The Viscount Who Loved Me (25 page)

Kate bit her lip, not wanting to respond directly to Edwina’s point. Because behind those lovely blue eyes and perfect face, Edwina was quite the most perceptive person she knew. And Edwina was right. Kate hadn’t been looking for a husband. But why should she? No one was considering her for marriage, either.

She sighed, glancing toward the window. The storm seemed to have passed without striking her area of London. She supposed she ought to be thankful for small favors.

“Why don’t we see about you first,” Kate finally said, “since I think we both agree that you are more likely to receive a proposal before I do, and then we’ll think about my prospects?”

Edwina shrugged, and Kate knew that her deliberate silence meant that she did not agree.

“Very well,” Kate said, rising to her feet. “I’ll leave you to your rest. I’m sure you’ll need it.”

Edwina coughed as a reply.

“And drink that remedy!” Kate said with a laugh, heading out the door.

As she shut the door behind her, she heard Edwina mutter, “I’d rather die.”

Four days later, Edwina was dutifully drinking Cook’s remedy, although not without considerable grumbling and complaint. Her health had improved, but only to the point where she was
almost
better. She was still stuck in bed, still coughing, and very irritable.

Mary had declared that Edwina could not attend any social functions until Tuesday at the earliest. Kate had taken that to mean that they all would receive a respite (because really, what was the point of attending a ball without Edwina?), but after Kate spent a blessedly uneventful Friday, Saturday, and Sunday with nothing to do but read and take Newton for walks, Mary suddenly declared that the two of them would attend Lady Bridgerton’s musicale Monday evening, and—

(Kate tried to interject a vehement argument about why this was not a good idea at this point.)

—that was
final
.

Kate gave in fairly quickly. There was really no point in arguing any further, especially since Mary turned on her heel and walked away directly after uttering the word, “final.”

Kate did have certain standards, and they included not arguing with closed doors.

And so Monday evening she found herself dressed in ice blue silk, fan in hand, as she and Mary rolled through the streets of London in their inexpensive carriage, on their way to Bridgerton House in Grosvenor Square.

“Everyone will be very surprised to see us without Edwina,” Kate said, her left hand fiddling with the black gauze of her cloak.

“You are looking for a husband as well,” Mary replied.

Kate held silent for a moment. She couldn’t very well argue that point, since, after all, it was supposed to be true.

“And stop crumpling your cloak,” Mary added. “It will be wrinkled all evening.”

Kate’s hand went limp. She then tapped the right one rhythmically against the seat for several seconds, until Mary blurted out, “Good heavens, Kate, can’t you sit still?”

“You know I can’t,” Kate said.

Mary just sighed.

After another long silence, punctuated only by the tapping
of her foot, Kate added, “Edwina will be lonely without us.”

Mary didn’t even bother to look at her as she answered, “Edwina has a novel to read. The latest by that Austen woman. She won’t even notice we’re gone.”

That much was also true. Edwina probably wouldn’t notice if her bed caught on fire while she was reading a book.

So Kate said, “The music will probably be dreadful. After that Smythe-Smith affair…”

“The Smythe-Smith musicale was performed by the Smythe-Smith daughters,” Mary replied, her voice starting to hold an edge of impatience. “Lady Bridgerton has hired a professional opera singer, visiting from Italy. We are honored simply to receive an invitation.”

Kate knew without a doubt that the invitation was for Edwina; she and Mary were surely included only out of politeness. But Mary’s teeth were beginning to clench together, and so Kate vowed to hold her tongue for the remainder of the ride.

Which wouldn’t be so difficult, after all, as they were presently rolling up in front of Bridgerton House.

Kate’s mouth dropped open as she looked out the window. “It’s huge,” she said dumbly.

“Isn’t it?” Mary replied, gathering her things together. “I understand that Lord Bridgerton doesn’t live there. Even though it belongs to him, he remains in his bachelor’s lodgings so that his mother and siblings may reside at Bridgerton House. Isn’t that thoughtful of him?”

Thoughtful
and
Lord Bridgerton
were not two expressions Kate would have thought to use in the same sentence, but she nodded nonetheless, too awed by the size and grace of the stone building to make an intelligent comment.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and Mary and Kate were helped down by one of the Bridgerton footmen, who rushed to open the door. A butler took their invitation and
admitted them, taking their wraps and pointing them toward the music room, which was just at the end of the hall.

Kate had been inside enough grand London homes not to publicly gape at the obvious wealth and beauty of the furnishings, but even she was impressed by the interiors, decorated with elegance and restraint in the Adam style. Even the ceilings were works of art—done up in pale shades of sage and blue, the colors separated by white plasterwork so intricate it almost appeared to be a more solid form of lace.

The music room was just as lovely, the walls painted a friendly shade of lemon yellow. Rows of chairs had been set up for attendees, and Kate quickly steered her stepmother toward the back. Truly, there could be no reason why she’d want to put herself in a noticeable position. Lord Bridgerton was sure to be in attendance—if all the tales about his devotion to his family were true—and if Kate was lucky, maybe he wouldn’t even notice her presence.

Quite to the contrary, Anthony knew exactly when Kate stepped out of her carriage and entered his family home. He had been in his study, having a solitary drink before heading down to his mother’s annual musicale. In a bid for privacy, he’d chosen not to live at Bridgerton House while still a bachelor, but he did keep his study here. His position as head of the Bridgerton family carried with it serious responsibilities, and Anthony generally found it easier to attend to these responsibilities while in close proximity to the rest of his family.

The study’s windows looked out over Grosvenor Square, however, and so he had been amusing himself watching the carriages arrive and the guests alight. When Kate Sheffield had stepped down, she’d looked up at the facade of Bridgerton House, tipping her face up in much the same manner she’d done while enjoying the warmth of
the sun in Hyde Park. The light from the sconces on either side of the front door had filtered onto her skin, bathing her with a flickering glow.

And Anthony’s breath was sucked right out of him.

His glass tumbler landed on the wide windowsill with a heavy thunk. This was getting ridiculous. He wasn’t self-delusional enough to mistake the tightening of his muscles as anything other than desire.

Bloody hell. He didn’t even like the woman. She was too bossy, too opinionated, too quick to jump to conclusions. She wasn’t even beautiful—at least not compared to quite a few of the ladies flitting about London for the season, her sister most especially included.

Kate’s face was a touch too long, her chin a hair too pointed, her eyes a shade too big. Everything about her was too
some
thing. Even her mouth, which vexed him to no end with its endless stream of insults and opinions, was too full. It was a rare event when she actually had it closed and was treating him to a moment of blessed silence, but if he happened to look at her in that split second (for surely she could not be silent for much longer than that) all he saw were her lips, full and pouty, and—provided that she kept them shut and didn’t actually speak—eminently kissable.

Kissable?

Anthony shuddered. The thought of kissing Kate Sheffield was terrifying. In fact, the mere fact that he’d even
thought
of it ought to be enough to have him locked up in an asylum.

And yet…

Anthony collapsed in a chair.

And yet he’d dreamed about her.

It had happened after the fiasco at The Serpentine. He’d been so furious with her he could barely speak. It was a wonder he’d managed to say anything at all to Edwina during the short ride back to her house. Polite conversation was all he’d been able to get out—mindless words so familiar they tripped from his tongue as if by rote.

A blessing indeed, since his mind most definitely had not been where it should be: on Edwina, his future wife.

Oh, she hadn’t agreed to marry him. He hadn’t even asked. But she fit his requirements for a wife in every possible way; he’d already decided that she would be the one to whom he would finally propose marriage. She was beautiful, intelligent, and even-tempered. Attractive without making his blood rush. They would spend enjoyable years together, but he’d never fall in love with her.

She was exactly what he needed.

And yet…

Anthony reached for his drink and downed the rest of its contents in one gasping gulp.

And yet he’d dreamed about her sister.

He tried not to remember. He tried not to remember the details of the dream—the heat and the sweat of it—but he’d only had this one drink this evening, certainly not enough to impair his memory. And although he’d had no intention of having more than this one drink, the concept of sliding into mindless oblivion was starting to sound appealing.

Anything would be appealing if it meant he wouldn’t remember.

But he didn’t feel like drinking. He’d not overimbibed in years. It seemed such the young man’s game, not at all attractive as one neared thirty. Besides, even if he did decide to seek temporary amnesia in a bottle, it wouldn’t come fast enough to make the memory of
her
go away.

Memory? Ha. It wasn’t even a real memory. Just a dream, he reminded himself. Just a dream.

He’d fallen asleep quickly upon returning home that evening. He’d stripped naked and soaked in a hot bath for nearly an hour, trying to remove the chill from his bones. He hadn’t been completely submerged in The Serpentine as had Edwina, but his legs had been soaked, as had one of his sleeves, and Newton’s strategic shake had guaranteed
that not one inch of his body remained warm during the windy ride home in the borrowed curricle.

After his bath he’d crawled into bed, not particularly caring that it was still light outside, and would be for a good hour yet. He was exhausted, and he’d had every intention of falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, not to be awakened until the first streaks of dawn touched the morning.

But sometime in the night, his body had grown restless and hungry. And his treacherous mind had filled with the most awful of images. He’d watched it as if floating near the ceiling, and yet he felt everything—his body, naked, moving over a lithe female form; his hands stroking and squeezing warm flesh. The delectable tangle of arms and legs, the musky scent of two bodies in love—it had all been there, hot and vivid in his mind.

And then he’d shifted. Just the tiniest bit, perhaps to kiss the faceless woman’s ear. Except as he moved to the side, she was no longer faceless. First appeared a thick lock of dark brown hair, softly curling and tickling at his shoulder. Then he moved even farther…

And he saw her.

Kate Sheffield.

He’d awakened in an instant, sitting bolt upright in bed and shaking from the horror of it. It had been the most vivid erotic dream he’d ever experienced.

And his worst nightmare.

He’d felt frantically around the sheets with one of his hands, terrified that he’d find the proof of his passion. God help him if he’d actually ejaculated while dreaming of quite the most awful woman of his acquaintance.

Thankfully, his sheets were clean, and so, with beating heart and heavy breath, he’d lain back against his pillows, his movements slow and careful, as if that would somehow prevent a recurrence of the dream.

He’d stared at the ceiling for hours, first conjugating
Latin verbs, then counting to a thousand, all in an attempt to keep his brain on anything but Kate Sheffield.

And amazingly, he’d exorcised her image from his brain and fallen asleep.

But now she was back. Here. In his home.

It was a terrifying thought.

And where the hell was Edwina? Why hadn’t she accompanied her mother and sister?

The first strains of a string quartet drifted under his door, discordant and jumbled, no doubt the warm-up of the musicians his mother had hired to accompany Maria Rosso, the latest soprano to take London by storm.

Anthony certainly hadn’t told his mother, but he and Maria had enjoyed a pleasant interlude the last time she’d been in town. Maybe he ought to consider renewing their friendship. If the sultry Italian beauty didn’t cure what ailed him, nothing would.

Anthony stood and straightened his shoulders, aware that he probably looked as if he were girding himself for battle. Hell, that’s how he
felt
. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be able to avoid Kate Sheffield entirely. He couldn’t imagine she’d go out of her way to engage him in conversation. She’d made it abundantly clear that she held him in just as much esteem as he did her.

Yes, that’s exactly what he would do. Avoid her. How difficult could that be?

K
ate knew the minute he walked in the room.

She tried to tell herself it had nothing to do with a heightened awareness of the man. He was excruciatingly handsome; that was fact, not opinion. She couldn’t imagine that every woman didn’t notice him immediately.

He arrived late. Not very—the soprano couldn’t have been more than a dozen bars into her piece. But late enough so that he tried to be quiet as he slipped into a chair toward the front near his family. Kate remained
motionless in her position at the back, fairly certain that he didn’t see her as he settled in for the performance. He didn’t look her way, and besides, several candles had been snuffed, leaving the room bathed in a dim, romantic glow. The shadows surely obscured her face.

Kate tried to keep her eyes on Miss Rosso throughout the performance. Kate’s disposition was not improved, however, by the fact that the singer could not take her eyes off of Lord Bridgerton. At first Kate had thought she must be imagining Miss Rosso’s fascination with the viscount, but by the time the soprano was halfway done, there could be no doubt. Maria Rosso was issuing the viscount a sultry invitation with her eyes.

Why this bothered Kate so much, she didn’t know. After all, it was just another piece of proof that he was every bit the licentious rake she’d always known him to be. She should have felt smug. She should have felt vindicated.

Instead, all she felt was disappointment. It was a heavy, uncomfortable feeling around her heart, one that left her slumping slightly in her chair.

When the performance was done, she couldn’t help but notice that the soprano, after graciously accepting her applause, walked brazenly up to the viscount and offered him one of those seductive smiles—the sort Kate would never learn to do if she had a dozen opera singers trying to teach her. There was no mistaking what the singer meant by that smile.

Good heavens, the man didn’t even need to chase women. They practically dropped at his feet.

It was disgusting. Really, truly disgusting.

And yet Kate couldn’t stop watching.

Lord Bridgerton offered the opera singer a mysterious half-smile of his own. Then he reached out and actually tucked an errant lock of her raven hair behind her ear.

Kate shivered.

Now he was leaning forward, whispering something in
her ear. Kate felt her own ears straining in their direction, even though it was quite obviously impossible for her to hear a thing from so far away.

But still, was it truly a crime to be ravenously curious? And—

Good heavens, did he just kiss her neck? Surely he wouldn’t do that in his mother’s home. Well, she supposed Bridgerton House was technically
his
home, but his mother lived here, as did many of his siblings. Truly, the man should know better than that. A little decorum in the company of his family would not be remiss.

“Kate? Kate?”

It may have been a small kiss, just a feather-light brush of his lips against the opera singer’s skin, but it was still a kiss.

“Kate!”

“Right! Yes?” Kate nearly jumped half a foot as she whirled around to face Mary, who was watching her with a decidedly irritated expression.

“Stop watching the viscount,” Mary hissed.

“I wasn’t—well, all right, I was, but did you see him?” Kate whispered urgently. “He’s shameless.”

She looked back over at him. He was still flirting with Maria Rosso, and he obviously didn’t care who saw them.

Mary’s lips pursed into a tight line before she said, “I’m sure his behavior isn’t any of our business.”

“Of course it’s our business. He wants to marry Edwina.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

Kate thought back over her conversations with Lord Bridgerton. “I’d say it’s a very, very good bet.”

“Well, stop watching him. I’m certain he wants nothing to do with you after that fiasco in Hyde Park. And besides, there are any number of eligible gentlemen here. You’d do well to stop thinking of Edwina all the time and start looking around for yourself.”

Kate felt her shoulders sag. The mere thought of trying
to attract a suitor was exhausting. They were all interested in Edwina, anyway. And even though she wanted nothing to do with the viscount, it still stung when Mary said she was
certain
he wanted nothing to do with
her
.

Mary grasped her arm with a grip that brooked no protest. “Come now, Kate,” she said quietly. “Let us go forward to greet our hostess.”

Kate swallowed. Lady Bridgerton? She had to meet Lady Bridgerton? The viscount’s mother? It was hard enough to believe that a creature such as he even
had
a mother.

But manners were manners, and no matter how much Kate would have liked to slip out into the hall and depart, she knew she must thank her hostess for staging such a lovely performance.

And it had been lovely. Much as Kate was loath to admit it, especially while the woman in question was hanging all over the viscount, Maria Rosso did possess the voice of an angel.

With Mary’s arm firmly guiding her, Kate reached the front of the room and waited her turn to meet the viscountess. She seemed a lovely woman, with fair hair and light eyes, and rather petite to have mothered such large sons. The late viscount must have been a tall man, Kate decided.

Finally they reached the front of the small crowd, and the viscountess grasped Mary’s hand. “Mrs. Sheffield,” she said warmly, “what a delight to see you again. I so enjoyed our meeting at the Hartside ball last week. I am very glad you decided to accept my invitation.”

“We would not dream of spending the evening anywhere else,” Mary replied. “And may I present my daughter?” She motioned to Kate, who stepped forward and bobbed a dutiful curtsy.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sheffield,” Lady Bridgerton said.

“And I am likewise honored,” Kate replied.

Lady Bridgerton motioned to a young lady at her side. “And this is my daughter, Eloise.”

Kate smiled warmly at the girl, who looked to be about the same age as Edwina. Eloise Bridgerton had the exact same color hair as her older brothers, and her face was lit by a friendly, wide smile. Kate liked her instantly.

“How do you do, Miss Bridgerton,” Kate said. “Is this your first season?”

Eloise nodded. “I’m not officially out until next year, but my mother has been allowing me to attend functions here at Bridgerton House.”

“How lucky for you,” Kate replied. “I should have loved to have attended a few parties last year. Everything was so new when I arrived in London this spring. The mind boggles at the simple attempt to remember everyone’s name.”

Eloise grinned. “Actually, my sister Daphne came out two years ago, and she always described everyone and everything to me in such detail, I feel as if I already recognize almost everyone.”

“Daphne is your eldest daughter?” Mary asked Lady Bridgerton.

The viscountess nodded. “She married the Duke of Hastings last year.”

Mary smiled. “You must have been delighted.”

“Indeed. He is a duke, but more importantly, he is a good man and loves my daughter. I only hope the rest of my children make such excellent matches.” Lady Bridgerton cocked her head slightly to the side and turned back to Kate. “I understand, Miss Sheffield, that your sister was not able to attend this evening.”

Kate fought a groan. Clearly Lady Bridgerton was already pairing up Anthony and Edwina for a walk down the aisle. “I’m afraid she caught a chill last week.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” the viscountess said to Mary, in a rather mother-to-mother sort of tone.

“No, not at all,” Mary replied. “In fact, she is nearly
back to sorts. But I thought she should have one more day of recuperation before venturing out. It would not do for her to suffer a relapse.”

“No, of course not.” Lady Bridgerton paused, then smiled. “Well, that is too bad. I was so looking forward to meeting her. Edwina is her name, yes?”

Kate and Mary both nodded.

“I’ve heard she is lovely.” But even as Lady Bridgerton said the words, she was glancing at her son—who was flirting madly with the Italian opera singer—and frowning.

Kate felt something very uneasy in her stomach. According to recent issues of
Whistledown,
Lady Bridgerton was on a mission to get her son married off. And while the viscount didn’t seem the sort of man to bend to his mother’s will (or anyone’s, for that matter), Kate had a feeling that Lady Bridgerton would be able to exert quite a bit of pressure if she so chose.

After a few more moments of polite chatter, Mary and Kate left Lady Bridgerton to greet the rest of her guests. They were soon accosted by Mrs. Featherington, who, as the mother of three unmarried young women herself, always had a lot to say to Mary on a wide variety of topics. But as the stout woman bore down on them, her eyes were focused firmly on Kate.

Kate immediately began to assess possible escape routes.

“Kate!” Mrs. Featherington boomed. She had long since declared herself on a first-name basis with the Sheffields. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“And why is that, Mrs. Featherington?” Kate asked, puzzled.

“Surely you read
Whistledown
this morning.”

Kate smiled weakly. It was either that or wince. “Oh, you mean that little incident involving my dog?”

Mrs. Featherington’s brows rose a good half inch. “From what I hear, it was more than a ‘little incident.’ ”

“It was of little consequence,” Kate said firmly,
although truth be told, she was finding it difficult not to growl at the meddlesome woman. “And I must say I resent Lady Whistledown referring to Newton as a dog of indeterminate breed. I’ll have you know he is a full-blooded corgi.”

“It was truly of no matter,” Mary said, finally coming to Kate’s defense. “I’m surprised it even warranted a mention in the column.”

Kate offered Mrs. Featherington her blandest smile, fully aware that both she and Mary were lying through their teeth. Dunking Edwina (and nearly dunking Lord Bridgerton) in The Serpentine was not an incident of “little consequence,” but if Lady Whistledown hadn’t seen fit to report the full details, Kate certainly wasn’t about to fill the gap.

Mrs. Featherington opened her mouth, a sharp intake of breath telling Kate that she was preparing to launch into a lengthy monologue on the topic of the importance of good deportment (or good manners, or good breeding, or good whatever the day’s topic was), so Kate quickly blurted out, “May I fetch you two some lemonade?”

The two matrons said yes and thanked her, and Kate slipped away. Once she returned, however, she smiled innocently and said, “But I have only two hands, so now I must return for a glass for myself.”

And with that, she took her leave.

She stopped briefly at the lemonade table, just in case Mary was looking, then darted out of the room and into the hall, where she sank onto a cushioned bench about ten yards from the music room, eager to get a bit of air. Lady Bridgerton had left the music room’s French doors open to the small garden at the back of the house, but it was such a crush that the air was stifling, even with the slight breeze from outside.

She remained where she sat for several minutes, more than pleased that the other guests had not chosen to spill out into the hall. But then she heard one particular voice
rise slightly above the low rumble of the crowd, followed by decidedly musical laughter, and Kate realized with horror that Lord Bridgerton and his would-be mistress were leaving the music room and entering the hall.

“Oh, no,” she groaned, trying to keep her voice to herself. The last thing she wanted was for the viscount to stumble across her sitting alone in the hall. She knew she was by herself by choice, but he’d probably think she’d fled the gathering because she was a social failure and all the
ton
shared his opinion of her—that she was an impertinent, unattractive menace to society.

Menace to society? Kate’s teeth clamped together. It would take a long, long time before she’d forgive him
that
insult.

But still, she was tired, and she didn’t feel like facing him just then, so she hitched up her skirts by a few inches to save her from tripping and ducked into the doorway next to her bench. With any luck, he and his paramour would walk on by, and she could scoot back into the music room, no one being the wiser.

Kate looked around quickly as she shut the door. There was a lighted lantern on a desk, and as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she realized she was in some sort of office. The walls were lined with books, although not enough for this to be the Bridgertons’ library, and the room was dominated by a massive oak desk. Papers lay on top in neat piles, and a quill and inkpot still sat on the blotter.

Clearly this office was not just for show. Someone actually worked here.

Kate wandered toward the desk, her curiosity getting the better of her, and idly ran her fingers along the wooden rim. The air still smelled faintly of ink, and maybe the slightest hint of pipe smoke.

All in all, she decided, it was a lovely room. Comfortable and practical. A person could spend hours here in lazy contemplation.

But just as Kate leaned back against the desk, savoring her quiet solitude, she heard an
awful
sound.

The click of a doorknob.