of its queen, the arms of a viscount, yes. But also nearly to the point of no return with her sister. She cannot, in good conscience, repeat the same error. She cannot mistake cowardice for virtue.

There is no risk of rejection with this particular issue, she knows. Despite his fears of fatherhood, of her survival, Kate has nary a shred of doubt that Anthony will adore any child of theirs. A thought comes to her then, unbidden.

Perhaps he loves me.

As certainly as he will love this child, perhaps he loves her, too. Perhaps every ounce of affection that he has poured into her has been no coincidence, no consequence of mere affinity or lust. Kissing him once more, she decides she will let herself believe it. Though she is nearly embarrassed by the tenderness and impossibility of such a hope, she will hope all the same.

Though they are tired and the hour is late, Kate and Anthony remain wide awake and full of wanting. They spend the next several hours drawing out the depth of each other’s pleasure. Their sex is slow and bruising, spent clinging to one another for fear of letting go.

When they part finally, it feels like farewell.

–

Anthony wakes early, Kate tight in his embrace.

She is here, warm and breathing, and yet he is desperate to hold her closer. He slept fitfully last night, plagued by neither dream nor nightmare, but the plain fact of reality.

He has always understood the inevitability of losing her. From the very first morning that she vanished into fog, nameless, he was awakened to the power of her presence and absence. Perhaps he will lose her to a bee, or a fall from a horse, or the luxury of age. Perhaps he will lose her to the simple act of saying I love you. But now, there is no uncertainty or speculation: he is losing her to Prussia. Though only for a few weeks, it still feels an unfathomable set of days.

Her nose brushes against his collarbone as she shifts in sleep, and he cannot quell the urge to touch her, to curl his fingers against her ribs and brush aside the loose hair tickling her cheek. He must tell her before he loses her, then. If she rejects him, at least he will have nigh on a month to grieve in peace. It is the best solution, certainly.

“Good morning,” she whispers. Her hand rises to stroke his stubbled cheek.

“Shall we go for a ride?” he asks.

The sky is still a stretch of indigo outside their window. There is just enough time before daybreak for a race.

Her lips lift into a sleepy smile. “I would love that.”

They move quickly on horseback through Hyde Park, a sense of competition unspoken and understood. As with every ride, Kate is reminded of their very first: that misty morning when they were no more than strangers. She was a stranger to herself, back then, too. Always running away—from Anthony, from her own heart, from everything. And now she races toward him, hurtling herself forward in spite of her own fear. Whether it is foolishness or fortitude spurring her in this instance matters little.

Overtaking Anthony, her horse leaps over a hedge and crosses their unofficial finish line. Heart pounding and neck damp with sweat, Kate slows and approaches a familiar clearing. Surveying the patch of woods, she considers that morning so many weeks ago when she offered Anthony a marriage contract, one entirely void of love.

Here, she thinks. There is no better place to propose a new sort of marriage. No better time, in the wake of their impending separation, to be indulgent and brave in equal measure.

Anthony watches his wife claim her victory in this race, her face flushed with exertion, hair loosened from her braid, and a triumphant smile twisting at her mouth. She is inexpressibly beautiful like this.

Though he has long understood the inevitability of losing Kate, he has only recently understood the inevitability of loving her. He cannot starve it into silence, cannot prevent himself the grief that is promised as a consequence. Perhaps it is unavoidable that he will fall to pieces all the same. So be it. She makes him reckless and brave and wonderfully selfish. Selfish enough to live in the way he has not since his father died.

Here, he decides. He will ask her now not to say goodbye without first letting him say, I love you.

They dismount from their horses in the grass they have trodden so many times before, their figures shrouded from the rest of the world by a copse of trees. The first fingers of dawn threaten to poke through the lowest branches, threading gold among the greenery.

“I will miss this,” Kate says fondly.

“It is a shame you will have no husband to ridicule for his deficient horsemanship in Prussia,” he returns, soft and teasing.

“I will miss more than that.” She shakes her head a little and he lifts a hand to smooth her cheek in comfort. Her brow is knit with too much tenderness for him to bear.

“I will also,” Anthony nods. “But it is important that you go. To see Edwina married and ensure that she and Mary are well-situated.”

“Indeed.”

“You love your family too dearly for me to ask you to stay.”

“I do.” Kate smiles, a bittersweet thing. “But my family is here now, too.”

The statement turns him a little breathless. A little hopeful. There is no moment better than this one, save for every other moment before. Every minute he has not told her he loves her is a minute wasted, he thinks now.

He takes a steadying inhale and reaches for her hands, both to ground himself and guide her closer.

“Knowing you has been the greatest gift, Kathani. I cannot imagine my life without you, now that you are in it,” he says solemnly. “I cannot imagine the next weeks without you, and though it is entirely selfish, I am terrified to let you go.” He grasps her fingers a little tighter. “But if I shall, then you must leave knowing that—”

“You love me,” she whispers.

Kate cannot say for certain what love is, only that she feels it in her chest every time she thinks of Anthony; that she finds it in all these fixtures—in reverent touches and spirited rides and tender conversation. That she can hardly bear an afternoon without a glimpse of his face, much less a lifetime. That the world goes quiet when he simply looks at her.

But it is here, in this moment, that she recognizes its reflection in her husband for the first time. In that flicker of his eyes she is learning to decipher. The shift of his lips and shape of his brow. In the language of his speech. There is no other discernible word for it.

“Yes,” he exhales shakily, his eyes flitting over her face for some sign of reproach or reciprocity. “You do not have to allow it nor embrace it. I have done my best to ignore it, to dismiss these feelings—”

“You ridiculous man.” Her eyes burn with tears and she kisses him breathlessly. He hesitates, thrown, then quickly follows suit, his arms wrapped around Kate’s back and their mouths pressing together.

For so long, she has assumed that Anthony thought of love with absolute disdain. But then, he had been so kind, so considerate, so attentive. If he was not incapable, then perhaps the sole impossibility was loving her. And that had been bearable, if only just. Love was the sole request she would never make of a man who had given her so very much already. It would be selfish to ask for more. But now? It is so brilliantly, breathtakingly obvious. He loves her too. He simply decided against it. And she had done the same.

“It is all too easy to allow,” she says, breaking their kiss. “I love you like breathing. Not by some fault of mine or great trick of yours. If you believe it so impossible a thing, then you are a greater fool than I thought.”

“You love me, too?” Anthony asks, a little dazed.

“Was that not implied?” Kate smiles, lips brushing against his.

He shakes his head and huffs a watery laugh. “Has it ever been?”

“Then let me make it unmistakeable.” She captures his cheeks between her hands. “I love you, Anthony.”

The earth could swallow him up and he would consider himself a blessed man because Kathani Sharma has said she loves him. Him. He is undone and made whole at once.

There is so much more she wishes to say, but there is no space for speech at this moment. All that remains is his mouth upon hers. There is love living between them, threaded with every touch of their lips and tongues. It is only for the sake of Anthony mumbling against her mouth that she retreats from their kiss once more.

“I have been so fearful of losing you,” he confesses, his voice light despite such a heavy admission. “It is why I did not say it all this time. I could not bring myself to…” He cannot finish the sentence and buries his nose against her scalp, a kiss to her temple.

“I think I have been fearful too.” She covers his jaw with her hand. “Even when I suspected… I did not wish to be the first of us to say it aloud.”

“And still you found a way to,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “I was supposed to say it first, you know.”

“Oh, were you?” Kate cannot help her laughter. “I will always outpace you, I’m afraid.”

“Even if you have said it first, I knew it first,” he counters. “From our engagement ball. Or perhaps even that first morning I saw you here. I knew I loved you long before I let myself believe it.”

“Well then, I suppose we have done everything with one another entirely out of order,” she says, stroking his cheek with her thumb.

“Good.” He nods sharply. “We shall never be accused of predictability.”

She smiles softly to herself, thinking of that stolen wedding vow. “I knew I loved you the moment I was made your wife. But perhaps I felt it sooner and only told myself so when it was too loud to ignore. I want you more than I have wanted anything in my entire life. That alone terrifies me.”

“Quite honestly, I am still terrified.” Anthony pauses, swallowing thickly. “Love, to me, has always been less a thing you hold in your hand and more a… passageway. It is an unclosable window to everything awful. To pain and loss and grief.” He catches Kate’s hand as it falls to his chest, their fingers lacing tightly atop his breastbone. “When my father died, there was nearly no coming back from it for my mother. Much as I resented her for it, I know I am too much like her in this regard. I did not wish that pain upon anyone else; upon myself, either. And so I made myself a stranger to love. Until I met you. It was the first time I felt anything in a long time. Anything real.” He pauses a moment, his gaze ensnared with her own. “So it is no wonder that I only wish to do this with you. I know that I am fearful to lose you because I shall fall to pieces when I do, but I love you too much to deny either of us any longer, Kathani.”

“Anthony, you needn’t be immune to fear in order to love me. I am not either. I have not even confronted the idea of losing you because it is too much to bear. But I think it is a courageous thing to love you anyway.”

“You have always been courageous.”

“I was not.” She laughs regretfully. “Not always. I have denied myself so very much and run away all too often. I told myself that I could quiet this feeling, that it would pass. But now I know that it will not. And I do not wish it to. I had resigned myself to such a small life before you.” Her voice is a harsh whisper as she thinks of the future she was once promised. “But it is no life at all, if it is not with you, Anthony. You made me realize that what I desire and what I deserve are not so far apart. That I do not need to live in half-measures, because I am worthy of something whole. We both are. And though that alone is utterly terrifying, you make me want to be brave.

“So perhaps we will both be brave,” she proposes. “And completely terrified. But we shall do it together. As we have done everything before this moment.” She cradles his face in her hands. “Whether I lose you or you lose me, let it not be for our own mistakes. Can you grant me that promise?”

“I will grant you anything. You need only ask it. You must know that by now.”

“I do. You have given me everything I have told myself I could never ask for.” Every secret hope harbored, every dream she has deferred for her family’s sake—all have been realized here. Kate’s hand falls to her stomach. “In fact…”

His eyes snap from her face to her hand. “Are you—”

“Nothing is certain,” she interjects quickly, neither wishing to raise his hopes or fears. “I just… I have not had my courses in some time. Not since before our honeymoon.” She watches realization dawn on his face. “I only thought you ought to know before I leave. I could not live with myself if I had kept it from you while we are apart.” A small silence stretches between them and she wrings her hands, nerves prickling beneath her skin. “How do you feel?”

He can picture it already, as he has so many times before. Kate, ripe with child, her body swelling with new life. A daughter with downy black curls, drowsy and immeasurably small in his arms. Cradling her like he once held Hyacinth, or Gregory before that. God help him, he wants it all so desperately.

“Wonderful,” Anthony says, a broad palm covering the flat plane of her stomach. “Frightened. Wonderfully frightened.”

“I am much the same.” Kate laughs, eyes watering. “I am so terribly happy, it is overwhelming.”

“I love you,” Anthony tells her, his hand flexing. She covers it with her own.

“I love you, too,” she repeats.

They stand in the clearing for some time, echoing the words back and forth, trading kisses until their tongues are tired. Deep down, there is a certain selfishness inside her, one that yearns for a little more time with her husband alone, before a child comes. But that urge is swiftly swept away by their shared joy, the dizzying laughter passed between their lips and the press of their woven fingers against her abdomen. And for now, these minutes alone in the woods are enough. The months ahead shall be, too.

“We must be going soon,” Kate reminds him. Dawn has long broken, burnishing their faces with orange light.

“Must we?” He hauls her closer in his embrace, greedy for one minute more. “I would call any man a fool to let you out of his arms so swiftly.”

“Prussia is not so terribly far,” she promises.

“Nor is my office from our bed. But it feels so.”

“I recall that India once was not far enough,” she counters, soft and teasing.

He shakes his head, rejecting his ugly words. “I could not outrun how much I needed you, even then.” He softens and crests his nose over her brow bone, pressing his warm cheek against hers. “How am I to let you go now?”

“Anthony, you are not losing me. You have me.” Kate whispers the words, giddy and gentle, as she presses her mouth to his once more. “You have me.”