Archive of Our Own ^beta

Anthony doesn’t know it yet, but that woman on the horse - that one, right there - she’s going to change his life.

He’s otherwise occupied, just now, as it happens. He’s balls-deep in his current mistress, Siena. He’s taking her pressed up against a tree in Hyde Park while a politely bored-looking groom holds his horse.  And he’s taking her in rather a hurry, too, because duty calls and he’s due at St James’ for his sister Daphne’s presentation within the next quarter-hour.

In the heat of the moment, he doesn’t spare much thought to notice a woman riding briskly past. She’s an unusual sort of woman - he notices that, in passing, because she’s riding astride and at considerable speed. Because it’s hard not to notice that such a woman is blatantly an uncommon sort, too full of boldness and fire and unconventional behaviour.

So - at most he thinks a bold woman like that might be his type for a mistress, if he didn’t already have one. If he wasn’t already pounding into a particularly fine opera singer, here and now, against this sturdy oak.

By the time he’s done - by the time he’s climaxed, wiped himself clean, set his clothing back to rights - he can scarcely even remember what that passing stranger’s face looked like.

By the time he’s mounting his horse, he’s quite forgotten she was ever there at all.

…….

He arrives just in the nick of time, in the end. He’s established a firm habit of doing that, since he became Viscount. Daphne is a triumph, and one of the Featherington girls falls over, and there are a handful of other ladies he either does know or doesn’t, whose names he either does or does not recognise.

He doesn’t greatly care, in case that wasn’t clear.

He cares about Daphne, of course. He cares about her making a good match, and doing the family proud - and yes, perhaps even being happy.

But whether Miss Smythe-Smith or Miss Sharma or Miss Stanley are wearing the finer gown?

Frankly - who on earth gives a damn about a question like that? He doesn’t even have a clue who any of those ladies are. He couldn’t pick out their faces in a crowded room if his life depended on it.

Actually, that’s not quite true. He has some vague notion that Miss Stanley must be related to the Lord Stanley he knows of, who may or may not be interested in marrying Daphne.

That’s it. That’s as far as his knowledge - or interest - goes.

…….

The opening ball of the season is to be hosted by Lady Danbury, as usual. Anthony is resolved to treat it rather more seriously than he has done in the past. He always shows his face at such events, of course, for the sake of the family name, even though he finds them quite tiresome and stressful and overly full of matchmaking mothers. But this year, with Daphne out, he is resolved to attend the whole evening and be the most dutiful brother imaginable.

His resolve is strengthened all the more when, within the first half-hour of the event, the Queen names both Daphne and another young lady as the diamonds of the season, the finest debutantes on the marriage market this year.

Anthony’s not particularly surprised, to be sure, but it’s news all the same.

“Well done, Daff.” He actually manages a smile, much though he hates the social scene, much though he detests evenings like this one.

“Who was the other young lady?” She asks, rather than accepting his congratulations. “Do we know a Miss Edwina Sharma?”

“I’ve no doubt we’ll make her acquaintance before long. I don’t recognise the name.” He hedges.

“They are Lady Danbury’s guests, I believe.” Their mother offers now. “She did say she was expecting some guests - or rather, that she had for some time intended to sponsor Miss Edwina next season, but I gather there was some last minute change of plan.”

Anthony nods. That’s well enough. A guest sponsored by Lady Danbury is just the sort of debutante who should be diamond alongside his own sister.

“So - they are her guests? Is there some reason we have never heard the name?” Daphne presses.

“Miss Edwina and her elder sister were raised in India, I believe, but her mother - her sister's stepmother - is the daughter of Lord and Lady Sheffield.”

Anthony nods along. He’s fast losing interest, frankly. He’s only engaging with this news at all in as much as he’s wondering what implications it has for Daphne. If the debutantes this season are so fine that the Queen has named two diamonds, does that mean there will be more competition?

Or does this mean another family will be in the same situation as his, that he might have some support from Miss Edwina’s father or brother in managing the most eligible bachelors of the season, perhaps?

“And what of Mr Sharma?” He therefore asks his mother. “Are we to meet him? Is there a brother or father in town? I ought to invite him to dine with me at my club, perhaps.”

“Ah - you won’t be able to do that, I’m afraid. I understand that Miss Edwina’s father has passed away. The two girls and their mother are all alone in the world - that is why Lady Danbury saw fit to welcome them into her household.”

Oh. That’s a shame, perhaps. He has no use for debutantes, to be sure, but a brother might have been a new acquaintance for him.

Never mind. He’s heard Simon is back in town - and as Hastings now, of course, not Basset. And of course Anthony has two brothers close in age to himself and a mistress besides. That’s quite enough company for a Viscount with duties to attend to.

He has no right to be selfishly thinking of friendship. Not when there are so many demands on his time.

He pauses a moment, lets his mother and sister’s conversation wash over him without truly hearing it while he tries to decide what to do next.

If Daphne had been named diamond alone, he’d have whisked her away home without allowing any man to dance with her. Obviously he would. Best to keep the gentleman wanting more, best to preserve his sister’s mystery and desirability in their eyes.

But if she has competition, he’s not at all sure what to do.

No - in fact - perhaps he has an idea.

“I think you had best dance with Hastings.” He announces to her. “My old friend the Duke of Hastings, that is.”

Her silence is his clue that he has spoken out of turn, but he doesn’t greatly care. He’s a Viscount and head of the family - he believes he may speak as he likes.

He presses on. “You mustn’t dance much tonight. You must appear… exclusive. But there are a number of advantages to your dancing with Hastings, I believe. He’s of high rank, of course, and I trust him not to raise your hopes because I know he has no intention of marrying. And besides - Lady Danbury is his godmother, so perhaps you may even learn something about your competition in Miss Edwina. I think it a good scheme in every regard.”

“And what if I do not wish to dance with the Duke of Hastings? What if he does not wish to dance with me?”

He raises his brows at her, incredulous. Is she to be like this all season?

“That will not signify.” He tells her, firm and with absolute conviction.

He simply starts leading her across the floor, in the general direction of Lady Danbury, hoping that Simon must be there somewhere. He’s rather looking forward to greeting the fellow himself, besides it being a convenient solution to the question of whether his sister should dance. He hasn’t seen his old friend since he returned to town.

His scheme works out well enough. He greets Simon, insists that they must catch up at his club soon. He makes the introductions, tells Simon pointedly that he would appreciate it if his old friend might dance with his sister, just this once, with no expectations.

Sure enough, the whole thing works out perfectly.

Excellent. Very good. He has half an hour to find himself a stiff drink.

…….

Thirty-five minutes later, Anthony has established that his hostess serves nothing stronger than a mild bowl of punch, and he’s lost sight of Daphne.

This is a disaster. He only spent a few minutes talking to some other gentlemen on the terrace while she was safely occupied dancing. But then the dance ended, and then he couldn’t force his way back through the crowded doors fast enough to intercept her at the end of her dance with Simon, and now she’s lost goodness only knows where.

He must calm down, must try to approach this situation with some sense. Where would she go? Would she want to run off and speak with one of the young ladies she knows, perhaps? One of the Featheringtons?

No. He can see them all.

Would she dance with a gentleman he had not approved? No, he doubts it. She did have that odd, contrary moment earlier, but she’s usually a biddable sort of sister. She’s not a firebrand like Eloise.

Then what on earth has happened to her? Why is she not in the ballroom?

Goodness - what if she has been accosted by someone?

He begins an urgent, frantic search for her. His mother and Benedict have not seen her - they both thought she was with him. Simon can only say that she excused herself to use the powder room at the end of their set. Colin looks utterly confused by the concept of keeping watch over his sister at all.

Growing increasingly panicked, Anthony approaches the Featherington party.

“Excuse me - Lady Featherington. Misses Featherington. Have you perhaps -”

“Are you here to ask my fine girls to dance, Lord Bridgerton?” Lady Featherington asks coyly.

“Ah - not on this occasion. My apologies. But I must urgently find my sister. Have you seen Miss Bridgerton in the last ten minutes?”

Lady Featherington and her two eldest move off, disappointed, shaking their heads and telling him they’ve seen no one.

He hardly thinks that can be true.

Miss Penelope is perhaps a mite more helpful. She did see Daphne dancing, then saw her go towards the powder room, then has not seen her since.

Hmm. Very well. Evidently today is the day that he enters the ladies’ powder room.

He is just turning in that direction when he is accosted by a perfect stranger.

“Pardon me, sir - you are looking for -?”

She breaks off, sudden, frowning at him, blinking hard.

He actually pushes her aside in his haste. “Excuse me. I must go and find -”

“A young lady?” She concludes. “Miss Bridgerton, the other diamond - you are her brother, are you not? Sorry - it’s only - I recognise you from the park yesterday morning.”

That’s just shocking enough to break through his panic. “The park? You recognise me from - from - ah -”

“I was out riding when I noticed you engaged in some - ahem - entertainment. But that’s neither here nor there. I believe I have seen your sister and we ought to make haste.”

“What? Where is she?”

“I did see her go to the powder room, as Miss Featherington said. But I saw a gentleman follow her - one I did not recognise - and they have not returned.” She concludes, worry in her eyes.

It’s an odd situation, to be sure. A stranger who recognised him from a fleeting glance while he had his bare arse hanging out of his breeches is now telling him she knows what has happened to his sister.

She must be an uncommonly observant young lady.

He strides off in the direction of the powder room. He mustn’t run, mustn’t draw attention to the situation in case something damaging has occurred. But he must get there as soon as possible, must resolve the situation and -

Oh. Goodness. That stranger is still following him.

“I ought to go in there first. It is the ladies’ powder room.” She points out. “My presence will be much less conspicuous than yours. I imagine you wish to minimise any gossip.”

Then she simply overtakes him, runs down the corridor, bursts through the powder room door.

He follows more slowly, rather taken aback by the events of the evening. He’s never seen a lady run in a ballgown before. And over and above all that - what on earth has happened to Daphne?

It gets worse.

“They’re not here.” That stranger announces, bursting back out of that same door. “But they must be somewhere near here. They definitely did not return to the ballroom - I watched most carefully, because I wondered if he was up to no good.”

Hmm. That’s ominous.

With a heavy heart, Anthony starts opening doors, starts searching the nearby rooms. He’s vaguely acquainted with Lady Danbury’s home, but he has never searched it in haste before now.

He finds his sister in a darkened sitting room. Indeed - he opens the door just in time to see Lord Berbrooke’s hand on her breast and her kneeing him in the groin.

“Unhand her at once!” He calls out, but it’s rather pointless in the end.

Daphne has already seen Lord Berbrooke off once and for all. The man is rolling on the floor, clutching between his legs.

Anthony rather thinks he deserves that and much more. He was clearly forcing himself on Daphne against her will. She’s looking all red and tearstained, shaking like a leaf.

“I’m sorry. He followed me. I tried to run.” She babbles, breathless.

Anthony believes her in a heartbeat, but that might not do her much good, he fears.

“Lord Berbrooke. You have assaulted my sister’s honour, and as such I must challenge you to a duel.” He hisses, angry, too loud for the darkened room.

“A duel?” Berbrooke splutters, scrambling clumsily to his feet.

“A duel?” That plucky stranger asks - still following him, evidently. “What good will a duel do, My Lord? That will only spread word that something has happened. Indeed - people will put two and two together and see fit to ruin your sister’s name. Why - surely you’d do much better to hush it all up.”

He swallows hard, tries to hear her. She’s speaking sense, perhaps. But he’s angry and scared and that filthy man just had his hands all over his sister and -

“Truly, Anthony - I am quite unharmed, and if we can - can keep this quiet, all might be well.” Daphne tells him, determined, lips trembling.

That gets through to him at last. All is not well, clearly, but she’s right. Nothing good can come of spreading any gossip beyond this room. If people found out Berbrooke had touched her, she’d have to marry him or be ruined.

That’s obviously not a choice he would wish on his beloved sister. He might be a gruff sort of brother rather than an affectionate one - might have been balls deep in his mistress while Daphne was on her way to be presented, even - but this is one occasion where he refuses to let her down.

So it is that he walks over to Berbrooke, adopts his most menacing tone.

“Very well, Lord Berbrooke. You escape with your life. There will be no duel. But rest assured - if you breathe a word of this, you will regret it. I believe you ought to discover a sudden wish to move to France.”

“To France?”

“The weather is very fine in the south of France, I understand. I recommend it to you most heartily. I am sure our acquaintances would believe you, if you developed a sudden intention to travel. But you’ll neither say my sister’s name nor be in her company ever again as long as you live. Do you understand me, sir?”

“I understand you perfectly.” He agrees, quivering.

So - that’s it. Berbrooke escapes with his life. Daphne visibly relaxes the moment he is gone, actually starts breathing audibly more slowly.

Anthony turns to that other lady in the room.

“And you? What price is your silence?” He asks outright.

She splutters out a choked sort of laughing sound. “What price? What price? There’s no need to buy me off, My Lord. I need no reward beyond the satisfaction of having played a part in protecting a young lady from that odious man.”

He narrows his eyes at her, dubious. He doesn’t even know her. Why would she behave so altruistically towards perfect strangers?

“I have a sister of about the same age. The other diamond.” She adds now, with careful emphasis and a most earnest look in her eyes.

He nods, suddenly rather more convinced.

“So you are the elder Sharma sister?” Daphne asks.

“Yes - quite so. I do apologise for inserting myself into this situation unintroduced, but under the circumstances it seemed prudent. If you’ll excuse me for introducing myself - I’m Miss Kate Sharma.” She announces, hand outstretched as if expecting one or both of them to shake it.

Anthony does so, bemused.

“Lord Anthony Bridgerton.” He offers.

“Yes. I know who you are. And you’re Miss Daphne Bridgerton.” She points out, clearly having the advantage of them.

He wonders, quite abruptly, if she is the sort who has made a study of all the families in the ton, who has read newspaper cuttings and obtained miniatures of the eligible gentlemen for her sister’s coming out, perhaps.

He suddenly feels like a most inadequate brother, for reasons that go far beyond yesterday morning’s bare buttocks.

He swallows hard, tries one more time to address the question of her secrecy.

“Are you quite certain that there is nothing we can do to - ah - thank you for your discretion?”

She gives it serious thought, he notes, as she tilts her head and considers it.

“Miss Sharma? Please - we’re very much in your debt and I am determined that my sister’s name will remain untarnished.”

“Yes. Quite so. I assure you - I will protect your sister’s reputation as if it were Edwina’s own misfortune. But if it feels to you like a debt, and you will feel more at peace for doing me a considerable favour in turn, there is something I would ask of you.”

“Yes?” He prompts her, nods for her to go ahead.

“We are new in town. I know of many ton families, but we have yet to secure introductions to everyone, and I know the truth of no one’s character beyond my own family - and now I have some certainty that you, too, are good and earnest people. So I should appreciate any assistance you might offer by way of introducing us to reputable friends and marriage prospects for my sister. I will be grateful for anything you can do to secure us a smooth reception in town. I know there is more to a successful season than being named diamond.” She concludes neatly.

“Certainly. That’s easily accomplished. I suppose, in short, we should both do what we can to help the other’s sister make a success of her season?”

She nods. He nods. He offers his hand for her to shake, as she did earlier when she introduced herself.

Daphne is no longer quivering, now, he notes as he looks up. She looks only rather discomposed.

Very well. He had best stop speaking with his unexpected new friend and take Daphne home. She’ll want a comforting hug from their mother, perhaps, and a few words of reassurance.

He’s not their mother. He’s frankly terrible at comfort and reassurance and everything of the kind - he’s convinced of that.

But his sister has had an awful evening, and Berbrooke is a cad, and Anthony must at least try.

“I am sorry that your first ball has been so unpleasant. We will find you a husband who treats you better, I swear it.” He tells her. Is that at least half way to comfort or reassurance or something of the kind?

“Thank you. I - I am sorry indeed for all the commotion.”

“It was hardly your doing, Miss Bridgerton. I hope you will recover your spirits and we may enjoy becoming better acquainted on a happier occasion.” Miss Sharma tells her now.

Hmm. Well. She’s quite a handy sort of acquaintance, he decides - or at least, she has been very helpful indeed, tonight.

…….

It’s not until three days later that Miss Sharma mentions his buttocks.

There are intermediate steps in between, to be clear. There’s the oddest conversation with his mother, where he suggests inviting the Sharmas and Lady Danbury and Simon to dinner, and she seems most intrigued by such a simple concept.

“Dinner? I suppose I had not thought of it, when we have only recently become acquainted with the Sharmas. Perhaps Miss Edwina has caught your eye?”

“Oh - not at all. Indeed, I haven’t even been introduced to the younger girl. Perhaps you’re right - perhaps it’s odd to issue a dinner invitation when we have not all been introduced yet. But Lady Danbury is a close friend of yours, and I haven’t dined with Hastings since he inherited the title, and the elder Sharma girl seems like a sensible sort of woman.”

“Indeed. I didn’t realise you had met her already.”

“Only briefly. But I believe she’d be good company for Daphne, and I hardly think her sister can be otherwise.”

“Certainly - a lovely family. As you say, it would be a good thing to invite them all to dinner.”

Hmm. Excellent. But - if she thinks it a good thing, why did they have to spend so long discussing it?

Never mind. It doesn’t signify. He has his dinner party, and that’s all that matters. He simply thinks it’s a jolly good idea for his sister to become better acquainted with the woman who helped him to rescue her from that situation and now holds such a precious secret. And he’s keen to renew his friendship with Simon, too, of course he is.

So - three days from now, he supposes he’ll get around to meeting Lady Mary Sharma and Miss Edwina, the other diamond.

…….

On the night of the dinner, the whole party spends some time talking in the drawing room before the meal is served.

Anthony does his best to play the polite host. He bows gracefully over the introduction to the other members of the Sharma family. He shares a few jocular remarks with Simon, and makes plans to see him at his club two days hence.

Then, as soon as he can, but not too soon for subtlety, he takes a seat next to Miss Sharma.

“So - any whispers about my sister?” He asks, low and urgent.

“None at all. Please rest assured that I’d have found a way to send word if I heard anything alarming. My sister and I could perfectly well visit Miss Bridgerton to carry such a message without raising eyebrows.” She points out.

“You could perfectly well visit her without an urgent message. You’re quite welcome here. Truly - I believe the acquaintance can only benefit all parties.”

“I do hope so. And what of that odious Lord Berbrooke?”

“Ah - he has indeed decided to move to France, and no one seems to think it noteworthy. I must admit I fear for the young ladies of France, now. I do wish I could do something to bring him to account for his actions without harming Daphne’s reputation.” He mutters, still rather in a stew about the whole situation.

That man upset his sister, and now he’s going to live out his days peacefully. It doesn’t seem fair, and Anthony is rather frustrated to have failed in his duty to protect her, and deeply worried that she seems slower to laugh, still, since the incident, and all in all he’s -

“You’re not at all what I expected, that day I made the acquaintance of your bare buttocks.” Miss Sharma declares suddenly, a little louder than he would really like her to say such a thing in the midst of a crowded drawing room.

So - that’s it. That’s the moment she addresses the elephant in the room, reminds him outright and explicitly that they met in such unflattering circumstances.

He clears his throat. “You did not truly make their acquaintance.” He argues under his breath. “You saw them for a fleeting second and then recognised me a day later. It is not at all the same thing.”

“Perhaps so. But - all the same, I already knew Lord Bridgerton by reputation as something of a rake. When I realised we had met under such circumstances, I was quite prepared to disapprove of you. I didn’t expect you to turn out to be such a devoted brother.”

“My family is very important to me.” He bites out, defensive for reasons even he doesn’t understand.

She only nods, lets his remark sit in the silence.

He frowns to himself a moment, wonders what to do and say next. Should he impress upon her the need for silence regarding his buttocks, as well as his sister’s scandal? Is this lady to end up in possession of all his family secrets?

Not that it’s a secret he has a mistress, of course. But all the same, he might not like the whole ton to gossip about him fucking her out of doors on the morning of his sister’s presentation.

He’s still considering the situation when she speaks up once more.

“What - are you not going to point out my tricky situation, as well?” She asks him pertly. “Are you not going to ask why the sister of one of the diamonds of the season was out for a fast ride, astride, scarcely a quarter hour before we were all due at St James’?”

He laughs, sudden and loud. “A fair point, Miss Sharma. Amidst all my family’s scandals and potential scandals lately, it had simply not occurred to me. Don’t fret - it’ll be our little secret. I’m hardly going to spread speculation about your riding habits around town when you have much worse to lay at my door, if you should choose to do so.”

“I shan’t.” She says, and he believes her instinctively. “But all the same, it is reassuring to hold a secret or two in exchange, isn’t it? It is in neither of our interests to start a scandal about the other.”

“Exactly. Indeed - it is in our interests, more than ever, to work together.” He concludes.

She nods. He sits a moment, reflects that it’s the most peaceful he’s felt about Daphne’s coming out in at least three weeks. He’s been getting in quite a fluster about the stress of it all, honestly.

Stress is better shared with a friend, it turns out - even a friend he’s known four days who could blackmail his whole family to hell and back, if she should so choose.

In fact, he’s feeling so much more relaxed that the idea of trying for a more flippant, upbeat conversation crosses his mind. He rather enjoyed that good laugh, just now, and he thinks he might benefit from more of the same.

“So then - what was your verdict? Did you judge them to be acceptable buttocks?” He asks, bold and teasing. “Perhaps you even thought them pleasing? I’ve long wondered what my own rear looks like to a lady passing on horseback.”

She splutters out a laugh. He joins her, even though it was his joke.

But even as she laughs, there’s something in her eye which is new and dangerous, he fears. Some heat, some lingering gaze which rakes suddenly down his chest as far as the chair he sits in.

She can’t see his buttocks, not now. So why does he feel like he can?

So that’s the night he makes a new firm friend, yes. It’s the night they exchange secrets and secure their alliance once and for all. But it’s the night, too, when he realises that this friendship will never be like the easy brotherhood he shares with Simon.

It can’t be. It simply can’t, because Miss Sharma is a beautiful woman who liked the look of his bare behind.

…….

Two days later, Anthony does indeed eat with Simon at his club. He even manages to secure his agreement to a most uncommon sort of plan, one he’s rather proud of, one which he flatters himself is the perfect solution to the question of Daphne’s happiness and prospects.

Simon is to pretend to court her, just for the next couple of weeks. Just while Daphne recovers from that unpleasantness with Berbrooke and finds her feet. Simon’s apparent attentions will secure her status as diamond and attract lots of notice from other gentlemen - but Daphne will have a measure of protection against being accosted by any cad, will have a chance to regain her emotional equanimity on the arm of a gentleman Anthony knows they can trust to have no improper designs on her.

Really, it’s quite a perfect plan. He’s rather content with his ability to fulfil his protective, brotherly duties, today.

So it is that he’s almost in a good mood, by the time the whole family sets out for Vauxhall Gardens that evening.

Almost.

In fact, his spirits brighten still further when he notices that Daphne will not be the only diamond in attendance tonight. There is strength in numbers, he has decided - indeed, that’s become a firmly held belief of his, a truth he has the utmost faith in, just in the few short days since two diamonds were named.

So it is that he leads his sister directly to where the Sharmas and Lady Danbury are sitting. He makes his bow, watches the ladies curtsey, steers Daphne into position between Miss Edwina and Simon.

Then, his duty done for the day, he collapses inelegantly into a seat with his fellow chaperones.

“You move like a man who has recently scaled a mountain.” Miss Sharma tells him, dry. By fortunate coincidence she is the occupant of the chair next to his.

“Hmm. I believe you have rather hit the mark.”

“Truly? You are not being perhaps the slightest bit melodramatic?” She asks, all sharp and impertinent.

He sighs. “It’s awfully tiresome, this habit you have already developed of noticing my flaws. My brothers do not tend to argue, when I complain to them about the duties of a Viscount.”

“Ah. Evidently there are one or two differences between your brothers and me.”

He laughs, shakes his head, flashes a wry sort of smile at her. He’s not annoyed with her in earnest, not really. But he’s a gruff and grumpy sort of Viscount in general, isn’t he? It simply won’t do, if he goes and becomes a warm individual just because he recently befriended a lady who liked the sight of his bare arse.

Evidently uncowed by his manner, she speaks up once more. “The Duke seems most attentive to your sister. He danced with her at Lady Danbury’s ball, too, I recall. You must tell me what is afoot there - is he obeying that old tradition that a man marries his good friend’s sister?”

“Something like that.” He hedges.

She frowns, visibly displeased. “A shame. I was rather hoping he might make a match with Edwina, since he is Lady Danbury’s godson and your family have given us an implicit character reference for him besides.”

“You were?” He asks, surprised. She never struck him as the sort who would matchmake her sister with a Duke she only recently met. Is it the title which appeals to her? Or has she truly formed a positive impression of Simon’s character so quickly?

“Naturally I was. I shouldn’t think it such a surprise - a Duke might well marry the diamond of the season, especially if he is closely connected with her sponsor.” She argues, as if offended by his question.

“Hmm. I didn’t mean to suggest that such a notion would be ridiculous in general, of course.” He says, in what he hopes is a placating tone.

He’s quite certain he fails to placate her, though. He’s not a very placating man in general, is he?

He presses on. “You’re wasting your time with Simon, though. Between you and me, he’s not truly interested in Daphne. The man has no intention of marrying at all.”

“Hmm. You may have to explain to me, then, why he has just led her towards the dancefloor.”

Anthony looks up, sudden, surprised. 

Ah yes - that has just happened. Simon and Daphne have taken to the floor while he has been deep in conversation with Miss Sharma. Indeed, Simon seems to be playing his allotted part marvellously well.

Anthony realises, quite abruptly, that he’s very grateful to have an extra pair of eyes looking out for his sister.

That’s why he gets on with telling Miss Sharma the truth without further ado. “I presented Simon with a solution which suits everyone. If he pretends to be seriously interested in his friend’s sister, the other debutantes and their mothers will leave him alone. Meanwhile, Daphne maintains her status as a desirable diamond whilst getting some breathing space after that - ah - incident at the last ball. And I can relax safe in the knowledge that she is in no danger from him.”

“A good scheme, I suppose.” She concedes.

He feels more proud at that than he should. That’s the first time she’s thought him wise and logical in their whole acquaintance, he believes. In fact, they met through a couple of his least wise decisions, and then she saved him from an ill-judged duel besides.

It’s rather pleasant to have her respect for a change.

Silence sits between them a moment. He watches his sister dance, notes that she does look a little more relaxed and happy, tonight.

At length, Miss Sharma speaks up once more. “Thank you for that intelligence about the Duke. You have saved me many months of enviously wondering whether he might have preferred Edwina, if we had acted differently in the last week.”

“Not at all. Our little secret, hmm? Another to add to the list.”

She laughs. “Indeed - perhaps I ought to have kept better notes of them all. There is even more duplicity and intrigue in the ton than I expected.”

“Never fear, Miss Sharma. You’re doing splendidly. You’ve not yet lost your sister, you haven’t fallen over in front of the Queen, and I believe you’ve even remembered the names of most of the people you have been introduced to.”

She laughs longer at that - and louder, too. He’s not at all sure why. He’s not accustomed to think of himself as a very amusing man, in general.

The strange thing is that he tends to laugh too easily in her company, too.

…….

The first time he dreams of Miss Sharma, he decides it’s of no great concern.

He’s a rake. He dreams of… rakishness once a week at least.

So, really, if he’s recently met a new acquaintance with a fine face and fiery eyes, who happens to think his bare buttocks worthy of note, who happens to have remembered his appearance from one unfortunate meeting?

Under the circumstances, he thinks it’s no surprise that he might have the occasional dream of her.

The only surprise is that it’s quite an unusual sort of sex dream. Normally he’d dream of breasts and hips and a warm, willing cunt, but somehow this is altogether different.

She’s arguing with him. That’s definitely new for a dream of this genre. It’s somehow all eyes and lips as she puts him in his place, invites him to fight back, teases and taunts him to within an inch of his sanity.

He wakes up, sticky with his own seed, and wonders what’s going on. He wonders just a very little bit, because this is certainly of no great concern.

It’s only - a dream about arguments and ejaculation, all tangled together, seems a grand extrapolation from three and a half meetings, and a few snatches of firmness or disagreement.

But no matter. It will not signify. It means less than nothing.

It’s of no great concern.

……..

He spends the following evening with Siena.

He has an argument with her, before they go to bed. It’s more or less deliberate, on his part, actually. He’s a bear of a man like that - he argues with his mistress as an experiment, simply for the sake of learning whether he finds arguments arousing in general, or only in last night’s dream.

This argument with Siena doesn’t feel the same as that imagined argument with Miss Sharma. It feels sort of dirty and disrespectful, a Viscount talking down to his mistress. He has just enough awareness of his rank and his own flaws to realise that’s an unpleasant sort of thing. That it’s not at all the same as he and Miss Sharma disagreeing respectfully about how best to arrange things with regard to their sisters.

But he does it anyway. He starts a moderately-sized row about her recent taste in jewellery purchased with his money, and it’s not satisfying in the slightest.

He gives up, actually goes to his rarely-used room at the family home and spends the night alone there.

…….

His mother notices him spending the night in Grosvenor Square, rather than his bachelor lodgings.

Of course she does. Naturally she notices. She’s a phenomenally sharp woman, and he feels equal parts blessed and exasperated, this morning.

“What does it matter where I spent the night?” He asks her, affronted, when she brings it up.

“Be patient a moment, Anthony. I am trying to say that I think it a good thing. I am pleased indeed to have all my children under one roof for a change.”

“It doesn’t signify.” He bites out, annoyed.

“I never said it did.” She counters, infuriatingly calm.

“There is no mysterious meaning to my decision. It was simply convenient to me to sleep here last night. We are going out on a promenade shortly, are we not?”

“Well - you must tell me if there is anything we might do to render it convenient more often. Gregory was quite overjoyed to see you at the breakfast table.”

Damn it. Damn it all. He was prepared to bluster his way through this entire conversation, until she went and mentioned Gregory. Until she pointed out that his youngest brother looks up to him, and that he in turn spends far too little time in the boy’s company.

He sighs. He reaches for his pocket watch, not because he needs to know the time, but because he needs to know it is still there.

“I might sleep here more often this season than I did last.” He tells her, airily light. “It is important to me to take good care of Daphne’s prospects in the next few months - and I suppose I must make sure the younger ones do not feel neglected all the while.”

“I think you misunderstand me, dearest. I was not attempting to add another obligation to your list of duties. I was not saying you ought to spend more time with Gregory. I was simply saying that I thought it lovely to have breakfast as a family this morning.”

He nods, jaw tight. Perhaps he could ride over for breakfast, on occasion, even when he spends the night in his usual rooms. Or perhaps - perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to stay here more often. It is a very fine house, filled with people he cares about very much.

It’s not as if he must stay in his bachelor lodgings. Siena does not come over every night - he goes to her, more often, in fact. Many nights he sleeps in his rooms just because they feel easier, somehow, than being in this house where his father was Viscount before him.

He’s not at all sure he’s worthy to inherit this towering mansion and responsibility for everyone inside it. Perhaps that’s what it is.

“I must say - you’ve done a fine job of managing Daphne’s season as diamond so far.” His mother offers now.

“I have?” That’s news to him.

“Certainly. She’s been in fair spirits despite the difficulties and she even has a serious suitor already. And befriending the Sharmas rather than seeing them as competition was a wise move indeed. You did well to suggest that dinner party.”

“Ah. Of course. Thank you for hosting it so beautifully.” He tries. He’s rather taken aback by all this sudden praise, honestly.

It gets worse. “It’s the sort of thing your father would have thought of - I was always more cautious about our social place in the world, I suppose. But he was always one to reach out warmly to all the world. Do you remember that about him? Such a confident sort of man.”

“I remember him as a confident shot more than a confident man on the social scene.” Anthony recalls. “But I believe your words have the ring of truth. You think he’d have approved, then? You think he’d have wanted Daphne and Miss Edwina to lean on each other rather than fighting over the eligible gentlemen? I do hope so.” He admits, honest, feeling suddenly small.

He would like more than anything to know his father would have approved of the way he has led this family in recent days.

“I think he’d have been very proud of you - as I am. I know we speak of this as Daphne’s season, but I’ll have you know that you’ve made a wonderful start to it too. That is the conversation I meant to start when I said it was lovely that you stayed here last night.” She concludes.

Oh. Goodness. That’s - that’s a lot, isn’t it? His mother thinks he’s doing well at being brother to the diamond of the season, negotiating all the social situations and decisions which must come with it.

Hmm. He still can’t forget, somehow, that he was a brute to Siena last night.

…….

He sleeps at the family home three times that week.

It doesn’t signify. Really, it doesn’t. It’s simply convenient, because there are many morning calls and promenades in their family diary, and many evening events besides.

It doesn’t mean anything - not any more than these dreams he’s started having mean anything, either.

…….

The next ball of the season is more of a success.

Anthony plans Daphne’s dance card in advance, from a select list of his trusted university friends, but she seems happy enough with it. Two dances with Simon, two with Thomas Dorset, one with all the rest. Anthony decided it was best to appoint Dorset to the task before people actually started presuming Daphne was as good as engaged, see?

He’s doing a fair job of being brother to the diamond. That’s something he’s almost confident in, now, a week after his mother said as much in outright words.

When he’s content that Daphne’s evening is well underway, he retreats to the chaperone seats as usual.

“Ah. What a shocking surprise to see you here.” Miss Sharma greets him, actually pats the chair at her side.

Very good. They’ve established something of a routine even in the few short weeks they’ve known each other.

“Is Miss Edwina having a successful evening so far?” He asks, knowing that must define whether Miss Sharma has a good evening or not, too.

“Hmm - I believe so. She seems to have little interest in anything beyond her two dances with Mr Bagwell. You must tell me more about this Dorset fellow your sister is dancing with?”

“Mr Thomas Dorset. An old friend from my Oxford days.” He recounts.

“Ah.”

She doesn’t sound happy with his answer, and he’s not at all sure why. What was there to object to, really, in that sentence? Has she a problem with men called Thomas, or else men educated at Oxford?

Is she more title-hungry for her sister than the rest of her character suggests?

No. He simply refuses to think so ill of her. To be sure, it is the second time such a thought has passed through his mind, but he refuses to dwell on it. He can’t accuse such a sensible and level-headed lady of caring whether her sister’s suitors carry titles.

He presses on in a more interesting and useful direction.

“Do you dance?” He asks her simply. They’ve attended two balls and one visit to Vauxhall since he’s known her, and he’s never seen her take to the floor.

She cocks her head. “It depends what you mean to ask, I suppose. I am not averse to the activity. I did teach my sister. But I am not here to find myself a husband so I don’t dance at occasions such as this. I intend to return home to India and work as a governess there as soon as my sister is happily married.”

“Truly?” He asks her, sudden, shocked. “To India? You are this devoted to your sister and you would live on the other side of the world from her? You must love and miss your home very much indeed.”

“That’s quite enough of that.” She says, all brisk, rather than engaging with his curiosity. “What about you? Do you dance?”

He blinks at her. He’s still stuck on the fact she intends to return home, frankly.

He’ll miss her when she leaves. He supposes it’s safe enough to admit a thing like that to himself. He only has a small handful of friendly acquaintances - just the gentlemen Daphne is dancing with tonight, frankly - and Miss Sharma has been a welcome addition to his society.

Yes. Well. Never mind.

“Do I dance?” He manages to repeat her question back to her stupidly.

“Well - do you?”

“I suppose my answer is not dissimilar to yours. I fear raising any young lady’s expectations by dancing with her. A shame, really - I do quite like to dance.” He admits.

“Your situation is different from mine.” She argues staunchly. “I must wait for someone to ask me, but I’m sure you might just dance for your own enjoyment if you wish. Ask someone who knows not to get her hopes up.”

Is that a hint? 

If it is, he does not take it. People would notice if a diamond’s brother danced with a diamond’s sister. Lady Whistledown would be quite verbose on the matter, no doubt.

So it is that he tries to quell the subject instead.

“I prefer to sit and share a conversation of sense with you.” He tells her outright. “I believe our sisters are both safely occupied for the moment and we might relax and speak of sport, perhaps.”

“Of sport?”

“I have a hunch that you know a thing or two about such topics.” He offers, deliberately, airily light. “Correct me if I’m mistaken - you were riding rather proficiently, the morning we met, were you not?”

“I believe we have established already that we did not meet that morning. I won’t have you claiming that we did, now, because it suits you.” She argues.

“Ah - of course. My mistake. We did not meet while you were on horseback. But all the same, if you did have any interest in sport as a general topic, you might tell me what you think of the racing news from Doncaster last weekend.” He suggests, still in that carefully easy tone.

She shoots him a look. He presses on, convinced that he’s just one good play from victory.

“You needn’t worry that I’ll disapprove if you are interested in such topics.” He offers. “I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone, or publicly accuse you of being unladylike. It’d be our little secret.”

Those are the magic words, of course. All at once, she’s leaning close, whispering urgently under the cover of the music.

“Very well. So - Nectar. A ridiculous name for a racehorse, no? And yet he does win so consistently.”

Anthony settles back into his chair with a smile. He confidently expects this to be the most enjoyable ball of the season so far.

…….

Those two weeks rather set the pattern for the next two months of the season.

The two diamonds keep shining. Simon keeps dancing with one, and the other seems rather fond of Mr Bagwell. Lady Whistledown comes up with some new comment on the same situation, three times a week without fail.

And on the edge of ballrooms and drawing rooms and music rooms throughout London, a certain pair of chaperones sit together come rain or come shine.

Anthony’s world does not revolve around such social engagements, not quite. He spares some time to ask after Gregory’s lessons, to listen to Francesca’s pianoforte practice, to box with Simon. He’s spending more time in pursuits like that, these days, than in fucking Siena in public view.

He mostly sleeps in Grosvenor Square, these days, but it does not signify.

Truly, it doesn’t.

……

When the weather is fine, the diamonds spend time together promenading out of doors, rather than in one family’s drawing room or another. And where the diamonds go, of course, their suitors must go too - even that suitor who is acting.

And where the diamonds and their suitors go, their earnest eldest siblings are never far behind.

“I cannot help but feel that Mr Bagwell touches my sister’s hand altogether too often.” Miss Sharma frets, this morning, as they all take a lap of Hyde Park.

Anthony glances ahead up the path, tries to decide if her complaint has any merit.

It doesn’t. She’s worrying about less than nothing.

“You’re fretting without cause.” He tells her outright. “I know you are protective of her, but he’s taking no improper liberties. He’s simply acting the devoted suitor.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about fretfulness. When was the last time you permitted your sister to so much as speak to a gentleman you have been acquainted with less than a decade?” She counters.

“Indeed - we are both very protective of our sisters.” He agrees, in what he hopes is a mollifying sort of tone. “I rely on you to steer me right when I am on the point of challenging a man to an ill-judged duel, and now I am trying to repay the favour in kind. That is why I am making a point of telling you that Mr Bagwell is a perfectly decent gentleman and is clearly taking no improper liberties.”

She subsides into a sort of agitated silence, her brows still drawn tightly together.

If this was one of his dreams, he’d kiss that frown away. But as it is, in the real world and broad daylight, he supposes a tease would be more appropriate.

“Come, now - you must give me a clue. Are you still frowning in annoyance at poor Mr Bagwell, or are you now frowning because you are irritated with me?” He tries.

It works, more or less. She offers him a grudging laugh, actually reaches out to take his arm and tuck her hand at his elbow.

That’s an unexpected development, he decides. That’s how a lady walks when she is being escorted by a gentleman, but he’s known Miss Sharma long enough, now, to know that she’s usually confident standing on her own two feet.

He’s flattered by it, he decides. There’s something rather moving about earning the trust of such an independent person - like how he has made such a close friend of Simon, who is otherwise a very private and self-sufficient man.

Anthony may be a gruff and domineering sort of fellow, as a general rule, but at least he has managed to make a couple of friendships of substance.

Suddenly, Miss Sharma asks a question, takes the conversation down a new path and startles him from his thoughts.

“Do you enjoy being Viscount? Being the Viscount Bridgerton?” She asks.

He blinks at her, silent, taken aback by such an unusual line of questioning.

“What - am I not supposed to ask such a thing? Have I hit upon something deeper and darker than our little secrets?” She presses on, unabashed.

“I hardly know.” He manages. “I have been a Viscount longer than I have been a man. It’s simply what I am.”

“Hmm - and who are you, when you’re not being a Viscount?”

He laughs a short, dry snatch of laughter. “I might as well ask you who you are, when you’re not fussing over your sister. Neither of us is in a position to give such things thought.”

“Oh, I think about it.” She insists. “I intend to be a governess when my duty to my sister is done. I did genuinely enjoy educating her, for the most part, but more than that I crave the sort of independence that a lady employed in such work might have.”

“You crave a life without such duties, for a change.” He muses.

She nods. They walk a few more steps. He gathers some difficult words.

“I have so many siblings that I suppose my duty will never be done.” He manages, and for some reason the words try to stick in his throat.

“I hope for your sake it will not always sit so heavily on your shoulders.”

“It doesn’t sit heavily today.” He tells her truthfully. “Today I am more concerned with you fretting over poor Mr Bagwell.”

She laughs a grudging laugh. She’s grudging about Mr Bagwell in general, and Anthony can never understand why. He seems quite devoted to Miss Edwina and is a gentleman of excellent character.

He’ll ask her about it, sooner or later, he supposes. They do spend a great deal of time in conversation, while they chaperone their sisters together. It can’t hurt to have an interesting topic, a difficult question, up his sleeve.

“How long have you actually been Viscount? How old are you?” Miss Sharma asks, sudden, as if it has just occurred to her that she doesn’t know.

He chuckles, pats absently at her hand. “It’s rude to ask a Viscount his age. Especially one who wears side-whiskers to look older and more authoritative than he is.”

She’s laughing, too. They’re both laughing, even though he’s deadly serious.

There’s something both wonderful and disorientating about the way this friendship mixes the silly and the serious together so smoothly.

“I’m nine and twenty, and I’ve been Viscount since I was seventeen.” He admits at last. “How old are you? You act as if you are a spinster, but you could certainly pass for a debutante if ever you wished to.”

“Six and twenty - spinsterish indeed by the standards of the ton.” She answers easily, evidently less concerned by the question than he was.

He nods a little, tries to make sense of that piece of information. Did he think she was around that age? Probably, he supposes. He always presumed the two of them were about alike in age, so six and twenty is no surprise.

Or - perhaps it is a surprise, just a very little bit. He has always lived in a society where any lady past three-and-twenty is considered positively stale. But Miss Sharma challenges that just by breathing, doesn’t she?

There’s nothing stale about her.

“Really - is that what the whiskers are for?” She asks now, actually glancing strangely at his cheeks. “In that case, they are doing their job admirably. I have long been confused by your age and the ages of your siblings. At one time, I believe I thought you were perhaps nearing forty.”

“Forty?” He asks, too shocked to be upset by it.

“I mean no offence, My Lord.” She protests at once. “I am clearly not adept at judging the age of bewhiskered Viscounts.”

“And my whiskers are clearly not doing me any favours.” He adds, starting to see the humour in the situation.

“That depends on your purpose, I suppose. I’m sure they do lend you an air of authority and maturity. Perhaps that was what you felt you needed, when you were younger and newly come into the title?” She suggests.

He nods, silent, just barely able to admit she’s correct.

She presses on. Of course she does - she has the confidence to hold these difficult conversations with him where no one else does.

“I can’t see why you should still need to pretend to be older or more confident than you are. You’ve done splendidly with Daphne this season - and had the faculties to be a good chaperone to my sister, too - despite your youth and inexperience.”

“I suppose I am in the habit of thinking myself unequal to the task. I have grown accustomed to believing I’m not ready for the title, and now I hardly know how to learn to think otherwise.” He admits, quiet, eyes fixed determinedly on the path ahead of him.

“Ah. I see. Well - you’ll learn it in time, I’m sure.” She says, as if that’s simply obvious.

As if she - a lady who's known him not ten weeks - has such faith in him, such confidence in his strength of character.

Hmm. There's a dangerous thought.

“If you repeat a word of this to Benedict or Simon, I’ll cast you into the Serpentine.” He tells her easily, almost lightly, and so very relieved to return to the familiar ground of teasing her and the odd nature of their trusting relationship.

“I’m a proficient swimmer, as it happens, but of course I’ll keep it quiet all the same.”

He grins at her and goes on walking.

……..

He dreams about her that night.

Of course he does. What else should he expect, after a conversation about his facial hair, of all things?

She’s not talking about whiskers, though, in his dreams. She’s not talking at all, at that surprises him. Rather than his usual fantasies of arguing with her, tonight she’s just there, silent, steady, accepting him as he is.

He’s starting to understand, now, that she will change his life, at least a little bit. He still doesn’t know how - still thinks the limit of it will be helpful cooperation over sisters and a few distinctly unhelpful dreams, perhaps - but somewhere, deep in his marrow, he knows that she’s not a passing stranger, not a fleeting acquaintance riding roughshod through his life.

He doesn’t even fuck her in silence, in this dream. There’s none of their usual fire in any way whatsoever.

She’s just there, in his arms, as if she belongs there.

…….

The following morning, Anthony visits the barber and gives notice on his bachelor lodgings.

The two are related in a way he can’t entirely articulate - and anyway, who would he articulate it to? There is no one in his life perfectly placed to ask him about such things.

The person he would most likely discuss it with is that woman who keeps all his secrets, who started him on the way to these two decisions yesterday with that conversation about what it is to be a young Viscount, about whether or not the style of his facial hair can convey authority. This morning, somehow, he has decided it no longer matters. He doesn’t need to look like a confident Viscount, he resolves, as he asks the barber to dispense with his whiskers and crop his whole head of hair rather shorter.

Instead he needs to be at home more often and act the part.

Age and whiskers do not make authority. He can be too young, too inexperienced, and fill the role his own way - by making alliances with the other diamond’s family, by asking his old friend to dance with his sister, by muddling his way through conversations with his mother about what his father would have done.

His youth and underconfidence don’t have to be a dirty little secret. 

He can depend on the people around him and make that his strength.

…….

With that resolution in mind, he sets out to strengthen his friendship with Miss Sharma further. There is one way in which they are still failing to be the firmest of friends, he believes, and some few days later he finds a most suitable moment to approach her about it.

They are walking in the park again. He very much enjoys doing that, as it happens. It affords him and Miss Sharma the opportunity for a private conversation of some seriousness, just as the couples walking ahead of them are conversing in private. It’s a setting safer from eavesdroppers than the chaperone seats in a ballroom, he has decided.

That’s why he chooses this morning to broach a most unusual topic.

“I believe it is high time you and I learnt to address one another in less formal terms.” He tells her robustly. “I have spent more time speaking with you this week than I have with my own brothers, and still we persevere with all this Miss Sharma nonsense.”

She raises an incredulous brow at him. “I grant you we have an unconventional sort of connection, sir, but I’m not in the habit of addressing eligible bachelors on first name terms. I won’t have people thinking me fast. That would ruin my sister’s prospects.”

“I’m not suggesting we broadcast our familiarity to the entire ton.” He argues. “I simply thought that we might as well add one more secret to the list and save our breath, too. It seems daft to call a close friend Lord Bridgerton all the damn time, especially considering the proximity of our families. I have heard my mother call your sponsor Agatha rather often.” He points out.

That’s what this is about - it’s a matter of family friendship, not improper at all.

Or - that and a chance to argue with her.

She has stopped arguing, now, though. She’s looking at him sideways, thoughtful and yet with a teasing light in her eye which spells trouble, he thinks.

Or at least, he hopes it does.

“Anthony is a fine name, I suppose.” She tells him, airily light. “Now I come to think of it, I do recall a certain lady moaning it out loud on the morning we met…”

He splutters out a laugh. “Will you never let that go? How many times must I remind you we did not meet then, not quite? You only rode past and formed a hasty impression of me.”

“A pasty impression of you, too. Evidently your buttocks do not often see the sunlight.”

He’s laughing all loud and undignified, now. It’s good for him, probably. A good chance to be that younger, lighter Viscount she has taught him he always had hidden beneath his whiskers.

“Should they? Should my buttocks often see the light of day?” He manages to ask, when he has himself more or less under control. “Surely you do believe me when I say that was an uncommon occurrence?”

“I have no idea what I believe. I have established that you are a family man and devoted to your brothers and sisters. I still haven’t the faintest clue where a notable opera singer comes into it.” She tells him with a shrug. “I am no closer to unravelling that particular facet of your personality.”

He’s a bit grumpy about all this, he realises. Perhaps that’s no surprise - he is a gruff, stern sort of man in general, isn’t he?

Or at least - he used to be, back before she rode into his life. The woman he thinks he ought to be calling Kate, who has taken his attempt to cement their friendship and bundled it up with a few uncomfortable comments on his flaws. He’s a bit bothered with her for that, he decides.

That’s why he digs his heels in and fights back.

“Very well. So - while we are on the subject of impertinent personal attacks - I haven’t the foggiest clue why you are not trying to find a husband.” He tells her outright. “I have been wondering it ever since we met. I can’t for the life of me understand why you are chaperoning your sister around the London scene as if destined for spinsterhood when you’re perfectly eligible.” He concludes, sharp, bitter - and yet entirely honest.

“No more than I can understand why a man so plainly obsessed with caring for his family has no intention of taking a wife and having children of his own!” She exclaims, actually waves her hands in the air in frustration at him. “I find your devotion to all these many Bridgertons entirely at odds with your determination to live like a rake and avoid entanglements and long term commitments.”

“Yes. Well. You would say that.” He mutters, stubborn, but not able to articulate any good reason why she would be wrong.

They’ve argued themselves out, it seems. She has nothing more to contribute, and he’s not at all sure who won that round.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, her hand is resting in the crook of his elbow. Indeed - she’s squeezing his arm, just lightly, just as if to remind him she’s still there.

It strikes him that this is quite the oddest relationship he has ever known, a tangle of secrets and sisters, heated challenge and a bedrock of firm, unshakeable respect.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do when she returns home to India.

He turns to shoot a look at her. She’s not meeting his gaze, her eyes fixed on the path ahead of her, but all the same, that hand still rests on his arm.

He pats at it absently and tries to pull together some words.

“I can’t altogether explain it either.” He admits quietly. “I suppose it simply seems… easier this way. Safer. Less frightening. Marriage always seemed challenging - and especially marrying for love, as my mother would have me do.”

“Yes. I know the feeling. I think that is my position - I have resolved that it is easier to be a spinster than to try finding a husband and be disappointed.”

He scoffs. “I’m sure you’d find someone.”

“Yes - but someone who would truly respect and appreciate me?”

Silence. He watches a duck play, notes that it’s something he can’t recall ever watching before. Notes, too, that the word respect has been floating on the air and in his mind an awful lot, this morning.

Suddenly she pipes up, steers the conversation in an altogether different direction. “I have noticed you are wearing your hair and whiskers in a new style. I do hope I didn’t offend you the other day. I suppose I thought I could safely be honest with you.”

“You didn’t offend me, as such.” He reassures her, with another light pat at her hand. “You gave me a great deal of food for thought about who I am and the face I present to the world.”

“Hmm. Well - for what it’s worth, I think this Anthony Bridgerton a fine man.”

Does she mean fine in face or manners or whiskers, in title or eligibility or deep in his soul? 

He hasn’t the foggiest clue. He just knows it shoots straight to his core.

He ought to make some useful reply. He ought to offer her some affirmation in turn, perhaps - something on the matter of how lucky any man would be to have her for a bride, or what a loss it will be when he no longer has her company, or some hopeless mess of them, both, even.

“Thank you, Kate. I -”

“Bridgerton? Bridgerton! It is you! And Miss Sharma, too!”

That’s Thomas Dorset, interrupting the conversation with all his usual warm bluster.

Anthony has never been so annoyed to see his good friend in his life.

…….

The dream that night is worse.

It’s all Kate and Anthony and rich, throaty moans.

It’s frightening, how quickly he’s grown so attracted to her. She’s under his skin like no mistress he’s ever kept - and she, a woman he’s never even taken to his bed.

It’s possible he should break things off with Siena.

…….

Later that week, Lady Featherington is hosting a ball, and Anthony decides to go on the offensive. The solution to all these heated dreams of Kate is surely to return their acquaintance to safer territory - namely, to argue more than to share vulnerable truths. To bicker and criticise and act the gruff man he used to be more often, back when he first met her.

That is why he gets straight to the point, when Kate helps herself to a seat at his side. He indulges in scarcely a minute of chit-chat about the couples on the floor before he launches his prepared attack.

“You do not like Mr Bagwell, and I cannot understand why.” He accuses her plainly. “I have often noticed you being pessimistic about him, in recent weeks. But I have come to the conclusion that you simply dislike him. Has he done something to offend you? I know he has not hurt your sister - you’d have told me outright if he had.”

“He has done nothing to offend me.” She says, infuriatingly calm. “He’s a pleasant enough gentleman, I suppose. But I find him far too… forward in his attentions to Edwina.”

“Too forward? I should say he is exactly as serious in his suit as a man interested in marriage ought to be. He takes no improper liberties with her - he’s simply earnest about courting her and proposing soon.”

Kate actually flinches at that. She physically recoils away from the idea of Mr Bagwell proposing to Edwina.

This, Anthony thinks, is a fascinating development.

Perhaps it is time for a different tactic. Perhaps there are some occasions where their intimate honesty is more useful than a robust argument - or at least, some occasions where he ought to spin together threads from each.

“What is it, Kate? Really - I should like to understand. From your manner I can only deduce that he has offended you somehow. Perhaps he has behaved rudely or improperly to you, and you are now torn between your dislike and your sister’s evident affection for him?”

She throws him a curious look. “That is a very well-developed fiction, Anthony. Have you truly given so much thought to my cold manners towards one of my sister’s suitors?”

“He’s your sister’s most devoted suitor, and you just flinched at the very idea of him proposing. I hardly think I would be doing justice to our friendship if I left you to manage such a burden alone.” He insists stubbornly. “I must admit, I am rather worried. If he has hurt you or Miss Edwina, I might have to duel him - but then, of course, I suppose you will try to prevent me from any such duel. It could all become quite complicated.”

She’s definitely more fond than curious, now, as she raises her brows at him. “Is it always your habit, Anthony, to worry about future disasters at such length? To put such detailed thought into your concerns?”

“It matters to me.” He tells her staunchly, because that seems wiser than telling her she matters to him.

“There’s really no need to go duelling the poor fellow. I have no objection to him, in truth - it’s only that we are in a tricky situation.”

“Oh?”

She sighs. “The Sheffields will only pay Edwina’s dowry if she marries a nobleman. If she marries a plain Mr, we are left penniless, and with the embarrassment of an unpaid dowry. I don’t mind for myself, of course -”

“It’s one of the reasons you intend to work for an independent living.” He supplies, understanding at once.

“Yes. So - there we have it. And - because I am a fool, she does not know. There has never been a good time to tell her. I can’t imagine finding the words now. And - well. Here we have it. You’ll not say anything?” She checks, brows raised expectantly.

“Of course not. Our little secret - add it to the list.” He says easily.

She nods. “That’s why I hoped the Duke might take a liking to her - but thanks to you, I know he does not truly intend to marry. He must be a very talented actor, though. He and Daphne do still appear devoted to one another, even after all these weeks of pretending.”

“Hmm. Yes. I have thought that, myself, in recent days. I’m worried she might be growing truly attached to him.”

“I’m worried he might be growing truly attached to her. That would put him in a fine pickle, as he has no intention of marrying.” She points out shrewdly.

He nods. She’s not wrong. A gentleman would find himself in a pickle, if he developed an attachment to a lady, if growing attached ran against his intention to avoid marriage.

Not that he would know anything about such a situation, of course.

He presses on in a more useful direction. “I believe I’ve had an idea. We ought to encourage your sister to spend time with more titled gentlemen, yes?”

“That’s hardly the most inspired idea of the century.” She tells him, dry.

“I wasn’t finished.” He snaps, but playfully, more or less. “What if we hosted a house party at Aubrey Hall? We would have both diamonds under one roof, and we could invite a great number of titled gentlemen to throw into company with your sister. It would perhaps be more convenient for us to chaperone such an event, too, than rushing around to a different venue every evening. We might have a calmer couple of weeks simply enjoying my family home and a carefully curated guest list.”

“It’s a sound notion.” She tells him, thoughtful, evidently considering it. “What if Edwina doesn’t like any of these titled gentlemen? What if she actually loves Mr Bagwell?”

“We can worry about that if it comes to pass. For now, you can keep frightening him off as best you can, and we’ll see whether we can convince her to take an interest in anyone else.”

“We’ll worry about that if it comes to pass?” She echoes, incredulous. “Who are you, and what have you done with Anthony Bridgerton? Where is the man who would plan as far as a duel the moment he sees me frown at Mr Bagwell?” She teases.

“I’m practising optimism. I’m not sure it suits me.” He jokes as best he can.

She seems to think it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all year.

…….

He spends a lot of time with Kate organising the house party.

That must be why she’s on his mind more than usual, he supposes, as the days draw on, as the visit looms closer. He’s grown accustomed to being preoccupied with her by night, of course, but not so much by day.

It’s three o’clock on a perfectly average Thursday when it happens.

He’s with Siena. He’s in her bed, at her rooms - rooms he pays for, to be clear - and he’s having quite a productive time fucking into her from behind. It’s not the most intimate or exciting of lovemaking, to be sure, but it’s serving the purpose - scratching an itch, perhaps.

He just needs to get off. That’s been a pressing requirement quite often, lately.

He’s nearly there, now. He’s nicely worked up and getting loud. He’s breathing heavily, clutching at her hips while he babbles a stream of empty words at her.

“Fuck. Fuck, yes, Kate. Mmm, yes. So close, Kate, I - fuck - I -”

“Kate?”

Ah. Well. That - ah - might have happened?

Siena pulls forwards, away from him, off his fast-softening cock. He’s not too concerned, really - either about that or about what he just said. It was bound to happen eventually, wasn’t it? He was bound to let slip the name he’s been dreaming of, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to get in the way of a perfectly serviceable affair with his long term mistress.

“Is there a problem?” He asks her mildly.

“A problem? A problem? Who is Kate, My Lord? Why are you in my bed calling out another woman’s name?”

“It doesn’t signify.” He tells her, as light as he can manage while still rather breathless.

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. Kate? Really - what is the meaning of this, sir?”

It occurs to him, quite suddenly, that she could cause trouble, here, if she’s so inclined. That she could trace who Kate must be and ruin her, even - gossip is easily believed, even if it’s not rooted in truth.

He swallows hard, makes an attempt at a mollifying sort of tone.

“I do apologise, Siena - I certainly didn’t mean to offend you - but I must ask you not to make trouble about this. You’ll not go around asking questions about who Kate might be, I hope?”

She snorts out a laugh. “I stand to lose face far more than you do, My Lord, if word of this should spread. I, a notable soprano who’s had a string of titled lovers before now - and a Viscount throws me over for a plain old Kate?”

“There’s nothing plain or old about her.” He snaps instinctively.

Ah. That was - ahem - perhaps not the place to start.

“I am sorry to have caused offence.” He reiterates more carefully. “I would be grateful for your discretion in this matter. Perhaps I may buy you a gift to make it right, hmm?”

“You might buy me a farewell gift.” She tells him pointedly. “I have wondered for some time now whether your mind was elsewhere, My Lord. I put it down to your sister’s season and thought you were distracted by that. But I should have realised you had another woman on your mind.”

“If you’re sure, I’ll be happy to pay for a generous notice period, of course.” He offers. “Three months’ expenses, perhaps? Six?”

She looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. He probably has, frankly. Six months’ expenses is a ludicrously generous offer to part ways with a mistress. But under the circumstances, he feels so deeply relieved at the idea of concluding this affair so neatly and amicably, that he’d probably pay the full twelvemonth, if she pressed for it.

That’s wrong, perhaps. The relief. Siena was good to him for many months. She distracted him just perfectly from his worries before the start of the season.

But - well - then Kate rode past, didn’t she?

“Six months’ expenses and perhaps a gift of jewellery besides.” He resolves, now, trying for a cautious smile. “I have very much enjoyed the time we have spent together, truly. But - ah - you are perhaps correct that it is time for me to… reconsider.”

“I appreciate your generosity and bid you good day.” She says, cold, just barely polite.

That’s probably what he deserves. He did just cry out another woman’s name in her bed - and right on the cusp of climax, too.

Yes. Well. He’d better pull up his breeches and get out of here.

……..

To say the house party at Aubrey Hall gets off to a good start would be an understatement.

The Sharmas, Lady Danbury and Simon are to spend a few days at Aubrey Hall before the rest of the ton arrive. Anthony thinks that’s one of his better ideas, all things considered - and his mother seems to agree with him, too.

In general, she seems to think that the two families growing closer can only be a good thing. She’s been supportive of this alliance ever since that first dinner party, and Anthony is very grateful for it.

So it is that, for the better part of a week, Anthony’s existence consists mostly of riding around the estate with his friends and his brothers.

It’s quite a jolly way to live a life, all things considered.

It’s not without its frustrations, of course. He sometimes finds himself annoyed that Simon is spending so much time with Daphne, even when there is no one here beyond the family to appreciate his acting.

But whenever Anthony starts to get fretful about such things, Kate challenges him to jump a hedge in the opposite direction from the happy couple, and somehow his good mood is quite restored.

…….

The day before the rest of their visitors are to arrive is the day which has been nominated for the annual family pall mall contest.

This year, obviously, Simon and the Sharma sisters have been invited to participate.

Miss Edwina opts out and decides to spend some time sitting with her mother on the terrace. Anthony is relieved about that, in a selfish sort of way. If Miss Edwina were on the field, Kate might be preoccupied with worrying about whether she was enjoying herself.

This way, he will get to see her giving all her attention to the game.

So it’s not that he wants her attention for himself. He just thinks that she’ll have a much better time if she really engages with the game. She’s a good sport, in general - competitive and boisterous but fair, too - and he’s looking forward to a morning of quality pall mall play with her.

That’s all this is.

The game gets off to a chaotic start, as usual. Anthony is so distracted by accusing Eloise of setting one of the gates on the wrong line that he misses Kate stealing his lucky mallet from right under his nose.

Hmm. He should have seen that coming. Eloise and Kate have rather hit it off, this week, and he should have foreseen that they might be in cahoots over this.

He dithers a moment, frowning at Kate, wondering what to do.

“A problem, My Lord?” She asks, all archly sweet.

He swallows hard. He can’t bicker with her in an overfamiliar manner here, can he? If he argued with her as Kate and accused her of undermining him deliberately, he’d be exposing their rather unconventional friendship right here amongst a crowd. He’d open her up to gossip and ridicule.

They’re only amongst family, to be sure - but even amongst family, she ought to be his sisters' friend, his fellow chaperone, not Kate.

“No problem at all, Miss Sharma. As an honoured guest you are welcome to any mallet you wish to choose.” He tells her, carefully polite.

She’s laughing so hard at his affected manner that she actually brings a hand to her face to cover it, actually makes a show of having to itch her nose.

He grins, turns away. He won that round.

They start playing, then - and as Bridgertons playing pall mall, they play dirty. Within the first ten minutes, Eloise and Colin have descended into an almighty row, and Benedict is swearing that he will never speak to anyone in the family ever again.

Then it gets worse. Then Daphne’s ball is lost in some long grass on the south side of the fishpond, and Simon is offering to go with her to help retrieve it.

Anthony’s not very pleased about that. Obviously he’s not. That’s his sister, and his old friend was only supposed to pretend to fall in love with her, and now she and Simon are walking away in the direction of goodness-only-knows-where, quite alone, giggling softly.

He’s on the point of running after them when Kate hits his ball in the opposite direction.

“What did you do that for?” He asks her, aggrieved.

“You know perfectly well why I did that.” She manages to shout at him in a whisper, somehow, to reprimand him under her voice. “Hastings is being perfectly gentlemanly, and that side of the fishpond is in full view of the house, and you have nothing to worry about. Now - are you going to cut out of the game to follow them, or are you going to go and fetch your ball?”

“I’m going to fetch my ball.” He admits, sulky like a child. He’s not sure how she won - whether it was that appeal to sense or to his competitive streak - but either way, she certainly has won, so that’s an end to it.

Or - hang on - perhaps not an end to it.

“You’re coming with me.” He adds, hitting her ball in the same direction as his before she can stop him.

She sighs theatrically. “Of course. Of course I’m coming with you.”

He grins at her. She’s all the more beautiful when she’s exasperated with him, he’s decided. That sort of fondness and warm annoyance is one of the foundation stones of their friendship.

She’s smiling and shaking her head, both at once, as they walk off in the direction of their lost balls.

It turns out their destination is not so practical as that long grass by the fishpond where Simon and Daphne have wandered off. By contrast, Anthony has managed to send Kate’s ball right into a deep patch of mud, surrounded by undergrowth, well-hidden from the rest of the party by dense trees.

So - not an open plain in full view of the house, in other words. Not an adequately chaperoned situation at all.

That thought hits Anthony, hard, the moment he realises they’re out of view of the house and the lawn. In all the months he’s known Kate - and lusted after her - they’ve never been alone together like this. They’ve always had the implicit protection of a curious audience or an open doorway to stop him from doing anything foolish.

This morning, there’s only his restraint and his respect for her standing between here and ruin.

It’ll be fine. He does respect her enough not to actually leap at her the moment they are without an audience. She’s a good, principled lady, and he’s a gentleman who doesn’t touch a woman who’s unwilling, and -

“Give me your hand.” Kate says, sudden, firm.

He blinks at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your hand, Anthony. I need your help stepping free of this mud. While you’ve been woolgathering - fretting about your sister, no doubt - some of us have been attempting to extricate our ball.” She concludes, with one of those fond frowns.

He looks down, tries to take stock of the situation.

Ah. She is indeed stuck in the mud. She’s up past her ankles, her fine gown utterly ruined, and she’s managed to hit her ball free but now she’s stuck instead.

He carefully steels himself to hold out his hand. He’s going to have to mentally prepare for it, he realises. Touching hands with her - even wearing gloves - while they’re all alone with no audience can only be a challenge for his sanity.

He takes a deep breath and does it.

No. A disaster. He wasn’t prepared enough, wasn’t prepared for this. She’s tugging at his hand - obviously she’s tugging at his hand, because she wants help stepping free of the mud - but instead of helping her out he’s leaning closer. He’s allowing himself to be pulled towards her, and now she’s leaning in towards him, and his eyelids are fluttering closed as he reaches in for a -

He’s falling. He’s lost his balance and he’s tumbling down into the mud. She’s falling with him, laughing as she goes, her hand squeezing his all the while.

The two of them end up lying side-by-side in the mud, hands clasped, laughing up at the canopy of oaks above them.

Honestly? Anthony’s quite relieved. While he’s lying here, laughing, covered in mud, he can’t possibly attempt to seduce her. He’s not going to lose control and risk ruining her while he’s such an absolute mess.

So - it’s a relieved laugh, as well as an amused one.

“Well - I call this a great success. I daresay, for a moment there, you were laughing too hard to worry about your sister.” Kate offers, as she regains control of her breathing.

For a moment there, he was worrying about her more than Daphne. He was fretting about Kate, his protectiveness warring with his desire, the whole tortured mess of it close to overwhelming him.

He wonders whether he should say anything - anything about the kiss, that is. The kiss which so nearly happened, then, just a moment ago.

The kiss she wanted, too.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’s a gentleman, still craving the approval of a father long since dead, and so very frightened that he’d lose this wonderful friendship if he put Kate's reputation at risk.

So he crawls free of the mud and offers her the handle of his mallet to pull her clear, too.

That’s quite a lot safer than a hand, he decides. In fact - he’s not at all sure why he didn’t think of it in the first place.

And when she’s out of the mud, and she’s starting to stomp back towards the house, mud clots falling from her delicate slippers all the time, he takes a risk. He reaches for his handkerchief, handles it as little as possible with his own dirty fingers, holds it out and passes it over to her without ever touching her hand.

“Here. You have mud on your cheek.” He tells her, neutral as he can.

“Oh. Thank you.” She says, equally level, as if this is a perfectly commonplace conversation for the siblings of two diamonds to have, all alone in the woods on his family land. As if they’re on handkerchief sharing terms, and as if nothing at all remarkable just happened - or nearly happened.

He throws her a strained smile and keeps on walking.

…….

He’s in an odd, off sort of mood all the rest of the day.

Obviously he is. What other sort of mood is a man going to be in, under such circumstances? He’s watched his sister wander off in private with his good friend, almost accidentally kissed his other good friend, and then spent the whole day pretending to be unaffected by the entire situation.

He’s failing at that. He knows he’s failing. He fears he was quite sour, all through dinner, and now he’s spent two hours sitting in his study pretending to work on the estate accounts.

As if he’d be so lax as to leave such business sitting around in need of his attention, late at night, while there are visitors staying. He’s a more dutiful Viscount than that, thank you very much. He keeps his work well-ordered.

But for tonight, it suits his purpose to pretend he has vital business to attend to. He excused himself shortly after dinner, and he’s been sitting here by lamplight ever since.

It’s nearing midnight when he hears a knock at his study door.

“Who’s there?” He calls out, puzzled. 

His mother is usually in bed far earlier than this, and his brothers never knock. Those are the only people who ever enter his study.

No response. Instead, the door eases open, and Kate’s face appears around the doorframe.

Ah. That does make sense. She wouldn’t risk calling out - she’d be ruined if someone heard her. Or - perhaps not, seeing as they are entirely among family - but all the same, it would make for an interesting set of questions.

“Come in.” He whispers softly.

She does. She strides straight into his study as if she owns the place.

Even that makes his throat go dry, somehow. Even this sight of her walking is enough to get him hot under the collar, at this point.

He certainly needs to find a new mistress when he gets back to town.

“What brings you here?” He asks plainly. That’s not quite rude, he hopes - he’s a bit more careful about things like that, these days - but he does rather want to know why on earth the object of his dirtier dreams is currently wandering into his study at midnight.

“I thought I had better return your handkerchief. I wondered about laundering it, but it occurred to me that we might face difficult questions if my mother or Lady Danbury noticed I was in possession of it, so I decided to return it to you as soon as possible.”

“Ah. Yes. Quite right.”

She doesn’t walk across the room to place it on his desk, though. Quite the opposite - she stands there, just inside the door, simply holding it in her hand outstretched towards him.

It occurs to him, quite suddenly, that it’s a deliberate act on her part. That she’s daring him to go over there and take it off her.

That she knows something is afoot, and she’s determined not to make this easy for him.

Very well. If she’s set on teasing him, he’ll rise to her challenge. He pushes his chair back from his desk as silently as he can manage. He gets to his feet, slowly, carefully, preparing himself for the task ahead of him.

He takes two steps around the desk, then four forward. Pauses, meets her eye, reassesses the situation.

Yes. Definitely a deliberate challenge.

He walks forward three steps more. She’s still standing there, barely in front of the door, holding that damn handkerchief out before her.

He’s there, now. He’s reaching out, palm open, inviting her to do the easy thing and drop the handkerchief into his fingers.

She does not choose to do so.

He should have known she’d make it difficult - or that she’d have the courage to challenge him properly, perhaps. As he reaches out she actually clasps her hands around his wrist, actually holds him there, dangerously close to her.

He could pull away if he wanted to. Needless to say, he doesn’t.

She’s the one who breaks the silence. “Earlier, in the woods -”

“Yes?”

“I - you know.”

He nods. He does know, but he’s not about to say it out loud in words.

She tries again. “I thought maybe you wanted to…”

“I did.” He agrees, leaning closer - intimately close. “And you did, too. And yet nothing happened, because we know it mustn’t.”

“Why not?”

He growls. She’s dangerously brave - has been ever since she rode past him too quickly, that first morning - and that’s probably one of the reasons he’s mad for her.

“I trust you.” She adds, more dangerous still. “And besides - haven’t we always managed to hush things up when it mattered?”

He closes his eyes a moment, but that’s no better. With his eyes closed he’s somehow more aware of the scent of her, the feel of her hand in his. Where did that handkerchief go? When did she stop clasping his wrist, and when did he take hold of her hand?

He opens his eyes again, and that’s even worse. She’s too close, too stunningly beautiful, filling his every sense.

He takes a shaky breath.

“I am a gentleman -”

“Yes.” She agrees.

He sighs. That was supposed to be a point, damn it. She wasn’t supposed to just agree and keep looking at him like that anyway.

“I am a gentleman, and…” He trails off. He doesn’t have a point. He was going to say something about respect and ruination, perhaps, but suddenly it occurs to him that fucking her could be a sort of way of worshiping her, and that’s a little like respect, and -

And he’s teetering right on the brink of sanity, here.

“Please?” She asks, and it wrecks him utterly. “Just this once? Our little secret?”

That’s it. That’s the moment his self-control collapses, perhaps - or is it the moment his trust in her wins out? His confidence that the world is a safe sort of place when he’s with her, free from expectations and disappointments and unintended consequences?

Either way, that’s the moment he accepts the inevitable. He’s going to ruin the lady he respects most in all the world, right here in his study.

He doesn’t quite slam her against the door, but it’s a close run thing. He presses her urgently back against it, leans in for an eager kiss even as he fumbles with the door lock down by her hip.

There. Door safely locked. Their little secret. No one can interrupt them.

He can concentrate on kissing her, now.

Her lips are somehow soft yet firm, just as he knew they would be. Her kiss is such a blend of innocence and confidence, tenderness and fire - exactly as he dreamed it would be, only better for being real flesh and blood.

She’s got her hands in his hair, too. He wasn’t expecting that part. His hair is short, and she was teasing him about his appearance only a month or so ago, and he did not expect her to be so fervently running her hands across his scalp, tangling in his hair as best that close crop allows.

He tries to match her fervour. He’s not sure he succeeds, honestly. It’s all he can do to kiss her firmly, to reach for her waist and hips with eager hands to pull her close.

She moans loudly, then seems to realise her mistake. She freezes, her lips suddenly still against his.

“You’re perfectly safe.” He whispers against her cheek. “No one heard you. Listen - no footsteps in the hall.”

She nods, but she still looks unsettled.

He pulls back, looks her right in the eye.

“It’s midnight, and the door is locked, and we’re going to be as quiet as we can. But there’s no cause to worry, you hear me? You said this would be our little secret, and it will be. I will not allow this to ruin you. There’s nothing to worry about and a great deal to enjoy, I hope.”

“A great deal to enjoy? How modest.” She teases him.

He laughs a self-conscious laugh - but a quiet one, mind you. “I hope so, in any case. Have you - ah - any knowledge of such things? Were you a talented courtesan in a previous life?” He tries for a teasing tone.

“Almost no knowledge at all - and you know how I hate to be at a disadvantage. I’m trusting you to steer me right.” She admits, biting at her lip.

He reaches in, tries to kiss her nerves away. “I’ll do my best. Sometimes I think you are too trusting of me.” He admits - a foolish, ill-timed moment of honesty.

She smiles too softly at that - too knowingly, too silently. Just perfectly, wordlessly showing him that she insists on trusting him even when he’s still learning to trust himself.

He goes back to kissing her. It seems simpler, in this moment, than all that dangerous emotion. He dares to take the lead a little more, too, now that they have established her relative innocence, her determination to put her faith in him.

He’s equal to the task. He must be. Kate is trusting him to take good care of her - and good care of her reputation, too.

He starts undressing her as they keep kissing, starts to let his hands wander higher to her breasts and lower right to the curve of her hips, too. She mimics him, takes her own hands exploring, until she’s tugging urgently at his breeches as if trying to remove them.

Ah. He wasn’t going to remove those yet. His cock is rather hard, and at the minute it’s more or less contained by his clothing, but he doesn’t want to scare her off by unveiling it quite yet. What if -

Hang on - why is he being such a fool?

This is Kate. She doesn’t scare easily.

He pulls back just far enough to unfasten his breeches and let them fall around his ankles. He takes one of her hands, too, and guides it to his cock where it juts out before him.

“Just say hello.” He recommends, trying for a teasing tone. “No need to rub it about or anything. But you’ll be less nervous in a bit if you’ve made his acquaintance.”

“And if I did want to rub it about?”

He laughs. “Another time, perhaps. If you touch it too long today I’ll make a mess of this.” A mess of his rumpled breeches, and also of her first time.

“Very well. So - let me touch this instead?” She asks.

And then she simply grabs at his bare arse. She cups both her hands about it, pulls him abruptly towards her, hips nestled against hips, while she kneads at his buttocks.

He should have expected that, perhaps. He should have foreseen that playful little echo of the day they met, of the times she’s teased him about it since. He laughs lightly into the kiss, more than happy to let her have her way with him for a few minutes.

At length, her hands start to wander again, and he decides it’s time for the next act. He leads her towards the couch, nudges at her shoulders and encourages her to sprawl over it.

“Sorry it’s not a bed.” He offers, in passing.

“I’m not inclined to complain.” She whispers, light and easy.

He grins. He’s still grinning, in fact, when he gets his face between her legs. When he feels her stiffen and hears her sigh, both at once, as if she can’t tell whether this is wonderful or deeply, deeply strange.

He looks up, tries to meet her eye, tries desperately to determine whether this is acceptable to her. He seems to remember he was a more selfish sort of lover, back in his rakish days, but tonight he’d give anything to know she’s enjoying herself as much as he is.

She’s peeping a cautious grin at him, so he carries on.

She sighs again, a little louder, then cuts herself off abruptly as if remembering to stay quiet. He reaches up with a hand, clasps her fingers in his and gives them what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze.

He takes his other hand to her hips to hold her still and steady. He might reach for her breasts later, perhaps, because she does have very lovely breasts, but for now it seems more important to encourage her to relax and stay still so he can make this good for her.

She gets wound up quickly. Or - it feels quick. It feels quick in as much as time always passes quickly when having fun. Now he thinks on it, he supposes they have been playing around together for quite a while, now.

That is to say - they’ve been playing around for a while this evening, in addition to the months of sexual tension ever since they met.

He slightly loses the plot when she starts bucking her hips against his face, as if to ride him, as if to reach for more pressure. He’s squirming as he kneels between her legs, desperately hoping to butt his cock up against the couch, to find some friction and rub against it.

She’s there. He can feel her climax fluttering against his face. He’s trying to ease her through it, squeezing her hand firmly all the while.

She’s coming down the other side, laughing a breathless laugh, turning it into a satisfied groan. It’s the most beautiful tangle of sounds he’s ever heard, he decides at once.

He pulls his face away and looks up at her, grinning and smug.

He’s utterly incapable of forming words at this point, he realises. It’s all he can do to shuffle up the couch, cover her body with his own, and dive into a filthy kiss.

She keeps up with him well, to her credit. She’s perhaps dazed for a moment and then she catches the rhythm of the kiss, reaches for his bare buttocks, too, and gives them a squeeze which is fast becoming familiar.

He gets his hips aligned over hers and simply slips his cock into place.

“That part’s supposed to hurt.” She observes, in the voice of a person who’s clearly not in pain.

“I beg your pardon?” He whispers the question against her ear.

“Ladies say that part hurts. I may know very little, but I know that part. I was worried about it.” She tells him, matter of fact.

“I believe that’s the purpose of the warm-up. It hurts less if you’re relaxed and enjoying it.” He offers, trying not to sound too smug.

He fails. He knows she’s going to tease him about it, even before she does.

“Ah - I see. How modest of you to remind me I’m enjoying myself.” She jokes, patting affectionately at his arse once again.

She’s really going to need to stop doing that. She’s messing with his rhythm, his self-control, his sanity.

He admits defeat and fucks her faster.

He tries to keep kissing her, too. He thinks that will be essential for keeping himself quiet. He did well enough at that, while he had his face on her cunt, but now he’s up here and she’s moaning into the kiss, he’s finding it quite a challenge to hold his tongue.

“Kate. Kate.”

“Mhmm?”

“FF-rr.” He sort of half-growls, somewhere between a curse and a groan.

“How coherent. How deeply eloquent.” She teases - and this time she actually slaps his arse, just softly, the sound of it ringing quietly around the study.

He loses it utterly, at that point, frankly. His hips are moving faster, sloppier. His hands are grabbing at her breasts, his lips kissing her eagerly, and he’s letting out the most agitated stream of curses and compliments and her beautiful, dangerous name.

It gets better. Somehow, unbelievably, it does.

He must be getting too loud. She must have decided that, because suddenly, all at once, her hand is pressed across his mouth to quiet him. He’s kissing her hand, still groaning her name, and he can feel her climaxing a second time but still he goes on fucking into her.

No. He needs to pull out now - that’s important. She trusts him. He needs to repay that trust and take good care of her, like he said he would.

He pulls out just in time to spill his seed all over her stomach.

He looks up, perhaps worried at what he might find in her gaze. Will his whole world change, now? There’s no going back from a night like this. He’s fucked his good friend - a respectable lady, to boot, and a guest under his roof - and he fears nothing will ever be the same.

But when he meets her eye, he sees the same familiar expression there. That same mix of humour and kindness and firm, unyielding bravery he sees whenever he looks at her.

As soon as he’s seen that, he realises he still knows the script.

“So - what do you think? Did my backside live up to expectations?” He asks warmly.

She laughs, as he knew she would. “Hmm. I believe so. It’s difficult to say, since I wasn’t being nailed against a tree in the middle of Hyde Park. It’s not the same experience, is it?”

“Perhaps we’ll have to sample that another day.” He offers lightly. She did say just this once, but he thinks it’s possible he might die of deprivation if he never gets to experience Kate’s naked body again.

No. He’s being a fool. Mustn’t be a fool.

He reaches in for one last, languid kiss, then turns to survey his study. He’d better clean her up, then help her dress, then see her on her way back to her room without anyone noticing. 

He stands up, casts around the floor by the door until he finds that handkerchief. He arrives back to the couch before Kate has even stood up, sets about wiping his seed off her stomach with gentle strokes.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me.” She murmurs, actually reaches out to squeeze his shoulder as she says it.

He swallows hard. He’s not equipped to deal with trust or sentiment on that sort of scale, not outside of that frantic, charged scene before they fell to pulling each other’s clothes off. Here and now, in the aftermath, he’s fast remembering that he’s a gruff sort of Viscount who is ill-equipped to handle such emotions.

“You’re welcome. I wouldn’t want to disappoint. And - here - it’s a good thing you thought to return this handkerchief.”

She laughs obligingly. She squeezes his shoulder again, and he pats absently at her stomach.

Hmm. Yes. Enough of this - this dangerous, stunted warmth.

He had best help her retrieve her clothes.

…….

He’s supposed to go about his business as normal, the next day. He’s supposed to simply live his life, as if he didn’t have the most pleasurable encounter of his entire nine-and-twenty years on the couch in his study last night.

That’s quite a challenge, it turns out.

It’s rendered all the more challenging by the arrival of the rest of the ton. Dozens of high-society families arrive at his home, bright and early, in time to go hunting.

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to aim a gun when he can’t stop thinking about Kate Sharma’s hand smothering his moans.

The most difficult part of all, it turns out, is another Kate problem - one more Kate problem to add to the problem she’s posing him simply by existing, these days, that is. A rather more complicated and delicate problem, where there doesn’t seem to be a correct answer.

The whole party is taking tea on the lawn, about to go out hunting, when Miss Edwina approaches him for a most unexpected conversation. Indeed - the fact she wants to speak to him at all is quite the surprise. They have rarely spoken at length in the course of his acquaintance with her sister or the friendship between their two families.

“I believe I must ask you a favour on behalf of my sister, My Lord.” She tells him, all demure and visibly nervous.

He frowns. “What favour might your sister want that she can’t ask for on her own behalf?” He asks, puzzled. Since when does Kate mince words with him? Is this all because he had his face between her legs last night?

“There is something she would ask you, but she’s demurring because she doesn’t want to put you in a difficult situation. It’s about the day’s hunt.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“Kate likes to hunt - indeed, she loves the sport.” Miss Edwina says outright. “I know she would dearly like to ride out with the hunt today, but she doesn’t want you to be embarrassed to have a lady on the field. I told her she ought to ask you anyway - you’ve been such a generous host, I can’t imagine you disappointing her on the grounds of her sex.”

Yes - indeed, he can’t even bear to hear disappointing and sex in the same sentence, where Kate is concerned.

“Naturally I don’t wish her to be disappointed. But - ah - this is all most irregular. Are you sure she wishes to hunt? Does she have considerable experience of hunting? I don’t understand why she has not brought this to my attention herself.”

“As I said, My Lord - we value the friendship of the Bridgerton family, and my sister values her friendship with you in particular. She didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

He might like her to put him in an uncomfortable position, he muses. He might like to be just the perfect sort of uncomfortable with Kate braced between a tree and his thighs, with -

No. Damn it. Back to the conversation at hand.

“She’s welcome to join us, of course. I’ll go and tell her as much - and tell her that she had better tell me outright, next time she wants to ask something, rather than fretting about it to her sister.” He decides, somewhere between exasperated and genuinely somewhat annoyed.

“That’s what I said.”

He nods, sets out to find Kate and have it out with her. A good constructive argument with her is one of his favourite things in the world, after all.

Indeed, he likes arguing with her almost as much as he likes bedsport with her, it turns out.

……..

He never does find the opportunity to argue it out with her, not really.

In fact, as the day draws on, he has no real opportunity for private conversation with her at all.

He’s frustrated about that. He’s frustrated that Benedict has chosen this day to be attentive to propriety and chaperone them closely, that Simon has decided to join the hunt rather than sit around on the terrace with Daphne. He knows he ought to be glad about both of those things - and indeed, he’d raise difficult questions if he let slip that he was frustrated about them - but he’s in an ill humour all the same.

An entire day within a few yards of Kate but unable to speak privately with her is a special kind of torture, he has decided.

She’s driving him mad, honestly. He’s not sure whether she’s doing it deliberately, but as they spend the day riding and then deer stalking she keeps shooting him impertinent little glances, with her riding hat pinned at a tantalisingly jaunty angle atop her head.

He’s never found a lady’s hat tantalising before now, and he’s certain it’s a symptom that he’s losing his mind.

……..

It’s even worse at dinner.

His mother has made a formal seating plan by precedence, tonight, now that they have so many nobility present. There’s no room in such an arrangement for the unconventional friendship her son rarely admits to out loud.

So it is that Kate drives him mad from half way down the table, instead.

She must be doing it deliberately, he thinks - although he couldn’t rightly say what it is. There’s something new in her eyes, perhaps, after that interlude in his study last night. A new confidence, a new sort of challenge - and yet a warmth and softness, too.

He’s being a fool. He shouldn’t sit here all frustrated and needy. He’s a man of action, isn’t he?

As soon as the whole party meets for coffee in the drawing room after dinner, he sets about resolving his situation. He simply marches up to Kate, holding a coffee cup outstretched towards her as if that is the reason for his approaching her. As if he’s simply a kind and generous host who wants his guest to feel well provided for.

As if he’s not being greedy here, not demanding something for himself.

“My study again? Midnight?” He whispers the simple question.

“Tempting.” She murmurs back to him, even as she accepts the cup with a carefully polite smile.

“That’s an unhelpful answer.” He argues cheerfully.

She laughs a short laugh. “Yes, it is. And - yes, I’ll be there. Now go and stare daggers at Hastings for a while - we don’t want to attract notice.”

He tries not to look too noticeably happy, as he walks away. Indeed, he tries to do as she suggested and fix a frown on his face, tries to concentrate on noticing that Daphne and Simon are sitting together on a couch and laughing softly.

Well - as long as that’s all they're using the couch for, he’s not inclined to complain. Indeed, he’s feeling far too cheery to complain about anything much, all of a sudden.

He must just endure a couple more hours of this, and then he can go and teach Kate a few more of the ways a couch can be used.

…….

She arrives at eleven fifty-five, in the end - and Anthony knows that’s an accurate timing, because his father’s pocket watch says as much. Perhaps that means she wants this as much as he does, or perhaps he’s reading too much into a little accidental earliness.

“Evening.” He greets her with a grin.

“What a surprise to find you here.” She jokes, locking the door behind her.

He pauses a moment. He’s not sure what’s supposed to happen next. Should they just… get to it? Might he claim a few minutes of her conversation and company first, after a whole day without any particular or private words shared between them?

Should they talk about what they are doing, perhaps? Do they need to address the fact that this very meeting stands in contrast to just this once?

As if hearing his thoughts, Kate picks up a similar theme.

“We run more risk in meeting like this while the house is full of guests.” She points out, frowning lightly.

“Yes. But I trust in our expertise as secret-keepers.” He argues. “And besides - the damage is already done by you being here at all, is it not? Now that you’re actually in the room and you’ve locked the door behind you, we might as well enjoy ourselves.”

She seems to like that argument. She looks a little more sure of herself, as she crosses the room towards him.

In fact, by the time she arrives at his desk she appears very confident indeed. As soon as she’s within arm’s length of him, she simply sits herself in his lap.

Hmm. He likes that more than he should. He’s not even sure there’s anything sexual about it - just comforting, somehow, after a long day spent missing her.

He wraps his arms around her, invites her wordlessly to settle into his embrace. She does, leaning right in, resting her head atop his. She’s too tall for this to be an easy position, perhaps, but he likes it all the more for that. He’s not wrapped all around her and encompassing her like she needs sheltering from the world - rather, they are tangled together, supporting each other by equal turns.

“I missed your conversation at dinner.” He offers, careful, neutral.

“I missed your laughter on the hunt. You looked quite strained, considering we were surrounded by your brothers and good friends.”

“Yes. I think Simon might actually like Daphne.” He admits the horrific truth out loud at last - after all these weeks of refusing to see what is right beneath his nose.

“An understatement, I think, Anthony.” Kate offers mildly.

He nods. She’s not wrong. But he’s not ready to discuss anything bigger or more dangerous than that, not yet.

“I’ll try to speak with him when we’re back in town. But I can’t bear to do it this week - everyone is at once busy and fretful about all the arrangements for this party, but having a jolly time. I’ve neither the strength nor the inclination to ruin it.”

“Yes. I’ve decided that’s how I feel about Edwina and Mr Bagwell. If she doesn’t take a liking to any nobleman this week, then I will speak to her when we return to town. I have promised myself I will.”

“Perhaps we might practise our lines together, when the time comes.” He suggests, even though he knows they won’t.

He has a very high opinion of Kate, but he knows that her one and only flaw is that she can’t bear to upset her sister, that she’ll procrastinate and hide the truth for eternity rather than risk one difficult conversation with a person she cares about.

He knows that, because he is very much the same. Or - the same, but with a dozen more flaws beside, like gruffness and impatience and a tendency to take good women for granted.

She doesn’t dignify his words with an answer. She simply sits, and so he sits, too, and holds her softly.

He’d happily sit like this all night, if only he wasn’t so desperate to teach her so much more about the potential uses of a couch.

All the same, he knows he must offer her the choice.

“I believe it’s important that you know I have no… expectations. You’re always most welcome to come and sit in my study and simply talk.” He enunciates each word carefully, tries not to run his hands up and down the length of her bare arms all the while. That would probably not support his point, he fears.

She laughs softly. “That’s very gentlemanly of you, I’m sure. But we will have plenty of opportunities for conversation back in town. Opportunities to lock the door and learn more of lovemaking are limited to house parties, by contrast.”

He doesn’t keep her waiting any longer. He was determined not to rush into anything, yesterday, he seems to remember. But now, just one day later, this feels like a safe and solid part of their routine.

That’s dangerous, probably.

All the same, he gets on with kissing her. He can’t reach too well from here, so he’s kissing her neck and collarbones more than her lips, tucking himself into that crook under her chin and soaking in the scent of her.

Have they only been intimate together once before? He already feels like he has mapped her body perfectly.

She’s sighing softly, twisting in his lap to reach him better. She has her hands threaded through his short hair again, grasping at the roots, as if that particular move is already an important part of their routine, to her.

She reaches down to give him better access to her lips for a long, languid kiss.

This is such a perfect fit after all the frustrations of the day, he decides. It’s so slow and tender and peaceful, somehow, in a way he never knew lying with a woman could be peaceful before.

He starts stroking a gentle hand up her leg, along her thigh, brings it teasingly close to her cunt.

“That tickles.” She complains without heat.

“Mmm?”

“It tickles well.” She decides instead.

He laughs a little snatch of warm laughter at that, muffles the sound against her neck.

“Go on, then.” She challenges him, actually reaches down to clasp at his arm.

Well - he wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would he?

He makes a slow beginning with his hand, all gentle pressure and teasing circles. She’s fidgeting her hips, trying to give him better access - and teasing his cock into the bargain.

Hmm. He suspects that might be deliberate.

He kisses her deeper, more hungrily. She rises to it, kisses him more firmly in turn. He slips inside her cunt at last, starts really fucking her with his fingers.

It’s a beautiful contrast - the firm and the soft, tangled together. It fits them well, he thinks. He’s handling her pretty harshly, honestly, but the pace is so unhurried and the kisses so easy that the whole mood is still deeply tender, too.

His cock is growing impatient in his breeches, but he’s determined not to dwell on that. He has absolutely resolved that this will be a slow and leisurely sort of -

“Clothes off.” She whispers against his cheek.

“Pardon?”

“We need to get undressed. This is tormenting me something awful.” She tells him, laughing lightly, rubbing herself blatantly against his hardened cock through both their clothes.

He chuckles, buries the sound against her neck - and then does as she asks, of course.

It’s messy. She’s still sitting on his lap, and she doesn’t seem to wish to move. So they undress as best they can in situ - he pulling her skirts right up and scooping her breasts out of her bodice, she tugging uselessly at his breeches until, at last, he rocks his hips and helps her to get his cock springing free.

At last they manage it. He’s bare where it matters, and she’s bare where it matters, and somehow she’s still kissing him all the while.

He steers her into place, feels her slide down onto the length of him. He knows silence is more important than ever, tonight, but all the same he can’t help moaning lightly as she wriggles her hips and settles comfortably.

If he moans loud enough, she might have to press her hand over his mouth again, might have to hold his moans inside.

She starts riding him, careful at first, then fast gaining confidence. He does his best to help her along, to kiss her softly and touch her in all the right places, but honestly, he’s a messy lover tonight. She has him quite undone.

It’s all he can do to groan against her lips and wait for her to stroke him to completion.

She pulls away from the kiss, and he’s briefly disappointed. But then she takes her lips exploring, nibbles lightly on his ear, presses a kiss to the soft skin just behind it, and he hears himself whine a needy whine.

“Good?” She asks simply.

“Perfect, Kate.”

She hums a satisfied sort of hum and keeps moving.

He finds his voice, now she’s not kissing him. He starts soft, whispering her name, murmuring all the praise and encouragement he can think of.

He gets louder, little by little, daring her to hold his words inside.

She doesn’t take his hint. He’s crying her name as loud as he dares, now, and he’s worried he can’t get any louder without attracting attention.

Hmm. Maybe he should just ask her for what he wants.

He takes her hand, squeezes it lightly between his fingers. He brings it up towards his face, presses it lightly over his lips with a challenge in his eyes.

She understands. She pushes back, just the right amount of firm, just enough to hold his moans all bottled up inside.

He’s teetering on the brink, now. He ought to tell her to get up and leave him to spill over his lap - he knows that. A child is a much harder secret to keep than an affair. And he’ll warn her he’s close, really he will, just as soon as -

She’s there. She’s clenching around his cock, crying his name. That’s the first time she’s ever said his name all naked like this, and he likes it more than he ought.

He nudges her urgently off his lap, just in time to spill all over himself in turn.

She sits straight back down, when he’s done. It’s the funniest sight - her carefully arranging her skirts so as not to leave them suspiciously stained, then eagerly plonking herself back down and reaching in for an embrace. The painstaking care and the urgency are at odds, perhaps, but they make for an endearing combination.

“I don’t suppose you brought a spare handkerchief tonight?” He asks.

“I did not. Sorry - I didn’t think of it.”

“No matter. I ought to start keeping one in my desk drawer if this is to become a frequent occurrence.”

She hums - a hum of yes, he realises, not a hum of no.

“I’ll find something to wipe the evidence away in a moment. But I’m in no rush if you’re not.” He offers, carefully light.

“Where would I be rushing?” She asks, because of course she does. Of course she can’t just take the suggestion at face value, without arguing back in turn.

“Kate -”

“I’ll stay a few minutes if it suits you.” She tells him, getting to the point at last.

He answers by wrapping his arms a little more tightly around her, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

“Thank you for allowing me to join the hunt this morning.” She says now, slow and thoughtful. “I keep meaning to say that, but I feel that I’ve barely seen you all day. How can that be, when you’ve been here all along?”

Yes. He rather knows the feeling.

Well - it looks like he is to have his argument about her request to go hunting at last. And frankly, he thinks any argument must be all the better when Kate is sitting half-undressed in his lap.

……..

The following evening is the ball to mark the end of the house party, and Anthony arrives at it determined to improve upon his usual behaviour in one key regard.

Tonight, he’s not going to lurk on the edge of the dancefloor. Tonight he’s going to give himself permission to enjoy a dance.

He walks up to Kate, where she sits on a seat of the sort the two of them would usually occupy throughout an event such as this. But tonight, rather than accepting the empty chair she points to, he holds a hand out to her instead.

“What is the meaning of this?” She asks him, eyes narrowed.

“I’ve decided you’re far too fetching to be sitting around with the chaperones and had much better take to the floor.” He says simply.

She scoffs. “You can talk.”

“Very well, then - will you dance with me?” He asks her the question, all prim and proper.

She’s standing up, now, but she still hasn’t placed her hand in his. She still looks cautious, and perhaps even confused.

“People will notice.” She tells him, in a heated whisper. “People will think it noteworthy if the siblings of both diamonds - one of them a Viscount, the host of this event - should dance the opening set together.”

“I imagine they might. But I believe Lady Whistledown is more likely to comment on the two diamonds themselves, who are currently opening the occasion with their preferred partners.” He argues. “And besides - if anyone says anything to me directly, I shall simply tell them that I enjoy dancing and felt a fancy to take to the floor with a friend of the family who has no expectations of marriage.”

That was the correct thing to say, it seems. She has evidently made her mind up, now, as she places her hand into his - and then starts striding towards the dancing, naturally, until she is almost dragging him as he tries to keep up with proceedings.

She keeps him on his toes, that’s for sure.

He realises within the first few bars that he might, perhaps, have made an error of judgement here. It’s quite difficult to dance with a lady he has undressed a few times lately without making it conspicuous that he knows her body intimately, he fears. 

He simply finds it too easy, too instinctive, to always find her hips with his hands when he must. Whenever he reaches for her shoulder, he finds it exactly where he knew it would be. Whenever she takes his hand, there is a confidence and surety to her grasp.

He fears, in short, that any bystander must see the truth - that they know every inch of each other’s skin, more or less. That they are simply more comfortable and confident around each other than any Viscount and debutante ought to be - and Kate is technically a debutante, for all that she considers herself a spinster, too.

“I don’t see anyone staring at us.” Kate whispers to him now. “I’m surprised at that. I thought we’d be more noteworthy - especially as you do insist upon undressing me with your eyes.”

“I’m doing no such thing.” He answers. “I am the soul of discretion. But I tell you - no one will think our dancing together remarkable. It is well known that neither of us intends to marry, but that our families are on the most familiar terms.”

She doesn’t answer his main point. She seems stuck on something else instead. “The soul of discretion? Really - you? I don’t deny you can keep a secret to protect your family, but you are hardly being discreet about our little affair, tonight.”

“I’m exactly as discreet about that as I need to be. I always lock the door before I dive beneath your skirts, don’t I?”

That breaks her. That has her laughing, loud and long, and shaking her head fondly at him, too.

“Shh, sweetheart. If you appear to be enjoying my company, someone really will notice.” He warns her cheerfully.

She gathers herself, more or less. He sweeps his eyes over the room, finds that, once again, no one seems to be remarking upon their dance or their good humour. The Featheringtons are all staring at Simon and Daphne. Lady Cowper appears to be counting the buttons on Mr Bagwell’s waistcoat.

Ah. Well. Ahm - there’s a certain Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, staring straight at her son across the floor.

Really - doesn’t she have better things to do? Shouldn’t she be watching Daphne instead?

“Don’t look now, but I believe my mother is the only person in the room who thinks our dancing together might be noteworthy. Sod’s law.” He offers, trying to decide whether this presents a problem.

Surely it doesn’t? Surely she wouldn’t start asking impertinent questions and risk getting Kate into difficulties? She very much approves of the Sharmas - hasn’t she always said as much?

“She wouldn’t gossip about me even if she found us in your study herself. She told me only yesterday that she considers me as almost part of the family. I believe you’re worrying without cause again.” Kate tells him gently.

He nods. She’s probably correct. But - he thinks he has a right to worry, thank you very much, when Kate’s good name is at stake.

There’s that, and there’s the fact that his mother would ask all manner of difficult questions about his feelings if she knew the truth.

…….

He fucks Kate again that night.

It helps to think of it in those terms, he finds. It makes this sound within his own head more like a typical affair with a carefree mistress, and less like a dangerous game where he teeters on the edge of ruining that person he likes and respects most in all the world.

He knows it’s anything but. He knows that he’s putting her in danger each and every time he invites her in. He knows, too, that the risk is worse when the house is full of all these nosy guests.

He knows all those things, but he fucks her anyway.

…….

He misses her, when the house party is over, when they all return back to town.

It’s so very different, living nearby and seeing her several times a week, from actually being beneath the same roof. For one thing, there’s no plausible way of manoeuvring a situation where she’s in his study with the door locked behind her, now that they are living their separate lives again.

He knows that, and yet he asks her about it anyway.

It’s a fine morning, and they are walking out in the park, arm-in-arm, following behind their sisters as usual. Simon and Daphne are in the front, Miss Edwina and Mr Bagwell trailing a little way behind as if lacking in spirits, this morning.

Anthony and Kate are having to deliberately drag their feet, in fact, to maintain enough distance for private conversation.

“A shame we are limited to promenades and ballrooms, here in town.” He offers, carefully level.

“And musicales. I know how much you adore an artistic soiree.” She teases, knowing full well that he hates them.

He chuckles, but it lacks a certain lightness.

“You’re quite right, of course - a shame that we have no privacy here. There’s simply no way we can carry on our affair in town.”

He nods. He knows that’s the truth, but he needed to hear her say it out loud. He needed her to have the strength to quash that little voice of optimistic neediness - because frankly, he doesn’t. He’s quite weak at the knees where she is concerned, these days.

“You’re awfully quiet.” She points out, pinching him playfully on the forearm as if to get a rise out of him.

“Sorry. Woolgathering. I was just thinking - perhaps we might invite you all to Aubrey Hall again this summer. It’s not very long until the end of the season now.” He suggests.

“Perhaps. But a great deal may happen in those few weeks. If Edwina marries before then, I suppose I’ll go home.”

For the first time in all the months he’s known her, she doesn’t sound happy about that. She doesn’t sound excited, like a lady just biding her time here until she can seize her independence.

He wonders what happened. Has she gone off of India, or lost interest in her independence, or else decided England has some redeeming features after all?

He has no idea. But he does know that she’ll stay until Miss Edwina marries - so suddenly, all at once, it occurs to him that it would be in his interests to obstruct Miss Edwina marrying.

It’s the first time he’s ever seen that in such plain terms before. Perhaps he should be urging Mr Bagwell on, to balance out Kate trying to put him off. While Mr Bagwell is Miss Edwina’s most serious suitor, but Kate is set against him because of the dowry problem, this situation may go on for months or even years. Anthony could enjoy several more seasons with his friend, several more house parties with his occasional lover.

That’s selfish, of course, but he finds himself feeling rather desperate.

He swallows hard, tries to get himself under control. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to interfere with Miss Edwina’s prospects. He must just allow the situation to unfold how it will, must be a good and loyal friend to Kate.

He can’t do otherwise. If he were to obstruct Miss Edwina from marrying, he’d have to keep such interference secret from Kate. He’s had no secrets from her for months, now, and he’s suddenly certain that he wouldn’t like it. That he’d hate to undermine the trust they have built up.

All the same - he’s glad Miss Edwina isn’t engaged yet.

……..

Anthony is rather distracted at the Trowbridge ball.

He has a lot on his mind - and most of it shouldn’t be on his mind. Three months ago, he’d have pushed all these tangled thoughts of Kate and her sister’s prospects and his own feelings on the matter aside, and told himself it didn’t signify.

Somehow, he doesn’t mind having grown into a man who thinks such things might be significant, once in a while. A man who can think of something, and know it shouldn’t be a priority, shouldn’t consume him or outweigh his duty, but think of it a little all the same.

He’s decided not to dance with Kate tonight. He thinks it’s too risky, when he hasn’t been able to touch her as he aches to touch her in those few long weeks, now, since they were at Aubrey Hall.

He’s quite convinced he’d combust if he tried to dance with her tonight, and that would probably attract speculation.

He wonders if he ought to tell her that. Was she expecting a dance? Has that become a habit of theirs, now? Will he look a fool if he tells her he can’t stop thinking of her bare skin and eager kisses and needy moans? That he burns for her even to distraction?

He might tell her later, he decides. But for now, the evening has barely begun, and he’s already sorely in need of a break and some fresh air.

Without even taking his usual chaperone seat at Kate’s side, he heads out onto the terrace for a soothing walk in the cool night air.

He feels better, once he’s out of doors. He stands and looks out at the dimly-lit gardens, reflecting that Lady Trowbridge does have rather large grounds for a townhouse.

He wonders whether there’s some dark corner of the rose beds where he and Kate could spend some time together without notice.

No. He shouldn’t ask her. That would be unfair. She deserves better, and he ought to stop moping and go inside to attend to his duties. His mother is probably wondering what’s become of him, and he ought to check that Daphne doesn’t dance the entire evening with Simon.

He still hasn’t gathered the courage for that conversation with Simon about his intentions or feelings.

He sighs. The duties of a Viscount seem very large tonight, and he feels very, very small. This is why he used to wear those ridiculous whiskers, he seems to recall - a sort of armour against nights like this.

So - he’d better find Kate and speak with her about nothing in particular, or perhaps about everything on his mind, or perhaps both at once.

Yes. Very good. He’ll do that. That will fix it.

He’s just turning back to the house when he sees the lady herself run towards him, breathless, visibly distressed.

“Kate? I was just coming to find you. What on earth is the matter?”

“It’s Daphne. I lost her in the crowd - or… her and Hastings. I haven’t seen them in twenty minutes at least, and she’s not in the powder room.”

He swallows hard, already half way to panic. Last time he lost Daphne at an event such as this, that cad Berbrooke was attacking her, and -

“Breathe, Anthony. Come - it could be worse. We know the two of them are likely together. We simply need to find them and obtain a straight answer about his intentions.”

Ah. Yes. That straight answer he’d have obtained at least six weeks ago, now, if he were a better brother and Viscount.

“You looked in the powder room, you said?”

“I believe I have checked the inside of the house quite well. I think they’re more likely out here somewhere.”

“It is a good garden for a tryst. I was just thinking about suggesting as much to you.” He says darkly.

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, and under the circumstances he doesn’t blame her. She simply strides off into the dimly lit garden, off the terrace and across the lawn.

“Take care. It’ll do no one any good if you fall and twist your ankle in the dark.” He reprimands her firmly.

She ignores him and goes on walking.

He runs to catch up, wonders where they ought to try first. Where would a couple go for some privacy? Where would he and Kate have gone, if they’d come out here for that purpose?

No. That comparison makes him uncomfortable, so he leaves it alone.

“The maze.” Kate hisses in a whisper. “I believe I can hear some noise from the maze.”

He turns in that direction. Yes - he believes she might be right. He breaks into a run again, rushes around the corner of a hedge and up to the entrance.

He is struck by the most uncomfortable sight he’s ever seen.

That’s Daphne, and that’s Simon, and they’re sharing the filthiest kiss he’s ever witnessed. He can actually hear his sister moaning, and Simon’s hands are all over her, and - 

And it’s clearly entirely consensual, but all the same, he’s suddenly furious and frightened and feels an utter failure.

“Unhand her!” He hisses, a loud whisper, and actually darts forward to tug at Simon’s shoulders.

His friend and sister break apart, visibly surprised. Kate seems to have caught up, now, and Anthony can feel her hand pulling at his arm, but he presses on regardless.

“You’ll answer for this, Hastings, regardless of our friendship. What were you thinking? She’s my sister and you -”

“I believe we were thinking that we love each other.” Daphne says mildly.

Anthony swallows hard. That’s not reassuring, thank you very much.

“I thought you were set against marriage?” He asks his friend directly.

“I am - was - I hardly know.”

“You’ll marry her. You’ll marry her or - or it’ll be pistols at dawn.” He splutters out, angry, feeling somehow that he has let everyone in his life down, all at once.

That, of course, is the moment Kate speaks up. The moment she tightens her grip on his arm, urges him a couple of steps backwards and starts to talk some sense into him.

“Come, now - don’t do anything rash. There’s nothing to be gained by duelling such a dear friend - especially now your sister has fallen in love with him. Meet with him at a sensible hour tomorrow morning and speak with him about it like rational gentlemen.”

“He’s a rake and he’s seduced my sister.”

“And you’re distressed about that, and you’d do much better to handle it when you’re calm.” She tells him robustly. “Please, Anthony. Remember how much you care about her. I daresay you’d be upset if you handled this badly or forced her into a situation she didn’t want - and I daresay I would be upset if you got yourself killed in a duel.”

Would she? That’s reassuring. He may have failed to take care of his sister, may have failed to protect her from a rake averse to marriage, but at least Kate would miss him if he was shot dead at dawn.

Hmm - and he a rake who seduced her, not so long ago. The irony of it is not lost on him.

“I can certainly call on you at home tomorrow to - ah - discuss this further.” Simon offers, unusually contrite.

“We’ll all meet at Lady Danbury’s. You may want the support of your family.” Anthony suggests - or at least, his friend may want the support of the matriarch who is as good as family to him, just as Anthony realises he will need Kate at his side if there is any hope of him reaching a level-headed resolution to all this.

It’s the strangest thing. With her here as his rock, there’s no need to be so frightened of failure, so he gives himself a better chance of success. It’s not that she makes him a better man, not quite.

It’s that she gives him the confidence to let loose the better man who’s been hiding inside all along.

But - it doesn’t signify, truly. She’s just his friend and sometimes mistress.

Yes. Well. It’s a jolly good thing he wasn’t found kissing her in a maze tonight.

…….

They reach a successful conclusion the following morning, more or less.

Simon says he’d be overjoyed to marry Daphne, if Daphne can accept him flaws and all - that he’s a former rake, that he has no intention of fathering children, that he earnestly loves her but fears he’s not adept at showing it.

Daphne decides she loves him regardless, and so the engagement is sealed.

Anthony finds it all quite troublesome, frankly. There’s a lot of sentiment in the air, lots of talk from the two of them as they fret about whether they can give the other the life they want or deserve, whether love is enough to overcome a few hurdles along the way.

He watches them and thinks this is why he can’t be doing with marriage, nor love, nor any of it. It’s all so messy and tiresome.

He remarks as much to Kate, more or less, as the whole party walks back to Lady Danbury’s front door.

“This has been a most uncomfortable and unpleasant sort of situation.” He mutters, gruff. “With Daphne’s season turning out like this, I hate to think how troublesome Eloise’s will be.”

“You were always going to find it uncomfortable, whenever one of your siblings first married. You’re very protective of them, and this is the first time you have had to handle such decisions and choose to give your blessing to one of them.”

“He’s a cur and he doesn’t deserve her.”

“He’s also one of your closest friends.”

He laughs a dry laugh. “I’m aware. Probably I will remember that more easily in a year or two from now, when they are happily settled and this does not feel so new and alarming.”

She snorts a dry sort of chuckle, unimpressed, but miraculously fond of him anyway.

He turns to her, lets his eyes linger perhaps a moment too long over her face.

“I’m very grateful for you this morning. I suppose I’m grateful for you more often than I say it in general, but this morning I am particularly grateful.”

“I think we’re past the point of having to thank each other for such support and friendship, Anthony. If I thanked you every time you reminded me that I’m not actually an aged spinster or that I haven’t entirely failed in raising my sister, we’d be here all day.”

He frowns at her. Does he do that a lot? He’s quite convinced the benefits of their relationship are all on his side, actually.

Well. There. Perhaps that’s a bit of good news for a wretched Wednesday - Kate does actually think his friendship is worthwhile, is something to be grateful for.

He was beginning to fear she might think he was more trouble than he’s worth.

…….

The next three weeks spent planning Simon and Daphne’s wedding gives Anthony far too much opportunity to reflect on the nature of their marriage.

His conclusion? He absolutely must not ever - not under any circumstances - touch Kate here in town where they might be caught.

That’s a shame, of course, but it’s simply necessary. Her independence is important to her, as is her dream of returning home. He’d never forgive himself if his selfish desires ruined her future happiness and trapped her here.

All the same - it’s difficult. He wants her, and he knows she wants him too, and they do spend a good deal of time sitting scarcely six inches away from each other in drawing rooms or ballrooms, or else walking arm-in-arm through the parks of London.

Today is another such day. The sun is shining, and the sky is blue, and Anthony and Kate are making a point of chaperoning the happy couple and demonstrating to all the world that nothing improper has occurred.

And all the while, Anthony is muttering improper nonsense to Kate under his breath.

“I miss your lips. Have I told you that, lately? It’s maddening, all this time spent in conversation where I can watch but not touch.” He grumbles, petulant, like a spoiled child - but knowing she’ll tease him for it rather than despise him.

“Really - my lips? That is all you miss?” She counters, all bright and playful.

He growls slightly. He doesn’t mean to. It just happens.

“Do you ever… touch yourself?” He asks outright.

She throws him an unimpressed sort of look. “I do, and you must know I do, and I’ll thank you not to tease me about it.”

He growls again. He ought not let that become a habit, he decides.

“I suppose you’ve found yourself another mistress by now. It’s been some months since Whistledown reported you’d broken it off with that opera singer.” She says now, in a tone he can’t entirely read.

He shoots a glance at her, tries to read her face. No luck there, either.

“I haven’t, as it happens. I think you’ve ruined me for opera singers. And - well - I suppose I’ve been quite busy with all these family matters.”

“Oh. I see.”

He doesn’t know what she sees - the same old view of Hyde Park and playful ducks they see three times a week or more, he presumes.

Only - she said it in a tone which smacked of more than ducks, he fears.

“Kate?”

“It’s nothing. I simply presumed you’d found someone else to warm your bed. I’m unaccustomed to being wrong.” She jokes feebly.

“Well - you were. Wrong, that is.”

She doesn’t say anything in response to that, and frankly he doesn’t blame her.

Silence sits. He wonders where to steer the conversation now, whether there’s anything he might say to secure her company in his study next time he invites her family to Aubrey Hall, at least.

She beats him to it. Of course she does. She’s rather competitive like that.

“So - if you’ve no mistress at present, perhaps you’ve been keeping company with your own right hand, too?” She suggests.

He wonders about correcting her that he’s got no mistress for the foreseeable future. That it’s not just an at present sort of thing, but a vague sense that perhaps dallying with opera singers is not the thing to be doing now he’s taking his duties a bit more seriously, now he’s more at ease in his role as Viscount, and now that he’s found a good friend he likes better than any opera singer in the world.

But that seems dangerous, so he simply nods.

“So - tonight at midnight? What do you say - together and yet two streets apart? A chance to keep each other company in spirit if not in person? You in your study and me in my bedchamber, perhaps?”

He actually groans out loud in the middle of Hyde Park.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She tells him, audibly smug.

“A resounding yes. Definitely. Our little secret.” He adds for old time’s sake.

“Have you any particular plans?” She asks, all nonchalant and dangerous.

He spends the next ten minutes describing in detail everything he’d like to do to her, every inch of her skin he’d like to touch, if only their situation allowed. She rises to his challenge in turn, gives a most thorough account of exactly how she’d like to handle his cock. She really is a most remarkably effective mistress, even at distance, and it’s all he can do to will himself not to grow erect inside his breeches.

So - that’s how he spends a morning promenading around Hyde Park whilst engaged in a most pleasant conversation of uninterrupted filth.

It’s remarkable what a pair of chaperones can get away with, when all eyes and ears are on the diamonds.

……..

The season ends with Simon and Daphne married and fast on the way to happiness, and Anthony is distinctly relieved about that.

He’s rather distressed for Kate, though. Miss Edwina is still unmarried, because Mr Bagwell is the only gentleman she’s taken much liking too, and Kate has been trying to unobtrusively put him off all season because of that secret about the dowry.

She’s growing increasingly fretful about it, as the weeks pass by, and Anthony is doing his best to be a support to her. She’s been his absolute rock, at times, this season, and he thinks it’s about time he did his best to hold her steady in turn.

“I simply don’t know what to do.” Kate tells him, for perhaps the tenth time this week, as they turn back towards the house.

He resists the urge to point out she could just be honest with her sister. He realises that would be unhelpful at best - clearly she can’t simply come out and say it, or she’d have done it by now.

He knows a thing or two about keeping dangerous secrets, so he leaves that option well alone and invites her to discuss a few other ideas.

“If Mr Bagwell decides he loves her enough to marry her without the dowry, all this would be solved. He’s quite a wealthy gentleman.” He offers now.

“True. But that still leaves me with quite a situation to explain - and most likely with my sister refusing to speak to me ever again.”

“I find that unlikely.” He argues. “She’d be annoyed for a while, yes, but she does love you deeply. I know you find it difficult to discuss this with her, but if it does come up, I don’t imagine she’ll disown you.”

“It’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I’m not like you - I don’t have six other siblings for company if I have a bad argument with one.” She frets.

He nods. He supposes nodding is about all he can do, here. He reaches out to cover her hand where it rests on his arm, too. He’d hold her in his arms for a while, if he could, but strangely that doesn’t seem wise while they’re promenading through the gates of the park.

“I don’t know what will happen next season.” She offers now.

“I think it’s a fair bet that Eloise will cause chaos and you will be the one to find her and help me hush it up. I’m counting on it, in fact.” He tries for a sort of weak, gallows humour.

It works well enough. She laughs a short laugh, throws him a grateful smile.

“I mean - will Edwina still be the diamond in her second season? I doubt it. A young lady is supposed to find her match in her first season, isn’t she?”

“I believe that might play in your favour. Fewer eyes will be on her, and we’ll have a chance to see whether Mr Bagwell loves her or her status.”

“We will see that, will we?” She asks pointedly.

“I hope I’ll still see you at the chaperone seats rather often.” He tells the ground before him. “I do have sisters due to come out for the next two seasons in succession, so I hope our alliance will endure.”

She nods, tightens her hand on his arm just a little.

They’ve arrived back at Lady Danbury’s townhouse, now. Miss Edwina and Mr Bagwell are walking up the steps in front of them. It occurs to Anthony, quite suddenly, that there is no good reason for his being here this morning. He doesn’t have a sister who is out but unmarried to bring with him on these walks, not any more.

Ah well. Lady Whistledown hasn’t made a fuss about it yet.

He’s grateful that he has no family here, today, because it means they are a smaller party as they arrive into the entrance hall. Miss Edwina and Mr Bagwell have already started to move in the direction of the drawing room for tea by the time Kate gets the door closed behind them and tells the footman that she can manage her own gloves, thank you, and he had better go and see to the drawing room door.

Anthony wonders all at once whether she did that deliberately. Whether she was trying to buy them just a few precious seconds alone behind a closed door.

Closed is not locked, but it’s better than nothing.

He leans closer, makes as if to help her remove her pelisse, but runs a hand over her shoulders until he’s embracing her, instead. She shuffles towards him in turn, leans right into his arm.

“Thank you.” She murmurs, throwing him a strained smile. “I’m sorry - I’ve been poor company today.”

“I’m glad I came over to see you regardless.” He tells her honestly. “We ought to fix a date for your family to visit Aubrey Hall over the summer, I think. Such a trip might take your mind off fretting about your sister’s prospects?”

“I’m not fretting about her prospects.” She argues. “I’m fretting about her dowry, and her relationship with me once she learns the truth. But - yes, while we’re on the subject, a visit to Aubrey Hall would be just the thing.”

He grins. She’s still whole and healthy, more or less, if her first instinct is to argue with him at every turn.

He doesn’t want to let her go. He doesn’t want to reclaim his arm and walk away. This is the very tail-end of the season, and he’s due to leave for Kent in three days, and this is almost certainly the last chance he will have to hold her in a long couple of months.

He steels himself to just do it. There’s only so long a Viscount can embrace the diamond’s sister in the entrance hall of her home before someone sees them. He shoots a careful glance down the hallway, to check that they’re all alone for one last moment.

He presses a swift, soft kiss to her forehead and then pulls resolutely away from her.

…….

Anthony tries very hard not to miss Kate, the first few months of that summer.

It’s difficult, honestly. He’s gone from seeing her several times a week to lasting weeks on end without her.

And it’s all the worse, somehow, because he gets news of her all the time. Because she feels tantalisingly close, somehow, and yet still so far away.

Her name is mentioned every time his mother receives a letter from Lady Danbury, every time Eloise receives one from Kate herself or from Miss Edwina. Occasionally there are even snippets about her buried in letters from Simon or Daphne.

They’re none of them very exciting snippets, to be clear. It’s not as if she has travelled the world or cured consumption. She’s just spending her time at home, as a gentlewoman is supposed to do, but all the same his family apparently feel the need to update him on her health at least twice weekly.

At one point, Eloise even leaves a letter from Kate out, open, on a drawing room side table.

“What’s this?” Anthony asks, even though he knows exactly what it is. Frankly he thinks Eloise ought to fold it neatly and take better care of her correspondence.

“It’s a letter from Kate - just in case anyone else in the family should wish to read it.” She offers, carefully light. “She asks after my family quite often, so I thought there might be general interest. And of course, if any of the family should want to make a report for me to send in my next letter in turn…” She trails off, brows raised expectantly.

Anthony frowns at her. She used the word family altogether too many times, in that little speech, and it no longer sounds like a word.

“Even if I did wish to write to her - which of course I don’t, because I have nothing particular to say to her - it’s very improper for you to even suggest such a thing.”

“And yet you are holding the letter.” She points out.

“It doesn’t signify.” He insists, dropping the guilty letter with a carefully casual air.

“Hmm. Certainly. Read it - she wouldn’t mind.”

“That would be an imposition. You two might have secret matters to discuss.”

Eloise actually laughs at that. “We both know she’s in closer cahoots with you than with me, brother dear. I have been pleasantly surprised to find her such a diligent correspondent this summer. Please - read it, and tell me if there’s anything you would have me say in reply.”

He feels rather uncomfortable about all this, in case that wasn’t clear. But all the same, he misses Kate something awful, so he does scan the page briefly, does offer Eloise a few sentences she might write in reply about his recent rides and about the plans he has made for Kate’s visit.

It’s even more frustrating than sending no message at all, he decides. For the first time in all their acquaintance, this wretched distance means that he and Kate can’t share their secrets. And however many messages he might have his sister or mother add to a letter, he can’t very well replicate the solidity of her hand clasped around his arm, the brightness of laughter in her eyes.

Her visit is planned for the end of the summer, and he has already decided it can’t come quickly enough.

He’s going to spend a lot of time in his study at midnight, this summer.

…….

His mother takes him aside for a word, on much the same topic, some few weeks later.

“Did I overhear Eloise telling you that Miss Sharma sent her best regards - and quite a lengthy message besides?” She asks outright.

“Oh, did you?” He asks, airily light. “I’m sure it doesn’t signify.”

His mother frowns at that, and he doesn’t blame her. It wasn’t the most convincing acting of his life.

“She’s allowed to mean something to you, Anthony. You don’t have to keep pretending it doesn’t signify. You two were thick as thieves together all season and shared the occasional dance besides. It would be perfectly sensible if you missed her now.”

“She’s very fine company, but it’s not as if we are nursing an attachment.” He tells her, and he hopes that’s still true.

He hopes this craving isn’t an attachment. He doesn’t believe in attachments any more than he believes in love matches.

Wise woman that she is, his mother does not engage with that.

“I can move forward her visit if you like.” She suggests instead. “Lady Danbury wrote to suggest exactly the same thing, so it would be no great trouble. I gather she is rather bored of watching Miss Sharma mope around the house without your company in turn.”

“There’s no need, thank you. We ought to stick to our original plans.”

A dutiful Viscount doesn’t disrupt family arrangements just because he misses his mistress.

…….

He has made a firm habit of being in his study every night at midnight without fail, this summer. It’s a habit he keeps come hell or high water, even on nights when he isn’t much in the mood to touch himself. Even when he leaves his cock alone and just sits there, nursing a brandy and yearning for a conversation with his closest friend, he feels better for yearning in this room, somehow.

He’s being daft, probably. She’s likely not thinking of him at all. She’s certainly not thinking of conversation, if she is thinking of him. He’s just a decent friend and fleeting sexual adventure before she takes herself home for a life of independence, isn’t he?

If she’s thinking of him at all, she’s most likely thinking of his cock and a bit of passing pleasure.

All the same, though, sitting here with a brandy and some warm memories is a hell of a lot better than all those dreams he used to have.

Funny how he dreams of her less, now he knows the real woman is all the more remarkable.

…….

When at last that long-awaited visit from the Sharma family and Lady Danbury rolls around, Anthony is about ready to leap out of his own skin with impatience. He’s out the front door the moment their carriage is sighted on the drive, pacing across the front of the porch while he waits for them to draw to a halt.

But then he checks himself. He shouldn’t dive down the steps and hand Kate out of the carriage. To do such a thing would be tantamount to admitting a romantic interest in her, and in front of her family, too.

So - that’s how he finds himself leaning awkwardly against a pillar, outside his own home, waving like an eager schoolboy while the footmen hand his guests down from the carriage, instead.

“Welcome back.” He calls. Best to set a tone which is informal rather than courtly. That’s the way to avoid difficult questions, he supposes.

“This is a sight for sore eyes.” Kate calls back as she strides towards him.

He wonders what she means. The house is a sight for sore eyes? He is? Has she been a bit bored and frustrated this summer, too?

Before he can ask the question she’s there, bowling straight into his presence as if she means to embrace him, getting right up close into his personal space.

Then she seems to check herself. She seems to realise that a heartfelt embrace is not a conventional or acceptable way to greet the man who is, to all intents and purposes, her sponsor’s godson’s brother-in-law.

Hmm. Yes. That is the closest official connection they share.

She takes half a step back again, simply stands there and grins at him.

“I am glad to see you.” He tells her, plain and heartfelt. He can feel his mood lightening just at her sheer presence.

“And I, you. But that’s quite enough sentiment for one day. You must tell me what you have planned for this visit. Hunting? Dancing? A rematch of pall mall? I have brought with me a great many handkerchiefs, just in case we should need them.”

He throws her a warm smile and offers her his arm.

This is, in his considered opinion, a very promising start.

…….

By that evening he’s starting to reconsider that first impression.

It has been a good day, yes. Obviously he’s not so petulant as to complain about any day featuring Kate’s fine company. But it hasn’t been their best day together, and he’s a little disappointed about that.

He’s being daft. They’ll have other good days while she’s here, he presumes. But today they’ve had little time in private together, while everyone has been excited about welcoming their guests. His mother arranged for them to sit together at dinner, yes, but there’s no real privacy to be had at a dining table.

The crux of it is, that he hasn’t even had chance to invite Kate to his study later.

He supposes she might show her face anyway - is that the meaning of her comment about handkerchiefs? And besides, it’s probably for the best that he hasn’t issued the invitation explicitly on her very first night here. She might be tired from travelling. It might be overwhelming to proposition her all at once - or might make her feel taken for granted or somehow used, as if he was excited to see her only as his mistress and not as his friend.

He’s disappointed in himself as much as he’s disappointed in the situation. His mood makes him realise, quite abruptly, that he had been counting on being able to carry on that affair with her the moment she arrived. That’s unfair and selfish and a thousand other despicable things besides.

It does signify. He shouldn’t use her so ill.

All the same, he does go to his study at midnight, just in case. He does sit there a while, nursing a brandy, thinking that he’d be happy enough just to sit and talk with her at length, if she’s not inclined towards a good fucking.

She doesn’t show, and that’s fine. He can speak with her about it tomorrow. They are honest with each other about everything, are they not? He’s quite certain their relationship will survive his honest enquiry of whether midnight in my study still means anything to her.

That resolved, he drinks the rest of his brandy and takes himself to bed.

…….

The following morning sees a game of pall mall, and sees Kate hitting his ball into the woods at the very first shot.

Ah. That’s promising. Evidently they might be needing those handkerchiefs after all.

He follows suit, of course. He hits her ball straight after his, and the two of them go off in search of them with a great show of exasperation and reluctance.

And then, the moment they are out of sight, he presses her back up against the nearest tree and begins kissing her with wild abandon.

She’s laughing against his lips, somehow keeping up with him, too. She has her hands tugging at his hair just the way he likes it, her hips pressing into his firmly, and he’s suddenly quite convinced it was worth waiting four months for this.

She still wants him. That’s more of a relief than it should be, frankly.

But suddenly, all at once, she’s twisting away from his lips and pushing at his shoulders.

He backs away, of course. He’s puzzled but he understands her meaning well enough. He stands back from her by a foot or so, asks her a question with his gaze.

“Not here. Someone might see us. To do it so… visibly risks even our considerable talent for keeping things from public knowledge.”

“Do you think so?” He asks, genuinely curious. “We’re on my private land and the only people around are my family, some distance away on the lawn and fully occupied with their game. I hardly think it’s any worse than my study at midnight.”

“It’s not worth the risk.” She says, shaking her head.

But he hears it as you’re not worth the risk. Suddenly, all at once, he’s taking a long, hard look at their situation. He’s seeing it through an outsider’s eyes, perhaps - or else he's looking at it anew after all these months apart. Here he is, taking advantage of a good woman’s passing attraction to him to put her in a risky situation.

He’s abruptly ashamed of himself.

“Anthony? Are you quite well?”

He nods, fears it looks unconvincing.

“I hope you’re not sulking. I was about to suggest I might come to your study at midnight instead. I wondered if I should have come yesterday, but as you hadn’t said anything -”

“No. You’re right. It’s too risky. We shouldn’t be carrying on like this.” He swallows hard. “If some other gentleman were dallying with one of my sisters like this, I’d be furious with him.”

Hang on. Hang on one moment.

If some other gentlemen were dallying with one of his sisters like this, he’d expect him to marry her.

He did, in fact. Simon did marry Daphne, and Anthony did apply some pressure to ensure it was so. He remembers it well.

It’s one of those sudden, life-changing moments. Not a bee sting or a stroke of lightning, but a momentous, earth-shattering idea.

He could simply marry Kate.

It would be a perfect solution in so many ways, wouldn’t it? They would enjoy warm company and shared secrets and easy companionship all their days. He’d get to sleep with his preferred mistress, permanently. He’d give her what liberty he could, of course, but fundamentally she’d have the protection of a gentleman who cares about her and won’t let her starve in the hedgerows.

Hell - he could even quietly provide Miss Edwina with a dowry so she could marry Mr Bagwell.

In short, there are so many advantages to the situation that he almost asks her on the spot.

There’s just one problem. Just one tiny, insurmountable problem.

Neither of them plans to marry. Or - he didn’t plan to marry, but he has no objection to changing that plan, under such positive circumstances. He’s more concerned that she has no intention of marrying, that what looks like a spectacularly good deal to him, worth overturning his entire life plan for, might not appeal to her.

So - he only has to convince her that he’s worth giving up her dream of independence and India for.

That’s not something he can attempt here and now. Not when she’s looking at him with those confused eyes, not when she just told him he’s not worth the risk. He’s going to need to gather his courage, make a plan, marshal his arguments.

He’s going to need to confirm once and for all that he even wants to do this, before he asks the question.

He flees towards the house without looking back.

…….

It’s one of the more interesting days of his life, all things considered.

He spends two hours pacing laps of the fishpond, tells everyone who asks after his odd behaviour that there is a matter of business he must contemplate. He makes a careful mental list of the benefits and drawbacks of marrying Kate, resolves utterly and absolutely that it is definitely something he wishes to do, if she is amenable to the idea.

That decided, he spends a further thirty minutes debating how on earth to go about asking her.

Best treat it more or less as a proposal proper, rather than an arrangement of convenience, he decides. Although he is no believer in love matches, he does want to make it clear to her that genuine fondness and mutual compatibility are amongst the reasons he wants her for his wife. A proposal suits that goal far better, doesn’t it?

When he’s planned out a few words too, he goes in search of his mother.

“Are you quite well, dearest?” She asks, the moment she sees him.

Ah. That’s not encouraging.

“Tolerably well, thank you.”

“Are you sure? The head gardener tells me you have had an interesting morning.”

“Yes. I suppose I have. But I have reached a decision, and I believe it’s one which will meet with your approval. I’ll be needing your ring, if you please.”

“My ring?”

“The ring father gave you on the occasion of your engagement?”

“And why are you in need of that, hmm?” She asks pointedly.

He laughs a careful, false chuckle. “Why does a man ever need an engagement ring, mother? I intend to propose marriage to somebody.”

“Yes - but who?” She cracks and asks him outright at last. “What are you about, Anthony? Where has this sprung from so suddenly?”

“I hardly think it sudden. We’ve known the young lady some time, although I have only recently decided to propose. Don’t fret, mother - you like her, and you won’t be surprised by my choice. Now may I please get to it before I lose my nerve?”

That wins through at last. That mention of nerves was just enough to convince her to leave well enough alone, it seems. She walks to her dresser, pulls out a ring box and holds it out to him.

He takes a few tentative steps towards her. This all feels awfully real, now he’s about to take the ring. This seemed a fine idea, an hour or two ago, but now the suddenness of it all is striking him and -

“I think your father would be incredibly proud of you, Anthony.” His mother says softly. “I know the topic of marriage has always been a difficult one for you. But if this unsurprising lady is the lady I think you have in mind, you’ve done remarkably well. I predict that the two of you will be very happy together.”

He nods. He thinks that likely, if everything turns out. There’s just one problem.

“First she must say yes. I’m not altogether certain of my reception.” He admits - the understatement of the century. He's not at all sure what happens, generally, when a gentleman proposes marriage to a lady who does not intend to marry.

His mother actually laughs at that. “I think you need not worry on that score, dearest. She’s far from subtle in her regard for you, too. Now go on with you - ask her the question. I understand she’s been pacing the drawing room worrying about your odd mood for the better part of the day.”

He gulps, nods, and goes on his way.

…….

He asks Kate to take a walk with him, in the end. That strikes him as a fair setting for a proposal - and besides, the two of them are always at their best when they walk arm in arm.

She did used to be a very independent sort of walker, didn’t she? Back when he was a very grumpy sort of man. It’s funny how things change like that.

He tries to keep his head high as they stroll out of the house. They’ve been allowed out without a chaperone - and without a couple they are demonstrably chaperoning, either - and it’s such an unaccustomed sort of privacy that it really brings home to him the fact something unprecedented is about to occur.

Best just get on with it, he supposes.

“Kate -”

“Anthony -”

“You first.” He insists.

She rolls her eyes at him fondly. “I was only going to ask what’s afoot. You’ve been in the oddest mood all day - I wondered if something was wrong last night, too, only I presumed I had just got out of practice at understanding you in these last few months.”

“There’s nothing wrong.” He insists. “It’s only that I’ve had something on my mind. There’s something I would speak with you about, but I’m not at all sure what you’ll make of it. Might I ask you to hold your tongue until I’ve finished saying my piece, please?”

She nods silently. It’s the oddest thing, to hear her so silent when she’s usually so vocal. That means she’s really hearing the plea in his tone, he supposes.

That means she has understood that they are standing on the cusp of something momentous, too.

He clears his throat, has a go at battling through his prepared speech.

“I would like to ask you for your hand in marriage.” He feels her hand tighten on his arm, forces himself to press on. “Before you remind me that we neither of us intend to marry, I beg you will hear me out. I think it an excellent idea in every possible way. We are very compatible and easy in each other’s company, and our families likewise. Our shared secrets would stay all the more closely protected if we married. We could continue our partnership chaperoning your sister and all mine through their future seasons. I could quietly provide a dowry for your sister, and spare you the worry about that situation with the Sheffields. And then - over and above all that, for my part, selfishly, I can’t stop thinking of how perfect it would be, to have my closest friend and favourite mistress by my side every day of my life. Truly, Kate, I think we’re wonderful together - what if we could be wonderful together forever ? So - really I suppose all that’s left is the fact that you never intended to marry and dearly wish to return home. If there is any compromise we might reach on that front, I beg you will explain it to me. I’m sure we might travel to India often if it would make you happy.”

There. It’s done. He forces himself to keep walking, to put one foot in front of the other as he waits for her reply.

At last, after a moment which feels like an eternity, she speaks.

“Is that the end? Are you finished? I would hate to interrupt such a pretty speech.”

“You thought it pretty?” He asks, cautious. He realises suddenly that he perhaps gave insufficient thought to what would happen after such a momentous question and lengthy speech.

“I think pretty hardly does it justice. I didn’t know you had it in you, honestly, Anthony. I think you a remarkable man for a great many reasons, but I never realised you were such a romantic too. I hardly know where to begin. I can’t - oh - well, I suppose I ought to begin by saying yes.” She manages at last.

He laughs a short, shocked burst of joyful laughter. “Yes?”

“Of course I’m saying yes. Obviously I’ll marry you.”

“Of course? What happened to a lifelong intention to return home and seek your independence?”

“Hmm. That wore a little thin after you spent the whole of last season trying to convince me I was not yet a spinster.” She offers, somewhere between teasing and deadly serious.

Excellent. Wonderful. Perfect.

He gives himself permission to smile fully at last. “So - we’re truly getting married?”

“It would appear so. What happens now? Should we start making plans? We need to set a date.” She rattles on, audibly excited.

He claims a kiss at that point. Just one, only short, no more than any mothers watching from the house might expect to see.

They have a whole lifetime of more involved kisses ahead of them, but a little celebratory kiss in the meantime is very necessary indeed, in his opinion.

He pulls away, makes an attempt at answering some of her questions.

“I’d like to marry soon, if we can. And certainly I’ll make haste to settle a dowry on your sister. Perhaps we could set a date at the very start of next season?” He asks, trying not to sound too impatient.

She laughs. “Ah - you’d like to be married the very next time you see me, after this fortnight’s visit?” She points out.

“What - and you wouldn’t?” He counters. She seems almost as keen on the idea as he is, he flatters himself.

Really - this has all turned out most splendidly. He can’t imagine a finer afternoon.

He reaches into his pocket for the ring, reaches for her hand to slip it onto her finger, into its rightful place. He didn’t want to hold the ring as he asked the question. He was afraid of jumping the gun, perhaps, and sabotaging his happiness before it had even got off the ground.

But now, he feels confident to relax and enjoy the moment at last.

So - naturally, it’s in that precise second that she decides to turn his world upside down.

“I can’t entirely believe this is real.” She tells him, looking down at the ring. “I hadn’t even dared to dream of this, honestly. You’ve always been so vocal about your reluctance to marry. And yet here we are, today, with you telling me we could be wonderful forever. Who’d have thought it - Anthony Bridgerton, succumbing to a love match?”

He stiffens at once. A love match?

She catches his change of mood, but evidently misunderstands it.

“Don’t fret - it’ll be another of our little secrets.” She squeezes at his hand. “I won’t tell anyone you’ve gone soft.”

He’s horrified. He’s utterly and absolutely horrified. There’s simply no other word for it.

Not at the thought of going soft, of course. He does realise he’s a more mellow sort of gentleman around Kate. But a love match?

Oh God. Oh Mother of Christ.

Kate thinks this is a love match.

This is a disaster.

The worst thing is, he can see how it happened. He can see that it’s entirely his fault. He said all those warm words about wonder and perfection, professed a sudden desire to marry her after a lifetime eschewing marriage. Naturally she thinks it’s a love match.

Is she saying she loves him?

He asked for her hand out of practicality, and yes, also companionship, but certainly not love. He doesn’t love her. He can’t.

He’s not capable of love.

This is the most abjectly awful situation. He cares about Kate, and respects her, and does earnestly want her to be happy. And now she’s accepted his proposal under false pretences. She’s given up her dream of returning home and pursuing her independence, all because she thinks he loves her.

He hasn’t the foggiest clue what to do. Should he tell her? What if he breaks her heart? He wouldn’t want to do that. She’s important to him. She’s his future wife - at least, he hopes she is.

Would she change her mind if she knew the truth? Will she regret this, ten minutes or ten weeks or ten years from now?

Will he have to keep his failure to love her a secret, all the rest of the days of his life?

He hates the thought of keeping a secret from Kate. The best secrets are the ones they keep together.

He’s standing on the lawn, panicking deeply, and holding fast to the hand of the woman who may or may not be his future wife.

“Anthony?” She asks, audibly concerned. “What is it? Are you well? Did I - did I do something wrong? I do apologise. I - ah - never really had cause to consider how a newly engaged lady is supposed to behave.”

“All fine. Everything’s fine.” He lies brightly. “I’m just - ah - overcome by the moment, I suppose.”

“Are you sure? You’ve gone quite pale -”

“It doesn’t signify.” He bites out, sudden and sharp.

He’s such a damn fool. Snapping at her won’t help, will it? If ever there were a way to make her regret marrying a loveless bear, losing his temper on the day they get engaged must be at the very top of the list.

He swallows hard, tries to get himself under control.

“I do apologise. I’ve never proposed marriage to anyone before, and it’s rather knocked me for six. But I’m delighted you said yes.” He offers. That much at least is the honest truth. He’s over the moon that she said yes, honestly, and simultaneously petrified that she might change her mind if she learns how he really feels - or doesn’t feel.

“I’m delighted you asked.” She says, and somehow despite his oafish manners she’s still smiling. “But I quite agree that it has been an emotional sort of afternoon. Perhaps we had best go back to the house and tell everyone the news - and give us both a chance to sit down.”

Yes. He’s very much in need of one of those chaperone seats they like to share, he decides. Although - some chance of that. Presumably this proposal will make them the centre of attention for days.

What on earth has he done?

………

The next person to mention love to him is Benedict.

Scarcely ninety minutes later, his closest brother invites him for a game of billiards and proceeds to tease him about giving in to love.

Anthony lets his cue clatter down to the floor and stalks straight out of the room. He leaves his brother behind him, protesting that he only meant to tease, asking what’s got his arse all out of order.

It should be the happiest day of his life, Benedict calls down the hallway.

Anthony decides, there and then, that this visit - which up until only yesterday he thought would be an easy summer house party with his mistress stationed under his roof - is fast turning into a nightmare.

…….

He avoids his fiancée for the next five days.

For the first time since he and Kate met, he’s desperate not to be in her company.

She must realise something is wrong. She knows him too well not to sense that something is off, he fears. He still sits with her at mealtimes, of course, because his mother is unaware that anything is amiss. He still sees her around the house or grounds or in the drawing room, because that’s how a house party works.

She hasn’t come to his study since he proposed, and he thinks that’s not a good sign. Is he in danger of driving her away without her even learning his guilty secret? Is it as bad as all that?

He’d better try to limit the damage, he supposes. He does earnestly want to marry her. He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life, he fears.

At about three o’clock yesterday morning, he realised he wants it more than he wants his father alive and breathing again. That was a particularly frightening revelation.

He’s so ill-equipped to navigate this mess, and it terrifies him. But Kate deserves better than a distant husband who doesn’t love her. He might as well be a companionable and cheery husband who doesn’t love her, if he can.

So it is that, next time she says she’d like to speak with him, he doesn’t make an excuse. He simply invites her to sit with him in the drawing room and discuss whatever she wishes.

“Oh. Are you sure? You’re not busy?” She asks.

He’s been busy a lot, these last three days.

“I’m quite at my leisure and I do enjoy speaking with you.” He offers, as light as he can.

“That’s a relief. Because I must say, I’ve been worried about you in recent days. I’ve been worried about us. Perhaps you regret proposing?”

“No! Not at all.” He insists, because that much is true. “Honestly, Kate - I know I haven’t been a worthy suitor, these last few days - but I do very much wish to marry you. There’s nothing I want more. I beg you to remember that, even when I am not - ah - feeling myself.” He swallows hard. “Do you regret it, perhaps?”

“No. Certainly not.” She protests, equally defiant. “Or - hold on a moment - is that a hint? Would you like me to regret it? Are you attempting to encourage me to call it off?”

“Absolutely not. I tell you - I meant every word I said to you on Tuesday afternoon, and I’m delighted you said yes.”

“Excellent. Good. Then - shall we talk more about our plans? I wondered if you would like to choose a date. But perhaps we should wait until you’re feeling… more yourself?”

“I’d like to set a date as soon as may be - and I’d like the date to be soon, too.” He insists. Will that show her his genuine enthusiasm for this marriage?

She seems happy enough with that. She brings his attention to a sheet of letter writing paper, suggests that they write to the minister of her church in town to start making arrangements. They could marry on the very first Monday when he returns to town for the season - she’s given it some thought and provisionally chosen that date.

He doesn’t deserve that much happiness. He doesn’t deserve such an easy solution and such a prompt marriage, not when he’s secured her hand under false pretences. He certainly doesn’t deserve a wife who’s this keen to be married to him.

But - it’s as he said, isn’t it? Selfishly, he wants his closest friend and his favourite mistress by his side every day of his life.

…….

It’s his mother who breaks him in the end.

She catches him soon after that conversation with Kate. His guard is down, and he’s thinking too hard about the first Monday of the season and how it seems too close and too distant, both at once.

“Was that a spot of wedding planning I overheard?” She asks simply.

He nods.

“Anything you’d like help with?”

“No, thank you. Kate is determined to manage most of the arrangements. I think she’s trying to prove herself a Viscountess in the making.” He says fondly. “We’ve settled on the first Monday after our return to town. I hope that suits.”

“Of course. It’s rather soon, but I suppose that’s why you’ve chosen it. Feeling eager, hmm?”

He nods again. He’s more vocal, usually, when he’s not drowning in guilt.

His mother must pick up that something is amiss, even if she does not understand quite what.

“I expect you’re nervous that it’s all happening so quickly, my dear, but I must just say again how happy I am for you both. I’m truly overjoyed to see you marrying for love.”

“I don’t love her.”

He hears himself say the words. They fall quiet but heavy, like a scream muffled by a pillow.

He’s suddenly aware that he shouldn’t be saying such things in a corridor in the middle of the day. That’s hardly the way to keep secrets. But it’s too late now, and the floodgates have opened, and there’s no turning back.

“I don’t love her.” He repeats it, a little louder. “I’m not in love with her. She thinks I am - that’s understandably the message she heard in my proposal - but it’s not true. And now I’m worried that I am deceiving her by pressing ahead with this marriage, and that my deception will ruin everything. She might be hurt if she discovers it.” He concludes, eyes fixed on the carpet.

“Hmm - and you’d be upset if she was hurt by it?” His mother asks simply.

“Of course I would!” He cries. “I do care about her. I’m averse to romantic love, to be sure - but she’s my very good friend and the lady I intend to marry. I can’t imagine my life without her, at this point. I’m worried she’ll break the engagement if I… disappoint her in this.”

“All the more reason to tell her the truth, Anthony.” She tells him, suddenly stern. “I know you know this already. But you must lay out openly and honestly your true feelings. Trust her to judge whether your friendship and respect are enough for her.”

He swallows hard. That sounds immensely frightening.

“It’s to your credit that you don’t want to upset her, that you care about how she feels. But you’ll need to act on that, not just say it to your mother. Treat her with the respect you claim to feel for her, and tell her the difficult truth.”

He nods. He’s been telling Kate difficult truths since the day they met, of course - but not difficult truths about her.

Well, then. Time for the most difficult truth of all.

…….

He plans these words even more carefully than he planned the proposal. He plans the manner and the setting, too, plans every last detail to within an inch of his life.

It’s so incredibly important to him to get this right. He’s heard men say that the proposal is the most crucial conversation a man can have, but he thinks this will matter far more. He wants Kate to be happy, and preferably married to him, and he’d go to the ends of the earth to make it happen, if only he thought it would help.

He decides not to go to the ends of the earth on this occasion, though. He thinks his study will be a better setting for such a conversation. That’s a place where they have been happy and conversed easily together, isn’t it?

And it’s a place where he knows they can be uninterrupted, too. He wants to give this conversation the time and space it deserves. He was tempted, at first, to hold off until they were back in London, reluctant to soil Aubrey Hall with another sad memory.

But - he hopes this won’t be sad. He hopes he’ll be enough for her, incapable of love though he is.

So with his words planned, his location chosen, all that’s left is to invite her to join him.

“My study? Midnight?” He whispers the familiar words to her as they stand up from the dining table, hides them beneath the scraping of chairs against the floor.

She looks perhaps a little surprised, but she nods, throws him a quick smile.

Good. That’s a promising start.

…….

She arrives at quarter to, in the end. That’s early even by her standards, and he intends to tease her about it later, if they’re still on speaking terms.

“This was an unexpected but not unwelcome invitation.” She comments lightly as she enters the room.

“Yes. There’s something I would speak with you about.”

That gives her pause. She’s standing there, just inside the threshold, blinking at him.

Damn it. He should have planned a softer opening. Now he’s gone and made her nervous, before he’s even got started.

He tries again.

“Kate -”

“This sounds ominous.” She offers, trying for a light tone, absolutely not succeeding. “Is something wrong? I can’t help but feel that you’re still reluctant about this entire -”

“I don’t love you.” He panics, blurts it out right away.

She looks mortified. Horrified. Devastated and perhaps also humiliated, he notes.

He presses desperately on with his speech, rushes frantically to repair the damage. “I earnestly meant every word I said to you on the day I asked you to marry me. I care about you as if you were part of the family already, honestly, and so - so I couldn’t bear to marry you under false pretences. I couldn’t bear it if I ruined your dreams of independence and returning home and - and if you came to resent me for it. But I do desperately want us to find a resolution to this, Kate, and preferably one that ends with you and me as husband and wife. You’re the most engaging and admirable and - and maddening woman I ever met, and I did earnestly mean it when I said I thought we could be wonderful together forever. I can’t imagine having anyone else by my side all the rest of my life.” 

He clears his throat, scrubs angrily at an errant tear. He refuses to weep, damn it - not now when there is still one more part to say to her.

“I can’t imagine my life without you in it, Kate - but you’ll have my respect and support if you choose to end this engagement and - and pursue the future you deserve. I’ll happily pay your sister’s dowry all the same, of course, if it will make your situation easier.”

She misses scarcely a beat before replying - in a short sort of tone, yes, but surprisingly level, under the circumstances.

“Hmm. That’s just as well about Edwina's dowry- I already told her she could marry Mr Bagwell, and explained some of the situation with the Sheffields to her.” She mutters.

“You did? That’s wonderful.” He offers, incongruously warm. He’s rather proud of her that she managed that.

Oh. It must have been when they first got engaged, when she was optimistic about the future, and thought he was only overwrought rather than being a duplicitous piece of manure.

She nods, audibly swallows, turns her head left and right as if unsure where to look.

He suspects he’s never going to forgive himself for putting her through this excruciating conversation, regardless of the outcome. He blames himself heartily for being such an unaffectionate bear of a man.

Wouldn’t this be so much easier if he could simply love her the way she deserves to be loved?

She clears her throat, makes her first stab at a reply to the real meat of the matter at hand.

“So - that’s not love?" She asks him, all sharp and indignant. "Everything you said about being wonderful together forever? The part where you offered to pay my sister’s dowry even if I refuse to marry you - that’s not an act of love? When you tell me you can’t imagine your life without me in it, that’s not love?”

“No. It can’t be. I’m not capable of love.” He insists instinctively.

She sighs a loud sigh, shakes her head. “So - you have all the symptoms of love, where I am concerned, but you’re still averse to the principle?”

“Perhaps?” He asks. He’s not at all sure where this is going.

She nods firmly. “Very well. So be it. That can be another of our little secrets. By all means keep telling yourself and all the world that this is a marriage of convenience and companionship, and that companionship is not the same as love.”

His jaw drops open wide. Is it as simple as that? She can accept him as he is, just like this, with his biggest flaw and all?

“We’re still getting married?” He asks plainly, just to be sure.

“We are. It’d be rather self-defeating if I called it off out of spite or hurt pride at this stage. I’d rather have half your heart than spend the rest of my life missing you.” She says, as if that’s obvious to her, as if the choice is an easy and instinctive one.

He bolts towards her - not to slam her against the door, this time, but to wrap his arms around her as best he can, to reach for all of her, all at once. To hold her in the firmest embrace of his life and whisper against her hair.

“You’ll not regret this. I swear it.” He tells her fervently.

She actually manages to laugh drily at that. “I know I won’t, Anthony. And besides - perhaps one day I’ll prove you wrong. Perhaps I’ll prove to you that you are capable of love. I do enjoy proving you wrong, after all.”

Hmm. He likes the sound of that, actually, but it feels like a dangerous sort of thing to hope for.

She has her arms wrapped around him, too, now. Her head is nestled against his neck, and he can hear her breath, all steady and comforting now they have more or less resolved his foolishness and deception.

“I am sorry for giving you such a shock.” He murmurs now. “And for being so awkward with you all week - that too. I was quite torn between being over the moon that you had accepted my proposal and terrified that you might despise me if I attempted this conversation.”

“All is well now, I think.” She says, cautious, thoughtful, still holding him. “I shouldn’t have presumed that it was that sort of proposal. I let my excitement run away with me.”

“It was a fair assumption.” He argues.

She laughs. “Yes. I rather agree with you. That line about being wonderful together forever…”

“That part does seem to have made a strong impression on you. I meant it, you know.”

She hums a little, burrows ever closer against his neck.

He gathers the words to tell her something else important, too.

“I’m honoured that you are so excited to marry me, truly. I suppose I hoped that you might see the benefits of the situation and decide you weren’t averse to the idea, but I never dreamed you’d be so actively enthusiastic about it. I thought you’d be reluctant to give up your independence.”

“I’d be more reluctant to give up you, at this stage.”

He laughs a strained little laugh. “Yes. I rather know the feeling. I hope you realise you are absolutely stuck with me, now, Kate. I imagine I’ll insist on having hold of your hand at all times for the first six months of marriage at least.”

“Ah - I suppose that’s not love, either.” She offers, all light and ironic.

Hmm. He should probably spend some time thinking about that, he supposes, when he has a little space from all this excitement.

She doesn’t push the matter now, though. She just holds him even tighter, presses a soft kiss to his neck.

“Can I stay a while tonight?” She asks softly. “We’ve had precious little time together this week, what with… all this. I don’t mind whether you prefer to just talk or whether you have something else in mind. I only know that I’m due to go home three days from now and I refuse to leave without us making the most of this visit.”

“I’d say we’ve done a fair job of making the most of it. We did manage to get engaged.” He points out lightly. “But yes - I concede that we have not actually spoken as much as we might. I’d very much like to spend some time with you now.”

She presses another kiss to his neck. He rubs his cheek against the crown of her head, shamelessly enjoying the much-missed scent of her. She’s right. Amidst all the drama and his preoccupation, he simply hasn’t appreciated her as he’d have liked, this week.

That’s why he suggests an even better idea than a snatched half-hour in his study.

“Let’s go to my bedchamber?” He whispers the question against her hair. “Or yours, I suppose, if you prefer - but mine is closer, so we’re less likely to bump into anyone on the way.”

“And what if we did? What would they do - say we ought to get married?” She points out, wry.

He grins. “Yes. I suppose they would. But all the same, I won’t have anyone asking my future wife impertinent questions.”

“Oh - you’ll not have it? Ever the Viscount.” She teases him brightly.

He kisses her forehead for that, waits for her reply to his actual suggestion.

She does not disappoint. “You truly think you can keep a secret of taking me to your bedchamber? I know it’s past midnight, but there must still be the occasional servant about. And I did once bump into your brothers on their way back from the billiard room, when I was here last season. I told them the most laboured story about a mouse.” She recounts.

He laughs. “Really? Neither of them ever said a word. How funny.”

“So - it hardly seems our most secretive plan.” She concludes firmly. “That’s not to say I don’t wish to do it, but I believe I must point out that it’s objectively not your wisest idea.”

“You’re absolutely correct - I quite agree. But all the same, the invitation stands. It’s entirely up to you. If anyone catches us, I’ll simply suggest we marry sooner.”

She laughs. “That’s hardly possible, Anthony. We’re already marrying about as soon as may be. Come on, then. We may as well try it, and I must admit I’m curious. Lead the way.”

He doesn’t lead the way, not quite. He sweeps her up into his arms, actually starts carrying her towards the door.

She’s laughing, burying her face against his chest to smother the sound.

He hits a bit of an obstacle, when he arrives at the door. He has to stop and put her down to unlock it and peer silently out into the corridor.

No one in sight. They’re in luck.

They sneak to his bedchamber quickly, quietly. They cross the threshold, and Kate pauses a moment as if taking in the room. That makes sense, he supposes. It’s the first time she’s ever been here.

He takes advantage of the pause to move his nightstand in front of the door. He supposes that will in itself raise difficult questions, if anyone should try to get in, but at least it might give them a moment to fix on a plan and protect Kate’s reputation.

Somehow, he doesn’t feel any less protective of her dignity now they’re engaged. He knows that she wouldn’t be entirely ruined, because they’re marrying anyway. But he does earnestly want her to have a happy, calm and dignified sort of engagement, not one marred by unhelpful gossip.

He just wants everything good for her, in every possible way. Is that another symptom of love, as she said not so long ago?

Hmm. He supposes it might be.

She seems to have finished her assessment of his bedchamber, now. She’s no longer looking around the room, but instead looking at him, eyes all warm and thoughtful as she watches him finish arranging the furniture to block the door.

“You are the most exasperating and - and adorable person I’ve ever met.” She informs him robustly.

Really - all that simply for shifting a nightstand and trying to protect her dignity? It seems a bit generous.

He steps back towards her, reaches out to take her hands in his.

“How are you feeling? Have you had enough shocks and excitement for one day? Are we to get on and enjoy a good night’s sleep together, or did you want a little fun first?” He asks, a barrage of eager questions.

“Honestly? Something simple and intimate would be lovely. It’s been too long.”

He can certainly agree with that.

So - simple and intimate. He’ll do his best.

They start with a kiss - a long-overdue kiss, specifically, he decides. It’s the first properly prolonged kiss they’ve shared since their engagement, and then for several months besides.

It feels so good, so soft and sure and peaceful, that it’s as if something is melting inside of him. Some ball of tension he didn’t realise he’d been carrying around, deep in his gut, untying and loosening as the kiss lengthens.

They start undressing each other, as well. He wants her entirely bare, tonight, he decides - and wants to be stark naked for her too. If they have the luxury of a proper bed for a change, they had best make the most of it.

She spends a long time palming at his buttocks, as usual, pulling his hips tight against hers. That makes him smile fondly into the kiss - there’s something both familiar and comforting, and yet deeply arousing about it.

It’s in moments like this that he realises just how perfect their married life is going to be.

He leads her to the bed, as his cock hardens, as she starts moaning more loudly into the kiss. He takes a lot of care over it, in fact, guiding her by the hand and then helping her to lie comfortably on the mattress, fluffing his pillow beneath her head.

“Are you quite finished?” She asks, all cheeky and fond.

He laughs, reaches in for another kiss.

He arranges himself at her side - half over her, half next to her. Just positioned perfectly to kiss her longer, to reach a hand between her legs as well.

She actually shifts her hips to get nearer to him. Of course she does.

He kisses her deeper for that, gets to work with his fingers. He needs her warm and wet and ready, must keep kissing her all the while. That’s the sort of thing she wanted, when she asked for simple and intimate, surely?

She’s moaning louder, now, but he’s not inclined to remind her to be quiet. He’s had a great many dreams about Kate moaning in his bed, within the last year or so, and he’s certainly going to enjoy the reality now he can.

“What next?” He asks her, pausing a moment with his fingers. “Shall I finish it like this? Do you want my cock now instead?”

“The second, please.”

“The second?” He prompts, teasing.

She rolls her eyes fondly. “I’ll say it out loud, then. I want your cock, please, Anthony. Please give me your cock.”

He growls. That really has become a most unfortunate habit, where Kate speaking of sex is concerned.

She presses on, keeps playing with him. “How about this, then - fuck me, Anthony? I need you. I need you to -”

He interrupts her with a kiss, filthy deep, all teeth and tongue and urgency. He climbs atop her and slips his cock into place, too, starts building an eager rhythm straight away.

She’s laughing and moaning, kissing him back, raking her hands through his hair just the way she knows he likes.

It’s the most joyful and arousing moment of his life, pure and simple.

She stops teasing him before long. She’s getting swept away on the tide, it seems, as her moans get louder and her fingernails sharper, somehow. There’s one hand still in his hair, the other clutching at the curve of his right buttock, and she’s actually bucking her hips off the bed to meet him.

She’s there. She’s clenching around him, her lips going slack in the kiss. He’s whispering to her, sweet nonsense about how well she’s doing, how good she’s been, how perfect she feels around his cock.

It’s only a matter of moments later that he falls apart, too. He’d be embarrassed, he supposes, if ever he climaxed so quickly with a mistress. But with Kate, tonight, these precious few minutes in bed don’t feel quick at all. They’re the culmination of months spent pursuing her, even when he couldn’t see at the time that he was doing so. They’re following on, too, from the most wonderful and yet topsy-turvy week of his life.

So - of course he came quickly. Any devoted future husband would, under the circumstances. There’s simply no need to be insecure about such things or hold onto any false pride, now he’s settled happily into such a trusting engagement, built on such solid, rock-firm foundations.

“Your protectiveness is one of your better qualities.” Kate says, sudden, against his chest.

“What?” He’s rather taken aback, honestly. Why is she suddenly speaking of protectiveness, in the afterglow of bedsport, and while he’s still pressing her into the mattress with his weight?

“It’s something which has been on my mind a great deal tonight. You trying to protect me from the truth of your emotions - or lack of one emotion, I suppose. Your eagerness to offer Edwina a dowry anyway and do what you might to protect me from distress. Then we arrived here, and you moved that damn nightstand, and I believe I almost passed out from fondness, truly.” She swallows audibly. “But I think this crowns it all. We’re in your bed, and we’re marrying in a month or so, and still - still - you had the presence of mind to pull out and try to avoid getting me with child. You’re quite determined that nothing will trouble me on the way to the altar, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He answers, staunch, almost stubborn. He might not be capable of love, might not have the emotional fluency to engage fully in such a conversation.

But she’s right, and he knows she’s right, and he can damn well manage to tell her that much.

She hums lightly. He rolls off her at last, rearranges himself at her side and invites her to cuddle into his chest, instead.

“Stay the night?” He asks simply. “I’ll sneak you out in the morning. Our little secret?”

“Our little secret.” She agrees.

Hmm. They’re not the three little words most affectionate marriages are built on, he supposes. But they’re three little words he likes very well all the same.

She’s silent for a while, simply breathing against his chest, and he’s quite content with the quietness. It feels like peace, after such an exciting but turbulent week.

At length, though, she does speak up.

“There’s something I would say to you, if you’ll let me.” She begins, all robust and determined - like her argumentative tone, he notes. “You have offered me a couple of pretty speeches this week, so I hope you’ll indulge me and allow me to say my piece in turn. So - I intend to tell you something, with no expectation that you’ll say it back. No expectation that you’ll feel it, even, after that conversation we had earlier. But it’s important to me to say it to you all the same.”

He nods, trusts she can feel him nodding. He knows what she’s about to say - it’s rather transparently obvious, isn’t it? - and all at once he finds that he’s thrilled at the thought of hearing it.

“Excellent. So. Yes.” She takes a deep breath. “I love you. I love you regardless.”

Of course she does. That’s his Kate.

“Thank you.” He tells her simply.

That’s probably not the correct response to such a confession. But it does truly convey the gratitude he feels for her, and for her faith, for her stubborn, loyal optimism.

He presses a kiss to the crown of her head and makes an attempt to sort through his thoughts.

“I do want this to be a loving sort of marriage, even though I’ve long believed romance is not amongst my talents.” He tells her fervently. “I am looking forward to seeing… where we end up, I suppose.”

“As am I. Frankly, I think this is already a loving marriage - even though we haven’t said our vows yet, and even though you still believe yourself unromantic.”

He laughs warmly. “Perhaps you’re correct. I do trust your judgement, as a general rule.”

She chuckles at that in turn, presses a kiss to his chest.

As he drifts into sleep he finds himself wondering, for the first time in his life, what love even is. He’s long believed himself incapable of it, but really - isn’t it premature to make such a judgement when he doesn’t even know what this task he’s attempting is?

Or - this task he might like to attempt. Perhaps. For Kate’s sake.

Or even, if he’s being truly honest, a task he might like to attempt for his own sake, too.

……..

He’s thoughtful as he watches her carriage depart three days later.

He’s still stuck on that same question. What is love? He always thought it was obsession, weakness, fear of losing someone. That’s the sort of definition which he’s been carrying with him since his father died and a part of his mother died, too.

He supposes he has been a bit obsessed with Kate lately. He’s here watching her carriage roll out of sight, isn’t he? He hasn’t made any attempt to wave her off briskly and go back inside. And he was certainly terrified of losing her, three days ago, when he made such a point of steeling himself to be honest with her.

But - his feelings for her certainly have none of that weakness or foppishness or dandyishness which poetry speaks of. She’s his strength, not his weakness. She’s the woman he trusts to argue him right, to help him raise his siblings and one day his children, to talk some sense into him when he needs it most.

And, more than anything, he desperately aspires to be that man for her, too.

He sighs. Her carriage is out of sight, now, but still he’s standing here like a fool. He’s going to miss her sorely in the next month.

No - it’s not quite a month. Three weeks and five days. And then they’ll be married very soon after.

He’s rather glad he’ll be able to write to her, now that they’re officially engaged and all.

…….

He invites his brother for a game of billiards the following evening. Not late in the evening, mind you. He fully intends to spend an hour or so either side of midnight sitting in his study and writing a letter to Kate.

But in the meantime, he thinks billiards with his brother will be a jolly undertaking.

He thinks it will be constructive, too. There’s a reason he has invited Benedict for a game and not Colin. He’s a little closer with the elder of his brothers, yes, but also Benedict is the one who knows of poetry.

He could use a confidant with some knowledge of poetry, this week.

“There’s a matter I would ask your advice on.” He says, airily light, after his brother has taken his first shot.

“What - how to keep Miss Sharma from realising she’s too good for you? A lost cause, brother.” Benedict quips.

Anthony smiles thinly. “I’m very aware of that, thank you. But I wonder if you have any wisdom from the poets on a certain matter. What is it, truly to - to love a woman?”

“Damned if I know. So many poets say such different things about it. Why do you ask? Surely you’re not having second thoughts?”

“Second thoughts about Kate?” He asks, flabbergasted. “Goodness me, no. Certainly not. I can’t imagine not having her by my side now.”

“Hmm. Probably there’s a poet somewhere who would call that love.” Benedict offers, light - but perhaps carefully light, Anthony thinks.

Anthony can only grunt in reply to that. It’s what he suspected, more or less, but he hasn’t the words to speak of it.

“You scared me for a moment there.” Benedict bundles on. “I thought you were trying to tell me you regretted the engagement, and that seemed odd. You haven’t been able to take your eyes off the lady since you met her.”

Anthony laughs a dry laugh. “Yes. You’re not wrong. She is rather captivating.”

“She’s not my type - which is just as well, seeing as my brother is marrying her.” Benedict offers cheerily.

The laughter is more genuine, this time. Anthony plays another shot, wonders whether there is anything more to be asked or answered.

“I hope I might find someone who makes me half as happy, one day.” Benedict volunteers now. “It’s not that you are a different man since you met her, not quite. But we all see your joyful side more often. Mother comments on it all the time.” A pause. An audible breath. “You remind me more of the brother I had when we were boys and our father was still alive.”

Anthony nods. “I know what you mean - I remind myself of the boy I used to be, too. But it’s different. I believe she has helped me find my way to being serious and fulfilling my duties, whilst still remembering how to laugh. It’s not that I feel carefree. It’s that I feel more confident in managing all my duties and concerns.”

“Hmm. If no poet has ever written of that, I think someone ought to try it.”

Anthony scoffs. “That’s not poetry. That’s me rambling about a remarkable woman who showed up on horseback and changed my life.”

“That might be more akin to poetry than you realise.”

Yes. Well. That’s why he wanted to speak to his brother, wasn’t it?

Benedict always has a way of telling a person what they need to hear.

…….

When he next writes to Kate, he says nothing of love, nothing of rambling about her impact on his life nor of discussing poetry with his brother.

He tells her the minutiae of his daily existence, instead. The kinds of things she’d have seen or heard about first hand if they were in company all this time as they like to be. He tells her of horses, of the pranks his siblings have played lately, of the news about the turnip crop on the home farm and all the everyday concerns of his life.

He invites her to tell him her everyday concerns in her reply, too, because that’s the sort of marriage he aspires to have.

He tells her he misses her, too, even though he thinks that’s quite the most soppy and sentimental thing he’s ever committed to paper.

No matter. It doesn’t signify. It doesn’t mean he loves her.

He’s capable of letter-writing but not of love.

…….

The letter she writes him in turn makes him weep.

That is - it makes him weep in a good way, he thinks. It’s a strange experience. He hasn’t really permitted himself to weep since he lost his father. He was on the verge of it, perhaps, when he thought Kate might not choose to marry him after all.

And now, this morning, he’s weeping over a letter about their upcoming marriage - and it’s as if he’s weeping with the reassuring comfort of her presence to steer him through it, even though she’s not here, even though his only support is a few heartfelt words on a piece of paper.

It’s because she’s written great many words about preparing for marriage.

It’s not so much about the material preparations like purchasing a trousseau. Rather, this is a letter about her preparing to be a wife when she always thought herself destined for spinsterhood. 

She tells him about some of the decisions she has reached lately and the time she has spent reflecting within her own soul on whether she would like a large number of children or a smaller number, whether she’ll ask him to employ a nursemaid or feed them herself, whether she’ll prefer to host balls for all the ton or dinner parties for a few close friends and his ever-expanding family.

And - God - it’s so humbling. 

She found her way to love him quite easily, but now she’s grappling with the concept of being a wife. He doesn’t find marriage such a frightening idea, but is still learning what to call that bundle of emotion which rises in his chest whenever he thinks about her.

So this is the letter that makes him realise, finally and completely, that all will be well.

He trusts her on that - and most of all, he trusts the team they make together.

……..

Daphne and Simon come to stay at Aubrey Hall just before the end of the summer.

Anthony thinks he has more or less answered his own love question, by this point. That letter from Kate about learning to see herself as a woman who will be a wife and might be a mother one day did more than its fair share of work on that score.

But all the same, he does ask Simon for a game of billiards. He thinks it can’t hurt to check, to gather multiple opinions, just to be sure.

And so, two shots in, he asks that all-important question.

“How would you define love? How did you know you loved Daphne? It’s a question which has been much on my mind lately.”

“Ah - perhaps it has been on your mind since the day you met Miss Sharma?” Simon asks, brows raised.

“Actually, there’s some dispute about that. We didn’t quite meet on the day we met, in fact.” He recalls wistfully, ignores Simon’s puzzled expression. “But that’s neither here nor there. I only thought to ask your thoughts on the matter. You and I were both set on remaining bachelors once upon a time, if I recall - and now you are happily married with a child on the way, and I am due at the altar in a fortnight.”

“And you do seem happy about being due at the altar.” Simon points out.

“Yes - delighted. Confused, but delighted.” Anthony admits.

“I was confused but delighted for a while too, I recall. I suppose in the end I never arrived at a definition. My love for Daphne was not such a logical or defined thing. I simply realised I had found beauty in my closest friend.”

Well. Yes. That - that does sound remarkably familiar.

“I didn’t expect this to happen to us.” Anthony offers now, quiet, musing. “I genuinely believed that you and I would be bachelors hiding from our duties at our club until the end of our days. I simply didn’t realise there could be so much joy in the world. I didn’t know what my life was lacking until I found it.”

“That seems like a viable definition of love, too.” Simon offers.

Hmm. Anthony thinks he’s not wrong.

…….

He asks Daphne the next day. He might as well be thorough, mightn’t he?

“What is love?” She asks, with a thoughtful smile. “I think you might as well ask what love isn’t, because I think… it’s everything. It’s companionship, comfort, challenge, attraction - all those emotions and moods - all tied up in knots. It’s like the reverse of a piece of needlework, and then you realise you’ve made something beautiful despite the loose threads and the chaos.”

That really does sound plausible, he decides. Although - beautiful? He’d have said something functional, reliable, enjoyable. Not beautiful like poets and needlework.

…….

It’s just four days before the wedding when he asks his mother his new favourite question.

“I wonder - what would you say, if I asked you the definition of love?” He asks her one morning, watching her arrange flowers for the drawing room.

She raises a brow at him, evidently amused by this line of questioning. “Honestly, Anthony, I’d say the way you look at Miss Sharma over the dining table would be a fair place to start answering such a question. But I know you disagree with me, so I’ll leave that thought there.”

“I’m not sure I do disagree with you anymore.” He admits, cautious, eyes fixed on what might be a delphinium.

He’s never taken Kate flowers. Can he truthfully claim to love her, when he’s never so much as offered her a limp bouquet?

His mother nods, presses on in a thoughtful tone. “I think love is different for everyone, dearest. It’s different even between each half of each couple. I loved your father differently from the way he loved me in so many respects - and yet, when all’s said and done, we were devoted to each other.”

That’s promising. He is rather devoted to Kate.

“I’m delighted to see you so happy about your upcoming wedding.” His mother offers now, although he didn’t ask, of course. “I know you don’t like to be accused of marrying for love, as such, but all the same -”

“I am, though, aren’t I?” He dares to admit the truth at last. “I’m obviously marrying for love. I’m danger of becoming one of those hopeless individuals who worships the very air his wife breathes.” He jokes cheerfully.

His mother seems to realise he’s serious, though, despite his jovial tone. She’s got a rather proud sort of look in her eye as she trims the stem of her next delphinium, and he doesn’t think that’s a reflection on her flower arranging.

Hmm. Well. He might take himself on his way, now he’s got his answer. There’s still just about time to get a letter to Kate in London ahead of his own arrival in a couple of days. He’s not going to tell her he loves her in a letter, of course - after all this time that’s something he wants to say to her in person, thank you very much.

But all the same, he loves her, and he feels a pressing need to write her a letter about the exact yield of the wheat harvest this year.

…….

The Bridgertons arrive back in town in the early evening, a little over thirty-six hours before Anthony is due to be married.

The moment his family are all safely inside the house, their luggage in the process of being unloaded, he excuses himself and sets out in search of a horse.

He feels an urgent need to ride to Lady Danbury’s house and see his future wife.

He thinks it’s quicker to saddle a horse and ride over there than to set out on his own two feet. Just barely. He judges it to be a journey worth procuring a horse for, this evening, when he’s in such a rush to rush there and tell Kate three particular words.

He sets out on his way. He almost mows down one unfortunate chimney sweep, bellows a sort of flustered apology as he goes.

He’s never tried to race around London to tell a lady he loves her before now. It’s a rather disorientating kind of experience.

He arrives at Lady Danbury’s townhouse. The footman recognises him, but his startled eyebrows are asking Anthony plainly what on earth he thinks he’s doing here at such an unconventional time of day.

“I’ve an urgent message for Miss Sharma. An urgent piece of good news.” He explains cheerfully. “Are the family at home?”

“Where else should they be, late on a Saturday evening and two days before the wedding?” The footman asks, evidently unimpressed with cheerfully romantic Viscounts.

It doesn’t signify, Anthony decides. His good mood is too robust, tonight, to be impeded by an unimpressed footman.

He takes the stairs two at a time without waiting for the footman to tell him where he might find Kate. He knows the routine of this household well enough to know that she’s likely in the drawing room, at the moment, just a few minutes away from going to change for dinner.

Sure enough, he has it right. When he charges into the drawing room he finds Kate’s surprised face looking back at him.

Oh - and also, three other people in the room, of course. His future mother-in-law and sister-in-law, and Lady Danbury presiding with laughter in her eyes.

In fact, she’s the one who greets him first.

“Lord Bridgerton. What an unexpected pleasure.” She offers, in a tone which clearly suggests he had better explain himself.

“Ah - Lady Danbury - pardon me for barging into your home at such an… unusual time of day?” He tries, lips twitching.

“Hmm. Thank you. Well, Miss Sharma - it would appear that your intended has arrived safely back in town.” She notes, dry, turns as if inviting Kate to join in the conversation.

“Yes. This fellow does look familiar.” Kate jokes, a smile in her eyes.

He turns to grin at her, almost lost for words. He’s not seen her in a long couple of weeks, and they’re getting married the day after tomorrow, and he almost thinks his heart might burst with the joy of it.

No. This is no time for bursting hearts. He came here to tell her something urgent and important, and he won’t be put off now.

“I realise this is all most irregular, but I have an urgent message for Miss Sharma - an urgent piece of good news about the wedding to share with her.” He offers brightly. “Might we sit and speak a while, perhaps?”

“Take a turn about the garden instead.” Lady Danbury recommends. “You’re to be married in two days’ time. I think we’re all quite past the point of wishing to watch your romance from the front row seats.” She teases.

He can cope with the fiercest matriarch in the ton teasing him, he decides. And frankly, he thinks her idea of a turn about the garden a very good one indeed.

He offers Kate his arm. The two of them set out down the corridor, chattering lightly about the last two weeks of their lives, exchanging pleasantries and trivialities and general unimportant news.

He’ll tell her that urgent message soon enough. But he’d rather not have a footman listening in, thank you very much - and certainly not that one who teased him on the doorstep.

They arrive at the garden. They walk out, across the terrace, as far as the lawn.

And finally, all at once, he can hold the truth inside no longer.

“I love you.” He blurts out, sudden and with absolute conviction.

She kisses him, first. Just a short, firm kiss to the lips, all fire and confidence and a promise of good things to come, two days from now.

Then she steps back and throws him the archest smile he’s ever seen - and that’s saying something. He’s engaged to be married to Kate Sharma, isn’t he?

“I told you so.” She tells him, triumphant.

“No you didn’t - not in so many words.” He argues.

“The sentiment was there.” She insists.

He snorts out a laugh. “I think we can both agree that all sorts of sentiments were already there, long before either of us said a thing about love.”

She chuckles in turn, squeezes his arm a little harder.

“I love you too, as it happens. How often am I allowed to say that?” She asks now.

“As often as you like. I learnt long ago that you dislike taking orders - and besides which, I like hearing it. And now I’ve learnt, just this evening, that I like saying it, too.” He admits cheerfully.

“Hmm. Another fascinating development.” She shoots him a look. “You’ve become a gentleman who would ride across town in the twilight just to tell me you love me?”

“It does seem that way.” He agrees. “I’ve been contemplating it a lot in recent weeks, so I thought I had best tell you as soon as possible.”

She’s beaming widely, still squeezing his arm so firmly that she’s slightly crushing it, actually.

He finds that he doesn’t mind that in the slightest.

He presses on, makes his next big confession. “There’s just one thing left now for me to sort through, I believe. I’m afraid I might not be good at loving you. And I’m afraid of losing you, too. I’m afraid of many things, I suppose, where you are concerned.”

“I believe there’s an easy response for me to make on both counts.” She tells him at once. “You’ve been adept at loving me since long before you learned to call it love. But as to the other part - you can never lose me now, not really. Once you love someone like this - and especially after we marry - they’re always with you, in a way. That’s my experience of watching my mother lose my father, and my father lose my birth mother before that. A loved one is never really gone.”

He likes that way of looking at it, he decides. He’s been subconsciously trying to arrive there for a while, perhaps, hanging onto a pocket watch and a bundle of family principles, asking his mother for his father’s advice so very often.

But Kate has more faith in the enduring certainty of love than he has ever managed, and that’s one of the reasons she’s so good for him, he resolves.

So -

“I love you.” He tells her again for good measure.

“Yes. You’ve mentioned that, sweetheart.”

“Oh - sweetheart? Does that go both ways, now?”

“I would hardly say both ways when you rarely use it either.” She argues. “You’ve said that three times to me in our entire acquaintance, and two of those were - ah - cries of passion.”

“Three times more often than you’ve ever said it.” He counters easily.

They’re still enjoying a cheerful argument about absolutely nothing by the time the sun sets and her sister is sent to find her for dinner.

…….

On the eve of his wedding day, at about twelve minutes to midnight, Anthony decides to wander up to his study.

It’s a foolish, sentimental sort of notion, perhaps - but then again, these days he’s a loving sort of man, one who doesn’t mind admitting that such an action might have sentimental significance. This study isn’t the study, of course. It’s not that study at Aubrey Hall where he and Kate have spent so many stolen moments together. But it’s a study, and it’s the place where he used to sit and think of Kate thinking of him, too, all through the tail end of last season.

He supposes that, tomorrow night, it’ll become a place he shares with her in person, as well.

The rest of the house is absolutely quiet. Everyone else has gone to bed early in expectation of a big day tomorrow. He’s expecting the biggest day of all, obviously, but he’s far too excited to sleep yet.

He pushes the study door open like he owns the place. Naturally he does - it’s his study.

He recoils a yard or two in pure shock when he sees Kate sitting on the edge of his desk.

“Kate?” He hisses, too loud for twelve minutes to midnight on the eve of a big day.

“Hush, Anthony. Someone might hear you. We could be forced to marry to quell the scandal.” She says, dry, swinging her legs idly before her.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“I felt a sudden impulse to come over, kiss you perhaps three times, and then tell you I’ll see you in the morning. I don’t plan to stay long. There’s a superstition about the bride and groom seeing each other on the morning of the wedding, isn’t there? So if you’d keep an eye on your watch, I believe we have around ten minutes.” She concludes, visibly smug.

He laughs quietly, walks over there to offer her the first of those kisses she came looking for. It’s a good one - soft and easy and confident. He wonders if they’ll always kiss like that, now they know so soundly that they love each other.

Then he steps back a little, one arm still draped around her shoulders, and tries once more to get to the point.

“I still don’t believe you’ve really answered my question. That sounds like a mighty powerful impulse. And how did you achieve it, anyway? How did you sneak from your bedroom two streets away to here?”

“I saddled a horse and rode here.” She says with a shrug, as if it’s nothing. “I thought it would be fitting. One last little secret to share before we commit to each other so publicly tomorrow.”

“That’s rather sweet and sentimental.” He decides, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

“Good. So - now for the real reason - I thought it would be funny, too. Think of it - we started out with me riding too fast when I shouldn’t have been riding at all, and you in the midst of an illicit tryst when you should certainly have had your mind on more dutiful things. So - here we are all over again.” She concludes, smug.

He rewards her with a snatch of fond, exasperated laughter.

“You’ve been planning this for weeks.” He accuses her.

“Yes. I’ve been planning it since the exact moment you proposed, more or less.” She admits.

He laughs a little louder, shakes his head at her for good measure. He arranges himself on the desk at her side, too, arm around her shoulders, swinging his legs easily before him.

“You’re not riding home again on your own. I’ll have the carriage take you back.” He decides now.

“Overprotective.”

“Yes - and you’re being stubborn.” He points out. “But as my protectiveness is one of the things you love best about me, and as your stubbornness is one of the things I love best about you, I intend to press on regardless.”

“Good thinking.” She agrees, with a rueful grin.

And then -

“What time is it?” She asks, nudging him.

He checks his watch. “We have eight minutes. Call it six if we want to allow a little time to sneak you down to the stable.”

“So - how do you wish to spend our last six minutes together before our wedding day?” She asks.

He considers his answer a moment. He wants to do everything, frankly. He wants to make love to her, and chat about her day, sitting before the fire. He wants to whisper some words of love, and share excitement about the future, and ask whether she’s made any decisions on the matter of rearing children.

But they have all the rest of their lives to do those things, too. They have the whole of forever to spend simply being wonderful together. There’s no need to rush it all tonight.

Was he once a man who rushed from duty to pleasure and back to duty again? Was she once a woman out riding too late, too fast, on the morning of her presentation at court?

Funny how the world seems a calmer place, with the woman who has become his rock at his side.

“I haven’t any preference at all.” He tells her honestly. “Really - six minutes of exactly whatever you would like. I hate to worry you, but I’ve become one of those sentimental men who is happy as long as he’s with the lady he loves.” He offers, dry.

“Hmm. It’s quite a contagious sort of ailment, isn’t it? I fear I’ve caught it too. I’m just as bad.”

“Don’t worry - it doesn’t show. Eloise still thinks you a perfectly sensible woman.” He teases.

She laughs. “You’d best not tell her you’ve turned me into a swooning romantic. Our little secret?”

“Our little secret.” He agrees. “And here’s to a lifetime more.”