The Viscount Who Loved Me (17 page)

“Which is?”

“Which is that a husband can break a heart with far greater intensity than a mere suitor.” She smiled—a small, knowing sort of smile—then added, “Don’t you think?”

“Having never been married, I am certainly not in a position to speculate.”

“Shame, shame, Mr. Bridgerton. That was the worst sort of evasion.”

“Was it? I rather thought it might be the best. I am clearly losing my touch.”

“That, I fear, will never be a worry.” Kate finished the rest of her lemonade. It was a small glass; Lady Hartside, their hostess, was notoriously stingy.

“You are far too generous,” he said.

She smiled, a real smile this time. “I am rarely accused of that, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He laughed. Right out loud in the middle of the ballroom. Kate realized with discomfort that they were suddenly the object of numerous curious stares.

“You,” he said, still sounding most heartily amused, “must meet my brother.”

“The viscount?” she asked with disbelief.

“Well, you might enjoy Gregory’s company as well,” he allowed, “but as I said, he is only thirteen and likely to put a frog on your chair.”

“And the viscount?”

“Is not likely to put a frog on your chair,” he said with an utterly straight face.

How Kate managed not to laugh she would never know. Keeping her lips completely straight and serious, she replied, “I see. He has a great deal to recommend him, then.”

Colin grinned. “He’s not such a bad sort.”

“I am much relieved. I shall begin planning the wedding breakfast immediately.”

Colin’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t mean—You shouldn’t—That is to say, such a move would be premature—”

Kate took pity on him and said, “I was joking.”

His face flushed slightly. “Of course.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must make my farewell.”

He raised a brow. “Not leaving so early, are you, Miss Sheffield?”

“Not at all.” But she wasn’t about to tell him she had to go relieve herself. Four glasses of lemonade tended to do that to a body. “I promised a friend I would meet her for a moment.”

“It has been a pleasure.” He executed a smart bow. “May I see you to your destination?”

“No, thank you. I shall be quite all right on my own.” And with a smile over her shoulder, she made her retreat from the ballroom.

Colin Bridgerton watched her go with a thoughtful expression, then made his way to his older brother, who was leaning against a wall, arms crossed in an almost belligerent manner.

“Anthony!” he called out, slapping his brother on the back. “How was your dance with the lovely Miss Sheffield?”

“She’ll do,” was Anthony’s terse reply. They both knew what that meant.

“Really?” Colin’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “You should meet the sister, then.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Her sister,” Colin repeated, starting to laugh. “You simply must meet her sister.”

Twenty minutes later, Anthony was confident he’d gotten the whole story on Edwina Sheffield from Colin. And it seemed that the road to Edwina’s heart and hand in marriage lay squarely through her sister.

Edwina Sheffield apparently would not marry without the approval of her older sister. According to Colin, this was common knowledge, and had been for at least a week, ever since Edwina had made an announcement to this effect at the annual Smythe-Smith musicale. The Bridgerton brothers had all missed this momentous statement, as they avoided Smythe-Smith musicales like the plague (as did anyone with any affection for Bach, Mozart, or music in any form.)

Edwina’s older sister, one Katharine Sheffield, more commonly known as Kate, was also making her debut this year, even though she was reputed to be at least one and twenty. Such timing led Anthony to believe that the Sheffields must be among the less wealthy ranks of the
ton,
a fact which suited him nicely. He had no need of a bride with a great dowry, and a bride without one might have more need of
him
.

Anthony believed in using all of his advantages.

Unlike Edwina, the elder Miss Sheffield had not immediately taken the
ton
by storm. According to Colin, she was generally well liked, but she lacked Edwina’s dazzling beauty. She was tall where Edwina was tiny, and
dark where Edwina was fair. She also lacked Edwina’s dazzling grace. Again, according to Colin (who, though recently arrived in London for the season, was a veritable font of knowledge and gossip), more than one gentleman had reported sore feet after a dance with Katharine Sheffield.

The entire situation seemed a bit absurd to Anthony. After all, who had ever heard of a girl requiring her sister’s approval for a husband? A father, yes, a brother, or even a mother, but a sister? It was unfathomable. And furthermore, it seemed odd that Edwina would look to Katharine for guidance when Katharine clearly did not know what she was about in matters of the
ton.

But Anthony didn’t particularly feel like searching out another suitable candidate to court, so he conveniently decided this simply meant that family was important to Edwina. And since family was all-important to him, this was one more indication that she would make an excellent choice as a wife.

So now it appeared that all he had to do was charm the sister. And how difficult could that be?

“You’ll have no trouble winning her over,” Colin predicted, a confident smile lighting his face. “No trouble at all. A shy, aging spinster? She’s probably never received attentions from such a man as you. She’ll never know what hit her.”

“I don’t want her to fall in love with me,” Anthony retorted. “I just want her to recommend me to her sister.”

“You can’t fail,” Colin said. “You simply can’t fail. Trust me, I spent a few minutes in conversation with her earlier this evening, and she could not say enough about you.”

“Good.” Anthony pushed himself up off the wall and gazed out with an air of determination. “Now, where is she? I need you to introduce us.”

Colin scanned the room for a minute or so, then said, “Ah, there she is. She’s coming this way, as a matter of fact. What a marvelous coincidence.”

Anthony was coming to believe that nothing within five yards of his younger brother was ever a coincidence, but he followed his gaze nonetheless. “Which one is she?”

“In the green,” Colin said, motioning toward her with a barely perceptible nod of his chin.

She was not at all what he’d expected, Anthony realized as he watched her pick her way through the crowds. She was certainly no ape-leading amazon; it was only when compared to Edwina, who barely touched five feet, that she would appear so tall. In fact, Miss Katharine Sheffield was quite pleasant-looking, with thick, medium brown hair and dark eyes. Her skin was pale, her lips pink, and she held herself with an air of confidence he could not help but find attractive.

She would certainly never be considered a diamond of the first water like her sister, but Anthony didn’t see why she shouldn’t be able to find a husband of her own. Perhaps after he married Edwina he’d provide a dowry for her. It seemed the very least a man could do.

Beside him, Colin strode forward, pushing through the crowd. “Miss Sheffield! Miss Sheffield!”

Anthony swept along in Colin’s wake, mentally preparing himself to charm Edwina’s older sister. An underappreciated spinster, was she? He’d have her eating out of his hand in no time.

“Miss Sheffield,” Colin was saying, “what a delight to see you again.”

She looked a bit perplexed, and Anthony didn’t blame her. Colin was making it sound as if they’d bumped into each other accidentally, when they all knew he’d trampled at least a half dozen people to reach her side.

“And it’s lovely to see you again as well, sir,” she replied wryly. “And so unexpectedly soon after our last encounter.”

Anthony smiled to himself. She had a sharper wit than he’d been led to believe.

Colin grinned winningly, and Anthony had the distinct
and unsettling impression that his brother was up to something. “I can’t explain why,” Colin said to Miss Sheffield, “but it suddenly seemed imperative that I introduce you to my brother.”

She looked abruptly to Colin’s right and stiffened as her gaze settled on Anthony. In fact, she rather looked as if she’d just swallowed an antidote.

This, Anthony thought, was odd.

“How kind of you,” Miss Sheffield murmured—between her teeth.

“Miss Sheffield,” Colin continued brightly, motioning to Anthony, “my brother Anthony, Viscount Bridgerton. Anthony, Miss Katharine Sheffield. I believe you made the acquaintance of her sister earlier this evening.”

“Indeed,” Anthony said, becoming aware of an overwhelming desire—no,
need
—to strangle his brother.

Miss Sheffield bobbed a quick, awkward curtsy. “Lord Bridgerton,” she said, “it is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

Colin made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. Or maybe a laugh. Or maybe both.

And Anthony suddenly
knew
. One look at his brother’s face should have given it all away. This was no shy, retiring, underappreciated spinster. And whatever she had said to Colin earlier that evening, it had contained no compliments about Anthony.

Fratricide was legal in England, wasn’t it? If not, it damn well should have been.

Anthony belatedly realized that Miss Sheffield had held out her hand to him, as was only polite. He took it and brushed a light kiss across her gloved knuckles. “Miss Sheffield,” he murmured unthinkingly, “you are as lovely as your sister.”

If she had seemed uncomfortable before, her bearing now turned downright hostile. And Anthony realized with a mental slap that he’d said
exactly
the wrong thing. Of course he should not have compared her to her sister.
It was the one compliment she could never have believed.

“And you, Lord Bridgerton,” she replied in a tone that could have frozen champagne, “are almost as handsome as your brother.”

Colin snorted again, only this time it sounded as if he were being strangled.

“Are you all right?” Miss Sheffield asked.

“He’s fine,” Anthony barked.

She ignored him, keeping her attention on Colin. “Are you certain?”

Colin nodded furiously. “Tickle in my throat.”

“Or perhaps a guilty conscience?” Anthony suggested.

Colin turned deliberately from his brother to Kate. “I think I might need another glass of lemonade,” he gasped.

“Or maybe,” said Anthony, “something stronger. Hemlock, perhaps?”

Miss Sheffield clapped a hand over her mouth, presumably to stifle a burst of horrified laughter.

“Lemonade will do just fine,” Colin returned smoothly.

“Would you like me to fetch you a glass?” she asked. Anthony noticed that she’d already stepped out with one foot, looking for any excuse to flee.

Colin shook his head. “No, no, I’m quite capable. But I do believe I had reserved this next dance with you, Miss Sheffield.”

“I shall not hold you to it,” she said with a wave of her hand.

“Oh, but I could not live with myself were I to leave you unattended,” he replied.

Anthony could see Miss Sheffield growing worried at the devilish gleam in Colin’s eye. He took a rather uncharitable pleasure in this. His reaction was, he knew, a touch out of proportion. But something about this Miss Katharine Sheffield sparked his temper and made him positively
itch
to do battle with her.

And win. That much went without saying.

“Anthony,” Colin said, sounding so deucedly innocent and earnest that it was all Anthony could do not to kill him on the spot, “you’re not engaged for this dance, are you?”

Anthony said nothing, just glared at him.

“Good. Then you will dance with Miss Sheffield.”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” the woman in question blurted out.

Anthony glared at his brother, then for good measure at Miss Sheffield, who was looking at him as if he’d just despoiled ten virgins in her presence.

“Oh, but it is,” Colin said with great drama, ignoring the optical daggers being hurled across their little threesome. “I could never dream of abandoning a young lady in her hour of need. How”—he shuddered—“ungentlemanly.”

Anthony thought seriously about pursuing some ungentlemanly behavior himself. Perhaps planting his fist in Colin’s face.

“I assure you,” Miss Sheffield said quickly, “that being left to my own devices would be far preferable to dan—”

Enough, Anthony thought savagely, was really enough. His own brother had already played him for a fool; he was not going to stand idly by while he was insulted by Edwina’s sharp-tongued spinster sister. He laid a heavy hand on Miss Sheffield’s arm and said, “Allow me to prevent you from making a grievous mistake, Miss Sheffield.”

She stiffened. How, he did not know; her back was already ramrod straight. “I beg your pardon,” she said.

“I believe,” he said smoothly, “that you were about to say something you would soon regret.”

“No,” she said, sounding deliberately thoughtful, “I don’t think regrets were in my future.”

“They will be,” he said ominously. And then he grabbed her arm and practically dragged her onto the ballroom floor.

“D
o you know what I think?” Kate asked, as she sat at her vanity table later that night, brushing her hair.

Anthony was standing by the window, one hand leaning against the frame as he gazed out. “Mmmm?” was his reply, mostly because he was too distracted by his own thoughts to formulate a more coherent word.

“I think,” she continued in a cheery voice, “that next time it storms, I’m going to be just fine.”

He turned slowly around. “Really?” he asked.

She nodded. “I don’t know why I think that. A gut feeling, I suppose.”

“Gut feelings,” he said, in a voice that sounded strange and flat even to his own ears, “are often the most accurate.”

“I feel the strangest sense of optimism,” she said, waving her silver-backed hairbrush in the air as she spoke. “All my life, I’ve had this awful thing hanging over my head. I didn’t tell you—I never told anyone—but every time it stormed, and I fell to pieces, I thought…well, I didn’t just
think
, I somehow
knew
…”

“What, Kate?” he asked, dreading the answer without even having a clue why.

“Somehow,” she said thoughtfully, “as I shook and sobbed, I just knew that I was going to die. I knew it. There was just no way I could feel that awful and live to see the next day.” Her head cocked slightly to the side, and her face took on a vaguely strained expression, as if she weren’t sure how to say what she needed to say.

But Anthony understood all the same. And it made his blood run to ice.

“I’m sure you’ll think it’s the silliest thing imaginable,” she said, her shoulders rising and falling in a sheepish shrug. “You’re so rational, so levelheaded and practical. I don’t think you could understand something like this.”

If she only knew
. Anthony rubbed at his eyes, feeling strangely drunk. He staggered to a chair, hoping she wouldn’t notice how off balance he was, and sat down.

Luckily, her attention had returned to the various bottles and trinkets on her vanity table. Or maybe she was just too embarrassed to look at him, thinking he’d scoff at her irrational fears.

“Whenever the storm passed,” she continued, talking down at her table, “I knew how foolish I’d been and how ridiculous the notion was. After all, I’d endured thunderstorms before, and none had ever killed me. But knowing
that in my rational mind never seemed to help. Do you know what I mean?”

Anthony tried to nod. He wasn’t sure if he actually did.

“When it rained,” she said, “nothing really existed except for the storm. And, of course, my fear. Then the sun would come out, and I’d realize again how silly I’d been, but the next time it stormed, it was just like before. And once again, I knew I would die. I just knew it.”

Anthony felt sick. His body felt strange, not his own. He couldn’t have said anything if he’d tried.

“In fact,” she said, raising her head to look at him, “the only time I felt I might actually live to see the next day was in the library at Aubrey Hall.” She stood and walked to his side, resting her cheek on his lap as she knelt before him. “With you,” she whispered.

He lifted his hand to stroke her hair. The motion was more out of reflex than anything else. He certainly wasn’t conscious of his actions.

He’d had no idea that Kate had any sense of her own mortality. Most people didn’t. It was something that had lent Anthony an odd sense of isolation through the years, as if he understood some basic, awful truth that eluded the rest of society.

And while Kate’s sense of doom wasn’t the same as his—hers was fleeting, brought on by a temporary burst of wind and rain and electricity, whereas his was with him always, and would be until the day he died—she, unlike him, had beaten it.

Kate had fought her demons and she had won.

And Anthony was so damned jealous.

It was not a noble reaction; he knew that. And, caring for her as he did, he was thrilled and relieved and overjoyed and every good and pure emotion imaginable that she had beaten the terrors that came with the storms, but he was still jealous. So goddamned jealous.

Kate had won.

Whereas he, who had acknowledged his demons but
refused to fear them, was now petrified with terror. And all because the one thing he swore would never happen had come to pass.

He had fallen in love with his wife.

He had fallen in love with his wife, and now the thought of dying, of leaving her, of knowing that their moments together would form a short poem and not a long and lusty novel—it was more than he could bear.

And he didn’t know where to set the blame. He wanted to point his finger at his father, for dying young and leaving him as the bearer of this awful curse. He wanted to rail at Kate, for coming into his life and making him fear his own end. Hell, he would have blamed a stranger on the street if he’d thought there’d be any use to it.

But the truth was, there was no one to blame, not even himself. It would make him feel so much better if he could point his finger at someone—anyone—and say, “This is
your
fault.” It was juvenile, he knew, this need to assign blame, but everyone had a right to childish emotions from time to time, didn’t they?

“I’m so happy,” Kate murmured, her head still resting on his lap.

And Anthony wanted to be happy, too. He wanted so damned much for everything to be uncomplicated, for happiness just to be happiness and nothing more. He wanted to rejoice in her recent victories without any thought to his own worries. He wanted to lose himself in the moment, to forget about the future, to hold her in his arms and…

In one abrupt, unpremeditated movement, he hauled them both to their feet.

“Anthony?” Kate queried, blinking in surprise.

In answer, he kissed her. His lips met hers in an explosion of passion and need that blurred the mind until he could be ruled by body alone. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to be
able
to think. All he wanted was this very moment.

And he wanted this moment to last forever.

He swept his wife into his arms and stalked to the bed, depositing her on the mattress half a second before his body came down to cover hers. She was stunning beneath him, soft and strong, and consumed by the same fire that raged within his own body. She might not understand what had prompted his sudden need, but she felt it and shared it all the same.

Kate had already dressed for bed, and her nightrobe fell open easily under his experienced fingers. He had to touch her, to feel her, to assure himself that she was there beneath him and he was there to make love to her. She was wearing a silky little confection of ice blue that tied at the shoulders and hugged her curves. It was the sort of gown designed to reduce men to liquid fire, and Anthony was no exception.

There was something desperately erotic about the feel of her warm skin through the silk, and his hands roamed over her body relentlessly, touching, squeezing, doing anything he could to bind her to him.

If he could have drawn her within him, he would have done it and kept her there forever.

“Anthony,” Kate gasped, in that brief moment when he removed his mouth from hers, “are you all right?”

“I want you,” he grunted, bunching her gown up around the tops of her legs. “I want you now.”

Her eyes widened with shock and excitement, and he sat up, straddling her, his weight on his knees so as not to crush her. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “So unbelievably gorgeous.”

Kate glowed at his words, and her hands went up to his face, smoothing her fingers over his faintly stubbled cheeks. He caught one of her hands and turned his face into it, kissing her palm as her other hand trailed down the muscled cords of his neck.

His fingers found the delicate straps at her shoulders, tied into loose bow-tie loops. It took the barest of tugs to release the knots, but once the silky fabric slid over her breasts, Anthony lost all semblance of patience, and he
yanked at the garment until it pooled at her feet, leaving her completely and utterly naked under his gaze.

With a ragged groan he tore at his shirt, buttons flying as he pulled it off, and it took mere seconds to divest himself of his trousers. And then, when there was finally nothing in the bed but glorious skin, he covered her again, one muscular thigh nudging her legs apart.

“I can’t wait,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t make this good for you.”

Kate let out a fevered groan as she grabbed him by the hips, steering him toward her entrance. “It
is
good for me,” she gasped. “And I don’t want you to wait.”

And at that point, words ceased. Anthony let out a primitive, guttural cry as he plunged into her, burying himself fully with one long and powerful stroke. Kate’s eyes flew wide open, and her mouth formed a little
Oh
of surprise at the shock of his swift invasion. But she’d been ready for him—more than ready for him. Something about the relentless pace of his lovemaking had stirred a passion deep within her, until she needed him with a desperation that left her breathless.

They weren’t delicate, and they weren’t gentle. They were hot, and sweaty, and needy, and they held on to each other as if they could make time last forever by sheer force of will. When they climaxed, it was fiery and it was simultaneous, both their bodies arching as their cries of release mingled in the night.

But when they were done, curled in each other’s arms as they fought for control over their labored breath, Kate closed her eyes in bliss and surrendered to an overwhelming lassitude.

Anthony did not.

He stared at her as she drifted off, then watched her as she slumbered. He watched the way her eyes sometimes moved under her sleepy eyelids. He measured the pace of her breathing by counting the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He listened for each sigh, each mumble.

There were certain memories a man wanted to sear on his brain, and this was one of them.

But just when he was sure that she was totally and completely asleep, she made a funny, warm sort of noise as she snuggled more deeply into his embrace, and her eyelids fluttered slowly open.

“You’re still awake,” she murmured, her voice scratchy and mellow with sleep.

He nodded, wondering if he was holding her too tightly. He didn’t want to let go. He never wanted to let go.

“You should sleep,” she said.

He nodded again, but he couldn’t seem to make his eyes close.

She yawned. “This is nice.”

He kissed her forehead, making an “Mmmm” sound of agreement.

She arched her neck and kissed him back, full on the lips, then settled into her pillow. “I hope we’ll be like this always,” she murmured, yawning yet again as sleep overtook her. “Always and forever.”

Anthony froze.

Always
.

She couldn’t know what that word meant to him. Five years? Six? Maybe seven or eight.

Forever
.

That was a word that had no meaning, something he simply couldn’t comprehend.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

The coverlet felt like a brick wall atop him, and the air grew thick.

He had to get out of there. He had to go. He had to—

He vaulted from the bed, and then, stumbling and choking, he reached for his clothes, tossed so recklessly to the floor, and started thrusting his limbs into the appropriate holes.

“Anthony?”

His head jerked up. Kate was pushing herself upright in
the bed, yawning. Even in the dim light, he could see that her eyes were confused. And hurt.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He gave her one curt nod.

“Then why are you trying to put your leg into the armhole of your shirt?”

He looked down and bit off a curse he’d never before even considered uttering in front of a female. With yet another choice expletive, he balled the offending piece of linen into a wrinkled mess and threw it on the floor, pausing for barely a second before yanking his trousers on.

“Where are you going?” Kate asked anxiously.

“I have to go out,” he grunted.

“Now?”

He didn’t answer because he didn’t know how to answer.

“Anthony?” She stepped out of bed and reached for him, but a split second before her hand touched his cheek he flinched, stumbling backward until his back hit the bedpost. He saw the hurt on her face, the pain of his rejection, but he knew that if she touched him in tenderness, he’d be lost.

“Damn it all,” he bit off. “Where the hell are my shirts?”

“In your dressing room,” she said nervously. “Where they always are.”

He stalked off in search of a fresh shirt, unable to bear the sound of her voice. No matter what she said, he kept hearing
always
and
forever
.

And it was killing him.

When he emerged from his dressing room, coat and shoes on their proper places on his body, Kate was on her feet, pacing the floor and anxiously fidgeting with the wide blue sash on her dressing gown.

“I have to go,” he said tonelessly.

She didn’t make a sound, which was what he’d thought he wanted, but instead he just found himself standing there, waiting for her to speak, unable to move until she did.

“When will you be back?” she finally asked.

“Tomorrow.”