The Viscount Who Loved Me (16 page)

“You really should call me Anthony,” he said somewhat gruffly.

Mary smiled as he took her hand in greeting. “I shall endeavor to remember to do so,” she said. She sat across from Kate, then waited for Anthony to take his place on the sofa before saying, “Edwina is out, I’m afraid. Her Mr. Bagwell came rather unexpectedly down to town. They’ve gone for a walk in the park.”

“We should lend them Newton,” Anthony said affably. “A more capable chaperone I cannot imagine.”

“We actually came to see you, Mary,” Kate said.

Kate’s voice held an uncommon note of seriousness, and Mary responded instantly. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes flicking back and forth from Kate to Anthony. “Is everything all right?”

Kate nodded, swallowing as she searched for the right words. Funny how she’d been rehearsing what to ask all morning, and now she was speechless. But then she felt Anthony’s hand on hers, the weight and the warmth of it strangely comforting, and she looked up and said to Mary, “I’d like to ask you about my mother.”

Mary looked a little startled, but she said, “Of course. But you know that I did not know her personally. I only know what your father told me of her.”

Kate nodded. “I know. And you might not have the
answers to any of my questions, but I don’t know who else to ask.”

Mary shifted in her seat, her hands clasped primly in her lap. But Kate noticed that her knuckles had gone white.

“Very well,” Mary said. “What is it you wish to learn? You know that I will tell you anything I know.”

Kate nodded again and swallowed, her mouth having gone dry. “How did she die, Mary?”

Mary blinked, then sagged slightly, perhaps with relief. “But you know that already. It was influenza. Or some sort of lung fever. The doctors were never certain.”

“I know, but…” Kate looked to Anthony, who gave her a reassuring nod. She took a deep breath and plunged on. “I’m still afraid of storms, Mary. I want to know why. I don’t want to be afraid any longer.”

Mary’s lips parted, but she was silent for many seconds as she stared at her stepdaughter. Her skin slowly paled, taking on an odd, translucent hue, and her eyes grew haunted. “I didn’t realize,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you still—”

“I hid it well,” Kate said softly.

Mary reached up and touched her temple, her hands shaking. “If I’d known, I’d have…” Her fingers moved to her forehead, smoothing over worry lines as she fought for words. “Well, I don’t know what I’d have done. Told you, I suppose.”

Kate’s heart stopped. “Told me what?”

Mary let out a long breath, both of her hands at her face now, pressing against the upper edge of her eye sockets. She looked as if she had a terrible headache, the weight of the world pounding against her skull, from the inside out.

“I just want you to know,” she said in a choked voice, “that I didn’t tell you because I thought you didn’t remember. And if you didn’t remember, well, it didn’t seem right to
make
you remember.”

She looked up, and there were tears streaking her face.
“But obviously you do,” she whispered, “or you wouldn’t be so afraid. Oh, Kate. I’m so sorry.”

“I am sure there is nothing for you to be sorry about,” Anthony said softly.

Mary looked at him, her eyes momentarily startled, as if she’d forgotten he was in the room. “Oh, but there is,” she said sadly. “I didn’t know that Kate was still suffering from her fears. I should have known. It’s the sort of thing a mother should sense. I may not have given her life, but I have tried to be a true mother to her—”

“You have,” Kate said fervently. “The very best.”

Mary turned back to her, holding her silence for a few seconds before saying, in an oddly detached voice, “You were three when your mother died. It was your birthday, actually.”

Kate nodded, mesmerized.

“When I married your father I made three vows. There was the vow I made to him, before God and witnesses, to be his wife. But in my heart I made two other vows. One was to you, Kate. I took one look at you, so lost and forlorn with those huge brown eyes—and they were sad, oh, they were so sad, eyes no child should have—and I vowed that I would love you as my own, and raise you with everything I had within me.”

She paused to wipe her eyes, gratefully accepting the handkerchief that Anthony handed to her. When she continued, her voice was barely a whisper. “The other vow was to your mother. I visited her grave, you know.”

Kate’s nod was accompanied by a wistful smile. “I know. I went with you on several occasions.”

Mary shook her head. “No. I mean before I married your father. I knelt there, and that was when I made my third vow. She had been a good mother to you; everyone said so, and any fool could see that you missed her with everything in your heart. So I promised her all the same things I promised you, to be a good mother, to love and cherish you as if you were of my own flesh.” She lifted
her head, and her eyes were utterly clear and direct when she said, “And I’d like to think that I brought her some peace. I don’t think any mother can die in peace leaving behind a child so young.”

“Oh, Mary,” Kate whispered.

Mary looked at her and smiled sadly, then turned to Anthony. “And that, my lord, is why I am sorry. I should have known, should have seen that she suffered.”

“But Mary,” Kate protested, “I didn’t want you to see. I hid in my room, under my bed, in the closet. Anything to keep it from you.”

“But why, sweetling?”

Kate sniffed back a tear. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to worry you, I suppose. Or maybe I was afraid of appearing weak.”

“You’ve always tried to be so strong,” Mary whispered. “Even when you were a tiny thing.”

Anthony took Kate’s hand, but he looked at Mary. “She is strong. And so are you.”

Mary gazed at Kate’s face for a long minute, her eyes nostalgic and sad, and then, in a low, even voice, she said, “When your mother died, it was…I wasn’t there, but when I married your father, he told the story to me. He knew that I loved you already, and he thought it might help me to understand you a bit better.

“Your mother’s death was very quick. According to your father, she fell ill on a Thursday and died on a Tuesday. And it rained the whole time. It was one of those awful storms that never ends, just beats the ground mercilessly until the rivers flood and the roads become impassable.

“He said that he was sure she would turnabout if only the rain would stop. It was silly, he knew, but every night he’d go to bed praying for the sun to peek out from the clouds. Praying for anything that might give him a little hope.”

“Oh, Papa,” Kate whispered, the words slipping unbidden from her lips.

“You were confined to the house, of course, which apparently rankled you to no end.” Mary looked up and smiled at Kate, the sort of smile that spoke of years of memories. “You’ve always loved to be outdoors. Your father told me that your mother used to bring your cradle outside and rock you in the fresh air.”

“I didn’t know that,” Kate whispered.

Mary nodded, then continued with her story. “You didn’t realize your mother was ill right away. They kept you from her, fearing contagion. But eventually you must have sensed that something was wrong. Children always do.

“The night she died the rain had grown worse, and I’m told the thunder and lightning were as terrifying as anyone had ever seen.” She paused, then tilted her head slightly to the side as she asked, “Do you remember the old gnarled tree in the back garden—the one you and Edwina always used to scramble on?”

“The one that was split in two?” Kate whispered.

Mary nodded. “It happened that night. Your father said it was the most terrifying sound he’d ever heard. The thunder and lightning were coming on top of each other, and a bolt split the tree at the exact moment that the thunder shook the earth.

“I suppose you couldn’t sleep,” she continued. “I remember that storm, even though I lived in the next county. I don’t know how anyone could have slept through it. Your father was with your mother. She was dying, and everyone knew it, and in their grief they’d forgotten about you. They’d been so careful to keep you out, but on that night, their attention was elsewhere.

“Your father told me that he was sitting by your mother’s side, trying to hold her hand as she passed. It wasn’t a gentle death, I’m afraid. Lung disease often isn’t.” Mary looked up. “My mother died the same way. I know. The end wasn’t peaceful. She was gasping for breath, suffocating before my very eyes.”

Mary swallowed convulsively, then trained her eyes on
Kate’s. “I can only assume,” she whispered, “that you witnessed the same thing.”

Anthony’s hand tightened on Kate’s.

“But where I was five and twenty at my mother’s death,” Mary said, “you were but three. It’s not the sort of thing a child should see. They tried to make you leave, but you would not go. You bit and clawed and screamed and screamed and screamed, and then—”

Mary stopped, choking on her words. She lifted the handkerchief Anthony had given her to her face, and several moments passed before she was able to continue.

“Your mother was near death,” she said, her voice so low it was nearly a whisper. “And just as they found someone strong enough to remove such a wild child, a flash of lightning pierced the room. Your father said—”

Mary stopped and swallowed. “Your father told me that what happened next was the most eerie and awful moment he’d ever experienced. The lightning—it lit the room up as bright as day. And the flash wasn’t over in an instant, as it should be; it almost seemed to hang in the air. He looked at you, and you were frozen. I’ll never forget the way he described it. He said it was as if you were a little statue.”

Anthony jerked.

“What is it?” Kate asked, turning to him.

He shook his head disbelievingly. “That’s how you looked last night,” he said. “Exactly how you looked. I thought those very words.”

“I…” Kate looked from Anthony to Mary. But she didn’t know what to say.

Anthony gave her hand another squeeze as he turned to Mary and urged, “Please, go on.”

She nodded once. “Your eyes were fixed on your mother, and so your father turned to see what had horrified you so, and that’s when he…when he saw…”

Kate gently disengaged her hand from Anthony’s grasp and got up to sit beside Mary, pulling an ottoman down
next to her chair. She took one of Mary’s hands in both of her own. “It’s all right, Mary,” she murmured. “You can tell me. I need to know.”

Mary nodded. “It was the moment of her death. She sat upright. Your father said she hadn’t lifted her body from the pillows for days, and yet she sat bolt upright. He said she was stiff, her head thrown back, and her mouth was open as if she were screaming, but she couldn’t make a sound. And then the thunder came, and you must have thought the sound came from her mouth, because you screamed like nothing anyone had ever heard and came running forward, jumping onto the bed and throwing your arms around her.

“They tried to pry you off, but you just wouldn’t let go. You kept screaming and screaming and calling her name, and then there was a terrible crash. Glass shattering. A bolt of lightning severed a branch from a tree, and it crashed right through the window. There was glass everywhere, and wind, and rain, and thunder, and more lightning, and through the whole thing you didn’t stop screaming. Even after she was dead and had fallen back onto the pillows, your little arms were still clutched around her neck, and you screamed and sobbed and begged for her to wake up, and not to leave.

“And you just wouldn’t let go,” Mary whispered. “Finally they had to wait until you wore yourself out and fell asleep.”

The room was hung with silence for a full minute, and then Kate finally whispered, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know that I’d witnessed that.”

“Your father said you wouldn’t speak of it,” Mary said. “Not that you could, right away. You slept for hours and hours, and then when you woke up, it was clear that you’d caught your mother’s illness. Not with the same gravity; your life was never in danger. But you were ill, and not in any state to talk about your mother’s death. And when you were well, you
wouldn’t
talk about it. Your father tried, but he said that every time he mentioned it, you shook
your head and clamped your hands over your ears. And eventually he stopped trying.”

Mary gave Kate an intent gaze. “He said you seemed happier when he stopped trying. He did what he thought was best.”

“I know,” Kate whispered. “And at the time, it probably
was
best. But now I needed to know.” She turned to Anthony, not for reassurance exactly, but for some sort of validation, and she repeated, “I needed to know.”

“How do you feel now?” he asked, his words soft and direct.

She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know. Good, I think. A little lighter.” And then, without even realizing what she was doing, she smiled. It was a hesitant, slow thing, but nonetheless a smile. She turned to Anthony with astonished eyes. “I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders.”

“Do you remember now?” Mary asked.

Kate shook her head. “But I still feel better. I can’t explain it, really. It’s good to know, even if I can’t remember.”

Mary made a choked sort of sound and then she was out of her chair and next to Kate on the ottoman, embracing her with all her might. And they both were crying, the odd, energetic sort of sobs that were mixed with laughter. There were tears, but they were happy tears, and when Kate finally pulled away and looked at Anthony, she saw that he, too, was wiping at the corner of his eye.

He pulled his hand away, of course, and assumed a dignified mien, but she’d seen him. And in that moment, she knew she loved him. With every thought, every emotion, every piece of her being, she loved him.

And if he never loved her back—well, she didn’t want to think about that. Not now, not in this profound moment.

Probably not ever.

B
y eleven o’clock that evening, all of Kate’s fears had been realized.

Anthony Bridgerton had asked Edwina to dance.

Even worse, Edwina had accepted.

Even worse, Mary was gazing at the couple as if she’d like to reserve a church that minute.

“Will you stop that?” Kate hissed, poking her stepmother in the ribs.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at them like that!”

Mary blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you’re planning the wedding breakfast.”

“Oh.” Mary’s cheeks turned pink. A guilty sort of pink.

“Mary!”

“Well, I might have been,” Mary admitted. “And what’s wrong with that, I might ask? He’d be a superb catch for Edwina.”

“Were you listening this afternoon in the drawing room? It’s bad enough that Edwina has any number of rakes and rogues sniffing about her. You cannot imagine the amount of time it has taken me to sort the good suitors from the bad. But Bridgerton!” Kate shuddered. “He’s quite possibly the worst rake in all London. You cannot want her to marry a man like him.”

“Don’t you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, Katharine Grace Sheffield,” Mary said sharply, stiffening her spine until she’d straightened to her full height—which was still a full head shorter than Kate. “I am still your mother. Well, your stepmother. And that counts for something.”

Kate immediately felt like a worm. Mary was all she’d ever known as a mother, and she’d never, not even once, made Kate feel any less her daughter than Edwina was. She’d tucked Kate into bed at night, told her stories, kissed her, hugged her, helped her through the awkward years between childhood and adulthood. The only thing she had not done was ask Kate to call her “Mother.”

“It counts,” Kate said in a quiet voice, letting her gaze fall shamefully down to her feet. “It counts for a lot. And you
are
my mother. In every way that matters.”

Mary stared at her for a long moment, then started to blink rather furiously. “Oh, dear,” she choked out, reaching into her reticule for a handkerchief. “Now you’ve gone and turned me into a watering pot.”

“I’m sorry,” Kate murmured. “Oh, here, turn around so no one sees you. There you are.”

Mary pulled out a white square of linen and dabbed at her eyes, the exact same blue as Edwina’s. “I do love you, Kate. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course!” Kate exclaimed, shocked that Mary would even ask. “And you know…you know that I…”

“I know.” Mary patted her arm. “Of course I know. It’s just that when you agree to be mother to a child you haven’t borne, your responsibility is twice as great. You must work even harder to ensure that child’s happiness and welfare.”

“Oh, Mary, I do love you. And I love Edwina.”

At the mention of Edwina’s name, they both turned and looked out across the ballroom at her, dancing prettily with the viscount. As usual, Edwina was a vision of petite loveliness. Her blond hair was swept atop her head, a few stray curls left to frame her face, and her form was the epitome of grace as she moved through the steps of the dance.

The viscount, Kate noted with irritation, was blindingly handsome. Dressed in stark black and white, he eschewed the garish colors that had become popular among the more foppish members of the
ton
. He was tall, stood straight and proud, and had thick chestnut hair that tended to fall forward over his brow.

He was, on the surface at least, everything man was meant to be.

“They make a handsome couple, don’t they?” Mary murmured.

Kate bit her tongue. She actually bit her tongue.

“He’s a trifle tall for her, but I don’t see that as an insurmountable obstacle, do you?”

Kate clasped her hands together and let her nails bite into her skin. It said a great deal about the strength of her grip that she could feel them all the way through her kid gloves.

Mary smiled. A rather sly smile, Kate thought. She gave her stepmother a suspicious look.

“He dances well, don’t you think?” Mary asked.

“He is not going to marry Edwina!” Kate burst out.

Mary’s smile slid straight into a grin. “I was wondering how long you’d manage to hold your silence.”

“Far longer than was my natural inclination,” Kate retorted, practically biting each word.

“Yes, that much was clear.”

“Mary, you know he is not the sort of man we want for Edwina.”

Mary cocked her head slightly to the side and raised her brows. “I believe the question ought to be whether he is the sort of man
Edwina
wants for Edwina.”

“He’s not that, either!” Kate replied heatedly. “Just this afternoon she told me that she wanted to marry a scholar. A scholar!” She jerked her head toward the dark-haired cretin dancing with her sister. “Does he look like a scholar to you?”

“No, but then again, you don’t look particularly like an accomplished watercolorist, and yet I know that you are.” Mary smirked a bit, which needled Kate to no end, and waited for her reply.

“I’ll allow,” Kate said through clenched teeth, “that one ought not judge a person merely on his outer appearance, but surely you must agree. From all that we have heard of him, he does not seem the sort to spend his afternoons bent over musty books in a library.”

“Perhaps not,” Mary mused, “but I had a lovely chat with his mother earlier this evening.”

“His mother?” Kate fought to follow the conversation. “What has that to do with anything?”

Mary shrugged. “I find it difficult to believe that such a gracious and intelligent lady could have raised anything but the finest of gentlemen, regardless of his reputation.”

“But Mary—”

“When you are a mother,” she said loftily, “you will understand what I mean.”

“But—”

“Have I told you,” Mary said, the purposeful tone of her voice indicating that she’d meant to interrupt, “how lovely you look in that green gauze? I’m so glad we chose it.”

Kate looked dumbly down at her dress, wondering why on earth Mary had changed the subject so suddenly.

“The color suits you well. Lady Whistledown shall not be calling you a singed blade of grass in Friday’s column!”

Kate stared at Mary in dismay. Perhaps her stepmother had become overheated. It
was
crowded in the ballroom, and the air had grown thick.

Then she felt Mary’s finger jabbing her directly below her left shoulder blade, and she knew something else was afoot entirely.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Mary suddenly exclaimed, sounding as gleeful as a young girl.

Horrified, Kate jerked her head up to see a startlingly handsome man approach them. A startlingly handsome man who looked startlingly like the viscount currently dancing with her sister.

She swallowed. It was either that or let her jaw hang open.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Mary said again. “How nice to see you. This is my daughter Katharine.”

He took her limp, gloved hand and brushed an airy kiss across her knuckles. So airy, in fact, that Kate rather suspected he hadn’t kissed her at all.

“Miss Sheffield,” he murmured.

“Kate,” Mary continued, “this is Mr. Colin Bridgerton. I met him earlier this evening while I was talking with his mother, Lady Bridgerton.” She turned to Colin and beamed. “Such a lovely lady.”

He grinned back. “We think so.”

Mary tittered. Tittered! Kate thought she might gag.

“Kate,” Mary said again, “Mr. Bridgerton is brother to the viscount. Who is dancing with Edwina,” she added unnecessarily.

“I gathered,” Kate replied.

Colin Bridgerton shot her a sideways glance, and she knew instantly that he had not missed the vague sarcasm in her tone.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sheffield,” he said politely. “I do hope you will favor me with one of your dances this evening.”

“I—Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I would be honored.”

“Kate,” Mary said, nudging her softly, “show him your dance card.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Kate fumbled for her dance card, which was tied prettily to her wrist with a green ribbon. That she had to fumble for anything actually tied to her body was a bit alarming, but Kate decided to blame her lack of composure on the sudden and unexpected appearance of a heretofore unknown Bridgerton brother.

That, and the unfortunate fact that even under the best of circumstances she was never the most graceful girl in the room.

Colin filled his name in for one of the dances later that evening, then asked if she might like to walk with him to the lemonade table.

“Go, go,” Mary said, before Kate could reply. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine without you.”

“I can bring you back a glass,” Kate offered, trying to figure out if it was possible to glare at her stepmother without Mr. Bridgerton noticing.

“Not necessary. I really should get back to my position with all the other chaperones and mamas.” Mary whipped her head around frantically until she spied a familiar face. “Oh, look, there is Mrs. Featherington. I must be off. Portia! Portia!”

Kate watched her stepmother’s rapidly retreating form
for a moment before turning back to Mr. Bridgerton. “I think,” she said dryly, “that she doesn’t want any lemonade.”

A sparkle of humor glinted in his emerald green eyes. “Either that or she’s planning to run all the way to Spain to pick the lemons herself.”

Despite herself, Kate laughed. She didn’t want to like Mr. Colin Bridgerton. She didn’t much want to like any Bridgerton after all she’d read about the viscount in the newspaper. But she allowed that it probably wasn’t fair to judge a man based on his brother’s misdeeds, so she forced herself to relax a bit.

“And are you thirsty,” she asked, “or were you merely being polite?”

“I am always polite,” he said with a wicked grin, “but I am thirsty as well.”

Kate took one look at that grin, lethally combined with those devastating green eyes, and nearly groaned. “You are a rake as well,” she said with a sigh.

Colin choked—on what, she did not know, but he choked nonetheless. “I beg your pardon?”

Kate’s face flushed as she realized with horror that she’d spoken aloud. “No, it is I who should beg your pardon. Please forgive me. That was unforgivably rude.”

“No, no,” he said quickly, looking terribly interested and not a little bit amused, “do continue.”

Kate swallowed. There was really no way to get out of it now. “I was merely—” She cleared her throat. “If I might be frank…”

He nodded, his sly grin telling her that he could not imagine her being anything
but
frank.

Kate cleared her throat yet again. Really, this was getting ridiculous. She was starting to sound as if she’d swallowed a toad. “It had occurred to me that you might be rather like your brother, that is all.”

“My brother?”

“The viscount,” she said, thinking it must be obvious.

“I have three brothers,” he explained.

“Oh.” Now she felt stupid. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said with great feeling. “Most of the time they’re a dreadful nuisance.”

Kate had to cough to cover up her small gasp of surprise.

“But at least you were not comparing me to Gregory,” he said with a dramatic sigh of relief. He shot her a cheeky, sideways look. “He’s thirteen.”

Kate caught the smile in his eyes and realized he’d been bamming her all along. This was not a man who wished his brothers off to perdition. “You’re rather devoted to your family, aren’t you?” she asked.

His eyes, which had been laughing throughout the conversation, turned dead serious without even a blink. “Utterly.”

“As am I,” Kate said pointedly.

“And that means?”

“It means,” she said, knowing she should hold her tongue but speaking anyway, “that I will not allow anyone to break my sister’s heart.”

Colin remained silent for a moment, slowly turning his head to watch his brother and Edwina, who were just then finishing up their dance. “I see,” he murmured.

“Do you?”

“Oh, indeed.” They arrived at the lemonade table, and he reached out and took two glasses, handing one to her. She’d already had three glasses of lemonade that evening, a fact of which she was sure Mary had been aware before she’d insisted Kate have some more. But it was hot in the ballroom—it was always hot in ballrooms—and she was thirsty again.

Colin took a leisurely sip, watching her over the rim of his glass, then said, “My brother has it in his mind to settle down this year.”

Two could play at this game, Kate thought. She took a sip of her lemonade—slowly—before speaking. “Is that so?”

“I would certainly be in a position to know.”

“He is reputed to be quite a rake.”

Colin looked at her assessingly. “That is true.”

“It is difficult to imagine so notorious a rogue settling down with one woman and finding happiness in marriage.”

“You seem to have given such a scenario a great deal of thought, Miss Sheffield.”

She leveled a frank stare directly at his face. “Your brother is not the first man of questionable character to court my sister, Mr. Bridgerton. And I assure you, I do not take my sister’s happiness lightly.”

“Surely any girl would find happiness in marriage to a wealthy and titled gentleman. Isn’t that what a season in London is all about?”

“Perhaps,” Kate allowed, “but I’m afraid that line of thinking does not address the true problem at hand.”