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Kate Sharma nearly dies on her very first day at Aubrey College.

Mary forbade her from riding her bike down the lonely country roads, told her to get the bus. Pressed clammy coins no doubt scavenged from underneath the sofa cushions into her hand. Kate waited until her stepmother had left for her early shift at the hospital and tipped the money into Edwina’s palm, told her sister to keep it handy for emergencies (knowing she wouldn’t).

Slipped into the garage, dumped her schoolbag in the basket on the front of her bike and then she was off, curls whipped into a soft black cloud as she pedalled. Enjoying the wind crashing against her face, the cold burn in her legs and the back of her throat.

And then she’s tearing down the winding drive that leads to her new school, ignoring the blockade of imposing buildings ahead in favour of the poplar oak trees and clumps of daffodils that frame them. She slows her pace to let the grounds come into focus, trying to imagine herself crouched against a tree and – alone, surrounded by books, legs baking under dappled sunlight. Her bike swerves drunkenly on the tarmac and somewhere in the distance a car revs angrily behind her, but it’s not until said car honks – honks at her, that she’s startled back to reality.

The idiot in the car behind honks again, short and belligerent, and Kate tightens her grip on the handlebars with a scowl. She’s not even going that slowly, and there’s enough room for a car to squeeze past her if they really want to.

Well, not any more. Prick, Kate thinks, and she veers right into the middle of the path, chuckling evilly to herself at the thought of the look that must be crossing her aggressor’s face right now. No doubt it’s some puffed-up prat who can barely see over his daddy’s steering wheel, and yes, it’s her first day, and no, this is not really following her father’s instructions to ‘make a good impression and more importantly, make friends’.  But it’s just not in her nature to give way without a little resistance.

The horn blares again, louder and more insistently than before. Somehow it manages to sound pretentious and monied and Kate slows her pedalling down to a crawl, ambling down the road until they reach the car park.

The car honks a final time and Kate half-turns her head so she can flip it off, but a glint of silver ahead catches her eye and she faces forward again just in time to break sharply and avoid colliding with the metal throngs of the bike rack.

There’s another roar of brakes being slammed a second too late and Kate’s heart snaps against her chest as she whips around and sees the car screeching to a halt just inches from the back of her bike.

‘What the fuck!’

Catching her breath, Kate swings off her bike and lets it hit the ground, throwing hair out of her face so she can square up to her attempted murderer. He jumps out of his car with a couple of folders tucked under his arm and slams the door with such ferocity that the metallic clang ricochets through the car park.

Some deeply primitive, animalistic corner of Kate’s brain hisses what the fuck for a very different reason, because behind all of those convulsing, tightened muscles and broad shoulders fraught with animosity, oh, that face, but she did almost just smell death and can’t be blamed for not having full control over her thoughts.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Kate advances on him, but he doesn’t flinch or cower, just stares down at her with angrily dimpled brow, chest heaving, nostrils flaring. She could probably cut herself on that jawline and judging by the steel in his brown eyes, he definitely wants her blood.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ he says, voice edged with sarcasm.  ‘Might I ask what you were hoping to gain with that little stunt?’

‘Me? You were tailgating me and honking like a goose in heat-’

‘-are you quite serious?’ he barks. ‘My three month old sister crawls faster than you on that bike. I only honked at you to let you know I was there-’

 ‘-so you couldn’t wait an extra thirty seconds? You know cyclists exist and you’re not the lord of the road? Or perhaps I should have stopped and rolled out a red carpet for you?’

His head reels back in disbelief, eyes cartoonishly wide and blinking rapidly. Eventually, though, he just shakes his head at her and repeats, ‘Are you quite serious? You don’t think you were even slightly at fault there?’

Kate, ever the thespian, pretends to consider this for a moment, before she sticks out her chin and gives him a short, sweet ‘No.’

‘Ah, so you have a problem admitting when you’re wrong.’

‘I have no problem admitting I’m wrong-’

‘Then you should know that the cycle path is the other way entirely,’ he interjects, pointing to the other side of the car park – where, indeed, Kate can see a signposted dirt track. ‘Not wrong, you said?’

‘God, you’re absolutely insufferable,’ Kate mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

‘You don’t even know me!’ his self-satisfied smile is quickly lost to outrage.

‘Oh, I think I do, Anthony Bridgerton,’ Kate says smoothly, cocking her head to one side in anticipation of his reaction.

Anthony’s mouth actually does fall open at this, his forehead dimpling like a canyon between his brows. Kate takes advantage of his stunned silence to lock up her bike, and when she straightens up and looks back over at him, he’s watching her through steely, narrowed eyes, clearly struggling not to give her the satisfaction of asking.   

‘It’s monogrammed on your folders, Bridgerton.’ Kate rolls her eyes. He manages to swallow down his stupor long enough to shout after her as she walks away,

‘I never got your name!’

But Kate doesn’t break her stride; she just pretends she hasn’t heard. It’s a big school. With any luck, she’ll never have to see or speak to Anthony Bridgerton again.

~

Half an hour later, during registration, their tutor introduces her as new student Kathani Sharma and tells Anthony that, since they’re in all the same classes, he can be in charge of showing her around and ensuring that everyone gives her a warm welcome. Both are horrified, neither is willing to cheek their tutor on the first day of term, but Kate grabs Anthony’s sleeve the second the bell rings and tugs him back into the emptying classroom.

Kate tells Anthony not to bother rolling out the welcome wagon and that she’d rather find her own way around than spend another second in his presence. He tells her that she’ll get lost in five minutes flat and he’s not going to stomp around the entire grounds looking for her when she does.

‘Not to worry, I’ll just look out for your ears,’ Kate says and although he just scoffs, she doesn’t miss the way the appendages in question glow pink.

Unfortunately for Kate, her plan to spend the next two years ignoring and avoiding him never gets off the ground. Anthony rolls into each one of their shared classes of the day with one overt objective: to best her.

If she answers a question, he has to get the next one. If she offers an opinion, he’s frothing at the mouth in his haste to offer a rebuttal.  Kate has no doubt that if she said the earth was round he’d tell everyone it’s actually an oblate spheroid. With that shiny, self-satisfied smirk on his face the entire time.

The one reprieve she gets from him all day is during her final period, History. Kate scouts the room for his wearisome face and, coming up empty, scoots into a desk in the front row with a renewed sense of energy.

Her nose is buried in her fluffy purple pencil case when a boy with towering limbs and an expression of feigned disinterest takes the seat next to her.

‘You’re new,’ he says, with an affected drawl.

‘Well observed,’ Kate almost doesn’t bother to look up, but when she does, she zeroes in on the badge tucked inside his folder. Simon Basset is his name, but that’s of much less interest than the horse emblem and words underneath it. Equestrian co-captain.

‘You have horses here?’

‘We do.’ Simon looks a little more curious now. ‘You ride?’

‘I want to join the team,’ Kate says, ignoring his question.

‘That,’ says Simon, ‘is Bridgerton’s domain. You should-’

‘Yes, we’ve met.’ Kate interrupts, mouth tightening into a thin line. Just the mention of his name induces angry, teeth-gnashing impulses.

‘Ah, so you’re the one Bridge had a run-in with this morning.’ Simon says, tipping back in his chair, voice pricked with interest.

‘Has he been talking about me?’ Kate asks indignantly, though she already knows the answer.

‘You could say that,’ Simon says, eyes twinkling in a way Kate can only describe as sinister. ‘Honestly,  when he gets going on one of his rants, it becomes something of an effort to keep up. But there was definitely something in there about Kate having no regard for the rules of the road. The word aggravating was used a lot. And I believe he might have called you inflexible.’

‘Don’t forget menace.’ comes the deadpan from the doorway.

Anthony strolls towards her and for the brief second their eyes meet, his are bright with a fox-like gleam. He nods at Simon as he passes their desk and throws himself into a seat directly behind Kate.

‘It seems like the two of you hit it off,’ Simon says slyly. ‘I’m sure you’ll bring a whole new dynamic to the equestrian team.’

‘What?’ Anthony snaps from behind them. God, do those stupid big ears ever stop flapping?

‘Didn’t you hear?’ Simon says, and Kate has to give it to him, he knows what he’s doing and he does it without guile. ‘Kate’s a renowned horseback rider. She could give you a run for your money, Bridgerton.’

Anthony coughs ostentatiously. ‘Oh, I’m sure.’

Silently seething, that’s when Kate makes herself a vow. She will never – never – give in to Anthony Bridgerton. No matter what he does or says and however infuriatingly he does or says it, no matter how much he tests the limits of her patience, she will never, ever admit defeat.

~

Kate Sharma is going to kill him.

Since she transferred to Aubrey College in their penultimate year of school, Kate has been slowly unravelling every tightly wound thread of Anthony Bridgerton’s life.

From that very first, unnecessarily acrimonious meeting, Anthony was sure he’d got the measure of her. Fiercely smart to the point of being an insufferable know-it-all, aggressively competitive in everything she does, and perhaps most frustratingly at all, completely averse to conceding anything to him. Everything he says, she has a counter for. Everything he does, she could do better. And often demonstrates how.

For the better part of a year, she’s driven him insane. Anthony’s never considered himself particularly even-tempered but somehow Kate has him hot and flushed and bothered all the bloody time.

At first, she was just an irritation. Smiling blindingly as she trotted past him on his favourite horse trail around the grounds. Catching his eye across the classroom to brandish another A*-graded paper at him. Laughing egregiously from across the corridor that time the water fountain erupted in his face, soaking him from head to toe.

And if Kate was pretty, then so what? What was behind that pretty face was the most disagreeable personality possible, Anthony would have sworn it to anyone that asked.

But somewhere along the line, his heart caught up with his head, and now he’s sitting here on a Thursday afternoon in Danbury’s classroom, blinking stupidly at his Head Girl’s perfect mass of curls and trying to stamp down the impulse to chant her name until she turns those big doe-eyes his way. Anthony’s no stranger to her razor-sharp tongue, but lately he’s been fantasising about having it jammed down his throat instead of cutting him down by the strings.

So he’s attracted to Kate. So what? That’s hardly new, he went home that very first day they met and hate-stalked her on every possible form of social media he could and he would have admitted then and there that she was objectively gorgeous, but it simply didn’t matter when she was also an intolerable tyrant.

And their mutual dislike has never wavered. In their final year of school, Kathani “Kate to my friends, and also to you, Bridgerton” Sharma and Anthony might have been entrusted with the honourable Head Girl and Head Boy titles, but that is where their sense of fellowship begins and ends.

Any proposal Anthony brings to their school council meetings is promptly picked apart and mercilessly crushed by Kate. Admittedly, sometimes she’s right and he just doesn’t want to admit it – he’s never been a graceful loser – but other times it’s abundantly clear that Kate just wants to pick a fight with him.  ‘What’s the matter, Bridgerton? Signet ring too tight?’

‘You could try not rising to the bait,’ his brother Benedict had suggested when Anthony came home steaming from the ears because Kate had vapourised his idea to make (voluntary) top hats part of the boys’ school uniform.

‘I’m not surprised you want to walk around impersonating the mascot of an evil conglomerate, Bridgerton, but as for the rest of us…’

There’s something about Kate, though, going full-throttle in a row with Anthony, eyes hard as diamonds, that aggravating mouth twisted into a smirk because she thinks she’s got him – that Anthony can’t help himself. He trips and fall into her trap every time and keeps going back for more.

And Kate knows exactly how to bait him.

‘With ears that big it’s a travesty that there’s nothing in between them…’

And Anthony hasn’t got a single rebuke for her, because in addition to being ridiculously quick-witted, Kate is also ridiculously perfect looking. Slim and statuesque, impossibly long legged, big dark eyes that wouldn’t be out of place on a fluffy woodland creature, and a head of loose black curls that sometimes spill onto the edge of his desk and which Anthony finds himself thinking about coiling between his fingers and tugging, just enough to tilt her head back towards him.

They’re neck-and-neck in most of their subjects. Anthony’s playing for second in Maths, English and Biology. His marks in Geography, Physics and History are marginally better than Kate’s. There’s no point trying to compare their natural prowess in Chemistry.

But on top of being a veritable academic beast, Kate also plays flute (poorly, but Aubrey College’s orchestra is woefully lacking in wind instruments and Anthony maintains that’s the only reason she was invited to join), captains the girls’ hockey A-team, has a Gold Duke of Edinburgh award and in her spare time tutors the younger students. Including, much to his annoyance, Anthony’s youngest brother Gregory.

‘Kate just explains things better than you do, brother,’ is Gregory’s constant refrain whenever Anthony complains about his tutelage being rejected in favour of that of his archnemesis.

In case she wasn’t impressive enough, Kate formed the Debate Society in her second week (and proposed that the inaugural debate be whether Anthony Bridgerton should be allowed to join – she was, of course, leading the opposition. That’s one of the few debates she’s ever lost).

Anthony’s learned not to comment too loudly about Kate and all her extracurriculars, however, because his friends and his siblings find infinite amusement in the fact that you could give him a date and a time and Anthony could probably tell you where she is and what she’s doing. Obviously, it’s just so he can avoid her outside of the inordinate amount of time they’re already forced to spend together by virtue of being in nearly all the same classes, their headships and the fact she comes by his house once a week to tutor Gregory.

Most irritatingly of all, despite her carefully constructed good-girl veneer, Kate has a tendency to bend the rules and never get caught for it. Like smuggling her dog onto school grounds. Or taking the school horses out for illicit rides around the grounds at the crack of dawn and running into class late and gorgeously flushed.

Only somehow – Kate Sharma, Little Miss Perfect – has ended up in detention. On a Thursday. With him.

‘Come on, Sharma,’ he says now, eyes glued to the soft ends of her hair trailing on his desk. ‘Just tell me why you’re here. I thought you could do no wrong.’

Kate swivels around in her chair wearing that superior smile of hers that never fails to get his blood jumping. ‘And I stand by that.’

‘So, what? Did you just decide to stop by detention to lord your unblemished disciplinary record over me?’

‘You’re the only lord in this room, Bridgerton,’ Kate says and laughs at her own stupid jibe. Anthony grits his teeth until his jaw starts to ache. Kate finding out that he’s the son of a late viscount (thanks, Gregory), however redundant the title now is in reality, has unlocked a whole new litany of ways for her to goad him and she’s been taking advantage of each and every one.

‘Besides, we both know you shouldn’t be here either.’ the end of Kate’s pen teases the edge of her glossy mouth and Anthony has to fight not to stare, lest his thoughts stumble and fall down the ‘deeply inappropriate musings of Kate’ rabbit hole he’s been struggling to avoid lately.

‘What? You heard about what I did.’

Everyone had. It was sure to become the stuff of Aubrey College legend. At the last sixth form event, Anthony and a few friends, already buzzed off the pre-drinks, had unscrupulously got their hands on some of the other students’ drink tokens and got so trolleyed that they’d broken into Danbury’s classroom, rearranged all of the furniture and somehow snapped her walking cane in half.

Only Anthony had been caught, however, because in his drunken stupor he’d managed to leave behind a cufflink with the Bridgerton crest on it, and the eagle-eyed history teacher had found it languishing under her desk. To general astonishment, it had proved rather easy for Danbury to break Anthony under interrogation, though he hadn’t given up his accomplices.

So, here he was. In after-school detention for the next month.

‘Oh come on, Bridgerton.’ Kate rolls her eyes. ‘I know you didn’t do it.’

Anthony’s heart rate, already galloping just from the glare of Kate’s amber-eyed scrutiny, picks up considerably.

‘What?’

‘For one thing, you lack the upper arm strength to break Danbury’s cane in two, drunk or not,’ Kate says, eyes flickering to the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt and the firm forearms revealed by them. Her mouth parts a little, her gaze stills and Anthony can feel a rose flush creeping up his neck.

‘Think about my arms a lot, do you Sharma?’

‘And,’ Kate says, ignoring him, ‘I happen to know that the cufflink Danbury found isn’t yours.’

Anthony opens his mouth to argue, but Kate silences him with purposefully raised eyebrow. ‘Yours have a V on them. For Viscount.’

At first, Anthony isn’t sure what he’s more surprised by. The fact that Kate has seen through his cover (that isn’t really a surprise, she’s sharp as a tack on a bad day), or the fact she’s paid enough attention to him to have noticed the cufflinks his father left to him when he died –  which he doesn’t even wear every day – and to know that they’re different from the ones his brothers wear.

‘So the only question is, are you covering for Benedict, Colin, or Gregory?’ Kate continues, emboldened by the dumbfounded look on Anthony’s face. ‘Greg is frankly too sweet and earnest to do something like that. I’d honestly say it’s fifty-fifty between the other two, which makes me think it was both of them.’

Anthony glares at her for a total of five seconds before groaning frustratedly and slumping back in his chair.

‘Idiots. Benedict says they just went into her classroom to get Colin’s phone out of Danbury’s desk after she confiscated it earlier in the day. But they’d been pre-drinking and obviously got carried away.’ he fists a hand through his hair and misses the way Kate’s eyes linger on the unkempt curls. ‘The cane was an accident, and they were going to own up to it, but…’

‘Yeah, so why did you cover for them? It’s just detention.’ says Kate.

‘Colin’s already had four detentions this term and a fifth would have meant suspension.’ Anthony says grimly.

‘That was good of you,’ Kate says, after a moment. Anthony studies her face, waiting for the compliment to sour, but there’s no trace of sarcasm, no cheekily upturned lip, just Kate steadily meeting his gaze.

‘Yes, well. It’s my duty to look out for them, isn’t it.’ he says. ‘You know how it is. You’ve got a little sister too.’

Kate’s brow jumps into her hairline and Anthony wonders if she’s surprised he knows such a personal detail about her. For some reason that bothers him. It just so happens that whenever she’s round at his house for Gregory’s tutoring Anthony likes to finish his own schoolwork in the same room. It’s good for concentration.

And for eavesdropping on her candid conversations with his little brother.

‘Edwina’s easy compared to your seven,’ Kate says dismissively. ‘I don’t think she’s ever so much as returned a library book late.’

‘How could she, with her formidable elder sister keeping her in line,’ Anthony says, before breaking out a wicked grin. ‘Which brings us back to the question of why you’re here.’

The edge of Kate’s mouth flutters as though she’s trying not to match his smile. ‘I punched someone.’

‘What?’ Anthony says incredulously. ‘Who? And why? And how is this the first I’m hearing of this, Sharma?’

‘It was your mate Fife, actually,’ Kate narrows her eyes as she levels him with the accusation.

‘He’s not my mate,’ Anthony says at once. He wouldn’t consider them close friends by any means. They share a few classes and occasionally Fife will offer him a bump of some suspicious white powder at parties, but Kate isn’t having it.

‘Right.’ Kate says sarcastically. ‘I forgot how it works with all you old money white boys. Friendly, but not friends?’

‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ Anthony says a little testily. Kate humbling him is nothing new, but she’s hitting too close to home here and it makes him uncomfortable. As it probably should. ‘Why did you deck him?’

Kate’s face colours slightly when she answers, pen nearly slipping from her grip. ‘He deserved it.’

‘I don’t doubt it, but what did he do?’ Anthony says slowly. His fingers start to drum restlessly on his desk.

Another thing Anthony knows about Kate is that her eyes, a nebula of rich browns and golds, could tell a hundred thousand stories. She’s a master at keeping her face blank and stoic, but those eyes betray her every time. And right now, much as she might try to hide it from him, he can see the hurt trapped there. And he doesn’t like it.

There’s a lot to be said, Anthony thinks, for hunting Fife down, grabbing him by the throat and finishing what Kate started. He toys with this idea – really, what’s a possible suspension? – until Kate breaks the silence.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says, shrugging. She looks down, busying herself with a highly unconvincing inspection of her cuticles.  ‘Just the usual nonsense. I guess he didn’t take too kindly to a scholarship girl beating him out as our year’s Oxbridge representative. Especially a brown scholarship girl. Use your imagination.’

Anthony knows Kate can only afford to attend Aubrey College, the most prestigious co-educational public school in England, because she’s on a full bursary awarded on the basis of her academic excellence. He knows that her father, a first-generation immigrant from India, is a paralegal and her stepmother is a midwife and they struggle to make ends meet as it is because every extra penny they make gets reinvested into Kate and Edwina’s education, paying for uniforms and field trips and flute lessons that the bursary doesn’t cover. He knows this because Kate has never been ashamed of her background, because she makes a point of letting people know where she’s come from and how hard she’s worked to get here. But that attitude is not always met with the respect it deserves – evidently.

Anthony realises he hasn’t said anything for longer than is probably polite and that Kate’s eyes are roving his face, awaiting his reaction. God, does she think he shares the same sentiments as Fife does?  

‘What the fuck.’ Anthony shakes his head. ‘I knew he was a dickhead but I didn’t realise he was also a racist piece of shit.’

‘Yeah, well. He isn’t the first and he won’t be the last. Especially in this place,’ Kate says. She keeps her tone measured and careless, but the tight bob of her throat betrays her. ‘But he didn’t want anyone to know about it, so I guess he’s been keeping it quiet. He hasn’t been in school all week, haven’t you noticed?’

Anthony hadn’t. He really doesn’t give a flying fuck about Fife’s whereabouts, but now he’s thinking about putting him through a window. What’s the word for that, again? Oh, right. Defenestration. The answering voice in his head sounds oddly like Kate’s, tipsy with delight because she’s beat him to an answer.

‘Hang on, so why are you in detention and not him?’ Anthony demands, hackles rising at the injustice of it.

Kate scoffs. ‘You think that the powers that be are going to risk the wrath of Fife’s father – who literally has a peerage - because he made some “politically incorrect” comments about the brown bursary girl? I’m lucky I didn’t get stripped of my headship.’

Anthony doesn’t even know what to say. What can he say, that won’t sound trite and performative? All he knows, blood thundering through his brain, is that Fife needs to pay.

‘I hope you made him bleed.’ he says, voice low. And if you didn’t, I still might.

Kate cracks a lopsided grin, eyes lighting up in a way that clouds Anthony’s train of thought with a serious case of brain-fog. God, why is it so hard for him to think properly when she’s disarming him with a smile like that? Why is his stupid heart stuttering madly against his ribs like he’s a triple-bypass patient?

‘Apparently he had to go to A&E. Blood loss.’ Kate says.

Anthony smiles, but it’s fleeting. ‘Still fucked up that you’re here and he isn’t.’

‘Yeah, and look what I get stuck with for company,’ Kate says. Her tone is flippant and Anthony takes it for what it is; she’s done talking about this and wants to segue the conversation to familiar territory.

‘Come on Sharma, you’ve got Featherington here too,’ Anthony nods his head in the direction of their supervising teacher, who’s splayed over her desk, red curls spilling out of their ornate pile as she snores. ‘I know you like her because she picked your bio project over mine.’

‘Yes Bridgerton, because How Bees Make Nectar is the most overdone bio project ever. Did you even try or did you just pick what everyone else does?’

‘And how long did it take you to come up with High Flyers, an investigation of the Aerodynamics of Wings in Ground Effect?’

Kate’s looking at him strangely and admittedly it probably isn’t strictly normal that he can perfectly recite the full title of the mini-dissertation she wrote a full year ago, but Anthony just avoids her gaze and adjusts his blazer in the hope of hiding his deepening flush. He’s saved from explaining himself when Agatha Danbury marches into the room and roots them both to the spot with a paralysing stare.

‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ she says, looking disapprovingly at Featherington’s hunched, slumbering figure. ‘You two, come and make yourselves useful for the rest of your detentions.’

Kate exchanges a slightly apprehensive look with Anthony and they follow their history teacher out of the classroom, then the building, and down the grassy mall to the tennis courts, which are usually kept immaculately tidy but are now scattered with stray balls. The girls’ tennis team has just finished practice for the day.

‘Gather these and put them back into the baskets.’ Danbury instructs them. ‘You can go home when you’re finished.’

Kate and Anthony know better than to voice a single grumble in front of their dragonesque teacher, but the second they’re comfortable she’s out of earshot Kate snipes at Anthony that if his brothers hadn’t pissed her off so badly by breaking her cane they surely wouldn’t have been stuck with such a laborious task and Anthony rejoins that maybe if Kate was better at tennis instead of hockey they might not even be doing this at all.

‘I could easily beat you in tennis, or any sport for that matter, anytime, Bridgerton.’ Kate says scornfully.

‘Oh yes? Care to put that to the test?’ Anthony grabs a tennis ball and chucks it easily into the basket across the court.

‘Whoever gets the most in wins?’ Anthony doesn’t miss the ruthless smirk that crosses Kate’s face; he’s seen it a thousand times, including in the dead of night behind closed eyes, and it sets off a thrill that carries down his spine.

So instead of dutifully gathering all of the errant balls and placing them neatly back into the baskets, which would have taken ten minutes at most Kate and Anthony get stuck in a fiercely heated and completely pointless competition to see who can make the most shots.

A competition which, although close, Kate is winning and she does not hesitate to remind Anthony of that every two minutes. For his part, Anthony’s finding it rather difficult to concentrate on making his shot and not appreciating how sexy Kate looks with her hair mussed and falling out of its makeshift braid, skin shining with a film of sweat and practically gold under the sun’s rich glare.

‘The heels on your shoes are giving you an advantage, take them off.’ Anthony complains.

‘I’m sure you would like to see my bare feet, Bridgerton,’ Kate replies, to which Anthony splutters like an overheated aeroplane engine. ‘Though I never took you for a foot fetishist.’

‘Whatever you say, giraffe legs.’ They really are absurdly, wonderfully, endlessly long. It’s not Anthony’s fault if he can’t stop sneaking glances at them. Especially when Kate’s bouncing and jumping around and dangling them directly in his eyeline.

‘Jesus Christ, you’re obsessed with my legs,’ Kate snorts as she pivots into a throw and her ball launches into the air, skids around the basket and just tips inside. Oh god, has Basset been telling her the stupid shit Anthony says when he’s drunk and loses his filter? ‘Aha! Fifteen-eight to me!’

If anything, Kate’s unbreakable competitive spirit only makes her more aggressively attractive to his fried brain. She’s a force of nature – and Anthony works himself up imagining what it might feel like to be on the receiving end of all that intensity in a very different way. Mostly when he’s drunk, or bored, or even sometimes when he’s neither, just alone at night in his bed, and Kate Sharma inevitably takes over his every waking thought.

‘Shall we call it?’ Kate says, once she’s exhausted herself to the end of her victory dance and checking her watch. ‘Let’s just put the rest of these back quickly, I need to get home and make dinner.’

‘Fine, but you don’t win,’ Anthony warns her. ‘For the record.’

‘I was only beating you by seven points, but sure,’ Kate says, tossing her head back mockingly. ‘We’ll call it a draw.’

Anthony scowls. ‘That’s not counting your three fouls.’

‘Two fouls, and last time I checked that still puts me in the lead, Bridgerton, or do you need maths tutoring alongside your brother?’

‘Do you always have to be so childish?’ Anthony grumbles, as they leave the courts, both tired and aching.

‘You bring it out in me.’ Kate says, unfazed.  

‘How are you getting home?’ Anthony asks as they walk towards the car park. The sun is losing to the dusk, bleeding into the warm, tangerine horizon and pitching shadows off the line of trees. He watches a shiver ripple up Kate’s bare arms and wonders if she’d bite his head off if he offered her his jacket. Or if she’d just be disgusted.

He thinks he could handle one, but not the other.

‘Um, well, the last bus has left, so I’ll probably ride my bike home from here.’ Kate says, without looking at him.

‘No way, Kate, I’ll give you a lift.’ Anthony says immediately. Exactly as he expected, Kate’s expression hardens with mutiny, her hands locking into fists at her sides.

‘I’m perfectly capable of-’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ Anthony interrupts her, partly because he wants to see her stick her bottom lip out like she always does when she’s pissed off. ‘But it’s getting dark and cold, so why don’t you just let me be a gentleman for once and drop you back?’

‘Well…’ Kate hesitates, kicks a loose stone across the footpath. ‘Ok. Much obliged, my lord,’ Kate says, but when their eyes meet hers are bright with mirth and Anthony can’t help but grin sheepishly back.

‘Are you sure my bike will fit in your Rolls Royce?’ she teases, but there’s no sting to it, not really.

‘I didn’t bring the Rolls today, you’ll have to make do with the Tesla.’ Anthony says dryly. He doesn’t have a Tesla but it’s not great to know that’s what Kate thinks of him.

His twinge of satisfaction at her little giggle is short-lived. ‘But, er, no, probably not. If you leave it here I could always pick you up tomorrow morning and then you can ride it back after school.’

‘Oh. Er…’ Anthony supposes she’s wracking her brains for any excuse against spending even a modicum of additional time in his company, especially so early in the morning, but apparently she can’t think of one. ‘That would be very nice of you. Thanks.’

When they reach his car – Anthony can sense Kate literally biting her tongue to hold back any scathing observations about how ridiculous it is for an eighteen year old to be driving a brand new Porsche – he opens the passenger door for her which he’s almost certain makes her blush which in turn makes his skin feel hot and tense all over. Still flustered, he actually bows to her demand that she be in charge of the music.

As she’s scrolling through her playlists, he angles himself so he can snatch a tacit glance at her screen through the rearview mirror. He catches ‘revising’, ‘kate&edwina’ and only part of a third one that definitely has the letters ‘t’, ‘o’ and ‘v’ in it.

‘You’re not slick, Bridgerton, stop spying,’ Kate says without looking up from her phone, but she hastily locks it and drops it into her lap all the same.

Anthony starts to regret letting Kate play her music – not because it’s bad, with four sisters he’s been held hostage to practically every song in Taylor Swift’s discography – but it means he can’t actually talk to her, which is stupid because she hates him and he can’t stand her and god, why is he torturing himself with her here, in his car, probably ruining it and him with that fucking scent of hers – delicate, floral, heady poison, it hits some primal switch in Anthony’s brain and  tortures him with depraved thoughts of what she might taste like, leaves him feeling dazed and stupid for days.  Without even touching her, her scent fills him up, slow and thick like honey. He’s going to be inhaling her in his fucking car for weeks. It also means there’s nothing to distract him from stealing glances at her exposed, lean thighs perched only inches from his own. His fingers curl in a vice-like grip around the gearstick.

But then Kate turns the volume down on ‘Hey Stephen (Taylor’s Version)’ and angles herself to face him.

‘What did your brothers say when you covered for them?’ she asks. The question is so unexpected that it takes Anthony a minute to even register what she’s talking about.

‘Oh. Er…not a lot.’ he’s certainly not going to tell Kate that they implied he should be grateful that they effectively engineered a tête-à-tête with her via their shared detention.

‘They should appreciate you a bit more.’ Kate says bluntly. ‘I mean, did it occur to you that they actually deserved to be suspended?’

Anthony can’t pretend that the same, embittered thought hasn’t occurred to him before, increasingly in fact over the last year as he’s yanked them out of mishap after mishap, come to accept that he’ll eventually be slotted in to manage the family business when his father steps down so that his brothers can be free to pursue their own worldly passions. He wants them to have that luxury, of course he does, but he still wars with the desire to have something that’s just his own. He doesn’t have the privilege of being selfish.

It’s nice to hear the sentiment aloud from someone else though. His family just seem to expect it from him, his mother in particular.

‘Yes. Well. It’s just part of being the eldest. You know how it is.’

Kate stares fixedly at the road ahead of them, her expression stoic. ‘I do.’

There’s something about the way she says it. It’s loaded, unlike her usual teasing lilt. But her mouth, pressed into a firm line, suggests follow-up questions won’t be welcomed.

Anthony pulls into her driveway, waiting until the car’s in neutral before he looks over at her, so lovely against the soft pink hues of the setting sun. ‘You’re a shithead, Bridgerton,’ Basset would say, and he wouldn’t be wrong.

‘All right, Sharma. Be ready for chauffeuring at eight am,’ he says, waiting Kate to immediately rail against him for giving her any kind of instruction.

‘I’ll be waiting at six thirty sharp.’ Kate bears her perfect white teeth with a coy smile. ‘I’m supervising breakfast club at the prep school at seven.’

‘What? I didn’t agree-’

But Kate’s already swinging her long legs out of the door and flying up the front path to her house, braid swinging wildly behind her. She doesn’t look back but later that night Anthony will replay in his head the bells of her laugh as she shouts over her shoulder,

‘Thanks for the ride, Bridgerton!’

~

Two weeks after she accepts a ride home from her arch-rival Anthony Bridgerton, Kate Sharma is forced to accept that her relationship to him has, at some point, inexplicably, incontrovertibly changed. This realisation comes in part because all of a sudden, every corner she turns – there’s his devilishly handsome face, dark eyes flashing at her, some comment that she can’t for the life of her simply rise above and let slide hanging off his lips.

Anthony’s omnipresence in her daily life is not new; some cruel twist of fate threw her head-first into all of the same classes as him from the second she transferred into his school, then they were both elected as Heads in their final year, and then Kate made matters worse by agreeing to tutor his little brother which she did partly out of the goodness of her heart, partly for her Cambridge application and partly because she was never going to turn down the opportunity to enjoy a peek into Anthony’s otherwise rather clandestine home life.

(She’s never set foot in a house that grand and imposing before, but his family are somehow the opposite. Warm and funny and, if Kate’s honest, completely charmed by her).

But recently – since the start of this year, in fact – Anthony Bridgerton seems to be all over her like a plague. A vexing, know-it-all, domineering plague with questionable taste in headwear.

She’s practicing her flute in one of the music rooms when comes blustering in right in the middle of her discordant rendition of ‘Dancing On My Own’.

‘Sorry, Sharma,’ he says, lips curling into a devious smile. ‘It sounded like someone was coughing up a lung in here.’

‘So you came running to my rescue? Shall I start calling you knight instead of viscount?’ Kate said sweetly.

Of course, that set him off, which set her off, which set into motion a heated bickering match that very quickly had little to do with what a terrible flautist Kate is and much more to do with, well, Kate isn’t entirely sure. Sometimes she entirely forgets what it is they’re even sparring about, her mouth just starts running and doesn’t stop.

What she is sure of though, is that if her eyes aren’t drawn to the soft pink curve of his mouth when he’s talking, then his eyes are tracing the slope of her lips as she bites back with a witty rejoinder.

Her best friend Sophie is not shy when it comes to sharing her thoughts on Kate and Anthony’s tempestuous relationship. Fellow scholarship students, Sophie and Kate were fast friends from day one, but there’s one thing they don’t agree on, and that’s Anthony’s supposed ‘feelings’ for Kate. He has feelings for her, that’s undeniable, they’re written all over his face – but Kate thinks ‘intolerable’ about sums it up whereas Sophie suspects them of being more…libidinous in nature.

‘Well, obviously he’s obsessed with you,’ she says when Kate complains about Anthony turning up unexpectedly on one of her private rides and insisting on racing her all the way back to school.

‘Obsessed with ruining my life,’ Kate growls.

‘You could do a lot worse than Anthony Bridge,’ Sophie tells her.

And that’s something that Kate just doesn’t have an answer for, because she might want to roast his head on a pike, but what a beautiful head it is.

Anthony is handsome to the point of distraction, with his pink cupid’s bow and his crop of dark hair that curls tantalisingly atop his brow. Anthony, leaning forward in his chair, breath tickling her neck, laughing throatily when she turns around to cut him down. And his big brown bedroom eyes, burning into her, lighting up her brain when she’s trying to elucidate a simple thought. The crease that appears between his brows whenever he’s speaking about something intensely. In her occasional moments of madness, Kate thinks about stroking a finger down that crease. And then doing a lot of other things with his big hands and his pink mouth and his fucking cock. She’s pieced together his reputation from the other girls’ carrying whispers and the filthy fables of his big dick carved into the desks – he’s had a string of ‘girlfriends’, though apparently his distaste for the title is what has led each relationship to crash and burn. Not all of the Bridgerton A desk graffiti is complimentary.

But one has to wonder if there’s any truth to the rumours.

He did go through a bit of what Sophie calls a ‘tragic’ sideburn stage, but honestly, Kate’s seen the photos, courtesy of Gregory, and she doesn’t hate them. She thinks Anthony looks good a little slutty and rough around the edges.

Kate isn’t sure when everything went to hell and Anthony stopped being an affliction and started being, more often than not, the last thing she thinks about before she goes to sleep at night. Sometimes, she’ll pick him out in a crowded corridor, and he’ll be looking at her with restless eyes and dimpled cheeks to match his brow and she’ll have to turn away to break the spell, tongue running dry and brain even drier.

At least, Kate thinks, he’s Oxford-bound like each Bridgerton generation before him, whereas she’s had her heart set on Cambridge since she was old enough to say ‘Trinity’. She’ll be free of Anthony Bridgerton in less than a year.

But then Anthony ruins everything one late September morning in their shared English class. Their teacher tells them to get into pairs, pick a scene from their coursework play, Much Ado About Nothing, and prepare a performance of it for the rest of the class.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kate spies Tom Dorset craning himself towards her, looking quietly determined.  She grimaces, wondering if she can petition the teacher to let her do a monologue.

As it turns out, she doesn’t have to, because Anthony Bridgerton dives straight across Tom’s path to her desk with a firm ‘Excuse me,’ and drops himself into the empty seat next to her with a leisurely grin.

‘I’m not working with you,’ Kate says before he’s even uttered a word.

‘You’d rather work with Dorset?’ Anthony queries in an undertone. He leans back in his chair, lazily interlocking his hands behind his head.

‘Yes,’ Kate lies. ‘He’s smarter than you and he doesn’t talk like he belongs in a portrait from the sixteenth century.’

‘Then it’s a good thing we haven’t been asked to perform Shakespeare.’ Anthony says sarcastically. When Kate doesn’t respond other than to purse her lips, he doubles down.

‘Come on, Sharma. You’re the only person in this class who hates group work as much as I do. Us working together is the least painful outcome for all.’

Kate curses those beseeching brown eyes up and down.

‘All right, fine!’ she says, if only to get him to just stop looking at her like that, it’s making her head feel stuffed full of cotton wool. ‘We can work on it when I come to yours on Thursday for Gregory’s tutoring session.’

Anthony’s triumphant smile slips off his face.

‘That’s three days away, Sharma, the project’s due on Monday. Don’t you want to-’

‘No.’ Kate says shortly. ‘We don’t actually need to be together to learn our parts, do we? If we just decide on the scene we can learn our parts individually and then we only need to meet once to practice it together.’

‘Right, so just like the professionals, then,’ he deadpans, brows knotted together.

Not for the first time, Kate can’t understand his reaction. Does he really want to waste his evening bickering with her about the right way to pronounce some archaic Shakespearian metaphor?

‘Come on Bridgerton, don’t pretend you want to spend any more time with me than you have to,’ Kate says lightly.

He apparently has no answer for this, because he just harrumphs like a petulant child and spins around in his seat to face the front.

They don’t speak another word to each other for the rest of the class – sitting in uncomfortable, strained silence broken only by a grunt if her knuckles accidentally graze against his or that little ‘tsk’ he makes every time her hand flies into the air to give an answer.

Kate’s in such a hurry to get as far away from Anthony as she can the second the bell rings that she manages to leave her flute case behind and if he calls after her, she doesn’t hear it.

~

Mary has another night shift at the hospital and Edwina’s staying late after school for play practice so Kate’s quiet as she sticks her key into the lock and slinks over the threshold. She’s barely made it to the kitchen when her father’s voice echoes unevenly across the house, calling for her.

‘It’s me,’ she says, stepping into the living room. He’s exactly where he was when she left him this morning, crumpled on the sofa under a blanket, face painfully thin and wan. He tries to sit up, though, when he sets eyes on Kate, and he holds out a frail hand that she takes in her own.

‘How was school?’

‘Fine,’ Kate says with a non-committal shrug, fingers slipping from his.  

‘Just fine?’ Kate collects dirtied mugs and glasses, straightens his blankets, adjusts the volume on the television, anything so she doesn’t have to meet her father’s weary eye.

‘Did you eat?’ she says, as though he hasn’t spoken, and it’s his turn to shift uncomfortably. ‘Dad?’

‘I wasn’t hungry.’ he holds up a hand before Kate can chastise him. ‘I’ll eat with you and your sister later, I promise.’

But they both know he won’t.

‘Ok,’ Kate says. ‘I’ll just get started on dinner then.’

~

Some time later, Kate’s in her room and at her desk, gel pen in hand, headphones on and blocking out the rumbling of Newton’s snores from her bed.

Her phone flashes and when she leans over to look at the screen, Kate’s heart beats a funny tattoo in her chest.

[18:34] viscount loserton: I’m outside your house.

Kate takes the stairs two at a time, freezing on the last step when she glances into the living room and sees her father sound asleep, one foot poking out from his blanket and hanging limply off the side of the sofa. The sight makes her feel unbearably sad, this is who he is now, this is how she’ll be forced to remember him try as she might not to. She’ll lose the memories of the spirited and colourful man who raised her to this lonely, fading figure with skin pulled too taut over his bones.

Her phone lights up again.

[18:35] viscount loserton: Hello? Sharma??

Kate closes the door to the living room with excruciating care and in startling contrast, rips open the front door. Sure enough, there he is. Reclining against his impossibly shiny car, stupidly handsome in the trickly sunlight, mouth stretching into a crooked smile when he sees her.

‘What the fuck, Bridgerton, you can’t just turn up at someone’s house uninvited,’ Kate folds her arms menacingly. ‘Were the eight classes we had together today not enough? Are you just stalking me now?’

‘You left your flute in English,’ Anthony says lazily, waving it at her.

‘Oh.’ Kate says, taken off-guard. She hadn’t even realised, which isn’t like her. But it was Anthony’s bewildering behaviour in English that had her distracted enough to make her forget it in the first place, so it’s really his fault. ‘Well, thanks, but you could have just given it to me tomorrow.’

‘Had I done that, I wouldn’t be here right now,’ Anthony says purposefully.

‘That doesn’t make any s-’

‘You ran off before we could pick our scene from Much Ado. I don’t want to have to perform on Monday without having practiced together at all and get an instant zero because you’ve fluffed all your lines. You know how important my reputation as number one is to me.’

‘Number one in being an overcompensating dick,’ Kate mutters under her breath. ‘Fine, you can come in – but for god’s sake, be quiet. My dad’s asleep.’

She doesn’t miss Anthony’s slight frown, the dimpling on his forehead, but she’s not about to go into it, not now, probably not ever and not with him of all people. It’s not that she likes what they have, exactly, but the back and forth and the push and pull is easy, familiar, she can count on walking into registration first thing in the morning and Anthony being there with some stupid comment rolling off his tongue that she has no choice but to jump on. All of that is predicated on the premise that outside of school, they simply do not co-exist. He doesn’t know her underneath the biting cynicism and she doesn’t know him behind the sweeping arrogance and that’s how things have always been.

Until now.

‘We’ll work in my room.’ Kate murmurs, wondering if that will scare him. If it does, he doesn’t show it, but he is walking so closely behind her up the stairs that his knees keep knocking the backs of her calves.

Kate wordlessly leads him into her bedroom, casting a last-minute eye around to make sure there are no discarded knickers lying about and that the stupid “K&A” doodles in her chemistry notebook aren’t about to show her up.

She watches Anthony take it all in, waiting to defend its size and simplicity, the dulled walls and sparse furniture. But he just walks around slowly like he’s committing every detail to memory. He pulls a face at Newton, still snoring on her bed, rolls his eyes at her shelf of glittering debate trophies, smiles at the picture on the wall of an eight year old Kate riding her bike, at the missing front tooth and bright pink knee-pads.

‘Looks almost exactly as I imagined it,’ Anthony says eventually.

Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘And why have you been imagining my bedroom?’

Anthony just cocks a sceptical eyebrow. ‘What, you haven’t thought about mine? You’ve been in my house, Kate.’

‘Well, actually-’

‘Go on, let’s have it,’ Anthony says idly. ‘Fabergé eggs on every surface? Family crest hanging above the bed? Obnoxious oil painting of myself on the opposite wall-’

 ‘-I’d guess it’s tasteful, but not ostentatious. Probably large and spacious, blue walls, dark wooden bedframe with a canopy. I bet you’ve got one of those really ugly robes hanging on the back of your door.’

Anthony’s jaw drops.

‘…I got lost on the way to the bathroom once,’ Kate says with a shrug, enjoying the stupefied look on his face. 

‘Liar.’ Anthony’s in her space in seconds, staring her down with an oddly unsettling, searching look.

‘Fine, I was curious.’ Kate pushes past him and sits back down at her desk. ‘Love that shrine to me you’ve got in there, by the way.’

‘What?!’

‘You know what I’m talking about.’ Kate opens a drawer and pulls out her well-loved copy of Much Ado.

‘No, I don’t,’ he says at once. He hasn’t moved from the middle of the room and when Kate looks over, she’s surprised to see him looking mildly panicked, red-faced and covered in a light sheen of sweat.

‘I don’t have a shrine to you,’ he insists.

‘Yes, Bridgerton, I know,’ Kate says slowly, eyeing that familiar vein pulsing in his forehead. ‘I was joking.’

Anthony swallows, throat bobbing, but he seems to gather himself and comes to sit down beside her. ‘Hilarious.’

‘I thought so,’ Kate says vaguely, flicking through the book. She can feel his steady gaze on her but for some reason a flare of panic goes off in her chest and she doesn’t meet it. ‘Let’s do Act One, Scene One.’

‘Benedick and Beatrice,’ Anthony says after a pause. ‘Interesting choice, Sharma.’

‘Shakespeare uses his best language through those two, they’re a gold mine of material,’ Kate says defensively.

Anthony just laughs, but judging by the leg he’s jiggling under the table, he’s still on edge from her little joke. ‘I wasn’t implying anything.’

Kate doesn’t answer him, instead she starts babbling her way through the scene, barely pausing for breath lest Anthony make any more shrewd comments about her choice of passage.

‘I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me,’ she recites. ‘Hm, on second thought, maybe you should be playing Beatrice.’

‘What?’

‘She’s saying she’d rather hear the most offensive sound in the world than hear someone tell her they love her.’ Kate eyes him meaningfully. ‘Isn’t that the Viscount Anthony Bridgerton life philosophy?’

‘You don’t have to say Viscount every time-’

‘-but I want to-’ Kate says with a megawatt smile.

‘-and also, what are you talking about?’

‘Oh come on, everyone knows you don’t “do” relationships,’ Kate tosses the book aside and her dark, swirling eyes bore into his. ‘You string girls along and then ditch them a week later.’

Anthony slams his own book shut and fixes her with a searing glare. ‘I don’t ditch them. And if “everyone knows” I don’t do relationships, how can I be stringing anyone along?’

He has the upper hand now and they both know it. Kate isn’t quite sure why she brought this up, other than the fact that it bothers her, every time she hears about his flavour of the week, when he shows up to Debate late with his collar bent the wrong way and neck flushed and all of that frustration has to go somewhere. She tells herself it’s just because she’s used to receiving so much of his attention – annoying as it might be - so of course it’s normal to feel some resentment when her favourite dartboard isn’t around.

‘How honourable.’ it's said more acerbically than Kate intended and apparently touches a nerve because the tips of Anthony’s ears flame red and his expression hardens.

‘Since you’re bringing this up, why don’t you explain why you dumped Dorset out of the blue?’ Anthony rounds on her, and Kate lets out a strangled breath, because why the ever-living fuck is he bringing that up, now?

If Anthony had been an insufferable prick before Tom Dorset asked her out one spring afternoon last year when she was unlocking her bike and she said yes, he’d been even worse for the three months that followed. Every single day it was ‘how’s Dorset?’  the second she walked into class, and the unpredictable, mercurial moods, the constant and blatant fishing for details and yet the brooding and sullenness if she actually gave any, even if it was as innocuous as offering him one of the chocolates Tom had slipped into her schoolbag on Valentine’s Day. The day Kate showed up to their History class with a poorly concealed bruise on her neck Anthony had somehow managed to capsize Dorset’s boat during rowing team practice. Grinning fiendishly as Tom flopped around in the water like a headless chicken, Anthony had told an apoplectic Kate that it was a complete accident, something that her boyfriend had accepted and Kate had not. Anthony interfering in her academic life was one thing, but horning in on her personal life – and for seemingly no reason other than his own amusement – was unacceptable.

Tension had been at an all-time high in the week after that. Kate refused to speak to him directly and would only communicate via reluctant proxies Benedict, Sophie and Simon, or scribbled notes, until Anthony, unable to stand her silent treatment any longer, finally baited her into a debate he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist.

To Kate’s dismay, sweet-tempered, mild-mannered Dorset had refused to hold any grudges against Anthony. He was practically singing his praises again after two days (it was such a hot day, if you think about it, Bridgerton did me a favour!’), and he was Kate’s ex after three.

‘That’s really not your business.’ Kate bristles at the memory. ‘And we were together for three months. You don’t even keep cars that long.’

‘Come on, Sharma. The whole school was calling the two of you the perfect couple.’ the way Anthony says it, it almost sounds like an accusation. ‘Then out of nowhere, you end it and won’t tell anyone why. Even Dorset seemed confused...though it could have been all the lake water he swallowed.’

‘You extended every sympathy to him, I’m sure,’ Kate lifts her eyes to the ceiling, as Anthony, watching her, sticks the end of his biro into her mouth and bites down. She doesn’t want to get into this. Not here, not now, and not with Anthony fucking Bridgerton.

‘That bumbling idiot?’ Anthony says scornfully. ‘Not a chance.’

‘God, what did he even do to have mortally offended you? I thought the two of you were friends?’

‘Well, we’re not.’ Anthony juts his chin forward defiantly. ‘And personally, I never thought the two of you were suited.’

‘Well, thanks for that fascinating insight, Bridgerton, but I don’t remember asking for your opinion.’ Kate’s temper reaches boiling point and she forgets to be quiet, forgets about her sick dad asleep downstairs.

Anthony yanks his pen roughly out of his mouth, splitting the end. ‘And yet I’m giving it to you anyway.’ he says, eyes searching her face with sobering intensity. As he speaks, ink drips from corner of his mouth and down his cheek like a bloodstain, but he doesn’t even notice. Kate barely notices either.

‘Jesus Christ! Do you always have to get the last word in?’ she leaps off her chair, suddenly frantic to put some distance between them, knowing instinctively she’ll never be able to white out the look he was just giving her. But Anthony follows, trapping her in the middle of the room with that restless look on his face.

‘Me?’ he laughs, but it’s quiet and humourless. ‘You’re the one who can never just agree. With me, anyway. But Dorset says the exact same thing and you can’t stop singing his fucking praises.’

‘Excuse me?’ Kate descends on him, eyes flashing murderously, but Anthony just stands there unflinchingly. He still manages to loom over her, breaths heaving, uneven and agitated. ‘Where the hell is that coming from?’

Anthony exhales heavily through his nose. ‘You really hate me, don’t you?’ he demands, shaking his head as though daring her to correct him.

‘Probably as much as you hate me.’ Kate returns.

Anthony looks at her for a long moment.

‘Right.’ he says sceptically, but his gaze wanders back down to her slightly gaping mouth, his eyes dark as dusk and just as unsettling. Kate’s pulse has been spiking since this whole ridiculous argument started but now she can feel her heartbeat trembling in her throat, he’s standing so close to her that she could almost taste the blood pounding in his neck, hot and simmering, and his jaw is twitching madly as though from the effort of restraining himself.

‘You’ve got ink on your mouth,’ she says finally. With an air of total calm that she does not feel.

‘…what?’ Anthony blinks, like he’s barely heard her, but his hand automatically goes to his face, rubbing frustratedly. Unsurprisingly, he only succeeds in smearing the ink all over his fingers and cheek. He looks at her for confirmation.

She could say yes. That’s the safer option. That keeps them on this side of the line. He’ll go home and eventually look in the mirror and cuss her out and the next day she’ll snicker at his foolishness and he’ll rinse her out for being immature. It’s almost too easy to picture.

‘Just – let me.’ Kate huffs, and his eyes widen in alarm, but it’s too late.

Kate lifts her thumb into her mouth and licks it, drawing a strangled breath from Anthony, but she ignores it, sweeping the slick finger over his blackened, impossibly soft mouth. It catches on the edge of his lip.

In that second their eyes lock and something tangibly shifts, she sees it snap in his eyes like she feels it in her chest. A current, angry and hot, hums through Kate’s entire body. Her heart throbs with anticipation. This will either be a monumental fuck-up or something else entirely.

Kate stills her finger, tugs a little at his lip.

Anthony blinks once and then he’s on her, assaulting her mouth with his own, tart and sticky from the ink. But the sweetness of Anthony’s hands encircling her waist and settling there, finding purchase on her hips so he can drive her even closer into him, takes the bitter tang out of it. Kate’s gripping his face with both hands, thumbs bracketing his lips, and his tongue darts out to scrape her fingers in between each kiss. He exhales brokenly, but it’s more in relief than anything else. Like he’s been waiting for this.

Kate doesn’t have the presence of mind to start pulling on that thread, not when his leg is sliding forcefully between her thighs and he drops one hand from her waist to bury it in her hair and gently pull, drawing out a soft moan from the back of her throat. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’s dimly aware that this feels like mutually assured destruction, but suppressing that thought she kisses him harder, her hands slip and curl around the base of his neck, tugging indulgently at the ends of his hair, skimming through her fingers like velvet –

‘Kate! DINNER!’

It’s Edwina, back from school. Bellowing up the stairs.

‘Shit,’ Kate blurts out, shoving Anthony off of her. He staggers backwards, chest rising and falling in great peaks, staring at her with a slack, drunken expression. Kate looks down, at the door, anywhere but at him.

For a minute, they allow the shocked silence to take over. There’s nothing but the sounds of their own laboured breathing, but when she finally allows herself to look at him, the sight of Anthony’s swollen mouth and dishevelled hair, a rich tapestry of her ruinous handiwork, is what sobers Kate up.

‘You have to leave,’ she says urgently, herding him towards her window.

Anthony recovers himself long enough to baulk at this suggestion. He plants his feet firmly on the floor and refuses to budge, despite Kate’s best efforts to move him.

‘You want me to climb out of your window so I can fall and bleed out on your driveway?’ he says, with an incredulous snort. ‘Not happening.’

‘Well, I’m not parading you downstairs in front of my dad and my sister.’

‘Did it occur to you that they’ve already seen my car outside?’ Anthony points out. Kate forces down an exasperated scream, why does he have to be right now of all times?

‘Fine. You can leave through the front door. But let me do all the talking.’ Kate says through gritted teeth. Don’t mention this, remains unspoken but she knows he hears it all the same.

‘How generous,’ Anthony mutters, but he follows her out of the room without any more preamble. They creep down the stairs, Kate whispering instructions on how to avoid the creaky step, but Anthony’s hand has barely reached the doorknob when Edwina appears in the hallway, scrubbing off her stage makeup with a wet towel. She stops short when she spots him, frowning in recognition.

‘Didi?’ she says, though her attention remains on Anthony. ‘What’s he doing here?’

Kate sighs heavily but accepts her fate. Distantly she hopes Anthony has had the foresight to at least flatten his hair down. ‘We were working on a school project.’

‘You…and him?’

‘Not by choice,’ Anthony assures Edwina. Kate forces down her noise of protest – he had his tongue in her mouth not five minutes ago – but her priority has to be ushering him out of her house as quickly as possible before –

‘Kate, who’s this?’

Kate forces a plastic smile onto her face as her father struggles into view, coming to stand beside Edwina. He observes Anthony with a quiet suspicion, but before Kate can say anything Anthony is stepping forward, hand extended, wearing a smile effervescent with charm.

‘Anthony Bridgerton, Mr Sharma.’  he says. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I attend Aubrey College with your daughter.’

Kate shakes her head disconcertedly at this display, half-expecting him to bow next.

‘Ah,’ her father says, taking Anthony’s hand with a nod. ‘Anthony…I think Kate has mentioned your name before, now that I think of it.’

‘Has she?’ Anthony says, looking absurdly pleased at this notion. Kate has half a mind to tell him it’s never good things before he gets the wrong impression (again, no matter that his tongue was just in her mouth) but for some reason, Anthony just won’t shut up.

‘Kate is the brightest in our year,’ he says. ‘It’s really tested my resolve trying to keep up with her.’

Kate waits for him to turn around with a self-satisfied smirk just for her, so he can make sure she knows he’s just teeing her up only to knock her back down, but he never does.

Kate’s father nods, his eyes wrinkling fondly. ‘Yes, that’s Kate. So you two are doing something for school?’

‘Kate and I were working on a scene for our English class.’ Anthony answers. ‘I hope we weren’t being too loud.’

Kate clears her throat, ignoring Edwina’s pointed look. ‘Appa-’

‘No, in fact, I wouldn’t have known you were up there at all.’ her father says, pleasantly enough, but there’s no mistaking the charge in his words. A pink stain spreads up Anthony’s neck and cheeks.

‘Well, it’s nice to put a face to the name, Anthony,’ Kate’s father says. ‘Will you stay for dinner? You must be hungry.’

‘No, Anthony needs to get back-’

‘I would love to, if it’s not an imposition-’

Kate isn’t close or delicate enough to stomp on Anthony’s foot without attracting attention and when she pins him with a deathly glare his response is an innocent smile.  

‘Not at all, Kate made plenty, and I don’t have much of an appetite at the moment.’ her father says warmly. ‘Edwina, help me lay the table?’

The second they’ve slipped through the door and it’s just Kate and Anthony again, she jabs a finger, hard, into his chest.

‘What the fu-’

‘It would have looked rude if I just left after your father invited me,’ Anthony says defensively.

Kate crosses her arms, she’s not buying it. She’s seen his little sweet-talking act a thousand times before, on teachers and prefects and unfortunately other girls, but he has no obvious angle here. ‘Since when do you care what my family thinks?’

‘Let’s not keep them waiting,’ Anthony ignores her and marches through to the dining room, forcing Kate to storm after him.

Despite his incongruous presence at the table, dinner is a largely uneventful affair. Initially, Kate chews through her chapati in silence as her appa asks Anthony about his A-levels, his interests. But then he lights up as he starts talking about his family, his seven brothers and sisters and Kate can’t help but chime in, first when he recounts the two youngest ones’ latest squabble (‘In Greg’s defence, Hyacinth did whack him round the head with the chessboard-’) and then again when he complains about another one of Eloise’s controversial tweets going viral (‘Ok, but she’s not not right-’). It’s with an odd hitch in her chest that Kate realises her father and Edwina haven’t said a word in at least twenty minutes, it’s all been her and Anthony.

She sinks back into her chair and herself, and Anthony furrows his brow as though he’s confused by her shift in demeanour.

‘So, Anthony, you’re an Oxford man, are you?’ Kate’s father volunteers. Kate takes the opportunity to pile more vegetables onto his plate.

‘Hopefully, yes.’ Anthony tears his eyes away from Kate, looks modestly into in his lap.

‘Speaking of, Kate, how’s your Cambridge application coming along?’ her father sets his fork down on his largely untouched plate. ‘You haven’t mentioned it in a while.’

Kate takes a long time to finish swigging from her glass. ‘It’s done.’ she says. ‘I got it in yesterday.’ It’s not done, it’s been gathering dust on her laptop for weeks now, but her father doesn’t know that, he doesn’t need to. Her father doesn’t need to know that Kate’s not even sure she’s going to go to university any more, let alone Cambridge, not when his skin crumples like paper over his bones, when every day he’s eating less and sleeping more, when she slips down the stairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water and hears the hiss of the tap trying to block out Mary’s muffled sobs.

But Anthony knows she hasn’t finished it. Anthony knows because their tutor has been nagging Kate every morning in registration to get it done and approved, and every time, she says it just needs one last cold read, and every time, Anthony looks at her, forehead dimpling with curiosity but says nothing.

Just as he says nothing now. But he peers at her over the rim of his glass, eyes slitted and simmering, making her blood burn as it rushes to her head.

He helps her wash up the plates after dinner, insists on it. It would be easy to write it off as another act to win her father’s favour but he looks so earnest when he rolls up the sleeves of his school shirt, dons the pink marigolds without question. Kate pinches herself so as to drive away any unwelcome thoughts, like how adorably stupid he looks.

‘Now, this is a sight I never thought I’d see,’ she says, handing him a spoon to rinse. ‘Anthony Bridgerton doing a domestic task.’

‘Oh come on, Sharma. I’ll admit it’s not a regular occurrence-’

‘-mmm-’

‘-but believe it or not, when Hy was little I was chief bottle-washer. If she needed feeding in the middle of the night I wasn’t about to go and wake up the housekeeper.’

Kate pauses, hovering over the dishwasher door. ‘Weren’t you sixteen then?’

He stops scrubbing the spoon, clears his throat. ‘My mother was…very unwell when Hy was born.’ Anthony says gruffly. ‘I helped out a lot.’

There’s clearly more to it than that, Kate can put the pieces together from the things Gregory has inadvertently dropped into conversation, the breadcrumbs laid down by Simon, the way it’s Anthony all his siblings harangue whenever they’re in trouble, not their mother.

They don’t speak for a few minutes, Anthony handing her the rinsed cutlery as Kate stacks up the dishwasher, trying not to tense and recoil whenever their fingers brush.

‘You can ask, you know,’ she says into the silence. She can practically hear the cogs clunking in his brain, wondering whether to feign ignorance, but in the end he just comes out and says it so she doesn’t have to.

‘Your dad’s ill.’ he peels his gloves off, slouches against the counter and watches her carefully.

‘He’s got liver cancer.’ Kate says. Before he can utter a sympathetic word, before his face can soften with pity that she doesn’t want, she blurts out, ‘Your dad died last year, didn’t he? The summer before I transferred?’

Anthony regards her for a second, jaw rigid and guarded, before he sighs heavily.

‘Yeah.’

He doesn’t call her out for blatantly turning the conversation back on him.

‘Is that why you broke up with your girlfriend? Siena, wasn’t it?’ as if he’ll be fooled by her little act, Kate knows damn well that Anthony knows that ever the diligent Head Girl, Kate can name nearly everyone in the school, even if Siena transferred at the end of last year. ‘You were together for half a year?’

Anthony doesn’t look offended by her boldness, just a little taken aback.

‘It wasn’t the only reason,’ he says at last, not without effort. ‘She wanted something I couldn’t give her.’

‘Right, you don’t do love. Everything has to be casual and meaningless.’ Kate says.

‘It’s just not something I’ve ever wanted.’ he says harshly. Kate knows he’s starting to close off, that lone vein bulging in his forehead, but she can’t stop pushing him.

‘What a completely unvague, non-evasive answer,’ she says, with a blithe laugh. Frankly Kate’s surprised he hasn’t already told her to piss off, he’s certainly done it before and for much less, but the fact he’s barely resisting her makes her wonder if really, he wants to be held down, unpicked and understood.

‘Look, I just don’t see the point,’ Anthony says with a perilous edge to his voice. ‘As soon as you let yourself do that, you’re just counting down until the inevitable. It can only end one way. And the worst part is that the fallout is never just confined to one person.’ he shakes his head resolutely. ‘I don’t want to be the cause of that pain.’

‘That’s stupid.’ Kate says plainly, ignoring his thunderstruck expression. ‘For one thing, you realise you can’t control whether or not you fall in love with someone?’

Anthony sucks his cheeks in sharply. ‘No more stupid than lying to your dad about applying to Cambridge.’

‘Keep your voice down-’

‘-what are you playing at, Sharma? The Oxbridge deadline is less than two weeks away.’ he punts himself off the counter and thunders over to face her properly. ‘You talk non-stop about going to Cambridge, I’ve seen you stalking the law tutors’ bio pages, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had your college crest tattooed-’

‘Don’t deflect,’ Kate says, knowing she’s a hypocrite but not really caring, she just needs him to stop talking. ‘So you think by avoiding any kind of romantic attachment, you’re protecting yourself and everyone else?’

Kate’s playing a dangerous game, now; if he asks why she cares so much, she won’t have an answer, at least not one she’s willing to share, but he doesn’t. Instead his brows knot angrily together and his eyes flicker down her face one last time.

‘You know, I think it probably is time I went home,’ Anthony says roughly, barging out of the kitchen so fast that Kate has to jog to catch up with him. When she does, outside in the balmy evening air, he’s wrestling with the handle on his car door, looking like he’s close to kicking it in.

‘Anthony,’ Kate says, and his head snaps up, as though he’s surprised she’s come out after him. ‘I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business. If you want to be an aloof slut, go right ahead.’

She’s relieved when he rolls his eyes and cracks a lopsided smile. They’re fumbling for it but they can get back to their combative comfort zone.

But then Anthony’s looking at her far too intently, mouth aslant with trepidation, and she knows what he’s about to do and she’s not ready, she’s not prepared for this, and Kate always prepares for everything.

‘About earlier-’ he says hesitantly.

‘-we don’t need to talk about that.’ Kate says. If his face crosses with hurt, she won’t read into it. ‘Oh...um, thanks. For not dobbing me in to my dad.’

‘Nothing in that for me, is there?’ Anthony says, but it falls flat, and his eyes crinkle sadly as he turns away from her and towards his car. ‘Well, see you, Sharma.’

‘Ant-’

But he’s already halfway back up the path and in her space, keys hanging loosely from his fingers.

‘If you want, I’ll help you.’ he’s saying. ‘With your application. My godmother went to Cambridge and she shared her personal statement with me. So…’

‘Ok,’ says Kate, without really thinking about it. She hopes he can’t see the way she’s shaking, frigid with relief. The moment’s passed. She can just let it fade into the ether. They never have to bring it up again. ‘Thanks.’

Kate tosses and turns that night, praying to her bedroom ceiling that whatever it is she’s feeling for Anthony Bridgerton will fade, that in a few weeks she’ll look back and blame teenage hormones, blow it off like dust in the wind. Kissing him was a moment of madness that had started off as a completely magnanimous gesture on her part to protect his stupid ink-stained face from being ridiculed by his siblings and Anthony had turned into something else. Whether or not Kate was along for the ride is surely irrelevant.

Above all, he’s been pretty definitive that he’d rather eat glass than pursue anything serious, with anyone. And if he was going to break that rule, it’s surely not going to be with Kate, who he’s admitted on multiple occasions – to her face – that he can’t stand. Besides, there’s no reason to add another layer of complication to what is an already rather complicated relationship.

But every time she closes her eyes she remembers his lips, pillowy and warm against hers, the hard planes of his skin hot and trembling beneath her fingertips, his hands digging into the dips of her waist. If Kate could burn the memories, she would, but as it is she just has to tell herself it was just a kiss – a toe-curling kiss, but a kiss all the same – and not worthy of a downward spiral at two in the morning.

Except now that she’s tasted him in the waking hours and not just in an easily ignored dream, she can already feel herself slipping, uncoiling tightly-coiled knots of desire. His hands and mouth felt divine on her waist and jaw but Kate can’t stop herself wondering what else they’d be capable of, skimming her breasts and thighs and clit. A dangerous thought occurs to her that maybe one way to end this nightmare would be if she called him up now and told him to fuck her into the sunrise. One and done and they both walk away unscathed.

But Kate can’t guarantee that once will be enough.

Simply staying away from Anthony would be the obvious thing to do, but that implies that she can’t control herself around him, a notion which can’t be allowed to stand. Being aggressively normal until normality actually takes hold seems like the safest way around this entire mess, and it’s that thought that finally lulls her to sleep.

~

Kate starts to think that maybe she didn’t need to worry at all.

He’s not home when she tentatively pokes her head around his front door for Gregory’s tutoring on Thursday. He’s his usual antagonistic self in all of their shared classes, if a little less spirited than usual, and although their Much Ado performance on Monday barely bags the top mark, Kate could almost be convinced that kissgate was a figment of her imagination. In any event, it seems like Anthony was completely unaffected by it, which she really shouldn’t be disappointed by, but is.

Then Anthony catches her after their last class of the day, hooking onto her sleeve, face oddly serious. ‘Have you submitted your Cambridge application yet?’

‘No,’ Kate says slowly. ‘Look, Bridgerton, you don’t have to-’

‘I want to.’ says Anthony, without blinking. ‘I said I would help, didn’t I? I keep my word.’

Kate supposes that’s true. Though why he’s chosen this particular hill to die on, she’s not sure. What is it to him whether she goes to Cambridge or not?

‘Now?’ she says, and he gestures wordlessly out of the room. They camp out in the library for the next three hours, keeping their quarrelling at a respectful volume to avoid the librarian’s wrath. At least five times Anthony snatches the laptop while she’s typing to edit her half-formed sentence and at least five times Kate is too distracted by his warm, solid forearms moving over hers and his mussed afternoon hair to object. That, and the fact that he’s actually good at this, at finding precisely the right words to make Kate’s character and accolades jump off the page. It’s unnerving, how well he seems to know her, what makes her tick, the sincerity with which he tells her she’s not bigging herself up enough.

Kate asks him to help her again on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Every time he smiles crookedly and says yes, and when she texts him on Sunday evening to tell him she’s finally pressed submit, he replies with a thumbs-up and now we just have to find a way to fix your personality before the interview and Kate is still smirking at her screen half an hour later when Edwina asks her what’s so funny.

It’s only much later, when she finds out from an inscrutable Simon that Anthony’s been skipping rowing team practice in favour of helping her and is on the verge of getting kicked off the team that she starts to wonder if she was naïve to assume the kiss changed nothing for Anthony.

~

Kate keeps the fat yellow envelope from Cambridge with her at all times. She’s read the letter enough times to recite it by heart, but that doesn’t stop her from pulling it out in her personal study period in-between writing Danbury’s essay, smiling stupidly at each line.

She’s had the letter for four days and still hasn’t told anyone. Telling people means making a decision, and that means another fight with her father, who’s been spending more time in hospital than at home lately. Kate won’t be the reason he gets any worse.

But the one thing she didn’t count on was Anthony’s propensity for poking his nose into her business.

‘What’s got you so happy?’ he says from behind her, already craning down to read the paper in her hands.

She stashes it underneath a notebook, but she’s not fast enough, and he walks around the table and flops into the seat opposite her.

‘You got an interview at Cambridge?’ he says eyes lighting up like torches. The way he’s looking at her is so sincere, like he’s genuinely pleased for her, and it makes Kate’s heart falter. The truth is that all along, it’s been him she wanted to tell first, his crooked smile she wanted to bask in.

‘Yep. Trinity College.’ she says, when she trusts her voice not to shake. ‘I’m not too proud to admit that I probably owe you a debt of gratitude.’

‘I intend to collect on that,’ Anthony says lightly. ‘Congratulations, Sharma. You deserve it. Just try not to fuck up the interview, ok?’

Smiling despite herself, Kate can’t resist a chance to light his fuse. ‘What’s the matter, not heard back from Oxford yet? I guess the Bridgerton name doesn’t hold as much water as I thought.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ Anthony returns, ‘I’m happy to get into Oxford the old-fashioned way.’

‘Relying on your family’s old boys’ club connections?’ Kate says sweetly. Anthony just rolls his eyes.

‘Any chance you can leave for Cambridge today, Sharma?’

‘Actually,’ she says, and Anthony’s face drops. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to do the interview.’

Immediately, Kate regrets saying it. The thought has been festering ever since she opened the envelope, but she hasn’t had the nerve to admit it even to herself until now. His reaction is anything but calm and composed, and the library definitely wasn’t the place to broach this conversation.

‘What?!’ Anthony pushes his chair back, hurtling to his feet. ‘What are you talking about, Kate, why wouldn’t you go?’

‘Sit down!’ Kate tells him, but he pays her absolutely no attention. Typical, though if the shoe was on the other foot, it’s not like she’d be any different.

‘It’s about your dad, isn’t it?’ he says bluntly. ‘That’s why you kept putting off your application.’

Kate says nothing, which of course says everything.

‘You don’t need me to tell you how stupid that is.’

Oh, if there was anything he could say to bait her into responding, it’s that. ‘Stupid? You expect me to just ride off into the sunset when my dad’s dying?’ Kate hurls at him.

‘That’s not what you’d be doing,’ Anthony sounds like he’s trying very hard to keep his temper under control, exhaling loudly through his nose. ‘You can’t put your life on pause because of something that might or might not happen. Have you even talked to him about this?’

‘No,’ Kate admits. ‘He’ll just tell me I have to go-’

‘And he’d be right.’ Anthony says at once. ‘You’ve literally worked your arse off for god knows how long for this. You’re running away.’ he pauses, gives her a look that cuts right through her. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

Kate ignores that final comment. ‘I care about my dad more than I care about Cambridge, and for the record-’

‘Yeah, I know, Sharma, it’s none of my business,’ Anthony says in a strained voice, shaking his head exhaustedly. ‘Fair enough. It’s not like I know anything about dead dads and familial responsibility, is it? I’ll just leave you alone, shall I?’

Kate freezes, open-mouthed. By the time she’s found the words, he’s already walking away.

Anthony’s cold-shouldering lasts for the rest of the week. It’s ironic how a week ago she would have been grateful for the reprieve, free from thoughts corrupted by his clean, piney scent and the way his smile feels crushed against her mouth. But now it feels lonely, moving through the day without stinging him with her quick wit and hearing his throaty laugh when she lands a blow, kidding herself that his face really does light up when she walks into class.

She toys with the idea of making a point of talking to Dorset instead, of drawing out that hard, dark-eyed stare, but it just feels too petty.

‘What’s going on with you and Bridgerton?’ Sophie asks her, when they walk past his table at lunchtime and he turns his head so fast to avoid meeting her gaze that he barely avoids a neck injury.

We kissed, Kate debates saying, since that’s where this all started, but she doesn’t want Sophie to get excited over nothing, start squealing about how she was right this entire time, wanting every sordid detail.

‘We had an argument,’ she says instead, and Sophie sniggers, wondering aloud, what else is new.

Kate looks back but Anthony’s already left his table and is heading in the opposite direction.

Now who’s running away, Kate wants to yell after him. She nearly texts him about ten times, oscillating between a simple sorry and a more granular breakdown of where it all went wrong and why it was mostly her fault but also kind of his.

She turns up at his house on Thursday as usual, but before she even has to ask, Gregory tells her rather chirpily that Anthony’s gone to ‘a friend’s house’ and everyone’s relieved by this because he’s apparently been in a foul mood all week, snapping at them more than usual. Kate reaches into her schoolbag to pull out her maths revision guides, thankful that Gregory can’t see her expression.

‘Anthony said you’ve got an interview at Cambridge,’ Gregory says later, as Kate marks up his integration exercise. At this, her red pen hovers on the page. ‘That’s so cool, Kate.’

‘Thanks, Greg,’ Kate says warmly. She waits for what seems like an acceptably casual length of time before following up,  ‘did he…say anything else?’

Gregory considers this. ‘He said a load of stuff about you being stubborn. I sort of tuned him out at that point. Sorry.’

‘That’s ok,’ Kate reassures him, her grip on the pen becoming vice-like. ‘I don’t-’

‘-oh, yeah,’ Gregory says absentmindedly. ‘He did say one nice thing though. I asked him if he thought you’d get in, because the interviews are so intense, aren’t they? If you say one wrong thing, you can ruin your chances. Anthony said, Kate never makes mistakes.’

That evening, Kate tells her father about the interview.

Her decision is already made.

~

The length of the train ride is inconvenient. Too short to try and sneak a nap, but not long enough to get stuck into a book. Kate’s phone is loaded with good luck messages from her father, Sophie and Edwina and her classmates from orchestra, hockey and debate.

But there’s nothing from him. It’s not like she’s even told him; she wanted to do it in-person, but he’s made that incredibly difficult, tearing out of class the second the bell rings, dragging Simon into some stupid, contrived conversation every time she approaches him. But she hoped maybe he’d hear through word of mouth, text her to say you’ll be great or some teasing jibe, just anything to break his radio silence.

She pulls up their text thread. Her thumbs twitch over the keyboard, but at this point overthinking feels like a waste of energy. He’s already angry with her, there seems like little she could say now to make that worse.

Please can you send me your class notes from today? I won’t be in school.

She waits with bated breath, worrying her lip to the point she can taste blood, until she sees the three dots indicating he’s typing.

But then they’re gone, and he hasn’t replied.

I promise I’ll bring you some stash back from the superior half of Oxbridge. Kate hits send.

She stares at the screen imperiously. No dots.

But then her phone starts ringing.

It’s him.

Kate shouldn’t be this giddy, shouldn’t have adrenaline running through her like a current, be fighting the impulse to kick her feet.

Don’t answer, she thinks, just tell him your signal is shit and you need to read through your notes again. Don’t answer, because you don’t need his voice in your head again, turning you upside down, messing you up.

‘Hey,’ she says into her phone.

~

Anthony very nearly doesn’t go to Simon’s Halloween party.

It’s a lucky thing that he does, because who knows what might have happened (or might not have happened) if he hadn’t.

It’s Wednesday afternoon, the party’s on Friday, and Anthony honestly hasn’t given it much thought beyond, sounds stupid, I’m not wearing a costume, ergo, I’m not going.

Anthony strolls into History, flings his bag on his desk, slouches on top of it so he’s facing Kate and Simon’s row, and does what he always does: pretends to be listening to whatever Simon’s telling him while covertly monitoring the door until Kate appears.

But his view is suddenly obstructed by two girls he’s barely spoken as many words to in the entire time he’s known them. They’ve been tittering away with Simon, but when Anthony unwillingly enters the conversation, they shuffle forward and perch on the end of Kate’s desk, legs swinging like pendulums.

‘Bridge is going, aren’t you?’ Simon is drawling, and Anthony stops peering at the door and faces Cordelia Clifton and Mary-Ann Hallewell, who are inspecting him with matching expressions of girlish delight.

‘What? Going where?’ Anthony says irritably.

‘To the party on Friday,’ Mary-Ann swings her legs harder, accidentally-on-purpose knocking them against Anthony’s. ‘We’ve all been wondering what you’re coming as…’

‘What?’ Anthony says again, more rudely than before. For some reason this makes Cordelia and Mary-Ann snicker like a pack of hungry seagulls.

Simon tuts at him, which raises Anthony’s ire even further. ‘You’ll be lucky to get Bridgerton in a costume. I’m convinced he wears that bloody blazer to bed.’

‘Piss off,’ Anthony says, more out of habit than anything. ‘Why, you’re not seriously dressing up, Basset?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ Simon says in honeyed tones, clearly for the girls’ benefit than Anthony’s, and they giggle obligingly. Cordelia is saying something to him, but Anthony isn’t even trying to listen, because at that moment, Kate walks in, struggling with an enormous stack of books. A section of her long, inky hair is pulled back in a purple hair ribbon, showing off the lovely curve of her jaw, and put simply, she is ethereal.

Blinking rapidly, Anthony loses himself in a fantasy where he pulls the ribbon apart with his teeth, sweeps Kate’s silky hair over her shoulder, granting him full access to the nape of her slender, willowy neck. First, he’ll wrap a hand around her stomach and drag her swiftly into his chest, his blood rushing the second the scent of lilies hits him. He’ll skim his fingers across the nape of her neck, enjoying her shuddering against him. And then he’ll lean forward and press a kiss to that same spot –

Basset’s looking at him strangely, but then he follows Anthony’s gaze to Kate and his face stretches into a voyeuristic smirk. Bastard. Anthony is well aware it’s ridiculous for a hair accessory to have this kind of effect on him, but he’s also well aware it’s not the hair accessory that’s eliciting these monstrous feelings, it’s Kate.

Ignoring Simon, Anthony jumps off his desk, plotting the best route to her so he can divest her of all those books, but Cordelia, still waffling on, hops off Kate’s desk in a misguided attempt to regain his attention. In her eagerness she lands on Anthony’s right foot.

Despite this throbbing toes, Anthony barely hears her hasty apology. Kate’s over at Danbury’s desk, still weighed down by all those heavy tomes as she talks to the teacher.

Kate’s stomped on his foot too many times to count, though she always makes a point of letting him know it’s on purpose. A smile creeps onto Anthony’s face at the recollection, with the unfortunate side effect of emboldening Cordelia who thinks it’s in response to whatever nonsense she’s babbling at him. She grabs onto his hand and Anthony’s not paying her enough attention to have the foresight to shake it off.

‘-could even do a matching costume, if you wanted-’

‘Kate!’ Simon says gleefully, as she makes her way to her desk, dumping her books  unceremoniously in the space Cordelia’s just vacated.

And then she stops.

Looks at Anthony. Looks at Cordelia. Looks at Cordelia holding Anthony’s hand. Her amber eyes narrow and her mouth settles into a pinched, angry line. Not entirely sure what’s just happened, Anthony rips his hand out of Cordelia’s grasp, but it’s too late.

And then Kate blinks, and her face is blank again. She squeezes past Cordelia and into her seat, her back to Anthony. She’s sitting so stiffly it looks painful, and Simon just raises his eyebrows at Anthony, as if to say, you’ve fucked it there, mate.

Danbury starts the class, and Anthony stares straight ahead without really listening at all, his whole body tense with frustration. Ever since he’d snapped that final thread of temptation and kissed Kate, it seems like they’re trapped in a constant cycle of hating and ignoring and longing (at least in his case), and any détente doesn’t last for longer than a week. Anthony’s pretty sure that’s only about forty percent his fault.

But he’d said all that stupid stuff about love and relationships to her. Stupid only in the sense that her dad is critically ill and Anthony had decided to bang on about how he’d basically fallen apart when his own father had dropped dead from a bee sting, of all things, during a family picnic. He at least hadn’t told her about the shell that his mother had become and the black hole she’d fallen into. It had taken everything in him to save his siblings from being sucked into the same empty void, to try and shield them from the grief that had ravaged their mother, but that just meant that Anthony had shouldered it all.

If Kate’s father dies, Anthony already knows she’ll follow the same path as him, give everything she has without regret to spare her stepmother and her precious little sister. She’ll do it better than he did, because it’s Kate, but the thought makes his stomach turn. Kate wants more than that and he wants it for her.

He also wants her, badly, but that has had to come secondary to making sure she didn’t miss her interview (he knew Greg would pull through) and what Kate herself wants. Which was, evidently, to forget that the kiss ever happened. Something Anthony will never be able to do, because she’s fucking ruined him. Nearly every night in his dreams, she tortures him, forcing him to revisit her desperate touch and ambrosial lips. He wakes up sweaty and hard and livid, knowing there’s no pleasure he can bring himself that will ever live up to the real thing.

But right now, it’s not looking particularly likely that the real thing is going to speak to him any time soon. Kate proves him right when she barges straight out of History the second the lesson ends, not even bidding Danbury goodbye. He hardly dares hope that this is jealousy, because if it is, it’s an easily solved problem. Anthony can tell her that he couldn’t pick Cordelia Clifton out of a crowd of ten people, and then he and Kate can be kissing up a storm.

That’s not to say that he’s backtracking on his anti-love philosophy. But if he likes Kate and Kate likes him then depriving themselves of each other over some far-off possibility seems like an overreaction. He was with Siena for six months and love never even occurred to him until she had brought it up and unwittingly nuked their relationship; and while it’s a non-starter to compare the disaster that was with his feelings for Kate, Anthony has satisfied himself that he knows how to guard against falling in love.

Kate is decidedly cool with him the next day, though Anthony supposes he should be glad she’s at least talking to him. A hundred times, he considers cornering her and telling her in no uncertain terms that if the reason for this strop is misguided jealousy, then they should stop wasting time arguing and spend it on much more pleasurable activities, but even he can admit that there’s a time and a place.

Which would have been his house when Kate comes over for tutoring, but Gregory skips into the living room to announce that he’ll be taking his session in the library today because Kate wants him to do a mock exam and no disturbances will be welcomed.

In response, Anthony exercises great restraint by not screaming bloody murder into a pillow.

Benedict, slouching on the opposite sofa, glances sheepishly at Anthony from over his phone.

‘What?’

‘At the risk of getting my head bitten off, Colin’s saying you and that girl Cordelia are wearing matching costumes to Simon’s,’ Benedict says. ‘Is that true?’

‘No,’ Anthony rages. ‘I’m not even going.’

But then in English on Friday morning, Tom Dorset asks Kate if she’s going to Simon’s later and Kate very loudly answers that she is.

So obviously, Anthony is forced to completely debase himself and put on a bloody Halloween costume.

~

Simon’s house, a sprawling country estate, could fit the entire school and their extended families, several times over. His widowed father, a duke, pays about as much attention to his eighteen year old son as he does to the staff, and Simon throwing this party could not be more of a roaring ‘fuck you’ to his grace. When Anthony arrives with Benedict and Colin in tow, there are already hordes of people gathered on the mall in varying states of sobriety, weaving a trail of broken bottles, crushed cups and other debris around them.

‘I still can’t believe you managed to get Ant to put that on,’ Colin mutters from behind him. Anthony isn’t even sure what Colin’s supposed to be but can’t be bothered to ask.

‘It was the least offensive option,’ Benedict says brightly, producing a hipflask from his costume, which involves a black masquerade mask and not much else of note.

‘Don’t forget, be out here by two sharp or you can find your own rides home,’ Anthony orders. Colin mimes a stupid salute at him and Benedict just takes another swig of whatever’s in that hipflask – hopefully not that ‘special tea’ that their mother confiscated after a particularly embarrassing dinner party incident because Anthony has no intention of spending tonight mopping up Benedict’s vomit.

The moment they get inside, his brothers scatter, which suits Anthony just fine, only he’s realising that hunting down Kate in this zoo is going to be near-impossible.  Feeling like an idiot, Anthony slopes into the state-of-the-art kitchen and lolls against the counter, wishing he was stupid enough to smoke if only to have something to do with his hands, other than lugging around this stupid crossbow.

He’s hatching a plan to ditch it behind a house plant when he spots her.

Kate, wearing the tiniest black skirt known to man, perfectly angled to show off an endless stretch of toned brown leg. And as if that’s not enough to send Anthony over the edge, she’s floating around in a dark purple corset that sets off both her radiant skin and the soft swell of her breasts, the crimson on her lips already smeared around the bottle in her right hand. He’s loathe to even mention the fishnets and heeled boots but they’ll be seared into his memory for a very long time.

And then she throws her head back and laughs at something Sophie says, revealing a set of bloodied white fangs.

She’s dressed as a vampire, and Anthony’s come as Van Helsing.

It might be funny if Anthony wasn’t so minded to track Benedict down and violently murder him. Distracted by these thoughts of fratricide, Anthony waits a fraction of a second too long to move out of Kate’s line of sight and as though sensing his gaze, she zeroes in on him. He tries not to enjoy watching her jaw drop, but then she’s gliding towards him on her very long legs and he just about loses his mind.

‘What the fuck,’ Kate glares at him. Her reaction is not exactly flattering, but then again she probably thinks Anthony did this on purpose to blindside her. Before he can even attempt an explanation, two familiar faces briefly materialise on either side of Kate.

Neither of them look remotely ashamed.

‘Fuckers, you did this on purpose,’ Anthony fumes at his brothers, but Colin’s barely listening, he’s already stuffed half a toffee apple in his gob, and Benedict just shrugs and waggles his fingers at them with a glib smile.

‘I’m sure Sophie was in on it too,’ Kate says, watching them retreat. ‘She and Ben have been getting pretty close lately.’

Anthony grunts noncommittally. He really doesn’t care who his brother is shagging, especially not with Kate in front of him and looking as tempting as she does.

‘Well, I like the bloodthirsty tyrant look. It suits you,’ he says slyly.

‘Where did that crossbow come from? Did you raid the Bridgerton family vault?’ Kate fires back.

‘What, do you expect us to just keep the priceless artifacts lying around?’ Anthony says mockingly. ‘It’s plastic, Sharma.’

‘You know, if you just took that stupid jacket off and ditched the crossbow you could pretend you’ve come as the tenth earl of Huntingdon or something and spare us from getting mocked all night.’ Kate looks pointedly at his monogrammed boots. ‘It wouldn’t be a stretch.’

Anthony’s temper flares. ‘I have a better idea, why don’t we just stick to opposite sides of the room?’

‘Fine by me.’ Kate snaps, and she turns on her heel and picks her way through the packs of liquored up students, including, Anthony can’t help but notice, Tom Dorset, whose eyes bug and spin out of his head when she walks past. This does not improve his mood.

Anthony flings the crossbow haphazardly across the room and rues the day his parents decided to have more children after him, condemning him to life as their designated driver when what he really wants right now is to get mindlessly drunk.

Kate, however, seems to be taking full advantage of being unshackled for the night, knocking back shot after shot with Sophie, dancing with randoms and still managing to look like a sweaty goddess, bearing more teeth with each laugh than Anthony’s ever seen. He’s at least pleased to see she’s keeping Dorset at arm’s length.

Anthony stands at the edge of things, watching her openly, doesn’t even notice that Simon’s joined him until his friend claps him heartily on the shoulder, following his gaze. ‘Still on that, then?’

‘Fuck off, Basset,’ Anthony says, his gaze not shifting.

‘Really, Bridgerton, how long are you going to keep lollygagging around instead of admitting what you actually want?’ Simon’s slurring his words even more than usual, and when Anthony finally forces himself to look away from Kate, his friend’s pupils are blown wide as dinnerplates.

‘Go and lie down,’ Anthony tells him, a little disgustedly, but Simon just flips him off and disappears into the rabble. He might be drunk and on something but he’s not entirely wrong. By the time he’s tracked Kate down again she’s split off from Sophie and is fixing herself a vodka cranberry on the gleaming kitchen counter.

Anthony crosses the room with purposeful strides, knocking meandering, drunk students out of the way until he’s standing right behind her. She’s wearing that purple hair ribbon again and his fingers jerk at his sides with the effort of not reaching up and unlacing it.

‘Planning on leaving anything for the rest of us? What’s that, number eight?’

Kate’s hand clenches around the vodka bottle, but she doesn’t turn around. ‘Don’t worry, Bridgerton, I’ve got no interest in your precious sparkling waters. Not all of us are afraid of having a good time.’

‘I know how to have a good time, I’m just not interested in making myself into a cautionary tale.’  

‘You’d rather lurk in the corner counting my drinks? Don’t you have anything better to do? Like finding Cordelia?’

‘No, and I don’t know where that stupid rumour about us came from, but it isn’t true,’ Anthony grinds out. ‘Anyway, didn’t you come here with Tom wanker Dorset?’

‘Very mature, Anthony,’ Kate rolls her eyes, though her lip quirks upwards like she’s hiding a smile. She pours a generous measure of vodka into her cup and lifts it to her mouth, taking an even more generous sip.

‘Maybe you should slow down,’ Anthony says, eyes narrowing.

‘Maybe you should shut up,’ says Kate, and she tosses the other half of her drink down her throat.

‘Come on, you two,’ Benedict strolls over and grabs an empty tequila bottle from the side with a roguish grin. ‘Spin the bottle, two minutes.’

Anthony chokes on air. ‘I don’t think so.’ Ben really is an idiot sometimes, as though Anthony’s going to play some juvenile kissing game, especially when two of his brothers are also partaking.

‘Sounds fun,’ Kate says, slamming her empty cup down and throwing Anthony look of pure hostility. ‘I’ll play.’

That’s how Anthony finds himself sitting in a circle with about twenty other people he’s got no interest in kissing, and Kate.

Either Benedict is a dab hand with the bottle or has stored up some seriously good karma (unlikely) because in the course of ten minutes, he’s kissed three people Anthony’s sure he’s seen depicted in chalks and oils in his brother’s sketchbook.

He’s starting to think this was a very bad idea. The thought of watching Kate kissing some undeserving prick that isn’t him makes him feel angry and hot all over and yet he’s served himself up on a platter to do just that. Without looking at her once, he starts to ease himself out of the circle, sure that everyone else is too inebriated to notice him sneaking off –

‘Alright, Anthony’s go,’ Benedict declares. Anthony stops moving and shoots his brother a poisonous glare.

‘No it’s not, it’s still yours,’ he says. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kate watching him like an amber-eyed hawk.

‘I can donate my turn to another player if I wish,’ Benedict says airily.

‘Fine.’ Anthony has now had enough. Enough of his brothers’ childish interference, enough of everyone in this room (bar one) and enough of this stupid, puerile game.

He inches forward and picks up the bottle, but he doesn’t spin it. Instead, he just twists it around to point at Kate. An outbreak of giggling and muttering ripples through the circle but it’s all white noise as far as Anthony is concerned. He only has eyes for one person.

Kate’s rolling her eyes at his forwardness, but he’s too attuned to her body language, knows what she looks like when she’s truly pissed off. And behind her startled fawn expression, he sees that she’s pleased, her mouth curling into a shy smile.

‘Artfully done, brother,’ Benedict sniggers under his breath, but then he claps his hands together with a devious smile. ‘Anthony took the seventh go, so that means he has to spend seven minutes in a cupboard with our lovely Head Girl.’

‘What?’ Anthony has never been so appalled by his brother’s flagrant, dirty and transparent tactics. Though he’s obviously not opposed to the idea either.

But Kate’s uncrossing her endless legs and getting to her feet. ‘If that’s the rule,’ she says casually.

‘That’s not a ru-’

‘Go on, get lost,’ Benedict booms, drowning out Dorset’s feeble protests.

Kate shrugs at him and marches out of the room, leaving Anthony with no choice but to follow her.

~

They end up in the coat cupboard. If it can be called a cupboard, it’s palatial in size, though disconcertingly dark, and every time he moves he gets poked by a cashmere sleeve.

Anthony can just about make out Kate’s silhouette and her eyes, shining like marbles even in the flickering light.

‘Don’t worry, Sharma. I’m not going to proposition you.’ he says, the second they’re inside with the door closed.

‘No need to be such a prude, Bridgerton. It’s not like it would be the first time,’ Kate lifts her eyes to the ceiling.

‘Oh, so we’re acknowledging that now? There I was thinking you’d forgotten that even happened.’

If she’s going to drop it into conversation like that, like he’s the one who made it into a big deal, then Anthony’s not going to let her off so easily. And yet, Kate is the one that should be tipsy and nonsensical but why is it him that feels dizzy with her proximity, why is his head full of her when he hasn’t even touched her yet?

‘More like blocked it out.’ Kate says, though her voice wavers.

‘You know, Sharma,’ Anthony takes a step closer to her, not missing the way her breath catches. Her scent is everywhere and his blood is drunk with it, humming angrily through his veins. ‘You’re not fooling anyone.’

Neither, though, is he. Anthony briefly wonders if she can hear his heart pounding, thready with excitement. If she touches him now he might fall apart.

‘Oh, piss off Anthony,’ Kate rolls her eyes. ‘You’re the one who turned up in a matching costume to mine. And cheated in that stupid game to get me in here.’

‘That was my brothers’ doing, not me. And it was you that put your hand on my mouth-’

Kate lets out a scandalised gasp. ‘To help you get the ink off. You’re the one that kissed me-’

‘-and you kissed me back.’ Anthony finishes for her.

‘I really don’t know what I was thinking,’ Kate tries to look away, but Anthony cups her warm chin in his hand and braces it back to face him.

‘I think you were thinking that you and I actually make a lot of sense. If you think about it, we’re the same person.’

Kate looks a little dazed at his touch, but quickly finds her voice. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’ she says, knocking his hand away.

‘Really?’ Anthony says, his tone pitched low and gravelly. He knows a challenge when he hears one. ‘I know your favourite colour is purple…’

‘No shit,’ Kate folds her arms, unimpressed.

‘You have a weird thing for turtles…’

Kate frowns slightly but her stiff upper lip doesn’t fail.

‘You love your little sister to distraction.’

‘So do you.’ Kate says dismissively.

‘You like flowers. Pink tulips are your favourites, though, aren’t they? Dorset never got that right, did he? Bought you chocolates you don’t even like.’

Her silence tells him everything, and when she licks her lips nervously he knows that he’s won.

‘I didn’t think so.’ Anthony says, knowing he’s now skirting dangerously close to the line when it comes to Kate’s sharp and ready tongue and how much of his arrogance she’s willing to tolerate.

‘What, are you obsessed with me or something?’ she says, sticking her chin out.

‘I wasn’t finished,’ Anthony says, though his mind is chanting, yes, yes, yes. ‘…and, I know that you find my smile pleasing.’

And he rounds off by demonstrating said pleasing smile.

Kate looks mortified, her face kissed all over with a delightful flush. She clears her throat. ‘Sophie?’

‘Benedict. Presumably through Sophie.’ Anthony murmurs, but he’s rapidly losing track of what he’s saying. Kate keeps compulsively licking her lips, her tongue smearing crimson everywhere, and his need to taste her again is climbing to unbearable levels.

He takes another step towards her until his mouth is ghosting hers. ‘What are you doing?’ Kate says faintly, though she makes no effort to push him away.

‘Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away now,’ Anthony says, voice trickling into her ear.

Kate looks up at him through her lashes, eyes half-lidded but not from intoxication, at least not of the alcoholic kind. ‘What was that you said about not propositioning me? Care to take that back?’

Anthony nearly laughs. ‘We’ve only got about half a second left,’ he breathes against her mouth, his hands scrabbling for her waist and locking in when they find it. Their lips aren’t even touching and Anthony’s heart rate is crashing through him like lightning, his mouth wet and gently parted.

Then Kate leans in, her hand clawing at the back of his neck. The pain makes him almost delirious as it rakes through him, and his eyes flutter closed just as Kate launches forward.

Then someone bangs on the door, yelling that their time is up, and Kate springs back on instinct. Anthony doesn’t move, just watches her silently. Waits for her to make the call.

Kate wrenches her eyes away from his and flings the door open, nearly knocking over the idiot on the other side. Cursing, Anthony follows her out but is waylaid by Benedict, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

‘You’re unbelievable,’ Anthony hisses at him.

Benedict doesn’t even blink. ‘Did you two-?’

‘No,’ Kate says, abruptly reappearing behind Benedict. She’s shrugged on a coat and tidied her lipstick up, looking much less debauched than before. Anthony finds he’s rather upset by this. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Kate, you’re leaving?’

Fucking Dorset, again, this clueless idiot doesn’t know when to give up.

‘Yep.’ Kate says shortly, though Anthony catches her sneaking a peek at him and barely conceals his grin. There’s no way he’s staying in this pit of hell without her.

‘Want to share a taxi?’ Dorset persists. Anthony tries to remember that Dorset is actually a decent bloke when he’s not got designs on Kate and chokes back the urge to savagely tear him apart limb by limb.

‘No thanks,’ Kate says, at the same time as Anthony sharply cuts in, ‘I’m taking Kate home.’ He’s well aware he’s acting like a caveman, but it’s worth it to see Dorset nod in defeat and traipse off, where he blends easily into the background.

When he turns to Kate, bracing himself for a verbal slap, she’s looking back at him, cheeks dimpling with amusement.

‘Come on,’ Anthony offers her his arm and tries not to look too pleased with himself when she takes it, folding herself into him with a secretive smile of her own.

He drives her home in silence, but not the prickly, uncomfortable kind. The kind where he has to root his hand on the seat to resist resting it on her thigh, where he’s stealing heated glances at her in the rearview mirror only to find her staring back at him every time with big, flashing eyes and parted lips.

The kind where Anthony sets the music at a soft, lulling hum and Kate leans back against the headrest and says, ‘I love this song,’ stretching out her long legs in a patently deliberate manner. That sight and the lilt in her voice make his cock twitch, not for the first time this evening.

He pulls up outside her house, the car whistling to a stop.

~

This is it, she thinks, her eyes half-closed as he leans over, face inches from hers, and…in one swift move, unbuckles her seatbelt. At the click, Kate’s eyes snap open to see he’s back on his side of the car. She wants to kill him but he’s so unfairly, heart-wrenchingly handsome, it would be much more fun to devour him instead.

‘Night, Kate.’ he says. Oh, this fucker. Grinning at her cheekily. Eyes glittering like a midnight sea.

Kate flings her seatbelt away, tips out her plastic fangs and kisses him, slow and hard on the mouth. And Anthony, he doesn’t even hesitate, sucking on her bottom lip and nibbling, taking her mouth with his again and again until he suddenly tears away in order to ravage hungry kisses on the underside of her neck and jaw, making Kate whine when his tongue hits the sensitive spots.

Head swimming, blood storming like thunder everywhere he touches her, Kate just about scrapes together the presence of mind to unlatch him from where he’s suckling her neck.

Anthony’s pupils are pooling black, his mouth slack and bruised. Kate bounces back in her seat, watching him with a vixenish gleam in her eye.

‘Night,’ she says teasingly, but Anthony just scoffs, unclicking his own seatbelt with one hand and yanking her into his lap with the other. ‘I don’t think so.’ he says, taking a fistful of her curls and wrapping them around his fingers before he tugs, just enough to split her mouth open.

In response, Kate shifts so that she’s straddling him properly, thighs wrapped around his legs, and then he’s groaning into her mouth (‘Fuck, Kate…’) and dragging one hand up her leg as far as he can reach, the other fisting the edge of her corset, dangerously close to her breasts. Kate’s eyelids flutter, her breathing coming in quick pants and the shape of his name.

She feels Anthony pause and pull back and at first she thinks he just wants to take her in, messy and flustered, all at his doing, but instead he gives her a searching look.

‘Is this ok?’ he mutters, drawing slow circles on her thigh. Kate presses her own hand on top of his and slides it up her thigh and under her skirt. His fingers thread around the lace of her thong and Anthony hisses appreciatively, growing impossibly hard underneath her. ‘Fucking hell, Kate, you’re a menace.’

‘Anthony, don’t stop,’ Kate breathes, and it’s all the encouragement he needs because his head dives for her neck, inhaling greedily and then laving the skin with his tongue. His fingers linger under her skirt, rubbing and clawing at the edge of the lace and distantly Kate hopes he can’t tell how ridiculously wet she’s getting. She grinds harder in his lap to draw out his wretched moans until finally he abandons her neck and returns his mouth to where it belongs – on hers.

‘Christ, you feel amazing,’ Anthony mumbles. Kate knows this is obscene, they’re parked outside her house where her parents and little sister are asleep and all she can think about is coming on his fingers, but it feels too good to stop.

On cue, Anthony’s phone buzzes. It’s Benedict, whining about Anthony having left him and Colin at the party with no way of getting home.

He makes a frustrated noise, flashes his screen at Kate. ‘For fuck’s sake. I better go and pick them up before do something stupid like try and hitchhike back.’

When he looks up, he looks startled by the affection in her face. ‘Maybe take some water with you. Benedict looked a bit green when we left.’ Kate says, and she rolls off his lap and back onto her side of the car, pretending not to notice when he adjusts his tented trousers.

‘Don’t worry, if they throw up in my car, I’m disowning them.' Anthony grumbles. Kate turns to open her door and Anthony makes to follow.

‘I’ll walk you in.’ he says softly.

‘No,’ Kate says too quickly, kicking herself when his face falls. ‘I don’t want to wake my parents up.’

Anthony nods as though he understands.

‘Well, night,’ she says, again turning her back on him so that she can step out of his car, but Anthony just gently lifts her chin up and kisses her again. It’s not chaste exactly, his teeth nip at her bottom lip and she feels the warm pressure of his tongue against her mouth. But it’s also softer and sweeter than any of the other kisses they’ve just shared.

‘I’ll call you later,’ Anthony says when they break apart. It doesn’t completely assuage her uncertainty about where this was going, but it’s enough for now.

She moves stealthily up the drive to her house, fumbling with her keys, sneaking over the threshold with her skin still flushed and tingling from Anthony’s ministrations. She peers through the frosted glass, but his car is still there, the headlights burning down the street.

He doesn’t drive off until her bedroom light switches on.

~

She left her favourite hair ribbon in his car.

It’s Saturday night, he hasn’t called, and Kate’s irate because she left her favourite purple hair ribbon in his car. She has a vague memory of Anthony’s fingers tumbling through her curls and easing it loose, letting wind around his wrist like a collar.

It’s a cheap, easily replaceable hair ribbon and she’s furious about it.

Kate’s lounging on her bed in her pyjamas, propped up on her elbows with her feet crossed, head both buried in her History notes and aching with memories of last night.

It was never like this with Tom. She never languished in her room all strung up, waiting for him to call or text. She never craved his touch like she does Anthony’s. There was no longing like a splinter in her chest, no burning need to know what he was doing right that second.

She’s had about two thousand texts from Sophie, all variations of, did something happen between you and Anthony Bridgerton last night, courtesy of Benedict’s big mouth. Mary’s been sending her hourly updates from the hospital.

But nothing from him.

It’s been established that Anthony has feelings for her, and his deep-rooted hang-ups with the ‘l word’ aside, they’re clearly strong enough that he wants to pursue something more than the week-long dalliances of his past. Unlike him, Kate doesn’t care about the long-term right now, she’s happy to push the consequences down the road and out of sight. Whatever this thing is with Anthony, it feels raw and indulgent and good and she deserves to be selfish, just this once. If it crashes and burns later, well, it can’t be the worst thing that lies ahead.

In the end though, he doesn’t call.

Kate’s at her dressing table, brushing out her curls, when her windowpane starts rattling, and there, reflected in her mirror, is his face pressed against the glass and bathed in moonlight.

She drops her hairbrush with a clatter. Anthony’s mouthing at her to let him in, looking unbelievably smug at the fact he’s managed to surprise her.

‘This is a new level of stalking, even for you.’ Kate tells him, as she forces the window open and roughly pulls him inside. Anthony’s hands are red and scratched from climbing up the trellis but he doesn’t seem to notice or care, just smiles at her so sincerely that her chest swells with affection for him.

‘I wanted to see you,’ Anthony says matter-of-factly, and he’s all rosy, dimpled cheeks and matted hair.

‘The front door didn’t have enough dramatic flair for you?’

Anthony hesitates, rubbing his neck with a sheepish pout. ‘I thought your parents might answer and I wanted to talk to you first.’

‘They’re not here,’ Kate avoids his gaze, retiring to her dressing table again. ‘They’re at the hospital. Dad had a fever, he’s being kept in overnight. I was meant to stay with Edwina…but she decided to stay at a friend’s.’

Anthony frowns, watching her studiously through the mirror. ‘Want me to take you to see him?’

The offer’s out of his mouth so fast, it’s like he doesn’t even think twice about it. Kate’s throat constricts with another wave of affection for him, but she doesn’t fight the wall that goes up. ‘No. But thanks.’

Anthony’s brow is heavy, like he wants to say something else, but to her relief he decides against it, instead pulling something out from his pocket. ‘I came over to give you this.’

Kate takes it, observing how his eyes flit impatiently between her and the piece of paper he’s handed her. It’s written on Aubrey College stationery. A debate proposal, one of many they’ve exchanged over the last two years.

‘Read it,’ Anthony prompts her, knotting his hands behind his back like he always does when he’s nervous. Kate used to find it pompous and annoying, now it’s annoyingly endearing.

‘Proposal…’ Kate trails off as her eyes dart ahead. She bites back a laugh, god, he’s so ridiculous. And yet she’s actually falling for it.

‘Go on,’ Anthony says, bolder now that she’s read it and balled it up and thrown it back at his head.

‘Proposal. Kate Sharma should go out with Viscount Anthony Bridgerton.’ Kate hopes her voice doesn’t come out as squeakily to him as it sounds in her own head.

‘I’ll be taking the affirmative, obviously.’ Anthony says, a maniacal glint in his eyes. He knows he has her. He knows.

‘As if you put your title in there,’ Kate tuts at him, but she lets him close his hands around hers and drag her to her feet. Her arms loop clumsily around his neck whilst his palms settle into the dips of her waist. Anthony lavishes her with a winning smile.

‘I didn’t want to leave you with any loopholes.’ he says. ‘So…’

‘What about your “no relationships” rule?’ Kate frowns.

‘Every rule has exceptions,’ he says smoothly, and when Kate doesn’t look convinced, he continues, ‘look, I want to be with you and I’m quite certain you want to be with me…’ Kate pulls a face, ‘…I don’t see why we need to worry about stuff that hasn’t happened yet.’

It can be that simple, can’t it? Kate wants to believe it can. And she doesn’t have the willpower to keep resisting this, no matter how stupid a decision that might turn out to be.

‘No need to beg, Bridgerton. I’ll go out with you,’ Kate says. ‘But for the record, this is the only debate I’ll ever concede to you.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Anthony barely gets the words out before Kate’s on her tiptoes, guiding his head down to claim his mouth in a greedy kiss. She sinks into him, soft and pliant in his arms as he takes the lead. His lips are cold and firm and sting as they trail from Kate’s mouth and down her jaw. He takes a pause to nuzzle into her neck before nipping and sucking blemishes into her warm skin.

‘Mmm, Anthony,’ Kate’s shuddered moans only seem to make him all the more feral. He sucks filthily at her skin, bloodying her neck with a hard purple bruise.

It’s not lost on Kate that he’s marked her in the exact spot as Dorset before. Now she knows for sure what that little rowing incident was all about, and the thought of Anthony Bridgerton being so wracked with jealousy and possessiveness over her sends a white-hot thrill to her already pulsing cunt.

Kate reaches forward to take handfuls of his hair, her strappy lavender camisole riding up, and suddenly his hands are sliding over the new expanse of taut brown skin. Taken by surprise at the new sensation, Anthony slowly pulls back, and Kate watches in real time as he realises how skimpy her pyjamas actually are, a charge racing through her body as his eyes harden and swirl with lust.

‘Fuck, Sharma, you’re going to kill me,’ he says, the words strangled. Kate gives him an unscrupulous smile in response and reaches down to palm the erection straining through his jeans, rewarded with a guttural moan. Anthony retaliates by lowering both hands to cup her backside through her silk shorts and pull her flush against him, making Kate gasp softly at the feeling of his hard dick on her bare thigh.

‘Kate, we don’t have to-’ Anthony starts, his words spilling out through ragged breaths.

‘Bridgerton, for once in your life, shut up,’ Kate wastes no time, making quick work of his jacket and starting on the waistband of his jeans, and when Anthony’s blood-deprived brain finally catches up with what she’s doing he seems to snap.

He takes her by the mouth, his tongue forcing Kate’s lips apart and inhaling her breathy little moans, his hand gliding over her camisole, pinching and teasing each of her nipples in turn until they pebble through the silk. Kate’s head lolls back in pleasure, barely managing to keep her eyes open as she stammers out his name.

‘A-Anthony-’

Anthony tugs at the straps until they slip down her slender shoulders, yanking her top down to expose her breasts fully, staring in awe at her hard, dark nipples.

‘You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about your tits.’ Anthony growls. ‘Knew they’d be perfect. Just like you.’

Kate responds by pushing his head down and he takes her direction easily, his mouth wrapping around each areole, licking and teasing them between his teeth until she’s practically mewling.

‘I knew there had to be some use to that big stupid mouth,’ Kate says with a raspy laugh when he pulls back to prise her top over her head and abandon it on the back of a chair.

He smirks at her, mouth glistening, and she knows it’ll feel even better hot and hungry around her clit and lapping up the slickness already coating her thighs.

Determined to wipe the cocky look off of his face, Kate advances on him, hands scrabbling to tear his jumper off where it joins his jacket in a puddle on her bedroom floor. She traces a hand down his torso, all lean muscle and trailing, coarse hair, his skin tinged a gorgeous pink. He inhales sharply, eyes pooling black, when her hands wander back down to his jeans. Kate pops the button easily but takes her time with the zipper, enjoying the agonised expression on Anthony’s face, accidentally on purpose grazing her fingertips against his rock-hard cock to draw out his involuntary thrusts.

Kate tugs and Anthony steps out of his jeans entirely, discarding his socks and shoes in one fell swoop. He’s left in only his briefs, cock stretching obscenely against the material, and when she runs her hand up his clothed length and squeezes the leaking tip his mouth falls open, handsome face crossed in pleasure and pain.

‘Oh, fuck, Kate, you’re all I’ve been able to think about for months.’ Anthony murmurs into her neck.

‘Liar, you’ve hated me for much less time than that.’ Kate says, trailing off into a whimper as he slides a finger under the waistband of her shorts, working his way down to her soaking folds.

‘No.’ Anthony breathes out haggardly. ‘Even when I hated you, I didn’t hate you. And I always wanted to fuck you.’

‘So fuck me,’ Kate rips his hand out of her shorts, shoves his head away from her very tender neck, and stares up at him defiantly.

She nearly cries out when Anthony grabs her roughly by the thighs and hoists her up until she wraps her legs around him obediently, both of them stifling groans at the friction of his cock against the sinfully thin material of her shorts. Anthony squeezes her arse with a devilish grin and Kate has to fight not to lose herself in it.

‘Bed,’ she tells him and like the good boy he is, he doesn’t need to hear it twice, lays Kate down on the mattress with too much care and tenderness for her liking and then the bed’s creaking as he settles on top of her, going straight for her mouth with rough, heady kisses.

Kate tangles her legs around his back before stroking them down the backs of his calves, shifting deliberately underneath him to rub his cock against her sensitive clit, making him choke out a broken groan.

‘Menace,’ Anthony scolds her, and when he sits up and backs up towards the foot of the bed she huffs in protest, but he just shakes his head at her. ‘So fucking impatient, Sharma, as usual.’

‘I’d say I’m pretty patient when I’m waiting all day for you to come up with an intelligible thought,’ Kate hisses at him.

‘I have lots of thoughts when you’re around but I’ve never been able to voice them,’ Anthony says, with irrepressible smugness, ‘nothing to stop me now, though.’

Kate, the hypocrite she is, shoots daggers at him as if she’s not dripping through her shorts.

‘First though,’ he says, ‘I’ll put my stupid big mouth to better use, shall I?’

Kate arches her back off the bed so he can hook his fingers underneath her shorts and tear them off in one fluid motion, leaving her totally bare and hopelessly wet before him.

She’s not usually self-conscious about her body and it’s not like this is the first time for either of them, but this isn’t sweet, shy, fumbling Tom, this is Anthony.

Being exposed raw to him like this is the most vulnerable Kate remembers feeling. Yet, the look on his face as his eyes trace down her form is nothing short of reverent and adoring. Kate can’t help but wonder how he would look at her if he loved her.

‘Fuck, Sharma, you’re literally perfect.’ Anthony groans, and Kate glows at his praise. ‘Can I touch you?’

‘Don’t ask,’ Kate says through gritted teeth, ‘just do it.’

Anthony doesn’t mess around, yanking her towards him by the legs and hooking one over his shoulder, making Kate yelp in surprise and anticipation. He runs a hand over the slick coating her folds and upper thighs, shaking his head desperately.

‘You’re fucking sopping. Just for me?’ he says hoarsely, through hot, frenzied breaths.

‘Well, it’s not for Dorset,’ Kate snarks, and is rewarded by Anthony filling her with his finger, gently at first and then when her body responds, with determined vigour.

‘Don’t say his fucking name when I’m touching you,’ Anthony rasps. ‘Or preferably ever again.’

‘Don’t tell me what to - oh-’ Kate’s admonishment dies in her throat when Anthony attacks her swollen clit with his mouth and sucks like a starving animal, racking her body with unbearable pleasure. She can picture his self-satisfied smirk as he continues to writhe and twist his fingers in her cunt, undoing her with alarming speed.

‘Always picking fights with me, aren’t you, Sharma?’ he says a little breathlessly as his fingers continue to fuck her, suggesting he’s unravelling as quickly as she is.

‘Can’t help it if you’re so ah – aggravating,’ Kate gasps out, tearing at the bedsheets, trying for some relief from the messy rhythm he’s building.

‘Me? What about you?’ Anthony taunts, and he slides another finger inside her hot core, a muffled keen falling from Kate’s lips. ‘Always wanting the last word. Never admitting defeat. It’s maddening, and yet I can’t get you out of my head.’

Abruptly, he withdraws his hand and Kate nearly screams, only to suck his glistening fingers lazily into his mouth. ‘Knew you’d taste delicious though. As good as you smell.’

The filthy gesture lights up something primal inside her, bringing her that much closer to finishing and he's not even touching her.

‘Anthony, please,’ Kate’s slightly humbled to be begging him but she’s teetering on the edge. In response, Anthony pries his fingers from his mouth and draws a hard, tight circle around her clit.

‘Fuck, Anthony,’ Kate bites back a sob, her leg shaking over his shoulder.

‘I love that little smirk every time you think you’ve won an argument. Always made me wonder if you’d smile like that coming on my fingers.’ he continues, voice hollow.

‘Stop talking shit and you’ll find out, won’t you,’ Kate says, her vision beginning to blur.

Taking that as a challenge, Anthony swipes his thumb to her clit, increasing the pressure when Kate starts babbling ‘Anthony, fuck yes, there,’ and it only takes a few more strokes until Anthony urges her ‘that’s it, Sharma, come for me,’ and she loses herself completely, coming hard and fast on his hand.

Kate slumps, sweaty and boneless against her pillows and head spinning with stars. She should have known Anthony Bridgerton wouldn’t be one to cut corners. And that he’d be a phenomenal eater.

She’s vaguely aware of the bed dipping and Anthony crawling back up and flopping next to her on the bed, his hand landing on her waist and turning her so that they’re both lying on their sides with their faces centimetres apart.

‘You’re infuriatingly good at that,’ she mumbles, trying to steal air back into her lungs.

Anthony grins. ‘Talking shit?’

‘That too,’ Kate’s eyes snap open and taking him by surprise, she rolls him onto his back and grips his throbbing cock. Anthony’s hips stutter and his eyes roll back in his head, silently mouthing ‘Sharma,’. Kate uses the planes of his chest to lift herself up and straddle him.

‘Take these off,’ she orders, tugging at the waistband of his briefs, and he complies without another word, kicking them away to join the rest of their discarded clothes. Kate swallows at the sight of his thick, bare cock, looking painfully hard as it springs towards his stomach.

She wraps her hand around the base, watching Anthony coquettishly as his hips buck again and his mouth falls open. Before she can do anything else, he raises a hand and places it on her own.

‘Kate, are you sure?’ Anthony says weakly, a faint perspiration breaking out over his forehead.

‘Very sure,’ she whispers, and starts fisting him, using his own little trick against him with slow, languid strokes, building into fast and jerky movements that have Anthony swearing and panting and thrusting messily into her hand.

‘Sharma, you’re fucking incredible,’ he says through each tremor of his hips. Kate uses her free hand to squeeze and pull at his nipples, rolling them playfully between her fingers.

‘Fuck, Kate, I’m so close,’ Anthony says, head rearing back again. His hair is so beautifully mussed, neck and jaw glowing pink from exertion, he belongs in a museum, Kate thinks, but surely that’s just her post-orgasm haze. ‘Want to be inside you.’

Kate blinks and nods. She already feels something building up inside her again, just from getting him off like this. She glides a fingertip over the leaking tip of his cock, smearing the precum up his length and then into her mouth.

Anthony’s eyes darken, nebulous with lust, and his dick seems to harden in her hand. He reaches up and clamps a hand around her hip, caressing the bone.

‘Condom?’ he pants. Kate just about has the presence of mind to lean over him, rifle through her bedside drawer and pull one out, blearily ripping open the wrapper and rolling it over his length. The next thing she knows he’s toppled her off his lap and on her back, teasing his cock against her slit until it finally catches on her slick and ready entrance.

‘Anthony, inside me, now,’ Kate says, already halfway gone. Anthony groans as he pushes into her, burying his face in her shoulder, and Kate blows out a breath as his cock stretches her like never before.

‘Fucking hell, you’re so tight,’ Anthony swears into her collarbone, sinking deeper into her until he’s seated to the hilt, Kate nearly crying out at the overwhelming fullness she feels. Every sensation is heightened, like she can feel every vein and ridge on his cock taking her apart.

When he’s sure she’s adjusted to him, Anthony starts moving, rocking wildly in and out of her until they’re both reduced to a tangle of curses and moans. He reaches down to massage her leg and then hook it over her shoulder, fucking furiously into her from a new angle that fills her to the brim, hitting a spot that makes Kate’s legs go to jelly.

‘Holy shit, Anthony,’ she hails at him as he bites into her shoulder bone. She clenches down on him in shock, making him groan out a string of curses. He pounds into her harder, his movements becoming more and more erratic as he chases his release, and Kate knows she’s done for when his hand snakes down and starts massaging her clit, his rapt attentions

Her walls flutter angrily around his cock and then she’s falling, reaching her peak with one final thrust, flooding her body with sweet, merciful pleasure.

Anthony drives into her a few more times before he’s succumbing to his own climax, spilling into the condom with his eyes wrenched shut and mouth still latched to her shoulder.

Floating back down to reality, Kate wonders if he’ll leave now, if the war he’s waging against falling in love means staying after sex is off the table. Regardless of the fact he wants to be her boyfriend.

But instead, after he’s disposed of the condom and cleaned them both up with a flannel from the bathroom, he lies back down on her bed and pulls her head onto his chest, seemingly content to lie there together in silence. Kate knows this is dangerous for her heart; his might be happily immune to falling in love, but hers is not, and she thinks if anyone has the ability to ruin her, it’s Anthony Bridgerton.

But, consequences later, and all that.

~

The news that Anthony Bridgerton is dating Kate Sharma draws a great deal of interest from students and teachers alike.

The reaction is, generally, mixed. Danbury lives up to her reputation as the school dragon, forcing them to sit on opposite halves of the History classroom, whacking her cane demonstratively on the ground any time Anthony so much as winks at Kate. He does not manage to be any less distracting from the other side of the room.

Kate pauses outside their English classroom when she hears her name mentioned in Fife’s all-too-familiar sneer. ‘The fuck are you slumming it with Sharma for? Not like you to be doing charity work, Bridgerton,’ he’s jeering. Her heart drops into her feet, but not five seconds later Fife is barrelling out of the room clutching his bloody, bruised nose. When he resurfaces the next day he’s also sporting a fresh black eye. Kate never tells Anthony she overheard, but she sneaks into every one of his detentions to keep him company.

What’s troubling Kate the most is that Anthony seems to be doing everything someone shouldn’t do if they don’t want to fall in love.

He holds Kate’s hand in the hallways and gives such a fierce glare to anyone who tries to walk between them that people now just give them a wide berth when they go past.

He intrudes on all of her free periods, insisting that they can ‘work together’ which really means Kate tries to revise while he persuades her to sneak off to a quiet corner of the common room, on the premise that he’ll go through her flashcards with her later.

Their debates are no less fiery just because they’re dating. It just means that now they’re followed by Anthony fucking her brains out in his bedroom while he tells her all the ways her smug little expressions and biting comebacks turn him on.

In fact, the only place he doesn’t follow her to is orchestra practice, because ‘Sorry, Sharma, but you really are the worst flautist I’ve ever heard’, though he does bring her pink tulips after the first big recital of the year.

When Kate spies him sitting proudly in the audience, next to Mary and Edwina, it almost fills the gaping hole left by her father’s absence. He’s spending a lot more time in the hospital these days, but the first time they have Anthony over for dinner – by proper invitation this time – at the end of the evening he runs a loving hand through Kate’s hair and tells with a lump in his throat that she deserves someone like Anthony, that he obviously makes her happy and she needs to hold onto that. That he’s proud of her.

Kate doesn’t know what to say to that.

When Anthony brings her over for dinner with his entire family, they embrace her like her name’s already been embroidered onto the family tree. She already knows Benedict and Colin and Daphne and Eloise and Francesca, of course, since they all attend Aubrey, but it’s strange to view them through the ‘girlfriend’ lens. She pays closer attention to the way they all seem to gravitate towards Anthony rather than their mother, hanging on his word instead of hers, asking him for permission to stay at a friend’s or sign their permission slips.

Anthony clearly knows his role, fulfils it willingly, doesn’t complain when Eloise wants driving two hours there and back to a climate protest on Saturday or Francesca asks him to ‘have a word’ with her Latin tutor because he’s given her way too much preparatory work.

His mother, Violet, is lovely. Smiley and genteel, asks Kate all the right questions, gives her a hug before Anthony takes her home, waxing lyrical about how pretty she is. But her eyes are sad, she excuses herself halfway through the evening to lie down even though she readily admits she’s not exerted herself much that day. She only lost her husband a year and a half ago, Kate knows. The pieces click into place, this rejection of love and attachment that Anthony carries around, it’s clearly all tied up with the tragedy of his father’s sudden passing.

Only Gregory is quiet during dinner, sulking all the way until pudding is served, barely touching the Eton mess even though it’s his favourite.

‘Greg’s just upset because he was planning on marrying you,’ Anthony whispers into Kate’s ear, and it sticks with her all week, because can she have more of a future with her boyfriend’s younger brother?

Kate doesn’t even consider that Anthony might change his outlook on love until she’s cornered by Cressida Cowper one day after hockey practice. Anthony’s waiting for her in his car, insistent on driving her home every day even though the days are getting longer again and her evening bike rides are quite pleasant in the tipsy orange sunlight.

She’s walking towards his car, can see his gaze trained on her every movement, undressing her with his eyes. Her heart twists in anticipation.

‘Kate! Hey, Kate!’

Cressida shrills her name at top volume, even though when Kate turns around she’s practically right behind her. She’s petite and slight and wears her hair so tightly pulled back that there’s no hiding the mean looks that cross her face a dozen times a day. Whatever she wants, it’s unlikely to be anything good.

‘Hi,’ Kate says cautiously, adjusting her bag over her shoulder. It’s starting to drizzle, her limbs are weary and aching, and all she wants is to lie back in the comforting warmth of Anthony’s car, drying out her rain-matted hair, and then maybe let him give her an orgasm or two.

‘Ooh, off with the viscount, are we?’ Cressida’s eagle eyes land on Anthony’s car. ‘You two make such an…interesting couple.’

‘Thanks.’ Kate says in a monotone. Does that even count as a back-handed compliment? That requires there to be an actual compliment in there somewhere, doesn’t it?

‘Well, I just wanted to say how sickening the two of you are,’ Cressida croons. ‘In a good way, of course. You’re adorable. Anthony seems like such a devoted little boyfriend, it’s quite baffling when you think about it.’

Feeling like a lamb being led to the slaughter, Kate asks anyway. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well,’ Cressida leans in conspiratorially. ‘Everyone knows that the reason his last girlfriend dumped him was because he wouldn’t commit to her. Nobody would have even known they were dating if she hadn’t broken up with him very publicly in the middle of a corridor between periods three and four. If you ask me, she was waiting for an audience.’

Before Kate has a chance to process any of this, Cressida’s cooing at her in dulcet tones, ‘oh, but don’t worry. The only reason I’m telling you this is because he’s so different with you! I mean, when he kissed you in front of everyone in the caff yesterday even I swooned. You better hold on to him while you can.’

Cressida waves her long, spidery fingers in farewell before tottering away under her umbrella, leaving Kate standing alone, getting steadily soaked under the quickening rainfall.

Anthony’s halfway out of his car with an umbrella when she gets to him. She returns his kiss, enjoys the little swell in her heart when he opens the passenger door for her and finds he’s already switched her seat-warmer on, and then waits for him to ask.

‘What did old egg and cress want?’ he says as his car hums down the long drive to the road.

‘To congratulate me on locking you down,’ Kate says, rolling her eyes with a nonchalance she doesn’t feel. ‘Apparently I’ve achieved the impossible.’

‘Well, you always were an overachiever.’ Anthony says. He doesn’t seem bothered by the implication of what she’s just said.

‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t even try,’ Kate says as if he hasn’t spoken, turning her head to look out of the window. The grounds look lonely without any students milling about. ‘I know better than that.’

She feels his eyes stray from the road, trying to search her face, but she doesn’t look at him again until they pull up outside her house.

~

Kate realises she’s fucked two months later.

It’s the final hockey match of the term. Aubrey College versus Clyvedon School.

She’s been scheduling practices nearly every day, hounding the team to perfect their dribbling, keep their fouling just the right side of acceptable, gnashing through a gum-guard a week. It’s cutting into her time with Anthony which has had an amusingly significant effect on his mood, whingeing like a brat when she tells him she’s busy all weekend.

Much to her dismay, Kate’s started to miss him all the time, staying up on the phone with him until she hears Mary stirring for her 5am shift, texting him during the one class they don’t have together, turning every corner hoping to see his handsome face waiting there. It’s a wonder they have anything left to talk about.

It’s scary how happy she is when she’s with him. Laughing and kissing and occasionally fucking in his car. Making fun of Benedict and Sophie dancing around each other (‘Idiots, how do they not realise?’). One time he takes her to play mini-golf after school; they fight at every hole and he scowls when she beats him but lets her make it up to him by blowing him behind the fourteenth hole.

When they finally get their letters from Oxford and Cambridge and in the midst of all the jumping around and champagne popping and gratuitous kissing, he tells her ‘the best part is that it’s only a two hour drive between them,’ , her brain goes haywire. Because that’s not something you say to someone you don’t see a future with.

Kate tells herself as long as she knows what this is, her heart is safe.

But Anthony keeps blurring the lines, and sometimes she thinks that the only way to deal with that is by pulling away.

‘The forecast is torrential rain,’ she tells Anthony on the day of the match, as he walks her to the changing rooms. ‘You don’t have to stay.’

‘I’ve got a top hat and an umbrella, I’ll be fine,’ he says, mouth twitching because he knows she hates his stupid top hat.

Sure enough, when Kate leads her team onto the astro-turf and scans the stands for his face, he’s there. No Mary, no Edwina, and the idea of her gaunt, pale-faced father sitting on the sidelines on a freezing February evening is laughable.

But Anthony’s there, face lighting up like a beacon when she spots him. He doesn’t do commitment or love but right now he’s the only person in her life showing up for her.

The game is long and dirty and underhand. Kate’s not above employing conniving tactics, but that’s just strategy, and she always keeps it legal. But the Clyvedon team seem to operate entirely in the grey. A foot will sneak out and kick a ball and there’s a lot of using the wrong side of the stick. The rain is coming down thick and fast like a curtain, the perfect foil to hide their infractions from the referee.

They’re ruthless in their aggression, and Kate’s had to sub three girls off before half-time because a leg or arm has been battered by their opposition. And yet the closer they come to victory, the worse their offences get.

When Kate tries to score and gets fouled by a girl three times her size, Anthony’s on his feet yelling, words that she can’t hear tearing out of his mouth. She fights back the tears and the searing pain in her left leg, hobbles to her feet and carries on.

Five minutes left and they’re at a tie. Kate runs up-field, stick hugging the ball, skidding around the Clyvedon midfielder bearing down on her right. She can barely see an inch in front of her through the rain but she just moves towards fluorescent blob of the goalkeeper.

The next thing she knows, she’s flying through the air, crashing heavily into the ground left leg first. Blinding pain goes off like fireworks in her knee and calf, Kate isn’t able to hold back the few tears that fall and instantly get washed away by the rain.

She lets the school nurse, always on standby at these games, check her over. Repeats over and over that she’s fine until the nurse gives up.

‘FOUL!’ her teammates are screaming. In the background she can see Anthony being restrained by their games teacher, who despite having at least ten years and a pound of muscle on him, seems to be fighting a losing battle.

‘Penalty,’ the referee decides, and the gorilla-sized player responsible for throwing Kate through the air like a bowling ball gets sent off. Luckily, not to Anthony’s side of the pitch.

‘I’m ok,’ Kate mouths at him with a thumbs-up, and while Anthony still looks both murderous and unconvinced, he stops struggling against Mr Granville and retreats back to his seat. He knows she’s not going to bow out for anything. They’ll have to scrape her off the pitch, if it comes to it.

The whistle blows. Last chance.

The game is down to this single point. All that stands between her and the win is this one shot. She knows all the tips by heart, fluff the ball on the turf, take at least three steps back. She could try to psych out the goalkeeper, but honestly, that’s not her style. Breathe.

Kate blows out a final breath, lines her stick up with the ball. Swings it back, swings it forwards. Makes contact.

The ball ricochets off the turf and directly through the legs of the goalie, slamming into the back of the net.

Pin-drop silence, and then the air cracks with the chorus of cheers, her own name audible in the chanting. Kate’s teammates huddle around her, sticks clashing together, her back being patted by what feels like a hundred different hands.

But Kate shrugs them off, her eyes combing the stands for Anthony, wanting to see the delight on his face, wanting to kiss it off. But he’s not in his spot any more, and her heart fails, could he have got bored and gone home? The rain is hailing down like splinters, maybe he went to dry off? But would he miss the final shot of the game? For the first time all day, she feels the cold all around her and seeping into her bones.

‘Kate!’

Kate whirls around while he’s still mid-yell, feeling stupid for ever doubting him. He’s standing on the edge of the field, hair plastered to his forehead in wet curls, eyes bright and warm and flickering like a fire.

Kate’s not even aware of throwing her stick down, she can’t even hear the uproarious chanting of her teammates behind her, her legs seem to move of their own accord, injury be damned, vaulting her down the pitch until she reaches him. Her blood singing with adrenaline when his face comes into focus, his face stretched into the biggest smile she’s ever seen, his arms opening up for her.

The second Kate hits his arms he lifts her straight off the ground and spins her round. She’s exhausted and spattered with mud, her braid in a thousand pieces, but he so blatantly doesn’t care that neither does she, she’s in his arms and high on the win, and he’s grinning up at her and she’s beaming down at him, thinking, no one’s ever had me, not like you, and oh god, she’s already half in love with him.

Consequences, and all that.

‘All right, put me down, Bridgerton,’ she says lightly, as though she’s not just had a brutal realisation about the future of their relationship.

Anthony does, though he seems reluctant to do so. ‘That was spectacular. Well, you were spectacular. The other people were sort of just there.’

Kate snorts. ‘Only two of our goals were mine. And it’s a team, Anthony.’

‘Team Sharma.’

Kate just shakes her head at him, though her heart is thumping giddily in her chest.

‘Come on then, the sooner we leave, the sooner we can celebrate.’ Anthony grins.

‘Home?’ Kate says hopefully.

‘Nope, nurse’s office,’ Anthony wrinkles his nose at her. He makes as if to pick her up again and Kate slaps his hands away.

‘You’re not carrying me,’ Kate says, backing away from him. ‘We’ll never hear the end of it.’

‘All right, you walk and I’ll see you there in five business days.’ Anthony says sarcastically.

Kate huffs when she realises he’s right, but she still has (some) dignity left. In the end they compromise by having Kate wrap her right arm around his neck and his goes around her waist, hobbling her along, laughing as they recount the match.

But the entire time, Kate is thinking about the way he looked at her when she jumped into his arms. About the way she’s sure it mirrored the look on her own face, and she knows, if only as of ten minutes ago, what this thing is between them. At least for her.

So either he’s in denial or she is.

~

March marches forth. Anthony’s happier than he remembers being in a very long time.

Until he sucker-punches his best friend in the face.

Not for no reason, obviously, though it doesn’t earn him any points with his family.

It starts because Anthony finds out in the worst way possible. Through someone else.

That someone else being his younger sister Eloise. She’s in the passenger seat of his car, prattling on about some protest in Westminster that she’s been trying, without luck, to get the rest of the family to attend. Francesca, ever the peacekeeper, showed a passing interest but everyone else, Anthony included, made their excuses and hoped Eloise would give up.

‘-and I asked Daff if Simon would come, since he’s her boyfriend, but she said he’s got some family thing that day-’

‘What?’ Anthony very nearly veers the car into a tree. The car screeches over to the curb and Anthony switches the engine off, staring at his sister without saying a word.

‘Oh shit,’ Eloise says, and she’s not talking about their brush with death.

~

He confronts Simon first, at lunch. He wants to hear it from his friend.

Anthony can tell Simon knows what this is about the second he pulls him into an empty classroom. He loses the cocky veneer straightaway, just leans against a desk looking solemnly back at Anthony, waiting for the blow.

‘Out with it. Are you fucking around with my sister?’ Anthony rounds on him.

‘I’m dating Daphne, yes.’

Anthony tries to stay calm, but his brain feels like it’s swelling rapidly against his skull. ‘Since when?’

‘Two months.’

‘Two –’ Anthony cuts himself off, planting both hands on a desk, trying to catch air and not wrap his hands around Simon’s neck. ‘What the fuck, Basset?’

‘We didn’t tell you because we knew you’d react like this,’ Simon says coolly. ‘If you’re going to be pissed off, be pissed off with me. Daphne wanted to tell you weeks ago, I said we should wait.’

‘How chivalrous,’ Anthony says with a caustic snort, and he sees the moment Simon’s own temper starts boiling up. He’s never been able to tolerate ridicule, his ego’s too easily dented. Yet another reason he should stay away from Daphne.

But Simon’s a mess. He drinks too much, he smokes too much, he has too much of a liking for uppers and there’s no counting the trail of broken hearts he’s left behind.

‘You know, it’s really not your business who Daphne’s dating,’ Simon pushes violently off the desk. ‘You’re not her father, much as you might pretend, you’ll always fall short-’

A white-hot bolt of anger shoots straight to his head. ‘You’re one to talk about fathers.’ Anthony laughs derisively. ‘Don’t project your fucking daddy issues onto me.’

‘Oh, I don’t have daddy issues. I hate my father, I’ll tell anyone who asks, and I don’t need to try and step into his shoes because I don’t want to be anything like him.’ Simon snarls. ‘But you, Bridgerton, you never dealt with your shit after your father died and so Daphne and all the rest of your siblings have to listen to your love is doomed drivel, live in fear of telling you stuff like this because they know you’ll ruin it-’

Anthony’s never heard this sort of vitriol coming from Simon, and every word runs him through. Do his siblings all hate him? Resent him? Think he’s just a pale imitation of his father?

He’s not doing this. Not now. Not with Simon.

‘You’re not good enough for Daphne.’ Anthony clears his throat like Simon never even spoke.

‘Oh, and you’re good enough for Kate?’

Simon’s ready with it, and it’s like a blow to the stomach. Anthony’s jaw tightens and locks, his anger spiking into a simmering rage. Bringing Kate up just to hurt him, using her name to score points, make him lose it – and this is meant to be his closest friend.

‘Fuck off, Basset.’ Anthony says dangerously. ‘Don’t bring Kate into this.’

But Simon smells blood, and his smile is sharklike as he gets up in Anthony’s face, his eyes flickering down to the white-knuckled fists at his sides.

‘You know, I always knew you two would end up here, but I honestly thought it would take longer,’ Simon continues. ‘I guess Kate’s a smart girl, but not that smart, hm?’

‘I’m fucking warning you-’ blood rampaging through his brain, Anthony bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes metal.

‘What’s she doing with you, anyway? Doesn’t she know you’re just going to dump her the second things get too serious for you, like you did with Siena? Or does she not care? Does she think she can change you? Or maybe she’s already in lo-’

Simon doesn’t see it coming, the fist that smashes into the left side of his face. Pain explodes in Anthony’s knuckles but he swings for Simon again, making contact with his nose this time. The bone crunches against his hand and the shock takes Anthony off guard, allowing a bloodied Simon to lunge for him, slamming a blow first into his cheekbone and then his stomach.

Anthony doubles over, dodging Simon’s follow up strike, managing to get another of his own in on Simon’s jaw. Simon staggers forward, bracing himself to hit Anthony again when they’re startled apart, panting, by the unmistakeable sound of a cane cracking down like a lightning rod.

~

Everyone says he was lucky not to have been suspended. And Anthony knows they’re right.

If it wasn’t for he and Simon otherwise having near-spotless disciplinary records, in any case free of violence, they’d probably have been expelled. Danbury was campaigning for them to both be sent off school for a fortnight, but the headmaster gave them clemency. Undeserved clemency.

When Kate’s head pokes around his bedroom door, Anthony’s spirits rise at once and then immediately drop. He’s already had an earful from half a dozen teachers, his mother, and obviously Daphne (though she’s not speaking to Simon at all, so at least that’s something). He really, really, doesn’t want to hear it from Kate. He doesn’t think he can take seeing the disappointment on her face. Or worse, if she decides to break up with him. There’s no telling how he’ll take that.

Which in itself, should alarm him.

But right now, he just wants to see her.

‘Hey,’ she says, treading a little uneasily into the room. He sits up on his bed, legs splayed out, and wordlessly holds out his hand.

Kate takes it, lets him pull her into his lap. She winds one arm around his neck and with the other, runs slender fingers over the violet bruises on his jaw, the blotchy, bloodied skin around his eye.

‘It’s ok to be angry, you know.’ Kate says quietly. ‘I would be, if it were Edwina.’

Anthony doesn’t say anything, just starts tracing shapeless patterns on her thigh.

‘I’m not saying you should go around punching people-’

‘-I thought that was the Sharma special?’ Anthony interjects, but Kate isn’t taken in by his attempt at flippancy.

Kate tilts her chin up, unfazed. ‘Fife deserved it.’ she looks at him steadily. ‘Simon did too.’

‘He’s not the first person to shag his best mate’s sister.’

‘Yeah, it’s not just that, is it?’ Kate eyes him shrewdly. ‘It’s the fact they all knew and decided not to tell you. I can’t imagine how hurtful that is. Not just your best friend, but your family too.’

A swell of emotion rises up in his throat. Anthony can feel tears pricking in his eyes, and suddenly Kate can’t be close enough, he wants her to be all over him, every inch of her skin pressed against his. She understands him, without even having to try, doesn’t just assume he’s the villain like everyone else. Kate’s on his side, and there’s sillier things to cry about.

‘I had a bit of a go at Ben and Colin on my way up to your room,’ Kate says. She doesn’t sound the least bit remorseful. ‘I just think it’s really fucked up that they didn’t tell you, and then let you find out like that. That’s not what family does.’

Her voice cracks like she’s getting worked up on his behalf, and that does something to him. Swallowing his earlier tears down, Anthony gently brings her mouth over to his and kisses her. Slowly, intentionally, trying to convey all his unspoken thoughts.

Kate kisses him back with abandon, shifting in his lap so that she can take his battered face in both hands. Anthony’s mouth is soft and sweet at the corner of her lips as she unbuttons his school shirt, and when it migrates to her breasts, he doesn’t ravage her. Just takes his time, making Kate feel good with idle licks.

He spends longer between her legs than ever before, lapping up her slick, tracing her clit and rocking his fingers inside her until he finds that spot that makes her mewl and keen and come so hard around him that she can’t move or speak for several minutes.

When Anthony finally pushes into her, it’s nothing like their usual frantic fucks, it’s tender and deliberate. He finds that he barely even speaks because the one thing he wants to say, to tell her, he can’t.  

Kate, sated and spent, clamps so tightly around Anthony’s cock that the force of his orgasm knocks him out until starts shaking him, telling him to put some clothes on before one of his siblings barge in on them.

Hours later, they’re still lying together in his bed, limbs tangled in the darkness. A bulbous moon peers through his open curtains. Anthony’s staring at the ceiling, Kate tucked under his arm, eyes closed but her breathing a little too controlled for her to be asleep.

‘Ant?’ she mumbles into the silence.

‘Mmm?’

‘What did he say about me?’ Kate says, so softly he barely hears it.

‘What?’

‘Simon. I know he said something about me.’

Anthony stiffens, knowing she must be able to feel it but unable to help it. There’s no way he can tell Kate all of the vicious things Simon came out with, even if they were designed to hurt him and not her, he knows they’ll hurt her anyway.

He won’t be responsible for that. Wasn’t that the whole point of everything, of him not doing relationships, besmirching love, wasn’t it all so that nobody got hurt?

And now, Anthony has Kate, and he can’t think of anything worse than hurting her.

Now, Anthony has Kate, and he’s fucked himself over every which way, because it doesn’t matter what he tells himself when he pulls her into his arms and walks around all day with the smell of lilies imprinted on his mind, it doesn’t matter what the excuses he makes when she smiles at him and he’ll do or say anything to keep basking in its warmth, it doesn’t matter however he justifies his desire to follow her everywhere and the way he searches for her face in every room he walks into.

He's in love with Kate. Has been, for a while. He thinks he may have loved her much longer than he knows.

Simon was wrong about everything else he said, but he was right when he said Anthony didn’t deserve her.

‘He didn’t say anything about you,’ Anthony lies.

Kate doesn’t say anything else. It would be easy to assume she’s just drifted off, but Anthony knows better.

It wouldn’t even matter, if only he wasn’t in love with her.

~

Anthony and Simon reach a very strained truce after that. Fraught apologies are exchanged, though Anthony’s convinced that Simon only gave him one to get Daphne speaking to him again.

Kate never quite warms back up to Simon after that. Benedict and Colin seem genuinely sorry, sit down with Anthony over breakfast and explain their sides, that they didn’t want to betray Daphne’s trust, they only found out about the whole thing by accident and never set out to keep it from him. That they know they hurt him, that they’re sorry.

That they know how much he does for them. It's that admission that shocks Anthony the most. They've never really given an indication before now that his paternalism was anything more than a hindrance and an occasional way to get a free ride home.

By the time Daphne joins them at the table they’re all a bit red-eyed and uncomfortable.

‘I am sorry I didn’t tell you.’ she says. ‘And I know Simon used to be a pillock, why do you think it took me so long to go out with him? But he’s different, Anthony, he is.’

For the sake of peace in what is already a chaotic war-room of a household, Anthony chooses to believe her. And to Simon’s credit, he seems to be drinking less, he’s off the drugs. Perhaps because he spends all of his free time with Daphne, often at the Bridgertons’ house.  He and Anthony studiously avoid one another, and it grates on him how everyone else seems to have just forgiven him for giving Anthony a black eye. He knows what Kate would say, tell them what Simon had said to him. Give them a chance to understand. She doesn't even know herself but she knows it was maybe unforgivable. She's astute, Kate.

But he doesn't. He could say it's because there's no point, but it's not. It's because he's starting to worry that what Simon said was true.

Escaping to Kate’s is becoming less and less of an option. Anthony knows her father is rapidly deteriorating, he has a horrible feeling that he’s going to be moved to hospice soon, but he’s reliant on what Eloise tells him, drip-fed from Edwina, because any time he brings it up Kate closes off from him completely. Says she doesn't want to talk about it, can he just respect that? And when he does, what does that say about him? That he's so afraid of losing her, he'll take half of her, if that's what she's willing to give? 

One night, though, he does end up at Kate’s. Her house is empty but for the two of them. Kate is panicking, Anthony’s trying not to panic so that she can.

‘I can’t believe I missed a day, it’s so unlike me-’

‘It was one day Kate, and we don’t even know that’s the day that would have done it-’

‘I just – I forgot, with my dad –’

‘Kate, stop. It’s not on you. At all.’ Anthony catches her trembling hand in his and rubs hard circles over her knuckles with his thumb. ‘I should’ve insisted we used a condom every time.’

But honestly, they both know that this could still have happened, even if Kate hadn’t forgotten to take her pill one day three weeks ago. And now here they are, crumpled together on Kate’s childhood bed, staring at the spirals of peeling paint on her ceiling, waiting for the stick Anthony rushed out to buy at midnight to read them their immediate future.

Whether Anthony’s willing time to stop or go faster, he’s not sure.

‘What do you want to do?’ Anthony turns his head on the pillow, propping himself up on one arm so that he can face her.

‘I don’t know.’ Kate says, in a rush, her eyes shining with tears. ‘I really don’t know.’

That’s fair enough. Anthony doesn’t know either. In fact, for all his accolades and achievements, he feels so small and stupid in this moment, like he doesn’t know anything at all. But he knows he trusts Kate. If she wants this or if she doesn’t, he’ll be by her side the entire time.

Kate’s hand comes to rest on top of his where it still grips her waist reassuringly. She opens her mouth, hesitates. Closes it again. Lets the question hang heavily between them.

‘Time’s up.’ Anthony says after a second, glancing at his watch.

‘I can’t.’ Kate rolls away from him, wrapping her arms around her stomach, shaking her head frantically. ‘Anthony, I can’t. Can you just look at it.’

Anthony pauses. ‘Kate, no matter what...’

‘I know.’ she says softly.

Anthony heaves himself off Kate’s bed and retrieves the stick from her dressing table. Inhales sharply through his nose. Closes his eyes and asks himself the question that he knows Kate is afraid to ask him.

He flips it over.

His heart shakes in his chest.

‘It’s negative.’ Anthony says calmly.

Kate doesn’t even hesitate, her chest collapses with the weight of the breath she lets out and then she’s springing from her bed and by his side in seconds, peeling the test from Anthony’s grip to read it herself. ‘Oh, thank god. Thank fucking god.’

‘Yeah.’ Anthony says, and he feels cold with relief, because Kate clearly didn’t want this and the timing is horrendous and he doesn’t even have a father anymore, so how could he even attempt to be one?

Kate buries herself in his arms, clinging to him so tightly it physically hurts. If he’d known that was the moment she’d start pulling back, he wouldn’t have let her go.

~

They don’t speak about the pregnancy scare again. Anthony tells Benedict about it, on a sticky June night after their exams are finished, drunk and stupid at someone’s party. 'For what it's worth, you'd be a good dad,' Benedict says, slapping him on the arm. He's off his head but his words sober Anthony anyway. He looks over at Kate, her eyes glassy and full of stars as she tosses back what has to be her sixth shot of the evening. Maybe one day, he'd thought, but not told her. He'd tell her now, if he thought she wanted to hear it.

Their last school hurrah is the leavers’ ball. Now that he won’t be standing around the edge of the room with a group of boys he can’t be bothered to pretend he likes and their half-baked ideals and overblown egos, Anthony’s actually looking forward to it.

Kate, though, nearly doesn’t go. She’s worried about her father, doesn’t want him and Edwina to be alone in the house while Mary’s at work in case something happens. Anthony offers to stay in with her even though he knows before the words are even out of his mouth that she'll say no, she doesn't want to be the reason he misses one last night with their friends.

But Kate’s father tells her in no uncertain terms that she’s forbidden from staying home.

When Anthony arrives to pick her up, she must have been waiting for him at the window, because the front door flies open while he’s still ten paces away from knocking, and she comes springing over the threshold, a vision in tangerine silk. Hair threaded in an updo that must have taken her hours, one curl weaving down her back like a single wisp of smoke.

Anthony wonders if he should feel ashamed of the way he wants everyone to see her on his arm, to know that Kate Sharma is his and he’s hers, though she’s not and he isn’t because he’s an idiot who basically told her not to fall in love with him. And then he went and did exactly that.

Kate excuses herself to the bathroom, leaving Anthony feeling strangely legless without her. He pours himself a glass of the obviously spiked juice, wondering how many times he can check his father’s pocket watch before looking pathetic. God, Kate’s been gone a long time, he muses, already perusing the corridors for her in his mind's eye. He checks the time. No, less than two minutes.

Simon nods curtly at him from across the room. Daphne’s not in her final year, so she can’t attend, and Anthony can’t help but think Simon looks unmoored without her. He knows the feeling. Anthony returns the nod, but Simon’s vicious words flash angrily in front of his eyes. You think you’re good enough for Kate?

No. He doesn't. But maybe that's Kate's decision to make. He's good enough for now, at least as far as she's concerned. Anthony isn't stupid enough to try and change her mind.

But then Kate returns to his side, and maybe it’s the alcohol flowing, but he really doesn’t give a damn about Simon and his doomsaying any more. Anthony’s hand moves of its own accord to brush a stray curl out of her eyes, just as there’s a click behind them.

‘Now there’s a gorgeous couple,’ the photographer says, delightedly, as Kate and Anthony spin around curiously. ‘Let’s get a proper picture of the two of you – if you just stand behind her like that, that’s it, arms around her waist – perfect.’

There they are, frozen in time, a Kate that doesn't know he loves her and an Anthony who's one frayed thread away from telling her. Kate twists back around in his arms, and he's almost certain her eyes are expressing the words he feels, but the song changes and steals with it the moment.

‘Dance with me, Sharma? ’ Anthony says, and he’s led her halfway to the dancefloor before she can protest.

‘I don’t know how to do this kind of dancing,’ Kate says, though she automatically clasps her hands around his neck.

‘I’ll lead then.’

‘No way, I’ll lead.’ Kate says at once, as he knew she would, swatting him on the chest.

They don’t talk to anyone other than each other for the entire evening. It’s Anthony’s idea of perfection.

Anthony nearly forgets about the photo until a couple of weeks later, when he’s walking through Kate’s living room from the kitchen, carrying a lemon and honey tea to help with her cramps.

It’s framed and sitting on the coffee table, next to all of Kate’s father’s other belongings, his medications, a wallet-sized picture of a toothless Edwina, the watch he only ever takes off when he goes into the hospital.

Kate asks him why he’s smiling so much, Anthony doesn’t say a word.

~

Their last summer together is almost perfect. They get their A-level results, Kate has a clean sweep of A* grades, Anthony only slightly behind with two A*s and an A. Kate has some creative ideas about what the ‘A’ stands for. But they’ve both met their Oxbridge offers, so that’s that weight off, leaving them with two months to fritter away in the watery English sunshine.

Anthony helps Kate pick out a new (used) bike for Cambridge. He tries to buy her a new one, going in at the mid-range to avoid scaring her off, but she bats him away.

He memorises the car route from his accommodation to hers, makes a playlist called ‘Kate Cambridge’ to add to the Kate collection that he’ll never let her see.

Kate stays at the Bridgertons’ country estate in Kent for two weeks. She’s escorted to her very own bedroom for the sake of pretence but Anthony wakes up every morning with her in his arms, toasted golden in the sunshine spilling in from the windows. They shrug off all the lewd comments from his siblings over breakfast.

He nearly tells her on their very last night. They’re both starting at university in a week, it’s a good a time as any. Anthony Bridgerton loves Kate Sharma, it’s an objective fact, it’s not up for debate.

But then Mary rings her when they’re sitting down for dinner in the garden. Her father’s taken a turn for the worse. She doesn’t think it’s the end, but Kate needs to come home now.

Anthony drives her the three hours home, holds her hand at every red light. Drops her right at the entrance to the hospital. But when he starts to unclick his seatbelt, Kate shakes her head.

She tells him to go home, not to wait for her. Anthony waits anyway. The hospital car park is one of the eeriest, saddest places on earth.

He wakes up to a text from Kate at 4am. Her father made it through the night.

~

He drops her off at Cambridge. Her dad is too weak to travel, Mary has to work, and Edwina’s back at school, so it only makes sense.

But selfishly, Anthony’s glad he gets to do it. Helps her unpack all her things, not that there’s much. Kate’s always been a utilitarian.

She looks at home, in her room, small but cosy. Anthony helps her (badly) put on her new lavender bedding and then proceeds to help her (excellently) christen it. They walk hand-in-hand around the city, laughing when Anthony has to dive out of the way of errant cyclists, kissing by the river. Anthony takes half a dozen pictures of Kate standing outside Trinity, her smile shy and full of promise. When another fresher asks him to take a picture of her outside the college, her beaming parents standing either side, Kate turns away.

Anthony doesn't want to leave, but Kate tells him under no circumstances can he miss his own matriculation. All seven of his siblings and his mother help shuttle his life from Somerset to Oxford. He sends Kate a photo of them all standing outside Corpus Christi and immediately wishes he could take it back, but Kate sounds perfectly normal when she rings him five minutes later, wanting to know what Colin and Eloise were arguing about and what was distracting Benedict so much that he couldn't look directly at the camera for two seconds.

At first, Anthony's spending nearly every weekend in Cambridge. Kate only comes to Oxford once, insisting she’ll get the train rather than him driving all the way there and back in one go. He introduces her proudly to all of his friends as his girlfriend, though by the end of the line of introductions she's noticeably withdrawn. He whispers the words into her hair that night, half-hoping she's awake even though he knows she deserves better than a coward's declaration, lost to the dark.

The distance, the physical distance, Kate's distance, tears at him. Anthony wants to be with her all the time, he likes Oxford well enough but he’d rather be squeezed into Kate’s single bed, nose buried in her hair, or bickering with her over whose college motto is better, than anywhere else.

But a few weeks into term, Kate texts him, tells him she needs to catch up on tutorial work, he can’t come this weekend. Fair enough, Anthony thinks, he’s disappointed but he knows her workload is just as exacting as his. They agree he’ll come next weekend.

Sorry, is the message he gets an hour before he’s supposed to be setting off. Family stuff. We’ll rearrange xxx

Anthony ends up driving home to see his family instead, just to have something to do. And it’s nice, to chat with Gregory about the new school year, and listen to all the new words Hyacinth’s learned. It's nice, but he still feels hollow inside. He's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed that things haven't crumbled in his absence. Perhaps the last two years weren't all for nothing.

‘How’s Kate?’ Violet asks fondly. He doesn't know how to answer, but something curt and noncommittal comes out of his mouth anyway.

He lies awake in his childhood bed and rings her, but it goes straight to voicemail.

~

Kate’s father dies during Michaelmas term. It comes sooner than Kate had led him to believe was likely, but it's quick. He doesn't suffer.

Anthony knows the second his phone lights up at two in the morning, shocking him out of sleep. Fifteen minutes later he’s dressed and getting into his car, not even stopping for coffee on the way.

Kate’s never looked as small as when he tentatively pushes the door to her room open, and she’s hunched on the bed on her side, facing the wall. Even from here, he can see her face is swollen and tearstained. Her muffled sobs don't just shatter his heart, they claw it apart piece by piece.

Anthony doesn’t say anything at first, just gets straight onto her bed and, lying on his side, pulls her back flush against his chest, squeezing his hand underneath her small torso. She’s ice cold to the touch, so he pulls the blankets over her, tries to instil some of his warmth into her.

Neither of them sleep a wink for the rest of the night. 

~

Kate doesn’t know how to tell him.

He’s insisting on helping her pack, folding her clothes in all the wrong ways, bundling her toiletries into her makeup bag, putting clean socks in the dirty pile. He’s been living in her room for nearly a week now, watching his lectures online if he watches them at all. Kate knows he’s behind on all his essays because he just dropped everything and ran to her and didn’t look back.

He thinks she’s packing to go home for the funeral.

‘With your bike, I don’t think we’ll have room for all your stuff, you might have to economise,’ he says, looking diligently around the room, hands on his hips. ‘But I can always drive back and get anything you need, I guess if you don’t know how long you’re going back for-’

‘I’m dropping out.’

Kate hadn’t intended to tell him like that. The minute she says it the temperature in her poky student room drops at least two degrees. Some terrible, vindictive part of her rejoices in the way his face crumples in shock, and yet that thought makes her sick to her stomach.

‘Wait, what?’ Anthony stares at her, mouth flinging open in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Mary’s not doing well. She needs me.’ 

‘Ok,’ Anthony says slowly. ‘Why does that equate to you dropping out?’

Kate braces herself. She always knew this was going to turn into a fight, hence why she’s held off telling him, even though she made the decision the second she got off the phone with Mary six days ago.

She can’t even tell him he doesn’t understand, because who could understand better than him?

‘She needs me to be with her, I can’t do that if I’m here.’

‘Then live at home if you have to,’ Anthony shakes his head. ‘But you can’t drop out – Kate, you’re not thinking straight, you’re grieving-’

‘Oh right, and I’ll just commute into Cambridge from Somerset every day, shall I?’

‘You can have my car – and you can see if the university will let you do your lectures and tutorials online-’

‘No.’ Kate snaps, and Anthony reels back at the brusqueness of her voice. ‘You’re not listening to me. I can’t do this degree and look after Mary and take care of Edwina and deal with everything else that’s up to me now-’

‘You’re not even trying to make it work, you’re just doing the easiest thing which is for you to give up everything for everyone else-’

‘Right,’ Kate interrupts. ‘And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

‘This isn’t about me – don’t do that, don’t deflect because you don’t want to talk about it, you know I’m right-’

‘Anthony, I don’t have a fucking family fortune and three ancestral homes to fall back on. You really don’t get it, do you, there’s no way Mary’s going to be fit to work any time soon and my dad’s income was the only thing keeping us going-’

‘Then let me help you! But don’t drop out. That’s not what your dad would have wanted.’ Anthony exhales heavily, his forehead dimple threatening to split his face in two.

‘You don’t know what he’d have wanted, and I don’t want your money-’

‘Yeah, you’ve made that very fucking clear Kate,’ Anthony says, keeping his voice measured, at odds with the storm raging in his eyes. ‘Kate Sharma, Miss Independent, doesn’t take anything from anyone. Never accepts help even when she needs it. Won’t let anyone in, no matter what they do.’

Kate blinks away the tears stinging in her eyes. She does the only thing she can think to do to stop him from reading her mind, her heart. She attacks. ‘What about you? You think I don’t know when you’re not here, you’re at home? Running around after Benedict and Colin, spending hours driving Eloise and Francesca here, there and everywhere?’

‘Don’t make this about me. I’m not the one dropping out.’ Anthony scoffs. ‘And you’re right, I don’t know what your father would have wanted, because you kept me at arm’s length from your family from the beginning.’

‘You’re such a fucking hypocrite,’ Kate levels at him. ‘What was it you told me? It can only end one way. So excuse me if I didn’t want to just give you everything, only for you to decide the end is nigh and dump me?’

‘I was never going to do that,’ Anthony says calmly, though he’s visibly shaking. ‘And at the risk of repeating myself, this isn’t about me. It’s about you feeling like you have to put everyone else’s needs above yours. You think Edwina’s going to drop out of school to look after Mary?’

‘I don’t want her to do that.’

‘What about you? I can’t watch you throw your fucking life away, Kate-’

‘You know what, Anthony, if I’m that hard to be with, why don’t we just end it now?’

The minute she says it, she wants to take it back. But it’s out there now, she’s hurt him just as much as he’s hurt her. The only difference is that she knows he never set out to break her.

But Kate doesn’t think she can do it any longer. Love someone so fiercely when they don’t, won’t love her back. It’s not even the fact he doesn’t love her, it’s the fact he doesn’t want to that hurts the most. She's already in so much pain she could scream with the weight of it, what's one more severed tie? How many more people can she harbour all this love for, that has nowhere to go?

Anthony’s face is lily-white. ‘Kate, don’t do this. We need to talk-’

‘I think we’ve both said enough.’

'We're not leaving things like this,' he insists, and he reaches for her. Offering her a lifeline. A chance to turn back that she doesn't think she deserves.

‘I said leave. I'm done.’ Kate turns away, choking a sob. Don’t go, don’t actually go. I’m sorry. Don’t go. Please, don’t go. 

But she hears him swallow. ‘Fine.’

There’s an violent rustle as he rips his jacket off the back of a chair. Kate can hear his car keys rattling in the pocket.

She waits until the door slams behind him before she lets herself cry.

~

He doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. Kate writes and deletes so many messages that she forgets how to type properly. It feels like too much to put in black and white, she wants to see him so desperately that she’s almost willing to say anything, if only he’ll come back. She wants to say she's sorry for lashing out, for letting the jagged edges of her grief cut him too. 

In the end, she writes him a letter.

Anthony, I’m sorry.

And then she adds a postscript.

Kate can’t help looking for him everywhere on her walk to the post-box. Hoping to catch his face through a café window or stumbling out of a coffee shop and onto the cobblestones. Latte for her, flat white for him.

But Anthony never writes back. Kate makes sure to have her Cambridge post forwarded to her home address, rings the post office multiple times to make sure they did it properly. She even calls up her ex-college, every day for several weeks, asking them if any post has come for Kate Sharma. The courteous brush-offs start to sound frustrated, or worse, pitying, until Kate eventually stops calling.

But nothing ever comes. Her withdrawal from Cambridge is finalised. Several of Kate’s tutors email her, expressing their condolences, urging her to reconsider. She’s such a bright star, it’s a terrible shame, one of them writes. But they wish her luck for the future. Maybe one day she can return.

Kate moves back into her childhood home, immediately starts applying for jobs that will allow her the flexibility she needs to take care of Mary.

She buries every discernible trace of Anthony, other than the picture of them smiling at their leavers’ ball, the one her father had framed. She'd never asked him why he'd done that. He's gone, now, he's not here to object when she yanks it out of its setting, stares at her own eyes shining back at her. Kate doesn't even have to try to take herself back to that night; sunset silk and restless heartbeats and the ghost of his arm looping around her waist as the camera flashed and made sure Anthony Bridgerton would be etched into her past forever.

Her father's gone, but to throw away the picture he cherished so much still feels like she's dishonouring him. 

Kate takes it into her bedroom, sticks it on her windowsill. Over the days and weeks and eventually months, it curls at the edges, their faces are obscured by dust.

It stays there until eventually, the sunlight destroys it.

Chapter Text

Kate's phone

[Unknown number]: Be there in five.

She scans the text, lets the screen go dark without replying. Her hands are wrapped around a frosted glass, chipped red polish on her nails stark against the clear liquid. He’s five minutes away and yet in her head she’s already booking the manicure. One pm on her lunch break tomorrow. The salon is only two streets away from her favoured coffee place, the one that does a caramel cold brew –

[Unknown number]: Sorry I’m late – bit of a dick move, I know.

She could say it’s ok, don’t worry, I haven’t been here that long. Or equally, I’ve already left. Tiptoe out of the bar leaving nothing but a lipstick-stained glass to indicate she was ever there in the first place. She’d be back home with her hair swept up and face scrubbed clean, Newton lolling over her midriff, lauding her small victory to Michaela, see, I told you this would happen. She knows what Michaela would say, why are you bragging about that, Kate? Don’t you want to be happy?

Kate doesn’t reply to this text either. She drains the rest of her water and tells herself she’ll stick around for another five minutes exactly and then she’s out of here, stopping at Waitrose for a decent bottle of red and dark chocolate, the kind that’s always fully stocked because as someone once said to her, only a true psychopath eats 85% cocoa.

A silver-toned laugh draws her attention over to the far corner, where she’d have preferred to have been seated rather than right in the middle of the room on these backless high stools. Even her legs are dangling at this awkward height. The sexy, dim lighting obscures the couple’s faces, but Kate watches as the dark-haired man leans forward and drops a kiss on his date’s knuckles. The way their spines curve into one another, knees brushing, the natural intimacy, it’s clearly well beyond a first date, even a third or fifth. Not that Kate’s had that many of those recently.

The woman, petite and dark-haired, squeezes out of the booth and heads in the direction of the ladies’. Kate’s gaze remains on their corner for a split-second too long, and the man, now sitting alone, must feel the sudden weight of it, because he looks up and their eyes lock.

In that instant, she experiences it all: the sharp shock of recognition, quickly blurred by disbelief and stirred into panic, because surely that can’t be him, and if that’s him, then is that – ?

‘Kate?’

She nearly falls off her stupidly tall stool, head spinning around to where her own date for the evening is standing. He’s pulling off his coat and draping it over one arm, smiling at her sheepishly. She has no pictures to go on, so she gives him what she hopes is a tacit once-over. Shorter than she’d usually go for, but stout and powerfully built, dark, smooth skin, bare over his head. A firm, uncompromising jaw. It’s ironic that she’s more attracted to a blind date than she has been to any of the other men she’s swiped right on in the last few years.

‘You must be Will,’ she says, placing a hand on his chest as he dips his head to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

‘I am. I have to say, I hoped you were…you, when I walked in,’ he says boldly, as Kate struggles back onto her seat.

Fuck, her mind and stomach are a writhing cesspit of nerves and confusion and she knows there’s a flush stealing over her jaw and cheeks. She only hopes Will doesn’t mistake it for girlish flustering over his rather tame, and honestly, kind of cliché line.

Why in the name of god did he have to be here tonight? She supposes she should just be grateful it wasn’t –

And then Will’s looking over her shoulder with an uneasy frown and there’s the muted squeak of his shoes getting louder and she knows what’s about to happen even before he’s tapping her on the shoulder and saying,

‘Kate!’

Kate turns around, again, it’s a miracle she’s not got vertigo. ‘Um, hi.’

‘It’s – wow, I can’t believe it’s really you! I should go get – she’ll definitely want to say hi –’ he’s beaming at her so broadly that she can count all the new smile lines he’s grown since she saw him last. Same sympathetic eyes, same idle bounce in his voice and the balls of his feet. Otherwise, he looks as familiar to her as Edwina did after her first term away at university. A little slighter, a little tidier around the edges, but still him.

‘It’s good to see you,’ Kate tells him softly. And she means it, it is good to see that he’s alive and breathing and from what she’s just witnessed, happy, not just suitably content, but really doing well. It’s all she’s ever wanted for him.

And his family.

‘It’s amazing to see you. And what a funny coincidence, when next week’s the reunion-’

Kate thinks of the gold-edged envelope she opened and discarded in a pile in her room two months ago. She knows she shouldn’t ask, she really shouldn’t ask, she’s on a date with another man for god’s sake, but her tongue is faster than her muddled brain and she has to know –

‘Are you…going to that?’

He pauses, face softening in understanding. He could always read people, understand what was really lurking behind careful words. Luckily, he's always been delicate about it too.

‘I am.’ he says gently, and then, ‘everyone is.’

He’s going. He’s going.

It’s then that he finally notices Will, standing there in a sort of stumped silence. It’s the brief lapse in his genial manner, the wrinkle in his forehead, the slight downturn of his mouth. It makes Kate – just for a moment – wonder, and wondering is dangerous. Even five years later.

But then he’s smiling again, all rueful and overly polite now. ‘Oh, apologies, I was just so eager to come over and say hi to you, I didn’t realise I was interrupting something.’

Kate barely hears him introduce himself over the extended hand that Will takes with some apprehension. Fair enough, she supposes, this really isn’t good first date fodder. She briefly questions whether she’s going to end up blasted on an AITA on Reddit later.

‘Will Mondrich,’ Will says, with an air of suspicion.

‘Nice to meet you. Well, I should get out of your hair,’ her old (acquaintance? Friend?) says. ‘Let’s catch up properly next week? I know everyone will be desperate to see you.’

He tentatively pats Kate on the arm, before she has a chance to tell him she’s not going next week. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t know; he can be effusively charming when he wants to be, he’s obviously eager to see her again, and Kate doesn’t have the mettle to resist it tonight.

As he steps away, Kate turns back to Will.

‘Drink?’ he says. Kate's embarrassed  by the overly understanding tilt of his head but she nods gratefully anyway.

Will at least waits until their interrupter has retreated back to his spot in the corner and is safely out of earshot, before he asks. By this time Kate’s halfway through her cocktail, waiting for the rush of alcohol to knock out her raw nerves.

‘So, who was that?’ Will says casually, taking a messy slurp of his old fashioned. ‘An ex of yours?’

‘No,’ Kate says, with a wry smile, ‘that was his brother.’

~

Of course she’d bump into fucking Benedict Bridgerton on a random Thursday night when she’s already thrown off balance, out on a blind date that her flatmate had coaxed her into. You don’t get out enough, Kate, Michaela said, and it hadn’t been a dig, it was said as a statement, the same way you’d tell someone they had broccoli stuck in their front teeth. It was hard for Kate to rebuff this, given she’s coming to the end of a five month-long dry spell. So she had begrudgingly agreed on the condition that Michaela screened the ‘candidate’ first and satisfied herself that he wasn’t on any wanted lists.

So this is what she gets for breaking routine and doing something her every gut instinct was rallying against.

Five years. Five years she’s gone without seeing or talking to a single Bridgerton. Kate would add ‘thinking about’ to that list but she’s trying to practice self-honesty, that’s a hot topic that’s eaten up about half a year’s worth of therapy sessions.

At first, she wasn’t even trying to avoid them. That first six months after she dropped out of Cambridge is lost to her entirely. She doesn’t remember much of it, and not just because she doesn’t want to. After a while it became difficult to pick the days apart, there was nothing truly distinguishable between them. Trembling fingers lathering coconut oil through Edwina’s hair because it was the only thing maintained some semblance of normality when Mary spent a fourth day in a row without eating or speaking or showing any signs of life. The screaming and howling was at least preferable to the vacant, dead-eyed stare in their mother’s eyes, even if it was the loudest pain Kate had ever heard. Trying to scrape together the funeral her father deserved, working out what they could even afford and what they couldn’t but would pay for anyway because you only put your beloved father in the ground once. Calling the utility companies to beg for extensions on late payments, spending hours on the phone to Aubrey College explaining the ‘sudden change in their financial situation’ and having to produce death certificates and bank statements and mortgage deeds to convince them Edwina still qualified for her bursary when she should have been writing the eulogy. Angrily swiping away the tears that soaked the handwritten invitation to the funeral that she never sent, because the only thing that would have been worse than him saying no, would have been if he never acknowledged it at all. Kate had found that out the hard way.

In time, Kate learned not to miss the dream she’d given up. The acid thrill of going up to bat against her tutorial partner, deconstructing each and every argument no matter how solidly it was framed. Her careers advisor at school had warned her the black-letter nature of a Law degree might be tedious, combing through hundreds of pages of judgments and academic articles, finding her own voice through all that noise. The only thing Kate had found tedious was having to prove herself all over again, to lecturers and tutors and fellow students, but once she did – it only took the few short weeks she’d been enrolled –  she knew, without a doubt, that the next three years were hers for the taking.

Once she dropped out, Kate was no longer weighed down by essays and statute books; she traded that load for what felt like bottomless grief.

It was another year before she’d gathered the strength to sort through her father’s study. Even then, she only tackled the ‘easy’ stuff – nothing he’d written on, none of his treasured possessions. But she’d cleared out the stacks of court documents that could be shredded, the potted plants that had long since rotted into the soil, limbs black and shrivelled. That had been one of Mary’s better days, until she came downstairs for the first time in two weeks, her hair washed and detangled for once, and saw what Kate was doing. Screamed at her to stop desecrating her father’s memory. Who gave you permission to go through this things, she’d shrieked, he was my husband. Who gave you the right?

You did, Kate had thought but not said, as Edwina stumbled into the room and tried to calm their mother down from her mania. You did, the second you left me to be the adult.

When it had become clear Mary wasn’t going back to work any time soon and Kate’s meagre salary from the handful of minimum wage jobs she was overqualified for, even without her degree, was stretched so thin that Kate was seriously considering selling the house and moving them into a cheaper flat, she’d succumbed to desperation and done something she was certain would have driven Mary never to speak to her again (if she ever decided to speak at all). She wrote to her stepmother’s parents, blue-blooded non-doms who had ruthlessly cast their daughter out the second she had informed them she was marrying lowly paralegal Milan Sharma and not the unassuming, highbred expat they’d selected for her. Never mind the fact they hadn’t rung or sent flowers, let alone attended the funeral, even though Kate had foolishly invited them. She couldn’t help but think that the whole affair might have felt somewhat more bearable if her own mother – her amma – had been there. Maybe Mary – deep down – would share that sentiment. But of course, they hadn’t come. And they never responded to Kate’s letter, an unabashed appeal for salvation from financial ruin. Surely they didn’t want their only daughter and granddaughter to face such dire straits? If not that, then perhaps the threat of the Sheffield name being tainted with an impending bankruptcy might loosen their purse-strings? Frankly, after months of sleepless nights, drawing up budgets and cutting back in every conceivable way but finding that every month they were sinking further into the red, Kate didn’t care what the Sheffields’ motivation was, she was too desperate to dig into the morality of accepting help from such odious people. Not that it mattered in the end. No help was ever forthcoming.

After two years, it didn’t matter anymore that the Sheffields had never responded to her impassioned plea for their help. Kate had, through sheer determination, secured a paralegal role at a city law firm. Mary was getting better, going back to work on a trial part-time basis. Edwina was spending time with her friends again. Kate couldn’t help but feel that her little sister was suddenly a bit too eager to get back to normal. Staying out past her curfew, crawling back home with vodka stinging on her breath, just late and tipsy enough to make Kate tense and frustrated. The dodgy boyfriend with the dodgier fringe, though he thankfully hadn’t lasted long after Kate put the screws to him.

And through it all, Kate was pretending that her heart wasn’t splintered into pieces and abandoned, her heartbreak tread and trailed through every street in Cambridge she’d once walked with him. Acting like nothing had happened, like she didn’t feel like she was bleeding out from the pain of it, had been easy in some ways. Mary never asked. Edwina did, once or twice, including that first day home when it was Sophie’s car that pulled up in their driveway with all of Kate’s things packed in her boot, not Anthony’s. But she seemed to fear the look that would pass over Kate’s face whenever his name was mentioned, and so in no time at all it became a taboo. By this time, Edwina and Eloise had grown apart; some petty squabble that Edwina refused to talk about, and whilst the temptation to push and pry was there, Kate had felt her sister was owed her own secrets.

It had felt irreparable, the damage she and Anthony had done to each other. What was it, eighteen and criminally stupid, that she’d thought his kiss tasted like? Right…mutually assured destruction. Kate might not know what path Anthony’s life took after he stormed out of her room five years ago, he could have fallen off the edge of the earth for all she knows, but she knows she left a mark on him.

But the way Kate damaged Anthony was sudden and explosive, she’d burned him hot and fast like a cigarette and stamped him out straight after. She’s sure it was only a matter of weeks, months perhaps, before he was back to raking other girls through his careless fingers like confetti.

For the better part of the year they were together, Anthony Bridgerton had cut into her slowly. With every sacred touch, the way he’d always slip into the seat next to hers to run a warm hand up her thigh, to turn his head and refuse to look away from her face for the rest of the evening, Kate felt the cold, serrated edge of his refusal to love her or to admit that he did.

Granted, she hadn’t exactly poured out her soul to him either. The words had swum restlessly in her head every other hour she spent under his arm and she’d teased them on her tongue a thousand times, she didn’t need any bells and whistles to just fucking tell him, Anthony, I love you. But what was that, other than a kamikaze mission? When they’d started that whole thing, how much clearer could he have been that it was a dead-end? Road work ahead, well, no, it doesn’t? ‘I don’t see why we need to worry about stuff that hasn’t happened yet…’ Why had she thought she was an exception?

But the irony was that Kate loved Anthony like it was an oath. And if being with him, getting to bask in his dizzying smiles and ruin herself with every touch of his lips, also meant she had to live the slow poison of his unwillingness to love her back, well, then the pain was heaven. Until her father dropped dead and Kate didn’t have the capacity to feel any more pain.

Somewhere along the line, she’d started pulling back. Subconsciously at first, letting him message three or four times in a row before she’d reply, choosing to call Edwina instead of him.

And then it turned into lying about her weekend plans so he wouldn’t drive over and Kate wouldn’t have to watch him sleep in her bed with one arm still slung around her waist, so beautiful it made her heart collapse with the weight of all the things she wasn’t allowed to say to him.

Anthony had unintentionally given her an out when he picked a fight over her leaving Cambridge. Kate had been spoiling for it the second he turned up on her doorstep in the middle of the night. He’d been angrier than she’d anticipated and yet he'd still seen right through her like he always did.

‘Kate Sharma, Miss Independent, doesn’t take anything from anyone. Never accepts help even when she needs it. Won’t let anyone in, no matter what they do…’

It would have been easy to write it off as spite, that Anthony had just been going for maximum damage after she’d pushed him away one time too many, but five years on and Kate knows it wasn’t.

It was an unspoken agreement they’d had from the moment they’d met. They did not hold back from one another.

‘…you kept me at arm’s length from your family from the beginning…’

At first, Kate hadn’t realised she was hurting him, drawing those unforgiving lines between what they had and the inevitability of her father’s condition. She’d thought she was shielding him from experiencing that devastation again, even if it was second-hand. So when he kept making overtures – offering to spend evenings in at hers instead of his every time, sending her his revision notes (I know you were at the hospital late last night, so thought I’d save you the time typing yours up), ferrying Edwina back and forth from play practice so Kate didn’t have to go and call the neighbour over to sit with her dad – she’d only been concerned for the safety of her own heart, because every single one of those things sent her further down the point of no-return when it came to falling in love with him.

By the time she sensed she was actually punishing him, it was too late. She already loved him and she had to keep something for herself, something he couldn’t take when he eventually got bored and called it off. If Kate shared the ugly truths, how awful and exhausting and debilitating it was, watching her father wither away and being powerless to stop it, the arguments they’d have about her future late into the night, and then Anthony walked away, that would be it. She wouldn’t be able to take it back.

But he’d walked away anyway.

When he hadn’t replied to her letter, Kate had spent weeks swinging between states of blind anger and despair. Had she copied the address to his house down wrong? Had he thrown the envelope away without opening it the second he recognised the swirl of his name in her hand? Was he already knee-deep in pursuit of his pre-Kate self, hitting rebound after rebound until she was nothing more than a memory to be contained within parentheses? Was he alive?

Or had what she’d written in the postscript confirmed everything he’d feared, that he was right to leave without a second glance?

Eventually, Kate accepted his silence for what it was. Whether or not he’d read her letter, he was done. Which meant she had to be done by default. So Kate didn’t write again. She didn’t call. She didn’t text. She didn’t even let herself look him up on LinkedIn or Google his name.

All so that when she fell asleep at night and his face still occasionally floated in her conscious, she could kid herself that she’d been the one to leave him behind.

~

‘He seems nice,’ Will says, with a cavalier nod. ‘Forward guy.’

‘He’s like that with everyone,’ Kate says, though her gaze drops into her lap as she speaks.  ‘So, I think Michaela said you own your own restaurant…?’

If Will is perturbed by the clumsy way she steers the conversation away from the train wreck that lies at the end of it, he doesn’t say anything. He spends the next few minutes speaking impassionedly about the little eatery he built up from scratch, the enviable west London location where it now thrives, even alludes to taking her there for a tour of the tasting menu. Kate smiles in all the right places and asks all the right questions as she works through her second martini, chewing and sucking on the cocktail stick even though it’s bad manners, just to give her nervous mouth something to do as he talks.

‘What do you do?’ Will says, once he’s finished describing every square inch of Mondrich’s, right down to the paintwork, in loving detail.

‘I’m a paralegal at the moment,’ Kate says. ‘But I’m applying within my firm for a solicitor apprenticeship. It would…let me work part-time while studying for my Law degree, and then I’d qualify to practice law at the end of it.’

‘That sounds like a big undertaking.’ Will says, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. ‘I can’t imagine studying and working at the same time. Not sure I could be bothered, honestly.’

‘I’ve always done it.’ Kate says offhandedly. ‘It usually takes five or six years to qualify through that route, but it’s an alternative for those of us that didn’t go to university straight after school.’

Will seems to gather he’s made a misstep and makes to say something else, pushing forward in his seat, but before he can course-correct, Kate feels rather than hears the presence of someone behind her.

‘Uh – sorry to interrupt again –’ Benedict’s saying. ‘But Soph really wanted to say hi.’

And so for the second time that evening, Kate is forced to swivel around and face someone she hasn’t seen in nearly five years.

The truth is that Kate hadn’t anticipated that blast zone following the annihilation of her relationship with Anthony would also have claimed her best friend.

In the immediate aftermath, Sophie had tried. She really had. Quietly helping Kate evacuate her student room, saying nothing about the crumpled Oxford under her bed, the lone man’s glove trapped under a stack of books, the other debris he’d forgotten in his haste to tear out of Kate’s life and never look back. Driving her all the way back home, the daily text messages that Kate began to resent because her broken heart wasn’t so defective that it didn't still hope they’d finally be from him. Her hand wound around Kate’s at the funeral when it should have been his. When Sophie went back to university, the video calls that went unanswered, almost always followed by a message or an email, hope you’re feeling better today, don’t feel you have to reply. I just want you to know I’m thinking about you. Kate always meant to reply, to call her back, but was stopped by the growing trepidation that she’d already fallen out of orbit with her old friends. Not because of the break up, because of the break down of her life that started the second she was orphaned. Her life no longer revolved around university confession pages and six-for-four Jägerbombs and cheesy chips at 3am, it was trying to get Mary to speak to the bereavement counsellor and sitting at her father’s grave until the sky turned pink and trying to work out if they could afford Edwina’s piano lessons any more. Kate didn’t want to trouble Sophie with any of that.

Somewhere after the fortieth unopened message, Sophie stopped trying.

Now here she is, trying one more time. Red-lipped and dainty and lovely in pastel hues, and hanging off Benedict Bridgerton’s arm.

‘Hi,’ Sophie says softly. ‘You look amazing.’

Kate jumps off her stool, mumbling ‘so do you,’ and folds into Sophie’s embrace. It feels familiar and foreign all at once; Sophie still carries that playful jasmine smell, still steps into hugs with her whole chest. Kate hesitates, does she mention the hard, cool rock currently digging into her back?

‘Congratulations,’ she says, when they break apart and letting her eyes settle on the impressive diamond. ‘…when did this happen?’

‘The engagement, or everything before that?’ Benedict grins.

‘This happened last month,’ Sophie says, twiddling her bejewelled fingers happily as her fiancé tucks his arm around her waist. ‘Everything before that…well, guess if we’re being pedantic, it started during that stupid spin the bottle game on Halloween.’ she peers impishly up at Benedict. 'Though he took his sweet time locking me down.’

Benedict flinches and casts a wary glance at Kate, sensing an uncomfortable recollection in the offing, but when she manages not to react, he relaxes. ‘Soph came to a masquerade party at Oxford when I was in my first year and we reconnected straight away.’

Kate knows the rising, sick feeling in her gut is her own fault. She hears herself congratulating them again, laughing when Sophie reveals that Benedict didn’t even recognise her at first but followed her around the party like a lost puppy anyway, doing her best to keep the hollowness in her chest out of her smile.

‘Anyway, we’re being so rude, you’ve got company,’ Sophie says abruptly, with a curious look at Will. ‘Maybe we’ll see you next week?’

Maybe not. Kate thinks of the envelope she hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw away. ‘No, it’s fine. It was great to see you.’

She knows her avoiding the subject of next week doesn’t go unnoticed, but no more is said about it. They exchange tentative goodbyes, Benedict pats her on the shoulder. This could be the end of it. One blip in five years is still pretty good going.

‘Soph – wait-’ at the slip of her nickname, Sophie cracks a fond smile, which gives Kate the confidence to go on. ‘Would you want to get coffee some time?’

Pretending she can’t see Benedict beaming in the background, Kate watches as Sophie’s smile stretches so wide that her lipstick strains.

‘I’d really like that,’ Sophie says. ‘Um…have you still got my number?’

Of course she does.

~

The second Kate gets home, she calls out for Michaela, pokes a head round her dark and empty room. Wherever she is, she’s not here to see Kate burrowing through documents, folders, every spare bit of paper she can find until finally, she’s pulling the thick parchment envelope out from underneath a stack of council tax bills.

She reads it through for what is only the second time.

The Old Aubrerians’ Association cordially invites

Miss Kathani Sharma

to the inaugural Aubrey College Alumni Reunion Week (Classes of 2020, 2021 and 2022)

26^th May 2025 – 30^th May 2025

Agenda:

Monday : champagne reception and introductory ball (7pm – 11pm). Formal attire required.

Tuesday : ‘Back to School’ Sports Day and picnic (11am – 6pm)

Wednesday : trivia night (5pm – 12am)

Thursday : garden party with afternoon tea and silent auction* (12pm – 12am)

Friday: historical tour of the grounds (all day, please contact the alumni office to book your slot)

Saturday : black-tie ball and firework display (7pm – 12am)

RSVP by return letter or email ( [email protected] ) by 1^st March 2025.

Please direct all enquiries (including dietary requirements) to the alumni office.

*All proceeds from the silent auction will be donated to the Aubrey College Charity of the Year, Building Bridges.

It’s too late now, anyway, surely? Kate never replied to the invitation, not even to decline. The event’s on Monday, she’d have to drive down to Somerset on Sunday at the latest, book time off work at ridiculously short notice, find not one, but two black-tie dresses and a bunch of outfits suitable for garden parties and casino nights and bloody sports days. It’s impulsive and crazy for someone who needs a whole night of convincing just to go on a blind date.

There’s also the small matter of the reason for her sudden change of heart. Two months ago, she’d assumed he wouldn’t go either, he always hated this sort of stuff, only ever went out of duty or obligation to his family…or because of her.

Now that she knows he’ll be there, thanks to Benedict’s heavy-handed hinting, what would she even say to him? Get any interesting post lately? It’s five years too late for that. What does it say about Kate if she truly has to give this that much thought?

It’s decided, she thinks as she retires to bed, pressing her cheek into the cool silk of her pillowcase. She’s not going. For the sake of her own peace of mind, she doesn’t need to think about, talk to, or lay eyes on Anthony Bridgerton ever again.

The next morning, Kate phones the alumni office the second it opens.

‘I’m Kate Sharma. Class of 2020. I, um…forgot to respond in March, apologies. But I’d still like to come to the reunion, if it’s not too late.’

‘The reunion week starts on Monday. I’m afraid it is too late.’ comes the crisp response. There’s a blast of typing noises and just as Kate’s saying, ‘Never mind then…’ –

‘Hang on, did you say Kate Sharma? As in, Kathani Sharma?’

‘Ye-es,’ Kate says slowly.

‘I’m sure we can make an exception for an old Head Girl,’ says the registrar. ‘I’ll put you down for all five events, shall I, Miss Sharma?’

~

Monday

Two days later, Kate is walking into the cavernous Brimsley Hall (named after a centuries-old headmaster of the school), usually used for school assemblies but tonight, tressed and polished into a shimmering ballroom, and wondering if she should have taken Michaela’s advice after all and taken a ‘courage shot’.

Bouquets of balloons in school colours are pinned in every corner, round tables scattered throughout and adorned with candles and confetti. A large stage has been set up against the north-facing wall, with a large banner hanging above it, welcoming back the alumni of 2020, 2021 and 2022 in metallic lettering. Adjacent to the main stage, a smaller platform has been set up for the jazz band, whose jaunty melody has already moved three or four couples to twirl around the room. On the far side, a makeshift bar has been erected and is, unsurprisingly, the most popular corner of the room.

Over by the vast buffet table sits a large projector, snapping through colourful moments from five or so years ago. For the brief minutes she allows herself to look, Kate is transported back to pivotal moments in sports matches and handshakes at prize ceremonies and teary faces on results days. She turns away before she’s confronted with her own teenage likeness - or worse, someone else’s.

Kate whisks a champagne flute from the proffered tray and takes a nervous gulp, but the bubbles burn like acid in her stomach. It might also have been a good idea to heed Michaela’s suggestion to eat something. She peers around the sea of well-to-do faces, hoping her discomfort isn’t evident, when her phone vibrates against her hip.

Kate's phone

Sophie: hey! I’m over by the band if you want to see a friendly face.

Overcome with gratitude for her old friend, Kate totters unevenly towards the sound of the music in the heels she should never have worn and sure enough, there’s the wonderful sight of Sophie waving energetically at her. She’s head-to-toe in dazzling silver that catches the light every time she moves.

‘I wasn’t sure we’d see you here tonight,’ Sophie says as she hurries forward to take Kate into her arms. ‘I’m so glad you are, though. I forgot how popular Ben was at school. We can barely get through a bloody hors d'oeuvre without someone yelling, is that Benedict Bridgerton? And then he’s bounding off to reminisce for the next twenty minutes.’

Kate follows her pointed finger across the room to indeed, where a finely suited up Benedict is cloistered in the middle of a group of other sharply dressed young men, all of whom are chuckling away at his anecdote.

‘He’s definitely in his element,’ Kate says, surprised by the warm swell of affection in her voice as she looks on. ‘You’re stunning, by the way.’

She barely hears Sophie returning the compliment, because her attention is diverted by a flurry of movement at a nearby table. Kate’s eyes tail a dark-haired man in a crisp white tuxedo as he leads his blonde companion over to the buffet table and the question splinters through her cold, still blood.

Then he moves into profile and she takes in the snub nose, smattering of freckles, the pale grey eyes that are completely foreign to her.

It’s not him. The immediate flood of relief and disappointment makes for a volatile emotional cocktail. Kate can almost see the humour in it; it’s so bloody typical of Anthony to be undoing her plan to be cool, calm and collected without actually doing anything.

Conscious that Sophie’s watching her, Kate is saved from the indignity of pretending she wasn’t just gawking at a man she mistook for her ex when Benedict appears, having shaken off his group of chortling chums.

‘Kate!’ he says, goggling at her in astonishment. ‘You’re here!’

‘I am,’ Kate says, smiling indulgently at him. Benedict leans in to drop a polite kiss on her cheek before wrapping Sophie under his arm.

‘Have you two been catching up?’ he says, squeezing his fiancée’s hand.

‘We have a coffee date planned on Thursday, before the garden party.’ Sophie grins shyly at Kate over her champagne glass. ‘You looked like you were having fun with your old pals.’

‘Honestly, I don’t remember ever talking to half of them when we were at school,’ Benedict admits, rubbing the back of his head. ‘I’m sure that Lumley chap is mixing me up with An – er, with someone else.’

‘You can say his name, he’s not Voldemort,’ Kate says amusedly, and Sophie raises a thinly plucked brow. ‘It’s been five years, I think Anthony and I can be in a room together without it combusting.’

Benedict wrinkles his forehead, though whether out of concern or scepticism, Kate isn’t sure. Either way, it doesn’t do much for her precarious emotional state.

‘Where is he-who-must-not-be-named, anyway?’ Sophie directs her question to Benedict but she keeps a sly eye on Kate. ‘I know you said he was coming straight from the office, but surely he should be here by now?’

Kate tries not to look too interested in Benedict’s answer and drains the rest of her champagne.

‘He said he’d be late because he had to give Col a lift,’ Benedict squints across the room. ‘Speak of the devil. Brother!’

Kate shares a giggle with Sophie as she spies the third Bridgerton brother, scavenging the buffet table with all the grace of a fox rootling through a dustbin. When he looks up from his hoard of goods, she’s again struck by how much he, like Ben, resembles his younger self, though the goatee is definitely new. Colin abandons the buffet and strolls over, carrying a plate piled high with mini quiches and beef wellingtons, smoked salmon tartlets and the like.

He takes a minute to notice Kate, but when he does, the skippy sort of dance he does as he moves to greet her pulls a strangled laugh from her throat.

It’s jarring for Anthony’s brothers to be this happy to see her again, when she’s spent their time apart convinced she’d burned not just one bridge, but eight. Unless of course, they’re just overcompensating because they know how dire the breakdown of the relationship was and are keen to avoid gathering around the wreckage. That’s got to be it, Kate thinks mournfully, as Colin attempts to hug her without smearing pastry all down her dress.

‘Hi Kate,’ Colin says excitedly, ‘Shit – sorry, I’m all crumb-y. It’s so good to see you again – Ben said you weren’t coming!’

That comment extinguishes any doubt in Kate’s mind as to whether her little blind date rendezvous the other day has made it through the Bridgerton grapevine. As if reading her mind, Sophie flashes her an apologetic smile. ‘I wasn’t, but I couldn’t miss a chance to spend some time with Sophie again,’ she says, which isn’t actually untrue.

‘Right, of course,’ Colin says with half a glance at Benedict, and the smirk that appears at the end of this sentence is very unsubtle.

‘Where’s our brother?’ Benedict says, eyeing Colin’s heavily laden plate. ‘He’s missing what is, apparently, a great spread.’

‘Not sure.’ Colin says blankly. ‘Haven’t seen him since we got here. But you know Ant, he barely eats anyway. I’m not convinced he’s actually human. More like some anal-retentive alien beamed down for the sole purpose of yelling at us for leaving a speck of dust in his car.’ he shovels a mini quiche in his mouth and scatters what looks like half of it in his goatee.

‘He’ll blow a gasket if he finds out the real reason you asked for a ride.’

‘That horse has bolted, I got an earful on the way over here,’ Colin complains, cheeks bulging like a hamster in hibernation. ‘I accidentally let slip about getting towed and he went into orbit. It was hard to tell in the rearview mirror but I think he actually turned maroon.’

Kate shifts uncomfortably. Five years ago this would be the moment she’d have cut across the bitching and moaning with some scathing observation about how Anthony was the only reason Colin even had a bloody car to get towed, since he was the one that sorted the insurance and took it in for MOTs and actually bought the damn thing. That a little gratitude might go a long way.

‘You know, I think I fancy a stuffed mushroom cap,’ she says instead, dodging Sophie’s knowing look and ignoring Colin’s mutter of  ‘…said no-one ever,’ as she drifts over to the buffet. However, the second she gets close enough, Kate changes her mind, her stomach too delicate to contemplate food other people have picked over. For the sole purpose of saving face, she plucks something off a tray at random and drops it in her mouth, nearly gagging when she realises she’s just eaten crab.

Wincing, Kate looks appraisingly over at the bar and its promise of an indulgent, mellow red to chase the briny taste of crustacean away and makes her way over to it. There are a few other guests waiting for their drinks to be poured, so she sits her elbows on the bar-top and closes her eyes for a moment until the bartender asks her gently what she wants.

‘Could I have a glass of the ‘99 cabernet, please?’ she says, after a cursory look at the wine list.

‘I’m afraid I’ve just poured the last glass to the gentleman over there.’ the bartender says, inclining his head to the other end of the bar.

Naturally, Kate glances over out of the corner of her eye. A flicker of dark blue. There’s a suggestion of something vaguely crisp and woodsy in the air.

And instinctively, she knows.

The bartender’s still talking, offering her a similarly aged Sangiovese instead, but it’s dulled to a low-level thrumming in the back of her head.

She knows. But still, she lets her body react. Her blood rising with a hum. Cheekbones tightening underneath hot, flushed skin.

Kate takes him in like one would their prey. Slowly. Decadently. Starts with his legs, bent against the counter, one crossed behind the other. That same languid, refined stance. Like it was designed to draw her in. The tailored, navy Savile Row suit that clings luxuriously to the sinewy curve of his upper arms and layers of muscle that weren’t there five years ago. The bowtie nestled against his delicate throat, almost knocked askew as she watches him swallow, hard. The thick veins threaded like vines on his clenched hand, resting forcefully on the bar-top. A glitter of gold at his sleeves.

The clenched jaw, set like stone. He always had a strong jawline, it was his father’s before it was his, but age has whittled away the baby fat. Full mouth, hard and flattened.

Anthony.

Kate drags her eyes up his face.

He’s staring at her. Drinking her in with the same slow-motion greed.

Dark, blazing eyes crested over the rim of his glass, lips guilty with the stain of the rich burgundy liquid. In the candlelight, his skin is tinged white and bloodless. He looks vampiric.

But, oh, he’s still heartachingly handsome. Her throat still constricts at the gentle, crushing beauty of him. He’s taller, leaner, filled out at the shoulders, narrower at the waist. His thick head of dark hair sweeps enticingly across his brow. The blasphemous thought occurs to her that his perfect coif would be no match for her roving hands.

It’s only natural that the attraction is still there, is it not? Burning brighter, bolder, more terrible, even? Kate’s a young, sexually experienced woman now, not a blushing eighteen year old with her hormones out of whack. If that frisson that has always inexplicably drawn her to him is stronger, it can be put down simply to curiosity after five years without his touch.

Kate is surprised that she wants to be the first one to speak. Whatever it is, it has to be worthy of five years of silence, five years of wondering and wanting and not knowing, of seesawing between longing and cursing him into the night. Of pillowcases adorned with tears and a letter bearing her heart that went unanswered. Whatever it is, it’s got to be enough to drown out her stampeding heartbeat.

‘You stole my drink.’ is what she hears herself say. She manages to keep her tone flat, bordering on disinterested. Let him stew on that.

Anthony seems taken aback by her directness. As though he was expecting her to bolt, or just murmur his name with an echo of disbelief.

Then he swallows – again – and says coolly, ‘How could I have stolen it? I ordered it before you even came over here.’

‘You don’t drink cab.’ Kate doesn’t relent. He’d eschewed it, that last, lost summer at his family’s country estate, watched disdainfully as Kate, Daphne and Simon shared a bottle pilfered from the wine cellar after Violet had retired to bed. Anthony had settled for a tot of whisky instead, taken from his father’s old study. Kate had laughed too loudly and called him an old man until he pulled her into his lap and she kissed the malt off his lips.

‘And you don’t like crab. I suppose a lot can change in five years.’

The knowledge that he’s been watching her from across the room makes her jerk back in shock. This seems to satisfy him, in some twisted way.

‘Don’t presume to know what I like these days, Kate,’ says Anthony, his voice maddeningly even.

He draws out her name effortlessly. Like either it’s not the first time he’s said it in half a decade or like it’s nothing to him. Kate thinks about the months, years that she and her family went without mentioning his and bites down angrily on her cheek.

‘You’re right. In fact, I think we should just go about the rest of our evenings as though we don’t know each other at all.’ Kate says. ‘You stick to your side of the room, and I’ll stick to mine.’

For a second, Anthony’s lips curl up as though he’s about to laugh, but when he responds it's almost a jeer. ‘That little trick’s never worked well for us, now has it?’

His insufferable cockiness stokes up embers of a long-forgotten fire, an itch to quibble and spar and clash until she draws blood that Kate hasn’t felt in years.

‘Why are you here, Anthony? You hate all of – this.’ Kate gestures theatrically around the room.

‘I was invited.’ he says at once. ‘And what did I just tell you about presuming to know what I like…or hate, for that matter?’

‘So you do open letters then.’ Kate mutters under her breath.

‘Pardon me?’ Anthony says sharply. How does he have the gall?

Kate opens her mouth to tell him to go to hell when a set of long, thin fingers seize her by the shoulder.

‘Well, well. Miss Sharma and Mr Bridgerton. There I was, searching every nook and cranny of this room and all those adjoining it, trying to track down the two of you, when I might have known you’d be holed up together somewhere.’

Their old History teacher looks remarkably steady on her feet given her advancing age and the ubiquitous cane clutched in the hand that’s not digging into Kate’s arm.

‘Dr Danbury,’ Kate says automatically, as Anthony drawls, ‘nice to see you too, Agatha.’

And suddenly they’re back in school and she’s fuming that Anthony Bridgerton has managed to get himself better acquainted with a teacher than her, Kate Sharma, teacher’s pet extraordinaire. She can even hear the snappy back-and-forth in her head.

First name terms? What did you do, Bridgerton, offer to pay off her mortgage?

Believe it or not, Sharma, some people actually respond to my personality. Shame the same can’t be said for you.

‘Well, you’ve found us now, so pray tell, how can we be of assistance?’ Anthony asks dryly. Kate has the sudden urge to flee but Danbury is gripping her shoulder so powerfully that she might break skin if Kate moves an inch.

‘I think it’s time for our dear Head Boy and Head Girl to say a few welcoming words to their old classmates, to kick off this week nicely.’ Danbury says.

The same blind panic rippling through Kate flashes across Anthony’s face. She hasn’t prepared a bloody speech and she has no desire to stand on a stage – with her ex-boyfriend – and utter some trite nonsense about how good it is to see such happy, smiling faces again. At least, she thinks, Anthony has been ambushed by this proposal as well.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Anthony says, recovering quickly. ‘The headmaster is giving a speech, surely? I can’t imagine what we could add to it that won’t be superfluous.’

Kate nods stiffly in agreement.

‘Young man, as the chair of the alumni office and this event, I shall decide what is necessary,’ Danbury smacks her cane down to illustrate the point. ‘Your peers want to hear from their peers, and you two must have given a hundred public speeches by now. You certainly never shied away from the opportunity to disrupt my classes to do so.’

‘Yes, well, seeing as it was usually Mr Bridgerton doing the interrupting-’ Kate pauses to enjoy Anthony scowling at her pettiness ‘- perhaps he might address the room solo? I don’t see the need for us both to speak. As I recall, he always had plenty to say, though I can’t vouch for its merit or substance.’

This proves to be a mistake. Danbury is detoured from her pursuit of Anthony and rounds on Kate instead, fixing her with a penetrative stare.

‘Miss Sharma, perhaps you might enlighten me as to what exactly you’ve been up to since leaving Aubrey? I confess that I rather lost track of your comings and goings ever since my godson told me you dropped out of Cambridge.’

‘Your godson?’ Kate repeats, pretending not to see every one of Anthony’s facial muscles tightening.

‘Basset.’ Anthony supplies. He takes a measured sip of his wine and Kate is pleased to see him grimace as it hits his throat, though he tries to hide it.

‘Well?’ Danbury demands.

‘I –’ Kate glares at Anthony, but he steadily returns her gaze, drumming his fingers on the surface of the bar. Awaiting her answer. ‘I’m a paralegal now.’

‘I see. And your ambition to join the roll?’

‘That’s still my intention.’ Kate says, a little snippily, but Danbury smiles, as though she’s been waiting for Kate to bite back.

‘And do you intend to return to Cambridge?’ she says bluntly.

Anthony’s eyes snap onto Kate’s, his expression dark and yet inscrutable. Does he still remember every angry word, tossed like grenades between them that day? Does she even want him to?

‘What about you? I can’t watch you throw your fucking life away, Kate-’

‘You know what, Anthony, if I’m that hard to be with, why don’t we just end it now?’

‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’ Kate says to Danbury, tossing her head towards the stage. Masterful evasion tactics. The older woman sighs exasperatedly at her as though she wasn’t expecting anything else.

 ~

‘Magnificent speech, brother. Truly inspired. They may even erect a plaque in your honour.’

Anthony snatches the tumbler Benedict’s holding out for him and roughly tosses it back, choosing not to respond to his light-hearted teasing.

‘I liked Kate’s better,’ Colin says deliberately. ‘What was that crack she made about seeing familiar faces? “Including those we never intended to share a room with again?” Who do you think that was directed at?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me she would be here?’ Anthony ignores Colin and looms menacingly over Benedict instead, stopping just shy of stabbing a finger into his chest. Benedict does not seem remotely bothered by this. ‘And don’t tell me you didn’t know – it was written all over your face during that godforsaken speech.’

‘Because I didn’t want you starting the week with a downward spiral into Kate-induced lunacy.’ Benedict answers, to which Anthony starts incoherently spluttering and rambling, rather proving his brother’s point.

‘You must have known it was a possibility she’d be here,’ Sophie says placatingly.

Of course he knows. He’s counted on it. He can scarcely believe none of them are calling him out on it. Anthony loathes these types of events, filled with dullards whose contrived conversation and affected small talk has him reaching for his father’s pocket watch every other minute. For the last couple of years, he’s refused to consort with idiots, and his social calendar has dramatically diminished as a result. A school reunion would never usually have made the cut.

There was only ever one thing – one person – whose presence, or even the mere possibility of it, could have compelled him to make an appearance tonight.

Anthony hadn’t been able to help himself. She was the object of his first thought when he’d ripped open the invitation to the reunion. She was the reason it hadn’t been discarded five seconds later. She glimmered on the edge of his conscience like the gold in her eyes, she was the sum of all of his what-ifs, she lived and breathed in every one of his regrets.

He knew it was pitiable, five years on, but the torment of not knowing outweighed his need for self-preservation. The invitation sat on his desk for three days until he finally rang up the alumni office. His voice cracking like the fragile glass of a frozen windowpane as he softly asked if Kate Sharma had confirmed her attendance yet?

‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,’ was the response. ‘GDPR restrictions, and all that.’

Of course, given his legal background, Anthony knew very well that the bloody Global Data Protection Regulations had about as much to do with it as the price of chai in India and this man was just being difficult for the sake of it. Ten minutes of aggressively flexing his licence to practice law had done little to persuade the despot on the phone and Anthony had eventually given up and nonchalantly asked Daphne if she could send him the guest list.

Daphne had access to such privileged information because she sat on the board of the charitable foundation that Anthony had set up shortly after making associate at his law firm. The same charity that this entire ridiculous week-long affair was in aid of.

For all that Building Bridges is Anthony’s brainchild (and he still maintains an active role in its day-to-day operations), Daphne is very much the one who handles the commercial and partnerships aspects and crucially, oversees events coordination, and it was Daphne who had thrown their hat in the ring for consideration as Aubrey College’s Charity of the Year and talked about nothing else for the last ten months. She’s spent an inordinate amount of time buttering up wealthy benefactors to donate auction items, fussing over everything from the placement of the charity’s logo on the invitations to the event to the colour of the serviettes. In what Anthony feels was an entirely foreseeable chain of events, his indomitable sister had muscled her way onto the alumni committee itself and taken over the planning of the whole thing. Which he wouldn’t have particularly cared about if Daphne hadn’t proceeded to spend the next few months talking about nothing other than how stressed out she was and hinting heavily that his increased involvement would be appreciated.

Anthony wasn’t the only one sick to the back teeth of hearing about it and the tension had reached its boiling point when, during the weekly Bridgerton Sunday lunch, Hyacinth had spattered Daphne with a spoonful of roast potatoes in the middle of a long diatribe about why the colour of the place settings should be baby blue and not cerulean. Daphne had subsequently been banned from broaching the topic at all. In Anthony’s opinion, Hyacinth’s tearful claims that Colin had slipped her a large bag of pick ‘n’ mix to launch the legendary ‘pummel-de-terre’, probably had some merit.

A month ago, Daphne had, in fact, sent him the list of invitees, though it was accompanied by a terse comment about him ‘finally showing some interest now that all the substantive work is done’.  Next to Kate’s name it simply said ‘no response’.

So why is he here, now?

Because ‘no response’ meant ‘maybe’. ‘Maybe’ had him clearing his schedule for the rest of this week. ‘Maybe’ had him striding down the streets of Mayfair for a new suit to wear this evening. ‘Maybe’ had him acting completely, utterly insane.

But more importantly, why is she? And why is she so angry, when she was the one who-?

‘How did you-?’ Anthony says now, cutting himself off with a rough shake of the head.

‘Soph and I bumped into her the other day,’ Benedict says uneasily. ‘At, err…a...bar. We chatted for a maximum of five minutes.’

‘That’s great.’ Anthony says, his voice unnaturally high with the effort of holding back the million and one questions he has. Like whether Ben might provide a transcript of the conversation and a play-by-play of what Kate was wearing and who she was with.

‘Never mind that, are we finally going to learn what actually happened between you two?’ Benedict waves a hand front of Anthony’s irascible face.

‘We broke up. There’s nothing else to know.’ Anthony says harshly. To his extreme annoyance, Ben, Colin and Sophie exchange dubious looks. ‘I was just expressing my…surprise… that she’s here.’

‘She didn’t seem all that happy to see you,’ Colin observes, earning himself a dirty look from Sophie.

‘Shut up,’ Benedict advises his brother, before turning back to Anthony, his countenance uncharacteristically solemn. ‘Have you…talked to her?’

‘Briefly.’ Anthony grunts.

He’s not about to admit that Kate’s blistering hostility had been rather undercut by the fact his brain was short-circuiting from the second he spotted her across the room. That was about when his heart started stuttering and he became hyper-aware of the sound of his own breaths. Maybe until now Anthony had forgotten – or maybe he never fully realised – how breathtaking she is, but there is absolutely no question of that tonight.

Her splendid brown skin is draped in layers of black silk, clinging like dew to every contour of her svelte figure. Cut tastefully to promise the curve of her breasts. The curls he once spent hours teasing between his fingers are gone, coaxed into a satiny, straight mane, and with the additional length it dusts her ribcage.

She’s taller, he thinks, by half an inch or so, or maybe it’s just the way she’s carrying herself now, with an alluring self-assuredness that the eighteen year old version of her didn’t yet have. Unfortunately, for all its other appreciable qualities, Kate’s dress completely covers the long, willowy legs Anthony knows lay beneath it. After all, he had them wrapped around his waist enough times. And that was after an entire year of shameless fantasising.

Five years. He’s had five years to forget her face and yet he still knows exactly how it would feel, like warm silk, cupped in his hands. Five years and he should feel nothing.

Automatically, his eyes travel the room for her – and there she is, standing with a group of girls he thinks she might have played in the school orchestra with.  Five years and he can still find her without even trying. As Kate tosses her head back and laughs, her hair tumbles off one shoulder, leaving it tantalisingly bare. She looks relaxed, a lot more so than on the stage with him. Standing just close enough to him that they could both reach the microphone, but otherwise distant in every discernible way.

He supposes he should have anticipated that she’d be angry. He just hadn’t expected her anger to match his own. Not after the voicemail.

If any of it still mattered, he’d ask her about it. Why she never responded to it, not even to tell him to go fuck himself.

But it doesn’t, Anthony’s sure of it. Yes, he’s been curious to see her again, but that is all in the name of closure. Something they deprived one another of. And if he hasn’t been in a relationship longer than three months since Kate, well, he’s simply living as he always said he would before she barged into his life and uprooted it completely.

But closure would still be nice. Closure would be healthy, as his therapist says.

And yet, how does one begin to close the chapter on Kate Sharma?

‘Look alive,’ Benedict suddenly coughs into his ear, coming to stand beside him. Even Colin starts hastily brushing the crumbs from his suit jacket. Seconds later, Anthony realises why.

‘There you all are!’ their eldest sister says as she marches towards the three. Her resemblance to their mother is suddenly striking. ‘Why are you lurking in a corner like a pack of gazelles? The whole point of this is to mingle. Reminisce. Reconnect! Do you not see enough of one another already?’

‘You sent me an out-of-date guest list.’ Anthony accuses her.

‘No, I didn’t!’ Daphne exclaims, elfin features twisting in outrage. ‘It was up-to-date at the time I sent it to you, which was a whole month ago.’

When Anthony doesn’t respond, she regards him with narrowed eyes. ‘Why? Someone in particular you were hoping to see?’

‘No,’ Anthony says at once, at the same time as Colin pipes up, ‘Kate. Who else?’

‘Of course. Well, she must have been a last minute “yes”,’ Daphne rolls her eyes. ‘Really, Anthony, get a grip of yourself.’

‘Yeah, you don’t want Kate thinking you’ve lost the plot now you two are finally coming face to face again,’ Colin says, swerving Benedict’s attempt to cuff him around the head.

Anthony scowls. ‘You know, Daff, I do think mingling with people other than these two was a fantastic idea. And I’m going to start right now.’

What he’s actually planning on doing is heading straight to the bar and waiting it out with a glass of single malt until enough time has passed that he can make a hasty exit without bringing down Daphne’s wrath.

Benedict, however, scuppers these plans. He hurries after him, going, ‘Ant – wait!’

‘What?’ Anthony says irritably, though he lets Benedict pull him over to one of the tables and when it becomes clear his brother isn’t going to elaborate until they’re sitting down, he heaves himself into a chair with an enormous, disgruntled sigh.

‘Are you really ok – you know, with seeing Kate again?’ Benedict says quietly.

‘I couldn’t be more ok with it, Benedict.’ Anthony lies.

‘Uh…that’s great.’ Benedict doesn’t look convinced, but he carries on doggedly anyhow.

'Soph wants to invite her to the engagement party on Friday.’ his brother tentatively stoops forward like he’s approaching a wounded animal. ‘I said I’d have to ask you first. And you can say no, Ant, and she’ll understand. But…it would mean a lot to Soph...’ he shifts in his seat, feet tussling uncomfortably on the floor.

‘Go on.’ Anthony beckons him to continue, his face impassive.

To his surprise, Benedict turns misty-eyed.  ‘Well…don’t mention this to anyone, but after we saw Kate last week, Soph was all out of sorts the rest of the evening. I asked her what was wrong and she had a sort of…breakdown, I suppose? We were talking and she came out with all this stuff about how emotional it was seeing Kate again. I knew she was upset when they lost touch, I just hadn’t realised how much. I don’t think she had, either, till she actually saw her again. And when they arranged that coffee date, she was so happy, she was practically bouncing off the walls for the rest of the day.’

Anthony supposes he should feel some sort of comfort in the fact that it wasn’t just him Kate had abruptly and irrecoverably cut out of her life. But he doesn’t. If anything, it’s just further evidence of how lost she was after her father died.

But he’d tried, hadn’t he? With that phone call?

‘Ant?’ Benedict says, frowning apprehensively.

‘It’s fine by me.’ Anthony says, matter-of-factly. ‘I haven’t thought about Kate in years.’

‘Right…’ Benedict says, letting out a beleaguered sigh, slouching back in his seat. ‘Enjoy that cabernet, did you?’

~

Tuesday

Being stuffed in the backseat of Simon’s car, sandwiched between two of his brothers in almost thirty degree heat is the most uncomfortable and crabby Anthony ever remembers feeling.

On his left, Benedict is texting Sophie (who’s giving Kate a lift separately) and in his enthusiasm, manages to elbow Anthony in the ribs every five seconds. On his right, Colin is ravaging a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps with no regard for the pungent smell or the early hour. The only reason Anthony is tolerating this arrangement is because he woke up after last night’s reception sore-headed and in no state to drive himself. He’s also functioning on very little sleep that has little to do with overindulging and much to do with a series of explicit dreams involving a certain black silk dress.

‘Daff, when the invitation said Sports Day, what exactly does that mean?’ Colin says, crinkling up the empty crisps bag and stuffing it into the seat pocket. Anthony glares at him until he rolls his eyes and retrieves it, lumping it in his pocket to be discarded properly later.

‘Oh, you know, traditional stuff. Relay races, that kind of thing,’ Daphne says cheerfully from the passenger seat.  ‘And obviously sports matches. Anthony, since you didn’t bother to do it yourself, I signed you up for a couple of the races and a round of tennis.’

‘Great.’ Anthony says flatly. He simply doesn’t have the energy to argue with her. He clocks Simon smirking at him in the rearview mirror and manages to subtly flip him off without Daphne noticing.

‘Ha! Unlucky, Ant!’ Colin caws at him.

‘You’re doing the 1500 metre relay,’ Daphne says, turning to gift him a sugary smile. ‘And the sack race.’

Between Colin’s whingeing, Benedict exchanging googly eyes with his phone screen and his sister holding Simon’s hand over the gearstick in front of everyone, by the time the car pulls up at Aubrey College, Anthony is desperate for five minutes without the presence of anyone he shares a single strand of DNA with.

The sprawling front lawn has been completely transformed. Race lanes have been chalked through the grass, scorched yellow by the unforgiving sun. There are stands with lemonade and water, dozens of picnic tables and miles of bunting stretching through the trees. Already people are gathering in clusters, clinking glasses full of Pimm’s.

‘It looks all wonderful, darling,’ Simon says to Daphne, who simpers and tugs him down for a kiss. All three of her brothers immediately erupt with noises of disgust. She ignores them, pulling out her tablet and squinting at the screen.

‘Col, the sack race is first in half an hour.’ she says, as Colin starts grumbling about jumping around on a full stomach. ‘Benedict, you’re free until two pm when you’re doing egg-and-spoon. And Anthony, you’re doing the three-legged race.’

‘Three-legged race?’ Anthony repeats, exchanging a horrified look with Benedict. He can see Simon chuckling to himself out of the corner of his eye and ponders how attached his sister is to him, really. A sharp plunge off a nearby ravine seems to be in order. ‘Daff, tell me you’re bloody joking.’

‘Be at the starting line at one ‘o’ clock sharp.’ Daphne says briskly. Anthony has the distinct impression she’s rather enjoying herself. ‘But you’d better get off to the tennis courts because your match starts in ten minutes.’

~

‘Dream team back together, eh, Bridgerton?’

Anthony recalls speaking to Louis Lumley approximately four times when they were at school. And he does not recall ever playing tennis with him. But it feels churlish to snub the man when he’s in such high spirits, even if it is over a pointless match that Anthony doesn’t want to be playing.

‘Know who we’re up against?’

‘No.’ Anthony says shortly. The nor do I care goes unsaid.

He’s forced to eat those words – choke on them – a few minutes later, when their opponents arrive on the tennis court.

‘Fuck,’ Anthony intones, resisting the urge to thwack himself in the face with his tennis racket. Perhaps spending the next six hours in A&E wouldn’t be quite so bad? Though that’s before whatever injuries Daphne inflicts on him when she finds out he’s absconded.

If Lumley notices Anthony’s sudden descent into rage and despair, he doesn’t let on. Anthony can hear him greeting Kate enthusiastically.

Anthony nods stiffly at Kate when she registers him behind Lumley and her face drops. No words are needed to convey their mutual discontent.

It’s proving hard for Anthony to particularly care that Kate doesn’t look all too happy to see him, when she’s gliding across the court looking like she’s just stepped out of a bloody photoshoot. She’s wearing some sort of short, strappy tennis dress with a pleated white skirt that barely covers her fantastic arse and finally reveals the long, luscious legs he dreamt about last night, and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes seem especially big and doe-like and full of sunlight.

That’s when he manages to tear his eyes away from her and zeroes in on the man standing next to her on the other side of the court, and in that moment the foremost thought in his head is whether his mother would ever speak to him again if he were to exile Daphne from the family completely.

Anthony is forced to abandon that line of thought as Thomas Dorset jogs over with his hand outstretched, grinning obscenely like he’s just won the lottery, decked out from head to toe in Armani tennis gear. Bloody wanker, Anthony thinks, as though he hasn’t got a wardrobe full of the same immaculately pressed shirts at home.

‘Bridgerton! God, it’s been ages. How’ve you been?’

‘Fine.’ Anthony says shortly. His eyes swivel past Dorset and land on Kate. She’s watching him just as intently. He doesn’t bother to return the question to Dorset, who for some reason is still smiling moronically at him.

‘I was just saying to Kate-’ Anthony’s grip on his racket starts to resemble strangulation ‘-how funny it is for she and I to be paired together, and now we’re playing against you. Brilliant!’

Anthony stares at him with open disbelief. Does this idiot really think this is all a coincidence?

‘Yes, imagine,’ Kate says dryly from behind him. She’s obviously not operating under any illusions.

Anthony is initially inclined to play a hasty, lacklustre game and make a break for it, putting as much distance between himself, Kate and Dorset as possible. But then of course Kate starts darting around like she’s at bloody Wimbledon, throwing out slice shots and volleys as though she’s been playing tennis all her life. To cap off this most aggravating and (even more aggravatingly) erotic display, Kate also starts jumping wildly around in celebration any time she scores a point against him, thrashing her racket through the air with surprising dexterity.

So then of course, Anthony has no choice but to play more ruthlessly than he’s ever played in his life. And the second Kate twigs that he’s playing to win, whatever competitive ember is stirring her on whips into an all-out inferno. At one point, she actually bodily knocks Dorset across the pitch in her haste to get a hit in there first. For all that Lumley and Dorset are actually making contact with the ball, they might as well be off on the mall sipping tea with their pinkies in the air.

If there’s one thing that absolutely hasn’t changed between Kate and Anthony in five years, it’s the irrepressible, all-encompassing need to best one another.

‘FOUL!’ Kate screams. ‘That ball bounced three times!’

‘Are you blind? It clearly bounced twice!’ Anthony bellows across the net.

They turn in sync to Dorset and Lumley, respectively. Lumley, who seems to have been watching clouds instead of paying attention to the match, looks flabbergasted by this sudden onslaught of attention.

‘Well?’ Anthony snaps at them. His forehead is bedewed with sweat, his calves throbbing from exertion, and Kate has broken him down to his very last drop of patience.

‘Um…I must confess that I didn’t quite see.’ Lumley nervously scratches the back of his neck.

‘I do think I counted three bounces,’ Dorset says, with a conciliatory shrug at Anthony.

‘Of course you fucking did,’ Anthony mutters, and he thinks Kate might have heard him, because her indignant expression falters for a split-second. Surely she can see what’s going on here? Is it not obvious that Dorset’s trying to win her back?

Red-faced and not just from the heat, Anthony settles for glowering at Dorset as though he’d like nothing better than have him drawn, quartered and strung up on his tennis racket.

Kate smirks, running her fingers delicately across the strings of her racket like she’s playing an instrument. ‘There you have it.’

‘Since when is his-’ Anthony points aggressively at Dorset ‘-judgment considered conclusive?’

‘How’s about we just agree no point, no foul, and finish the set?’ Lumley suggests, looking longingly towards the lawn where people are meandering around in the sunshine with cold drinks.

‘Fine.’ Kate and Anthony say, in equally begrudging tones.

But the remaining half of the set goes even more badly for Anthony than the first. Kate seems to have switched tactics, and instead of cutting Dorset out of the game completely, now she can’t stop whispering in his ear before every serve, shaking his shoulders whenever they win a point, even though the bloody idiot isn’t contributing anything, it’s all her. How on earth is Anthony meant to concentrate with this going on right under his nose?

It's almost a relief when Kate and Dorset win. That is, until she throws her arms around him, cheering at the top of her voice, and Anthony’s displeasure at losing is brutally extinguished and replaced by the savage urge to snuff Dorset out like a candle.

He stomps off the court, knowing to everyone else it will just look like he’s a sore loser. Not the best reputation to have, but better than anyone knowing the truth, which is that even after half a decade seeing Kate touching – or being touched by – someone else flares up all of these infuriating primal, possessive impulses that Anthony doesn’t know what to do with.

There’s also the matter of his other rapidly resurfacing feelings.

By the time Anthony reaches the front lawn, the 1500 metre relay is in full swing. He’s so keyed up he can’t even enjoy the sight of Colin clearly trying not to vomit as he ambles towards the finish line.

‘You look flushed,’ Daphne says, accosting him as he necks a whole bottle of water in one go. ‘Good game?’

‘I’m onto you.’ Anthony warns her as he tries to catch his breath.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says sweetly. ‘Anyway, you had better eat something – light – because you’re doing the three-legged race in half an hour.’

Swearing loudly, Anthony stumbles over to one of the picnic tables, sighing in relief when he heaves himself onto the bench. Not five seconds later, Simon’s plonking himself on the bench opposite with a small basket of strawberries.

He looks Anthony up and down with amusement. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Nothing,’ Anthony grinds out.

‘So, Kate, then.’ Simon says, astute as ever. ‘You know your sister-’

‘Pitted us against one another on purpose? Yes, Basset, I managed to work that one out.’  his retort drips with sarcasm.

‘She’s got it in her head that you’re still hung up over Kate.’ Simon says, with a crafty gleam in his eyes. ‘I have to say, you’re doing a poor job of proving her wrong. First ogling and bickering with her last night, then that speech the two of you gave-’

‘What was wrong with the speech?’ Anthony demands.

‘“Join us in a toast to moving forward, even if some things are hard to leave behind”?’ Simon snorts. ‘What the hell does that even mean, Bridgerton?’

‘I was half-drunk and saying whatever came into my bloody head, it had nothing to do with Kate.’ Anthony says defensively. He’s a shit liar and he knows it, and Simon knows it too.

‘Don’t worry, Kate was lapping it up.’ Simon says, the corners of his lips curling deviously.

Before Anthony demand that Simon explain this statement in full, leaving not a single detail out, a shadow encroaches over their table.

‘Anthony.’

He knows it’s her but he turns around anyway.

There she is, a bronzed goddess in the full glare of the sun. Glorious with a thin sheen of sweat.

‘Good match,’ Kate says, and there’s no trace of animosity in her voice. She looks a little uncomfortable, and seemingly noticing this, Simon gets up with his hand outstretched.

‘Kate, sorry we didn’t get a chance to say hi last night.’ he says, all the snark gone from his voice. ‘I gather you just demolished Bridge on the tennis court. Excellent going. I wish I’d been there to see it, but Daphne had me on water duty for the runners.’

‘Thanks.’ Kate says, smiling as she briefly takes his hand, though it’s a little forced. ‘He put up a good game.’

‘I can imagine. Well, speaking of Daphne, I’d better go and check that I’m not supposed to be somewhere else entirely.’ Simon says pleasantly. He swings his limber legs off the bench and gives Anthony one last, conniving leer as he leaves.

The strawberries sit abandoned on the table and Kate edges into the spot Simon’s just vacated, plucking a piece of fruit and immediately biting into it.

Instead of watching the sticky pink juices dribbling down her angular chin, Anthony says, ‘I’m surprised you’re talking to me voluntarily.’

‘You took the last basket of strawberries.’ Kate says, but she’s almost smiling when he takes her in properly. She breaks eye contact to follow Simon’s retreating figure. ‘So Simon and Daphne are still together?’

Trying not to seem thrown off by this unexpected civility, Anthony nods slowly. ‘They broke up for a bit during university. Not entirely sure what it was about, Daff would never say. But…I think they’re in it for the long run now.’

‘You seem like you’re on good terms with him.’ Kate says, expertly side-stepping the minefield Anthony just opened up. ‘And he seems like less of a dickhead.’

‘We’re not eighteen any more.’ he says quietly. Kate flinches and abandons her half-eaten strawberry on the table. It rolls off the end and sinks into the grass.

‘When he and Daphne broke up, I was ready to kill him. But-’

‘-you sorted your shit out instead of demanding satisfaction?’ Kate finishes for him. ‘You really have changed.’

‘And you?’ Anthony says, before he does something stupid, like ask if she ever thinks about them. ‘What’s Kate Sharma up to these days?’

‘I’m in London now. Working as a paralegal. Temporarily, while I’m applying for a solicitor apprenticeship.’ Kate says, and he understands her apprehension at once.

‘You’re going back to university?’ Anthony bursts out.

‘Yes. Assuming my firm offers me the apprenticeship.’ Kate says, and this time he knows they’re both thinking the same thing.

‘Are you re-applying to Cambridge?’ the question escapes him before he can think better of it. He can feel her hackles rising, the wall going up. He knows all the signs, the stiff chin, the knotted brow.

‘I’m not planning on it, no.’

‘Why the hell not?’ Anthony says too loudly, and then before Kate has a chance to react, he shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…it’s none of my business.’

‘It’s fine.’ Kate says, and she doesn’t sound angry, or affronted. Just…wistful. ‘Um…what about you?’

‘I just qualified a year or so ago.’ Anthony says, with palpable reluctance. He can’t help but feel like he’s rubbing it in her face, that if things had played out differently, she’d be qualified too and not stuck five years behind where she should be. ‘I’m working in London now too, but I come down at weekends when I can.’

‘I bet Greg and Hy live for those weekends.’ Kate says softly.

Anthony can’t help it, even though he knows it’s suicide; he silently searches her eyes for some indication that she’s thinking about them too, that he’s not insane for picking up the quietly dropped hints and lingering looks.

Before he can even try to broach it, they’re both distracted by the sound of someone belting out Kate’s name at the top of her lungs. Kate nearly jumps out of her skin and Anthony doesn’t fare much better, using the table to steady himself and his frenzied heartbeat.

‘Sophie?’ Kate says dazedly. Anthony’s brother’s fiancée is pelting towards them, though her speed is greatly impeded by what looks like a mountain of white-and-brown fluff clutched to her chest. Benedict is following closely behind.

 ‘KAAAAAAATE!’ Sophie hollers again, even though by this time she’s barely ten metres away from them. By this time Newton has spotted Kate and is squirming desperately in her arms in his haste to get to her.

‘You brought that animal?’ Anthony asks incredulously, as Sophie sets Newton free and he vaults straight into Kate’s open arms.

‘He’s too old to be left on his own now.’ Kate says haughtily. ‘I thought he’d enjoy the fresh air.’

‘Frankly, I’m shocked he’s still alive,’ Anthony says, eyeing Newton disdainfully. His old foe’s beady little eyes lock with Anthony’s and somewhere in those dastardly depths is a glitter of recognition. Anthony knows he’s not imagining the familiar current of mutual dislike passing between them.

Nevertheless, he feels a slight, melancholy pang looking at Kate’s beloved canine. There are splotches of grey on his muzzle and a good few inches more pudge around his belly than were there before.

‘He snatched a sausage roll right out of Philippa Featherington’s hand! Just ran up and grabbed it before I knew what was happening! And then he growled at me when I tried to get it back!’ Sophie pants.

‘I’m surprised he can run when he’s built like a sausage roll himself.’ Anthony mutters.

‘Did he eat it?’ Kate glares at Anthony as she rubs Newton lovingly around the ears.

‘Half of it,’ Sophie says, heaving herself onto the bench next to Anthony. ‘I managed to claw the rest out of his mouth.’

‘Then she tried to offer it back to Philippa, covered in dog drool and all.’ Benedict says gleefully.

‘I should probably go and apologise,’ Kate says, hugging Newton to her. ‘It’s not your fault, Soph, he’s on a diet at the moment so any time he sees food, he can’t control himself.’

Anthony scoffs loudly, causing everyone to look at him.

‘Err…I need to make a few calls,’ he says lamely. ‘I’ll see you all later.’

‘Ant, aren’t you forgetting something?’ Benedict says, with a furtive wink. ‘A three-legged something?’

‘I’ve been roped into that too.’ Kate frowns, dropping Newton on the grass and resting her hands on her hips.

Anthony knows what’s coming and it takes everything in him not to roll his eyes up to the sky and scream.

‘Yes…Daff asked me to tell the two of you that you’re paired together,’ Benedict says, barely keeping the delight out of his voice. ‘How fortuitous that the two of you were already together. Saves me a trip.’

Anthony gives him a look that conveys many feelings, none of them friendly.

‘I’ll take Newty boy, don’t worry about that,’ Sophie says suddenly, snatching his lead back from Kate, who gives her a very similar look to the one Anthony’s just directed at Ben.

Five minutes later, as one of Daphne’s minions ties a band around their knotted legs, Anthony is very painfully aware that this is the closest to touching Kate he’s been in a very long time. She’s very determinedly not looking at him, instead locking her gaze onto the finish line ahead.

The whistle blows and Kate starts running without a backwards – or sideways – glance, Anthony yelps as he’s yanked forward by his ankle, nearly plummeting head first into the ground.

‘Stop charging ahead!’ Anthony yells in Kate’s ear, as he narrowly avoids sinking a foot into a badly-filled in molehill. ‘I’d rather not fall flat on my face in front of everyone we went to school with, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘If you kept up, I wouldn’t have to charge ahead.’ Kate bites back, though she does slow her pace.

‘I thought you’d be good at this, given you’re a bloody beanpole.’ Anthony grouses as they hobble forward.

‘It’s a wonder we’re moving at all with your Dumbo ears weighing us down.’ Kate hisses back without hesitation. ‘God, this is so humiliating. Can you pretend to faint so we can get out of this?’

‘Absolutely not. Daphne will see right through me and then I’ll be hearing about it for the next ten years.’

‘Then we’re not losing,’ Kate says, and he chances a glance at her to see her jaw fixed resolutely. ‘Stop for a second – we need to move in sync. On three. Three, two–’

Just as it seems like they might have finally found a workable pace, Anthony’s left foot catches on Kate’s and she squeaks in pain as they lose their balance completely.

Kate goes down, hard, which means Anthony goes down, hard. They crash headlong into the dry grass, Kate landing heavily on her back and Anthony sprawled half on top of her.

That’s all it takes for his carefully wound control to start unreeling at warp speed.

It’s all Kate, Kate, Kate. Her breasts crushing into his chest. Her breath coming in little whimpers against his cheek. His thigh wedged awkwardly between her legs. Kate stirs beneath him, shifting her leg under his groin, and Anthony has to devote the last of his energy into willing that his body doesn’t betray him.

None of that is what undoes him though. It’s that fucking scent, the same one that’s haunted him since that very first time she sat in his car and stayed imprinted in his very conscious, refusing to let him move on.

He caught it last night, of course, and again during that infernal tennis match. But now, with his nose practically buried in her neck, it’s no longer just a suggestion in the air, it’s like a curse. It’s invading his throat and his blood and doping his last coherent thought until he can think of nothing but her.

How can something that’s slowly killing him make him feel so alive?

‘Are you ok?’ he manages to grunt, still winded from the fall.

‘I’m fine.’ Kate says, and he can’t help but notice her flushed face and the fact her voice is unnaturally high. ‘Or I would be, if you weren’t crushing me.’

‘Err – right.’ Anthony rolls off her at once and staggers to his feet, offering her his hand even though touching her ever again seems like a very, very bad idea.

She takes it, but drops it the second she’s upright again. The other participants have all managed to make it over the finish line, though nobody’s paying them much attention when Anthony and Kate have provided much better, unexpected entertainment.

Before Anthony can think of anything to say, his sister has advanced on them, lips pursed in concern.

‘Are you all right?’ Daphne’s asking, though her voice sounds distant and tinny in his ears. In Anthony’s head, he’s still horizontal on the grass with Kate pinned underneath him.  ‘Neither of you are hurt?’

‘Uh. No. Just our egos, I think,’ Anthony says quickly. Kate nods.

‘Well, I think I’ll go and have a glass of Pimm’s,’ she says robotically. As she walks off, Daphne folds her arms and looks at Anthony far too knowingly for his liking.

‘What?’ he says, way past impatient with her meddling.

‘As if you don’t know what.’ says Daphne scathingly. ‘Come on. I think you should sit down for a minute after that.’

She leads him back over to the picnic tables, where Benedict, Colin and Sophie are in avid discussion. Anthony doesn’t need to be a mind-reader to know what the hot topic is.

‘Alright, legless?’ Colin chirrups at him.

Anthony smiles tightly. ‘I take it you all saw that.’

‘Not just saw it, I caught it in 4k,’ Colin waggles his phone in Anthony’s face. ‘One for the Bridgerton archives, I think.’

‘Don’t circulate it.’ Anthony orders.

‘Colin’s already sent it into the group chat,’ Benedict informs him. Anthony suppresses a groan, knowing the rest of his siblings are likely spamming his phone with unflattering gifs to celebrate his fall from grace.

‘What do you think? Enough for me to go TikTok viral?’

Anthony’s face turns stony. ‘You’re not posting that anywhere else. I know you love humiliating me, but leave Kate out of it.’

Colin looks taken aback for a moment before his evil smile takes on a whole new dimension. ‘Of course, brother. I wouldn’t dream of disrespecting Kate.’

Satisfied, Anthony steadily avoids Daphne’s gaze.

‘Though she hardly needs you white knighting on her behalf.’ Colin adds. ‘I’ve been yelled at by Kate before and have no desire to repeat that experience.’

‘What?’ Anthony says tersely. ‘When?’

‘God, it was years ago. When Simon and Daff were sneaking around behind your back.’ Colin says bemusedly, as though he wasn’t expecting Anthony to press the matter.

‘Oh. Yes, she told me she had a word with you about that.’ Anthony glances down.

‘”Had a word”? Is that what she said?’ Colin says scornfully. ‘She read us to absolute filth.’

Anthony looks at Benedict for confirmation that this isn’t just Colin’s customary hyperbole. But it almost makes sense, doesn’t it? His brothers’ heartfelt apologies over the breakfast table. The acknowledgment, out of nowhere, that he’d stepped up after their father died. Something he’d never had to explain to Kate.

‘She was…very pissed off on your behalf.’ Benedict says diplomatically. ‘But she was right.’

Even Colin nods in agreement (after a swift assault on his ribs from Daphne).

‘It hardly matters,’ Anthony says. ‘It’s in the past.’

But until a day ago, so was she.

~

Not trusting himself to go looking for Kate but equally in need of a reprieve from his siblings, Anthony drifts over to another empty table, lousily telling them that he’s going to catch up with a couple of old classmates. Ironically, that’s exactly what he ends up doing.

She has such a light tread, owing to her petite stature, that Anthony doesn’t even notice her until she gracefully slips onto the bench opposite him.

Same brown ringlets, same watery hazel eyes. He has a distant memory of them starred with tears as she shrieked at him in a crowded corridor that he was the worst boyfriend she’d ever had.

‘Siena,’ he says stupidly. It didn’t even occur to him that she’d be here.

‘Anthony,’ Siena mimics him, though there’s no malice in it. ‘Why are you looking so maudlin?’

‘My family are driving me insane.’ Anthony says grimly. It’s mostly true. He’s also avoiding Kate, but for obvious reasons he doesn’t need to go into that with his ex-girlfriend.

‘More so than usual?’ Siena raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh dear. In that case –’ she reaches into her handbag and pulls out a scratched hipflask. As though reading his mind, she follows up, ‘I’m not a lush, I was out last night and forgot to take it out.’

Ignoring his better instincts, Anthony doesn’t ask what’s in it, just takes it and swigs. The lukewarm vodka tonic sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach.

‘How come you’re here?’ he asks.  

‘I haven’t been pining after you for the last six years, just to get that out of the way.’ Siena says, looking at him sharply.

‘I never thought you were,’ Anthony says hotly. In all honesty, he hasn’t thought of her much, if at all. Doing so tends to trip him into a shame spiral.

‘Ok. Good.’ Siena says, taking the flask back. ‘And to answer your question, I did have friends other than you back then.’ she laughs sardonically. ‘Not that we were really friends, eh?’

‘Siena-’

‘I’m just winding you up,’ she interrupts, shoving the flask back into her handbag. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Anthony says anyway. However shallow it might seem to her, him apologising six years after their relationship imploded, when at the time he’d blamed her for expecting things of him he’d never agreed to give. For abandoning him when he refused to give them. By the time he’d realised how poorly he’d actually treated her, she was long gone and he hadn’t thought she’d welcome him popping back into her life years after the fact.

‘For what?’ Siena’s narrow into slits.  

‘Take your pick, I suppose. Being a terrible boyfriend is probably first on the list.’

‘Don’t torture yourself on my account. With hindsight, I suppose you weren’t all that bad.’ Siena says flippantly. ‘I mean, you were shit at the actual boyfriend part, obviously. But you were a great fuck.’

‘Good to know.’ Anthony tries for a polite smile. He’s not sure what the appropriate response to that is, but he’s pretty sure being a smug shithead isn’t it. ‘I’m still sorry, though. You deserved a lot better than me.’

‘I know.’ Siena says vaguely. ‘And I’d say I’m sorry for dumping you for the whole of our year group to hear, but you really deserved it.’

‘You could have at least waited until the end of the day.’ Anthony murmurs, recalling the storm of disparaging giggles and whispers that had followed him for weeks afterward.

‘That backfired on me, actually,’ Siena lifts her eyes up to the sky, lost in reminiscence. ‘I got pulled into Danbury’s office and subjected to a half hour lecture on causing public spectacles in the hallway.’

‘That must have been just before the hour-long lecture she gave me about treating young ladies properly.’

Siena’s guffawing is cut short as her eyes stray from Anthony and latch onto something behind him. Without really thinking about it, Anthony twists round to follow her attentions.

Kate’s standing just off the refreshments table with a gaggle of girls Anthony doesn’t recognise, nursing a glass of lemonade. One of them seems to be yapping at her no-stop, but Kate’s not even pretending to listen. She’s looking at him, and at Siena, and there’s something horribly fragile in her expression.

Kate stands there staring at them for a few excruciating seconds, with heartrending stillness. And then she abruptly turns around and resumes her conversation as though nothing happened.

Siena clears her throat pointedly and with a Herculean effort, Anthony spins himself around so his back is to Kate again.

‘You know her?’ Siena says, regarding him with interest.

‘Yeah.’ Anthony swallows thickly. ‘That’s Kate.’

‘Let me guess.’ Siena dramatically raps her long fingernails on the table. ‘Another casualty of teenage Anthony Bridgerton? Perhaps we should start a support group.’

Anthony bristles at this, his chest hot and tight. The implication that he walked away from Kate carefree and unscathed. He supposes there’s no reason Siena should know any better and considers just leaving her there at the table to avoid furthering this conversation. But for whatever reason, he can’t let the idea that Kate is just another misstep from his past hang there.

‘No.’ Anthony tries for indifference. ‘She broke my heart, actually.’

He steels himself for Siena’s reaction, expecting to see her eyes cloud with pity or maybe even jealousy. But instead, her mouth twitches in amusement.

 ‘All right, I’m sure I’ll regret this, but you did just give me an apology which is more than any of my other exes have done, and I’m feeling generous. Plus, I have first-hand experience being your long-suffering girlfriend, so I can probably offer some insight into Kate’s point of view. So, let’s hear it.’

Anthony opens his mouth to tell her that she couldn’t be any more different to Kate, this is apples and oranges territory, but then he hears Kate giggling in the background and figures, what the hell. What has he really got to lose at this point?

He gives Siena the abridged version of how Kate had ridden into his life on her crappy little bike and incontrovertibly changed it, leaving out the most sensitive parts about Kate’s father’s health that he’s sure she wouldn’t want him sharing.

When he’s finished, he half-expects her to call him an idiot or a moron or any one of a thousand indignities, but instead, she just laughs, to which Anthony just stares at her with a slightly stupefied expression.

‘Sorry. I’m not trying to be a dick,’ Siena says, once she’s contained herself. ‘It’s just, you have to see how ironic this is from my perspective. You spent our entire relationship holding back from me, and then the second Kate gives you a taste of your own medicine you can’t handle it.’

‘That’s a very clinical way of putting it.’ Anthony objects.

‘Well, there’s also the very obvious part that you left out about you being in love with her and being too stubborn and stupid to tell her.’ Siena rolls her eyes.

‘She never actually said it to me either!’ he says heatedly. Because she hadn’t, had she? Not in so many words.

‘Why would she? You couldn’t have been any clearer that you didn’t want to hear it if you’d circled it on a map with a giant fucking red arrow! What self-respecting girl is going to confess her feelings after all that?’ Siena points a finger mockingly at him.

Anthony finds himself tongue-tied. What Siena’s saying, despite making him sound and feel like a prick, is actually pretty reasonable.

‘Well, whatever she felt, it was back then.’ he dips his head again. ‘Too little, too late now, isn’t it?’

‘For what it’s worth, her face tells a different story. I know you’ll need some time to process all this…’ Siena reaches a hand over to pat him gingerly on the shoulder, like one might comfort a small child. ‘…just don’t take another five years this time, hmm? Think how wrinkly we’ll all be at the ten year reunion.’

~

He catches up to Kate in the car park. She’s leaning against Sophie’s car and staring off into the distance, Newton huddled at her feet. He doesn’t bother to look up when he sees Anthony’s boat shoes approaching.

‘What, no bike?’ Anthony says lightly.

‘Newton doesn’t fit in the basket.’

Anthony nearly makes a crack about her overweight dog, he knows she’s waiting for it, but he thinks better of it. He doesn’t want to do this, the pithy back-and-forth, the empty antagonism as a way to avoid the writhing undercurrent of uncomfortable feelings.

‘I’ve called a car service.’ he says. ‘If you want a lift-’

‘No thanks, Bridgerton.’ Kate looks at him unblinkingly.

For some reason, this irritates Anthony beyond any of the other barbs and contemptuous looks she’s thrown at him today.

‘Back to Bridgerton, then?’ he says, before he can stop himself. So much for not goading her.

‘Back to Siena, then?’

Anthony stares at her in wide-eyed astonishment. ‘How – what-?’

Kate makes a noise like an angry cat. ‘I was your girlfriend for a year, you think I don’t know what your ex looks like?’

A million possible responses fly through his head. Is this residual anger from five years ago? Is it jealousy? Why is she so angry with him one minute, and infuriatingly stoic the next?

And why are they still trapped in this stupid contest of who can act like they care less when they’re both so bad at it?

‘I was apologising to her.’ he says instead. ‘For what a shit boyfriend I was.’

‘Lucky Siena,’ says Kate, her face impassive. He knows she’s still trying to stoke his temper, it’s what she always does when she’s trying to skirt a conversation. It ticks him off anyway.

‘You and I are nothing – nothing – like me and her.’ Anthony shakes his head violently. ‘So don’t even go there.’

‘I know we’re not.’ Kate says, much more softly. She exhales loudly, worrying her lip between her teeth like she’s trying to restrain herself from saying anything else. It’s unbelievably vexing. ‘Forget it.’

‘I don’t want to forget it.’ maybe it’s Siena’s handbag liquor, or much more likely it’s the molten sunlight setting fire to her eyes and her hair and his last shred of self-preservation. ‘I want to talk about it.’

‘Oh, so now you want to talk?’ Kate exclaims. ‘Never mind that you left me in limbo for five years.’

‘What?’ Anthony says again, taking a cautious step towards her. He’s aware he’s making himself look stupid in front of the smartest person he knows, but it’s not the first time and it can’t be the last.

‘Stop feigning ignorance.’ Kate gives him a paralysing stare.

‘Kate, I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ Anthony thunders back at her.

‘The letter!’ Kate finally erupts, launching herself off the side of Sophie’s car and charging straight at him.  ‘The letter I wrote you after you left – the one you never bothered to respond to!’

Anthony doesn’t speak for what feels to him like an eternity, but what he knows is more like ten seconds, because Kate’s still staring at him with that incredibly vulnerable look on her face.

‘What letter?’

~

Anthony’s phone

iMessage group chat – Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca (“Mercury Free”)

Anthony: All – do any of you remember opening a letter addressed to me? It would have been five years ago. October/November time.

Eloise: [read 4:32pm]

Benedict: I don’t even remember what colin’s career plans were five years ago

Colin: oi! why the drive-by?

Colin: and you banned us from entering the study after El threw up in there, remember? How would we have had an opportunity to open your post???

Anthony: Let’s not pretend that any of you heeded that ban.

Eloise: like I’m the only one of us to have thrown up somewhere I shouldn’t

Colin: the vomit was BLUE, El. mrs wilson is still complaining about it to this day

Daphne: what’s this about?

Benedict: come on, it’s not that compliKated, Daff

Colin: hope you manage to loKate that letter Ant

Anthony: Stop.

Daphne: oh!!!

Daphne: no need to feel asharma-ed…

Eloise: ??? Can someone explain

Benedict: call me El

Francesca: no, sorry :(

Anthony: Forget it.

Daphne: ask Mum. Or Mrs Wilson, nothing goes in or out of that house without her knowledge

Daphne: I hope everyone is studying up for the trivia night tomorrow!

[Read: 4:36pm by Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Eloise, Francesca]

~

Wednesday

Anthony’s original plan was to stay in the flat he rents in Somerset, for the duration of the reunion week, knowing that all of his siblings (the ones who had already moved out) were descending on Bridgerton House like a swarm of gnats. After all, he rents the flat for the sole purpose of having a residence close by to the family home that is firmly off-limits to his family.

Unfortunately for him, both his mother and Daphne baulked at that plan, insisting that the family all stay in one place because how often are they all in one place at the same time and Hy and Greg want him to stay and on and on until he’d given in. It was the mention of his two littlest siblings that had cinched it; they make it impossible to stay grumpy for long, however provocative the others are being.

It also means that, despite the constant interruptions, he’s managed to spend nearly every waking hour since Kate dropped her bombshell on him tearing apart his old study looking for a letter he never received.

‘You could just ask Kate what it said,’ Benedict says from the doorway, watching him check his desk drawers for the fifth time.

‘I would have, but she left before I could.’ Anthony scowls. He likes Sophie very much, but did she really have to choose that particular moment, seconds after he told Kate he hadn’t got the slightest clue what letter she was on about, to arrive at her car and give Kate a perfect escape route?

‘Right, and it’s not like you’ll be seeing her again to ask…and in less than three hours,’ Benedict walks over to the other side of the desk and plants his hands on top of it. ‘Ant, if you haven’t found it by now, you might just have to accept it got lost somewhere.’

‘No, she said she sent it, so we must have got it.’ Anthony lifts his head up too quickly and catches the side of it on an open drawer. ‘Fuck!’

‘You’re acting ridiculous, even for you.’ Benedict shakes his head wearily.

‘I don’t even know if Kate’s coming tonight.’ Anthony mumbles, rubbing the stinging cut on his temple.

‘She is, she told Soph.’ Benedict seizes his brother firmly by the shoulders. ‘And I swear to god, the two of you need to sit down and have a proper conversation, before you drive the rest of us to this level of insanity as well.’

~

As it turns out, there’s not a huge amount of talking involved.

He’s unnaturally quiet in the car on the way over to the school, not even commenting when Colin winds down the window and sticks his head out of it like a dog or when Daphne tells them she’s put them down on the same trivia team. He doesn’t even object to the fact that his sister has told Eloise and Francesca they can come tonight even though they’re not even part of the reunion classes.

Once they get into the Brimsley Hall and find their allocated table, he still doesn’t say a word other than ordering a Macallan from one of the servers. Then he sits there fiddling with his blue dress shirt, eyes pinned to the door. It’s not like he has a particularly solid plan, other than accosting Kate the second she walks through the door and demanding that she recite every word of that letter, forwards, backwards and three or four times if need be.

‘Ant…? Ant? EARTH TO ANTHONY!’

‘God – what, Ben?!’ Anthony yelps as Colin delivers a hefty punch to his shoulder.

‘We need a team name.’ Benedict gestures to the paper in front of him. ‘Eloise is rejecting all of our suggestions.’

‘Only because they’re boring. Is nobody in this family capable of an original thought?’

‘Oh. Pick whatever, I don’t care.’ Anthony cranes his head back over to the door again.

‘I’ve got it.’ Colin says excitedly. ‘Serving Viscunt.’

This deeply offensive and unserious suggestion is enough to drag his mind away from Kate, if only for a minute.

‘No!’ Anthony barks. ‘We’re at a school, have some decorum, would you?’

But Benedict’s already writing it down. Anthony makes to snatch the pen off him – for the sake of his family’s reputation, he can’t allow this to happen – but then Daphne pipes up,

‘Oh look, isn’t that Kate? Wow, she looks incredible.’

Aware that he’s being baited but lacking enough willpower to stop himself, Anthony whirls around at the speed of light. Sure enough, there she is, though Daphne’s description really doesn’t do her justice. Even from here, he can appreciate every angle of her perfect face, illuminated just for him by the light dancing from the chandelier. He also takes a moment (or four) to appreciate the belted grey miniskirt that affords him a generous view of her legs.

She moves towards the middle of the room and like clockwork, her amber-eyed gaze coincides with Anthony’s. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s halfway to standing up and Kate’s lips are parting with what has to be the start of his name…

…and then she closes her mouth and heads straight over to the table next to theirs, where Tom Dorset is holding out her seat.

Resisting the urge to spew out a few very choice swear words, Anthony slumps back in his chair. Francesca gives his hand a comforting squeeze from across the table.

‘I had nothing to do with that, I promise,’ Daphne’s looking at him with wild eyes. ‘They must have had a spot open on their team and she got allocated to them automatically.’

Anthony doesn’t bother to respond.

He does, however, have to spend the next half an hour with his eyes boring into Kate and Dorset’s heads nestled closely together as they take it turns to scribble down answers. Every now and then there’s a little burst of ‘Excellent, Kate!’ and ‘I’d never have known that!’

In-between the second and third rounds, the starters are served. Anthony’s so preoccupied with trying to set Dorset’s head on fire with his mind that he forgets to touch his until Colin tries to pilfer the steak tartare right off his plate and gets his knuckles slapped by Eloise. His siblings are behaving like a pack of drunk, rabid monkeys and yet he’s got no interest in trying to rein them in.

On his second whisky by this time, Anthony glares around the array of smiling, clueless faces at his table. Why is he the only one who can see what’s happening here? Who gives a fuck what Jupiter’s largest moon is called when Kate and Dorset are practically getting off right in front of them? And what the hell did Kate ever see in this tool?

‘You know, they do look good together,’ Colin nudges Anthony’s rigid shoulder.

‘Maybe they’ve reconciled.’ Simon says loudly, taking a swig of his wine. Daphne gives him a swift kick under the table that goes unnoticed by nobody.

‘No they haven’t,’ Anthony snaps at him.

‘What was it you said when they first started going out, and you were trying to convince everyone it wouldn’t last?’ Simon ponders aloud.

‘I remember,’ Benedict is suddenly eager to be helpful. ‘“She’ll eat him alive”.’

‘I’d watch out, she looks hungry,’ Colin says, grinning toothily.

‘Stop riling him up, it’s the History round next and he was basically born in the dark ages, we need him focused.’ Eloise knocks demonstratively on the table.

Anthony tunes them all out again, opting to hone in on Dorset’s arm precariously close to perching around the back of Kate’s chair. Would anyone notice if he lobbed Eloise’s uneaten chicken liver parfait at the back of the smug bastard’s head? He would march over and simply call Dorset out for the indignity of being in love with Kate five years after they broke up but, well, even Anthony isn’t that self-deluded.

‘Tell me that was the final round.’ Eloise moans, fifteen minutes later. ‘I’m starving and this food is terrible.’ Anthony privately sympathises, though for very different reasons.

‘It was,’ Daphne assures her.

But when the scoresheets are totted up and Danbury takes the stage, she does not reach for the cheap plastic trophy at the side of the stage.

‘It appears we have a tie.’ she announces. ‘Tables…thirteen and twelve.’

‘That’s us!’ Francesca beams, jostling Benedict’s arm in glee.

‘For the tiebreaker round, can we please get the two team captains of those tables up here?’ Danbury calls.

‘What are you waiting for, Ant? Get your arse up there, embedded stick and all.’ Colin starts pushing him out of his seat. Anthony does not budge.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Anthony’s vaguely irritated expression turns murderous. ‘I hate all of you.’

‘Excuse you, we did you a favour,’ Eloise says. ‘Look who else is going up there!’

He doesn’t need to look. He does anyway. As she sweeps past him, Kate’s face doesn’t mirror any of his misgivings; on the contrary, she looks laser-focused and ready for war.

Anthony reminds himself that his little sister is eighteen and therefore deserving of more grace than he might afford the older ones. That doesn’t stop him from muttering in a server’s ear to cut her off on his way up to the stage. He and Kate stand either side of Danbury, taking it turns to steal illicit glances at each other.

‘We have Kate Sharma from Sharma’s Angels, and Anthony Bridgerton from Serv- uh…’ Danbury squints at the scoresheet until her mouth seems to collapse on itself in blatant disapproval.

‘Serving Viscunt!’ Benedict yells from their table. A gale of laughter sweeps around the room. Anthony, somewhat drunk and past caring at this point, joins in. What’s one more humiliation this evening?

‘Thank you for that clarification, Mr Bridgerton.’ Danbury says icily. Paling, Benedict shrinks back into his seat.

‘What’s the category?’ Kate asks.

‘It’s a personal round. Who knows who best.’ Danbury says. This revelation is met with a round of appreciative clapping and the odd wolf-whistle coming from Colin’s direction. ‘We’ve taken the answers from your yearbooks. The first wrong answer ends the competition.’

Anthony hasn’t opened his yearbook since he graduated but the idea that he doesn’t already know every surface-level fact imaginable about Kate is laughable. This is more of a test of how far he’s willing to humiliate and degrade himself by revealing that after half a decade.

‘So, it’s between our very own Head Boy and Girl,’ Danbury says. ‘There’s something rather poetic about that. I suppose at the least you’ll be evenly matched.’

Kate’s eyebrows scrunch adorably, betraying her nerves. For his part, Anthony’s starting to feel like this entire thing is actually some kind of social experiment in mortification.

‘What is Mr Bridgerton’s favourite thing to eat?’

Easy, Anthony thinks, unless she pretends not to know. Which maybe she will, since she still thinks he’s lying about not getting that letter. But before Kate can give her answer –

‘KATE SHARMA!’ Colin booms. There’s a flurry of scattered, shocked laughter followed by the unmistakeable sound of an irate Daphne laying into her brother.

In that instant, his face burning like a dying star, Anthony knows only two things: one, his brothers are far more drunk than he’d realised, and two: if he makes it off this stage in one piece and not straight into an early grave, it will be no small miracle.

He risks a glance at Kate. She’s flushed pink all over, wringing her hands out behind her back. Anthony decides he can’t afford to keel over from humiliation until he’s at least put Colin through a few walls.

‘Uh – grapes.’ Kate says, her voice holding strong.

‘That is correct.’ Danbury says. ‘And Mr Bridgerton, control yourself. You are a gentleman, not a town crier in training.’

After that, they make it through the next ten or so questions easily. Anthony forgets to leave a beat between the question and his answer, so as to not seem quite so pathetic. 

By the time they're down to the final two questions, and still neck-and-neck, it seems like the room is holding a collective breath.

And Kate, well, he’s seen that look on her face a thousand times, usually when they’re facing off on opposite sides of a classroom. Eyes hard as steel, secretive smile curving across her face. It’s hard to believe there was a time he was too stupid to realise why that smile had such an effect on him.

He’s not too stupid to know why it still has that effect on him, five years later.

 She wants this, he realises. She wants the win.

‘What is Miss Sharma’s favourite flower?’

Kate flinches almost imperceptibly at the question, but she doesn’t look at him. She thinks he’s got her. How could he not?

‘You like flowers. Pink tulips are your favourites, though, aren’t they?’

He can give her this, can’t he?

‘Lilies.’ Anthony responds. Managing to keep his voice even.

Several things happen at once. He can hear Danbury telling him he’s wrong, lauding Kate as the winner. Even his siblings are cheering uproariously from the floor. But he only has eyes for Kate.

She doesn’t smile, even as her team pound onto the stage and embrace her, Dorset grabs the trophy from Danbury and tries to push it into Kate’s hands, but they remain hung limply at her sides.

When Kate’s eyes finally meet his, an effort with all the hubbub between them, her face is pinched, like she’s on the verge of tears. Her stare lingers for an agonisingly long time on Anthony’s stricken face, leaving no doubt that this look of pure hurt and confusion is for him.

And then she bolts, down off the stage and through the doors.

~

Kate knows he’s going to follow her. It smarts, that Anthony is still so entirely predictable to her. She just has to put enough distance between them to let her brain reboot and exorcise the memory of him standing up on that stage, lying to her face without a trace of guile. Hurting her all over again.

But she looks back over her shoulder anyway. And there he is. Vaulting after her with long, panicked strides.

She tries the handle of the first classroom she passes. Locked.

‘Kate!’

Next door. Also locked.

‘Kate, would you stop-’

There’s one teacher who won’t have locked her door, because she’s still here. Kate sprints forward until she reaches her old History teacher’s haunt and barrels into it, throwing out an arm to bang the door shut behind her.

‘-running away!’

Anthony narrowly avoids getting walloped in the face by the door. He rams it shut, and presses his back against it, panting heavily. Their eyes lock, his so dark and burning like coals, and then Anthony reaches behind him and twists the lock.

‘What the fuck are you doing? Open the door.’ Kate storms over and tries to bulldoze him out of the way, but he stands firm. They're now standing so close that she can feel the overwhelming heat radiating off his body and so Kate backs away slowly, crossing her arms across her chest.

‘We need to talk, without anyone else interrupting.’ Anthony’s eyes track her all the way across the room. There’s a wolfish gleam in his eyes that Kate recognises all too well and he cannot, he should not be looking at her like that. It doesn’t help that he looks delicious, biceps straining against the sleeves of his blue button-up, hair mussed from chasing her down a corridor, mouth inexplicably so pink and wet.

‘Fucking prick-’ Kate seethes.

‘We are at a school, you know.’ Anthony says calmly, but he slides off the door with alarming poise and takes an adamant step towards her.

Kate ignores him. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘Do wh-’

‘You cheated.’ she breaks across him, in no mood for guessing games. ‘On that last question.’

‘I didn’t cheat.’ Anthony says, his voice dropping an octave to become dangerously low. He moves in again and Kate’s bare arms shiver with goosebumps.

‘So you happen to get every single question about me right, but you don’t remember buying me pink tulips, I don’t know, ten dozen times?’

Undeterred, Kate glares fiercely back up at him. He’s inched so close to her now that she can scarcely tell where her consciousness ends and his begins. If she lets herself, Kate can remember what it was like, those times she used to arch her body into him and sup on his mouth.

If she does that now, will he taste rich and full-bodied, like the whisky he’s been sipping all evening, his jaw working overtime as he refused to drag his raven-eyed gaze away from her?

The thought knocks her back to here and now.

‘Of course I remember.’ Anthony says savagely, and Kate has to stop herself from looking for purchase on his arm, so close to winding around her. ‘I remember every time I bought you pink tulips, because every single time, you'd look at me like...I don't even know. Like you...and it fucking haunts me even now.’

‘So why cheat? Why let me win?’ Kate does not acknowledge that last, staggering admission. 

‘I was trying to do something nice for you-’ Anthony starts.

‘Just – don’t.’  Kate says, but her voice shakes perilously. ‘In the whole time I’ve known you, you’ve never once given in to a fight. Not against me.’

‘That’s not true.’ Anthony says softly. ‘There was one other time.’

Kate stills and he moves in for the kill. Large, warm hands circling her jaw, thumbs cresting her cheeks. Anthony’s eyes are black as twilight, roving between her mouth and her half-lidded stare.

‘Kate,’ he says breathlessly. ‘What was in the letter?’

‘I don’t remember.’ she whispers.

And she sees it flash in his darkened eyes. He’s so fucking angry with her for lying. And she’s angry with herself for doing it.

But Anthony pulls her in and kisses her ravenously, anyway. He crashes into her so forcefully that they go stumbling backwards until Kate’s backed flush against the wall, and Anthony’s hallowed lips are everywhere, sucking luscious bruises into her neck and jaw and collarbone. One hand rakes from her temple and roughly through her scalp, dragging her hair out of the way to give him better access to every possible hollow of her skin.

She should stop this now, send him flying across the classroom and flip him off for good measure. Something about Anthony, whatever volatile alchemy that exists between them and refuses to die, has Kate tripping through one bad decision after another.

But Kate’s been starved of this, of him, for too long and three days of essentially extended foreplay with him has her ridiculously pent-up and in desperate need of release.

Instead, Kate yanks Anthony’s hand off her jaw and brings it to her hip, a strangled breath leaving her throat when his fingers immediately ruck up her blouse and curl into the skin. Her hand finds its way under his half-tucked shirt, crawling up his torso and Anthony mumbles something incoherent against her mouth, his teeth catching her lower lip. As he sucks on it like a man starved, Kate hooks her right leg around his waist, rocking his semi into her exposed thigh.

‘Kate…’ Anthony hisses, but he gives her what she wants, abandons his thumbing at her neck to grab the underside of her thighs, hoisting her up against the wall so that her legs are bracketed around his hips. Kate barely has time to gasp at the sensation, his hands slipping to cup her arse and squeezing, before he’s kissing her surprise off her swollen mouth.

Then he roughly pulls away, his blown pupils roving her face. ‘Are we really doing this?’ Anthony demands, not even waiting for her answer before he lays another kiss at the edge of her mouth.

‘I don’t fucking know. Do you want me to talk you out of it?’ Kate murmurs into the side of his face. There’s no chance of that happening, not when she’s soft and pliant as butter in his arms.

Anthony answers her taunt with a low growl, his hands tightening around her derriere, his head dipping so he can lave recklessly at her neck again. Her blood is so hot and purring beneath his tongue Kate thinks distantly that he must be able to taste it.

Desperate for a distraction from the pulsing between her legs that’s building to unbearable levels, Kate reaches down and palms his straining bulge in his jeans, eliciting a filthy groan in the shape of her name from Anthony, his head jerking back with unrestrained pleasure. Pushing his head up from her neck to take his mouth again, she makes short work of the button and zipper, her fingers inadvertently grazing the hard, pulsing length of him through his boxers and another groan escapes from his throat, this time purely animalistic.

Kate’s frantically working his cock through the thin material, Anthony’s breaths getting shorter and more rabid with every stroke, until he grinds out,

‘Fuck, fuck, Kate, I haven’t got a-’

‘I don’t care,’ Kate blinks once before their lips collide again in a bruising kiss. ‘I’m covered.’

Anthony halts for a fraction of a second, twilit eyes blazing, and then after that it’s a messy, furious fuck, a brutal coming together of twin flames. His shirt buttons scattered on the floor. Her little skirt bunched up around her waist as he pounds her raw against the wall, both of them falling further into the ravine with every snap of his hips. Anthony drawing lazy circles into her thighs, as if the indentations from his fingers won’t be there tomorrow.

‘Ant…fuck, Anthony,’ Kate whines, her head sliding into the crook of his neck, nails clawing crescents into his back. He’s filling her so deeply, her every limb trembling with the currents of bliss. She can tell from his short, ragged thrusts that his own release is not far off. ‘Ant, I’m so close.’

Anthony pulls out of her abruptly and so tenderly lifts her back down to her feet, but before she can admonish him, he interjects.

‘No, over there. Bent over the desk.’

Kate’s interest must show on her face because he launches forward and kisses her again, tugging her out of her shirt, making no effort to hide his impatience. She catches the look of intense concentration on his face and he could almost be the eighteen year old she loved, hanging on her every word in every debate so he could throw them back at her later.

Even as Anthony’s walking her backwards, guiding her to the desk, he’s dipping his head to tongue at her exposed breasts, nipping at the black lace of her bra. Kate keens against him, her hands busy ruining his perfect hair. When her back hits the desk she shoves him away and bends herself over the top, looking back at him over her shoulder with a kittenish smile.

‘Fuck.’ Anthony watches her greedily, pressing himself against her in seconds, fisting his dick as he positions it against her entrance.

 If we’re doing this you’ll have to be quiet,’ he mutters, his hand snaking around to caress her jaw.

In response, Kate bites down hard on his fist, her teeth tearing the taut skin to ribbons. Anthony moans, caught in that sweet spot between in pain and pleasure.

‘Still my insufferable good girl then,’ he whispers into her hair, and the possessiveness, the reverence, makes Kate’s heart flip treacherously. He gently slips his fist out of her mouth and his forefingers reach down to tease and roll her pebbled nipples, sending blinding pleasure rolling like lightning through her body, her breath hitching with every swipe of his thumb.

‘Anthony, I need you now,’ she bites out, writhing against him, both of them whimpering when his cock twitches angrily at her soaking wet folds. Anthony must be teetering on the edge because he stops teasing her after that, just plants his hands on either side of her hips and sinks into her with a guttural moan. Kate forgets to tell him that he’s supposed to be keeping that damn mouth shut, because he’s stretching her so completely and so well.

‘Jesus fucking christ,’ Anthony says hoarsely. ‘Kate, you’re fucking tight, you feel like a dream.’

Funny that, because she’s definitely had this dream before. Groaning like he’s half-spent already, Anthony pulls back and thrusts into her again, his pace quickening into something feral and unforgiving. Kate’s labouring to keep her eyes open, overcome with the pleasure of Anthony moving inside her, and then Anthony wrenches her legs further apart and reaches down to massage her clit and she cries out, muffling the noise with her palm.

‘Nothing else has felt right like this.’ Anthony murmurs, but Kate knows she’s meant to hear it. She doesn’t respond, not even to deliver some bullshit contradiction. Her heart’s clenching and stuttering all at once. Anthony spilling out his locked-up feelings, seeking assurance that she returns them. It’s not where Kate saw this evening going. Tomorrow she can blame it on being stupid with sex.

‘Go ahead,’ Anthony breathes. ‘Try and disagree with me. You can’t help it, can you?’

He pauses, still buried inside her to the hilt, but Kate needs him to move, needs him to take her over the edge and follow straight after. Leaving the past and unresolved feelings behind. But he’s right. It’s never felt like this with anyone else. Nobody else knows what it’s like to hold her heart in his hands like Anthony does.

Only Kate’s still not going to give it to him that easily.

‘Shut up and fuck me, Bridgerton.’ is what she grates out.

‘I’ll fuck you when you admit it. There’s nothing like this. You and me. Me filling you up, fucking you exactly the way you need it.’ he says resolutely, though she can tell he’s hanging on by a frayed thread.

Kate breaks. With any luck, he won’t remember this in the morning. ‘Fine. It’s never been like this with anyone else. Only you, Ant. Only you.’

In response, Anthony slams into her with one final brutal thrust, rapidly circling her clit, and that’s all it takes for Kate to unravel, the force of the orgasm searing through her blood. Anthony urges her through her peak with soft kisses to the back of her neck, snapping his hips into her a final few times before he’s spending into her, hot come flooding her core.

They don’t speak again until they’ve shrugged back into their clothes, Kate cursing herself for not wearing tights. Though she hadn’t planned on getting rawdogged by her ex in her old History teacher’s classroom.

‘I’ll drop you home,’ Anthony says finally. His gaze is fixed so intently on her profile, it takes everything in Kate not to look away. ‘And then we can talk.’

‘You can take me back to yours.’ she says, and his face lights up. He doesn’t need to know that she doesn’t plan on talking.

~

Thursday

When Kate wakes up, she instantly knows she’s not in her own bed, because it’s nowhere near this plush and comfortable. That, and the fact that someone’s arm is slung sluggishly over her waist, his warm breath tickling her naked back.

If only she wasn’t so sticky and sore from falling apart on Anthony’s mouth, hands and cock more times than she can count, she might be in more of a rush to duck out from under his touch.

He’d said he wanted to talk. And yet the second they’d stumbled into his flat he’d had her up against the doorframe, then on her hands and knees on his bed, and in-between took it upon himself to make an altar of her legs, feasting on her until she came on his tongue for the third time in as many hours. Apparently Colin wasn’t wrong last night.

By the time they were sated and spent, neither of them had the energy to say anything much at all. Kate had made some half-hearted noise about going home, since she and Newton were staying at Mary’s, and Anthony had put the kibosh on that immediately.

‘Stay.’ he’d mumbled. ‘We’ll talk in the morning. Over breakfast.’

Now, Kate looks at Anthony’s still form next to her, his head resting on the arm that’s not wrapped round her. He’s angelic in sleep, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Twisting round to face him, she brushes her fingers on his cheek and swiftly recoils. When Anthony doesn’t stir, she huffs a sigh of relief, dislodging his hand from her upper thigh as gracefully as she can.

Checking her phone, Kate lets out an inaudible string of expletives. She’s supposed to be meeting Sophie at nine for coffee and it’s nearly quarter past eight. If she’s going to get there on time she won’t be able to stop by her house to pick up fresh clothes, leaving her with two choices. Show up at coffee in last night’s outfit, leaving absolutely no doubt about what she got up to last night, or steal something of Anthony’s and hope that Sophie isn’t well-acquainted enough with the contents of his wardrobe to notice.

Kate hops around as quietly as she can in search of her shirt and skirt, frowning when she spots them hanging neatly in the gigantic walk-in closet that abuts Anthony’s bedroom. When did he do that? Stuffing them into her handbag, she looks around for something nondescript to wear and settles for a pair of plain joggers. Even with the drawstrings fully tightened, they’re slightly too big on her hips but hopefully Sophie will be too polite to comment.

Spotting a pile of sweatshirts on one of the shelves, Kate pulls a grey one out at random and is about to throw it over her head when the embroidered lettering on the front catches her eye.

University of Cambridge.

Kate cards the soft wool through her fingers, pretending her throat isn’t closing up, her eyes aren’t burning with tears.

She’d bought it for him when she was there for her interview. He’d said he’d never wear it. Once they started dating, he’d doubled down. She’d said that was fine, it could be hers for when she stayed over. He’d looked so foolishly happy.

Now, back in her hands, the stitching looks worn, the hem is bobbled like you’d expect after five years of use. Kate doesn’t need to sniff it to know it’ll carry his scent, clean and cedary and comforting.

Swallowing, Kate replaces the sweatshirt and reaches for one on another shelf, this time a plain navy, Ralph Lauren jumper. It’s sitting on top of a box, and when Kate pulls it down, the lid of the box comes down with it. She manages to catch it before it clatters to the floor and she has to explain to Anthony why she’s rifling through his wardrobe. Not that she thinks he’d really care.

On the lid is written, in faded chicken-scratch, school.

Kate nearly snorts. What are the odds of Anthony Bridgerton keeping old homework diaries and maths tests? And why would he keep them here, in his flat, rather than at his mum’s house?

The lid is already off, so maybe a little peek inside is ok? She’ll have to take the box down to replace the lid properly anyway.

What’s actually inside is not, in fact, old homework diaries and maths tests. What’s inside are the remnants of a buried relationship. 

A bunch of crumpled papers pinned together with a paperclip. It looks like he’s kept every single note she ever wrote him. Even the ones before they were going out, the ones that just say stupid, meaningless things in bright purple ink, like piss off!, and no, you can’t borrow a pen. guess you’ll just have to fail this test! and can you tell Danbury I’ll be late to class today?.

A dog-eared post-it note that says Good luck today -  K xxx. She can’t even recall what she was wishing him luck in. And yet he's kept it, her warm script unfurling across the page, like it might let him hold onto the luck the way he didn't hold onto her.

A photo of them at their leavers’ ball. The photo of them, the one her father framed and Kate unframed after he died. Kate didn’t even know Anthony had a copy of it. The edge is smudged, as though from a thumbprint, holding into the ink for too long. Or too many times.

But Kate doesn't lose herself until she sees it. It’s dribbling over the side of the box.

A cheap purple hair ribbon.

The one she lost in his car and forgot about, assuming he’d found it and tossed it out without a second thought.

Such a stupid thing for him to hang onto. So why are the tears halfway down her stunned face?

Kate stuffs nearly everything back in the box and returns it to the shelf, not even checking that it looks suitably undisturbed. She sweeps out of Anthony’s bedroom where he still lies dead to the world, and closes the door to his flat with a soft click.

~

‘I knew it!’ Sophie crows, the second Kate flings herself down in the booth.  ‘You shagged him, didn’t you?’

‘What?’ Kate goggles at her. ‘How d-’

‘Those Bridgerton boys all dress the same.’ Sophie shrugs. ‘Ben has that v-neck in about five different colours.’ she gives Kate a sympathetic smile. ‘And no offence, but you look…um…well, your gait is what I’d call, thoroughly fucked.’

‘I’m going to shower and change before the garden party later,’ Kate says, tugging self-consciously at her hair, pinned back in an unkempt bun. She sighs. ‘And probably forgo the heels.’

‘Thank god, because Ben and Colin might be clueless at the best of times, but even they are going to cotton on if you show up looking like that.’ Sophie gestures towards the still-warm almond-milk latte she’s propped in front of Kate.

Taking it gratefully, Kate exhales a breath she thinks she may have been holding for the last four days. ‘Does anyone else know?’

‘I don’t think so, but didn’t do yourself any favours running off the stage like that,’ Sophie teases, clasping her hands around her mug. ‘And then Anthony went steaming off after you like a bloody bull. I thought it was pretty obvious what was going to happen, but Ben and Col seemed genuinely afraid for Anthony’s life.’

‘He was alive when I left him this morning.’ Kate says, in a weak attempt at humour. Just not conscious.

‘So…are you two…?’ Sophie prompts.

‘I don’t know.’ Kate peers down into her latte froth. ‘I left before he woke up.’

‘Kate Sharma!’

‘He wants to talk, and I keep stopping him.’ Kate says, a little shamefacedly. ‘It’s just embarrassing for me to still…after five years, still feel…and I just don’t want to hear that…that he doesn’t…’

‘You still love him and you’re afraid he doesn’t love you anymore? Or, that he never did?’ Sophie mercifully cuts through Kate’s humming and hawing,

‘He said from the beginning that he couldn’t offer me anything more.’

‘Anthony says all kinds of stupid shit! And frequently proves himself wrong!’ Sophie throws her hands up in the air, alarming some of the nearby patrons. ‘He loved you back then. You really never felt it? You really couldn’t tell?’

‘I tried not to think about it.’ Kate says quietly.

‘Kate.’ Sophie’s face is full of fond exasperation. ‘That boy was in love with you from the second you accused him of trying to murder you in the car park. You know this and so does he. Both of you are just dreadful communicators.’

Kate chews her lip, still blistered from Anthony’s handiwork last night.

‘And now…look, I can’t pretend to be Anthony’s closest confidante, but I can tell you that he’s spent the whole of this week driving his entire family, me included, insane, just because he thinks there’s something going on with you and Tom Dorset. And Ben told me he’s had their housekeeper turning their three-storey mansion upside down looking for some letter you sent him five years ago. What possible other reason is there for such unhinged behaviour if he’s not still in love with you?’

And she doesn’t even know about the Kate box in his wardrobe.

‘Kate, you want my honest advice?’ Sophie encloses Kate’s slightly trembling hand into her own. ‘One of you has to be brave here. And, well…you’re the bravest person I know.’

~

Kate’s phone

[Unknown number]: don’t think I don’t know that you made off with my clothes, Sharma.

[Unknown number]: and we still need to talk.

[Read:12:03pm]

~

Despite the fact that each of the events she’s attended this week has been more extravagant than the last, Kate is still pleasantly surprised by what she finds when she walks back into Aubrey College that evening.

The large courtyard now boasts an enormous gazebo, with flowers wound romantically around the pillars, little round tables laden with miniature cake stands and fairy lights. In the far corner, Prudence Featherington is warbling into a microphone while the disgruntled band look on. The auction tent and bar have been set up a convenient distance from the garden tables and both are already bustling with customers in various florals and silks.

Kate barely makes it three steps before she hears her own name ringing out in a familiar, somewhat wicked note. She adjusts her dress and walks obligingly towards the large table seating Colin, Benedict, Simon, Daphne, Eloise and Sophie. And – there’s Anthony, wedged in between Ben and a pointedly empty chair.

For some reason, Anthony rises from his chair when she approaches. Kate’s tempted to just sit down without meeting his gaze. She doesn’t want to see the hurt in his face after her morning French exit and the subsequent unanswered texts, but he looks unnervingly blank.

By the time Anthony sits back down, his brothers are sniggering and even Daphne looks like she’s wrestling to keep a gloating smile off her face. Kate does not dare look at Sophie as she takes the seat Anthony’s pulled out for her.

‘So Kate, where did you rush off to last night?’ Benedict asks. ‘You missed the commiserations party for Serving Viscunt.’

‘By party, he means a round of shot roulette at the bar.’ Daphne says, taking an elegant sip of her French 75. ‘You were wise to leave when you did.’

‘I uhhhh, had a headache,’ Kate says, lacing her hands together in her lap. Next to her, Anthony twitches almost imperceptibly.

‘Ant snuck off too,’ Colin says, apparently none-the-wiser. ‘But he’s being very mysterious about where.’

‘I told you, I went back to my flat. I had to take some calls.’ Anthony says, sounding exceedingly annoyed.

‘Hmmm, I still consider it bad form to dip right after leading your team to an epic loss,’ Colin says, but then he’s distracted by a passing waiter and his platter of fig and prosciutto crostini.

Kate’s phone chimes and she feels Anthony’s eyes glued to her profile as she scans the subject line of the new email. Her stomach backflips.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, tossing her serviette onto the table. ‘Work email – I’ll be back in a minute.’

Kate barely makes it to the bar before Anthony’s on her, taking her loosely by the arm so that she’s forced to look up into his big, brown bedroom eyes.

‘Anthony, I actually do need to read this email.’

‘Well, I need to speak to you without my interfering family listening in and you’re making it incredibly difficult.’ Anthony shrugs, grinning at the bartender over her shoulder.

Kate doesn’t respond, her face buried in her phone. In one fluid motion, she looks up at Anthony, glassy-eyed and awestruck.

‘What is it?’ he says at once, brow dimpling in concern. ‘Kate?’

‘Um…my firm is sponsoring me for the solicitor apprenticeship.’ she says, dazedly.

‘Kate, that’s brilliant.’ Anthony stares at her, face cracking into a winning smile and before she knows what’s happening, he’s swooping down and kissing her chastely on the cheek. ‘Not that there could really ever be any doubt.’

And for a thrilling fraction of a second she thinks he’s going to lean back down and kiss her again –

 – but instead, he turns back to the bar and proceeds to order a bottle of outrageously expensive champagne.

‘Anthony, that’s not included in the free bar.’ Kate exclaims.

‘And? You deserve to celebrate.’ he looks unconcernedly back at her. ‘But we’re drinking this here. Ben and Colin don’t get a drop.’

~

They make it through three-quarters of the bottle before Anthony ambushes her as she knew he would.

‘Your letter,’ he says firmly, shaking his head at the server who tries to approach them with a tray of brie-and-cranberry endives. ‘I want to know what it said. And don’t tell me you don’t remember. I once listened to you recite Gloucester’s monologue in King Henry VI from memory.’

‘It doesn’t matter what it said, because even if you didn’t get it, you didn’t call.’ Kate says, hating how small her voice sounds. ‘You didn’t even try to reach out to me-’

‘I called.’ Anthony interrupts, his own voice strangely high and anguished.  ‘I called, Kate. Before the funeral – I left you a voicemail. Well, not you. Mary. I thought you…I thought you might have blocked my number.’

Kate is dimly aware that she’s too drunk to be having this conversation, but she also knows if they don’t have it now, there’s a good chance they’ll be waiting another five years.

‘She never mentioned a voicemail.’ Kate states, and something inside her crumbles, watching his face fall, his eyes misty and forlorn.

‘So you never got mine, and I never got yours.’ Anthony says, with a humourless laugh. ‘That seems about right.’

He looks so ashen-faced that Kate so nearly tells him what she wrote. But she doesn’t want to be drunk when she says it, doesn’t want him to be drunk when he hears it.

But he will hear it.

‘You know what?’ Kate says brightly. ‘How about a shot?’

~

Kate’s phone

Kate: Mum, how many unopened voicemails do you have?

[Delivered: 2:18pm]

~

An hour later, and you would never know that only a short while ago Kate and Anthony were teetering on the precipice of the point of no return. Kate’s vodka-dipped lens is making everything seem ten times funnier than usual.

And every time she looks at Anthony, the topaz hues of his brown eyes are more lurid, his shit-eating grin makes her disconcertingly giddy.

Navigating her way to the bathroom, Kate finds herself blinking around the auction tent. Before she can stagger her way back out again, she’s pounced upon by one of the overzealous auctioneers, thrusting an iPad under her nose.

‘Good afternoon, ma’am. Would you like to make a bid? All auction proceeds go to the Aubrey College Charity of the Year.’

Why the hell not? Kate thinks, eyes running blearily down the list of items. For some reason they haven’t been listed in order of the price of the starting bid, so she takes her time scrolling through for anything that’s not a hideous nineteenth century antique or multi-million pound property in Belgravia. There’s a luxury dog bed starting at fifty quid, so Kate puts down sixty and continues reading.

‘A yacht?’ she says aloud, and the hovering auctioneer nods.

‘The Rakehell,’ he says, a little dreamily. ‘A true diamond of the sea.’

It occurs to Kate that it would be absurdly funny if Anthony were to win a yacht in this auction. He gets horrifically seasick, as proven on the ferry trip during a school trip to Greece, but perhaps he’d let her take it for a spin? And a starting bid of only a thousand pounds!

Giggling at the thought of the dumbfounded look on his face, Kate pledges fifteen hundred pounds under Viscount Bridgerton and skips back out of the tent.

~

Back at the Bridgertons’ table, not a single soul is sober. Anthony finds that, half a bottle of champagne and three or four shots down, he’s starting to quite enjoy himself. That is, until Kate disappears to the bathroom and he’s left with his blood relations for company.

‘What were you and Kate chinwagging about for so long?’ Benedict mumbles into Anthony’s ear, leaving a trail of spittle on the lobe.

‘God, get off!’ Anthony pushes him away in disgust, although he’s careful not to be too heavy-handed as his brother looks about one weak margarita away from toppling right off his seat. ‘And mind your own business.’

Benedict is not put off, and in fact, flattens a hand on either side of Anthony’s face. ‘Did you tell her you love her yet?’ he says sagely.

‘Get your hands…off my face,’ Anthony hisses, in what he hopes is a deadly fashion, but it evidently needs some work, because his brother makes no effort to obey.

‘Hey, Col. What is he?’ Benedict shouts across the table, without moving his hands. Anthony is forced to watch as Colin’s face slowly lights up.

‘An idiot sandwich!’

‘That’s enough,’ Anthony smacks Benedict’s hands away, just as Kate comes tottering back to their table, a surreptitious smile on her lovely face that stirs his groin to life and not for the first time today. She’s wearing a mini dress in a particularly seductive shade of lilac (or maybe it’s just Kate that makes it seductive), covered all over in little purple flowers. It could just be his liquor-soaked brain, but Anthony swears that decadent floral scent is even more intoxicating today.

‘You are though, if you’ve still not bloody told her,’ Benedict murmurs. Anthony, who stopped listening the second Kate bobbed back into his periphery, ignores him.

‘What’s so funny?’ Anthony asks, as Kate coasts back into her seat with a silvery giggle.

‘Oh, nothing, I just put a bid in on a dog bed for Newton,’ she says, reaching over him to grab the uneaten bread roll on his plate. ‘You would hate it.’

Anthony scowls as he hands her his butter, too. And a clean knife.

‘Cheer up Ant, it’s time for shot roulette.’ Benedict booms. ‘Since you and Kate slunk off yesterday, it’s time to face the music.’

‘Shot roulette?’ Kate says, quirking a curious brow, as Simon appears at their table carrying a large board of shots in unsettling neon colours.

‘Not afraid, are you?’ Anthony offers her an innocent smile, though it feels a bit lopsided. He can’t help but enjoy the sight of Kate backed into a corner, her lipstick a wantonly smudged, though unfortunately not around his mouth.

‘Not at all,’ Kate says, and yanks a bright green shot off the tray. Benedict takes a toxic-looking pink concoction and the rest of his siblings make their judicious choices before the remaining shots are swung back around to Anthony.

Anthony hesitates, a delicate sweat breaking out on his forehead. He really hasn’t thought this through and he has a nasty feeling that the orange shot closest to him is something nefarious mixed with hot sauce. However, begging off on account of having a sensitive stomach will only open him up to further ridicule. And more importantly, will make Kate the undisputed victor of the challenge that he issued.

Under Kate’s watchful eye, he takes the most innocent looking shot. It’s a reassuringly pale brown colour, so perhaps just a decoy. If he pulls a convincing grimace there’s a good chance nobody will force him to take another.

‘Chug!’ Colin decrees.

Kate swigs hers back and immediately starts coughing, to the effect that Anthony leans over and thumps her hurriedly on the back, nearly knocking over the rest of the shots in the process. The kerfuffle as Kate hastens to assure everyone that she’s not choking to death allows Anthony to slide his shot underneath the water pitcher…

‘Oh no, you don’t!’ Kate snatches his wrist. ‘I just drank straight Chartreuse. You’re drinking that.’

‘Weeeeeee like to drink with Anty, cause Anty is our mate…!’ Colin roars. Anthony’s about to throttle him within an inch of his life when Simon, Benedict, Sophie, Kate and even Daphne join in. By this time, they’re attracting so much attention Anthony starts to genuinely fear that the band will stop playing to add to the ruckus. That, or they’ll all be asked to leave.

‘…and when we drink with Anty, he gets it down in eight!’ Kate’s voice rings out against the discordant orchestra of the other voices.

This isn’t a nickname Anthony’s hoping is going to catch on (‘…seven!’) but it may be too late for that (‘…six!’). In any case, he knows objecting will be the final nail in the nickname coffin (‘…five…four…three!’) so instead, he braces himself (‘…two…one!’) and tips the shot into his mouth like he would an espresso, immediately choking and spluttering on the foul liquid with far less dignity than Kate.

Nevertheless, she starts patting him on the back, hopefully not out of obligation. Unfortunately, unlike Kate a few moments ago, Anthony actually is dying. He catalogues the second Kate realises, because her eyes widen like saucers. Blissfully unaware that their brother is about to meet his maker, Benedict and Colin have collapsed into fits of laughter.

‘STOP IT!’ Kate shouts at them. ‘He’s actually choking!’

Anthony wants to tell her no, his brothers share one collective brain cell and he’s pretty sure neither Benedict or Colin is currently in possession of it right now and can only be counted on to do further, likely irreversible damage. However, it’s too late for that. Benedict thunders out of his seat, hollering at top volume for a doctor, whilst Colin hightails it over to Anthony and starts haphazardly pulling him out of his chair, presumably with plans to administer the Heimlich. Of all the people Anthony would want attempting a life-saving, rib-cracking manoeuvre on him, Colin does not make the top five on the list. Or even top fifteen.

Meanwhile, Kate seems to be beside herself, shouting his name over and over, trying to help Colin get him upright. In his oxygen-deprived state, is it wrong of Anthony to feel a little pleased? After she pulled that fuck-and-leave this morning, it’s nice to get a hint she’ll be somewhat put-out if he suddenly expires.

And then it all narrows down to this: even with Colin panting and swearing like a sailor, even with Benedict barrelling back to the table with motherfucking Thomas Dorset in tow (‘he’s doing a medicine degree!’), even in the midst of the abject humiliation of this moment, he cannot, will not die, without knowing what Kate wrote in her letter.

And with that epiphany, or perhaps Colin just gets lucky with his next blow to Anthony’s chest, the liquor trapped in his airway skyrockets down his burning gullet, and he can breathe freely again.

‘Ok, you can get off me now,’ Anthony tells Colin, who apparently doesn’t hear him, because he continues delivering erratic punches to his chest.

'COLIN, I'M FINE NOW!’ Anthony bellows.

‘Oh,’ Colin says, pausing mid-punch, with a tacit wink at Kate. ‘Thank goodness for that, brother.’

‘Sure you’re ok, Ant? Do you want our good friend Dorset to look you over?’ Benedict says evilly.

‘He’s fine,’ Kate snaps. Anthony turns to her in surprise, only to find that her face is completely drained of colour, her dark eyes brimming with tears and shining like solitaires.

‘Kate, are you-?’

‘Learn how to handle your shots, will you,’ she says quickly, but her voice cracks midway through and when Anthony shifts his hand on the table she reaches out and grabs it.

She was tangled in his arms, in his sheets, half the night, and yet this is it, this is the moment Anthony refuses to believe anything other than that she must feel some iota, however small, of the uncontainable love that he feels for her. Her hand on his, her pulse thready and scared, even though he’s the one who nearly just died.

They both startle at the crackling of static in the air, and then Danbury – who else – starts croaking into a microphone by the auction tent.

‘After an…unscheduled interruption-’ she directs a venomous glance Anthony’s way, as if he deliberately engineered a situation where he nearly choked to death in front of over a hundred of his peers. ‘It’s time to announce our auction winners!’

Anthony could not give less of a shit about the bloody auction, he wants only to ruminate on the unspoken things that have just passed between him and Kate, but she actually seems to want to listen, so he slouches back in his chair and takes comfort in the fact that he’s suffered a lifetime worth of embarrassment just in the last ten minutes and the rest of this evening at least, must be destined to go smoothly.

For Daphne’s sake, Anthony tries to feign interest as the various prizes are rattled off. Kate loses her bid on the dog bed to some wanker that pledged over five hundred pounds for it, but she doesn’t seem remotely bothered. It is for charity – his charity, Anthony supposes.

‘And finally, the crème de la crème of this evening’s spoils…the Rakehell, also known as the “diamond of the sea”. Spanning eighty-eight foot, this sleek yacht is an example of some incredible Italian workmanship…’

Anthony snorts, who the hell would buy a boat on a whim at a school reunion, and without even looking into where to dock it?  He looks over at Kate, sure she’ll be ready with some crack about this egregious wastefulness and profligacy, but she’s practically bouncing on the edge of her seat.

‘…a sun terrace boasting panoramic views…’

Kate’s fingers are dancing on the tablecloth in anticipation.

‘Our magnanimous bidder has pledged the incredibly generous sum of one and a half million pounds!’

Kate visibly deflates, taking a dejected sip of her wine. Anthony frowns, had she bid on the yacht? The starting bid had been a million pounds, so surely not. The horrifying thought occurs to him that she might have been rooting for Dorset, but that tosser is certainly in no position to be throwing around a cool mil on a boat he’d have no idea what to do with.

‘…where is the Viscount Bridgerton?’

His heart plunging into his stomach, Anthony sits, frozen, as every single head in the room pivots in his direction.

‘Anthony! Tell me you didn’t!’ Daphne hisses at him.

‘Obviously I didn’t, Daff, this is some sort of joke,’ Anthony says angrily. ‘Which one of you was it?’ he’s being generous by directing this question to the entire table when there’s only two people who could have conceivably done this.

‘Not guilty,’ Colin holds his hands up. ‘You’re my main source of cash, remember? I would never be that reckless with the bank of Ant.’ Anthony does remember. He also needs to remember to change the terms of Colin’s trust, but there are more pressing things to be dealt with at the moment.

‘I didn’t do it either. I’m about to be a married man, give me some credit.’ Benedict hastens to add.

‘Viscount Bridgerton,’ Danbury says again. ‘Please come up here so we can give you a round of applause.' it doesn't seem that she takes any joy from this prospect.

'Ah – Agatha – I think there must have been some mistake,’ Anthony starts, clearing his throat awkwardly, but then Kate is tugging at his hand again – and if he thought she looked peaky before, she looks positively ghostlike now.

‘Anthony, I’m sorry – I thought it said a thousand-’ she’s stammering. ‘It was meant to be a joke…’

Identical expressions of horror ripple across the faces at the table, but Anthony simply takes one very long, composing breath, and says, ‘It’s fine, Kate. I’ll sort it.’

~

Anthony’s phone

iMessage group chat - Anthony, Benedict, Colin (“Hello, brothers”)

Colin: so, Richie Rich, if you’re good for 1.5 mil off the bat, why did you refuse to pay for my trip to australia?

[Read 08:02pm by Anthony, Benedict]

~

She’s going to have to sell the house – the house Mary and Edwina still live in – and she still won’t have enough. She’ll have to declare bankruptcy, and that’s an automatic disbarment from entering the roll of solicitors.

Kate doesn’t remember how she ended up in this auction tent with Anthony, alternating between begging and yelling at the auctioneers.

‘If what you’re saying is true, and Mr Bridgerton did not put his own name down, then I’m going to have to insist that you satisfy the pledge in full, Miss Sharma.’

‘Now, hang on a minute-’ Anthony interrupts bullishly.

‘-and if you’re unable to do so, then we are going to have a problem on our hands. As I’m sure you’re aware, auction bids are legally binding-’

‘I’ll pay, I’ll pay.’ Anthony practically shouts over him, jumping in between Kate and her new adversary. ‘I’ll bloody pay it.’

‘Anthony, that’s insane.’ Kate gawps at him. ‘I know you’re a mega-millionaire, or what have you, but you can’t – not when this is my fault –’

‘It’s fine, Kate. It’s my charity after all,’ Anthony says solemnly. ‘This is actually quite long overdue.’

He’s already whipping out his chequebook, the monogrammed pen he still keeps in his jacket pockets. If she weren’t so overwrought with having just spent over a million pounds of someone else’s money, Kate might be charmed by it.

‘Building Bridges is your charity?’ Kate says, as he scratches out his signature.

 ‘Yep.’ he seems guarded all of a sudden, jaw clenching up like a flower in the frost. Kate decides to take the hint – for now.

~

The rest of the night, in three distinct phases:

To think that at the start of the week, Kate had thought her plan to act as though she couldn’t pick Anthony Bridgerton out of a crowd, was infallible.

Fast-forward to now, and in the course of twenty-four hours, she’s slept with him, nearly killed him with that shot and attempted to bankrupt him.

When she mentions this to the man himself, as he sidles up to her, he just laughs. As though it’s nothing. They’re both still pretty drunk, but Kate thinks she’s seen a glimpse of his sober heart already.

‘Obviously that's the adult version of fuck, marry or kill.’ Anthony says. ‘And stop apologising. Honestly, I haven’t made my charitable donation for this tax year yet, so you’ve done me a favour.’

‘I’m not marrying you.’

Where did that come from? Why is her mouth so reckless? But Anthony just raises an eyebrow at her.

‘Good, I wasn’t asking.’

‘I’m not fucking you again either,’ Kate says.

‘Promises,’ Anthony says, and when she meets his unyielding gaze, it’s all Kate can do not to fall back into his arms. He’s flirting with her. She’s just robbed him of over a million pounds, and he’s flirting with her.

But it still comes down to the voicemail.

‘What does Building Bridges actually do?’ Kate asks, after a beat.

Anthony is silent, but he doesn’t look away from her. There’s a frailty in it. Kate’s heart is quivering against her ribs.

‘I can just Google it, you know-’

‘We support young carers who have relatives with cancer.’

He never replied to her letter.

And yet it seems that he’s been writing her a love letter of his own since that day.

~

If he scared her off with that half-confession twenty minutes ago, Kate doesn’t show it. She’s split off from everyone else, hunched over one of the ridiculous arcade games Daphne insisted would be a guaranteed money-spinner.

‘Change, please,’ Kate says, as Anthony approaches.

‘Haven’t you spent enough of my money tonight, Sharma? I’m beginning to think you have a gambling problem.’

‘I’m on the cusp of a huge win!’ she insists.

‘Those things are rigged-’

‘Fine, I’ll ask someone else-’

‘Here.’ Anthony digs into his wallet and produces a handful of pound coins. ‘What?’ he says, more than a little disgruntled at Kate’s amusement, instead of the sloppy kiss he’d expected.

‘It’s a 2p game, Anthony. You put two pence coins in.’

‘I don’t have any pennies.’

This would usually be a prime opportunity for Kate to poke fun at his title and generational wealth. Out of deference to earlier events, however, she just tips the pound coins back into his pocket and rootles around in her own purse until she finally produces a dusty copper coin.

Anthony watches as Kate feeds the coin into the machine, and then there’s a dizzying array of flashing lights and all sorts of jarring circus-type music and the machine starts spitting out coins.

‘Yes. YESSSSS!’ Kate jumps up and down, her face glorious with delight, unfairly unaware of how enchanting she is.

‘Well done,’ Anthony says dryly, as the coins continue to come smashing out of the machine and into Kate’s open palm. ‘What are you going to do with the grand sum of…one pound eighty?’

‘Here,’ Kate says, depositing her takings into his hand. ‘Consider it a down payment.’

Anthony laughs. ‘Just another one million, four hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety eight pounds and twenty pence to go then.’

‘Greg’s been tutoring you, I see.’ They share in a smile, the kind of smile that reaches places the sunlight can’t.

And then Kate’s phone rings. Anthony peers at the name that flashes up on the screen, and thinks that Kate looks unaccountably nervous given it’s only her mother calling, and she moves a good few paces away from him as she answers. Anthony’s not trying to eavesdrop, but he can’t control the odd snippets of her conversation that are just loud enough for him to pick up.

‘Hi Mama. Is everything -? Oh, you got my text…? Yeah, I know, but it might be saved if you haven’t…no, don’t! I’ll do it…’

Kate returns to his side nearly to the second his own phone goes off.

~

Anthony’s phone

Mum: Dearest, I think we found that letter you were talking about

Mum: it was in the stack of post marked for your father. Mrs Wilson put it in there because it was addressed to viscount Bridgerton. She thought it was meant for him

Mum: do you want me to open it?

[Read: 11:02pm]

~

‘Ant, you’re leaving? There’s still another hour to go.’ Colin whinges.

‘Where’s Kate? You two aren’t leaving together?’ Eloise piles on.

Anthony was expecting to be waylaid in his mad dash to get home by at least one of his wayward siblings, but three of them at once is a nuisance he doesn’t have time for.

‘I’ve got something to do at home.’ Anthony says urgently. He catches Benedict’s eye, and though his brother remains expressionless, he steps back, pulling Colin and Eloise with him. ‘The car’s dropping Kate off first. She wants to get back too.’

‘Go, Ant. We’ll take a car back later.’ Benedict says, more for Colin and Eloise’s benefit than Anthony’s. He gives his brother a brief nod that needs no further explanation.

In response, Anthony throws him a look of pure gratitude.

He doesn’t mention his mother’s text to Kate. There’s always a chance it’s not the right letter. And then they’ll be back to square one.

In any case, she seems to be preoccupied with thoughts of her own, mumbling something about needing to get home and talk to Mary. She’s remarkably sober when he walks her to the front door of her childhood home, as he’s done so many times before.

‘See you at Ben and Soph’s tomorrow?’ Anthony doesn’t realise until this moment how much he needs her to say yes. No matter what’s waiting for him in that envelope. He needs to know he’ll see her again.

Looking at her now, everything he wants to say is right there. It’s on the tip of his tongue. But there’s something drawn in Kate’s expression. He doesn’t want to do this here and now, on the back of too many shots and a near-death experience.

Kate breathes out slowly before she answers.

‘I’ll be there.’

~

Letter from Kate to Anthony, 25 October 2020

Anthony, I’m sorry.

I told you to go because I thought you’d fight me like you usually do. But you didn’t. Why didn’t you? Why did you choose this one awful time to let something go?

When we started this, you told me that we didn’t need to worry about stuff that hasn’t happened yet. You were wrong.

I told you that you can’t control whether or not you fall in love with someone. I was right.

So, here it is: I love you. I love you too much to keep pretending that I don’t.

I’m still dropping out. I need you to understand that I’m not giving up on anything. Not Cambridge, not my degree, not qualifying. Not you, unless you want me to.

Just don’t ask me to love you less. I don’t think I could bear it.

Kate

~

Mary’s phone

Voicemail from Anthony Bridgerton, 3 November 2020

‘Mrs Sharma? It’s Anthony. Anthony Bridgerton. Kate’s…well – Kate’s…well, I’m calling about the funeral. I heard from my little sister that it’s tomorrow. I assume Kate doesn’t want me there. But will you tell her I called? Will you tell her that I’ll be there in a second, if she wants me? And will you tell her that I…just tell her I called, please? And…I’m so sorry about Mr Sharma. I know Kate couldn’t have asked for a better father. No matter what, I’ll be thinking about her tomorrow. I need her to know that.’

Chapter Text

In the dead of the night, the kitchen light burns, a midnight sun setting their street ablaze. And Mary’s crying.

‘I don’t remember,’ she’s saying over and over, as if the broken refrain might somehow salve the gushing wound, the one sliced open by Anthony’s long-lost promise, the knowledge that he could have been there, that he would have been there, while Kate trembled behind the lectern in a cold room full of colder strangers and tried to speak her treasured father back into existence.

Kate’s listened to his message so many times now that she knows by heart every palpitation in his voice, the ache in every pause, the strung-out hesitation before he finally broke, just tell her that I called, please.

Or maybe she’s just still drunk.

‘I don’t remember getting a call. I’m so sorry, Kate, I…I don’t remember much of anything from that time.’ 

‘I know,’ says Kate, as she sets a glass of water down in front of her mother. ‘It’s ok.’

‘I didn’t even realise you two had ended things at the time.’ Mary takes a shaky sip, but her voice still comes out feeble and cracked. ‘I suppose I should have.’

‘I wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it.’ Kate looks away, stares blankly at the jumble of kitchen magnets on the fridge that tack up Edwina’s term dates, a wrinkled picture of Newton as a puppy, wriggling in Kate’s skinny adolescent arms, the reminders she’s painstakingly written out for Mary to take her iron tablets and to go to her eye-test next week and to call Kate straight afterwards.

‘It kills me to think that you were holding onto all that pain by yourself.’ Mary says softly, and though her fingers start to creep across the table, they shrink back from Kate’s. ‘You should have been able to talk to me.’

‘You weren’t well,’ Kate says. ‘You needed me. You and Edwina both did. And…it was a long time ago.’

‘And yet here you are, in the middle of the night, dropping everything just for the chance to listen to his voice.’  Mary’s face is so pallid she looks unsettlingly spectral. ‘Never mind how long has passed, that does not mean nothing, Kate.’

‘I know that too.’

All this time, thinking he was perfectly fine, that he’d snapped back, cold and hard as the metal trap he’d ensnared her heart in. Leaving her only with bleeding puncture marks and not so much as a second glance. And now – this, the unfaltering conviction, I’ll be there in a second, if she wants me, not a lick of uncertainty as he said it.

Just hours ago, Anthony had seemed as desperate to leave the event as Kate had, his large hand like thunder as it anchored to her back, steering her through the crowds. Every few seconds he’d had to pause to acknowledge a snide congratulations on his big win of the evening. Some forgettable face from their schooldays rabbiting on until Anthony finally lost patience, forehead dimpling into a trench, resorting to shoving people out of the way until he’d got them both safely into his waiting car.

‘I’ve got something to sort out at home,’ had been his somewhat opaque words to her before he’d watched her vanish over her threshold. Something to sort out, what did that mean, exactly? Damage control after her little million pound faux-pas? Run inventory on his flat only to find out his clothes weren’t all she’d taken?

Only Anthony had cut through all her silent speculation, the labyrinth of tangled feelings that she’s still afraid to bear to him, with his last words before he left. Fixing her again with that impregnable stare, the one that makes it impossible for Kate to think in a straight line.

‘…wait for me?’

It doesn’t matter that he’s never needed to ask, because…finally, he was. There, at her door.

Asking.

So Kate hadn’t said, wait for what?

Why, when she could take a hundred different roads and yet, inevitably, they’d all lead back to him? After all this time, all these feelings that come out at twilight and that just won’t quit, it’s fitting, is it not? Anthony standing at her doorstep, the outline of him seared oppressively into her brain, something unassailable in the way he looks at her.

No, Kate had simply said, ‘Ok.’

Then Mary turning on the hallway light had thrown Anthony’s face into startling relief, and it wasn’t hard to read him at all in that moment. His mouth so gently parted in wonder, as though he couldn’t quite believe she’d agreed. Like he’d expected more of a fight, but leaving no doubt that it was a fight he was willing to have right then and there.

‘Are you going to call him back?’ Mary says, now. She’s risen from the table and is rummaging through the cabinets, eventually sinking back into her chair with a half-finished packet of digestives. ‘He was saying some…big things…in that message.’

‘It’s a bit too late for him to come to Appa’s funeral.’ Kate tries, but Mary ignores her sad stab at humour, shaking the packet of biscuits at her instead.

‘Kate,’ she says sternly, when Kate takes one and breaks it in two, her lips buttoned. ‘Don’t avoid the question. I didn’t wake up at gone two in the morning for you to take me for a fool.’

‘I’ll see him tomorrow...’ Kate says, and just like that, she can see it, Anthony spinning her out and lighting her up on a polished dance floor, trusting her not to set them both aflame again. But will he be careful with her?

‘…I’m sure we’ll talk about it then.’ she crumbles one half of her biscuit into sawdust.

‘Obviously whatever you fought about was bad enough that he thought he wouldn’t be welcome at the funeral.’ Mary frowns.

‘You know what happened, Mama. Yes, we had a fight. A big one. And he walked out. After I…told him to leave.’ Kate abandons the biscuit. It’ll only stick in her throat. ‘He was meant to come back.’

‘Ah,’ Mary says, with a tender smile so familiar to the long-gone days of Kate’s childhood. ‘And now you know that he tried to.’

‘I just assumed that he-’ didn’t love me ‘-was done with me.’

Even as she says it, there’s that damned box again, emerging in her mind’s eye. The loose lid, the conspicuous lack of dust. The contents. Kate, laid bare in artefacts that he kept, like one day he could piece them back together and it might, in some pale dream, bring her back to him.

‘I’m fine.’ Kate insists, when Mary’s mouth purses in concern. ‘I’ve been fine. Ever since then.’

‘I know. You are perfectly fine,’ Mary says. ‘And you are my strong, smart, resilient girl. But you deserve more than fine, Kate. You deserve what I saw all those years ago.’

Mary saw it. Sophie saw it. If Kate tries, if she lets herself drown again in those golden hours spent with him, in the school grounds, in the streets of Cambridge, in his bed, anywhere Anthony would draw her into him like she was made to fit in the alcove of his arm and she could rest her chin on his shoulder and know she was home …well, then, she can believe she saw it too.

But he still never called it what it was. What’s the need for metaphors, it’s simple enough, is it not? You either feel it, or you don’t?

‘Tell me. What would you have done?’ Mary says into the quiet, her voice strained in a way that tells she fears the answer. Kate knows what her mother wants, to know that the ruin doesn’t lie in her own hands, that she’s not responsible for five years of a stubborn, gaping wound that just won’t close.

And Kate is so tired of giving everyone else what they want. But it’s two in the morning, and Mary’s tears have finally dried, and she knows the lie will slip out easily.

‘I don’t know,’ she says.

It’s not Mary who needs the truth, after all.

~

Friday

The next morning, Kate is not awoken in her usual way, with Newton’s damp nose buried and snuffling hopefully in her hand.

Instead, she leaps up like she’s been electrocuted, fistfuls of sheets in her hands, when  Edwina comes shrieking into her bedroom, yapping at an ear-splitting volume about how Kate needs to get up and come and see what’s been delivered, now.

Without so much as a glug of water to chase away the unpleasant churning in her stomach from a night of reckless drinking, scant eating and gratuitously touching her ex-boyfriend, Kate moves groggily into the kitchen, bones still stiff with sleep.

Edwina’s hovering by the island, clutching an enormous bouquet of tulips in a dozen shades of baby pink. It’s so overflowing with flowers that Kate can only just see the tip of her little sister’s forehead over the blooms.

Well. Now she’s awake.

‘There’s a card,’ Edwina waves the small slip of paper aggressively in front of Kate’s face, but Kate only has eyes for the soft crush of petals before her, each one unfurling like a familiar wave from an old friend.

Her heart lights up with a thrill that should have dulled long ago, but she tries to keep her face neutral in front of Edwina. Kate strokes the stem nearest to her, thinking about all the times she sat in his car with a handful of these very same flowers. The first few times Anthony had tried to play it off, I just saw them when I was walking home and thought of you. Like they didn’t both know you had to special order pink tulips, most of the time, especially in the quantities he was buying them. Anthony would switch it up sometimes just to tease her, she’d open her front door to sunflowers or daffodils and he’d say what? with that shit-eating grin when her mouth turned up. Wanting her to admit it did something to her when it was pink tulips resting on her thigh in his passenger seat.

‘What are you doing, open it!’ Edwina looks to their mother, who’s just stepped into the room.

‘Let’s give Kate some privacy,’ Mary says, her fingers dancing across Kate’s arm so lightly that she barely registers it. ‘I’ll put these-’ she pointedly wrestles the tulips out of Edwina’s hands ‘-on your windowsill, shall I?’

Kate nods, though the sight of her flowers retreating through the door leaves her with an odd sense of loss. Edwina hands over the message but makes no move to follow her mother out of the kitchen, instead tracking Kate’s every movement with her round, curious eyes.

The card is thick and expensive, but nondescript. Congratulations is written on the front of it in stylised print. It could be from anyone.

Kate flips it over, her heart still fluttering in wisps, like butterfly wings against her ribs.

You are a marvel.

Enjoy the flowers. I didn’t forget.

-A

Resisting the urge to fan her cheeks, flushing the same twinkling pink as the tulips, with his card, Kate looks, nonplussed, over at Edwina. She’s too flustered to speak.

‘Oh my god, didi, what does it say?’ Edwina gawps at her, snatching the card right back out of her hand. Operating half on auto pilot, Kate walks across the kitchen, tugs a loaf out of the bread bin and flings a couple of slices into the toaster.

‘A as in…’ Edwina hesitates. His name’s been unofficially barred in their house for long enough that Kate half expects the kitchen to be overrun by a plague of locusts when it’s finally said aloud again.

Edwina doesn’t know, though, what that little black A really represents. But Kate does. The tiny loops in the corners, it’s an exact replica of –

‘They’re from Anthony.’ Kate says, and when Edwina’s eyes widen so protuberantly that Kate starts to worry they might actually bug out of her head, she quickly follows up, ‘we…um…reconnected at the reunion.’

‘Did you now?’ her sister says. ‘Does this have anything to do with you not coming home on Wednesday night?’

Kate supposes she had that one coming.

‘Oh my god, it does!’ Edwina trills. ‘Did you at least talk before you fell back onto his-’

‘Edwina!’

‘Sorry.’ Edwina does look a little bit shamefaced, shifting from one bare foot to the other as their toaster throws out two pieces of slightly smoking bread. ‘I’ll take that as a no. So he’s congratulating you why, exactly?’

Kate hesitates for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to confirm Edwina’s latent suspicions. Trying not to be irritated by the pious look on her sister’s face, Kate meticulously spreads butter and jam on the burnt slices, tossing one on a plate and in Edwina’s direction. ‘Eat.’ she says.

‘Well?’ Edwina takes one paltry bite to appease Kate and drums expectantly on the counter.

‘He was with me when I found out I got the apprenticeship. He’s just being nice.’ Kate tears a strip off her charred toast. ‘Don’t read into it-’

‘Kate, nobody sends their ex-girlfriend hundreds of pounds worth of her favourite flowers to be nice,’ Edwina squints at the card again. ‘All I sent you was a bunch of crummy texts and I’m your sister!’

‘They were very sweet texts,’ Kate says weakly, swallowing the tough bread.

‘Well, this at least explains Eloise liking one of my pictures on Instagram yesterday,’ Edwina mutters, through another bite.

Kate lets her pulverised toast fall back onto the plate. ‘Bon…you and Eloise falling out, was that about me and Anthony?’

‘No,’ Edwina blurts, but much as she might be a grown woman now, she’s still no match for the vim of her older sister’s all-knowing gaze. ‘…well…sort of?’

‘Edwina, I’m sorry…’ Kate says automatically, her brain already working overtime to slot it all together. The fast and loose way in which Edwina had cut off her old friendship group just days after returning to school, all of their names, not just Eloise’s, disappearing into the same unspeakable abyss as Anthony’s. Kate had worried, of course, but as Edwina had, save for a few relatively tame teenage scrapes, started to come back to her old self, she’d assumed it was just a sad but not uncommon side effect of the grief. ‘What happened?’

Edwina sighs, twiddling Anthony’s card between her fingers. ‘I told El about the funeral, and I know she told him, and then he didn’t come, and I had to sit there and watch while you barely managed to get through the eulogy. He should have been there, I don’t care what happened between you. So I said some…shitty things about him, and then El said she’d never seen him like this and you must have done something awful to him, and then we had a fight…it was stupid…but we were both too stubborn to apologise, and then...well, that was it.’

‘He did try and come,’ Kate says, her stomach curdling as Edwina blinks confusedly back at her. ‘He tried to call Mama…I…It’s a long story, but …what happened, it was both of us. Not just him.’

The guilt must be raw and heavy on her face, because Edwina shakes her head vigorously. ‘Kate, I don’t want you to feel bad about it, that’s why I never told you. We were growing apart anyway. El really hated that guy I was dating, do you remember him? With the bad fringe? And we weren’t in some sort of silly civil war where we forced everyone to pick sides. We mostly just…ignored each other after that.’

‘I do remember him, yes,’ Kate says drolly. There had also been an infected lip ring and an unwashed ponytail. ‘So, are you and Eloise talking again?’

‘We’ll see,’ Edwina says. ‘I guess it can’t hurt to message her…especially if you and Anthony are… “talking”…again.’

‘I guess it can’t,’ Kate says, sliding an arm around Edwina. She leans down and presses her cheek against her sister’s, soothed by the baby-soft skin, the charm of her rosewater skin cream. ‘Love you, bon.’

‘So, how are you going to thank him for the flowers, which by the way, must have cost him a bomb?’ Edwina says after a minute or two, and although Kate can’t see her face she knows Edwina’s smirking. ‘Perhaps an encore of Wednesday night?’

‘Mmmm, don’t you have uni work to get on with?’ Kate prods her teasingly in the ribs, and Edwina stops messing around with her crusts, reluctantly hops off her chair and shuffles out of the kitchen, griping under her breath about having research to do.

Finally alone, Kate pulls her phone out from her dressing gown pocket. She ignores, for now, the string of inquisitive texts from Sophie and Michaela and even Daphne.

When she types, she keeps it short, for no reason other than they’ve suffered enough misdirects and misunderstandings between them.

Kate writes just enough to smoke him out. She agreed to wait, but this time her patience doesn’t have a five year expiry date.

I got your flowers.

Before she can lend herself to a tidal wave of overthinking, and before she can type anything else (‘they’re beautiful’? ‘thank you’? ‘I finally heard your voicemail and I’d have moved heaven and earth to have you there’?) her phone blares. No prizes for guessing who’s at the other end.

‘I got your letter.’ Anthony says, the second she picks up. His voice like steel. It does something calamitous to her, cheeks burning, heart caving in, arms erupting in goosebumps. It takes Kate a second to process what he’s actually saying.

And when she does, that’s it, she’s finally laid bare before him.

He got her letter. He knows she loved him.

‘Ok,’ she says, slowly.

‘I need to see you.’ he says, but there’s no trace of desperation in it. If anything, he sounds resolute. It takes everything in Kate not to fold, but she’s been reckless with him already. If she sees him right this second there’s every chance that knees will buckle and words will remain unsaid, because I got your letter, I need to see you, that could mean a thousand things, all of them scary. Only one of them she wants.

‘You’ll see me at Sophie and Ben’s.’

‘Before then. Kate, I can’t go another half a day without seeing you. I’m telling you, I’m not doing it.’

‘You’ve waited five years. You can wait a few hours, Anthony.’ Kate can only hope he can’t hear her heart skittering.

‘That was before I read your letter.’ he says, voice splintering into a hollow laugh. ‘You think I’d have let five years pass if I’d got it back then?’

Maybe not a thousand things.

‘I don’t know,’ Kate’s nails dig furious grooves into her palms. ‘Would you?’

He doesn’t speak for a moment, just the crackle of the line between them, and Kate waits him out, all the while wondering if she’s at last managed to push him over the edge.

‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Anthony says, his voice hard and low and exhilarating.  ‘But you will. All right, Kate. We’ll do it your way. I’ll see you later.’

The phone clicks ominously in her ear.

He’s gone before it even occurs to her to mention his voicemail.

~

Kate’s mid-morning is spent on a historical tour of the Aubrey College grounds. Never mind that she never booked a slot. Never mind that a certain viscount’s voice, is still trickling hot and compulsive and slow, like mercury, through her bloodstream. She just needs to be free of her house for a few hours, of Edwina’s cow-eyes begging for details and Mary’s sad, contemplative smiles.

And after one of the most emotionally taxing weeks of her life, it’s restorative; the sweet, fresh air, not a single recognisable classmate in the little pack she’s traipsing the grounds with. Their old games teacher is leading them through the manicured estate, rattling off some play-by-play of an infamous cricket game played by an ex-prime minister in 1987. It’s easy enough to tune out, stare longingly over at the stables, imagine she’s bittersweet sixteen again, when she knew everything and nothing at all, still feeling her way through her first few weeks in this place.

Kate blinks once and she can see herself striding down the paths, her pace shy from the weight of all her folders. Shock of soft curls down her back, the plaid blue skirt with the uneven hem and the navy blazer that hung awkwardly off her frame because they’d got them second-hand from the school shop.

And then she sees Anthony, capering up behind her, walking so appallingly close to her that his legs are getting bumped by her schoolbag every two seconds. Not that he seems to care, he’s too busy tossing out some smart remark about the number of folders she’s carrying. But he’ll still have all four of them out of her arms and tucked under his in no time, his excuse as flimsy as the ribbon in Kate’s hair,  I just don’t want you passing out from exhaustion before our debate later, Sharma. You’ll only say it wasn’t a fair fight when you lose. Anthony will walk with her all the way to her first class, even though they both know he’ll be late to his, all the way on the other side of the campus. Both of them high from smoking the gunshots of their back-and-forth, both of them unknowingly writing the other into every single page they’ll ever turn.

Kate blinks again and they’re a year older. Her arms aren’t full of folders, those are discarded in the backseat of his car. She’ll come back for them at morning break.  Instead, Kate’s got her arm hooked possessively around Anthony’s, her other hand threading their fingers together, because who cares if it’s sickening to everyone else, she wants to be getting her fill of him all the time, adhered to the warmth of his skin bouncing with sunbeams. Anthony’s still laughing at some sardonic joke she cracked as he opened her car door, his cheeks ripe and dimpled and rosy as apples every time Kate knots their hands together. It’s far too late to go back now, but still far too early to say that out loud, or even acknowledge it, except maybe in the middle of the night when there’s nobody around to hear it. Anthony will bow his head to kiss her softly as they go inside, leaving the misty morning behind. Wait for me, he’ll say. I’ll come and find you at lunch. Wait for me, wait for me. It never meant what it means now.

This place holds nearly their entire history. There’s the tree she used to study under until he co-opted it. She’d gladly swapped the hard and unforgiving trunk that she used to lean against for his chest, to lie back between Anthony’s legs instead. He’d pretend he was working on his own essays when really he’d be reading Kate’s notes over her shoulder, fingers digging into thighs or her curls, giving himself away by murmuring into her ear, which anthology is that from?

Kate turns her head and the lake water glistens, encrusted with a thin layer of summer algae. After school, she’d found Anthony sitting there, a few days after his fight with Simon. The lines on his bruised face, the sunken look in his eyes, had warned her off from talking about it. Or even from taking his hand – yet. So she’d kicked off her shoes and tights. Thrown her blazer in an unruly heap on the grass, rolled her sleeves up. Waded into the shallowest part of the lake, smiling through the cold rush and at his slack-jawed face. Kicked the water gently enough to scatter droplets over his legs and feet. Anthony’s dull mouth curving into a disbelieving smile. He’d ruined his shoes that day, not bothering to take them off before he was coming in after her. Kate had reached for him as he staggered over to her, let him kiss her when he was ready.

And so if all this time, Kate’s been keeping a box of her own, these are the things that are carefully wrapped and stored inside. The memories of every time she showed him she loved him, preserved in her mind, buried in her heartbreak, waiting to be allowed to surface again. Waiting, patiently, for Anthony to come back to her and unlock them.

~

When Kate comes to, she’s lost her group. They’ve left her behind in her wool-gathering, probably all the way to the courtyard by now. Kate debates following them, but decides she’ll finish the tour herself instead.

Which is how she finds herself standing outside the headmaster’s office, staring at the glossy wall of framed pictures from years recent and years past. Kate pores over a picture of Edwina and Eloise in an old reproduction of Sense and Sensibility, holding up the heavy skirts of their period costumes with matching grimaces. She hesitates before snapping a quick picture and texting it to her sister, no caption needed.

Kate walks slowly down the wall, knowing the moment she’ll catch a glimpse of him is seconds away. His family is a legacy at this school, there’s no doubt in her mind he’ll be memorialised here somewhere.

But the picture of him she sees first is not one she ever thought she’d lay eyes on again.

Anthony in the library, alone at a table and hunched over some essay or worksheet. Crumpled coffee cup by his knuckles, Kate can remember his hand squeezing around it as her camera flashed and so did he, only with indignation. He looks heartachingly young, even with his brow frustrated with concentration.

‘Miss Sharma. You are looking conspicuously unattended.’

Kate must have been deep in her trance indeed, to not have heard the gradual rapping of that cane against the hard floor. Her fingers, pressed to the glass of the picture frame, drop down to her sides at once.

‘I lost my tour group.’ she says, once she’s recovered from the shock.

‘Hm. Not unintentionally, I would assume?’ Danbury comes to stand beside her, mapping her gaze onto the photo of Anthony. Kate lets her lack of answer be the answer.

‘A memorable shot?’ Danbury inquires after a pause.

‘I took that photo.’ Kate says. ‘I was taking yearbook photos of everyone. I didn’t mean to submit that one though...’

‘Mr Bridgerton objected to it?’

‘He hated it,’ Kate says, not able to stop herself from smiling cheekily at the memory. ‘He leapt out of his chair, came barging over and demanded to see it. So I showed him, and he told me to delete it. And, obviously, I didn’t...’

‘You know,’ Danbury says, thoughtfully, ‘a picture like this, which tells you so much about the subject, I find can tell you much more about the person behind the camera. It’s a very…intense… shot.’

They lapse into silence. And then, Kate says, in a small voice, ‘it’s just a picture.’

‘Miss Sharma, do you remember the only exam for my class that you ever failed?’ Danbury speaks so intentionally that she leaves Kate no choice but to look directly into her face. As ever, it gives very little away.

‘No,’ Kate says shortly.

‘Miss Sharma.’ Danbury sighs, her lips shrivelling in displeasure.

‘Are you going to admonish me for what I did, six years later?’ Kate says, surprised by her own defensiveness. Has she always known? And if so, did she really let it go back then?

‘Mr Bridgerton was not himself at that time, as I recall.’ Danbury sweeps past her question.

‘He hadn’t been in school all week.’ Kate tries her best to swallow down the growing ache in her throat. It had been the week of the first anniversary of his father’s death. Anthony, like her, had perfect attendance. Of course she’d noticed when it had started to drop off. But Kate had also noticed the way he’d sit through classes like he was on mute, no pen scratching furiously to take better notes than her, none of that irritating laughter with Simon. She’d asked Eloise one day, is your brother ok? He’s not been in school for three days. Eloise had sighed like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. It’s nearly been a year since our dad…our mum’s not doing well. He’s looking after her.

But nobody had been looking after him.

‘And he did not show up to the examination hall to take that test.’ Danbury reminds her.

‘Yes.’ Kate says stiffly.

‘Miss Sharma, you put his name on your test, and you submitted it.’

‘…yes.’

‘You let yourself fail, as a no-show.’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though the two of you were not yet…’

‘No. We weren’t.’

‘And afterwards…you never told him?’ Danbury looks genuinely interested in the answer.

‘Of course not. It doesn’t matter.’

‘If it does not matter,’ Danbury says, ‘then why, Miss Sharma, are you so upset?’

Kate swipes away the tears with the back of her hand. She doesn’t trust herself to say anything else without it coming out as an empty croak.

Why had she done it? Because she’d seen him deteriorating bit by bit as the dreaded anniversary had rolled around, because Gregory had told her that he was spending all his time trying to convince his mother to get out of bed and eat something, because if he missed a third exam he’d have been put on academic probation, because if she didn’t do something for him, who would?

‘Forgive me, I did not mean to…’

‘Yes, you did,’ Kate manages, and despite herself, she smiles weakly at her old teacher. Danbury returns it.

‘I confess that this is not entirely why I approached you just now.’ she says hesitantly, and it’s perhaps the first time Kate has ever seen the older woman look backfooted or unsure of herself.

‘Then why?’

‘I heard you received some good news earlier this week,’ Danbury rests her hands, one atop the other, on her cane. ‘I wanted to offer my congratulations. As I think I’ve made clear, I was…dismayed to learn you had dropped out of Cambridge, Miss Sharma.’

‘I had t-’

‘I have no intention of questioning your reasoning,’ Danbury interrupts. ‘That is neither here nor there. I am, however, not above reminding you that you have a second chance that I would be sorry to see you pass up.’

‘You’re here to convince me to go back.’ Kate says coolly.

‘My dear,’ Danbury says. ‘I have no business convincing you of anything. We both know I am not the person to do that.’

‘You mean him.’

‘I mean you. You must do this for yourself, nobody else, not Mr Bridgerton…and not your father.’ is Danbury’s stony retort. ‘But, that being said, let us not pretend that you do not attribute great credence to what your Mr Bridgerton feels. It is why the two of you always made such a formidable team.’

‘Maybe, despite what the two of you think, I don’t want to go back there.’ Kate folds her arms. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, a prickling over her skin.

‘And is that the truth?’ Danbury responds.

Kate refuses to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me that.’

‘If it is not, it is not me you will have to answer to, Kate.’ her old teacher says, with a sigh. ‘…I have said what I had to say.’

Kate looks down.  It’s not Danbury who will understand, or at least who she wants to understand. It’s not Danbury who she picked a fight with that last day in Cambridge, instead of telling him the truth.

It’s getting late. Kate needs to leave if she’s going to have time to get ready for the engagement party. If she’s going to be ready, full stop.

~

He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t eaten. Instead, he’s been replaying 141 words in his brain, rearranging them again and again like there might be some formulation that might not bleed so much with all of Kate’s pain.  

Anthony thinks back to the day he left, angry, and too in love with her, and then the days afterward when the feeling didn’t die, days that turned to months and inexorably, to years of thinking, this too shall pass, except it never did. It never will. He never needed a letter to tell him that.

What the letter confirms is that everyone was wrong in the immediate aftermath, telling him, right person, wrong time. Well, no. Right person, wasted time. Half a decade of it.

He hasn’t answered a single one of his 400 unread emails or texts, half of which are from his irate business manager. How the bloody hell could he buy a yacht without speaking to him first, is he a complete dimwit, and so on. It’s all white noise at this point.

Anthony had stumbled into his study last night, just about having the foresight and cogency to lock the door. His mother had left the envelope on his desk like she promised, untouched except for where Kate’s fingers sealed it shut five years ago.

He’d sliced it open and discarded the letter opener with a clatter on his desk, not entirely sure he wouldn’t finish reading and reach for it again, only to dive it into his heart this time, if Kate’s words didn’t do it for him.

Anthony read it. He devoured it. He lapped up every word in her voice, even as stroke by stroke, they cut to the bone. Black-and-white proof of all the ways he’d hurt her.

I love you, she’d said, and he sees how her cursive trembled as she wrote it. He’d really made her that afraid to say it.

The biggest unsaid sentiment, but certainly not the last.

Anthony hasn’t told Kate how it had felt to trace the ant-sized, black ‘A’ still inked into her hipbone. How it felt to discover his name still fit perfectly under his thumb as he fucked her against a classroom wall.

Kate had been drunk when she’d got it. Not with him. With a gaggle of girls from her hockey team, a week or so after they finished school. It had been such an un-Kate like thing to do, Anthony had initially been concerned when she cornered him in his bedroom three days later and told him she’d got a tattoo. Kate hadn’t been making the best decisions back then, at least the ones he was privy to weren’t. That was his way of gauging how bad things were with her father, the days she’d forget to do something as simple as eat but somehow could decide to mark herself with him, permanently.

‘Do you like it?’ Kate had asked him, like she was challenging him to say no. Like she was daring him to tell her it was too much, ask why she’d ruined herself with him, when this thing between them was nothing, when he didn’t deserve her at all.

Did he like it? It was the first initial of his name. Of course he’d fucking liked it. They’d spent hours in his bed that night, Anthony showing her just how much he liked it.

Then, he’d assumed – forced himself to assume – it was just a drunken escapade, a way of flipping off the universe for all the shit it was putting her through.

Now, he’s quite not so easily fooled. Not when Kate never got it removed. Not when she was the one, wasn’t she, that brought his hand to her hip, just days ago, to exactly that spot where his name still rested. She must have heard his guttural groan when he saw it.

Now, he’ll take it as a sign to say she’s still reserved for him.

He stirs from his thoughts, jumping up from his chair at the knock on the door.

‘Anthony?’

Anthony hesitates, but he slides the bolt across and watches as Benedict eases into the room, an unusual disquiet in his blue eyes.

'Well?’ he says, as Anthony slumps back into his desk chair. Benedict seems determined to wait him out, until he spots the torn envelope, the letter still dangling from Anthony’s hand.

‘You found it.’ he says, dropping into the chair opposite Anthony’s. ‘I take it that’s why you’ve been holed up in here all night and all morning.’

‘I haven’t been in here all m-’ Anthony stops short as Benedict leans forward and plucks their father’s pocket watch off the desk, holding it still so Anthony can read it and discover that he has, in fact, been holed up in here all morning.

‘Christ, I didn’t even realise…’ he lets the letter float onto the desk and sinks his face into his hands, kneading his temples to very little effect.

‘Have you eaten?’ Benedict frowns, groaning when Anthony grunts out a no. ‘Jesus, Ant. What the fuck was in that letter?'

Anthony lifts one hand up and wordlessly gestures towards it. He hears a rustle as Benedict picks the letter up and then forces himself to sit in silence whilst his brother reads the words that have, apparently, made him lose track of all sense of time and reality.

‘All right. I’ve read it. Now sit up so we can talk about it.’ Benedict says firmly.

Anthony raises an eyebrow, but obliges him.

‘Firstly, give yourself some grace. You were eighteen.’ Benedict slaps a flat palm down on the desk. ‘Mother was…whatever she was back then. You’re allowed to be a bit stupid when you’re eighteen, and you were having to be eighteen going on thirty eight.’

‘But if I had just told her-’

‘Anthony…remember when you thought you got Kate pregnant?’ Benedict cuts in. Anthony blanches at this, mouth wide in consternation.

‘Of course.’ he says, quietly. ‘I’m surprised you do. You were off your face when I told you about that.’

‘I could still retain the things that matter,’ Benedict says lightly. ‘The point is that, when that happened, you told Kate you’d be there for her, no matter what, right?’

‘Of course.’

‘And when her dad died, you were there, weren’t you?’

‘Yes-’

‘I understand that you never actually said the words. I understand that you started this whole thing with Kate by implying you’d never love her-’

‘I didn’t just imply it-’

‘Anthony, I get it, you practically had it branded on your forehead.’ Benedict rolls his eyes emphatically up to the ceiling and down again. ‘But you really think that literally everything you were actually doing said the complete opposite? You really think it wasn’t clear as day to everyone else? And you really think deep down, Kate didn’t know?’

‘In the letter, she says-’

Benedict interrupts him again, and whilst normally this would have his forehead vein pumping, it’s a sign of how deep in this funk he is that Anthony doesn’t object.

‘Ant, you’d just broken up. She was hurt and thought you’d left and weren’t coming back. That doesn’t just erase the entire year you spent together. Holy hell, the two of you were carrying on like any day you might disappear and resurface three days later in Gretna Green.’

Benedict exhales melodramatically as he comes to the end of this interjection.

 ‘And,’ he says, though a little edgily this time, ‘Kate had her own problems too.’

‘What?’ Anthony accosts him with narrowed eyes. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Calm down.’ Benedict rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not criticising Kate. Soph used to drop hints about it sometimes. Like, how Kate used to flake out on their friends all the time to look after her dad. And then pull all-nighters at the hospital to finish her schoolwork. She used to worry about her a lot.’

‘Right. Well.’ Anthony knows all this, of course, but it still feels wrong to talk aloud about something Kate had tried to hard to keep from everyone. ‘She deserved so much better.’

‘I’m not going to say she wasn’t dealt a shit hand. She was. But you were there when she needed you. Every single time. Kate knows that. You need to know that.’ Benedict stands up abruptly, towering over Anthony in an jarringly paternalistic manner.

‘It’s not enough, Benedict.’ Anthony murmurs.

‘The question isn’t whether it was enough five years ago. The question is whether it’s enough now. You’re in love with Kate, aren’t you?’

What an insane thing to ask. Is he in love with Kate? Does he have air in his lungs, is he composed of flesh and blood? Is he a complete and utter fool, for all of it?

But is it really an insane thing to ask, if you’re Kate? If you’re so used to dedicating your life to the people you love, that there’s no space to feel loved back?

‘Yes, I’m in love with Kate.’ Anthony says softly.

‘Ok,’ Benedict says, encouragingly. ‘Get off your stupid, stubborn arse and go and tell her that.’

‘What if she-’

Benedict lets out a agitated growl and throws his hands up in the air.

‘Ant, do you remember when Simon and Daff split at uni? Daff had to come and live at home for a few weeks?’

That had been a bad time. Anthony had been so worried when his sister had rung him one evening and her voice had rumbled through the phone, so vacant, so unlike Daphne, that it terrified him. Even if she’d been crying that would have been better, but she’d just said in the coldest, deadest voice he’d ever heard that she wanted to come home for a bit and would he pick her up please?

‘What’s your point?’ he says irritably.

‘And then Simon turned up at our door a couple of weeks later, and he was an even bigger mess than she was?’

When Daphne had let slip that she and Simon were ‘finished’, it had taken the combined efforts of Benedict, Colin, Sophie and Eloise to stop Anthony from turning up at Simon’s doorstep and beating him to a pulp (again). But when Simon had actually showed his face, Anthony hadn’t wanted to hit him at all.

‘Neither of them wanted to be the first one to fold, right? But if they’d just talked, sooner…’

‘Yeah, I get it, Ben,’ Anthony says, and then because he really loves his brother, always, but especially right now, he steps around the desk and folds him, into his arms, engulfed in the faint smell of turpentine and the oils he paints with.

‘You deserve to be happy. Kate makes you happy. You make Kate so happy she’s willing to go on a rampage and call your brothers just about every name under the sun for keeping things from you. God knows why the two of you can’t just fucking figure that out.’ Benedict mumbles into Anthony’s shoulder, arms wrapping around his brother’s waist.

‘We will.’ Anthony says severely. When they eventually break apart, Benedict tuts in his face.

‘Good. Now, shower, and for god’s sake, shave as well, will you? It’s my engagement party tonight and I’d rather my best man didn’t look like he’s stayed up all night in his study obsessing over a bloody letter that was written five years ago. And then been dragged through a hedge backwards. I’m sure Kate will share that sentiment.’

Anthony grins, feeling lighter than he has in days, and then, suddenly his face sobers.

‘Ben-’

‘Don’t thank me now. I’ll let you know when it’s time.’ Benedict says, smiling knowingly as he strolls out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Anthony doesn’t have time to unpack whatever that means, he’s already forgotten what time it is, and then time just stops altogether, because at that very second Kate texts him.

She says she got the flowers. He remembers that, the phone call he made last night, roughly half an hour before nearly choking to death on a shot. Anthony doesn’t think, he just acts, pressing green, needing her voice to oxygenate himself out of this black hole.

Kate answers. Anthony tells her he got her letter.

It’s just a precursor to what he’ll tell her when he sees her face again. And if he has his way, that won’t be in a few hours. It’ll be the length of time it takes him to drive to her old house, drag her upstairs, into the very room he kissed her for the first time.

He felt it then. He feels it now. That feels right.

But Kate’s still playing cat-and-mouse with him. He knows she’s wavering, he could probably convince her to let him come to her now, but that’s not how he wants this to happen. Kate has to be ready too.

Anthony tells himself this is for the best, she deserves more than a rushed confession when he’s still festering in yesterday’s suit and he really does need to shave, and he’s no man of poetry but whatever he says to her has to leave absolutely no doubt about what he wants. Or what he feels.

So he gives in. Tells her they’ll do it her way. What he really means is, Kate, you don’t need to wait a second longer.

~

Sitting in the car service with the rest of his family, dolled up in various metallics, Anthony supposes he should feel guilty about his plans for Kate when this entire night is supposed to be about his brother.

But as they got in the car, Benedict had yanked him back by the lapels and said ‘you and her better bloody get it together tonight, because never mind me, I think Soph might actually end up in prison if you don’t.’

And even now, as Anthony catches his little brother’s eye, Ben gives him an ostentatious thumbs-up and a wink. He’s obviously filled Sophie in, because she raises her eyebrows at Anthony in a very purposeful manner.

‘How was yesterday?’ Violet asks everyone. ‘I didn’t hear any of you come in.’

Anthony decides that an menacing ‘say anything and kiss goodbye to your trust funds’  look is likely to have a more favourable effect on his siblings than a pleading one.

He is wrong.

‘Everything was ship-shape, Mother,’ Colin says, without missing a beat. ‘Daff did us all proud,’ he adds quickly, when Violet purses her lips suspiciously.

‘That’s wonderful,’ Violet says, as Daphne preens. ‘Anthony? Did you enjoy yourself? I feel as though I have barely seen you today. You weren’t at breakfast.’

Anthony sighs, having immediately surrendered to his fate but equally in no mood for his mother’s probing. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

‘Ant certainly made a splash last night,’ Eloise says, fiddling with the diamond necklace that’s slightly too big for her face. Colin sniggers but Benedict shakes his head, mouthing at her, you can do better.

‘Did you, dear?’ Violet says, looking concerned now.

‘I enjoyed myself,’ Anthony says, cracking a complacent smile because he knows it’ll annoy Colin. ‘Thanks for asking.’ and indeed, it seems to take the wind right out of his little brother’s sails (so to speak), because he slouches back with a sulky look on his face.

Satisfied, or perhaps just fed-up with a conversation in which she’s clearly missing a few pieces, Violet turns away so that she can tell Sophie how beautiful she looks for possibly the fourth or fifth time that evening.  

Eventually, they pull up outside the venue, the Bridgertons’ favoured private members’ club, which is tonight a veritable milky way of golden lights and candles. The doormen rush forward to escort the guests of honour from the car, Benedict feeding honeyed words into a nervous Sophie’s ears. Until he turns around and waits for Anthony to catch up to them.

‘Go on, Ant, full steam ahead,’ Benedict grins into his ear, and though Anthony cuffs him around the back of the head, out of habit more than anything else, it’s not lost on him that Benedict is right. All or nothing.

Usually, Anthony would just deposit himself at the bar at these things. Try to avoid striking up conversation with anyone he doesn’t know already, and also with quite a lot of the people that he does know. He doesn’t do that tonight. Anthony introduces himself to the flock of Benedict’s old art school friends and spends ten long minutes listening to the merits of using sable brushes, schmoozes Sophie’s grandmother, kisses Hyacinth on the cheek when she hands him a flower she’s definitely stolen from some grandiose floral display and pins it on his dinner jacket in place of his boutonnière. He always did have a propensity for lilies.

He could, if he lets himself, fret that she’s not coming, that he’s too late, that something could have changed her mind in the scrap of time since she agreed to wait for him. Anthony does not let himself. Kate’s never been fickle.

‘Alright, Ant?’ Benedict appears by his side, jostling him in the ribs. ‘Our mother wants me to check you’ve practised your toast.’

‘I’ve told her three times already,’ Anthony grumbles, just as a rather put-out looking Gregory joins them.

‘Okay, Greg?’ Benedict ruffles his crop of dark hair. ‘Not been giving the bar staff a hard time, have you?’

‘They didn’t believe I’m sixteen,’ Gregory scowls. ‘They laughed at me! I don’t have a baby face, do I? Anthony?’

Anthony catches Ben’s eye and they both chuckle over Gregory’s head, but it turns out that Gregory gets the last laugh, because his fist halts halfway to Benedict’s midriff and with far too much nonchalance, he says, ‘hey, is that Kate?’

Anthony’s head snaps up, like an animal in the battle zone, and his every sense is sharpened to a single point.

There is Kate, incandescent in a long piece of crimson, fitted in a way that declares every contour of her body. Her hair runs like ink down her back, fastened neatly away from her face and shoulders and Anthony can’t even mourn the absence of her curls, not with luxury of seeing every angle of her collarbone and neck and jaw, her skin gilded and dew-dropped in this light.

There’s a piece of silver wound around her neck, just grazing the sharp clavicle that Anthony had sucked on just two days ago, though it might as well have been two decades for all he’s hungering to do it again. Or – just to hold her, he thinks he could be content with that. For now.

Kate hovers on the spot, eyes raking the crowd, and Anthony knows she’s searching the room for him. He’s done the same thing in nearly every room he’s ever been in, even when there was no chance she’d be there. He can’t help but take a thrill from this, these few seconds when he can enjoy her but she can’t see him. The seconds before she finds him, the moment something will snap and crackle, like dying embers in her amber eyes.

Kate finds him, finds the crooked grin on his face, and she smiles at him. There’s something bashful in her expression, prompting something primal and predatory in his, but before he can cross the room and do something impetuous, like kiss her until her dark, wet lip is smeared indulgently around both their mouths, she’s being embraced by a delighted Sophie.

Anthony wipes his mouth with the edge of his thumb, surprised and relieved to not find drool there, though now it’s Gregory and Benedict’s turn to share in amusement at his flagrant ogling.

‘I’m going to go and say hello,’ Gregory’s saying, but Benedict pinches him by the sleeve and pulls him back.

‘How about we get you your very first taste of single malt?’ he says, and Anthony could throw his arms around his brother, but then he remembers, don’t thank me yet, and instead he just returns Benedict’s nod and starts to make his way across the room.

Kate’s still chattering away with Sophie, and Anthony’s partly loathe to interrupt them – this is Sophie’s night after all, but his future sister-in-law clocks his approach and a wide, slightly devious smile stretches across her face.

‘There you are, Anthony, I was wondering how long it would take,’ Sophie says brightly.

‘For what?’ Anthony returns. He’s beyond caring if anyone says it out loud, though admittedly he doesn’t want someone to say it in front of Kate before he does. 

Sophie ignores him. ‘Kate was just telling me how much she’s looking forward to taking to the dance floor this evening.’

Anthony expects Kate to immediately object to this, but she doesn’t. Just stares intently back at him with her beautiful eyes. Unflinchingly.

‘Is that so?’ he says, subconsciously letting his voice drop. Kate twitches.

‘Well, I’ll let you two catch up. Just don’t monopolise her all evening, Anthony,’ Sophie says over her shoulder, as she walks away.

‘I can’t promise that, I’m afraid.’ Anthony says, though he’s not looking at Sophie.

‘You look-’ Anthony begins.

‘Did you-?’ Kate starts.

They both stop short, but before either can try to finish the thought, they’re intercepted by a blur of pale blue taffeta and pearls.

‘Anthony, Kate, sorry, but I think our mother is going to have a coronary if we don’t get everyone sitting down. Anthony, I think you probably ought to do your toast now?’ Daphne pleads, wedging herself in between them.

Anthony’s thinking, no, I don’t want to do my fucking toast now. One look at Kate and he wants to ditch this whole scene. Her hand in his, anywhere they can talk without these constant, infernal interruptions. For a split second he thinks Kate’s going to tell Daphne as much, but she just lets out a barely-there sigh and says, ‘of course. I’ll go and see if I can round up everyone on my table.’

‘Kate, can we-’ Anthony catches onto her hand before she can move out of reach, and Kate stops.

‘Later,’ she says, nodding towards Daphne. ‘I promise.’ she gives his hand a squeeze before she drops it, and Anthony’s arm stays outstretched for a few seconds even after she’s gone.

Then he advances on his sister.

‘Could that really not have waited another five minutes?’ he snaps at Daphne, who seems to swell three inches in height with indignation.

‘No it couldn’t! Because believe it or not, I’m the one who always ends up dealing with our mother at these things while you, Ben and Colin get pissed at the bar, and we both know that you trying to figure out your relationship with Kate isn’t going to come to some magical conclusion in the next five minutes!’

Anthony gapes at her stupidly for a few seconds until she loses patience and storms off, heels clacking like gunfire. Reminding himself for possibly the sixth time today that this is Ben and Sophie’s party, he reluctantly finds a champagne glass and takes his place at the front of the room as Daphne, Simon and Violet shepherd guests into their seats.

Under the guise of clearing his throat, Anthony scans the room for Kate. There she is, his scarlet siren in the crowd. But who the hell is responsible for these seating arrangements, and why the fuck is Kate on a table with some randomers and not next to him and the rest of his family?

Later this evening, when he foolishly voices this thought to Sophie, she looks at him with total repose and says, ‘because I didn’t know she was coming until about three days ago, and because even just this week I can’t keep up with whether the two of you are at each other’s throats or taking turns to stare longingly at each other from across the room, so I thought it was safer for everyone this way.’

For now, though, he gives his toast. In it, Anthony dotes on his little brother, also his best friend. He talks about the woman Benedict loves, how his entire family came to love her too. If his eyes drift to Kate every now and then, if they trace every curve of her face when he says something about not letting things go unsaid, he is not sorry for it.

And when the room clinks and gleams with raised glasses, Anthony looks directly at Kate before he takes a sip, and he hopes she’ll take it to mean what it does. To you.

~

‘Excuse me.’ Anthony says to the hulk of a man sitting in the seat next to Kate’s – at every table, Anthony’s seat, if all the world was set to rights. ‘Do you mind?’

The man looks very much like he does mind, not least because he’s midway through his sticky toffee pudding and ice cream, but either he recognises Anthony as the groom’s best man and by some social grace, outranking him, or he just can’t be bothered to deal with the staunch look on Anthony’s face, because he makes an exasperated noise and gets up, taking his bowl of pudding with him.

When Anthony takes the vacated seat, looking exceedingly pleased with himself, he can tell that Kate is trying not to laugh, which of course only pleases him more. ‘It was a lovely toast,’ she says, forcing a straight face.

‘It was fine. I’m not exactly a man of poetry,’ Anthony says.

‘You do all right.’ Kate reaches for her champagne glass, but her hand shakes precariously around the stem.

It’s almost funny, how much she doesn’t know. But she will. ‘It was only the warm-up, Kate.’

She raises her eyebrows, but her restless fingers migrate from her class to her plate, and he catches her glance at his mouth. It takes everything in him not to lick his lips. There are other people at this table, apparently.

‘You didn’t have pudding?’ Anthony says, staring at her clean dessert fork. Mostly to diffuse the tension.

‘I asked for just ice cream, but they must have forgotten,’ Kate shrugs. Almost immediately, Anthony is flagging down a passing server.

‘Could we get two bowls of ice cream, please?’ Anthony says to him. He eyes Kate for a fraction of a second, her lips curl up as she nods so very slightly. ‘Do you have strawberry?’

‘We do, sir.’

‘Strawberry for her. I’ll have the same, and if there’s not enough, whatever there is,’ he says, spinning back around to find Kate’s whole face has softened in a way he’s only seen before in the moments when he thought she hadn’t been able to hide it. When he held her after she won her hockey finals. His face cresting her bedroom window when he asked her to be with him.

Anthony’s content just to bask silently in it until the same server returns with their afters, and he takes both bowls, handing the larger one to Kate. ‘New dress?’

‘Borrowed from my flatmate. ’ Kate says. ‘She insisted.’

Anthony can see why. ‘I like it.’  How is it possible that she can look like that in a dress that wasn’t even bought with her in mind? Why are they stuck here, on this occasion where it would be entirely inappropriate for him to add all of his other thoughts?

Kate abandons her ice cream spoon and leans forward, her hand outstretched until she hooks a finger onto his makeshift boutonnière. Her breasts are straining against the red silk, her hand is mere layers from his heart, and she must be able to hear the stutter in Anthony’s breathing. This is all rapidly becoming too much.

‘I like this,’ she says, innocently.

‘I think Hy stole it from one of these displays.’ Anthony grinds out, unsure whether he’s relieved or frustrated when Kate lets go of the flower and moves back again.

‘Oh, she definitely stole it,’ Kate says, and she unbuttons her clutch to pull out her own, slightly crushed lily. ‘She gave me one too.’

They exchange quiet smiles. Kate swallows down the last of her ice cream. Anthony gave up on his a while ago, but she shakes her head when he offers it to her. So he offers her his hand instead.

‘I heard you wanted to dance this evening.’ he says.

‘Mmm, see Greg around here anywhere?’ Kate murmurs. Anthony just fixes her with a sombre look and snatches her hand anyway, pulling her to her feet and into him with a flourish.

Weaving around the other couples on the floor, the last time he held her like this – guards down, heads up, was the last time he danced with her, five years ago.

‘Are we going to talk about it?’ Kate says, her gaze flickering distractedly between his mouth and his eyes.

‘Yes,’ Anthony answers, knowing it’s not the answer she expected. Her arms interlock around his neck. His hands clasp around her waist. ‘I read your letter. And then I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.’

Kate’s eyes, impossibly dark, narrow. ‘That’s all you have to say?’

‘I didn’t say I was finished.’ he fires back. Kate does not react. But Anthony is the one to back down. He knows it’s his turn.

‘I’m sorry, Kate.’ he says, and she starts, the faint ridge of a frown at her brow. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get it five years ago. And more than anything, I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t…say those things to me.’

Kate rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, her throat bobbing, and then she says,

‘If you’d got my letter – then – what would you have done?’

‘You don’t need me to answer that.’ Anthony mutters, as he reluctantly twirls her out. Kate does not relent. The second he spins her back in, she slams a palm into his chest.

‘Would you have written me back?’

Anthony laughs, though there’s no levity in it.

‘No, Kate, I would not have written you back. I would have come for you. As you damn well know.’

She stops moving. So does he. Her arms slacken around his neck, slipping down to his chest. Kate’s mouth is quivering, but she’s not making a sound. Anthony doesn’t falter.

‘I know now my mistake was waiting. I should have come for you anyway.’

‘You’re just saying that.’ Kate says hoarsely, but he can tell she doesn’t really believe it, as he shakes his head and grabs onto the hand resting over his heart.

‘Kate, there is not a single doubt in my mind about what I want.’ Anthony says, low and resolute. ‘Or…what I feel.’

She opens her mouth, he knows what she’s going to ask and he hopes she’s ready for the answer, but not in front of everyone.

‘Not here, darling.’ he says softly. ‘Come on.’

~

The rooftop rustles with a cool evening breeze. The party downstairs shows no signs of dying any time soon, but there’s nothing left for him down there. Not when Kate’s up here.

It seems almost criminal to cover up that red dress with his suit jacket, but she’s shivering and he’s not a monster.

But Anthony isn’t cold at all.

He can’t be, not up here with Kate. Her dark eyes blazing like constellations. Waiting on him, like he asked her to.

‘Ok, Kate. You want an answer to your letter?’ Anthony says, in far too deep now to care about the barely evident tremor in his voice. ‘Well, here it is.’

He takes a breath.

‘I love you. I’ve loved you in every city I’ve ever tread.’

Kate’s head moves almost imperceptibly. Her entire chest rises with the breath she sucks in. Eyes glazing over.

Anthony steps forward but his gaze, set determinedly on her face, does not fail.

I’ve loved you in Somerset, and in London, I’ve loved you in Cambridge and I’ve loved you in Oxford.  I loved you before I could even conceive of you loving me back.’

‘Anthony…’ she shakes her head. Her whole body is shaking now.

He thinks of those 141 words. Of the fifteen that broke him.

‘Why would I ever ask you to love me less, when it is completely beyond me to love you more?’

Anthony’s never been able to bear it, seeing her cry. But is it really crying, when the tears don’t roll down her face, but instead fill her eyes like stars?

‘I meant it the first time, when I said I didn’t want to be in love. I stopped feeling that way the second it actually happened, with you. And I should have told you back then. I’ll always regret that.’ Anthony takes her hand, pulses his thumb over her knuckles. ‘You have no idea how much I regret that. But I regret leaving more.’

‘Anthony…’ Kate says, and apparently further words fail her. She covers their interlocked fingers with her other hand, closes her mouth and opens it again.

‘I-’

But Anthony isn’t finished. There’s still one deep groove between them. He wants to hear her say it back, of course he does, but not until they’ve moved past this.

‘But Kate, I want to know,’ Anthony interrupts, ‘why you’re not going back to Cambridge. And not excuses this time. No more white lies or half-truths.’

‘You really want to talk about that, now?’ Kate says, incredulously. She pulls her hand back, and it tears at him a little. But he nods anyway, chin holding firm.

‘Why is this so important to you?’ Kate demands, her voice still hopelessly uneven.

‘Because I know what it’s like to know you’re going to regret a decision for the rest of your life, and I don’t want that for you.’ Anthony retorts, straight away. That seems to mollify her for a moment, but then her face hardens.

‘You spoke to Agatha.’

‘I – yes. Briefly. At the auction.’

‘It’s not for the two of you to make this decision for me.’ Kate says roughly. She throws his jacket off her shoulders and makes to hand it back to him, but Anthony doesn’t take it.

‘I don’t want to make it for you. I just want to know you’re making it for the right reasons.’

‘And what would those be?’ Kate says, her words fast and sharp. ‘Tell me, Anthony, what reason will be good enough for you?’

‘The truth.’ he says. Because for him, it’s that simple.

She looks caught, like a frightened deer, and the regret bites into him. 

‘I…’ Kate heaves a tired breath. ‘It’s your brother’s party. Let’s not do this here.’ she motions again for him to take his jacket back.

‘So you’re leaving?’ Anthony says, taking it without really thinking, starting to feel sick with disbelief. ‘Are you serious, Kate?’

‘I just need…I just need you to…’ Kate takes a moment, and he lets her have it. Even if it means he’ll end up with a mangled heart again. She knows where he stands.

‘If this is you trying to get me to walk away-’

‘-I’m not,’ Kate bursts in. ‘Of course I’m not-’

‘Well, good, because I’m not going to.’ Anthony interrupts her. ‘I told you, I made that mistake once. I won’t do that again. Do you have any idea what it did to me the first time?’

Kate regards him mutely. Like she does know.

‘Anthony-’

She falters. The scratch in her voice cuts a chink in his heart.

But then Kate looks him squarely in the eye, and she says,

‘I just need you to wait for me.’

~

Mary is up when Kate gets home. Sitting at the dining room table in her scrubs, killing the hour or so she has before her night shift with a cup of tea and one of Kate’s old books.

‘I didn’t expect you back this early,’ Mary says cautiously, when Kate takes the seat opposite her, kicks off her shoes and reaches for the unfinished tea. ‘I’ll make you your own, if you want?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ Kate says quickly. ‘Just a bit cold.’ her voice turns thin towards the end, and she knows she won’t last long under an inquisition tonight.

‘Is everything all right, Kate?’ Mary takes her glasses off and places them on the table, though somehow she’s now looking at Kate more studiously than before.

‘Yes. I just have to make a decision about something, and…’ she hesitates. They rarely speak about him, and when they do, Kate is sure to keep it all sterile and surface-level, lest the wrong word push Mary over the edge.

Maybe it’s time she stopped that.

 ‘I wish I could talk to Appa.’ Kate blurts out, and whatever she thought might happen, whatever terrible darkness she thought might seep back into the room and suck her mother back into that vacuum again…doesn’t. Mary looks surprised, but not distraught.

‘I feel the same way,’ Mary says slowly. She closes the book, and then, wearily, her eyes. ‘There is not a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could ask him things. Even the silliest, most trivial things. Like what to have for dinner.’

When Mary opens her eyes, they’re glistening.

‘But if you want to…you can talk to me about whatever it is. I never quite had your father’s sense of discernment… but I’ll do my best.’

His discernment? His plainness, Kate knows she means. Candour, if you were being polite about it. Her father always said exactly what he thought.

And really, she knows what he’d say about this.

‘Is it about Anthony?’ Mary’s the tentative one, now, twisting the gold band she still wears around her finger.

‘Yes and no,’ Kate says, and finds she’s not able to elaborate. It doesn’t matter, though, because Mary doesn’t try to force or coax anything more out of her. Instead, she fishes around in her pocket and retrieves a wrinkled piece of paper that she pushes across the table.

‘I found this,’ Mary tells her, ‘when I was putting your flowers in your room. I think it had fallen off your windowsill. A while ago, from the looks of it…’

Kate picks up the ruined photograph. The sun has damaged the ink so badly that you can barely make out the girl in the glittery orange dress, nor the grinning boy with his arms cocooned around her. But she can still remember how that night tasted, sweet and effervescent. It had been the first time she’d actually felt eighteen in ages, and not burdened beyond her years.

‘It was Appa’s,’ she says, by way of explanation. If it comes out wobbly and faint, Mary doesn’t comment on it.

‘Turn it over, Kate.’ is what she says instead.

Kate turns it over.

She hasn’t seen her father’s handwriting in years. Perhaps part of her was afraid she’d already forgotten it, that it had been so long since he was able to breathe life into a word and across a page that she wouldn’t recognise it any more.

But on the other side of the photo, in his small, tidy print, it’s written:

My Kathani and her Anthony, June 2020.

‘He wrote this. How did I never see that he wrote this?’ Kate looks wildly over at Mary, who reaches over and tenderly strokes her cheek.

‘You weren’t looking, I suppose,’ Mary says shrewdly.

‘I never even asked him why he framed it.’ Kate sets the photo down again, afraid to look at Mary, afraid to see disappointment or reproach on her face. ‘He must have thought…’

But her mother just gently lifts Kate’s chin until two pairs of watery eyes meet again.

‘Well, I did.’ Mary smiles at her. ‘Do you want to know why he loved that picture so much?’ at this, she gets up and comes around the table so that she can settle into the seat beside Kate’s, lacing their hands together in her lap.

‘Your father always said you had trouble accepting the love you deserve. And he was right. Do you remember when you were younger, and you and Edwina shared a bedroom? And every night I’d come in to say goodnight to you both? I’d kiss Edwina on the forehead, and you’d pretend to be asleep, because you didn’t think I’d kiss you too?’

‘I didn’t expect you to love me like you love Edwina. I’m not-’

‘Kate,’ Mary does sound angry now, or at least aggrieved, and her grip on Kate’s hand tightens painfully. ‘You are my daughter. I love you as my daughter. It is as simple as that. In my mind, it always has been. There is no world in which anyone could ever deny that.’ she exhales, as though to bring herself back down. ‘But that wasn’t my point. Or rather, that wasn’t your father’s point. Your father loved that picture because he said you were finally allowing someone to love you exactly as you deserve to be loved.’

Kate has to drain the rest of Mary’s tea before she feels as though she can speak again. ‘I didn’t know that he…that Anthony felt that about me back then.’

‘Ah, but Milan did,’ Mary says, with a bittersweet smile. ‘He used to laugh about it sometimes…it sustained him, Kate, for so long, seeing you in those moments where you were truly happy.’

‘Mama…’ Kate shakes her head again, unwilling to cry any longer, but needing some sort of outlet for the unbearable weight of it all. ‘Anthony…he says he loves me.’

‘Oh, Kate, sweetheart,’ Mary pulls her in, burying her face in Kate’s hair, rubbing her hands over and over. ‘How could he not, my darling? How could he not?’

~

Saturday

Her dress is hanging on the wardrobe door, not a crinkle in sight. The fact Kate was able to find that exact shade on such short notice is nothing short of a miracle.

What will he say when he sees it? Will he understand?

Kate looks back at her laptop screen, at the frozen but animated faces, the pictures of the cloistered court and clock tower, the grandiose building she used to know by heart. And then she thinks of her father, the way that he had smiled, awash with pride that cracked through his sickness when she showed him the acceptance letter. She thinks about the photo he’d showed her, of them, outside Trinity, knowing that one day she’d be standing where they once stood. But she and her father never got to stand there together.

And that’s it, what Anthony doesn’t understand, because she never told him. She never told him why she first started dreaming about Cambridge. Why Trinity, specifically, felt almost like a birthright.

Kate clicks her laptop shut and looks back over at the dress. They haven’t discussed tonight’s ball. She knows he’ll be wondering if she’s going, after how they left things last night.

She asked him to wait.

Anthony had set his jaw, hard. Grounded her with that impossible look on his face, making sure she knew he wouldn’t be dissuaded. But he’d still said, ‘Ok.’

And as she turned away, he’d added, ‘…as long as it takes, Kate.’

Kate has no intention of breaking his heart again, especially not now she knows it’s hers to break, but he’d backed her into a corner, asking about Cambridge. Making it clear that this time he won’t settle for half of her. The half she was never willing to bear.

She opens her laptop again.

‘KATE!!!!!’

Jumping a mile in the air, Kate nearly topples off her bed at the sound of her little sister belting out her name at the top of her lungs for the second time in as many days.

Edwina stumbles into her bedroom before Kate’s made any traction, Newton yapping eagerly at their heels.

‘Come with me, now,’ Edwina barks, drawing Kate into her own, larger bedroom.

‘What’s going on?’ Kate asks, as she’s propelled over to Edwina’s desk and propped onto the seat. Her sister’s laptop is open on an unfamiliar website – but frozen in a few thousand pixels on the screen, there’s a very, very, familiar face staring back at her.

‘Oh god, bon, what is this?’ Kate says, even though her heart’s starting to thrash against her ribs. ‘And how did you find-’

‘Just watch.’ Edwina says, giddy with excitement. She bends down to scoop up a protesting Newton, not even complaining when his drool pools on the collar of her jumper.

Feeling entrapped, Kate hits the play button. A fair-haired woman, maybe in her thirties, is holding a microphone in front of a distinctly uncomfortable-looking Anthony. Kate can tell even from the small strip of thatched green lawn in the background that they’re standing outside his family’s country house. He doesn’t look quite as fresh-faced as he did in the school photos, but Kate still picks up the fine differences from the Anthony she’s been spending all week with. His hair’s a little shorter, his skin a little paler.

If Kate had to guess, the clip is from a year or so ago.

‘…Tilley Arnold, and I’m the new manager of the Building Bridges social media team. This is part three of our Meet the Execs web-series and today we thought we’d catch up with our esteemed founder and chairman, one Anthony Bridgerton…’

Anthony bares a curt smile at the camera. It could not be clearer that he has been cajoled or threatened into this – undoubtedly by Daphne. There’s a rather pointed cough in the background, and then,

‘Great to be here,’ Anthony says unconvincingly.

‘You’re quite the difficult man to pin down, Mr Bridgerton. Is that the newly-qualified solicitor life? Burning the candle at both ends, are we?’

‘It can be fairly long hours, yes. And please call me Anthony.’ he says blankly.

Tilley, to her credit, is not put off by his blatant disinterest or discomfort, or at least her shiny smile does not wane. Kate can only assume she’s been well-briefed by Daphne that this interview is likely to be a ‘blood, stone’ affair.

‘Got it! We’ll keep this interview to the, ah, abridged, version! For starters, can you tell us about the Building Bridges logo? A slightly unusual design, is there a story behind it?’

‘Oh, my brother Benedict deserves the credit for that. I have no artistic talent, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, well we have it on good authority-’ Tilley pauses to wink roguishly at the camera ‘-that you came to Benedict with the concept for the logo. Benedict tells us that he simply brought it to life.’

Anthony just shrugs, jaw locking down again. At this, Tilley’s head swivels in panic, but she recovers herself almost instantaneously. Well, clearly modesty runs in the family! Moving on, could you tell us why you decided to start Building Bridges?’

Kate immediately freezes, her entire body going rigid, and so does Anthony on-screen. Her hand twitches, ready to slam down the lid of Edwina’s laptop and run for the hills.

‘Don’t,’ Edwina says from behind her. ‘Kate, just listen.’

Anthony’s jaw clenches and unclenches several times. At this angle, Kate can only see him from the neck up, but she’d bet good money – perhaps in the millions – that he’s wringing out his fists.

But then he speaks, directly to Tilley rather than the camera.

‘It can be incredibly debilitating for a person, particularly where they’re the sole or primary caregiver, looking after a loved one with a terminal or progressive illness, especially cancer, when the decline can be so harrowing to witness. I…I’ve seen it first-hand. And I always wanted to do more…at the time, I just wasn’t sure how.’

He stops, breathing heavily. Kate’s breathing heavily too, but what would you expect, when he’s just cracked her chest wide open? Tilley looks like she’s about to plunge into a follow-up question, and apparently that’s enough to spur Anthony on.

‘And the more I looked into it, I found there was a real, practical need for the work we do. I think it’s easy to gloss over, or never fully appreciate, the extent of the emotional and physical toll it can take on a young person when they’re caring for a friend or relative with cancer, and simultaneously dealing with complex feelings of grief and sometimes, guilt. There’s no rulebook or one-fits-all solution to addressing young carers’ needs. The support needed, and the support we deliver, has to be considered, and bespoke. That’s why we work with a spectrum of other charitable foundations and organisations who provide complementary support to ours. Our goal – or the most fundamental of them –  is that a young carer should never feel like they have nowhere to turn. It can sound a little nonsensical, but it can be incredibly hard to allow yourself to lean on other people already in your life, even if they want you to. That’s why I…that’s why we do what we do. In short.’

‘It sounds as though this is personal to you.’ Tilley says, and although the crease in her smile is kind, Kate still wants to slap her through the screen. Can’t you see he doesn’t want to talk about it? Can’t you see it’s hurting him? His cheeks ruddy, his shoulders tight?

Anthony swallows. ‘Deeply.’

Tilley says something else but Kate doesn’t hear it, her head’s gone silent like she’s trapped underwater. Apparently neither does Anthony, because he stares back at her motionlessly, takes a few seconds to refocus and frowns,

‘…I’m sorry, what was the question?’

‘I don’t want to watch this anymore, bon,’ Kate says, her voice strangled with the effort of holding back tears.

‘No – I promise, just wait-’ Edwina releases Newton onto her bed so she can place a comforting hand on Kate’s shoulder. ‘Watch to the end.’

‘Actually, we’re low on time, so I’ll round off with more of a get-to-know-you question. I see you’re sporting a University of Cambridge jumper. Are you an alumnus?’

The camera zooms out and pans down, so Anthony’s full figure is revealed.

Her first thought is, it suits him.

Her second is, why?

It’s strange to think Kate was running it through her fingers just a day ago, washed-out and tired, and here it is again.

Her jumper. His jumper.

She’s never seen him wearing it before.

‘Uh…no…’ Anthony says, still sounding distracted, but then he looks down at the grey sweatshirt, not quite new but not quite as well-loved as it looks now, and for the first time, he looks straight into the camera. Right into Kate’s eyes, like he can see the tears freely rolling down her cheeks.

‘…just a long-time supporter.’

Kate really does snap the lid shut this time, cutting him off, but apparently she’s seen what it is Edwina wanted her to see, because her sister smooths down Kate’s hair with comforting strokes.

‘I just wanted to show you…’ Edwina says. ‘It’s the kind of thing Appa would have done. Walked around wearing Cambridge stash just to brag about you.’

She’s right. He would have, had he been well enough to wear anything but a hospital gown by the time Kate was there.

When her father died, she’d convinced herself that dropping out was just the natural order of things. He died, so his dream died with it. So if she never went back, nobody could be disappointed.

But it wasn’t just about her father. He had stoked the dream, but Kate had made it her own. Anthony’s wearing the proof of that.

‘What’s their logo?’ Edwina wants to know, when Kate’s eyes are dry again, when her throat is no longer collapsing in on itself.

Kate clicks onto the homepage and there it is. Building Bridges, in simple purple calligraphy. Nothing particularly inspired or noteworthy about it.

‘Is that it?’ Edwina says sniffily. ‘That interviewer was acting like it should be hanging in the national gallery or something!’

Only once again, Kate finds she can’t speak.

It’s just two words, formed by one singular strand of soft lilac. But the texture almost looks like satin. And the ends of the words are forked.

Like a ribbon.

~

Anthony’s phone

[(3) missed calls from: Kate Sharma, 6:22pm]

~

The first one misses the glass completely, springing off the brick and back at her feet.

The second makes it onto the windowsill and sits there quietly, taunting her.

But the noise must have roused him, because the third one barely grazes the glass when his face appears through it, pallid and drawn. Until he sees her, standing on the gravel, clutching a fistful of stones, lit up from behind as the sun melts into the sticky orange horizon.

For one awful second, Kate thinks he’s going to wrestle his curtains shut, and that will be it. But of course, he doesn’t. He rolls up the window, one eyebrow cocked, but Anthony can’t hide the warmth in his eyes, kindled just for her.

‘The front door didn’t have enough dramatic flair for you?’ his voice floats down, soft and cracked.

‘I want to speak to you, not one of your eight other family members. And I called you, but you didn’t answer.’ Kate says.

‘They’ve already left. And my phone’s dead. But you could have left me a voicemail,’ Anthony says, and though his voice breaks at the end she sees the ghost of the smile he’s trying to hold back.

‘Very funny,’ Kate says, folding her arms. ‘Are you going to come down, because I can’t climb up there wearing this.’ she gestures to the swathes of sparkling lilac trailing across the stones.

His face disappears from the window and he must have run down all three flights of stairs, because no sooner has Kate adjusted the back of her hair for the tenth time that evening, he’s barrelling out of the door and coming towards her. But now he’s moving perilously slowly. Like he either wants to savour the moment, or he’s afraid she might spook if he makes any sudden gestures.

‘Kate,’ he says breathily, taking her in with the full radiance of the dying sunset behind her. ‘How is it that every time I see you, you look more…’

‘You should see the back,’ Kate says. There it is, the little wrinkle of confusion between his brows. She wants to badly to capture this moment so she can remember it forever, but Anthony’s waiting, so the present will just have to do.

Kate smiles to herself and spins around, tilting her hair back. For a second there’s silence and then, there’s the hitch in his breath, the quiet creak of him stepping closer to her, and she knows that he’s seen it.

When Kate turns around, he stops, his hand reaching out halfway to the back of her head. To the little purple ribbon threading her curls back.

‘You stole it.’ Anthony says, eventually. Face soft with quiet awe. With longing. With hope.

‘I stole it back,’ Kate corrects him.

‘So, what?’ Anthony questions her as he looms even closer, barely a hair between them now. ‘You came to berate me for stealing the ribbon you left in my car five years ago?’

‘No,’ Kate says patiently. ‘I came to give you this.’

Out of her clutch she takes the envelope. Kate offers it to him, but Anthony makes no effort to take it.

‘Another letter,’ he says dryly. ‘And hand delivered this time. You’re spoiling me.’

‘Just read it.’ Kate insists. Anthony stares at her inscrutably for a second more, and then he seems to lose whatever battle he’s fighting and reaches for the envelope. As he rips it open and his eyes run over the slip inside, Kate just watches him.

‘It’s blank,’ Anthony says, eyes flickering back up to Kate’s. He looks peeved.

And so it is.

‘I need your help to write this one.’ Kate shrugs.

‘Kate, what are you talking about?’ he nearly growls. She knows she’s testing the limits now, that he’s going to need to be tranquilised at this rate, but she plunders on nevertheless.

‘Well, you helped me get in the first time.’

It’s beautiful, when the realisation dawns on him. It’s his jaw dimpling in happy disbelief, not his forehead.

‘You’re reapplying?’

‘I already asked Agatha for a reference.’ Kate says.

But Anthony shakes his head, and his warm hand cupping her face, writing a loving rhythm across her cheek.

‘Kate, for the record, I loved you five years ago, and I love you now, just the same. Exactly as you are. Whether you go to Cambridge or not. Nothing would change that for me. If I haven’t made that clear already then let’s be clear that I’m doing it now.’

‘I know,’ Kate says, and she blows out a haggard breath, because if anything could have convinced her that this is right, that he should hear it, it’s that.

‘My father went to Cambridge.’ she says.

Anthony’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t jump in with a thousand questions. He just listens, his thumb still stroking her face.

‘He came as an international student, and he studied there. History, at King’s.’ Kate continues. ‘He met my amma there.’

‘Your mother went to Cambridge too?’ Anthony asks her, his voice as feather-light as his touch.

How could she ever have tossed and turned at night, watching him mellow in sleep, thinking this would be too much for him? When his whole body has softened against hers, when his expression is so fiercely reverent?

‘Yes. She was an international student too…’ Kate trails off. ‘At Trinity College.’

Anthony’s throat tightens in understanding. ‘Your alma mater.’

Kate swallows.  ‘I always knew if I went, I’d have to graduate without her there. I was so young when she died, but I felt like I knew her through the stories my father would tell me about them at Cambridge.’

Anthony smiles softly into the golden light.

‘But then my father died…and in some ways, dropping out came as a relief…I just….I didn’t want to look up at graduation and stare into a faceless crowd.’

‘But,’ she says, grasping his hand now. ‘It was my dream just as much as it was his. He’d want me to do it just because I want to do it.’

‘He was a good father.’ Anthony says, and the way his voice turns gruff, she knows he’s thinking of Edmund too.

‘The best.’ Kate says, her voice breaking.

‘But Kate, you won’t be staring into a faceless crowd,’ Anthony says fiercely. ‘I told you, I-’

‘No, stop,’ Kate says, and he looks so stricken that she rushes to finish. ‘It’s my turn now. You’ve told me. You’ve been telling me for years…in your own way. I just didn’t see it.’

‘But in your letter-’

‘Forget the stupid letter. I don’t care about the letter. I don’t even care about the last five years. I care about now. You and me, right now.’

‘Ok,’ Anthony says after a beat. With finality, he repeats, ‘ok.’

‘I love you,’ says Kate, and his face cracks, lights up with this smile, five years’ worth of love shining through it, reflecting back everything she’s putting into the words.  ‘I can’t even say I still love you. I meant it when I wrote it in that letter. But I love you now, completely and wholly like I was afraid to back then.’ she laughs reminiscently, as she echoes, ‘how could I not?’

Standing there in the aftermath, there’s Kate’s eighteen year old self, desperately wondering, is it ok, that she said all that? When this thing is so fucking delicate? Or will he regard her with nothing but a blank stare, and tell her that’s the worst thing he’s ever heard?

He does not.

Anthony’s devilish grin lasts all of three or four seconds before he surges forward and slams into her with a thud, one hand claiming her silk-wrapped waist as he kisses her. Kate loses all sense of gravity and herself into the kiss, fingers entwined roughly in his hair, pulling him closer. Anthony’s wrapped around her so tightly that Kate can feel his skin burning through his shirt, and yet it’s still not enough.

Anthony breaks the kiss first, looking rapaciously into her eyes, and then he dives for her neck, Kate shuddering at the sensation of his greedy inhale. And then his mouth is fastening itself over and over down her throat, teasing his way to her breasts.

‘Anthony,’ she says, with palpable reluctance, squirming as he only nips more insistently at her skin. He does not seem the slightest bit interested in unlatching his mouth from her neck. ‘Go and put a suit on.’

~

‘Fair warning, this is going to be quite unbearable,’ Anthony whispers in her ear as they approach the doors to the school hall-cum-ballroom.

‘Because of your meddlesome siblings, or our gawking classmates?’ Kate asks, and it’s a serious question. But truth be told, her concerns about the spectacle they’re going to make walking into a crowded ballroom hand-in-hand are fleeting at best. She’s still thinking about half an hour ago when Anthony emerged from his bedroom in his perfectly pressed tux, still rose-flushed from kissing her, somehow not a hair out of place.

Kate already has plans to correct that later.

‘The former.’ Anthony mutters, fiddling with his bowtie. Looking at him, you’d never know he was grumbling, not the way his face seems lighter and younger than it has all week.

‘We don’t have to tell them right away.’ Kate says half-heartedly. There’s no part of her that wants to bury them away again. But for tonight, she’d do it, if he asked her to.

‘Absolutely not.’ Anthony says at once. ‘I just want you to be prepared for how insufferable they’re going to be, and by they, I mean Daphne.’

‘I’m ready,’ Kate says, and she swings the grand, double doors open to reveal the glistering ballroom. The décor makes the first night in this room look shockingly lacklustre.

The chandeliers drip with diamond-encrusted light and with the abundance of candles it’s a wonder Kate can see anything at all.

Benedict and Sophie are dancing, her head resting in the crook of his neck, his hand nestled in her dark hair. As if on cue, Ben looks over and when he sees Anthony standing next to Kate, her arm linked in his, he beams brightly. If he was willing to let go of Sophie Kate has no doubt he’d be lifting his arms up and cheering.

Kate turns her head to see Anthony unashamedly grinning back.

‘I’ll explain later,’ he says. ‘Want a drink?’

Kate nods and he dispatches himself to get her a glass of cab. She doesn’t have time to feel adrift without his arm to hang onto, because she spots Daphne and Simon lingering by the far wall, both of them watching Anthony’s retreating back.

‘You and Bridge, then?’ Simon says as Kate approaches, cutting straight to the point as usual.

Kate’s smile stretches across her entire face.

‘I knew it,’ Daphne says triumphantly. ‘As soon as he whipped out his chequebook to pay for that yacht, I knew it was just a matter of time.’

‘No thanks to any of you,’ Simon snorts, though he just laughs affectionately at Daphne when she glowers at him. ‘Come on Daff, Ben and Colin just got everyone drunk and all your scheming just had Anthony on the rampage about bloody Thomas Dorset. You know I’ve heard that damn name more times this week than in the entire time we were actually at school together?’

‘Ben and Colin were useless, I’ll give you that, but this entire week was only made possible because of me.’ Daphne says, huffing.

The wheels were in motion much earlier than that, Kate thinks, fingering the ribbon dangling down her back, but she lets Daphne enjoy her win and Simon’s gentle ribbing. Anthony will undoubtedly set his sister straight the second her gloating crosses the line between sweet and intolerable.

He reappears at that moment, handing Kate her red and casting a suspicious look at Simon, whose expression can only be described as sly.

‘You ducked off early last night.’ Simon drawls, with a snakelike glint in his eyes.

‘I didn’t realise you were keeping tabs on my whereabouts,’ Anthony says, immediately piqued. ‘Rest assured, it’s neither welcomed, nor is it necessary.’

‘No need to be so shirty,’ Simon smirks. ‘I’m happy for you, Bridgerton. For both of you.’

Anthony looks at Kate for confirmation, and she nods, as if to say, he knows. That’s enough for him, apparently, because he relaxes, winding his fingers through Kate’s.

‘You…’ Simon considers Anthony for a second, something reserved in his smile. ‘You deserve each other.’

Kate observes as the two friends nod at each other, just scarcely noticeable.

‘Well,’ Simon claps his hands together. ‘Fireworks, eh?’

‘Shall we find the others?’ Daphne suggests, which dims Kate’s hopes a little, because as much as she’s elated to be embraced back into the fold like this, tonight feels like it should be shared with Anthony, and Anthony alone.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll ditch them as soon as we get outside,’ Anthony says to Kate in an undertone, and true to his word, he manages to find a solitary spot, albeit overrun with wildflowers, where they can watch the sky be ruptured and lit up in a hundred different colours.

And when Anthony bares his teeth in a fiendish grin, dips his head, and kisses Kate beneath a star-spangled sky like it’s the very first time, it doesn’t feel like high school any more.

It feels like the rest of her life.

~

Morning. Their place.

When Kate wakes up, the back of her throat is thick with the smell of burnt toast. She smiles into her pillow, kicking her legs onto his side of the bed. It’s only recently vacated because she savours the feeling of his warm indentation in the sheets.

Kate slinks out of bed, flings open the giant wardrobe that Anthony insisted was necessary, what with them both spending half their week here. She doesn’t pretend to consider her options, just yanks down the faded grey jumper from his side. She knows he’ll object, but Kate pulls it over her sleep camisole anyway. At the least, it’ll give him an excuse to tear it off.

Kate knows he hears her pad into the kitchen, because all of the tension rushes out of his shoulders as he wrangles with the smoking contraption on the counter. Apparently he managed to find the white t-shirt she’d torn over his head and flung into some corner of their room last night, the second he got in from London, and it sits half-tucked into his jeans.

Whenever she feels like time’s moving too fast, not uncommon these days, it only takes seeing Anthony in their kitchen, attempting to make her breakfast on some unassuming Monday just because he can to remind herself that there’s an endless stretch of days just like this one ahead.

‘We need a new toaster,’ Anthony says gruffly, his back still to her.

‘I like that one.’ she doesn’t, but she knows her contrarian shit will rile him up, and that’s exactly what she’s counting on. Kate picks up the latte waiting for her, dips her nose into the froth.

Anthony turns around, mouth poised and ready to argue, but when he takes her in, sitting at their island, untamed curls, long legs crossed and dangling freely, his eyes flash.

‘That’s my jumper, Kate.’ he says, each muscle in his jaw straining.

‘I thought I’d wear it to my lectures today,’ Kate says, as she hops off her stool. He’s lost in watching her bare legs flicker across the room, and she manages to edge past him to grab a piece of blackened toast off the counter. As she bites into it, Anthony’s arms snake around her midriff, his face pressed intimately into her neck.

‘I’ll buy you a thousand jumpers, darling, but you’re not having that one,’ he snarks, scraping his teeth against her skin. Kate tries not to shiver under his teasing, the damp pressure of his tongue, but she can’t control her body’s natural response to him at the best of times.

‘This doesn’t belong to you, Kate,’ Anthony hisses, fingers curling under the hem and crawling up her ribs. He curses almost inaudibly when he realises there’s she’s only wearing a flimsy camisole underneath, her breasts unrestrained. ‘I think we should take it off, don’t you?’

‘Anthony,’ Kate whines, no longer caring about who gets to wear the bloody jumper. In fact, she’d much rather it was slung over the back of the sofa rather than getting in the way of her hot, sensitive skin and his rough fingers. At the sound of Kate murmuring his name, needy and wanting, Anthony swears again and his hands ride further up the jumper, pinching her nipples in turn through the camisole. Kate whimpers as he kneads and caresses the hard buds, occasionally grinding out a strangled ‘Kate,’ as she struggles against him.

Growing frustrated, Kate yanks one of his hands from under her top and under her shorts, guiding his fingers to her soaked, aching clit and shutting him up immediately. Anthony doesn’t waste any time though, an inhuman sound ripped from his throat when he slides two fingers in at once and finds them instantly coated in her slick.

‘Fuck, Anthony,’ Kate says, through restless breaths, as he starts to frantically work her sex, leaning heavily into his back. ‘I’ll have to walk into my lecture late and everyone will know why.’

Intent on inflicting some of the torture back on him, she grinds her arse against his rapidly swelling erection as his fingers writhe and coil around her clit.

‘I think you like that idea,’ Anthony bites at her, teeth gritted.  ‘I certainly do. I want everyone to know you spent the morning getting fucked by me.’

Anthony increases his pressure against her swollen, slippery folds, encouraging her to ride his fingers, laving as much of Kate’s throat as he can reach with his tongue as she tips it back, bringing her perilously close to the edge.

Her stomach pressed into the counter, Anthony’s rock-hard cock rubbing deliciously against her, Kate is flushed and overstimulated, unable to say anything coherent except his name over and over, in that same desperate keen.

‘I know, darling,’ Anthony says, voice coarse. ‘I’ll take care of you.’

And he will, like he always does, pushing a thigh in-between her legs to spread them further apart as his thumb rolls over her pulsing centre, and all it takes is that and Anthony sucking on that sweet spot at her nape, telling her to let go, he’s got her,  before Kate comes hard, stretched out on his fingers, slurring his name once more. She doesn’t have to turn around to know he’ll be unbearably pleased with himself. That just won’t do, not when he’s painfully hard and throbbing, breathing hard to hold back his own release.

‘Anthony, counter,’ Kate orders. ‘Now.’

With a slight groan, Anthony obeys, spreading her gently down over the counter, her palms fanned out on the marble, dragging the waistband of her shorts down with one hand and steadying her hips with the other. Despite all his posturing, he makes no attempt to take off her jumper.

Anthony makes quick work of his jeans and boxers and then he’s positioning himself at her entrance, dragging his cock deliberately against her cunt, squeezing his base once or twice with stuttered

‘Ant – oh-’

He cuts off her impatient hiss, Kate making a wounded noise as he finally slams into her with an unforgiving thrust. Both of them sigh in relief at the feel of him brutally opening her up.

‘So – fucking tight,’ Anthony moans, as he drives into her again and again, finding a messy, frenzied rhythm that won’t allow either of them to last much longer. He abruptly peels Kate up off the counter so his fingers can find her clit again, pumping his fingers in tandem with every thrust of his cock.

‘Feel that?’ he whispers. ‘How I fill you up? We’re a perfect fit, you and I.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Kate breathes, going slack against him. She casts an arm backwards to snatch at his hair, ‘just you. Only you.’

‘Oh god, Kate,’ he says, the scratch in his voice a telltale sign that he’s precariously close. He grazes her clit with his knuckles as he pounds furiously into her, his cock splitting her apart, and then she’s gone again, freefalling into an orgasm so intense that her heart snaps against her chest.  Anthony fucks her through each aftershock, her name spilling from his mouth in waves until she clenches around him and he comes apart inside her with spectacular force, warm come flooding her core and already seeping down her legs.

When they’ve recovered enough to be capable of speech, and Anthony hauls her around to face him, Kate kisses him with bruising intensity. ‘Still want me to take this off?’ she says, innocently.

‘I changed my mind,’ Anthony says, eyes gleaming, his thumb brushing her curls behind her ear. ‘Go ahead and wear my jumper. Just for today.’

~

They divide their time equally between their respective places in London and the flat Anthony leases in Cambridge. Technically, Kate lives in student accommodation. Practically, she spends every night in the place that’s only ever felt like theirs. Anthony hadn’t said a word as more and more of her belongings migrated into his flat, until eventually he just told her, casually one night as she was half-asleep in his lap, by the way, I told the landlord I want to put you on the lease.

He shuttles them both into London. Anthony aligns his in-office days with Kate’s as much as he can, all the while conscious that she’s studying at one of the most academically rigorous institutions in the world at the same time as putting in her two days a week at her own law firm. Kate doesn’t complain, because she’s Kate, but she does let Anthony walk a very displeased Newton or make dinner every night for a week when she’s too busy marking up warranty schedules or revising for yet another constitutional law exam.

Anthony buys her a new bike for her birthday, even though they both prefer it when they’re in his car, either driving to Mary’s for Sunday lunch or back to London where they inevitably won’t make it to whatever restaurant he’s booked. Kate in his passenger seat, brown eyes molten with sunlight, his hand atop her thigh. Taking turns to swig from the glass coke bottle, lukewarm from sitting in the heat. Kate singing softly to whatever’s playing, hiccupping through the chorus, an after-effect of the bubbles.

In the middle of Kate’s final year at Cambridge, they pack up the car with an inordinate amount of carefully wrapped presents and start the long drive to Somerset.

‘I still can’t believe Daphne’s having a baby. And the first one, too.’ Kate muses, as she makes sure Newton’s comfortable in his carrier in the backseat.

‘You’re telling me,’ Anthony says. ‘I can remember when Daff was waking me up at midnight to teach her how the gas cooker worked so she could have hot milk.’

‘Like you knew how to work the cooker,’ Kate teases, her smile fading when Anthony avoids her eyes, shifting a little in his seat. ‘Wait, are you serious? Neither of you knew how to turn on an oven?’

‘We had a chef!’ Anthony gripes, squeezing her leg in protest at her laughter. ‘I know now…obviously.’

Kate’s giggles subside as she turns to look out of the window. They stop at a red light, and Anthony’s grip on her thigh tightens again.

‘Kate, look up,’ he says, nudging her shoulder until she twists around to face him. ‘I love you.’

Just ahead, the traffic lights flare, red, amber, green.

~

Kate’s phone

Will (from the bar): hey. sorry it’s been a minute. Had a good time on our date

Will (from the bar): you up?

[Delivered 2:45am]

~

Kate Sharma graduates from Cambridge on a blustery June afternoon. The congregation ceremony, despite in itself only lasting a few hours, is in actuality an all-day affair.

Which is in many ways a blessing, because Kate’s thoughts inevitably stray to the two people who won’t be there.

She keeps the sadness at bay, the whole time her gown is being fitted, pinned neatly to the mandated white blouse. She joins in with the excited chatter of her fellow graduands, because she is excited, three years of working harder than she’s ever worked in her life, and today she gets to enter Senate House and be recognised for it, just as her mother and her father did before her.

The second she steps into her row, she cranes her neck as the procession trail in and the proctor starts reeling off hallowed words in Latin, searching the guest rows for a glimpse of her family.

Kate knows Anthony got up at the crack of dawn to secure a front-row seat. She only caught a glimpse of him looking patently gorgeous in his suit and tie, when he kissed her goodbye.  Kate had still been in bed, not wanting to see him leave and face the rest of the morning on her own. She can still feel his freshly shaven cheek ghosting hers, traces of mint and soap still hovering about her lip.

It doesn’t take long to pick his face out of the huddle of excited loved ones, most of whom are middle-aged, heads strewn with grey, wedding bands glinting on drumming fingers.  If Kate tries, she could imagine her appa amongst them, before he was riddled with sickness, when he was young and prime and well enough to stand up and cheer for her as she crosses the stage and accepts her degree.

She doesn’t. Instead, she finds Anthony.  There he is, already locked onto her, smiling with every line on his face.  An empty seat next to him, and then there’s Mary, already in tears, being offered a handkerchief by an unimpressed Edwina, though Kate’s sister looks similarly glassy-eyed.

The arcane room is hot and stuffy, Kate’s wishing she drank more water, but then she’s being led up by the praelector to be presented to the vice-chancellor. As she walks by Anthony, she nearly trips on her own two feet.

The seat next to Anthony is not quite empty. Draped over the back of the chair is a small banner, stamped with the Trinity and King’s college crests. And in bright gold lettering, it says:

In loving memory

Milan Sharma, Amala Sharma

Beloved parents of Kathani Sharma (Law, BA – First Class Honours)

And placed just underneath it is the photograph of her parents standing outside Trinity, just the same one her father used to pull out and show her. The one she’d kept safe and buried in a box of all her father’s things, that is, until she moved in with Anthony. Since then, it’s been sitting in a gilded frame on their bookcase, right next to the one of Edmund, his oldest son hoisted on his shoulders, both of them laughing raucously.

Kate manages to drag her eyes away from the photo, but it’s no use, her eyes are so clouded with tears she can barely see Anthony, doesn’t know if he can see her blinking, God, I love you at him.

There’s a tiny little cough from in front of her, and Kate quickly bends her knee to the chancellor, but she can’t help turning back to that photograph one more time.

And so when the camera flashes and captures the very moment her degree is conferred, Kate’s looking into the smiling faces of her parents.

~

Five hours after Kate Sharma graduates from Cambridge, on a blustery June evening, Anthony Bridgerton gets down on one knee and asks her to marry him.

‘I thought we were going for dinner,’ Kate says with a frown, as they stroll down the quiet Cambridge streets and she realises they’re not, in fact, heading in the direction of Restaurant Twenty Two. ‘If we’re going for a walk first we could have brought Newton.’

‘Kate, he’s the size and shape of a jam roly-poly. He can barely walk across the flat.’ Anthony says, laughing when she swats him on the chest. Out of principle, really, because he’s not wrong.

‘Come on, graduate,’ Anthony says, sweeping her under his arm when she stumbles a little on the cobblestones in her heels. ‘Don’t you want to say one last goodbye to Trinity?’

Kate’s suspicious now, but she lets him trail them all the way to her soon to be ex-college, gloriously lit up from the inside, her little beacon in the city.

Kate sees the same bittersweet emotion on Anthony’s face as she’s sure is traced heavily on hers. This is, after all, the same place they broke each other’s hearts. If she squints, she can probably point to the very room it all came crashing down.

But the last three years have written over that day.  The good memories far outweigh the bad.

Kate looks over at Nevile’s Court, smiling as the nostalgia creeps in. ‘Do you remember the time that-’

She breaks off at the sound of Anthony clearing his throat behind her. Expecting him to pre-empt what she’s about to say, tell her she’s remembering it wrong, he never got drunk and –

But Anthony’s sunk down on one knee. And he’s grasped her hand in his before she’s even vaguely cottoned on to what he’s doing. What he’s about to say. To ask.

‘Kate, you rode into my life on your crappy little bike,’ he says, as he always does when someone asks how they met. Eyes shining wondrously up at her. ‘Accused me of attempting to murder you, humbled me without even trying, and incontrovertibly changed my life, and me, forever.’

Her eyebrows scrunched, her eyes flying across his face, Kate just digs her nails into his hand. Not trying to hurt him. Trying to ground herself.

‘You burrowed into my heart and you’ve been there ever since.’ Anthony says, tilting his head, his eyes, so dark and steadfast, never once leaving hers.

I’m not marrying you.

‘And that’s why I want to marry you.’ Anthony says. He pauses with a poor attempt at bashfulness. If there’s one thing Anthony has never been, will never be, with Kate, it’s shy. ‘If you’ll have me.’

Good, I wasn’t asking.

‘Of course I’ll marry you,’ Kate half-laughs, half-cries, fully throws her arms around him so that their noses hash before she can actually find his mouth, kissing him hard and greedily. Somehow, he manages to get the ring out of his pocket and onto her finger.

Somehow, they manage to make it back to their flat, the both of them stumbling and laughing, giddy with the new, cool weight of the ring between their fingers. Unsurprisingly, they do not make it to dinner.

~

When he finally stirs, Anthony’s not sure how many hours later it is. The sheets are knotted at his waist, his bare torso exposed to the balmy evening air. Kate is slumped over it, the diamonds on her left hand scratching his naked skin every time she shifts. His fingers itch to run through the mass of dishevelled curls tickling his stomach, but he doesn’t want to disturb Kate.

And truthfully, Anthony’s too exhausted to move, physically and emotionally. He’s pretty sure Kate’s finally succumbed to sleep after they wore each other out, several times. But then her voice rumbles against his midriff.

‘You had to upstage me, didn’t you,’ Kate says, with that crackle of amusement in her voice that tells Anthony she’s intent on needling him.

He just says, with utter sincerity, ‘I waited eight years for you to get on that stage and show everyone how brilliant you are. I decided I didn’t want to wait another eight to show everyone you’re mine.’

Obviously touched, Kate lifts her head up and crawls slowly up his body so that she can kiss him. His groin tightens with interest, but he’s content just to let her play with their threaded fingers, both of them grinning foolishly at the flash of gold on hers.

‘Anthony, this ring-’ Kate murmurs.

‘I’m not telling you how much it cost, so don’t ask.’

‘-it matches my amma’s necklace. The one from their wedding photo.’

‘So it does.’ Anthony says, watching Kate carefully as she rolls over so that she’s lying completely atop of him, elbows planted either side of his ribs. This new position does little to calm his quickly hardening cock, but for now they both ignore it.

‘Mary helped you?’

He nods, leaning forward to peck her again. ‘Do you like it?’

‘I had to sell nearly all of her jewellery after my dad passed.’ Kate says, in an unconvincingly steady tone. ‘Including her wedding jewellery.’

‘I know,’ Anthony places a hand on each of her startlingly flushed cheeks. With her messy halo of curls, her swollen lips and caramel doe-eyes, she looks like an angel. ‘I couldn’t track down any of the pieces, so I thought I’d have something new made…so you can always carry a little piece of her.’

Kate doesn’t reply at first, just staring up at him with her pupils blown impossibly wide, face shaking against his strong hands.

‘Please stop making me love you more,’ Kate blurts, when she trusts herself not to choke on the words. Anthony’s grinning against her mouth, making it near impossible to kiss him properly. ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’

She starts to rock against his thigh, Anthony immediately dissolving into a hot, writhing mess, plundering her neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

Anthony’s mind is devoid of anything but the intense pleasure of Kate grinding against his erection as he sucks bruises into every inch of her skin he can reach, only for his brain to fantastically short-circuits when Kate says, ‘what do you think about getting married on our yacht?’

Anthony splutters against her chest, eyes bulging when he realises she’s not joking. ‘Kate, you’re not serious?’

‘Well, it’s not like it’s getting much use.’ Kate points out. ‘A boat wedding could be fun…’

Anthony thinks about his extended family, including Daphne’s six-month old son, Augie, all cloistered on an – admittedly gargantuan – boat in the middle of the ocean, with another hundred or so guests (once his mother and Daphne have got involved) and tries extremely hard not to pass out.

‘No.’ he says resolutely.

‘What about just the reception?’

‘Kate, think about what you’re suggesting,’ Anthony says desperately. ‘My siblings don’t know how to behave properly on dry land. Someone will end up being thrown overboard, and I can’t promise it won’t be Colin. And neither of us are qualified in maritime law.’

Kate laughs, which pleases him, but then she snakes a hand down to his impossibly hard dick, working the underside in easy, tortuous strokes. ‘Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ve never even taken it out properly.’

‘Fine,’ Anthony hisses, only because he’s quite certain he’ll die if she stops touching him like that. ‘But we’re staying anchored. Not venturing out to sea.’

Kate looks extremely satisfied with this suggestion, returning her attentions to making him lose control as quickly as she can, when her phone bleeps and they both curse.

‘My sibling or yours?’ she says to Anthony, who heaves an enormous sigh and throws his head back down on the pillow, staring moodily at the ceiling.

‘Mine,’ he says. ‘That’s just mathematics, there’s more of them. I knew we should have waited to tell anyone.’

‘It was only Soph and Ben.’ Kate tuts at him, unplugging her phone to read the text.

Tom: hey, heard the good news. Big congrats to you and AB. Can’t wait for the wedding!

Kate hears Anthony roll onto his side and knows he’s reading it over her shoulder. She has to bite her lip to keep from breaking into laughter when his whole body stiffens behind her and he lets out an angry puff of breath.

‘Give me that, I’m texting him back.’ Anthony says, snatching the phone out of her hand.

‘No, you’re not,’ Kate tries, though not very hard, to prise it back out of his grip, but he easily waves it out of her reach. ‘Anthony, what are you typing?’

‘I’m telling Tom wanker Dorset that he’s not getting an invite to the bloody wedding, and to stop texting my fiancée, the tosser.’ Anthony says calmly. And then much less calmly, ‘How did he even find out so quickly?’

‘I think Daff’s posted something on Instragram,’ Kate tells him, yanking his arm down to try and read the screen.

‘Hmmph. There,’ Anthony says, tossing the phone back at her and resting back against the headboard, looking maddeningly self-satisfied.

‘Oh my god, you actually sent that to him!’ Kate rails at him. ‘He’s going to think I said it!’

‘Good,’ Anthony shrugs, without a hint of remorse. ‘Maybe now he’ll finally move on.’

‘You’re awful,’ Kate accuses him, but she doesn’t complain when he rolls them both over, pinning her underneath his full weight.

‘And you’re mine,’ he nuzzles into her neck as he skims a hand lazily up and down the leg that she’s wrapping around his hips, and then she’s reaching down and taking him in hand, and neither of them talk much more for a while.

~

The next morning, however, Anthony wakes up with one, singular purpose on his mind. It’s early enough that the gold-soaked sunrise is only just peeking through their blinds, illuminating Kate’s sleeping face so that she looks even more irresistible than usual. When the light hits her ring and sends blinding sunrays around the room, Anthony takes it as a sign.

He’d never normally wake Kate up so early on purpose, preferring that she catch up on sleep, but this morning, Anthony can’t help himself.

‘I want to rename our yacht,’ he says, when Kate finally responds to his soft attentions at her neck, snapping one eye open, and then the other.

Kate rubs her face, clearly trying to make sense of where this has come from. ‘What are you talking about? You hate our yacht. You never acknowledge its existence. I’m half expecting you to change your mind about having our reception on it.’

‘I don’t hate it,’ Anthony says defensively. He does, in fact, hate it. ‘But if we’re getting married on it, then I think we should name it something meaningful.’

‘Rename it to what?’ Kate wriggles in the bedsheets so that she’s flipped on her side and facing him properly.

‘I thought we could name it after your father, actually.’ Anthony says, cautiously awaiting her reaction.

Eyes crinkling, Kate soothes the back of her hand against his jaw. ‘We don’t have to do that.’

‘I want to,’ Anthony says, capturing her roving hand and bringing it to his lips. ‘Because if we get married on our yacht, that way, your father gets to be there.’

He wipes the tears gathering at the corner of her eye before they have the chance to fall.

‘What about your father?’ says Kate, skating her fingers over his heart. ‘We could name it after them both?’

‘He’d roll in his grave,’ Anthony snorts. ‘He hated sailing.’ Like me.

‘Well, okay.’ Kate says, after a moment. ‘In fact, I think you’re right.’

Anthony just raises an eyebrow at her. ‘Did I hear that correctly?’

‘Yes,’ Kate says, hoisting herself onto her front so that she can look him directly in the eye. ‘I’m sure we’ll find something else to name after Edmund.’

~

They don’t, in fact, get married on their yacht.

But almost a year to the day after their engagement, they do have a rip-roaring, lavish reception party to last the ages on it.

At Anthony’s insistence, the yacht is not taking off across the British Channel, or really anywhere at all.  When certain members of his family had complained about this, Anthony had floated a malignant and untrue rumour that Newton had eaten his passport.

For now, he’s already forced three crew members to ‘double check’ the anchor is secured, or whatever the right term is in boat-speak.

And then he decides, it’s his wedding day, if anyone actually does fall overboard, it’s officially not his problem and he has to admit, having actually stepped on the bloody thing for only the third or fourth time, it’s a rather spiffing piece of architecture. Perhaps Kate was onto something after all.

He’s already been forced to marvel at the extent of his own abject stupidity. Just hours ago, as Kate was gliding down an aisle sheathed with flowers and ribbons towards him, he’d thought he would never be as floored by her resplendence as he was in that moment. He hadn’t known what to expect when she’d told him she wasn’t wearing a traditional English wedding dress, but he’d preferred it that way, in honesty thrilled by it.

Kate, with Mary on her arm, glowing like a single lit candle, radiant in her glittery white lehenga. Even as she was saying her vows, the not-so-subtle insertion of marry, kiss, kill, Anthony had been distracted by the growing, inconvenient urge to run his hands over every embroidered inch of it.

He’d almost forgotten she’d have a different dress for the reception, until now, when Kate steps out in front of him wearing it, giving him a twirl that was far too demure for the splendour of that dress.

On anyone else, he probably wouldn’t look twice at it. But on Kate, Anthony’s not sure how he’ll look away. It’s hard to tell which is more luminous, the layers of white that fold sharply into her narrow waist and then into the hourglass skirt, or the valleys of her brown skin that they expose. The cut of the dress was surely designed with his downfall in mind, skirting most of her breasts and barely covering the dark, chocolate-coloured nipples he knows sit perfectly beneath it.

And perhaps most ruinously of all, the twisted ends that flutter upwards like wings either side of her décolletage. Anthony finds himself staring moronically at them, not moving other than to wet his lips, until Kate finally speaks.

‘The tips are interesting, aren’t they?’ Kate says, apparently oblivious to his condition. ‘Do you like them?’

‘Uh…yes, I like them…’ Anthony says hoarsely. ‘They’re like… swan wings.’

‘Do you think?’ Kate fiddles with the delicate ends. ‘They reminded me more of dove wings. Doves are more symbolic for a wedding.’

Dove, swan, other graceful winged creature, it hardly matters, who gives a fuck, Anthony’s completely overcome.

‘Maybe I should take it off you and we can discuss the matter further. This yacht has over twenty bedrooms, you know.’ he says silkily, scraping nimble fingers across her bare collarbone.

Kate looks, for a glorious split-second, like she’s seriously considering it, her eyes roving down his body in a way that runs his mouth dry. And then she just laughs at him.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have refused to board it before now then,’ Kate says, in an unfairly sultry tone, before she takes his hand and starts leading him out of the room. Trying to forget that he only wants to be boarding her, Anthony hastens to catch her up so that he can at least hook his arm around her waist and preferably keep it there all evening.

~

Half an hour later, Benedict bumps a finger congenially against a microphone, and nurses a glass brimming with champagne.

‘When Anthony asked me to be his best man, I thought he was just paying me back for forcing him to deliver a very similar speech at my engagement party,’ he says. ‘But in actual fact, I think he wanted the person who stands up here today and talks to his story with Kate to have been there for every step – every misstep-’ there’s a round of light chuckling ‘-of that story. And knowing Ant, my older brother, and Kate, my new sister, as I do, feel privileged to be one of the few that is worthy of doing so.’

Anthony can already feel his throat constricting with barely constrained emotion. Kate uses Benedict’s pause to press a gentle kiss to the curve of his jaw.

‘It’s common knowledge to all of us here that Ant wanted Kate the second he met her,’ Benedict says, to which Anthony can only grin around the sea of faces and nod without guile. This is a universal truth, after all.  ‘What he didn’t know is that it would only end up costing him a million quid.’

There’s a great gust of laughter from the ‘Bridgerton’ portion of the crowd. Most of the other guests, who simply don’t know the backstory, just look slightly confused but smile along anyway.

‘And a half,’ Anthony mutters in Kate’s ear. She pretends not to hear.

‘No, but all jokes aside,’ Benedict says, voice now conspicuously clear. ‘Kate would have married Ant even if he’d just tied a piece of string around her finger...’

He halts, his gaze rippling through the crowd until it finally lands on Kate and Anthony, his cheeky, mischievous expression turns to something much more tender.

‘…or a ribbon.’

Even though it’s not possible to bring Kate in any physically closer to him, Anthony still tries, and he knows she knows what he’s doing, because she moves against him in a way that allows him to hold both of her hands in his, their rings clanging like church bells.

‘Brother,’ Benedict says, his blue eyes glistening. ‘I’ll take that thank you now.’

When Benedict finishes, Anthony is the first to raise his glass. Colin is crying.

~

Anthony, to his intense displeasure, is pulled away from his new wife to ‘make the rounds’, which involves making small talk with many penguin-suited, trussed up individuals whose conversation and beauty is even less than dwindling and dull, compared to Kate’s.

When he finally escapes and tracks her down again, she’s sitting at one of the candlelit tables, bouncing Augie on her knee. Doing this in a white dress – and not just any white dress, a dress that Anthony fully intends to ask her to wear on at least a weekly basis – seems unwise, but he’s not about to voice this thought aloud.

Instead, Anthony rests his arm around the back of her chair as he slides into the one next to it, distantly aware of bleating some babbled stream of nonsense for his nephew’s benefit.

‘Look,’ Kate says quickly, jutting her head across the deck whilst keeping Augie strapped down with both arms.

Anthony turns in the direction she’s pointing and his chest twinges in fondness. Eloise and Edwina, taking an endless slew of pictures in their matching bridesmaids’ dresses.

‘Ok, stop looking,’ Kate insists. ‘If they know we’re watching, they’ll stop.’

Anthony rolls his eyes. He was surely never so self-conscious and precious at that age, was he?

But any preoccupation he might have had with that little sister is quickly extinguished when he lays eyes on Francesca, sitting just a few tables away. She’s huddled so close to Kate’s flatmate, Michaela that their noses are practically brushing. Anthony’s never seen Francesca talk so openly and unreservedly, and Michaela is so obviously hanging on her every excited word.

Anthony makes as though to get up.

‘Ah ah,’ Kate says, tapping him gently on the nose. Augie claps his pudgy hands together and mimics the noise, leaving Anthony feeling appropriately scolded. ‘Let it happen on its own.’

‘I just want to-’

‘Frannie will not thank you for your interference,’ Kate says. Right as usual. ‘Just sit tight and prepare to hear me say I told you so in about six months or so.’

Anthony baulks at this. ‘You say that as though I was not the one who told you I was sure Frannie had a crush on Michaela when they met at our engagement party.’

‘Hmmm, don’t remember that,’ Kate says, jostling Augie on her lap.

‘My sister, your old flatmate. My brother, your best friend. This is all starting to feel a little incestuous,’ Anthony observes, taking Augie’s outstretched hand and unable to keep himself from smiling when the little boy lets out a long string of nonsensical chatter.

‘I blame your family,’ Kate says, matter-of-factly. ‘Once you get drawn in…there is simply no escaping.’

Anthony opens his mouth, poised to deliver an enthused rebuttal, but he watches Kate tickling a delighted Augie, fussing over his round cheeks and dust of black curls, and instead he just says, ‘you’re wrong, you know.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Six months? Francesca moves slowly. I’m giving it a year, at least.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Kate exclaims.

‘She only just split from John.’

‘Anthony, that was eight months ago!’

‘Care to make a wager?’ Anthony offers, knowing full well that she won’t be able to resist.

‘For what, exactly?’ Kate says, rather suspiciously.

‘We can decide at the time, I think.’ Anthony says, but they both smile and look down and coo at Augie, and he knows, without even a suggestion of a doubt, what they’re both thinking.

~

June 2030

~

‘So, Ant, what will it be this year?’ Colin enquires, a knavish grin on his face as they traipse back to their table from the bar. ‘A private jet? Or a racecar, perhaps?’

‘Be quiet,’ Anthony says. ‘I didn’t hear you making fun of my yacht when you wanted to throw your birthday party on it last summer.’

‘Touchy,’ Colin says, but he doesn’t mention it again.

It had, in all honesty, been Anthony’s paramount concern when he and Kate received their gold-edged invitations in the post four months previously and underneath Aubrey College Ten Year Reunion and Friday, it read, Charity auction.

He’s been keeping a close eye on Kate all night anyway, though she doesn’t seem to be drinking much. Or at all, come to think of it, so Anthony’s feeling reasonably confident that he won’t be walking home with another million pound liability in his back pocket.

He looks over at his wife, who’s deep in conversation with Sophie, rattling a sparkling water around in her hand.

‘She’s brilliant, I honestly felt like she was looking into my soul,’ Sophie’s saying. ‘You have to talk to her – and before she gets completely overrun!’

Anthony can’t help but notice the two empty margarita glasses by Sophie’s hand.

‘I’ve never had my fortune told,’ Kate says thoughtfully, and Anthony’s blood turns frigid, his facial muscles freeze and probably crack, because he knows what’s coming next and is powerless to stop it.

His mind goes wandering back to that little gold-edged invitation. Ah, yes. Just above charity auction, it had said, featuring a live fortune-teller.

‘Shall we?’ Kate turns to him, brown eyes big and beseeching.

‘Good luck with that,’ Benedict chuckles from across the table. ‘Anthony hates all that stuff. Says it’s ‘disingenuous hogwash’, don’t you, brother?’

‘And I stand by that,’ Anthony says irritably, aware the tips of his ears are turning volcanic.

‘Well, I don’t entirely disagree,’ Kate says, but the look of immense gratitude Anthony throws her way is short-lived. ‘But I also think it would be fun to hear what she says…’

‘No,’ Anthony says immediately.

~

‘I’m not going in there.’

‘I’ve already paid.’

‘We can afford to lose whatever you paid her. Kate, those things are nonsense.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Anthony supposes he should feel at least a little mortified, or perhaps ashamed, that the little old lady tucked inside the large, red tent that’s completely incongruent to the setting, has heard him raising aspersions about her credibility.

But he does not.  The second he peered inside, at Kate’s insistence, and saw the plastic LED orb, the crumpled tarot cards and dizzying wall of mirrors, he was minded to run a million miles away.

‘You’ve offended her now,’ Kate admonishes him with a distinctly delighted smile that tells him this was exactly her plan all along. ‘Sit down.’

‘Fine,’ Anthony grumbles. ‘But if she predicts that you’re running away with Tom Dorset I’m leaving.’

‘You know, I think he’s married now,’ Kate says lightly.

At this, Anthony instantly perks up. ‘He is? How excellent. We should send flowers.’

‘Quiet!’ the fortune-teller cries, and Anthony’s so shocked that he actually complies. ‘I need total silence in order to give you a full, uninterrupted reading.’

No less than ten minutes later, however, he’s storming out of the tent feeling suitably vindicated, Kate at his heels.

‘See,’ he says happily to Kate. ‘I told you. Utter nonsense.’

‘You’re just saying that because you didn’t understand what she said,’ Kate says gleefully.

‘What was there to understand, exactly?’ Anthony rounds on her. ‘‘You will soon see the number three!’…what tripe.’

He keeps striding along, expecting  - hoping – Kate will launch into a heated defence of the silly old fraud’s obvious ploys so that he can dismantle it, but she just takes his arm without another word until they’re what Anthony considers a safe distance from that blasted, over-perfumed tent.

‘What?’ he says, when he pours her a glass of still water from the decanter on the table. Kate gives him a dazzling smile.

‘I found something we can name after your father.’

Anthony’s stomach churns. Oh god. Has she bid on something whilst he was in the bathroom? He starts running a hasty analysis in his mind of just how bad it can be. There hadn’t actually been a racecar up for auction, had there?

‘What did you bid on?’ he asks, as calmly as he can, though he can feel his forehead vein pulsing gloriously out of hiding.

‘This one is your fault just as much as mine,’ Kate says, tossing her chin upwards indignantly. ‘Perhaps more, if I’m doing the maths correctly.’

‘What?’ Anthony’s too frazzled for this now, he feels like he’s still being choked to death by the horrible, cloying and clashing scents in the red tent from hell. ‘Kate, just tell me what the damage is.’

But Kate seems to be enjoying herself so much that Anthony can’t let himself spiral too much. She can’t have done anything that rash, not a single drink has passed her lips and she’s barely left his side all evening.

That is, until the next words that come out of her mouth.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to be paying it off for another seven months or so.’

‘WHAT?’ Anthony’s eyes just about pop out of their sockets, his heart clattering a feverish tempo in his chest. Why did he wear so many bloody layers, he can already feel a layer of sweat, beading like insects underneath his shirt. ‘How much?’

And more importantly, where are they going to keep it? Finding somewhere to dock that infernal yacht had been possibly the most stressful months of his entire life. Not that he’s ever told Kate that. She also doesn’t know about the small fortune he’s still spending to keep it at that dock. Well, you can’t take it with you. Anthony reaches for his glass of whisky and drains it in a single gulp, waiting for the scorch in his throat to revive him enough to deal with whatever Kate answers.

‘Oh, I think you’ll find it’s priceless,’ Kate says. She’s clearly having the time of her life, cheeks roseate, hands resting peacefully on her stomach, leaning back in her chair with an angelic smile though she’s never been quite so content and comfortable.

‘Kate, put me out of my misery, will you.’ Anthony says, aware he’s begging at this point. ‘There might still be time to withdraw the bid, if the auction hasn’t closed yet-’

Kate holds a hand up to silence him, digging through her handbag with the other. It’s agonising, watching her rootle around, but then she finally produces a small scrap of paper with a happy little ‘aha!’ and it’s insane – unbelievable, really – how she can change his life, incontrovertibly, for the second time, and with just a bit of paper.

Only it’s not just a bit of paper. It’s a blood test. And marked in infinitesimally small print – so small Anthony might have missed it if she hadn’t underlined it three times in purple ink – it says, pregnant.

‘I have a feeling he’ll be an Edmund,’ Kate says. ‘Don’t you?’

~

Anthony’s not sure how he manages to keep his reaction contained enough so as not to cause a head-turning ruckus in their little corner. Or perhaps he doesn’t, and everyone just takes it for granted now that where the Bridgertons go, there will be some kind of decorum-lacking chaos.

When he’s finished lavishing Kate with kisses (decorum be damned) and endured enough of her ribbing over his near-breakdown, thinking she’d spent another seven figures on some unwieldy white elephant, he just pulls her into his lap. Again, decorum be damned. He’s going to be a father.

‘Anthony Bridgerton, you will soon see the number three,’ Kate says, in a terrible but still petrifying impression of the old prune of a fortune-teller.

‘Did you pay her to say that?’ Anthony demands.

‘Yes,’ Kate says, with no penance whatsoever. ‘She charged an extra hundred pounds for it, would you believe!’

Anthony wants to tell her that yes, he absolutely does believe that. But equally, he just wants to sit here, perhaps forever, and enjoy the unbridled happiness on Kate’s face.

‘I wanted to tell you here,’ Kate says, when they’ve lapsed back into silence. Anthony’s trying, and constantly failing, not to keep trailing over her stomach with his hands, feel for a tentative beat of life. ‘Where we started.’

Aubrey College, where they started, where they met. And yet, simultaneously, that moment was also the end of all the endings.

~

Building Bridges, ‘Meet the Exec’ – Episode Six: Kate Bridgerton

Posted June 2031

‘…Anthony Bridgerton, I’ve agreed to do a takeover of our social media channels, and I’m here today to interview the Viscountess Bridgerton-’

‘Kate,’ she says, straight away, curls fluttering down her back as she shakes her head. ‘Just call me Kate.’  she aims this comment behind the camera, and her mouth twitches upward when he continues,

‘-Viscountess Kate Bridgerton, who’s our acting general counsel here at Building Bridges.’

‘That’s right,’ Kate says pleasantly. ‘Coming up to two years now. Originally I was working in corporate law, but after a secondment I quickly realised I had an interest in charities law, and this particular charity has always been…incredibly close to my heart. Right from its formation, actually.’

An audible swallow can be heard from behind the camera. So can a baby’s laughter, light and tinkling. Kate’s now not looking into the lens at all, in fact, she’s halfway to walking behind it with her arms outstretched, when Anthony tacks on,

‘Neddy, Amma isn’t going anywhere, all right? I’ll bring you to her in a second, I promise.’

The camera shakes, and then:

‘And Kate, it was you who pioneered the Building Bridges community service scheme with Aubrey College, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Kate says, looking pensive. ‘When I was a student here, and I was also caring for my father, who was terminally ill with cancer. What our community service scheme does is allow students to volunteer at our centre, whether that be helping to host workshops, working on funding appeals or fundraiser events. And of course, to provide them with support, should they ever need it.’

The camera nearly flips upside down and there’s the unmistakeable clamouring of a baby fussing.

‘Anthony, give me the camera. Let’s get a shot of the three of you.’

‘Four, Daff.’ Anthony says as the camera straightens up and he bobs into view, passing a babbling, beaming baby into Kate’s open arms so that he can heave a bored-looking, elderly Newton into his. In the background, Aubrey College stands tall and proud.

‘What a gorgeous family,’ Daphne can be heard crooning. ‘Hold still – that’s it. Perfect.’