AUTHOR'S NOTE:

In case you want to see the paintings associated in this story, I uploaded this on AO3 ( /works/41516748) I am responsible for any grammatical errors. Please, correct me. Next chapter's gonna be posted next week. I'm actually a Fine Arts major so I slightly indulged in this. Please note that Jenny Montigny & Theodore Rousseau are real 18th & 19th century artists. Look them up, they're awesome. All paintings are authentic, except for the painting that Kate & Anthony would be bidding for (I know, right?!)

Thank you for being here.

Contrary to the stereotype, most art studios (at least, where she had worked for) were clean and organized. A number of high chairs and traditional easels lined up were neatly against the stark white walls. A huge skylight facing north, bathed the entire room in marigold. Each station had a handy trolley of paintbrushes and other cleaning materials within reach. Juxtaposed was a cabinet full of various chemicals and solvent used in the profession. It was a brilliant system, one everyone she should be proud of.

Embracing the stillness in the studio, a melancholy ballad was playing on the radio. Nevertheless, the solitude was a comfort from the bustling city outside and whatever havoc that was transpiring in her life. It always was. Hence, one could not fault her for staying until dawn. Or missing lunch. Or declining the dates her sister and step-mother had boldly set up for her. She was at home here. Always have been. It's the one place (aside from the riverbank outside their home in Bombay, of course) where she, Kathani "Kate" Sharma felt calm, content and completely in her own element.

And that was the other thing about art— in this case, Art Conservation— Kate could easily and effortlessly lost herself in it. The tranquility and exclusivity that these dry visuals provided her, were a respite to the tumultuous voices of expectations and duties in her head. Art has always been the welcomed reprieve, the escape.

Her late father, a curator and art connoisseur, would bring her to work whenever he can. He would teach her the trade, the trick to properly wear the Optivisor and how paintings require different care and conservation techniques. Being an art conservator required an unlimited amount of patience, attention to detail and perfection, every step of the way . So, it came as no surprise that she stayed and pursued the profession. That and the notion that she was doing this for prosperity, for the little Kates and Edwinas who have always felt comforted and happily lost in a work of art.

"Alright." Came the voice of her colleague Sophie Beckett sitting a few feet across her. The sound of her brushes tinkled her can holder. " Shall we get something to bite before they arrive?"

Kate only hummed in acknowledgement, too engrossed with her task.

"I'm thinking burgers at Chris'?" Interrupted Sophie again, her flats heading to where she sat.

"I'll be right with you. Just have to set this up." Kate assured, going over the large table at the center of the room. Hands full of bottles of solvent and q-tips.

"What's the point of owning this gallery if you're gonna hog every piece of work—" Sophie scolded in an amiable and concerned tone.

That earned a small chuckle from her.

"—Which I'm not complaining about by the way, since we are all aware that you're the best here."

Kate gave a tiny shake of her head at the compliment, sitting down and feeling the presence of her friend behind her.

"My father would have—"

"Wanted you to take a break. Or get a good shag once in a while." Sophie brazenly supplied.

"Shag?" She repeated, amused to hear her friend utter such word. "I knew introducing you to Benedict is gonna be a terrible idea."

"Very terrible." Sophie smirked, winking at her.

Kate chuntered a sound of mild disgust. " Seriously, since when did you become so… vulgar? I don't want to hear anymore sex escapades between you and one of my oldest mates."

"My apologies, Katie. But love can bring the best and worst out of you." Sophie laughed before she placed a chastising hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah, better you than me." She murmured, nose buried in her work.

Sophie tutted.

"No matter, you're allowed to be happy, Soph." Kate meant it. " However revolting it is to see sometimes."

Sophie laughed yet again before conceding. "Alright, alright." Then she made her way towards the door, but not before shouting, "Ben's asking if you're still gonna come by Somerset later? To look at the paintings."

"I will." Kate nodded excitedly, knowing the day she's been waiting for since she started this work was only hours away .

In five days, Somerset House, a premiere destination for selling and buying all manners of art works, jewelry and collectibles. Part of the program this week was the huge collection of an old couple who had recently passed. Their private collection ranged from the underplayed painters of the 1800s to the late 1900s.

Art houses don't necessarily allow artworks be seen by the public before the event. But upon studying the list of paintings set up for auction Benedict had asked the owner art house (who was a Bridgerton family friend) if he could see them firsthand. It came as a no surprise when they agreed.

Included in the said list was Théodore Rousseau. He was a French painter whose paintings depict idyllic landscapes in dreary colors— a feature of the Romanticism art period . Benedict knew Kate's penchant for anything by Rousseau. Particularly, pieces that haven't been in public view for decades. So, being the good friend that he was, he invited her to join him.

"—Oh, and he's bringing… er… his brother." Sophie finished, sounding terribly amused.

That stopped her preparations. With her back erect, Kate pivoted her seat to face her friend again. "Which brother?" She couldn't help the building annoyance in her tone.

Kate knew the Bridgertons for almost years now, heavily due to Benedict and Eloise. The Bridgerton brood were chaotic, loud, but generous, loyal and good. And Kate immediately felt at ease with them. And that was saying something since she couldn't say that to a lot of people. They were a happy family, cultured and refined. Not to mention, filthy rich, being descendants of a long lineage of aristocrats and royalty.

Kate had met Violet—the Bridgerton matriarch— from having attended a number of elaborate parties that either Benedict or Colin threw for no reason at all. She had become good friends with Benedict—the second son— having shared university classes together . And then she met Colin through Eloise, who was Edwina's good friend ever since freshman year. And without even meaning to, Kate had also met Daphne, the eldest daughter who was the then girlfriend (now, fiancé) of Simon Hastings, Kate's former classmate from Business 101. Then, there were the youngest ones: Francesca, Gregory and Hyacinth. They were frequent visitors of the gallery and were willing students whenever Kate would conduct art classes during the summer. Then there's the first born. The man, who, ever since Viscount Edmund Bridgerton died, took responsibility for everyone and everything, including the leading Real Estate empire in the country.

Anthony Bridgerton.

Kate shuddered in annoyance, recalling the numerous and consistent occasions they butted heads over… well, every bloody thing . Their relationship— if one could call it that— was hostile with a large sense of competitiveness and massive elder sibling energy. It had been the point of entertainment for his siblings and even Edwina. Much to Kate's chagrin.

The man was the devil incarnate. Surely, he was. Kate had almost asked Violet if the man was adopted as his character differ from his lovely mother and siblings .

"Which brother, Soph?" Kate repeated, eyeing her friend with great disdain.

"Your favorite, of course." Sophie snickered. "Laters, babes."

Kate frowned at her friend's retreating form and allowed herself to bask in the ire that was Anthony Bridgerton once again .

During their acquaintances, she had never seen him without the prominent line between his eyebrows. Or that disappointing scowl. Like he had tasted something sour in his tea. And during the sporadic occasions that he, indeed, had smiled, it had always been at her expense. Always when she was feeling murderous at him in the moment.

Although, in retrospect, Kate remembered his carefree laugh, which involved a squirming Hyacinth on his back . Gregory had been chasing them with paint-covered fingers. The chase had ended with their laughter ringing in the air. Anthony's face, clothes were streaked with orange paint, courtesy of Francesca, who was hiding behind a tree and had been Gregory's secret accomplice all along. Anthony had noticed her watching them before he threw her a wave then a smile, so genuine and bright, it had put even the brightest colors to shame. The immediate frisson Kate had felt when they locked eyes for what felt like forever was only due to the afternoon heat. That was it. Nothing more.

She remembered their first meeting at Colin's 21st birthday party. Knowing that most men of Colin's age prefer to spend his birthday with friends on a beach somewhere, anywhere far away from family. But here he was, celebrating this milestone with his family whom, she could clearly see, loved each other so much. It touched her and made her respect them even more. She had been laughing with Colin and Benedict when the former stopped and hollered over her shoulder,

"There he is!"

"Oi! Anthony!" Ben beckoned as well.

Kate turned on instinct, but couldn't see who they were calling at. The floor was packed with servers, children running around, friends and neighbors.

"Ant! Here!" Colin raised his arm above the rabble before he gave her a cheeky closed-lipped smile.

Her eyebrows furrowed at the same most devious glint in the brothers' eyes. "What?"

Benedict gave her a crooked grin, tugging on her elbow. "Come, Kate! You must meet our dearest brother!"

Another interaction came a few weeks after. Anthony had dropped Edwina off in their flat, drunk as a lord from their graduation celebration . He had left the back door open so Kate saw Eloise in the backseat of his car equally inebriated, her face pressed against the window. A suit jacket-his jacket- draped on her shoulders. If she wasn't distracted by the man and her sister walking towards her, Kate would find it comical to see such the stubborn, controlled, opinionated Eloise Bridgerton in such a state. But Kate's first instinct when she saw his filthy hands wrapped around an intoxicated and giggly Edwina was to dig her heels on his brogues. And so she did. Kate had slammed the door on his face, pleased at the yelp he had emitted. The following day, Edwina had reassured her that nothing untoward happened, starting with, " He was the perfect gentleman."

Edwina, Eloise and Penelope (Eloise's best friend) had been out having drinks when Eloise called Anthony to pick them up because they couldn't get a cabbie. Kate had felt a small amount of remorse and decided that an apology and gratitude were necessary. But two days after, on another celebratory brunch commencing on the Bridgerton estate, Anthony had called her corgi, a 'rotund beast'. Kate was about to let it pass since Newton wasn't exactly in the slimmest of shape for a dog, but it was Anthony bloody Bridgerton who said it. So, for some bizarre reason, it got on her nerves. Kate had stepped away from him, unaware that during their argument, Newton had wrapped his long leash around his running shoes, propelling him to trip and drop in the estate's lake. She had never seen him more furious at her. And Kate couldn't help but gloat over that feeling for months on end. Up till now.

She chuckled to herself, giddy at the memory. Kate returned to her work, tapping her heels on the parquet floors, lips humming the soft melody. She hovered by table, shoulders curled inwards as she dipped the cotton swab in solvent. And with careful gloved-covered fingers, started to wipe the last remnants of an old varnish off their latest project— a 18th century Georgian landscape.

Kate was too lost in her task she almost didn't hear her phone buzzing. But when she did, she saw Benedict's name on the caller. Kate slid her finger to answer and put him on speaker.

"Hiya Ben—"But her greeting was interrupted when she heard him say,

"Kate, it's here."

The cab hadn't stopped altogether yet when Kate pushed the door open. Her knees buckled but she managed to climb up the stairs without injuring anything. Sophie was yelling at her to slow down. But she couldn't.

After delegating her task to other colleagues, Kate practically ran out of the gallery .

"It's beautiful, Kate. I can see what you're saying now." Benedict had mused, sounding thoughtful, even through the phone.

Her heels made clacking noises against the marble, her heart in her throat.

"Ah, Miss Sharma." Greeted Agatha, the museum director at Somerset. She was a formidable lady and the widower of Robert Danbury, previous director at Somerset and Kate's old university professor . "Mr. Bridgerton said we are expecting you and Miss Beckett as well."

Kate offered her a smile, the butterflies in her stomach swarmed with excitement. "Yes. Yes. We're here to—"

"Yes, yes. The lad told me. This way." Agatha's cane resounded on the floor as she lead them towards the hallways and back to the private viewing room. Kate took this moment to calm down but still felt the restlessness in her bones, trying her best not to sprint away and leave the two women .

"Here we are." Agatha finally said when they approached a mahogany door with floral arches. The woman made a dramatic, welcoming gesture, allowing Kate and Sophie to enter first. The room was large, but not ostentatiously so. It was empty except for the easels separated to each other by a plain white divider and a few staff milling around.

"Sophie!" Kate heard a familiar voice yell before footsteps ran towards them. Kate saw the chestnut hair of one Benedict Bridgerton approaching them. His eyes were on Sophie, a smile reaching up to his ears.

Sophie giggled as he hugged her. "Hello, love. How was your day?"

"Better." And gave her a swift peck on the lips, his arms wrapped around her waist. Benedict then turned to Kate with another teasing smile, glancing down his wrist watch . "Reckon you couldn't be here sooner, Kate. That was what? Less than twenty minutes?"

Kate would've rolled her eyes at his usual jibe, but she was too on edge to partake.

"Where is—" she started, but could barely get her sentence out.

Benedict smiled in understanding and raised his pointer finger in the right direction. "Third row, last to the left."

He zoomed in past the afternoon traffic. The gentle rumble of the car engine his only company for the last twenty minutes. Skyscrapers and other modern structure thinned until all he could see was the Thames, then a thicket of trees and vast gardens. He could see Somerset house, the grand Classical English architecture, now only a few meters away. The tires of his BMW screeched to a halt, spraying dust on his trail.

A young bloke wearing a crisp valet uniform approached him, hand outstretched in assistance. He threw him the keys, handing him a few quid for his service. Afterwards, he marched up the cement steps of Somerset House, unbuttoning his suit and adjusting his sunglasses as he did so.

In all honesty, Anthony Bridgerton never shared his brother's proclivity for the visual arts. He had attended events, had acquired a few paintings, but only to keep up that doesn't mean he never appreciated it. In fact, he developed a deeper appreciation for them when he saw the delight a blank canvas and tubes of paint could give his mother.

Or at least that's what he had convinced himself.

He had dropped by the Bridgerton house after his business trip in Scotland. When he arrived at their drawing room, he was awestruck to find it empty, neat and eerily silent, (his younger siblings tend to wreak havoc on the place).

"Where is everybody?" He asked the passing butler.

"They are at the gazebo, sir. Your mother wanted to take advantage of the good weather. They set up a painting session." The butler replied distractedly as Anthony handed him the souvenir gifts he bought for his family.

"Painting session? Benedict's back? I thought he's not gonna be here 'til next week?"

"No, sir. He arrived this morning."

Anthony didn't have to ruminate on the change in his brother's schedule and traipsed across the lawn. His phone pressed to his ear, rambling instructions while his assistant fumble on the other line.

The Bridgerton garden was surrounded by all manner of floral bushes, a few distance from the house. Still, he could hear the chaotic symphony of all his seven siblings' voices. Particularly Hy's squeak of annoyance and Greg's boisterous laughter. But as soon as he came round and the balusters came into view, he halted in his tracks.

Because, there, at the far end of the deck, sat the most vexing woman Anthony had ever met.

The menace.

The bane of his existence.

The vicious and vivacious.

Miss Kathani Sharma.

Sharma.

Kate.

But she looked different today.

She was… smiling.

Anthony was far too hypnotized by the glee in her countenance to notice the self-induced warnings of attachment going off in his head.

He felt a disturbing sense of bitterness and envy that he wasn't the recipient of her smile, this rare occurrence. He almost wanted to hide, keep out of her line of sight just to keep her smiling like that since he knew, it would fall off once she set her eyes on him. But another part of him, the nagging part, was curious and wondered what he could do, what he could say to keep the smile on her face.

She sat with his mother and sister. The woman was leaning sideways, inspecting his mum's canvas. Her paintbrush hovered in the air. Her mouth was moving, some sort of instructions which were happily absorbed by his mother and Daphne.

Kate was smiling, happy— Anthony couldn't emphasized that enough. It was inexplicably a sight to behold.

Then, his mother must have said something funny because Kate threw her head back in laughter. The golden rays of the sun illuminating her brown eyes and smooth skin. Wisps of curly dark hair escaped her bun, highlighting the sharpness of her cheeks and long neck. For a disconcerting moment, Anthony felt as if somebody had stabbed him, the feeling radiating from his chest to the tips of his hair.

Then, her twinkling eyes landed on him, the sweet remnants of her smile still playing on her lips. And Anthony had suddenly no idea what to do with himself. Thankfully , Gregory barreled in on him from the side, almost trampling him down the grass.

"Anthony, dear!" His mother had extolled when she noticed him. "Look at my painting!"

When Anthony learned that a number of Jenny Montigny's master paintings were up for bidding, he and Benedict made arrangements with Agatha Danbury if they could see them primordially. Their mother's birthday was coming up next month and Anthony was sure that she would be over the moon to own at least one work by her favorite artist . But Anthony was thinking of buying her eight sets, representing him and his other siblings.

Danbury's assistant led him and Benedict towards the hall and then left him to attend to other business. He was analyzing (or trying to at least) Montigny's 'Reading Girls' when his body made him aware it.

That scent.

And the familiar staccato of pointed heels.

It bothered him to no end at how his body could easily sense her presence in every room. Even without seeing her yet.

He peered past the divider and saw her standing a few feet from his position. She was facing a painted canvas. Her attention unwavering even with the gallery folks toting around. Anthony found his feet edging closer to her, painfully aware of how weird he was being. Until he stood opposite with his back to her, hands behind his back.

"Sharma."

He heard her sigh an impatient, exasperated sigh, like she was annoyed that of all people that were here today, it was him that went to her. Anthony couldn't help but feel bewilderedly jovial at that.

"Bridgerton." She then addressed, terse and edgy. "I say, it's been what? A fortnight since I've seen you last?"

Only twelve days, his traitorous mind supplied.

"Is that you insinuating that you've been counting the days 'till you see me?" He simpered, teasing. "I'm flattered, Sharma."

"Don't be ridiculous." He could picture her rolling her eyes. "I'm still relishing the day I beat you at Pall Mall."

His body bristled with adrenaline that seemed to spike up whenever she irks him. "You did not beat me. My siblings had plotted against me and declared you as the winner. Besides," he tipped the balls of his feet. "I'm a good host. My mother would have my head if I wasn't, but a gentleman to our guests."

He heard her scoffed beneath her breath. "Gentleman, my arse."

Anthony didn't know what it was, but he felt the vein in his head pop. Because how dare she suggest he was anything but what he said he was?

He snapped, spinning his body towards her in defense. "I shall have you know, Miss Sharma that—"

"Know what, Lord Bridgerton?" She cut him off, now grinning at him maliciously.

If he wasn't distracted by how she'd enticingly addressed him by his formal title (again) or the way the air imploded with that maddening floral scent when she swiftly turned to face him, he would've quip something, anything to return her fire.

But alas, Anthony wasn't himself today. And the fact that she was wearing a skirt which accentuated her long legs that he might have or have not dreamt of wrapped around his torso and or shoulders didn't help him whatsoever.

Anthony took a deep, steadying breath and held his tongue as he stood beside her.

Silence befell them, their eyes locked until she looked away with another smug smile. She gazed up the painting once more and relieved a giant, contented sigh. Anthony followed her eyes and took notice of the art piece she was fondly ogling at.

It wasn't an impactful painting as all the others on display, but it seemed to have caught her attention so undividedly. Ergo, Anthony looked.

The oil painting depicted a pair of geese walking towards a grassy path at dawn. A silhouetted and forlorn traveler riding on horseback approaches from a distance. The mist covered most of the scenery, but the soft and early rays of the sun peeking from the clouds cast a romantic and eerie glow. He wasn't artistic nor was he spiritual at all but Anthony couldn't help but feel a sense of peace as he admired the painting. And yet…

The words were out of his mouth before he could make sense of it. "Why am I having this weird intuition that there's more to this picture? Like it is—"

"A prescient warning to an important moment?" She finished, sounding thoughtful.

Anthony nodded at her in agreement and waited for her to expound,

"Rousseau always painted solemn, rural landscapes. And most his works have—" she pointed towards the figure "—this distant and lonely traveler."

(Anthony figured this Rousseau must be the artist, hence the red initials 'T.H.R.' on the corner of the frame. But what do TH means?)

"—Yet, this one… This is the only painting of his that intrigues me. Don't get me wrong. There is nothing regrettable about one's reclusiveness but this painting…" she paused. "The man looks defeated, tired and—"

"Sad?" He offered weakly. "That wherever he'd gone or wherever he's going to, he's already anticipating failure and judgment."

"Exactly." She chuckled, crossing her arms in front of her. "Very well spotted, Bridgerton."

A beat of silence as he relished the approval in her tone.

" I wonder what we could do for the poor, old chap?" He teased, leaning his head sideways to her. " Perhaps you could draw him another companion? I've a pen. If you want. " Anthony made a show of reaching inside his jacket, then brandished the pen at her. "I'll be the keen lookout as you make the necessary alterations, Sharma."

Then Kate pealed with laughter.

Dear God, she laughed.

"Don't joke." She said, still gleeful. "But yeah. This painting was in my dissertation. And as a practice, I try to continue the scenes of a painting inside my head. I've always imagined another figure on horseback, emerging from the side and then they're racing with each other towards the park."

Anthony playfully rolled his eyes and shook his head in mock disbelief. "Why is everything have to be a competition with you?"

"Isn't everything, Bridgerton?"

He curtsied, tipping his imaginary top hat, lips quirking. "Touché, Sharma."

She hummed, tilting her jaw in a proud gesture, thus highlighting its prominent angle. Anthony wondered that if he were to run his nose along the line of it, will he find where that damning scent was the strongest ? He lost himself in that daydream for but a moment, but was reverted when he heard,

"—Besides, if you study it closely, the Pall Mall lawn resembles the one at Aubrey Hall."

He frowned at her, quick to counter her this time. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"The trees and shrubbery, don't they resemble the ones around your country house?"

And just like that, his mood turned bleak.

It has been his honest belief that one should not mock, ridicule men and their sports. Especially, anything as drastic and sacred as Pall Mall. Anyone mentioning 'Pall Mall' was an ill attempt in starting a conversation, at least for him. It was a sore spot for Anthony since he hasn't won for the last two years.

"No, it does not." shaking his head at her.

"No?" She clicked her tongue. "Funny, I am almost positive that's what the forest at Aubrey Hall looked like at dawn."

Anthony had had half a mind to invite her to his ancestral home again and let her see for herself.

I could show you how it looks like. My bedroom has the best view of the grounds.

His brain went into overdrive; conducting a thousand scenarios they could engage themselves in to keep her preoccupied until dawn. It would, more or less, involve his bed or the garden shed, and a door lock.

But how quickly and effortlessly it took Anthony from pining over her to detesting her the next, he might never know.

"Tell me, Bridgerton. However did you manage not to dirty your fine boots when you retrieve your pink ball from the lake?" She jested, pulling his leg. "You know, the one I sent there."

Absolute menace.

The cheerfulness in her tone was unmistakable and it was making his insides roll. And when Anthony thought he couldn't be annoyed even more, the insufferable woman added,

"With your very own mallet of death. I must say, it's terribly well-balanced as well. I could see how it earned its name. I've never bested a viscount before. I must say it's... exhilirating."

That's done it.

His body angled towards her, his ears pounding, nose flaring.

"You—"

"I heard 'Pall Mall' and immediately had to come over." Benedict interrupted from behind them, snickering for all his worth. Anthony wanted to punch him. "Still bragging about it, huh Kate? Though, it was a very nice game. Wouldn't you say so, Ant?" He rested his elbow on his shoulder and gave him a patronizing pat on the chest.

Anthony glared at his brother.

"I agree. I find the sport very rewarding." Kate shrugged with feigned humility. And Anthony ruminated of the many ways on how to make her shut up.

"Well, I'm glad to see you two are having a joyous conversation." His brother faced him. "So, Ant, did you have a good look at the paintings you're bidding for?"

"What?" Kate's doe, brown eyes suddenly turned to him in alarm. "You're gonna bid?"

As if a light bulb had switched on above his head, Anthony sniggered. "Why yes, Kathani. What do you think I'm doing here?"

She swallowed and Anthony hated himself for following the motion on her throat. She glanced at the painting and back at him again, trying not look anything but nervous.

He turned to Benedict again, feeling devious and vengeful all of a sudden. "And to answer your question Ben, I did. As a matter of fact, brother, I found another painting to add to mother's collection."

"Oh? Is that right?" His brother questioned, completely lost at his devilish thoughts.

Kate tensed and Anthony wanted to sing. " Just … Just how many were you buying?"

" Originally, eight. Now…" he dramatically tilted his head to the side, clear in his indication. "Nine."

Her eyes widened, hissing at him with venom. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, oh I dare." It was now his turn to be smug. Anthony had never felt proud of his money or social standing before, had never felt the need to flaunt it. He was blatantly aware how thickheaded he was being now. And yet, there was something about keeping the fire in her eyes and it's bringing out the worst in him.

After a moment of glaring at him, she jutted her chin out. Her eyes trained on him and Anthony almost moaned in the challenge in them.

"Well then, I think there is nothing more to say than, happy bidding, Bridgerton."

She had set up a wall-size canvas on her flat for days such as this. And Kate, with her hands shaking with fury, threw her satchel unceremoniously on the table. She toed off her heels, hurriedly pulled her hair in a bun, donned her apron and grabbed the tin of paint on the floor. And then she hurled it on the wall, screaming as she did so.

Anthony fucking Bridgerton

With his fucking brown eyes.

And his fucking wavy, chestnut hair.

And his fucking need to goad her at every point, gaining an ugly reaction out of her.

The paint made a series of slashing shapes on the canvas and on the floor, piling angry blotches of new paint on the old ones . Kate poured all her frustration on the stained canvass. Grabbing tin after tin until she calmed down.

It wasn't happening.

She nearly, actually thought that they were getting along quite splendidly a while ago . Kate felt a sense of ease and camaraderie when he voiced out his opinion on Rousseau's painting, her — yes, she's claiming it!— painting.

Then again, she must've seen it coming. She should've known better than mention his humiliating loss at Pall Mall. Kate had technically provoked him. And yet, she couldn't deny that there was something so satisfying at the peeved and the fervor in his eyes whenever she teased him. Something so curious about the way his lips would always straighten in obvious dislike, the notorious crease between his eyebrows deepening heavily with disapproval, his mouth dropping at her comebacks, his own adamant and competitive nature that matches her own. They were the only explanation Kate could think of for this gratifying instigation.

So, who else could she really blame but herself?

Kate had been too caught up with her repentance that she didn't notice someone making her entrance.

"Knew something was up the minute you went straight here."

Kate turned and saw her sister, holding two bottles of beer. With hands still streaked with paint, she marched towards Edwina and snatched one out of her dainty fingers.

She drank half of it in one go.

"What happened, Kate?"

"Bloody Bridgerton." She muttered before taking a swig.

"Bridgerton?" Edwina mused, amusement evident in her voice. "Didi, you have to be more specific. I mean, there are a lot of them."

"The daft one, who else would it be?" She said simply, before downing the last of her drink.

Edwina raised her eyebrows, tittering. "I'm not really sure who you are talking about."

It was uncommon for Kate to be annoyed by her sister, but here they were. She found it even more aggravating to know that he was the reason for her hostile behavior towards Edwina, who was undoubtedly the best human being in the entire world.

"Are you really gonna make me say it, Bon?"

Edwina hummed, nodding.

She just groaned in reply already reaching for Edwina's beer.

Edwina didn't protest, but she saw her sister's face brightened, actually brightened as she said, "I have to ask Kate, why do you hate Anthony so much?"

Kate scoffed and turned back towards her canvas. She fetched the brush strewn on the floor and started slashing paint with every word,

"Because he's vile. He's loathsome. He treats everyone as his flunkey. And thinks he knows the best in every situation!"

"That's rich, since it is you who knows the best in every situation?" Edwina urged, she could hear the smile in her tone.

"I am not gonna let anyone, let alone a man, stop me from getting it is that I want. What it is that I've been working hard for!"

Edwina sat on the nearest bar stool by her working table. "And what does he want?"

Kate stopped her outburst for a moment to explain, "He's bidding for the Rousseau, Eddie."

Her sister gasped, now sounding horrified. "He is not!"

"Yes. He bloody is."

Then when Kate thought she had finally convinced her sister to finally shun that man, once and for all, she heard her younger sister guffaw with unbridled laughter.

Kate turned to see her clutching her stomach with her forearm, two bottles of empty beers still on her hands, tears streaming down her face.

"Why are you laughing? This isn't amusing!"

"Oh, Kate! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Edwina schooled her expression into neutrality, but failed.

"I'm serious, Edwina!"

"Oh Didi! I'm sorry." Her laughter was subsiding. "But you see what he's doing, right?"

Her brows furrowed. "Of course I do. He's toying with me, as always. Trying to intimidate me and get me to concede and back down. I will not. I'm gonna have that Rousseau in the gallery if it's the last thing I do. " She picked up the paintbrush again, angrily gashing another streak of paint onto the canvass, muttering, "He's going down, that stupid sod. I will make sure of it."

With eyes that still spark of mischief and newfound wisdom that surprised Kate, Edwina muttered, shaking her head at her. "If you say so."

To be continued...