"Inviting Dorset was an idiotic idea," Benedict murmured, from his chair. "In fact, Dorset accepting the invitation was even more idiotic. Both decisions are enough evidence that would warrant a refund from Oxford. Clearly the great scholars there did little to teach you reasonable thinking."
Anthony scoffed, as his valet slid the shaving blade across his cheek and down his chin. Any legitimacy of an argument against making sure Dorset learned his place in the great scheme of things -a place far removed from the space Miss Sharma occupied at any given moment- was objectionable. Benedict did not understand that fighting for the one you want wasn't an entirely noble affair. One way or another, his brother would know the truth. "You fail to see the merits of my plan, Benedict, because you fail to comprehend the significance of the prize at the end of this raging battle."
"Prize at the end of this raging battle?" Benedict echoed the last sentence, misunderstanding Anthony's meaning in the war reference. "Is that what Miss Sharma is? A prize of war against Dorset? It is no wonder she does not respond warmly to you."
If Anthony had hinted at such a thing in her knowledge, she would have irreparably maimed his manhood instead of simply depriving him of any warm response to his attentions. "Miss Sharma is the opposing General, Benedict," Anthony assured him.
Benedict with a hand gesture asked his valet to withdraw the blade from his face. When he did not speak, Anthony understood his full attention was needed and he too brought his shaving to a halt.
"You're fighting her?" Benedict asked. "Are those seriously the terms of your courtship? And she agrees to this I take it?"
Anthony allowed that it was she who set the rules.
"I thought it was ludicrous before but this…" Benedict gestured vaguely. "This reaches new inexplicable heights, indeed."
An artist like Benedict would not see a romantic affair through those lenses. Anthony himself did not know what that was like until Miss Sharma stood before him, driving him to distraction with a steaming cup of tea in her hands, in front of his own mother.
"So you are disposing of obstacles like Dorset to let her know you are not one to be trifled with." Benedict nodded at his own words. "What else have you thought to bring Miss Sharma to her knees?"
"I do not want to bring her to her knees," Anthony stated clearly. Not in shameful defeat, anyway, a little voice added, his mind slipping away. His lower lip got caught between his teeth at the thought of Miss Sharma on her knees in a completely different context. He cleared his throat to fight the sense of tightness in his breeches. It was too early in the day to partially satisfy his need for her for the second time since awakening. "A ceasefire will suffice to give me what I want."
"Miss Sharma, malleable in a loveless marriage?"
"A good partnership, Benedict," Anthony snapped, risking a cut as he shook with anger. "Why do constantly-"
"Ah, the ever precarious thread, holding your life in order." Benedict laughed humorlessly. "Tell me brother, have you truly not noticed the pair of sharp scissors in Miss Sharma's marvellously delicate fingers?"
Anthony ignored him.
"One day you will, I suppose," Benedict said, standing and then he left the room.
Anthony let the warm cloth cool slowly against his skin, ruminating for a moment what it would be like if his brother was right. His safety would be gone and he would fall and land on his knees before her; hers to do with as she pleased. Would she raise him to stand by her side? Either way Anthony rather thought that he would very much enjoy the view…
NO, no, no. The word vibrated through his entire body. He would not lose sight of what he needed. Neither he nor she could set themselves for the harrowing pain that accompanied love.
The fantasy of kneeling before Miss Sharma should be for nothing else but the unmatched pleasure that would be to relentlessly taste her all the way to the divine moment of her release.
Shortly after their graduation Dorset had been a frequent guest at the Bridgerton house, at his mother's request because he had always been the sort of company any mother wanted for her sons. A docile and winsome young gentleman, away from vices and rakish behaviour. However, much to her discontent, Anthony had discovered that his promiscuous tendencies helped him ease his pain and grief more than any virtuous contemplating Dorset would inspire. Their friendship was not the influence to bring him back from the role of the libertine, but it was reliable and that counted for something.
Until Dorset clawed himself at the hem of Miss Sharma's skirts, asking her to throw him some bone to lick. Her little corgi, of which she spoke proudly and endearingly, must have been much more dignified in his begging than Dorset had been at Ascot, Anthony thought. The maddening thing was that even in that state Dorset had not lost the privilege of her company. Of course in the midst of the celebration of her sister's engagement to Lumley, Miss Sharma did not search the crowd for him. That was Anthony's privilege and he would surrender it to no man, least of all to Quick Timmy.
If Dorset had felt uncomfortable entering the Bridgerton house, because of his recent encounters with Anthony, by the time the main course was served he had forgotten his ire for the imposed dinner and answered question after question at the dinner table.
His mother mentioned the day they met at the Danbury house, trying to remember how long it had been since she had seen him before then. Dorset glanced at Anthony and said he couldn't remember either, trying to change the subject back to one of trivial nonsense.
Anthony set his knife aside and picked up his glass. He could not be considered a good host unless he took an interest in his guest, could he?
"That morning you were visiting the Sharmas if I remember correctly," he said in a voice so clear and loud it rang in the dining room like a gong. "I never got the chance to learn how you met them before Miss Edwina's first introduction at the Conservatory."
Dorset swallowed his boiled potato and then he said that he happened upon them at the park. They had been in distress because Lady Mary complained about feeling unwell and Lady Danbury asked him to assist with his medical knowledge. After making sure that Lady Mary was well he reassured the other ladies that there was no danger for her health.
Anthony's mother rushed in praising Dorset, as she was socially bound to do, but it seemed there was more in the story and Anthony would have every bit of detail so he pressed on. "And once Lady Mary's health was restored?"
"I escorted Miss Sharma on a stroll, at Miss Edwina's and Lady Danbury's suggestion," he said reluctantly, as though he was confessing to a crime punishable by unimaginable discomfort. "She appeared to need the distraction."
"I am certain it appeared so." Anthony drained his glass and motioned for the footman to refill it.
Miss Sharma would have wanted nothing but to stay by her mama's side, making sure she was well but of course, let's hypothesise that she preferred to walk with a stranger.
Anthony felt almost offended at the way Dorset did not understand her and her sense of commitment to her family, making a mental note to ask Lady Danbury what she was thinking, pairing them up when gratitude -and little else, of that Anthony was certain- was what motivated Miss Sharma in indulging Dorset.
Eloise commented on how it would have been marvellous if women were allowed to study medicine as men did. "Miss Sharma for instance. If she was free to be trained as a healer, assuming that being a healer was her wish and choice, wouldn't she be perfectly capable of taking care of her mama without waiting for a man to do it for her? Wouldn't it be perfect if we did not have to wait for men to do everything for us? No offence, Mr Dorset, but the idea of gallant rescuers leaves me utterly annoyed." For the first time, Anthony saw some logic in his sister's incessant complaining.
Their informal dinner would end with brandy in the study so his mother bid Dorset goodnight, gathered the girls and Gregory and guided them to the family wing.
After the customary round of compliments for the quality of the brandy and the cigars, Dorset casually mentioned a few escapades of their other friends from Oxford, one of which was getting married in three weeks. It must have been one of the more quiet students with whom Dorset used to spend his time while the more rambunctious lot, led by Anthony and Hastings, left him behind.
Anthony gave an offhand response, neither admitting to having no recollection of that man nor feigning much interest in his nuptials, remarking only that many of their year would tie the knot that season.
"Those are your designs for the season too, Bridgerton, are they not?" Dorset asked.
Colin's eyebrows rose high on his forehead and Anthony knew why. It wasn't as though it was a secret. Half the town had spent the beginning of the season speculating who Anthony's bride would be, while the other half had been hoping for his choice to be of their household. When Colin moved to speak, Benedict silenced him with a look.
Anthony gave Dorset a deep nod, taking a good sip of his brandy and waiting for the fish to get truly hooked on the bait.
"How is the search going so far?" the fish asked sheepishly.
Colin nearly choked on his drink.
It would have been more discreet if a banner with Miss Sharma's name next to the phrase 'viscountess Bridgerton to-be' was waving atop the Bridgerton house.
Anthony gave Dorset a devilish grin, lighting his cigar, but said nothing.
"You had some difficulties in the beginning as I recall," Dorset insisted.
Anthony made a dismissive hand gesture at the memory of the string of interviews he had conducted with various ladies. "It takes time and effort to have success in these things."
"You eh-" Quick Timmy mumbled. "You should not make a hasty choice, Bridgerton."
With that impeccable pearl of wisdom, Dorset hoped that Anthony would reconsider, given his reputation as a domineering man and the unyielding challenge that Miss Sharma posed. Hope's spring was eternal, but Anthony would eventually seal it.
"Indeed, I will not," he replied, a mask of polite reassurance.
"Indeed," muttered Benedict, eyeing him from behind Dorset's head.
"What?" asked Colin, but Benedict forced him to silence again.
"Do you follow your own advice, Dorset?" Anthony asked earnestly. "In being careful? One should be very careful in dealing with the fairer sex. Sometimes women tend to show an inclination that has little to do with true affection. And after Daphne's season I must say I grew concerned with how gentlemen went about this business."
"You mean when men are not very astutely aware of the deeper affection their inclination hides?" Benedict asked.
Colin gasped, slapping his knee as realisation dawned on him. When Benedict motioned for him to cease his exaggerating reaction Colin sported his most obedient smile.
"Well," Dorset tried to speak but Benedict wasn't finished.
"Whom are we examining this year? I am curious." his brother said.
"He is." Colin chimed in. "Uncannily so."
"Willoughby is to be married soon, as I mentioned," Dorset offered helpfully. "We can study his match. It seems like a good opportunity."
"Good idea." Anthony smiled. "Brothers, we must learn all we can." The look he cast at them was their warning.
"Imagine my anticipation," Colin muttered, stealing one of Anthony's cigars.
"Well," Benedict sighed. "We won't have much time before we leave for Aubrey Hall."
There. If you are determined to do this, do it right, his look said when Anthony turned to him.
"Oh, you will be gone from the city soon?" Dorset managed his first smile in a while.
"It will be good fun, really." Anthony exploited Benedict's gift for all its uses, careful of how he would deliver his blows. "We will be joined by friends and family. Between the games, some hunting, spending my time with Miss Sharma, and mother's annual ball time will pass wonderfully."
"Miss Sharma?" Dorset blinked. "Miss Sharma will be joining you at Aubrey Hall?" His voice was unwittingly strained.
Anthony nodded with a little shrug of his shoulders, indicating that nothing could be more natural than Miss Sharma strolling in the gardens of his ancestral home.
"Why?" Dorset had been toying with his brandy, not a great aficionado even if his life depended on it, and his movements became more nervous at the goading revelation.
"How could I not entice Miss Sharma with Aubrey Hall?" Anthony smirked. "It is lovely this time of year and I wish to share all its secrets with her."
Dorset could not tear his eyes from the glass in his hand and his hand from the armchair, lest he be dissolved into a puddle of sweat and nerves. "I…" An exhale of excess inhibition and panic. "I never realised just how interested you were in pursuing Miss Sharma."
"The pursuit will end only when I have captured her," Anthony said without a drop of mercy. The menacing and purposefully indecent insinuations left a hot trail of confusion that caught Dorset by surprise. A very unpleasant, nerve-wrecking surprise.
"Captured her?" Dorset lifted his eyes to him, a plea drawing in a pool of despair.
"Lawfully, of course." Anthony leaned backwards, without dropping his gaze from Dorset. "Miss Sharma shall be my viscountess."
The way the word 'my' rolled on Anthony's tongue was just enough to make Dorset sink in his seat, shrivelled by the unmistakably expressed possessiveness, with which Anthony put the last nail in the coffin that was Quick Timmy's expectations and intentions. An added bonus was the thought of his luminous viscountess crossing the threshold of Aubrey Hall to begin their honeymoon.
Anthony downed his drink and suggested a game of billiards, although he could not be sure that Dorset would not use the cue to dramatically impale himself to end his misery.
The morning after the dinner with Dorset, Anthony had been called away from London for some urgent business. To say that he begrudgingly made the arrangements was an understatement. If it hadn't involved a favour owed to one of his father's oldest friends, he wouldn't have even considered the possibility of setting one toe out of Mayfair.
So, unable to avoid the journey, Anthony thought that he ought to let Miss Sharma know that his absence should not in any way be traced to indifference or indecision on his part. But since Miss Sharma hadn't communicated to him the details of the meeting he had requested, or confirmed that she agreed to one in the first place, he did not know how to approach her. The problem to find even five minutes in her company was that Miss Edwina's engagement -a joyous occasion to be sure, but blastingly ill timed- meant that the Sharmas would be wrapped in a cloud of prewedding frenzy. And no one more than Miss Sharma who was busy up to her gorgeously lithe neck with preparations and decisions.
For his predicament, his mother suggested that some flowers should be delivered as a subtle reminder. Anthony believed that the time for subtlety was gone and decided to order for flowers to arrive daily at the Danbury residence. Daphne caught his sleeve before he headed to the door on his way to the florist. Calmly she advised him that no more than a bouquet per day should be sent. Anthony surprised them both by following their advice. Instead of reminding Miss Sharma the explanation he owed, he opted for the promise she had given him to ride with him and Daphne. Far more pleasant. The simple note was slipped into the first bouquet of the purple and blue daisies.
Miss Kathani Sharma
Some urgent business will keep me away but I will return soon for the ride you promised me. You might have guessed that I intend to insist on it, although I hope you will not insist on calling me a petty debt collector.
What I wish to do is spend time with you.
That is what I collect, I suppose. Moments of you. Every possible one.
Viscount A. Bridgerton
On most nights Kate would simply drink her spiced tea and feel content. Whenever a certain someone had managed to intrude on her perfectly guarded existence she would add a few drops of alcohol from her hidden flask to strengthen her resolve for the battles to come.
The short respite from their feverish joining in her dreams ended after Ascot, but the viscount's effect was slipping into her waking hours as well, more demanding than ever. Gone he was from the city but the physical distance was rendered meaningless by a small rectangular card signed with his name.
That is what I collect, I suppose. Moments of you. Every possible one.
She had a few moments of him she would have liked to collect, admitting her attraction that was leading her to paths unknown.
Every time he would wear his most devilish smirk at the slightest sign he was winning an argument, she wanted to brush her lips against his, deliberately from side to side, hungrily from top to bottom to wipe the smugness off of them, just to see what would replace it.
When his jaw would clench in anger she wanted to run her knuckles on that little dimple on his chin until his lips would part with a gentle sigh or a throaty moan. Wickedly she yearned for the deliciousness of viscount Anthony Bridgerton softening just for her.
The next time he would get her hand in his, as though he could claim her by a mere touch of his fingertips, centering both of them in a reality that excluded all others, she wanted to curl her fingers in his palm and dig her nails into his flesh to mark him as hers.
But it was terrifying.
She fought the longing he had instilled in her, reminding herself that she could not allow him this victory. And she conquered it. Until she didn't.
The first time she brought her hand to touch herself while thinking of him, to give in to that insatiable sensation was a deliriously perfect analogy of them together. A whirlwind of vexation, attraction, denial, lust, and doubt.
Her body shivered as she stroked herself, imagining his hands on her, coaxing her. How had she come to this? missing a touch she never knew? Missing it like it was air to her lungs.
Kate huffed and whinied, her legs clenching tightly. She reached ecstasy with a cry…
Anthony
…then she slowly returned from it, as she rolled on her side, frustrated. She cursed in every language she knew, grabbing her flask from her night stand. It was running empty.
Spending her nights in a viscount induced daze was followed by busy mornings dealing with Edwina's wedding and the dinner with the Sheffields.
Kate felt them looming over her family's future, every bit the disagreeable, pompous aristocrats they had been when she had met them all those years ago, before her appa's and mama's elopement… But she refused to think of that encounter. At the moment, it was an irrelevant part of her story. Her more recent dealings with those vultures mattered more.
The correspondence Kate had been keeping with the Sheffields had been no secret to her family. Since the conception of the idea her mama had refused to risk being a pawn in her parents' schemes once more. Hearing their mama's reasoning for being opposed to the plan Edwina had joined her in trying to convince Kate that another solution could be found. Both of them had failed to provide one.
Kate had spent hours stating the established facts but it hardly required a more extensive examination than mainly acknowledging the need for money for Edwina's education and dowry and the Sharmas' complete lack of it. Their one viable solution, dreadful and dangerous, but not misplaced was to turn to the Sheffields.
The stipulation regarding Edwina's suitor caused more arguments based on fear of what else they might demand. Kate promised Edwina that she would only have to be what she wanted; a successful debutante securing a good match.
The final quarrel they had on the matter was resolved, when Kate showed them the letter from Lady Danbury.
A few times of playing the granddaughter the Sheffields dreamed of is not so onerous a price for getting the life Miss Edwina wants was what Lady Danbury had written back to Kate's plea for advice and support. All of you will be taken care of.
Kate bit her lip at those eight words. While Edwina's dowry would be paid and an allowance for her mama would be arranged, Kate had nothing to expect from the Sheffields. That was a part of the deal she kept hidden because if her family knew of it they would never accept it and then they would all be destitute.
Kate and the Sheffields would pretend that an allowance was meant for her too to live comfortably in India as was her wish. Back in her homeland Kate would work as a governess to cover her expenses with none the wiser about the truth.
The Sheffields made the omission of the truth to sound as the greatest gift they could give her and the sting of it burned hot every time she thought of it. She could have answered to their disgraceful manners with her own truth as it had never been her intention to be financially dependent on them. She could have screamed it until their ears would bleed, but they were not worth one ounce of her anger.
The day she would see the Sheffields for the last time could not come soon enough.
The moment Lord Lumley had vaguely mentioned his plan to propose Kate had urged Edwina to write to the Sheffields, inviting them to London. The evening after the race at Ascot, the Sheffields, having already gotten comfortable in their town residence, were informed of the engagement. The sooner they met Lord Lumley the better it would be for everyone, Kate thought.
And the day finally dawned.
With a sense of achievement Kate sat at the table, set in the most formal and luxurious manner; flowers and candles complimenting her sister's happiness as she basked in the attention of her besotted fiance. The way his heart's desire shone in his eyes every time he looked at Edwina and the way she responded with a loving smile of her own, made Kate feel that all her sacrifices were worth it.
Lord Lumley and his sister, Miss Lumley, were good-natured and genial but the air of the room had been sucked by every little snide remark Lady Sheffield made or by Lord Sheffield's many disdainful looks. Undeterred, Miss Lumley instantly doted on Edwina, declaring that the two of them would get on splendidly. Being nearly three and thirty, Miss Lumley was an almost matronly figure in her brother's life and she was the sort of unmarried woman who did not bow to the burden of spinsterhood but weaponized people's assumptions, earning enough experience to know how to best deal with the likes of Edwina's grandparents. She appealed carefully to their vanity, while setting the boundaries; Lord and Lady Lumley will suffer no ugliness.
Miss Lumley looked at Kate reassuringly and Kate, holding her mama's hand, toasted the couple, feeling the burden being lifted from her shoulders for the first time in a long while.
Anthony spent four days anxiously anticipating the moment he'd return to London and when he did, he asked his mother if she had managed to see Miss Sharma.
"Only in passing," she said, adding some finishing touches to her embroidery. An endless array of tulips as though someone kept commissioning them and she was working for her supper. "She was never available for more than a simple but polite greeting, always called to make a decision on a wedding detail concerning her sister. Even when we paid a visit to Lady Danbury, we hardly saw her."
"Has she been seen in public?" he asked restlessly. He did not really want her locked in her tower, submissively waiting for him -only a part of him was so depraved- but there was always the threat of someone attempting to get to know her and from there to start courting her would only be a matter of minutes. "Promenading, shopping, attending any event, nothing?"
"No soirees or for tea, unfortunately. She was seen in shops mostly," Daphne said, "but anyone not sampling fabrics, ribbons or flowers had no chance of getting a glance from her."
Anthony liked that. It meant the chase to win that glance would be even more thrilling.
"Has she received any callers?" Dorset could have recovered from the dinner and attempted to visit her again. "Any bouquets apart from mine? Any invitations?"
"You would make a fine inquisitor, brother," Daphne teased him. "You have the right instincts for it."
His mother let out a beleaguered sigh. "Your sister and I have eyes everywhere, dearest. Miss Sharma is busy with her sister's engagement and in dire need of rest."
His confusing look made her elaborate.
"The Sheffields have arrived."
She announced the arrival of the Sheffields, whomever they might be, as the coming of the plague. Anthony asked who they were and why their presence disturbed Miss Sharma, instantly hating them for it. Daphne explained to him that they were Lady Mary's parents, giving him as many details about the estrangement between them as she could.
Lady Mary had married the late Mr Sharma without her parents' permission. Without wealth or title to recommend Mr Sharma, Lord and Lady Sheffield had felt compelled to cut any connection to the couple and they retreated to their country seat to avoid the ton. Mr Sharma's profession took him back to India and his young bride followed him there so they would live with his little daughter.
When his sister mentioned Miss Sharma, Anthony whispered 'Kathani' almost reverently, momentarily finding a reason to smile amidst the horridness of that story.
Mr Sharma could barely provide an upbringing for his daughters that befit the standards of English society to which Lady Mary had been accustomed, and after his passing it became more challenging to maintain even that level of comfort. The family had to economise greatly, but thanks to Miss Sharma's efforts they made it to England with Miss Edwina ready to enter the marriage mart with exceptional prospects.
"That explains the need for Lady Danbury's sponsorship during the Season, since their immediate relations would not offer assistance," Anthony said angrily. He could not fathom that there was anything that any child of his would do that would stop him from caring for them. Choosing a good and honourable spouse of poorer circumstances certainly was no reason to absolve one of one's parental duty and love. "What brought them back?"
"The dowry."
Anthony found it extremely irritating that Hastings had beaten him to the realisation but it was the truth. For a gentleman, especially a man of means- to accept money to marry a woman was demeaning and ought to be outdated. Concerning himself, Anthony had decided to not even allow the subject to be raised.
"Does Lumley ask and insist on one?"
"Of that we cannot know, but preparing for a dowry was the sensible thing to do and Miss Sharma proved very sensible indeed," his mother said. The Sheffields' sense, however, was questionable. Apparently they had demanded Miss Edwina's choice to be of the peerage. Then and only then would they pay the dowry.
"They seem content with Lord Lumley," Daphne said.
The thought of Lord and Lady Sheffield objecting to a respectable gentleman like Lumley was utterly laughable, but Anthony supposed that it was part of tradition for them to give their blessing, such as it was. Before he could ask what was the plan for the rest of the Sharma family, his mother mentioned the allowances that would be set for them.
The fact that those vultures would finally do the bare minimum, was the only thing that helped Anthony decide to be civil with Miss Edwina's grandparents once he would meet them, even if currently he was unable to spare them a kind thought. Not that their intentions regarding Miss Sharma mattered.
"Miss Sharma of course will have no need for their money. She will want for nothing ever again." She would have everything of his.
"Bravo, brother." Daphne eyed him for a moment and weighed her options, then she dared to give him a kiss on his cheek before she left them to return to her husband and child.
Every time Daphne was affectionate with him, Anthony was speechless, wondering how easily she could alternate between thinking of him as an unbearable tyrant and as a soul deserving of love. But sweet Daphne believed everyone was deserving of love. Even tyrants, perhaps to become less so.
"I could have credited them with some right to object to the union of Mr Sharma and Lady Mary," his mother said sadly a few moments later, pulling him out of his musing.
Anthony felt a pinching ache in his chest, knowing the distinct signs of his mother's grief surfacing again. Instinctively he pulled out his pocket watch, half expecting the time to be set to his father's death. It often felt like it was. Ten years of witnessing her grief and he still could not help the urge to run to the closest exit to avoid its crushing waves, even though he never left her. He had only tried to shield his siblings from it, and he failed even that sometimes.
"If there had been true defects in his character and behaviour, perhaps one could understand her parents," his mother continued speaking of the late Mr Sharma. "But he cannot have been so unworthy."
"The Sharmas are intelligent women with good judgement. I cannot imagine that they would not honour his memory as they do, if he were not a good man, mother." It would be easier to keep talking about the Sharmas and not have it reflected on their own grief but he knew it would not last.
"Indeed. The way Lady Mary speaks of him, you would think he hung the stars."
Like another devoted wife Anthony knew. He closed his eyes to prepare himself for what would follow.
The sound of her breathing changed and he knew.
He saw a tiny tear rolling on her cheek. After all that time she still looked like the bereaved widow she had been days after his death. The tears Anthony had witnessed were beyond counting, their emotional scar permanent and deep causing him to choose a path in life that wasn't necessarily what he always wanted, but how many more tears had he missed when he was away, when he was not looking? How many more unshed tears were yet to come? That was the most terrifying thought. The torture would never end.
Anthony could not let himself get bound to the same vicious circle, for who would take over if he got lost in it? Who would take care of the others then?
He simply could not afford any risks if their family was to survive.
With the Sheffields satisfied and her family's future secure, Kate thought she could spend an afternoon on her own affairs and discover what she could of the viscount's past. While Ruth was fixing her hair into a braid and then fastened it in loops on her head Kate searched for the words she would use to make her inquiries to Madam Delacroix.
Outside the modiste's door the words still eluded her and yet she knocked.
"Mademoiselle Sharma?" Madame Delacroix regarded her with an alarmed expression, as if Napoleon himself had come to her doorstep.
"We need to speak, madame."
It took some time and a few generous drops of port before Kate meandered away from the subject of her sister's wedding gown which was the only thing Madame Delacroix seemed willing to discuss.
"You know the viscount Bridgerton, do you not?" Kate finally asked, summoning all her courage.
"The viscount?" Madame Delacroix asked curiously, but guardedly. "I am no gentleman's tailor, mademoiselle."
"The women of the family wear your creations. The Duchess mentioned you prepared her wedding gown, the main reason for Edwina choosing you to prepare hers as well."
"I drape the Bridgerton women in silk or cotton and the viscount, as the head of the family, fills the coffers with money. It is a straightforward transaction that requires no further communication that would lead to me knowing him."
"Correct me if I am wrong," Kate insisted, "but it seemed that you knew him well enough to wish me luck in my interactions with him."
The modiste seemed to remember her slip and regret painted her face. "It was a general comment about men, of course."
"Of course." Kate thought that it would be impossible to ease her into a confession so she was direct. "Especially men with the viscount's reputation."
The modiste nodded in understanding. The viscount's reputation was an irresistible tale of a man indulging his desires, delighting in findinding his pleasure with various women, taking pride in leaving them equally satisfied. A Rake with capital R. That damned title would not be erased from her mind.
"Madame," Kate said. "I do not try to unearth gossip or upset anyone's calm life. If you wish to be protective of your secrets, I respect it-"
"My secrets?" The modiste cut her off. "You believe that he and I…?" As confusion settled, she broke into nervous laughter. "Oh no no no… That wasn't me. Mon Dieu!"
"That had not been my meaning," Kate admitted. She drew in a languid sigh, realising how close she was. "I only assumed that you knew something about his past. And I was correct. You know something. You know about someone in his life."
"Merde." The last thing the modiste wanted was more questions. "Pardonnez moi."
"Madame, I am not on a jealous woman's warpath. This man enters my life and I need to know what to do."
Madame Delacroix relaxed a little against her settee. "Do you wish to be able to trust him?"
Kate did not consider it long before she said, "I do." If she could not resist him, she needed to be able to trust that it was not a mistake.
"Then I do not know how I can help, Mademoiselle Sharma. I know only a fraction of a story and I fear it may do you more harm than good to learn a fragmented version of something that belongs to the past."
Kate could see that the modiste was trying to be honest with her, letting her know that there had been something worth mentioning. Of course the story was not hers to share so she spoke without giving any details. Kate had not come to learn the name of that woman or get a comprehensive report on the affair. She cared about one thing.
"Does it, though?" Kate asked. "Does it belong to the past?"
"Yes. She is not in his life anymore." It rang with finality. But it made Kate spiral into other thoughts.
If she was gone, was there any residual effect of her in the viscount's mind? Had she set impossible standards keeping him in thrall of her memory? Those weren't questions for Madame Delacroix so Kate did not mention them.
She must have looked pensive enough, because the modiste spoke without being asked something.
"Mademoiselle Sharma, there is no mystery to unravel here. No dark secrets concerning some vicious side of the viscount."
Kate smiled. She did not suspect a gruesome story, only an unfinished one. "What is your opinion of the viscount? The honest one, that is."
Madame Delacroix, stiffened again a little.
"Please," Kate said. "I keep my own counsel, but I would like to hear what you have to say."
"Rich, titled men live with privilege, you've been here long enough to see it. Everyone calling you 'milord,' serving you hand and foot, it gets to you, does it not? Some relish it, some don't. Some cope with it. The viscount couldn't. It was a burden for him even though he was raised to be exactly that.
"He worked tirelessly and he would lay down his life for his family, of that there is no doubt, but he didn't always behave as he should. He was trying to balance a life of serving and avoiding his duty at the same time, demanding things to be the way he wanted even though he did not know what he wanted or what was actually needed of him, leading him to miserable inconsistencies."
Kate could understand the way the heavy burden would have flattened him. He had been too young when it all fell on his shoulders after his father's death. Of course he could not cope with it. Living similarly in her early youth, Kate could feel how the pressure shaped him into a stone with so many cutting edges, one would bleed by a simple touch.
She could even recognize the viscount's overbearing sense of entitlement that did not stop him from interfering where it was not his place to, or his penchant for making her ball her hands into fists and search nearby for tools of torture.
The man she knew, however, was sharply focused on his goal, completely aware of what he wanted and the means to get it. No loss of direction and no inconsistencies.
"I ended an affair that I enjoyed when it was no longer what I needed." It wasn't said with remorse. "Now as I stand before you, I am not the woman I was when I was with him. I am certain he is not the same he was. Are you the same woman you were a year ago? People change, Mademoiselle Sharma." She meant that the viscount had changed. "Depending on the circumstances some lucky ones, even change for the better."
He had changed. That much was clear. But had he changed enough into someone Kate could let in?
Kate returned to the Danbury house in time for tea, but she excused herself. Traveller, her favourite horse in the Danbury stable had grown used to her visiting him with an apple or two and she could not bear to disappoint her trusted riding companion. And that afternoon she needed time to clear her head of any thoughts or she'd implode. Wishing to be transported back to the Maharaja's palace with her appa by her side, to ride again on Indian soil she walked the familiar path to the stable.
Once inside she moved straight to Traveler's stall. He whinnied his greeting, bringing a smile on her face. He enjoyed his snack, craning his neck as close to her as possible as she stroked his face and brushed his mane. "Good boy."
With both her hands occupied, Kate had to spin her head to move her braid from her shoulder to her back so that it would not be in the way. The quick movement though revealed that she had not been alone in the stable because she caught a glimpse of a figure by the big window in the far west side of the building. It could have been a trick of light and shadows, or her unmanageable desire causing a spectre. But it wasn't.
The viscount was there.
Her whole body had acknowledged his presence and reacted to it in a moment of breathless excitement. Her mind fully wrapped around the idea that he was there when he no longer stood by the window. Dressed in his midnight blue jacket that tightly wrapped his impressive torso, he was slowly walking towards her against the sunset colours coming through the window.
"May I?" he asked, kneeling by her feet.
"My lord?" She asked and then she saw him reaching for the brush that only in that moment had Kate realised it was no longer in her hand.
As soon as he got up, his dark eyes were fixed on her with such a magnetic intensity, it made Kate feel that the contact would not break even if a cannonball would be repeatedly fired behind him.
It was the oddest feeling to be so taken by his presence after so many previous encounters. The proximity wasn't a recent development. The memory of his body close to hers was seared onto her mind. She had always been aware of how captivatingly handsome. Now everything intensified beyond reason and concentrated into one singular moment as he gently placed the brush in her palm, after thoroughly cleaning it of any straws with his deft fingers.
That little gesture was paired with a little word.
"There."
The mesmerising sound drew her attention to his lips and to the smile that quirked the corner of his mouth.
"He seemed to really enjoy your care," he said softly just in time before she moved -who knew what for. "The groom was adamant on your devotion to Traveller, here, I am glad for my decision."
"What decision is that?" She managed the simple question, tipping her chin upwards to avoid letting her gaze fall on his lips again, unchaste thoughts swirling in her head.
He gestured at the west side of the building. The stalls there were normally empty, but now that Kate was paying proper attention, she could hear a soft neighing. Kate knew the stable inside out, but she let the viscount guide her down the way and around the corner to the very last stall.
It took one look to recognise the horse. Nectar.
"They would have sent the poor creature to the knacker's yard," he said, his chest ever so lightly pressing on her back. "I thought you would give him a far better fate than that," he whispered in her ear.
It awakened something in her. More carelessness than she was accustomed to. More wildness than she was willing to allow. More tenderness than she was comfortable with.
"He is beautiful," she said, taking a step forward and reaching for Nectar who would receive all her attention, an anchor to reason.
"He's well groomed." The viscount also took one step, to regain the advantage of proximity he clearly enjoyed. "You are beautiful, Miss Sharma. Dusklight suits you," he said huskily, catching her hand on Nectar's head, beneath his own. Protective, claiming, possessive, strong and delicate all at once. It transfixed her. His fingers curled slightly, forcing hers to do the same, until he had control of her hand in his, stroking the tender, naked skin, sending tremors to her core.
In the rhythm of a dance she never had known before he removed their hands from the horse and rotated her towards him. Had he asked for permission she would have moaned her assent so she made the decision to allow him the initiative. Pacing himself he pulled her hand, still captured firmly in his, to his chest as though in safe-keeping, an inaudible whisper escaping his lips. For the briefest moment he held her hand in the sizzling space their bodies created and locking eyes with her he released it gently against her bosom.
Embarrassment spilled through Kate, as if every single indecent fantasy her mind had concocted for him was plain on her face for him to see.
"Dusklight suits you so well that I-" It was a calculated risk to complete that thought so he shut his eyes to maintain control.
To what he was anchoring himself? From what was he stopping himself? Surely he could not take liberties with her, even if they were openly, unreservedly offered, but the dark pit in her stomach warned her that the answer wasn't in her favour. All the same it was impossible to care.
"Thank you for bringing me Nectar." As safe a topic as she could find to let him know she appreciated the thought, its meaning. "I will take care of him."
"I knew you would."
Warm where it touched her, his thumb caressed the jawline, running on the curve of her chin. It was so titillating, so addictive that she cupped his bent elbow to secure the hold. The smile on his face, a mixture of surprise and relief made her want more; more of him on more parts of her. Slanting her head she leaned into the touch until his thumb started tracing along her jawline up to her earlobe. Feeling his fingertips pressing into her at the nape of her neck, tugging her hair with the slow massaging motion, Kate squeezed her hand around his arm, giving any further confirmation he might request.
As if to make her feel more completely enveloped, more utterly lost in him, he wound his other arm around her until it found its resting place on the small of her back. He pulled her to him, lined against him, moulded into him and Kate could not breathe properly anymore.
"That little raspy breath gave you away, Miss Sharma." Of course he noticed. "Again. As it did when we danced." Of course he remembered. "So perfect."
There was no denying it.
"You should have waited," she murmured, dipping her head, her forehead touching his shoulder.
"I did," he whispered. "As much as I could…"
"You should have waited longer." She huffed, her pulse quickening. "You were supposed to wait for my answer in a note or-" Worried, wanting. "Or call on me at the house… Certainly not here… Not like this… Lady Danbury will…"
"Do you wish to wait for Lady Danbury, or anyone for that matter, to grant you permission?" He laughed through his question and she loved the sound of it. It was so ridiculous how much she loved the sound of his voice. "You did not care much for etiquette when I first met you." He brushed his lips against her temple, smiling into the almost kiss he placed there.
"My lord."
Every time she used that whispering sound to his formal address, his reaction melted and excited her. It felt like the right moment to try it again, but its effect was different. Not dull or underwhelming compared to the animated fire she had witnessed, but negative, almost unwanted. He stiffened all around her. The precious smile faded, collapsing inside her.
Hoping that her instinct was wrong, Kate lifted her eyes to find his. The darkness in them was not passion. It was fear, smeared across his face. From the furrowed brows to his thinned mouth and his laboured breathing, only fear. Incapacitating fear.
"I can't… It's too-" He shook his head, bringing his hands on her shoulders to push her away but not completely release her. "I need-"
Kate suddenly knew. Through the confusion she saw the stinging betrayal.
The viscount needed to be rid of the thing that grew between them because its shape was becoming very akin to what he considered an unthinkable fate.
I don't want a love match. I want the right match.
That was what he had said to the other gentlemen at the terrace.
The urge to throw something at him profanities, accusations or remarks of her pity erupted inside her.
That man wanted her seduced and pliable, but he preferred himself untouched, unburned from the spark.
She had been warned, that much she could not deny.
I don't want a love match. I want the right match.
In the face of the truth Kate wished her suspicions about his lingering feelings for the woman in his past had been real. At least that would serve as evidence that once he cared truly for someone. What sort of an addle-brained fool had she become to think he was capable of feeling something beyond what stirred in his breeches?
Kate had learned to overcome any hardship, any grief and any pain so she put her skill to good use.
There wasn't much authority she could claim in that state but it had to be enough to get his attention. "I should return inside."
The viscount on the other hand had no trouble issuing his commands, his hands still on her shoulders. "Wait." No potent request would follow. He was simply trying to buy himself time. To what end? Minutes could stretch into hours and years and he still would not be able to make a compelling argument.
"It is nearly dinner time." Kate reminded him coldly.
"Wait," he gruffed, squeezing his fingers into her flesh.
"That pocket watch of yours should tell you that we are running late."
That remark was bitingly harsh.
"You will wait, Miss Sharma."
"This presumption that I will follow your orders, one day will be amusing, my lord," she cut back, grabbing his wrists and pulling herself free. "But not today."
"Is this how you wish to leave things? After we-"
Kate could not let him speak of what they had just shared. It would not become a weapon for him to use against her. "What can I expect apart from more vague explanations? They are not necessary, I assure you."
"Are they not?" Anger, capricious and obdurate, blazed from his eyes. "How so?"
"They are unnecessary," she squared her shoulders, lifting her accusing eyes on him, "because a man of your reputation hardly needs explaining. Only caution."
"My reputation warrants caution?" he asked in a brittle tone. If there was one thing the viscount could not stand was to be doubted. If he believed his reputation was impeccable, above reproach or censure no living soul could raise objections. And Kate did exactly that. "And this erroneous conclusion you rushed into was so inevitable, was it not, Miss Sharma? What do you know about me that emboldens this opinion?"
"Do you want every item of information?"
"Every last one."
"Listed in order of significance?"
"List them alphabetically, Miss Sharma, or in chronological order, I do not care." He retorted, hands crossed on his back. "Just give me my answer."
Rake, reformed or not, it did not matter. What mattered was what he wanted from her and that was unacceptable. Kate would not negotiate what she wanted for the whims of an unfailingly intoxicating, charming -when he chose to be- viscount who needed a capable wife -in what he assumed would be an uncomplicated life- and perhaps a few sensuous moments, narrowed between his duty and his personal comfort, that would never evolve into something deeper.
And she knew she would not give him the satisfaction that his unwillingness or inability to allow something true to bloom between them hurt her as much as it did. So she would lie as though her life depended on it. For all intents and purposes it did.