by Julia Quinn
The only time she felt truly at ease was when, a few hours after Anthony’s announcement, she finally had a chance to talk privately with Edwina, who’d thrown her arms around her sister and declared herself “thrilled,” “overjoyed,” and “not even one tiny bit surprised.”
Kate had expressed her surprise that Edwina was not surprised, but Edwina had just shrugged and said, “It was obvious to me that he was smitten. I do not know why no one else saw it.”
Which had left Kate rather puzzled, since she’d been fairly certain that Anthony had had his matrimonial sights set on Edwina.
Once Kate returned to London, the speculation was even worse. Every single member of the ton, it seemed, found it imperative to stop by the Sheffields’ small rented home on Milner Street to call on the future viscountess. Most managed to infuse their congratulations with a healthy dose of unflattering implication. No one believed it possible that the viscount might actually want to marry Kate, and no one seemed to realize how rude it was to say as much to her face.
“My goodness, you were lucky,” said Lady Cowper, the mother of the infamous Cressida Cowper, who, for her part, did not say two words to Kate, just sulked in the corner and glared daggers in her direction.
“I had no idea he was interested in you,” gushed Miss Gertrude Knight, with a facial expression that clearly said she still didn’t believe it, and perhaps even hoped that the betrothal might still prove to be a sham, announcement in the London Times notwithstanding.
And from Lady Danbury, who’d never been known to mince words: “Don’t know how you trapped him, but it must have been a neat trick. There are a few gels out there who wouldn’t mind taking lessons from you, mark my words.”
Kate just smiled (or tried to, at least; she suspected that her attempts at gracious and friendly response were not always convincing) and nodded, and murmured, “I am a fortunate girl,” whenever Mary poked her in the side.
As for Anthony, the lucky man had been able to avoid the harsh scrutiny she’d been forced to endure. He had told her he needed to remain at Aubrey Hall to take care of a few estate details before the wedding, which had been set for the following Saturday, only nine days after the incident in the garden. Mary had worried that such hastiness would lead to “talk,” but Lady Bridgerton had rather pragmatically explained that there would be “talk” no matter what, and that Kate would be less subject to unflattering innuendo once she had the protection of Anthony’s name.
Kate suspected that the viscountess—who had gained a certain reputation for her single-minded desire to see her adult children married off—simply wanted to get Anthony in front of the bishop before he had the chance to change his mind.
Kate found herself in agreement with Lady Bridgerton. As nervous as she was about the wedding and the marriage to follow, she’d never been the sort to put things off. Once she made a decision—or, in this case, had one made for her—she saw no reason for delay. And as for the “talk,” a hasty wedding might increase its volume, but Kate suspected that the sooner she and Anthony were married, the sooner it would die down, and the sooner she might hope to return to the normal obscurity of her own life.
Of course, her life would not be her own for much longer. She was going to have to get used to that.
Not that it felt like her own even now. Her days were a whirlwind of activity, with Lady Bridgerton dragging her from shop to shop, spending an enormous amount of Anthony’s money for her trousseau. Kate had quickly learned that resistance was useless; when Lady Bridgerton—or Violet, as she had now been instructed to call her—made up her mind, heaven help the fool who got in her way. Mary and Edwina had accompanied them on a few of the outings, but they had quickly declared themselves exhausted by Violet’s indefatigable energy and gone off to Gunter’s for a flavored ice.
Finally, a mere two days before the wedding, Kate received a note from Anthony, asking her to be at home at four that afternoon so that he might pay her a call. Kate was a little nervous at seeing him again; somehow everything seemed different—more formal—in town. Nonetheless, she seized upon the opportunity to avoid another afternoon on Oxford Street, at the dressmaker, and the milliner, and the glovemaker, and to whomever else Violet had it in mind to drag her.
And so, while Mary and Edwina were out running errands—Kate had conveniently forgotten to mention that the viscount was expected—she sat down in the drawing room, Newton sleeping contentedly at her feet, and waited.
Anthony had spent most of the week thinking. Not surprisingly, all of his thoughts were of Kate and their upcoming union.
He’d been worried that he could, if he let himself, love her. The key, it seemed, was simply not to let himself. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that this would not pose a problem. He was a man, after all, and well in control of his actions and emotions. He was no fool; he knew that love existed. But he also believed in the power of the mind, and perhaps even more importantly, the power of the will. Frankly, he saw no reason why love should be an involuntary thing.
If he didn’t want to fall in love, then by damn, he wasn’t going to. It was as simple as that. It had to be as simple as that. If it weren’t, then he wasn’t much of a man, was he?
He would, however, have to have a talk with Kate on this measure prior to the wedding. There were certain things about their marriage that needed to be made clear. Not rules, exactly, but . . . understandings. Yes, that was a good word for it.
Kate needed to understand exactly what she could expect from him, and what he expected in return. Theirs was not a love match. And it wasn’t going to grow into one. That simply was not an option. He didn’t think she had any delusions on that measure, but just in case, he wanted to make it clear now, before any misunderstandings had the chance to grow into full-fledged disasters.
It was best to lay everything out on the proverbial table so that neither party would be unpleasantly surprised later on. Surely Kate would agree. She was a practical girl. She’d want to know where she stood. She wasn’t the sort who liked to be kept guessing.
At precisely two minutes before four, Anthony rapped twice on the Sheffields’ front door, trying to ignore the half dozen members of the ton who just happened to be strolling along Milner Street that afternoon. They were, he thought with a grimace, a bit far from their usual haunts.
But he wasn’t surprised. He might be recently returned to London, but he was well aware that his betrothal was the current scandal du jour. Whistledown was delivered all the way in Kent, after all.
The butler opened the door quickly and ushered him in, showing him to the nearby drawing room. Kate was waiting on the sofa, her hair swept up into a neat something-or-other (Anthony never could remember the names of all those coiffures the ladies seemed to favor) and topped with a ridiculous little cap of some sort that he supposed was meant to match the white trim on her pale blue afternoon dress.
The cap, he decided, would be the first thing to go once they were married. She had lovely hair, long and lustrous and thick. He knew that good manners dictated that she wear bonnets when she was out and about, but really, it seemed a crime to cover it up in the comfort of her own home.
Before he could open his mouth, however, even in greeting, she motioned to a silver tea service on the table in front of her and said, “I took the liberty of ordering tea. There’s a slight chill in the air and I thought you might like some. If you don’t, I’d be happy to ring for something else.”
There hadn’t been a chill in the air, at least not one that Anthony had detected, but he nonetheless said, “That would be lovely, thank you.”
Kate nodded and picked up the pot to pour. She tipped it about an inch, then righted it, frowning as she said, “I don’t even know how you take your tea.”
Anthony felt one corner of his mouth tipping up slightly. “Milk. No sugar.”
She nodded, setting the pot down in favor of the milk. “It seems a thing a wife should know.”
He sat
down in a chair that sat at a right angle to the sofa. “And now you do.”
She took a deep breath and then let it go. “Now I do,” she murmured.
Anthony cleared his throat as he watched her pour. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and he found he liked to watch her hands as she worked. Her fingers were long and slender, and they were incredibly graceful, which surprised him, considering how many times she’d trod on his toes while dancing.
Of course some of those missteps had been done on purpose, but not, he suspected, as many as she would have liked to have him believe.
“Here you are,” she murmured, holding out his tea. “Be careful, it’s hot. I’ve never been one for lukewarm tea.”
No, he thought with a smile, she wouldn’t be. Kate wasn’t the sort to do anything in half measures. It was one of the things he liked best about her.
“My lord?” she said politely, moving the tea a few inches farther in his direction.
Anthony grasped the saucer, allowing his gloved fingers to brush against her bare ones. He kept his eyes on her face, noticing the faint pink stain of blush that touched her cheeks.
For some reason that pleased him.
“Did you have something specific you wanted to ask me, my lord?” she asked, once her hand was safely away from his and her fingers wrapped around the handle of her own teacup.
“It’s Anthony, as I’m sure you recall, and I can’t call upon my fiancée merely for the pleasure of her company?”
She gave him a shrewd look over the rim of her cup. “Of course you can,” she replied, “but I don’t think you are.”
He raised a brow at her impertinence. “As it happens, you’re right.”
She murmured something. He didn’t quite catch it, but he had a sneaking suspicion it had been, “I usually am.”
“I thought we ought to discuss our marriage,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
He leaned back in his chair. “We’re both practical people. I think we’ll find ourselves more at ease once we understand what we can expect from one another.”
“Of—of course.”
“Good.” He set his teacup down in the saucer, then set both down on the table in front of him. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
Kate nodded slowly but didn’t say anything, instead choosing to keep her eyes trained on his face as he cleared his throat. He looked as if he were preparing for a parliamentary speech.
“We did not get off to the most favorable of starts,” he said, scowling slightly when she nodded her agreement, “but I feel—and I hope that you do as well—that we have since reached a friendship of sorts.”
She nodded again, thinking that she might make it all the way through the conversation doing nothing but nodding.
“Friendship between the husband and the wife is of the utmost importance,” he continued, “even more important, in my opinion, than love.”
This time she didn’t nod.
“Our marriage will be one based on mutual friendship and respect,” he pontificated, “and I for one could not be more pleased.”
“Respect,” Kate echoed, mostly because he was looking at her expectantly.
“I will do my best to be a good husband to you,” he said. “And, provided that you do not bar me from your bed, I shall be faithful to both you and our vows.”
“That’s rather enlightened of you,” she murmured. He was saying nothing she did not expect, and yet she found it somewhat needling all the same.
His eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re taking me seriously, Kate.”
“Oh, very much so.”
“Good.” But he gave her a funny look, and she wasn’t sure if he believed her. “In return,” he added, “I expect that you will not behave in any manner that will sully my family’s name.”
Kate felt her spine stiffen. “I would not dream of it.”
“I didn’t think you would. That is one of the reasons I am so pleased with this marriage. You will make an excellent viscountess.”
It was meant as a compliment, Kate knew, but still it felt a bit hollow, and maybe a touch condescending. She’d much rather have been told that she’d make an excellent wife.
“We shall have friendship,” he announced, “and we shall have mutual respect, and children—intelligent children, thank God, since you are quite the most intelligent woman of my acquaintance.”
That made up for his condescension, but Kate had barely time to smile at his compliment before he added, “But you should not expect love. This marriage will not be about love.”
An awful lump rose in Kate’s throat, and she found herself nodding yet again, except this time every movement of her neck somehow brought pain to her heart.
“There are certain things I cannot give you,” Anthony said, “and love, I’m afraid, is one of them.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“Of course,” she practically snapped. “You could not make it any plainer if you wrote it on my arm.”
“I had never planned to marry for love,” he said.
“That is not what you told me when you were courting Edwina.”
“When I was courting Edwina,” he returned, “I was trying to impress you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are not impressing me now.”
He let out a long breath. “Kate, I did not come here to argue. I merely thought it best if we were honest with one another before the wedding on Saturday morning.”
“Of course,” she sighed, forcing herself to nod. His intention hadn’t been to insult her, and she shouldn’t have overreacted. She knew him well enough now to know that he was merely acting out of concern. He knew he would never love her; better to make that clear in the beginning.
But still it hurt. She didn’t know if she loved him, but she was fairly certain she could love him, and deathly afraid that after a few weeks of marriage, she would love him.
And it would be so nice if he could just love her back.
“It is best that we understand each other now,” he said softly.
Kate just kept nodding. A body in motion tended to remain in motion, and she was afraid that if she stopped, she might do something really stupid, like cry.
He reached across the table and took her hand, which made her flinch. “I didn’t want you to enter this marriage with any delusions,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”
“Of course not, my lord,” she said.
He frowned. “I thought I told you to call me Anthony.”
“You did,” she said, “my lord.”
He withdrew his hand. Kate watched as he returned it to his own lap, feeling strangely bereft.
“Before I go,” he said, “I have something for you.” Without taking his eyes off of her face, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jeweler’s box. “I must apologize for being so delayed in presenting you with a betrothal ring,” he murmured, handing it to her.
Kate smoothed her fingers over the blue velvet covering before flipping the box open. Inside lay a rather simple gold ring, adorned by a single round-cut diamond.
“It’s a Bridgerton heirloom,” he said. “There are several betrothal rings in the collection, but I thought you’d like this one best. The others were rather heavy and fussy.”
“It’s beautiful,” Kate said, quite unable to take her eyes off of it.
He reached out and took the box from her. “May I?” he murmured, plucking the ring from its velvet nest.
She held out her hand, cursing at herself when she realized she was trembling—not a great deal, but surely enough for him to notice. He didn’t say a word, though, just steadied her hand with his as he used the other to slip the ring on her finger.
“Looks rather nice, don’t you think?” he asked, still holding the tips of her fingers with his.
Kate nodded, unable to take her eyes off of it. She’d never been one for rings; this would be the first she wore with any regularity. It felt strange on her fing
er, heavy and cold and very, very solid. It somehow made everything that had happened in the past week seem more real. More final. It occurred to her as she was staring at the ring that she’d been half expecting a bolt of lightning to come down from heaven and stop the proceedings before they actually said their vows.
Anthony moved closer, then brought her newly adorned fingers to his lips. “Perhaps we should seal the bargain with a kiss?” he murmured.
“I’m not sure.. . .”
He pulled her onto his lap and grinned devilishly. “I am.”
But as Kate tumbled onto him, she accidentally kicked Newton, who let out a loud, whiny bark, obviously distressed at having his nap so rudely interrupted.
Anthony raised a brow and peered over Kate at Newton. “I didn’t even see him here.”
“He was taking a nap,” Kate explained. “He’s a very sound sleeper.”
But once awake, Newton refused to be left out of the action, and with a slightly more awake bark, he leaped up onto the chair, landing on Kate’s lap.
“Newton!” she squealed.
“Oh, for the love of—” But Anthony’s mutterings were cut short by a big, sloppy kiss from Newton.
“I think he likes you,” Kate said, so amused by Anthony’s disgusted expression that she forgot to be self-conscious about her position on his lap.
“Dog,” Anthony ordered, “get down on the floor this instant.”
Newton hung his head and whined.
“Now!”
Letting out a big sigh, Newton turned about and plopped down onto the floor.
“My goodness,” Kate said, peering down at the dog, who was now moping under the table, his snout lying sorrowfully on the carpet, “I’m impressed.”
“It’s all in the tone of voice,” Anthony said archly, snaking a viselike arm around her waist so that she could not get up.
Kate looked at his arm, then looked at his face, her brows arching in question. “Why,” she mused, “do I get the impression you find that tone of voice effective on women as well?”
He shrugged and leaned toward her with a heavy-lidded smile. “It usually is,” he murmured.
