The Viscount Who Loved Me (7 page)

He shook his head, still smiling. “Never a ninny, Kate.
Even when I thought you the most insufferable female creature on the planet, I had no doubts about your intelligence.”

Kate, who had been in the process of scooting out from under the table, paused. “I just don’t know if I should feel complimented or insulted by that statement.”

“Probably both,” he admitted, “but for friendship’s sake, let’s decide upon complimented.”

She turned to look at him, aware that she presented an awkward picture on her hands and knees, but the moment seemed too important to delay. “Then we are friends?” she whispered.

He nodded as he stood. “Hard to believe, but I think we are.”

Kate smiled as she took his helping hand and rose to her feet. “I’m glad. You’re—you’re really not the devil I’d originally thought you.”

One of his brows lifted, and his face suddenly took on a very wicked expression.

“Well, maybe you are,” she amended, thinking he probably was every bit the rake and rogue that society had painted him. “But maybe you’re also a rather nice person as well.”

“Nice seems so bland,” he mused.

“
Nice,
” she said emphatically, “is nice. And given what I used to think of you, you ought to be delighted by the compliment.”

He laughed. “One thing about you, Kate Sheffield, is that you are never boring.”

“Boring is so bland,” she quipped.

He smiled—a true grin, not that ironic curve he used at society functions, but the real thing. Kate’s throat suddenly felt very tight.

“I’m afraid I cannot walk you back to your room,” he said. “If someone should come across us at this hour…”

Kate nodded. They’d forged an unlikely friendship, but she didn’t want to get trapped into marriage with him,
right? And it went without saying that
he
didn’t want to marry
her
.

He motioned to her. “And especially with you dressed like that….”

Kate looked down and gasped, yanking her robe more tightly around her. She’d completely forgotten that she wasn’t properly dressed. Her nightclothes certainly weren’t risqué or revealing, especially with her thick robe, but they
were
nightclothes.

“Will you be all right?” he asked softly. “It’s still raining.”

Kate stopped and listened to the rain, which had softened to a gentle patter against the windows. “I think the storm is over.”

He nodded and peered out into the hall. “It’s empty,” he said.

“I should go.”

He stepped aside to let her pass.

She moved forward, but when she reached the doorway she stopped and turned around. “Lord Bridgerton?”

“Anthony,” he said. “You should call me Anthony. I believe I’ve already called you Kate.”

“You did?”

“When I found you.” He waved a hand. “I don’t think you heard anything I said.”

“You’re probably right.” She smiled hesitantly. “Anthony.” His name sounded strange on her tongue.

He leaned forward slightly, an odd, almost devilish light in his eyes. “Kate,” he said in return.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said. “For helping me tonight. I—” She cleared her throat. “It would have been a great deal more difficult without you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said gruffly.

“No, you did everything.” And then, before she’d be tempted to stay, she hurried down the hall and up the stairs.

T
he following morning was the sort that usually follows a violent storm—bright and clear, but with a fine, damp mist that settled cold and refreshing on the skin.

Anthony was oblivious to the weather, having spent most of the night staring into the darkness and seeing nothing but Kate’s face. He’d finally fallen asleep as the first streaks of dawn fingered across the sky. By the time he woke, it was well past noon, but he did not feel rested. His body was suffused with a strange combination of exhaustion and nervous energy. His eyes felt heavy and dull in their sockets, and yet his fingers kept drumming the bed, inching toward the edge as if they alone could pull him out and to his feet.

Finally, when his stomach growled so loudly that he could swear he saw the plaster on the ceiling shake, he staggered upright and pulled on his robe. With a wide,
loud yawn, he moved to the window, not because he was looking for anyone or anything in particular, but simply because the view was better than anything else in his room.

And yet in the quarter second before he looked down and gazed upon the grounds, he somehow knew what he would see.

Kate. Walking slowly across the lawn, far more slowly than he’d ever seen her walk before. Usually, she walked as if in a race.

She was much too far away for him to see her face—just a sliver of her profile, the curve of her cheek. And yet he could not take his eyes off of her. There was so much magic in her form—a strange grace in the way her arm swung as she walked, an artistry in the posture of her shoulders.

She was walking toward the garden, he realized.

And he knew he had to join her.

The weather remained in its contradictory state for most of the day, dividing the house party neatly in half, between those who insisted the bright sunshine beckoned outdoor play, and those who eschewed the wet grass and damp air for the warmer, drier clime of the drawing room.

Kate was firmly in the former group, although she was not in the mood for company. Her mind was in far too reflective a mood to make polite conversation with people she barely knew, and so she stole away once again to Lady Bridgerton’s spectacular gardens and found herself a quiet spot on a bench near the rose arbor. The stone was cold and just a little bit damp beneath her bottom, but she hadn’t slept particularly well the night before, and she was tired, and it was better than standing.

And it was, she realized with a sigh, just about the only place where she might be left to her own company. If she remained in the house, she’d surely be roped into joining
the group of ladies chatting in the drawing room while they wrote correspondence to friends and family, or worse, she’d be stuck with the coterie who’d retired to the orangery to pursue their embroidery.

As for the outdoor enthusiasts, they’d also broken into two groups. One had hied off to the village to shop and see whatever sights there were to be found, and the other was taking a constitutional walk to the lake. As Kate had no interest in shopping (and she was already quite familiar with the lake) she’d eschewed their company as well.

Hence, her solitude in the garden.

She sat for several minutes, just staring off into space, her eyes focusing somewhat blindly on the tightly furled bud of a nearby rose. It was nice to be alone, where she didn’t have to cover her mouth or stifle the loud sleepy noises she made when she yawned. Nice to be alone, where no one was going to comment on the dark circles beneath her eyes or her uncommon quietude and lack of conversation.

Nice to be alone, where she could sit and attempt to sort through her muddle of thoughts about the viscount. It was a daunting task, and one she’d rather put off, but it had to be done.

But there really wasn’t all that much to sort out. Because everything she had learned in the past few days pointed her conscience in one, singular direction. And she knew that she could no longer oppose Bridgerton’s courtship of Edwina.

In the past few days he’d proven himself sensitive, caring, and principled. Even, she thought with a glimmer of a smile as she recalled the light in Penelope Featherington’s eyes when he’d saved her from the verbal talons of Cressida Cowper, heroic.

He was devoted to family.

He had used his social position and power not to lord over others but simply to spare another person insult.

He had helped her through one of her phobic attacks with a grace and sensitivity that, now that she could view it with a clear head, stunned her.

He might have been a rake and a rogue—he might still
be
a rake and a rogue—but clearly his behavior to those ends did not define the man. And the only objection Kate had to his marrying Edwina was…

She swallowed painfully. There was a lump the size of a cannonball in her throat.

Because deep in her heart, she wanted him for herself.

But that was selfish, and Kate had spent her life trying to be unselfish, and she knew she could never ask Edwina not to marry Anthony for such a reason. If Edwina knew that Kate was even the tiniest bit infatuated with the viscount, she would put an end to his courtship at once. And what purpose would that serve? Anthony would just find some other beautiful, eligible woman to pursue. There were plenty to choose from in London.

It wasn’t as if he were going to ask
her
instead, so what would she have to gain by preventing a match between him and Edwina?

Nothing except the agony of having to see him married to her sister. And that would fade in time, wouldn’t it? It had to; she herself had just said the night before that time truly did heal all wounds. Besides, it would probably hurt just as much to see him married to some other lady; the only difference would be that she would not have to see him at holidays and christenings and the like.

Kate let out a sigh. A long, sad, weary sigh that stole every breath from her lungs and left her shoulders sagging, her posture drooping.

Her heart aching.

And then a voice filled her ears.
His
voice, low and smooth, like a warm swirl around her. “My goodness, you sound serious.”

Kate stood so suddenly that the backs of her legs knocked into the edge of the stone bench, setting her off
balance and causing her to stumble. “My lord,” she blurted out.

His lips curved with the barest hint of a smile. “I thought I might find you here.”

Her eyes widened at the realization that he’d deliberately sought her out. Her heart started beating faster as well, but at least that was something she could keep hidden from him.

He glanced briefly down to the stone bench, signaling that she should feel free to resume her seat. “Actually, I saw you from my window. I wanted to make certain that you were feeling better,” he said quietly.

Kate sat down, disappointment rising in her throat. He was merely being polite. Of
course
he was merely being polite. Silly of her to dream—even for a moment—that there might be something more. He was, she’d finally realized, a nice person, and any nice person would want to make sure that she was feeling better after what had transpired the night before.

“I am,” she replied. “Very much. Thank you.”

If he thought anything of her broken, staccato sentences, he did not make any discernible reaction of it. “I’m glad,” he said as he sat beside her. “I worried about you for much of the night.”

Her heart, which had already been pounding much too quickly, skipped a beat. “You did?”

“Of course. How could I not?”

Kate swallowed. There it was, that infernal politeness again. Oh, she didn’t doubt that his interest and concern were real and true. It just hurt that they were prompted by his natural kindness of spirit, not any special feeling for her.

Not that she had expected anything different. But she’d found it impossible not to hope, anyway.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you so late at night,” she said quietly, mostly because she thought she should. In truth, she was desperately glad that he’d been there.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, straightening slightly and fixing upon her a rather stern sort of look. “I hate to think of you all alone during a storm. I’m glad I was there to comfort you.”

“I’m usually alone during storms,” she admitted.

Anthony frowned. “Your family does not offer you comfort during storms?”

She looked a little sheepish as she said, “They do not know that I still fear them.”

He nodded slowly. “I see. There are times—” Anthony paused to clear his throat, a diversionary tactic he frequently employed when he wasn’t quite certain what it was he wanted to say. “I think you would gain comfort by seeking the aid of your mother and sister, but I know—” He cleared his throat again. He knew well the singularly strange sensation of loving one’s family to distraction, and yet not feeling quite able to share one’s deepest and most intractable fears. It brought on an uncanny sense of isolation, of being remarkably alone in a loud and loving crowd.

“I know,” he said again, his voice purposely even and subdued, “that it can often be most difficult to share one’s fears with those one most deeply loves.”

Her brown eyes, wise and warm and undeniably perceptive, focused on his. For one split moment he had the bizarre thought that she somehow knew everything about him, every last detail from the moment of his birth to his certainty of his own death. It seemed, in that second, with her face tipped up toward his and her lips slightly parted, that she, more than anyone else who would ever walk this earth, truly
knew
him.

It was thrilling.

But more than that, it was terrifying.

“You’re a very wise man,” she whispered.

It took him a moment to remember what they’d been talking about. Ah yes, fears. He knew fears. He tried to
laugh off her compliment. “Most of the time I’m a very foolish man.”

She shook her head. “No. I think you’ve hit the nail squarely on its proverbial head. Of course I would not tell Mary and Edwina. I do not want to trouble them.” She chewed on her lip for a moment—a funny little movement with her teeth that he found oddly seductive.

“Of course,” she added, “if I am to be true to myself, I must confess that my motives are not entirely unselfish. Surely, an equal part of my reluctance lies in my desire not to be seen as weak.”

“That’s not such a terrible sin,” he murmured.

“Not as far as sins go, I suppose,” Kate said with a smile. “But I would hazard a guess that it is one from which you, too, suffer.”

He didn’t say anything, just nodded his assent.

“We all have our roles to play in life,” she continued, “and mine has always been to be strong and sensible. Cringing under a table during an electrical storm is neither.”

“Your sister,” he said quietly, “is probably a great deal stronger than you think.”

Her eyes flew to his face. Was he trying to tell her that he’d fallen in love with Edwina? He’d complimented her sister’s grace and beauty before, but never had he referred to her inner person.

Kate’s eyes searched his for as long as she dared, but she found nothing that revealed his true feelings. “I did not mean to imply that she wasn’t,” she finally replied. “But I am her older sister. I have always had to be strong for her. Whereas she has only had to be strong for herself.” She brought her eyes back up to his, only to find that he was staring at her with an odd intensity, almost as if he could see past her skin and into her very soul. “You are the oldest as well,” she said. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

He nodded, and his eyes looked amused and resigned at the same time. “Exactly.”

She gave him an answering smile, the kind that passed between people who know similar experiences and trials. And as she felt herself growing more at ease next to him, almost as if she could sink into his side and bury herself against the warmth of his body, she knew that she could put off her task no longer.

She had to tell him that she’d withdrawn her opposition to his match with Edwina. It wasn’t fair to anyone to keep it to herself, just because she wanted to keep
him
to herself, if only for a few perfect moments right here in the gardens.

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and turned to him.

He looked at her expectantly. It was obvious, after all, that she had something to say.

Kate’s lips parted. But nothing came out.

“Yes?” he asked, looking rather amused.

“My lord,” she blurted out.

“Anthony,” he corrected gently.

“Anthony,” she repeated, wondering why the use of his given name made this all the more difficult. “I did need to speak with you about something.”

He smiled. “I’d gathered.”

Her eyes became inexplicably fastened on her right foot, which was tracing half-moons on the packed dirt of the path. “It’s…um…it’s about Edwina.”

Anthony’s brows rose and he followed her gaze to her foot, which had left half-moons behind and was now drawing squiggly lines. “Is something amiss with your sister?” he inquired gently.

She shook her head, looking back up. “Not at all. I believe she’s in the drawing room, writing a letter to our cousin in Somerset. Ladies like to do that, you know.”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“Write letters. I’m not a very good correspondent
myself,” she said, her words coming forth in an oddly rushed fashion, “as I rarely have the patience to sit still at a desk long enough to write an entire letter. Not to mention that my penmanship is abysmal. But most ladies spend a goodly portion of every day drafting letters.”

He tried not to smile. “You wanted to warn me that your sister likes to write letters?”

“No, of course not,” she mumbled. “It’s just that you asked if she was all right, and I said of course, and I told you where she was, and then we were entirely off the topic, and—”