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Anthony does not remember making it back to his bedchamber. He does not remember splaying himself out on his bedsheets, fully-clothed and loose-limbed, as though he’s stumbled back home in a liquored stupor.

But instead of retreating with an empty head, pleasantly numb from being dipped in whisky, his mind feels crowded and addled, thoughts unspooling so fast he can’t keep up with them.

As Anthony gulps in a fortifying breath, something flowery clings to the back of his throat. And his addled mind clears. He’s downstairs again with Miss Sharma’s head cupped in his hand and her name dangling from his mouth.

He should have left the kitchens as soon as he realised it was her clanging around in there. But he had not seen Miss Sharma since they’d quarrelled at the hunt – after he’d accidentally-on-purpose blasted one of Leazes’ toes off – and Anthony had been tending with knots in his stomach ever since.

Not over Leazes. As far as Anthony is concerned, Leazes could never walk again and it would not be punishment enough for behaving so untowardly with Miss Sharma. The first thing Anthony had done when he returned to Aubrey Hall was instruct a footman to spend no longer than ten minutes packing up Leazes' belongings and then send the man on his way. That nine-toed reprobate could convalesce just as well in a cramped carriage on its way back to Mayfair as he could in one of Anthony’s luxurious, four-poster bedrooms.

No, it was Miss Sharma that had been the cause of Anthony’s fretting and strife – as is becoming quite the frequent occurrence. When she had refused to come to dinner, he’d asked her maid if they should send something up to Miss Sharma’s room – perhaps some bread with the lavender honey she seemed to favour at mealtimes. Ever the gracious host, Anthony did not like to think of her starving in her room out of her own silly obstinance. Even less so, if it was because she did not want to face him. But her maid had declined his offer, saying Miss Sharma did not want anything at all. And so Anthony had been forced to acknowledge that his own poor behaviour might be the cause of her decision to abstain from dining with his family. Meaning, when he’d come across her in the kitchens, his desire to balm whatever injury he had caused to her had won out over his commitment to propriety. A commitment that she has been challenging, waning, since that very first meeting.

Anthony rolls onto his side. Every muscle in his body feels as though it’s being stretched out on a tightly drawn string, ready to snap at any moment. He knows what will ease the tension and allow him some rest, and yet his hand makes it halfway to his cock and then wavers.

He was not lying when he told Miss Sharma his rakish endeavours are behind him. He has been chaste since the night of the conservatory ball, it would have been a mark upon his honour to fall back into brothels once he’d set eyes upon the woman he intended to make his wife. But in the days that have followed since, a far more troubling premonition has snuck up on Anthony – that even if he were to stumble into some bawdy house for a quick, relieving fuck, there would be little satisfaction to be had in it. The inkling that the twin opiates of detachment and escape he’s been chasing every time that he seeks a foreign touch will no longer be enough for him.

And Anthony, now flipping onto his other side, wrestles with it. It is one thing to abstain from such debauchery out of respect for one’s future bride, even if that already sets him apart from nearly all married and unmarried men of his cohort. It is quite another to lose all of one’s desire to do so.

Had his sexual proclivities petered out completely – well, now, that would be an entirely different cause for concern. Yet, it has been quite the opposite. Anthony’s sexual cravings seem to be hungrier, more rapacious than ever before, to the point that he’s not resorted to self-stimulation this many times since he was a nascent adolescent. Only now, he can’t indulge his needs with faceless courtesans and expect to walk away sated.

Cursing, Anthony closes his eyes. What the hell is happening to him?

Now, all of Anthony’s rampant sexual desires have ripened and writhed and sharpened to a single point. To one, singular object of all said desires.

And as her face comes into focus behind his eyelids, Anthony feels himself growing impossibly hard in his breeches. His skin suddenly hot and stretched over his bones as all his blood rushes south.

And inevitably, he thinks of Miss Sharma, of all his Miss Sharmas.

Miss Sharma jumping up and down, celebrating her win at the races, her glowing face rivalling the sun’s splendour. Miss Sharma in the grounds of Aubrey Hall, boldly twirling his mallet through the air, daring him to come and take it. Miss Sharma, exquisitely painted in mud, lips parted with her full-bodied laugh. Miss Sharma on the hunt, incensed and indignant, her eyes crackling like embers. Miss Sharma in the kitchens, warm and trembling against him, a different kind of fire in her gaze this time. Her skin incendiary everywhere he had touched it.

Anthony had tried not to bring shame upon his father and his ancestors, tried to avert his eyes from her scantily-clad form and keep his thoughts virtuous, or at least not purely impure. But his self-control had been deteriorating with each second she hovered before him, like some sort of divine apparition in that flimsy, white cotton nightgown which left no doubt as to the perfection that lay beneath it.  And with the moonlight raining down on her, with her finger bobbing in her mouth, Anthony had not been able to do it. If she had not stopped him when she did he fears he would have devoured her. Or begged her to devour him.

Just as he is not able to stop himself now. He reaches into his breeches, strokes himself languidly at first, imagining it’s her smaller, softer hand wrapped around him, his stiff cock twitching at just the suggestion of it. His mouth falling open, Anthony thinks about the impression of her breasts underneath the thin fabric. How they would feel crushed against his chest. Or rolled against his tongue.

Anthony’s movements turn fast and erratic as he fists himself harder, his head sinking hopelessly into the pillow. Sweat gauzing the flushed skin at the underside of his neck and jaw. He submits to it, to her, to every deviant thought of her he’s had since her ruined riding hood slipped and revealed a glimpse of dark, coppery skin and a misshapen freckle. Miss Sharma’s long hair draped over his chest like spilled ink as she rides him. Miss Sharma’s doe-eyes flying open in ecstasy as he delves roughly between her legs and tastes her, her thighs clenched hard enough around his neck that he can scarcely breathe.

Anthony’s groans and curses escape from his mouth in an unholy torrent, the sounds of his depravity seeping into the walls of his bedchamber. His skin burning with the knife’s serrated edge of bliss and agony.

‘Fuck,’ Anthony pants, ‘fuck, oh fuck, Kate…’

He comes hard and fast in his hand, lost to this most primitive of pleasures, too far gone to swallow his desperate shout with his fist. It’s a small mercy that the viscount’s quarters are well-sequestered from the rest of the house.

For a while, Anthony lies there as though paralysed, waiting for his heart rate to return to orbit, his eyes wrenched shut. His fingers and stomach coated in his own messy release.

He expects to feel relief. He expects his mind to be wiped clean as it usually is after he pleasures himself in this way.

Instead, he thinks about that last word, pulled from him at his peak.

Kate. He has called her by her given name just twice. The second time, just seconds ago, as he moaned and tugged and fucked himself to release with lewd fantasies of her. The first, an hour ago. Perhaps more, perhaps less, he has little time for time in this moment.

But him saying her name had unsettled her. She’d backed away and tried to flee, stopping only when he’d delayed her – at that point, saying anything he could to keep her there, anything to reassure them both that nothing need change because of one moment of madness. Anthony supposes he should be glad that one of them had seen sense, dampened the match before it burned them both. For all his posturing about being a former rake…if anyone had walked in on them…

He’d have blinked once and they’d have been holed up in a church exchanging vows.  Which from Anthony’s perspective, in many ways, would be quite ideal. He’d have his perfect wife, they would have each other over and over again in the marital bed and the tempest she has set off in his head would finally break; no more would he be plagued by these ridiculous longings to hold her to him and not let her go. He can illustrate their life together like the pages of a storybook: they shall marry at Aubrey Hall since she so clearly belongs here, and Miss Sharma will take her place by his side as viscountess, he could even clear a space for her in his study so she can continue to ask him philosophical questions he does not have any intellectual answer to as he works, and perhaps he’ll take her out riding a couple of times every week, he’ll even race her if it pleases her, and Anthony supposes they might journey to India once or twice because if she’s his wife he should probably see the place she spent the first six and ten years of her life, perhaps more often if she so wishes, she’ll bear his children who they will both cherish, a boy who will have her fawn eyes and both of their impetuousness and a girl, two headstrong little girls, with her shock of curls, and when Anthony dies she may briefly lament the loss of his familiarity and companionship and the pleasant life they shared together, but she will not fall into the same cyclone of grief and despair that devastated his family eleven years ago.

There will be no repeating of history.

She does not love him. He will not love her.

But Anthony does not want that if Miss Sharma does not want it as well. If she will be walking down the aisle to join herself to him forever, Anthony needs that walk to be a glide and not a funeral procession.

She feels some sort of pull towards him, that much is evident from the way she curved herself into his touch in the kitchens, the slight shudder of her pupils as she looked up at him. He has to believe that Miss Sharma feels at least some modicum of the sexual magnetism that is so tormenting Anthony.

But he knows she won’t accept him if he declares himself now. He’s given her little reason to trust that he will be the upstanding and dependable husband she deserves and Mansfield is still ribbitting at her feet like the odious toad he is. Anthony must prove himself worthy of taking her hand, not her virtue. The second will follow the first.

So, before his ceiling and whatever deity happens to be listening, he makes a vow of his own. As he cleans himself up and claws his way into a fitful sleep, Anthony swears to himself that he will not touch Miss Sharma again until their wedding night.

Until he has earned the right to call her Kate.

~

Anthony does not see Miss Sharma until after breakfast the next morning, because he eschews his morning meal yet again. He lies in his bed well beyond the sun creaking over the horizon, as the light scatters through his curtains.

She visited him again in his dream last night, but it does not signify. Anthony believes it religiously. 

He doesn’t rise until Nicholas comes knocking for the third time, when he allows himself to be corralled into his shirt and breeches, no tricks up his sleeves this time. If Nicholas says, ‘I believe she is wearing blue today, my lord,’ Anthony himself does not reach for the periwinkle waistcoat. But he also doesn’t say anything when Nicholas selects it for him.

Down in the morning room, Francesca and Miss Edwina are huddled together over the piano, tinkling out a gentle aria that has his mother absent-mindedly tapping her foot as she finishes her mid-morning tea. Miss Sharma stands behind them, every now and then leaning forward with a soft-spoken correction, Newton asleep at her feet. She does not look up when Anthony walks in, but the way her long, elegant neck instantly goes rigid gives her away.

Hyacinth and Gregory are sprawled out on the carpet, dividing out marbles. Every time Gregory tries to take one of the pink ones Hyacinth slaps his hand away. Colin seems to be egging her on from his armchair, half a quill hanging from his mouth. As usual, Eloise takes the side of whichever sibling is sparring with Colin.

Anthony gets distracted mediating this row. Not rising to the bait when Eloise says something bratty or Colin brings up for the fifth time some dubious investment he wants to raid the family coffers for.

Then Edwina trips on a note and fumbling, looks to her sister for help. Miss Sharma places a reassuring hand on Edwina’s shoulder and points to the sheet music, mumbling something Anthony cannot hear.

When the piano melody resumes, Anthony says,

‘Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Sharma?’

Miss Sharma seems surprised by the question, but she shakes her head. ‘No, my lord.’

‘But you can read music?’ he persists.

‘I play the flute,’ she says. ‘Or, I used to.’

At this, Hyacinth looks up from the floor. Gregory takes the opportunity to steal three marbles from her pile. ‘Play for us!’ she begs. ‘We only ever hear the pianoforte in this house and it is so dull.’

Over at the piano, Francesca smiles good-naturedly. ‘No offence taken, Hy.’

‘Oh, no, Miss Hyacinth.’ Miss Sharma says quickly. ‘I play very ill. And I have not picked up a flute in years now. I promise, Newton’s howling when his dinner is served late is more tuneful than my flute playing.’

Anthony would normally seize this opportunity to butt in with an unkind word about Newton, but his face is stalled in a frown. How is it that one sister plays the pianoforte with near-flawless precision and the other – by her own admission – has only a feeble grasp on the flute?

 ‘Anthony plays too,’ Hyacinth says proudly. ‘The clarinet. He said he would teach me one day…but he has not.’

‘I did not know you were musically inclined, my lord,’ Miss Sharma says to Anthony, mouth tipping into an idle smile.

Anthony leans back in his chair with a shrug. ‘I do not recall that being on your list of interview questions.’

From the defiant look on Miss Sharma’s face, it was and for some reason, she never quite got around to asking it.

‘Oh, Anthony is no virtuoso.’ Colin barrels into the conversation. ‘We can only be grateful he did not attempt to take up the violin.’

Anthony can feel Miss Sharma’s dark eyes raking over him and reaches for the side of his neck, massaging slow circles as though that might abate the redness rising there.

‘It is true. I was quite dreadful. I also have not played in years.’ Anthony says. From the look on Miss Sharma’s face, he knows she thinks he’s demonstrating false modesty. Which is really not in his innate nature – and certainly not where she’s concerned – and he sees that same thought occur to her because her lips struggle upward even as she does not meet his eye.

His mother tsks fondly. ‘That is not true, Anthony. You had a lot of potential, but as I recall, you were more interested in roughhousing with your brothers instead of practising most of the time.’ she turns to Miss Sharma. ‘I am sure you were an excellent student and never tormented your music teacher in the same manner as my children.’

‘Well, actually, I taught myself.’ Miss Sharma answers, and Anthony knows her slight awkwardness is not because she’s ashamed, but because she knows it’s not the norm. Certainly not for a family like his.

Hyacinth drops the marble she was preparing to lob at Gregory’s head. ‘Miss Sharma, if you marry Anthony, might you teach me the flute?’

Someone hits the wrong piano key. Newton stirs and raises his head with a crotchety sniff. Anthony’s looking at Miss Sharma, his mother’s looking at him, and Miss Sharma just says, ‘I am sure there are far more skilled tutors than I, Miss Hyacinth.’

‘Why the flute?’ says Anthony. He’s not even really thinking about his mother’s probing gaze. He wants to know, what it is about this befuddling, uncompromising woman that drew her to learn the flute of all other instruments. Not because he thinks it might contain the key to unlocking her affections. Just because…he would like to know.

Miss Sharma visibly stiffens. As though it’s an affront to be asked such a question, even if not particularly personal on its face. And Anthony’s about to withdraw it when she smiles sincerely and says, ‘I adore wind instruments. Have you ever heard a singular flute? They are incredibly expressive, for one.’

Well, that explains it, Anthony thinks.

‘And there is something so soulful and uplifting about their sound. It is why I…’

But she trails off, looking very briefly at Anthony and then staunchly refocusing on the sheet-music. ‘…I love wind instruments,’ she repeats, finally.

Anthony’s stomach twists. His clarinet is gathering dust in some cavernous closet upstairs, but if it would keep that smile on Miss Sharma’s face he wonders, fleetingly, if he might dig it out.

~

He does not stay long in the drawing room. Miss Sharma excuses herself “to lie down for an hour”, claiming she ate too much breakfast, but Anthony knows this is code for an illicit, unchaperoned horse-ride. He smiles to himself when his clueless mother offers to send up a cool flannel for Miss Sharma’s head.

Anthony does not follow her to the stables, as he might if he found himself craving her company, as he might if he were hoping to take possession of her heart and not just her hand. Because he isn’t and he’s not.

Somewhat at a loss of what to do, he finds himself in the study, having asked Nicholas to fetch the accounts he’d brought to Aubrey Hall and has not looked at once since arriving.

Would he rather be out riding with Miss Sharma? Perhaps taking her to that clearing where a much younger Eloise had been goaded into climbing to the top of a towering oak tree and cried when she was too afraid to make her way back down, and Anthony had had to go up and get her? Perhaps sharing that story, because he thinks it might make Miss Sharma laugh, to think of him grumbling and cursing all the way up, as he tore his hands to ribbons scaling the trunk? That she might share that beguiling smile of hers, to think of Eloise screaming and clinging to his back like a monkey, while Colin wiped his tears away and thought nobody had noticed, and Benedict oscillated between panic and amusement?

Yes, of course he would. But the alternative is reviewing a long lease agreement for the tenants at Longbourn. Anything would be thrilling compared to that. Never mind that he used to spend hours doing nothing else.

Anthony makes it through two clauses before he wonders whether Miss Sharma is wearing the riding cloak he bought her. He’s skimmed the first two lines of the schedule of easements reserved when he tries to guess how far she’s got by now. Definitely not as far as the ring of hawthorns that separate Aubrey Hall from the next estate over. If she’s headed northeast, she might have come across the blackberry bushes that get picked over by Hyacinth before the birds are even crowning from their nests. Though of course, there won’t be any fruit yet. If Miss Sharma likes blackberries, Anthony will have to ensure he gets to the flowering bushes before Hyacinth does…

Anthony abandons the lease when he’s halfway through the schedule of easements granted. If he had gone with Miss Sharma, they would have raced to the meadow where the daisies grow thick and fast. There’s a rotting, fallen tree that would serve as the perfect benchmark. Though of course, Anthony has the advantage, these being his lands, knowing every last secret path and shortcut. Would she point that out, or would Miss Sharma simply win anyway, by sheer force of will?

The daisies he’s imagining wrapped around her slim wrist start to look a lot like pearls. A familiar cluster of pearls, atop an elegant finger instead. But still – not quite right.

Anthony retrieves the ring box from the drawer it’s been locked in since he took it from his mother. He’s running his thumb over the bosom of the pearls when the door to his study creaks open and Daphne squeezes inside, closely hemmed by Simon. Anthony crams the ring box back into his pocket and pretends to be absorbed in his paperwork.

‘Brother, you missed breakfast again this morning. We thought we ought to check you were well,’ Daphne says, her hands tucked primly behind her back as she approaches his desk.

Simon closes the door behinds him and leans leisurely against it. ‘The duchess is determined that nothing should jeopardise the success of the ball she has meticulously planned, right down to the very last doily. Including an ailing viscount.’ he says, with affection.

Anthony forces a smile. ‘Not to worry, sister. I am decidedly well.’

‘That is not what Lord Mowbray had to say about you earlier.’ Simon says, with a furtive glance at his wife. 

Anthony irritably rustles through his papers. ‘Perhaps Lord Mowbray should be more concerned with his own health, given the contents of the snuff-box he keeps in his left jacket pocket at all times.’

Simon lets out a braying laugh. ‘I must say, Anthony, your encyclopaedic knowledge of our contemporaries’ exploits would put Whistledown to shame. You should quit the viscountcy and start your own gossip publication. You would certainly put her out of a job.’

‘Excellent.’ Anthony says, eyes still glued to his accounts. ‘That foul hag deserves a far worse fate than unemployment after all the malicious tripe she has written of our family.’

Daphne strolls over to the window, tugging a little at the curtains. ‘She has been conspicuously quiet this season,’ she says. ‘By this time last year I believe she had put out at least four disparaging editorials about me.’

Simon frowns. ‘A truly loathsome woman, indeed.’

‘Let us be grateful for her silence, shall we?’ Anthony says lightly. ‘It would be nice to bring this season to a close without a scandal to our name.’

Daphne suddenly appears by his side, her hand obstructing the scattered pages on his desk. ‘Yes, well, enough about Whistledown. How was your hunt with Miss Sharma yesterday? You have been conspicuously quiet about it.’

‘Mowbray had much to say about it.’ Simon adds. ‘In fact, I believe it is the talk of the ton this morning.’

Anthony scowls, trying to pull his papers out from under Daphne’s palm. ‘Is this an interrogation? If I do not answer, am I to be hauled before the gates of hell to face judgment day before the Duke and Duchess of Hastings?’

‘There is need to be so combative, Anthony. I was only asking. And I have already heard about your affray with Lord Leazes.’ Daphne rolls her eyes.

Simon grins. ‘Anthony decided he was coming home with some sort of bounty, even if not strictly of the antlered variety. Tell me, did you ever locate the man’s toe, or is he destined to forevermore dance one step behind the rest of us?’

‘I cannot say I looked for it,’ says Anthony, giving up on the lease and leaning back listlessly into his chair. ‘And that man is a shameless lech, so entirely undeserving of sympathy.’

‘But did he have Miss Sharma’s sympathy?’ Daphne asks. ‘She did not seem upset by his abrupt departure.’

Anthony tosses his hands up. ‘I imagine few were. And she barely knows the gentleman.’

‘I do like her. You and she share a great many similarities, you know, Anthony.’ Daphne declares. ‘I do not just mean the familial protectiveness that edges on being overbearing, either. At breakfast she came out with a witty response to a silly joke of Colin’s and it struck me as precisely something you would have said.’

Anthony says curtly, ‘I am glad you all like her.’

He is glad, he’s unaccountably pleased by it. For one, it is clear from the sadness that permeates Miss Sharma’s exceedingly expressive eyes that she is not used to being around people who show her kindness and affection. If Anthony thinks about that too much he may very well combust.

And for another, it just makes sense that he wants her to be embraced with his family. They are a tight-knit lot, after all, and a lot to manage at the best of times. They absolutely should love her, even if he must not.

‘What did Eloise say of her?’ he says, trying hard to quell any obvious interest in his tone.

‘Oh, Eloise was unrestrained in her praise for Miss Sharma. Well, for Eloise,’ Daphne beams. ‘They had a long conversation about the deficiencies of ladies’ education. I believe Eloise hardly ate a bite. But really, I think she was quite sold on her the moment Miss Sharma told her that she cannot embroider for toffee.’

‘Go on,’ Simon nudges Anthony. ‘Ask about the others.’

Anthony presses down so hard on his papers that he nearly splits the nib of his pen.

‘Ben and Colin will try very hard to induct her into their circle of mischief,’ Daphne says, taking pity on him. ‘Do not worry, I have already told her never to accept a cup of herbal tea from Colin.’

‘Right. Yes. Well, very good.’ Anthony says, again trying hard to keep his voice impassive. From the look on Simon’s face he’s failing miserably.

Daphne goes on doggedly. ‘She is very sweet with Hyacinth. And I think Gregory is on the cusp of falling in love with her. If you do not act quickly, he may beat you to declaring yourself.’

‘Indeed. So tell us, Anthony, is there a proposal in the offing?’ queries Simon, as Anthony labours his jaw.

Daphne claps her hands against Simon’s chest in delight. ‘Oh, at the ball? Anthony, that would be so romantic-’

Anthony breathes hard through his nose. ‘Hastings, I do not recall you being this meddlesome before you wedded my sister, whereas she has always been so. Leading me to conclude that she has fostered this exceedingly irksome trait in you. I really do not care for it.’ 

Daphne huffs at him. ‘I am showing interest, brother. With far more restraint than you did in my season-’

‘-the difference being that you are not my guardian-’

‘Daphne, sweetheart, I suggest we leave the viscount to his…accounts…’ Simon interjects. ‘There is still a lot to do before tonight, is there not?’

‘Yes,’ Daphne says reluctantly. She threads her fingers through her husband’s and strides over to the door, but Simon hangs back, his arm falling slack by his side.

‘I just need a quick word with Anthony.’ he says. Anthony, sure he’s about to be chastised for something or other, starts to protest but finds himself subdued by the unusually sombre look on Simon’s face.

He’s surprised when Daphne doesn’t object and leaves them alone in the study without further question. It’s not like his sister to acquiesce so easily, which means either the subject matter is very frivolous, or very serious. Simon’s grave countenance tells him which.

Simon shuts the door behind Daphne and then moves until he’s standing directly in front of Anthony, hands tied tightly behind his back. And then, his voice like steel, he says, ‘you should know that Bede is in town.’

Anthony throws down his pen and launches to his feet, his heart bludgeoning his ribs.

‘How do you-’

‘One of the lords you humiliated this week informed me. I don’t quite remember which.’

Fists paper-white and knotted, Anthony looks Simon straight in the eye. ‘Does Daphne-’

‘Yes, of course. I would not keep that from her. It would be infinitely worse if she were to find out by actually coming face to face with the man.’ Simon says fiercely. ‘Anthony, you told me you had dealt with him.’

‘I did.’ Anthony snaps.

‘Evidently not.’ Simon returns, just as harshly. ‘Daphne does not want me to accost him and cause a scandal, so I will not. But we do need to know why he is back. And I do not think I can be in the same room as the man without slitting his throat. Or somehow causing offence to his person.’

‘And what makes you think that I can?’

Simon clutches at his throat in frustration. ‘Because you already have. You got your pound of flesh from him. I only learned about his behaviour from you. After the fact.’

Anthony works his jaw with tooth-cracking violence. And then he says, ‘leave it with me.’

‘Well, should I-’

Anthony pushes past Simon on his way to the door. ‘You do not need to do anything. I will find out.’

Simon watches him owlishly. ‘Now?’

‘No, not now.’ Anthony shakes his head. ‘I will make subtle enquiries first. Whatever has brought him back, I do not want him scuttling back into the gutters before I have had a chance to question him.’

~

An hour later, his mother finds him at Edmund’s gravestone.

Anthony can tell himself he did not mean to walk out there. He so rarely does. But if ever there was a time he needs to feel moored, that he craves the righting anchor of his father’s hand on his shoulder, it’s now.

He falls onto the nearby bench, waiting to feel something. A change in the wind. Instead he has to dig his fingernails into his thighs so as not to be forced to revisit the darkest days of his life, the ones that followed the final day of Edmund’s.

He smells the lilacs gathered in her hands before he sees her. She does not call out to him on her approach. His mother props her flowers up against the headstone and takes her place beside him on the bench, settling her hand over his own.

‘Anthony,’ she says, in a wheedling sort of way.

‘Mother. I can take my leave-’

‘No, stay. I admit, I saw you coming this way and I wanted to speak with you.’

When Anthony does not respond, his mother clasps his hand. ‘You are burdened.’ she tells him. ‘Even more so than usual.’

He echoes what he told Daphne, with little effort in it. ‘I am quite well.’

‘Anthony, these last few years, you have been so weighed down.’ his mother says, even as he flinches away from her touch. ‘It has saddened me greatly to see you that way. It has saddened us all, even if your siblings do not show it.’

Anthony bites down what he really wants to say. He knows she does not really mean to affix yet more blame on him, to embroider his unending list of failings. ‘I have been perfectly content. Managing the estate keeps me busy but it is nothing I cannot handle.’

‘Does Miss Sharma make you feel “content”?’ Violet enquires.

Anthony knew this was coming, knew it from the second he sensed the powdery aroma of the lilacs in the air. And yet he’s scrambling, the heated defence doesn’t come to him automatically as it has so many times before.

His mother takes advantage of his silent struggles. ‘You seem lighter in her presence. You know, at the races…I saw you. You were laughing with her, and smiling, and it was as though a tiny window opened up to your old self…’

Anthony sighs, heavy as lead. ‘To who I was before Father died, you mean?’

‘Well, yes.’ his mother says, looking resolutely into his eyes. ‘Anthony, he would not want you to renounce love in his name. Just as I do not want you to do so because of my…because of how I was after he passed.’

‘I am simply trying to spare anyone else from suffering that same fate.’ Anthony stares vacantly down at his feet. Shuffling his boot in the loose dirt.

His mother clears her throat. ‘And yet your courtship with Miss Sharma…am I to believe you feel nothing at all for her?’

That slow-acting prickle of apprehension again. But this time, breaking loose in his chest like the first spring after an endless winter. Anthony forces himself to meet his mother’s gaze.

‘Not this again. I have told you that I am not interested in a love match. I am running out of more creative ways to say it. My interest in Miss Sharma is purely practical. How I feel in her presence is irrelevant-’

His mother practically floats off the bench in elation. Unfortunately, Anthony must bring her careening back to cold, hard, solid ground.

‘-because my mind is unchanged. If she is agreeable, Miss Sharma and I will marry, and we will lead a very good life together. But trust me, love is not in the realm of possibilities. Not in the slightest.’

Anthony steers his eyes away from his mother again, unwilling to see her face crumple, beset with sorrow, and know he put it there.

But his mother presses him. ‘My darling, stubborn boy, what makes you so sure? You have been steadfast in your pursuit of Miss Sharma from that very first ball. I have heard from Mrs Wilson and the kitchen staff the lengths you have gone to in order to make her feel comfortable here. The tea? The honey? Lady Danbury tells me you bought her the horse she admired at the races. And do you want to tell me why the two of you returned from the grounds the other afternoon, both covered in mud?’

Anthony is sure, he is so sure that he could swear to it right here, upon his father’s grave. He is so sure that he has to tell himself the same thing every morning when his eyes roll open and it’s that was just a dream and every night when they roll shut and it’s tomorrow I will see her again. He is so sure because if he’s not, if he acknowledges even the tiniest crack in the façade, then the entire edifice he’s built to prevent history from repeating itself, will crumble.

He is so sure, but the words taste like metal. Tinny as they echo back in his ears.

‘Mother, none of that signifies. Everything I have done in my pursuit of Miss Sharma has been in deference to the accustomed and obligatory expectations of courtship, and nothing more. Please accept what I am telling you.’

‘Just suppose,’ his mother says quietly. ‘Just suppose that you are not able to guard yourself against feeling something for her in the entire course of your marriage. What then, Anthony?’

This, Anthony can answer without hesitation. ‘It would not matter, Mother, because she would not love me.’

And Anthony will be the one to die first. Even if he finds himself the unlucky fool suffering from unrequited love, it will be short-lived. A heart that no longer beats cannot be broken. That, of course, he cannot say aloud.

‘Oh, Anthony…’ his mother says shakily. Her eyes veiled with tears. ‘Why would you say that? Did Miss Sharma tell you that?’

Anthony looks blankly up at the placid blue sky. ‘She did not need to. And I am done discussing this.’

He leaves his mother sitting on the bench. He should not have come to his father’s grave. He is not so sure that he is so sure.

~

She does not mean to eavesdrop.

But Lord Bridgerton does not appear at breakfast. The man is blatantly choosing to avoid her. Kate knows because she was sorely tempted to do the very same thing. Only her stomach had grumbled loudly as she was midway through thinking up an excuse for her absence and Kate had decided, what with half the ton in attendance, there would be enough people sitting between them to dilute any lingering awkwardness from the night before.

The viscount had not showed, so Kate had relaxed, eaten three pieces of bread with honey and decided whatever was going on in his head, she could not allow it to corrupt her own. Her only purpose is to end the season with a ring on her finger and yet she is no closer to achieving that end than she was when she’d started conducting interviews. One could blame the slim pickings on offer – is there truly not a man in Mayfair without some horrifying affliction or sordid misdeed in his past?

There is Mansfield. He is agreeable enough. Definitely tolerable. And unquestionably dutiful. Kate never wrote down a numbered list of requirements, but he has not presented with any glaring inadequacies. And it has not escaped her notice that Lord Bridgerton hasn’t been able to come up with any either. For all intents and purposes, it would be prudent for Kate to encourage his attentions unless she finds something she does not like.

And then there is the viscount himself. Kate knows she’s giving the wrong impression to him, to everyone, by even being here when she’s already vowed not to accept him. By allowing him to commandeer her company when she should be giving him the cut direct. He is impulsive, inscrutable, impossible. And he has proven twice now that he cannot aim straight on the field. It would be ridiculous to be endeared by such volatile qualities.

And yet, later that morning, Kate sits in the drawing room with him and his family, and he is patient. Firm but fair. Sweet, when he bites into a scone and pulls a stupid face at Hyacinth after she loses the game of marbles to Gregory, just to make her giggle. Sweet, when he asks her, with genuine curiosity, why the flute. Sweet, when his cheeks pinken because he’s been exposed as a failed clarinettist. She sees the side of him that his family only seem to acknowledge when he’s not around.

Kate thinks about it the entire time she’s out with Austin, her braid snagging on branch after branch as she fails to see what’s right in front of her. But Kate did not ask for this. She did not ask to be distracted from her purpose when she came here wholly resolved. The viscount has tunnelled his way into her head, warped it and confused it for seemingly no reason at all.

Had she not backed away last night, would he have kissed her and condemned them both? Had he not spoken her name in that reverent way, would she have let him?

Troubled by these questions she does not know the answer to, Kate leads Austin back to the stables, leaving him with a gentle caress and the promise to return shortly with freshly picked dandelions. He’ll always divert off the path if he sees them.

The groom tells her to keep going southwest and she’ll find a slightly less manicured part of the estate where there might be a weed or two.

Kate walks with her muddy day-dress hoisted above her ankles. She hasn’t been to this part of the grounds before. But there are plenty of dandelions and she bends down to collect them, fumbling upright when she hears the low hum of voices nearby.

Just off the thicket are two figures sitting side by side on a bench, the distance between them palpable. Kate can tell even from their backs that it’s Lord Bridgerton and his mother. And before them a headstone that can only be his father’s.

Kate is about to take her leave – she doesn’t intend to intrude on what is likely a very emotional exchange any more than she feels ready to come face to face with the viscount just yet – but then she hears his mother mention her name. And she’s saying things, things that have also given Kate pause. Austin. The mallet, the mud.

The kitchen.

But then Lord Bridgerton answers, in an vague sort of way,

‘…Mother, none of that signifies. Everything I have done in my pursuit of Miss Sharma has been in deference to the accustomed and obligatory expectations of courtship, and nothing more. Please accept what I am telling you.’

This, of all his outlandish behaviour, should make sense. This is what he’s been saying from the start. This is what had led her to rebuff his suit in the first place.

It stings just the same. An emptying feeling in her gut. The erosion of a fragile hope that there was something – something more there, that if Kate had felt it last night, he had too.

Kate takes a few uneven steps backwards, just in time to hear Lord Bridgerton say,

‘…trust me, love is not in the realm of possibilities. Not in the slightest.’

Kate hotfoots it out of earshot. She does not want to hear any more. It is not as though he’s saying anything he hasn’t told her already, and yet she feels as though he’s gnawed her right down to the quick. Obviously his mind is not confused. Obviously she hasn’t disrupted his peace the way he has hers.

Kate slowly makes her way back to the stables with Austin’s flowers. She can’t help but pause on her way to his stall to admire an enormous white stallion in the adjacent box. She reaches her hand out to pat his nose but snaps it back when somebody behind her bleats, ‘Stop!’

One of the stable-hands, Robin, shuffles bashfully up behind her, laden with apologies. ‘Apologies, but I cannot let you take Meryton out, my lady. He is not safe to be ridden.’

Kate frowns at the horse. ‘Why not?’

Robin cocks his head coyly. ‘He has…behavioural problems, ma’am. Biting, kicking. Anyone who rides him is certain to be thrown, and given his size, that could well be fatal. Lord Bridgerton said under no circumstances is anyone to be allowed to ride him.’

‘Ah.’ Kate looks sympathetically at the supposed aggressor, who’s now grazing peacefully at his trough. ‘Well, I have actually just returned from my morning ride. I brought some dandelions for Austin. I believe they are his favourites.’

‘How disappointing.’

At the intrusion, Kate startles, and her dandelions slip through her fingers and drift to the floor.

Ever the culprit, Mansfield bows his head before he catches her with wistful eyes. ‘I was hoping to accompany you on a ride this morning, Miss Sharma, but I see I am too late.’

‘I am an early riser, Lord Andover.’ Kate says, watching as he bends to fetch her dropped flowers. ‘And so is Austin.’

‘Duly noted for next time,’ Mansfield says amusedly, passing her the weeds. ‘Should you come to Houghton Abbey, I should very much like to show you those riding trails I mentioned before. There is one that has to be taken during a summer dusk. You are almost certain to see the barn owls out, and they are magnificent.’

Kate’s not sure if that’s a formal invitation or not, but before she can ask, there’s a smattering of angry footfalls from behind her. She turns away from Mansfield’s hopeful face to meet Lord Bridgerton’s, which can only be described as thoroughly annoyed. And he’s making no effort to hide it, either.

‘That sounds like a hoot, Mansfield, but perhaps we might allow Miss Sharma some time to enjoy her season in Mayfair, before bundling her off for yet another tedious carriage ride all the way up to your estate.’

Lord Bridgerton swings backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet as though propelled by the currents of intense dislike he’s projecting towards Mansfield, hands arched behind his back and no doubt clenched and white-knuckled.

‘Of course,’ Mansfield says, his voice level. His ability to coast Lord Bridgerton’s needling is really quite impressive. ‘The invitation has no expiry date, Miss Sharma.’

‘I appreciate that, my lord.’ Kate says to him. Mostly out of courtesy, because any longer than a couple of hours in a carriage and she’s just as likely as Newton to be found chewing her own hair. And then, because she knows it will tick off the viscount, she adds, ‘I am quite fond of wildlife.’

‘Owls are not endemic to Nottinghamshire.’ Lord Bridgerton says snippily. ‘There are many different breeds in residence here at Aubrey Hall. I am quite sure if you want to see them, I could arrange that easily before we return to town.’

The thought of Lord Bridgerton traipsing through the woods, screeching in a falsetto to attract owls purely for Kate’s enjoyment, well, she can’t help the smirk that steals across her face. Even if now she understands that it is all just a game to him.

Kate regards him. ‘Tell me, Lord Bridgerton, would such a favour be in deference to the accustomed and obligatory expectations of courtship?’

That unfastens his tightly locked jaw. Mouth agape, eyes wide, he stares back at Kate as his brain catches up. And then when it does, Kate reads the tension that crawls up his neck and shoulders. It’s clear he has no response.

Instead of answering, Lord Bridgerton suddenly advances on Mansfield. ‘Mansfield, were you not just about to go off for a ride?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Do not postpone your excursion on my account.’ Lord Bridgerton says, with an uncharacteristically exuberant smile. ‘In fact, since you are already here, you can take one of my horses. I think Meryton would do nicely…’

He points over to the large white horse, who on cue, snorts and delivers an almighty kick to the back of his box. ‘Ah…he is suited to the more experienced rider, but I am sure you will find a way to manage.’

Incredulous, Kate looks at Robin, who all of a sudden seems to be very busy tying and untying the same knot on one of the saddles.

Mansfield, meanwhile, seems flummoxed by this unexpected display of civility. He scratches the back of his head, eyes narrowed with faint suspicion.

 ‘…uhhh, that is a fine gesture, Bridgerton, but I shall take one of my own horses. After all, who could forget the passionate case you put forward in Lady Danbury’s drawing room just the other week, about the potential perils of riding unfamiliar steeds?’

‘Well, if you insist.’ Lord Bridgerton says, face going slack with disinterest. He brushes past Mansfield and takes his place in front of Kate, his eyes unexpectedly earnest. ‘Miss Sharma, might you accompany me on a walk?’

~

‘You were eavesdropping,’ is the first thing he says to her as they leave the stables.

Kate looks him squarely in the eye. ‘I did not mean to. And I did not hear your entire conversation. Only that part.’ Which was enough.

‘Do you take offence at what I said?’ Lord Bridgerton asks, bending his head as he searches her face.

‘No. You are consistent, that much can be said for you, my lord.’ Kate says offhandedly.

Lord Bridgerton furrows his brow, his face mired with frustration. ‘You can call me Anthony. I would prefer that you called me Anthony-’

‘I am not sure that would be appropriate.’ Kate returns. ‘It might raise questions about the status of our…acquaintance.’

Lord Bridgerton stops walking, and purely out of obstinance Kate takes a few more steps before she stops too, and faces him. Her face expressionless.

‘Last night-’ he begins.

Kate shakes her head, and he stoppers his lip at once. ‘We do not need to speak of it, my lord.’

The conflict that weighs in his brow almost makes Kate regret saying it. ‘I wanted to apologise for taking liberties with you. It will not happen again.’ Lord Bridgerton says seriously.

Kate laughs, and then laughs harder at the stricken look on his face. ‘Really? Is your loveless marriage to be a celibate marriage as well?’

A few days ago, he might have been taken aback by her boldness. But Kate’s not really surprised when instead of spluttering, he stretches into a wolfish grin. ‘Certainly not,’ he says, edging closer to her. ‘I am a gentleman…not a monk.’

Kate wills herself not to react to his proximity, to the comforting, woodsy smell of him that had overpowered her in the kitchens last night, to the fact that the mere inches between their heights leaves his mouth perfectly level with hers. ‘You forgot rake.’

‘Former rake.’ Lord Bridgerton mutters, but he pulls back a little, enough so that Kate can no longer feel his uneven breaths against her cheek.

His eyes drag from her slightly open mouth, hover when they meet hers, hard and unyielding, and then seem to fix in her hair.

Lord Bridgerton swallows. He makes a feeble gesture towards her head, but stops himself before he makes contact. ‘You have…twigs in your hair,’ he says, eyebrows raised.

Kate puts a hand to her hair, shrugging when it comes back clutching broken bits of the branches she knocked into on her morning ride.

‘Perhaps not quite the accessory your mother had in mind when she was planning tonight’s ball.’ she says, running nimble fingers through her scalp, displacing pins as well as the remaining twigs. Her curls unwind from the dishevelled coiffure and tumble down her shoulders.

When she’s satisfied her hair is free of debris, she looks up at Lord Bridgerton to see his cheeks have coloured and he’s steadily avoiding eye contact with her. Even the tips of his ears are stained pink.

When he realises she’s looking at him, he glances quickly down at his breeches and then clears his throat. ‘We should return to the house...’

Kate, thinking of Edwina, agrees with him, though she lags a little, looking covetously at all the blossoms squished in with the shrubbery. They’re not unlike the ones she used to pick on her escapades from the Sheffields’ and keep in her room as a reminder that there was, in fact, happiness that existed outside of that house.

Lord Bridgerton watches her.

‘You like the wildflowers?’ he says, his brown eyes warming as brandy as they roam her face. ‘Here.’

He crouches down into the undergrowth and starts haphazardly uprooting stems from the ground, favouring the pink ones, Kate notices, and wishes she didn’t. Every gesture he makes from now on has a footnote attached. Accustomed and obligatory.

Despite herself, she smiles at him when he hands her the blooms. Kate’s taking care to avoid brushing their fingers and yet Lord Bridgerton’s linger, soft as they dust the back of her hand.

‘Is that enough? Would you like more?’ he’s back on the ground before she can answer, but then she sees his spine bolt up like a ramrod, his hands freeze. When Kate moves closer to see what could have caused him to tense up so abruptly, she only sees a bumblebee fluttering in the patch of flowers.

‘Is something the matter, my lord?’ Kate asks him, and when she sets a hand on his shoulder he jumps up so quickly that it goes flying off. His face, so flushed just minutes ago, is fogged with sweat and drained of all colour.

Lord Bridgerton stares back at her with wild, panicked eyes. ‘I am sorry – I-’ the words struggle from his throat, which is rapidly beating in and out. ‘I have to go.’

He staggers forward as though intoxicated, taking the large, erratic breaths he needs to be able to flee seconds later. Kate gapes at his retreating form. A phobia of bees, well, that she can understand, but his reaction seems to go well beyond that. He looked possessed.

She makes her own way back to the house, flowers in hand, but remains preoccupied all through her bath and as Millicent helps her into her ballgown, thinking only of the look of terror on the viscount’s bloodless face.

Meanwhile, Edwina is sulking, lying on her back on Kate’s bed, though for all Kate’s questioning she won’t give a real reason as to why. She does, however, ask a question that makes Kate’s heart plunge into her feet.

‘Didi, would it really be so terrible if I were to debut a year or so early?’

When Kate swings around, nearly bowling poor Millicent over, Edwina hastens to add, ‘Not at my grandparents’ behest! But it is not that uncommon to do….and it would give me more time to find a suitor, so by the time I am eight and ten and ready to be married, I might already have formed a lasting relationship with my husband.’

‘Edwina,’ Kate says, in her most conciliatory voice, ‘there are certain expectations that befall a woman once she officially enters the marriage mart. And all of the eligible men will be far too old for you.’

‘Lord Bridgerton is older than you!’ Edwina protests.

‘By five years, Edwina, and I am a lot older than eight and ten.’ Kate tries to stay calm, but the thought of her sister being descended upon by the same horde of lords the viscount has been exposing for their baseness and profligacy makes her stomach bottom out. It’s yet another reason why she needs to take her courtships more seriously.

‘Do not worry, Miss Edwina, these next two years will pass quickly,’ says Millicent, taking over from Kate. ‘For now, you should enjoy the social season without any of the pressures of courtship.’

But Edwina does not look particularly pacified by this. When Kate tests her a little further, she clams up entirely and watches without another word as Millicent threads tiny pink flowers around Kate’s tiara.

~

Kate has come to expect nothing less than perfection from the Bridgertons, so pre-eminent and esteemed as they are, and it is difficult to imagine a more beautiful backdrop for a Hearts and Flowers ball than the ballroom she and Edwina step into than an hour later. Edwina immediately sullies it by storming off to the lemonade table where Kate can see her pouring whispered complaints into Eloise’s ear.

When Kate reaches the balcony, Lord Bridgerton meets her halfway up the stairs, as though he’s been waiting for her arrival. He could not look any more different to the last time she saw him. Hair impeccably coiffed, jawline freshly shaven, even the watch fob that always hangs from his waist seems to have been polished up.

Lord Bridgerton extends his hand. His face is wound tightly. ‘Might I have your first dance, Miss Sharma?’

Kate takes it. He seems relieved, his chest lowering. ‘You may, my lord.’

With a guiding hand, he leads her to the middle of the dancefloor. The orchestral strings have barely begun to sing before he breaks the silence. ‘Miss Sharma, I owe you an explanation for what happened earlier.’ Lord Bridgerton says, low and resolved.

Kate looks intently back at him. She can’t help but feel for him, for whatever torment and distress he keeps locked in that mercurial head. But she had expected him to pretend as though that episode earlier had not happened.

‘You do not owe me anything, my lord.’

Lord Bridgerton’s eyes harden and his grip on her waist tightens. ‘I want to, then. I want to give you an explanation.’

He’s waiting for her permission, Kate realises. She reaffirms her hold on his shoulders. ‘Then I am listening.’

Her words seem to fill him with repose. His steps become more fluid, the strain in his muscles mellowing slightly.

‘You already know that my father died prematurely,’ Lord Bridgerton says. His gaze stays unnervingly fixed on Kate’s face, and her skin starts to feel scorched as though fevered. ‘But I have not told you how he died.’

Kate nods, refusing to look away from him.

Lord Bridgerton says hoarsely, ‘He was stung by a bee in those very gardens.’

Kate wonders if she was naïve for not making that connection before. And then she thinks of the honey she’s eaten for breakfast and occasionally when it appeared by her plate at dinner every day of her stay, of the effusive way she’d praised it to Lady Bridgerton, only for the viscount’s mother to tell her that it is made here, we keep our own bees on the grounds.

‘I have been afraid of bees ever since. I know it is ridiculous to be so beholden to a fear of such a small and unassuming creature. But I am.’ Lord Bridgerton continues, head dipped in resignation. ‘I did not mean to alarm you earlier.’

‘You did not,’ Kate says quickly. ‘And it is not ridiculous to be afraid of them. Your father died after he was stung by one…why would you not fear the things? It seems natural to me.’

Lord Bridgerton lifts his head and intones, ‘I was with him when he died…I saw it happen. And since then I have not been able to go near them without…reacting in that way.’

Kate swallows. ‘I am…so sorry. It is clear that you were very close to him.’

‘He was the greatest man I ever knew.’ Lord Bridgerton says passionately. ‘He taught me everything I know, and Benedict too.’ his voice does not quite break, but it quivers when he continues, ‘I miss him each and every day.’

‘I understand.’ Kate looks into his eyes, shiny from more than just the winking candlelight. And he tangibly thaws against her. Even if his tears don’t fall, she can feel him wringing out the abject pain and loss as they continue to move in sync.

Lord Bridgerton observes her acutely, his jaw ticking. ‘Yes, I believe you do.’

He seems to recognise that Kate is not used to being asked.

‘You lost both of your parents when you were young.’ he says slowly, a statement, not a question.

Kate blows out a small breath. ‘Yes. I did not realise I had…’

‘You told me you left India with only your sister at six and ten. So I assumed that you must have lost your parents shortly before that.’

Kate fights to keep her own voice steady. ‘My father, when I was four and ten. My stepmother, two years later. Both to illness.’

‘Your stepmother being Edwina’s mother? The Sheffields’ daughter?’ Lord Bridgerton asks.

‘Yes. My own mother died when I was eight.’ Kate can feel herself trembling in his arms, knows Lord Bridgerton feels the tremors too because his thumbs start to rub back and forth at the slants of her waist. His touch is soothing and yet with every motion her heart rings out a rapid staccato.

‘How did she-’ Lord Bridgerton starts, but his sentence dies when Kate’s eyes shutter closed. An involuntary thing. The silence stretches out like a raw nerve, and then Kate’s eyes flutter open again as Lord Bridgerton murmurs, ‘Ignore me. I did not mean to overstep. But…’

His eyes stray to the pink wildflowers wreathed through her hair. And his right hand abandons her waist and drifts upwards to her face. For a moment Kate thinks he’s about to cradle her jaw and something static goes off in her heart, but instead he touches his fingers to the petals with such gentleness that it makes her physically ache.

Lord Bridgerton’s hand falls away, and a few petals glide to the floor and lay at their feet. ‘I would like to know more about your family. And your time in India. If…you are willing to share.’ he tells her. And the assertiveness, the conviction in his voice. It’s as charming as it is disarming. Something in Kate’s bones tells her that the combination of the two will be her undoing.

The music tapers off, but whatever is compelling Lord Bridgerton to hold onto Kate’s waist does not. If his hand in her hair was improper, then this is first-class fodder for Lady Whistledown’s front page.

‘Would you-?’

Whatever the viscount was about to ask her never follows, as another suitor comes beetling up to them. 

It’s Lord Conifer, juggling two chalices of lemonade. He jiggles one under Kate’s nose. ‘I thought you might like a refreshment before your next dance.’ he ventures. ‘Which I was hoping to claim.’

‘How thoughtful. I am quite parched.’ Lord Bridgerton says, taking one glass and handing it to Kate. Then he plucks the other out of Conifer’s hand as it’s halfway to his mouth, and recklessly tosses it back.

Poor, helpless Conifer is lost for words, both hands still clasped uselessly around thin air. Kate catches Lord Bridgerton’s eyes over the rim of his glass and buries her nose in her own glass so as not to laugh. His behaviour is juvenile and yet she has no desire to scold him for it.

Looking pleased with himself, Lord Bridgerton swipes away a droplet of lemonade at the corner of his mouth with his index finger.

‘I had heard you were undergoing treatment for warts on your toes, Conifer.’ he says casually, as though he’s discussing current affairs and not the man’s painful skin condition. His eyes flicker down to Conifer’s thickly booted feet. ‘Are you up to dancing, given such a predicament?’

Naturally, Kate also looks down at Conifer’s feet. And then back up at his flaming red face. He’s glowering at Lord Bridgerton as though the viscount is a particularly stubborn wart he’d like to scrape off with a scalpel. To think, a week or so ago Kate might have sympathised with him.

‘I am afraid my dance card is full.’ Kate lies without guile. Surprised, but pleased, Lord Bridgerton grins down at her. Conifer flounces off the dancefloor without so much as a nod to either of them. If Kate’s not mistaken, his gait is a little ungainly.

She turns to the viscount. ‘Well, are you going to-’

‘Your dances may have all been claimed, but I would hazard a guess that there’s only one name on that card.’

Mansfield steps deftly into the spot Conifer has just vacated. As if by instinct, Lord Bridgerton’s large hands burrow deeper into Kate’s waist, and his eyes storm like a midnight sea.

‘Excellent deduction, Mansfield. I have indeed claimed the rest of Miss Sharma’s dances.’ Lord Bridgerton says bullishly. ‘Perhaps there is some other young lady you can drag – ah, escort – to the dancefloor this evening.’

Mansfield laughs. ‘You are on top form tonight, Bridgerton. I do admire your sense of humour.’

The viscount’s eyes glitter ominously as his cheeks hollow, no doubt with the effort of holding back some vastly insulting retort.

‘Lord Bridgerton.’ Kate says. He refocuses his attention on her, eyes wide now, silently imploring her not to do what they both know she’s going to do. ‘Thank you for the dance.’

The fingers curled around her waist slacken and a second later, fall away. His heated gaze does not.

‘Not to fear, I promise to return her in one piece…if I do not, you may demand satisfaction from me.’ Mansfield’s attempt to inject a little humour falls flat. Lord Bridgerton says under his breath, ‘see that you do, or I might take you up on that.’

Without another word, he takes Kate’s untouched lemonade from her and departs the floor in sweeping strides, only stopping when he reaches the wall. Kate doesn’t need to sneak a glance at him to know what his expression will hold. She does anyway.

One foot tapping erratically against the floor. Jaw pulsing in synchronicity with it. Eyes beetle black and stuck on her. Something foreboding rising between them. Kate’s blood crackling under her skin.

‘Quite the enigma, the viscount.’ Mansfield says blithely, as he holds out his hand for Kate’s. She has to briefly look down before she can face him again. ‘I can never quite tell when he is being serious.’

Swaddled by a fresh court of dancers, they begin to move.

Kate allows herself a furtive smile. ‘I do not think he jests when it comes to duels.’

Mansfield watches her, his face pensive. ‘You like him.’ he says, gently.

Kate flinches, but she refuses to be baited into saying more than she needs to. ‘His family are lovely.’

‘Ah, yes. The most gracious hosts.’

‘Aubrey Hall is delightful. I would happily spend all day exploring the grounds.’

‘Indeed. I daresay it would take much longer than a day of exploration to really feel you have seen everything.’

‘They make their own honey on the grounds, I have never tasted anything like it.’

‘Mm. I am quite allergic, I shall have to take your word for that.’ Mansfield says. And just when Kate thinks she’s off the hook, he presses on, ‘and the viscount himself?’

More than anything, he seems amused by Kate’s evasiveness.

Kate hesitates, squirming between his arms. She settles for a stripped back version of the truth. ‘He has his moments.’

Mansfield crooks his head back and laughs again. ‘Very diplomatic, Miss Sharma. You might consider taking up a seat in Parliament. You would fare far better than most of the nobles I usually contend with.’

‘After a few weeks on the marriage mart, testing the tenor of said nobles myself, I do not doubt that.’ Kate says.

Mansfield raises a brow appreciatively. ‘You manage the attention admirably well. Particularly for having been singled out by her majesty. Though, I suppose, you have had some help in that arena from our friend the viscount. He has single-handedly cut your number of prospective suitors clean in half.’

Kate rolls her eyes up to the ornate carvings on the ceiling. ‘I did not ask him to do that.’

‘I can tell you that the remaining contenders have been on their very best behaviour in recent days. Particularly since the…explosive end to the hunt yesterday. Not a toupee has gone unpowdered or a mistress’s letters replied to.’ Mansfield titters.

Kate has a brief vision of the viscount whipping off some poor lord’s toupee and spinning atop his finger, then launching it across the room like a javelin.

‘In that case, perhaps I should thank him.’ Kate says airily.

Automatically, they both look over at the viscount, who has not moved from his vantage point by the west-facing wall. He’s traded Kate’s lemonade for a half-empty tumbler of whisky. Both his grip and his face are angry and strangled. His gaze singed with something dark and inexplicable.

Mansfield coughs, diverting her attention back to him. ‘Perhaps I should too.’

It’s not as though she doesn’t know he’s interested in her. But whilst the viscount has made his intentions clear – even if the rationale behind them is growing more and more obscure by the day – the same cannot be said for Mansfield.

As though reading her mind, he continues, ‘Miss Sharma, I…to be candid with you, the ritual of courtship has never come naturally to me. I think many were surprised when I wed my wife.’

Kate pushes back from him, her fingertips bent against his lapels. Her eyes harden. ‘You were married?’

‘That was not a particularly graceful way of divulging that, was it?’ Mansfield says, his chuckle infused with self-deprecation. ‘Yes, I was. My wife passed away a few years ago. I am surprised the viscount did not tell you about my marital history, what with his newfound penchant for airing the private affairs of the rest of our associates.’

‘Perhaps he assumed you would have told me, and I would need no warning.’ Kate doesn’t know why she feels inclined to defend Lord Bridgerton, but it can hardly be blamed on him that Mansfield withheld such a thing from her.

‘I am sure,’ Mansfield says, with a thinly discernible edge to his voice. ‘Please know that I would have told you sooner, only it has been immeasurably difficult to find a moment alone with you. I do not think you require an explanation as to why.’

Kate acknowledges this by biting down on her cheek. Lord Bridgerton is certainly at fault for that. ‘How did the marriage come about?’

Mansfield seems unperturbed, obviously having expected her to question him. ‘It was quite an ordinary affair. My father passed unexpectedly, and essentially overnight, I inherited his title. It is a tale as old as time… I was immediately under great pressure to marry and produce an heir to secure the earldom. I had always planned on it, someday, though admittedly I was very ill-prepared for the marriage mart. I had no idea how to approach taking a wife.’

His movements slow, such that they fall a step behind the rest of the dancers. Neither of them make an effort to catch up. The easier pace allows Kate to nab another look at Lord Bridgerton. He’s still watching them. His neck is pulled so taut that she can see each vein beating against his cravat.

Mansfield takes her silence as his cue to keep speaking. ‘My wife struggled on the marriage mart. She was overwhelmed by it. She had a sizeable dowry and she was of good stock, she should have had no trouble at all finding a match her first season out. But she was dreadfully shy.  She was an incredibly sensitive and soft-spoken woman. Most men found that quite off-putting. So you see, we were kindred spirits of sorts. We quickly established that each of us could give the other exactly what they needed…a way out.’

Kate surmises for him. ‘A marriage of convenience.’

‘Yes. That is fair to say. But over time, I believe we did come to love one another.’ Mansfield says earnestly. ‘We enjoyed each other’s company. And we had the same expectations for our future together. It was, by all means…a very comfortable marriage.’

Kate’s head buzzes, a side-effect of three sips of champagne and an outpouring of blindsiding honesty. Is what Mansfield describes what Lord Bridgerton envisions for himself? For them? And yet here is gold-banded proof that such intentions can so easily go awry.

So what makes the viscount so sure that he will never love Kate?

Kate pushes that thought away and asks Mansfield the more pertinent question. ‘Why is it that you seek to remarry?’

Mansfield seems to toil with his answer before he gives it, his tentative smile folding. ‘My wife could not bear children.’

Understanding dawns. In many ways, it’s a relief to know. ‘…you need an heir.’

‘My wife bore a great deal of judgment and shame for our failure to grow our family. It is why we stayed away from London for so long. Neither of us had ever cared much for the social season, but after the way Etta was treated by the very people who had watched her grow up, gathered as the banns were read, wished us blessings that would never manifest... I am not too proud to admit it left us both embittered.’ Mansfield’s anguish is thick in his voice and familiar in the way it runs through each line of his face.

It's familiar because it ran through Kate, every day that she dared to exist under the Sheffields’ torrent of contempt and disdain, for the incurable crime of not being enough. The knowledge that they had once treated her father in the same manner. That if Edwina disappointed them in some incidental way, she would suffer underneath it too.

If Mansfield sees it reflected on Kate’s face, prickling at the corner of her eyes, he does not say anything. Instead, he grabs at her hand and seizes his moment, eyes hard with determination.

Around them, dancers begin to peel away as the song ends.

‘I am aware this makes my pursuit of you seem mercenary, Miss Sharma, but I swear to you it is not. I will not pretend that my interest was not initially piqued when the Queen singled you out at the conservatory ball. It simply made sense for a man of my standing to pursue the diamond, I had no intentions of wasting time, floundering about the marriage mart as I had done the first time. But I quickly saw how astute her majesty really was when she instead named you the solitaire. Your beauty, your intellect, your wit. Consider me very much enthralled by it. By all of it.’

Kate waits for her cheeks to warm with a telling blush. For the crush of butterflies in her stomach. For the unmistakable throb of a stolen heart colliding against her ribs.

Her skin does feel warm. But uncomfortably warm, an overwhelming warmth that rolls through her gut. Her heart skitters nervously as she abandons all reason and scans the room.

There is Lord Bridgerton, right where she left him. Every chandelier in the room could burst, leaking glass, and he’d still be standing there staring at her. He no longer looks irate. He looks pained. His brow dimpled in consternation. Some sort of inner turmoil raging within him just as it rages within Kate.

She tears herself away from him.

‘I need a moment,’ Kate manages. And she disentangles herself from Mansfield’s loosening arms and as covertly as possible, heads for the nearest door and forces herself through it.

~

Kate’s first thought when she clicks the door shut behind her is that her appa would have loved this library. Any other time, she’d be running her fingers across the embossed spines of the hundreds of books. Mounting that stepladder so as not to miss a single title.

Her second is that she has no idea what she’s going to say to him when he demands an explanation for her absconding like that.

Kate has no time to come up with something. Lord Bridgerton crashes into the room so violently that Kate’s glad she had the foresight not to lean against the door. She would have gone flying headfirst into the fireplace. However, any thought of making this point to him goes up in flames when she gets a good look at his face.

The candlelight shudders but she can still make out the anxious brow, the prevalent dimple. He’s concerned about her, Kate realises, and an incomprehensible noise – it might be a laugh, it might be a snort – escapes from her throat.

Lord Bridgerton is all over her two seconds later, in her space, eyes ravenously searching her face, his hands shaking at his sides.

‘You are distressed. Was it Mansfield? What has he done to upset you? Why did you run off like that?’ he bursts out.

Kate shakes her head, teeming with frustration. Their eyes lock.

‘He has done nothing, it is you.’ she fires at him.

‘Me?’ Lord Bridgerton reels back. Raking a ruinous hand through his hair. ‘I have upset you?’

‘No. You have – I do not – I do not understand you!’ Kate nearly screams. She half-expects him to scream back, but instead, he seems to gather his composure. He walks over to the desk in the corner and stands imposingly behind it.

‘Then ask me. Ask me anything and I will answer you honestly.’ Lord Bridgerton says coolly. ‘And for the love of god, please call me Anthony.’

Kate folds her arms. ‘Tell me what it is that you truly want.’

Lord Bridgerton stares at her, his expression unreadable, but Kate can see past it to the vortex of thoughts behind. Then he says, ‘You will have to be more specific, Miss Sharma-’

‘You say one thing and yet your actions do not follow. You tell me you are set upon a loveless marriage. Well, I want to know why.’

Silence again. His mouth tightens into an irascible line. Kate is quite content to wait him out all night. The viscount must see it in her face, her stiff and unyielding posture, because, finally –

‘It does not matter why.’ he says calmly.

Kate advances on him, only stopping when they’re almost nose-to-nose across his desk. She hears his breathing pick up, but does not allow it to distract her. ‘It matters to me, if you intend to bind yourself to me for eternity.’

Lord Bridgerton looks back at her, his eyes swirling. ‘Perhaps I am just as cold and stone-hearted as everyone seems to think.’ the note of resignation buried in his voice threatens to unravel Kate completely.

If that was true, she would not be here right now, fighting with him in this library. She would be in the middle of her second dance with Mansfield. If that was true, there would be no pink wildflowers in her hair. The taste of lavender and honey would not be lingering on her tongue.

Kate takes a step back, physically and metaphorically, as she tries to think of a way to translate those thoughts without betraying her own confusing onslaught of feelings. ‘If that was true-’

‘If it is true, then what? You are going to accept Mansfield?’ Lord Bridgerton demands. His fine hair mussed from his panicked hands, his pupils eclipsed, he looks unhinged. He plants both palms flat on his desk, leaning forward with a heaving chest. ‘Has he declared himself?’

Kate’s heart rate picks up again. She scoffs to cover it. ‘On the dance floor? Of course not.’

Lord Bridgerton looks temporarily relieved, and then his hands are back and frantic in his hair, his thumb anxiously skirting his jaw. He moves out from behind his desk and closes the space between them, making a mockery of propriety and all of Kate’s vows not to allow this to happen again.

‘But if he were to…if he were to ask. Would you accept him?’ he says, and though his voice holds strong he still looks tortured by some indecipherable question.

Kate, against her better instincts, faces up to him. ‘You have no right to ask me that question.’ she says.

‘Mansfield is married!’ Lord Bridgerton blurts out. ‘He has no right to ask it!’

‘He was married. His wife died.’ Kate watches his face turn pallid. Illuminated by the dying embers in the fireplace, clad in his black tailcoat and breeches, he resembles a phantom.

More desperate than before, the viscount says roughly, ‘He told you that? Is that what you were discussing on the floor?’

Kate bites out, ‘yes.’

This sets him off again. Restlessly roving the room, back-and-forth. His breathing loud and laboured. Leaning on his desk for support.

Finally he says, shaking his head defiantly, laying it on her like an accusation. ‘I have never met anyone like you.’

Her own anger and frustration at his antics renewed afresh, Kate snaps, ‘Nor I, you.’

Lord Bridgerton keeps talking, venting really, looming closer to Kate with every word. ‘Someone so incredibly – obstinate. It is unfathomable, how you can prove yourself to be so exceptionally sharp and capable, and yet in the very same breath, manage to be so damn infuriating!’

Kate takes a second – just a second – to take this in, both the ranting and the fact he’s once again so moved in so close to her that she feels like she’s sucking in each one of his haggard breaths – and then she’s off. ‘I might ask you the same question, Lord Bridgerton-’

‘Anthony-’

‘-perhaps you ought to consider that if I am obstinate and infuriating, it is you that brings such qualities out in me. You, the most aggravating, overly discerning, vexatious man that I have ever come across!’ Kate rails, with enough force to ram each word down his throat.

Kate waits for him to shout back, she is spoiling for it at this point, but he does not. He leans in even closer and compulsively wets his lip with his tongue. Kate’s throat bobs as she swallows. Lord Bridgerton’s eyes, now pooled black, are no longer latched onto her own. He’s fixed upon her mouth, his tongue swiping at his lower lip again.

‘That is what you feel about me?’ he murmurs, his mouth hovering at the corner of hers. ‘You truly cannot stand me?’

‘Yes.’ Kate breathes slowly back. He’s drawn so close to her that their her heart seems to be pulsing in tandem with his.

Lord Bridgerton’s hand comes up to ghost her jaw. And this time it doesn’t fall away. This time, he reaches forward and uses his thumb to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, and then it sweeps back and forth over her cheekbone in a devout rhythm. His large palm entirely cupping her chin. He inhales deeply. And then he’s pulling her to him. Bringing her mouth forward so that it’s nearly brushing his.

Kate watches him weakly, through heavily-lidded eyes, suddenly boneless. Every reservation, every niggling doubt she might have had about him, about this – is overpowered by desire, oozing through her veins like a slow-acting toxin.

And then he speaks again. So low it’s barely audible. ‘Tell me that you feel this, too…tell me that you feel this too.’

Two questions, two different meanings, but Kate’s honest answer is the same.

She gives it to him. In the shape of a shaky exhale. ‘I feel it.’

Lord Bridgerton wrenches his eyes tightly shut, as though he’s in physical pain. And then he grinds out, ‘I vowed I would not act this way with you. I am a gentleman.’

Kate’s eyes, too, flutter closed. She can almost taste the fiery aftershocks of the whisky he’s been sipping all night. The words spill without her even thinking about them. ‘And you…have a stone cold heart.’

‘And I,’ Lord Bridgerton repeats quietly. ‘Have a stone cold heart.’

He inclines his head and Kate – cold all over at his acknowledgment of her words, at his confirmation of what this is – Kate pulls back.

‘No,’ she says, her voice quaking. And Lord Bridgerton’s eyes snap open, already filling with remorse and regret. And something akin to loss. ‘It is your right to seek out a loveless marriage. It is my right to tell you I want something more than that.’

He does not speak for a long time. They stand there, still perilously close together, as Lord Bridgerton makes his choice.

Then he says, mechanically, not even able to meet her eyes, ‘That is all I can offer you.’

It’s a crushing blow. It starts with the lump in Kate’s throat that she repeatedly tries to swallow down and it ends with the tangible clunk in her heart as she realises that I feel it may have meant something else entirely, something that cannot leave this room. Something he can never know.

So Kate tells him, tonelessly, ‘Then there is nothing else to say but goodnight, Lord Bridgerton.’

~

The Sharmas and Lady Danbury depart Aubrey Hall the next morning. They are the very last guests to leave, in part due to Kate dillydallying her packing to avoid seeing the viscount or Mansfield, neither of whom she has spoken to since her dramatic exits the night before.

However, the viscount, whilst yet again absent from breakfast, emerges from whatever hidey-hole he’s been barricaded in to see her off at the front steps, along with the rest of his family. Though he’s changed his clothes and his hair is returned to its usual neatly styled coif, he looks pale and peaked, indicators of his lack of sleep.

Kate’s touched when Hyacinth runs forward and hugs her, returns Gregory’s adoring gaze, promises to promenade with Daphne at some point in the next week. Lord Bridgerton dutifully awaits his turn, though the air of exhaustion clinging to him seems to worsen with every passing minute. Kate is about to take pity on him and offer him a simple thank you and goodbye when the Duke of Hastings wedges himself in between them with a courteous bow.

‘Miss Sharma, I am sorry we did not get a chance to speak properly during your stay.’ he says, looking towards his wife. ‘Perhaps you might save me a dance at the next ball? The ball which the duchess and I will be hosting?’

Kate allows herself to peek behind him at the viscount, whom she knows is listening to every word. He looks very unhappy indeed.

‘I would be honoured, your grace.’ Kate says. She smiles at him, nodding towards his blood-red tailcoat. ‘What a striking colour that is.’

The duke’s eyebrows shoot up, and then he mirrors her secretive, close-lipped smile.

Lord Bridgerton, never one to stay at the edge of things for long, comes bustling over and with near knocks his friend out of the way with a brusque, ‘Excuse me, Hastings.’

He and Kate stare at each other, a deluge of unspoken words rising between them. They are at least in agreement that they cannot mention, or hint at, their tête-à-tête in the library in front of everyone else.

Lord Bridgerton looks even wearier up close. His eyes are shadowed, but solemn when they meet hers. ‘I am glad you came.’ he says. ‘I hope you remain pleased with Aubrey Hall.’

‘I am, my lord.’ Kate says, deliberately. Just to see that twitch of irritation on his face at the pointed use of his title. ‘I will miss it.’

He eyes her. If she’s not mistaken, that’s a glimmer of hope he’s doing a poor job of masking. ‘You are welcome to return at any time.’

‘What a generous offer.’ Lady Danbury calls from the open carriage. Kate can only think she’s desperate to get back to the comforts of her own home, because she quickly follows up with, ‘will you be calling on Miss Sharma tomorrow, Lord Bridgerton?’

The question that’s rolled around in Kate’s head for the entirety of her own sleepless night. Because surely there is nowhere for them to go from here? One thing she believes about the viscount is that he keeps his word, and his word is that he will never love her.

She watches Lord Bridgerton struggling. With what, she does not know. He could end their courtship here and now and walk away largely unscathed.

Which is why Kate nearly keels over when he says, with a jerk of the head, ‘Certainly.’

~

Kate’s concerns that her sister might spend the hours-long carriage ride back to Mayfair stewing in a sullen funk are unfounded. Edwina is so chuffed to be returning to London that she’s either forgotten, or disregarded, their small tiff yesterday. She cheerfully tells Kate how lovely she looks this morning and spends the entirety of the carriage ride back to Mayfair blinking dozily into the sunshine and fussing Newton on her lap.

Lady Danbury, however, wastes no time. ‘So, Miss Sharma, has your time in the country changed your mind about the viscount? Perhaps the abundant fresh air has allowed you to see him in a new light?’

Kate avoids the question with a question of her own. ‘Do you favour the viscount, Lady Danbury?’

‘I will admit I harbour a certain fondness for him. I have known him since he was in leading-strings, after all.’ the older woman’s eyes crinkle. ‘But, Miss Sharma, I hope you know that I would not encourage anything between the two of you if I did not think he would be a devout and dedicated husband and father to your children.’

‘How dedicated can a husband that does not love his wife be?’

Kate doesn’t realise she’s voiced this thought aloud until Lady Danbury queries,

‘You doubt his fidelity?’

‘No,’ Kate says quickly. ‘But the earl at least has loved before. It is at least a possibility for him.’

How ironic, really, that as far as the earl is concerned – she’s not so sure it’s a possibility for her.

‘Oh, the viscount has loved before.’ Lady Danbury swats a hand in the air. ‘Not a paramour, at least, not that I have ever known,’ she emphasises, when Kate can’t stop her mouth from falling open. ‘I just do not believe I have ever seen anything quite like the way that boy loved his father. And of course he loves his family, as you have seen yourself. But he was never quite the same after his father died.’

‘Are you saying that his disavowal of love is tied up with the loss of his father?’

Lady Danbury considers her closely. ‘That is a question you would have to ask him.’

She allows Kate to chew on this for a few minutes, before she relays a stern warning.

‘When we return to Mayfair, you will be observed closer than ever before.’ Lady Danbury says. ‘Not just by the ton, by the Queen herself. They will all be eagerly anticipating your decision.’

Kate resists her penetrative gaze. ‘I will not be rushed into making a decision that will dictate the rest of my life and my sister’s.’

‘That is very well, but if you do not make a decision soon, then the rumour mill might make one for you.’ says Lady Danbury, grabbing her cane for balance as the carriage trundles over a rock and jostles them all to the right. ‘There are already whispers of a rivalry between the viscount and the earl. Have either of them made their intentions clear to you?’

‘I am expecting them both to ask me to promenade tomorrow.’ Kate answers.

Lady Danbury raps her fingers against her cane, brows arched. ‘And pray tell, which one will be allowed to escort you to join the rest of the ton at the Serpentine?’

The carriage stumbles over another unpaved stone, and Newton whines as he’s nearly catapulted off Edwina’s knee. Kate uses the distraction to steel herself.

‘Neither. I was planning to decline their invitations, as I was hoping you would escort me and Edwina. They will both be there whether they come with me or not.’

‘Hmm,’ says Lady Danbury. ‘Dare I ask where your heart lies in all of this, Miss Sharma?’

Kate pretends to be engrossed in the view outside. ‘Safely with me, where it belongs.’

~

Two calling cards arrive at Danbury House for Kate the next morning. Each inscribed with a family crest, each desiring her company at the lake that afternoon. Once Lord Bridgerton’s has been retrieved from Newton’s mouth by an unlucky footman, torn and covered in slobber, both are declined.

If Lady Danbury is cynical of Kate’s plan to enjoy a day at the Serpentine without being towed around by a gentleman caller, she does not show it. She, Kate and Edwina sail down the long, grassy mall, smiling at passers-by without stopping. Kate’s still not used to the rapt attention she continues to garner, heads turning and leaning together as she walks past them.

Nevertheless, the good weather beckons smiles on faces all around. Revived by the fresh lake water, the air is buoyant and crisp and the sky clear. Lady Danbury takes a seat under a canopy and makes it evident she has no intention of moving for the next hour or so. The second she’s out of earshot, Edwina goes skipping off on the premise of fetching them refreshments, leaving Kate alone to enjoy the sun on her face.

She’s been alone for all of three seconds when she feels rather than sees someone encroaching on her. Braced to shrug off yet another swaggering suitor.

Lord Dilston is not easily shrugged off. He gives a wonderful false impression of being interesting when he starts off by letting Kate know he’s a keen writer and publishes his own editorial, but then it turns out that all his works are poorly written diatribes battling against women’s suffrage. Kate’s wondering whether she might administer a quick kick to his shins and blame it on Newton when the wind blows the wrong way and she spots, just a little way off, the viscount.

Lord Bridgerton is standing a few metres off from the lake, talking to another lord she doesn’t recognise, tressed up in a navy tailcoat and a pair of pristine white breeches that Kate has never seen him wear before. All of a sudden her mouth is very dry and it’s an effort to give even one-worded answers to Dilston’s tedious questions.

Is he avoiding her? Was Kate declining his calling card all he needed to abandon his suit once and for all? The thought sits in her stomach like a stone. And not just because that will probably mean she has to dispose of Dilston herself.

But first she has to test the viscount.

‘Might we go down to the water?’ Kate says to Dilston, who’s mid-garbled sentence. He pouts at being interrupted, but still offers her his arm.

They stroll together down to the lake’s edge. And as Kate passes the viscount, she can pinpoint the second that he finds her, because a thrill snakes up her spine. She can imagine every emotion crossing his face – indignance, anger – and then sheer determination.

Dilston is still in the middle of his terribly unfunny joke about the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. The punchline is dead and gone and buried, and yet Kate starts giggling loudly, subtly casting her head behind her as she does so. When all she gets in return is a clenched jaw, Kate forces herself to laugh uproariously.

Dilston laughs too. At his own joke or because he finds Kate’s laugh infectious, she’s not sure. Whatever it is, it has the viscount stalking over to them with that well-defined jaw working overtime and one unshakeable objective.

Lord Bridgerton hums as he approaches. A dangerous tune that Kate recognises all too well. ‘It is good to see you laughing again, Dilston. Especially after all those nasty coining allegations last winter.’

‘Those were fabricated,’ Dilston barks. Kate sighs deeply. Not that she was really considering Dilston, but there does seem to be a bit of an epidemic when it comes to moral bankruptcy in Mayfair.

‘Ah. So those were not counterfeit coins that were discovered in your cellar?’ Lord Bridgerton sounds genuinely interested in the answer. Until he smiles toothily.

‘Miss Sharma, I was about-’ Dilston pauses to send a blistering glare Lord Bridgerton’s way ‘-to ask if you would like to take a turn around the lake with me? It would be quite refreshing.’

Lord Bridgerton laughs mirthlessly. ‘Miss Sharma looks refreshed enough to me. In fact, any more refreshed and she may well be mistaken for a summer breeze.’

‘Actually-’ Kate directs her own unfriendly look at the viscount, ‘I really ought to find my sister.’ She holds up her hand to refuse, as Lord Bridgerton opens his mouth again too, no doubt to reveal Dilston has a gangrenous fingernail or something equally as unpleasant.

Only Lord Dilston, wilfully misunderstanding the gesture, reaches greedily for Kate’s ungloved hand, and Lord Bridgerton surges forward and throws him into the lake.

~

The way he’s caterwauling and flapping about, anyone would think the idiot’s life was in peril. It’s a relatively shallow and clean body of water. If Anthony were so inclined, he'd probably drink from it. He does feel a deep sympathy for any marine life in the lake as Dilston thrashes around in the water, a mad tangle of flailing arms and legs.

Miss Sharma claps a hand to her mouth, but if Anthony’s not mistaken, he can spy the corners of the smile she’s hiding underneath it. With Dilston’s taken care of, he just needs a few minutes alone with her, to repair the damage he did last night in the library –

‘Mayday! Mayday!’ Dilston wails, regurgitating water in great gasps. ‘I cannot swim!’

Already furious at the interruption, this revelation only serves to raise Anthony’s ire further.

‘You cannot swim, and you were willing to take Miss Sharma out into the middle of a lake? What would you have done had she fallen in? She could have drowned!’ he berates the other man.

Incapacitated by the fact he’s barely staying afloat, Dilston doesn’t respond.

‘I can swim,’ Miss Sharma informs Anthony. Her hand no longer covering her mouth, she’s not smiling but she’s not looking overtly displeased with him either. If anything she seems more annoyed by the implication that she would need anyone’s assistance.

‘In that dress?’ Anthony says glibly. When Miss Sharma crosses her arms and juts out her chin without responding, he knows he’s won.

Dilston’s histrionics have come to an abrupt end. Not because he’s drowned (fortunately. Unfortunately?) but because a couple of other men have rushed to his aid, perhaps to impress their lady friends with a show of heroics.

‘Miss Sharma, might we-’

They might not. Miss Sharma’s no longer looking at Anthony. She’s absorbed in something behind him, her eyes bugging and mouth frozen in a word that never manages to leave her mouth.

Anthony turns to see what she’s looking at.

Maybe Newton does it because he thinks it’s a game, all these men splashing stupidly about in the water as they rescue Dilston. Maybe he does it because the heat is turning sticky and humid, and it’s not as though anyone’s offered him a nice, cooling lemonade. Or maybe he does it because he’s on a mission to ruin every existing pair of Anthony’s boots, breeches, and any remaining chance he has with Miss Sharma.

Newton flies past them both, taking care to knock against Anthony’s legs on the way, nearly tripping him up. And then he crashes into the water with admittedly a lot less impact than Dilston before him.

‘NEWTON!’ Miss Sharma yells at once. ‘Newton, do not panic, I am coming for you!’

Anthony can’t believe what he’s hearing. That dog has finally been hoisted by his own petard. Why on earth would Miss Sharma sacrifice her dry shoes and that sapphire blue day-dress that fits her like a glove and her impossibly shiny hair for its foolishness? And how can Miss Sharma honestly think jumping into that perilous, dirty lake that may well be full of evil spirits and waterborne diseases is a real option here?

Anthony tries to reach for her, but she slaps him away as she tosses off her shoes. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Miss Sharma-’

‘Newton cannot swim, he has never learned! He will drown!’ Miss Sharma exclaims.

In Anthony’s opinion, Newton is in no danger of drowning. He’s already bobbing happily around in the water like a fat, furry conker. But there are tears glistening in her eyes, her voice breaks at the end of her sentence, and Anthony is barely in control of what he does next.

‘Oh, for-’ he mutters some very choice swear words as he goes for Miss Sharma’s arm again, this time grabbing on and refusing to let go until she stops moving and takes note of him instead.

Satisfied that she's not going to do anything rash, Anthony bucks off his tailcoat, unsnaps his cords and only manages to shed one boot before he dives into the water. Though the shock is unpleasant, it’s really not so terrible. Anyone would think it was arctic the way Dilston was carrying on.

Anthony splutters as he comes to the surface, wrestling wet hair out of his eyes. Meanwhile,  Newton is sailing merrily along like the HMS Beagle until he twigs that it’s Anthony and not his beloved mistress wading after him, at which point he barks angrily and tries in vain to swim away, impeded by his fondness for bacon and stubby legs.

Anthony is highly tempted to grab him by his soggy tail and yank, but refrains. Mostly because Miss Sharma’s watching. Instead he scoops Newton up, one hand under his belly, and starts paddling as best he can to the edge of the bank, where Miss Sharma is waiting with open arms. Newton practically leaps out of Anthony’s grip in his haste to be embraced by her. Perhaps they do have common ground after all.

‘Oh, Newton,’ Miss Sharma says breathily, and then, despite the fact that this animal currently resembles an overgrown, drowned rat, and despite the fact that Anthony’s the one now slopping filthy lake water onto the grass and shivering as though he may never know warmth again, she starts laying kiss after kiss on Newton’s gleeful face.

Meanwhile, Anthony stands there spitting wet, brown-and-white dog hairs out of his mouth.

But he has bigger problems than the fact he’s currently seething with jealousy. Jealousy directed at a damn dog. 

The efforts to rescue Dilston have finally borne fruit. The second he’s back on dry ground, Dilston charges towards Anthony with his finger outstretched. The unseemly squelch of his boots with every step rather undermines the murderous look on his face.

‘Bridgerton, I am going to-!’

‘Lord Bridgerton, thank you so much for rescuing Newton.’ Anthony’s preparing himself to take a hit when Miss Sharma, still clutching Newton, appears at his side. Dilston stops in his tracks. ‘The Queen will be so relieved.’

Perplexed, Anthony says nothing, as all he’s capable of saying at the moment is ‘Huh?’. Which, however eloquently said, is unlikely to impress her.

Apparently Dilston doesn’t share the same concern. ‘Pfft – what?’ he stammers. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Newton is her majesty’s dog,’ Miss Sharma says unblushingly. ‘She has allowed me to take him as my charge for the season. A gift for her solitaire.’

She turns to Anthony. If he’s looking at her with any semblance of what he’s feeling toward her in this moment, he is in very grave danger indeed. ‘I will be sure to write to the Queen to tell her of your services to the crown today.’

All the hot air comes whistling out of Dilston. ‘How gallant of Lord Bridgerton.’ he says through gritted teeth, swiping at his soiled trousers. ‘Excuse me. I had better find a maid and a towel.’

He turns on his heel and goes stomping off with no real direction. Likely there’s still water sloshing around in his ears.

‘So had you.’ Miss Sharma says to Anthony.

‘I need to speak with you in private first.’

He’s sure that she’s going to refuse. Anthony might die if she does, but he’s sure. Then again, he’s been sure about a lot of things recently and that slow-acting, uncomfortable prickle of apprehension is starting to feel like something else.

But Miss Sharma bends down to set Newton free, though why she trusts that he won’t decide to go fishing again Anthony’s not sure. He doesn’t care, because Miss Sharma says in an opaque voice, ‘Very well,’ and gestures for him to lead the way.

~

They sit together under one of the canopies, bared to the sun so that Anthony can dry off. He’s willing to ignore the discomfort of his wet, clinging breeches and one soaked boot if it means he gets an audience with Miss Sharma.

Ever since their meeting in the library, Anthony’s been waiting for a lightning bolt, or the hand of some higher power, to strike him down. His vow of chastity lasted all of a day before it crumbled. And all it took was Miss Sharma’s big doe eyes cast gold in the candlelight and her yelling insults at him as though it might be her very last chance.

And he tossed and turned and gripped his sheets through another sleepless night. But this time lust was the second demon keeping him awake. The first was the memory of Miss Sharma walking away from him. Leaving him alone in that library to contend with the prospect of never taking her company again.

With every hour that passed and sleep evaded him, Anthony had closed his eyes and recited what he’s been telling himself since he met her again after a year, when she accosted him on that terrace, I will not love her. And every time, his own voice rose up and asked him, could I love her?

Could he, one day? The conclusion Anthony’s insomnia has led him to is that he was a fool to ever think it was not a possibility. Of course he could, one day. One day, if every morning he wakes up to those diamond eyes. One day, if she tracks the scent of lilies into every remaining space in his life?

Anthony probably only has a finite number of her smiles and laughs left before it’s no longer just a possibility and it’s real. Until he loves her.

Not now, he reasons at once. Not now, but one day.

Anthony had been fearful she’d read it on his face the next morning, down by the front steps. He’s been fearful that everyone can see it. Benedict, his mother, even his valet.

But what would be worse? One day falling victim to that smile and that laugh, or never knowing the privilege of either of them ever again, because he pushed her away over something he’s already set in motion?

What would be worse, falling in love with his wife, or watching her become someone else’s?

As soon as he’d phrased it to himself like that, Anthony had known he could not allow her to end their courtship.

So here he is. Alone again with Miss Sharma. And she waits patiently for Anthony to tell her what’s on his mind.

Anthony adjusts his sopping cravat, and her dark eyes carefully track his movements. ‘You handled Dilston admirably,’ he says gruffly.

Miss Sharma gives him a purposeful smile. ‘As did you, my lord.’

She glances over toward the lake. Anthony follows her lead. The both of them reliving the image of Dilston on his back and mashing around in the water, and they share in a smile that has him briefly wondering what other torments he might inflict on his peers if it might amuse her.

Her dark eyes reflect the water, dark and shiny like molasses. And his throat closing in, Anthony asks her, ‘Miss Sharma, you dislike the rain, but you will happily take to the water?’

Miss Sharma looks down, a curl escaping from behind her ear. Anthony’s sure it’s the very same curl he reached for last night, can still feel its silk running through his fingers. He knocks such distracting thoughts aside as Miss Sharma lifts her eyes up to meet his.

‘I love the water.’ she says softly. ‘There is a river that runs just outside the home where I grew up. I used to practice my flute by the riverside to spare my parents and Edwina. Only the turtles seemed to enjoy my playing.’

Anthony thinks of a younger Kate, hair a bit wilder, cheeks a bit softer, feet dangling in a river as she entertains a crowd of turtles. His heart twists, but he keeps his voice sober when he asks. ‘Why is it you have not played since?’

‘I did not bring my flute to England. We could take only limited cargo on the ship.’ says Miss Sharma, tossing her head as though it’s of no import to her, but she isn’t fooling Anthony. Has she had a lifetime of people taking her happiness for granted?

‘I gather that the Sheffields did not offer to find you a replacement.’ Anthony says shortly.

Miss Sharma sighs, and it’s filled with a deep, sad resignation that cuts him right to the bone. ‘The Sheffields do not care for me at all. They have no real reason to, I am not their blood relation. Merely an additional expense.’

Anthony can’t comprehend it, any of it. ‘Your father was married to their daughter. Your sister is their granddaughter… I fail to see what blood has to do with it!’

Miss Sharma eyes him sceptically. ‘Come, Lord Bridgerton. You must know this type of bloodline thinking is commonplace amongst all of the noble families in the ton. It is what sustains their position. You of all people must know that.’

Anthony is rendered speechless. She is right, of course. It is the very reason he, and Mansfield, and countless others had flocked to the diamond of the season.

‘You are right,’ he says at last. ‘But that does not excuse any poor treatment you have suffered at their hands.’

Has she suffered at their hands? Anthony wants to know, so he might destroy them, and yet, selfishly he doesn’t, because he knows it will hurt him.

He has been selfish enough with Miss Sharma.

Anthony clears his throat and tries to prepare himself for her answer, only he finds he cannot finish. ‘You say they do not care for you. Were they…’

‘Cruel?’ Miss Sharma suggests. Anthony nods stiffly. ‘Not in many ways they could have been. After Mary passed and they forced us to journey to England, they mostly left me to my own devices, though they tried to restrict my contact with Edwina. And they went to great lengths to try and marry me off so that they might be rid of me forever.’

Anthony frowns. ‘What do you mean? You were meant to have an arranged marriage?’

‘I made my unofficial debut on the marriage mart at six and ten, though of course my “suitors” were the Sheffields’ old and widowed acquaintances and not nobles.’ Miss Sharma says, and Anthony’s stomach caves in. ‘I was the same age my sister is now.’ she adds meaningfully. ‘With that in mind, I am sure the timing of my arrival in Mayfair makes more sense.’

Six and ten. A child. Still young enough to be playing her flute to the turtles by the river, not being pawed at and pored over by lusty men of thrice her age. Anger smokes and burns in his throat and gut like a day-old liquor.

And here she is now, to protect her sister from the same fate. But still she refuses to take anything less than what she wants. Anything less than what she deserves, which, Anthony sees, is far better than him. Anthony, with his crusade against love, never mind that she’s already blown holes in it.

‘That is reprehensible.’ Anthony fumes. ‘Have you severed contact with them? They are not in town, are they?’

Miss Sharma does not respond at first. Anthony guesses she was not expecting him to react so violently. Something tells him he is one of very few to have heard this story. ‘I cannot, as long as I remain unmarried. They have legal guardianship over my sister.’

Anthony surges forward in his seat. ‘I can have my solicitor look over the documents. There may well be some sort of loophole or weakness in the contractual provisions. You and your sister could be free of them-’

‘I made an agreement with them that I would marry this season, and as soon as I do, I will take my sister and we will be free of them. They will object but they will have no legal recourse to do so.’

Hearing this, Anthony thinks he knows how he might convince her he is not a lost cause just yet.

Evidently, she notes the sudden look of resolve come over his face, because Miss Sharma stands up, blinking rapidly like a startled fawn. ‘We should keep our distance, in light of…’

‘Miss Sharma, wait.’ Anthony springs to his feet, his eyes wild. ‘I do not see that we should end our courtship. What you have told me only reinforces that a match between the two of us makes perfect sense. You desire a way out from the Sheffields. I desire to fulfil my duty to family.’

Miss Sharma’s eyes blaze as she rejoins, ‘and you desire a loveless marriage, Lord Bridgerton, and I have told you that I do not-’

‘Miss Sharma. Kate,’ Anthony interrupts. Swallows determinedly. ‘I do not want to lose your company.’

It is a very pale imitation of what he really wants to say. Anthony can only pray that it will be enough to stop her walking away a second time.

Miss Sharma falters, her brow scrunching in confusion. She didn’t expect Anthony to care on any personal level when she walked out on him in that library. That realisation comes with a gut-wrenching blow.

Under her scrutiny, Anthony can only hope that she can’t see through to what’s been steeping in his head all night. ‘I thought that I was obstinate and infuriating.’ she says.

Anthony stifles his laugh. ‘You are.’ he tells her sincerely. At least this is not a lie, or a half truth. ‘As it turns out, I find those qualities as intriguing as I do maddening.’

She’s wavering.

‘And,’ he reminds her, ‘I saved your dog’s life.’

Miss Sharma – Kate – smiles, the kind that reaches places the sunlight can't, like the rough granite of a stone cold heart.

And with that smile, it's less one on Anthony’s ever-dwindling counter, until the inevitable happens and he is irrevocably screwed.

He has a feeling there are very few left.

If any.