by Julia Quinn
She shook her head, looking back up. “Not at all. I believe she’s in the drawing room, writing a letter to our cousin in Somerset. Ladies like to do that, you know.”
He blinked. “Do what?”
“Write letters. I’m not a very good correspondent myself,” she said, her words coming forth in an oddly rushed fashion, “as I rarely have the patience to sit still at a desk long enough to write an entire letter. Not to mention that my penmanship is abysmal. But most ladies spend a goodly portion of every day drafting letters.”
He tried not to smile. “You wanted to warn me that your sister likes to write letters?”
“No, of course not,” she mumbled. “It’s just that you asked if she was all right, and I said of course, and I told you where she was, and then we were entirely off the topic, and—”
He laid his hand across hers, effectively cutting her off. “What is it you needed to tell me, Kate?”
He watched with interest as she steeled her shoulders and clenched her jaw. She looked as if she were preparing for a hideous task. Then, in one big rush of a sentence, she said, “I just wanted you to know that I have withdrawn my objections to your suit of Edwina.”
His chest suddenly felt a bit hollow. “I…see,” he said, not because he did see, just because he had to say something.
“I admit to a strong prejudice against you,” she continued quickly, “but I have come to know you since my arrival at Aubrey Hall, and in all conscience, I could not allow you to go on thinking that I would stand in your way. It would—it would not be right of me.”
Anthony just stared at her, completely at a loss. There was, he realized dimly, something a bit deflating about her willingness to marry him off to her sister, since he’d spent the better part of the last two days fighting the urge to kiss her rather senseless.
On the other hand, wasn’t this what he wanted? Edwina would make the perfect wife.
Kate would not.
Edwina fit all the criteria he’d laid out when he’d finally decided it was time to wed.
Kate did not.
And he certainly couldn’t dally with Kate if he meant to marry Edwina.
She was giving him what he wanted—exactly, he reminded himself, what he wanted; with her sister’s blessing, Edwina would marry him next week if he so desired.
Then why the devil did he want to grab her by the shoulders and shake and shake and shake until she took back every bloody little annoying word?
It was that spark. That damnable spark that never seemed to dim between them. That awful prickle of awareness that burned every time she entered a room, or took a breath, or pointed a toe. That sinking feeling that he could, if he let himself, love her.
Which was the one thing he feared most.
Perhaps the only thing he feared at all.
It was ironic, but death was the one thing he wasn’t afraid of. Death wasn’t frightening to a man alone. The great beyond held no terror when one had managed to avoid attachments here on earth.
Love was truly a spectacular, sacred thing. Anthony knew that. He’d seen it every day of his childhood, every time his parents had shared a glance or touched hands.
But love was the enemy of the dying man. It was the only thing that could make the rest of his years intolerable—to taste bliss and know that it would all be snatched away. And that was probably why, when Anthony finally reacted to her words, he didn’t yank her to him and kiss her until she was gasping, and he didn’t press his lips to her ear and burn his breath against her skin, making sure she understood that he was on fire for her, and not her sister.
Never her sister.
Instead, he just looked at her impassively, his eyes far, far steadier than his heart, and said, “I am much relieved,” all the while having the strangest feeling that he wasn’t really there, but rather watching the entire scene—nothing more than a farce, really—from outside of his body, all the while wondering what the hell was going on.
She smiled weakly and said, “I thought you might feel that way.”
“Kate, I—”
She’d never know what he meant to say. In all truth, he wasn’t even sure what he intended to say. He hadn’t even realized that he was going to speak until her name passed over his lips.
But his words would remain forever unspoken, because at that moment, he heard it.
A low buzz. A whine, really. It was the sort of sound most people found mildly annoying.
Nothing, to Anthony, could have been more terrifying.
“Don’t move,” he whispered, his voice harsh with fear.
Kate’s eyes narrowed, and of course she moved, trying to twist about. “What are you talking about? What is wrong?”
“Just don’t move,” he repeated.
Her eyes slid to the left, then her chin followed by a quarter of an inch or so. “Oh, it’s just a bee!” Her face broke out in a relieved grin, and she lifted her hand to swat it away. “For goodness’ sake, Anthony, don’t do that again. You had me scared for a moment.”
Anthony’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist with painful force. “I said don’t move,” he hissed.
“Anthony,” she said, laughing, “it’s a bee.”
He held her immobile, his grasp hard and painful, his eyes never leaving the loathsome creature, watching as it buzzed purposefully around her head. He was paralyzed by fear, and fury, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t come into contact with bees in the eleven years since his father’s death. One couldn’t reside in England, after all, and expect to avoid them altogether.
Until now, in fact, he’d forced himself to flirt with them in an odd, fatalistic manner. He’d always suspected that he might be doomed to follow in his father’s footsteps in all respects. If he was going to be brought down by a humble insect, by God he’d do it standing firm and holding his ground. He was going to die sooner or…well, sooner, and he wasn’t going to run from some bloody bug. And so when one flew by, he laughed, he mocked, he cursed, and he swatted it away with his hand, daring it to retaliate.
And he’d never been stung.
But seeing one fly so dangerously close to Kate, brushing by her hair, landing on the lacy sleeve of her dress—it was terrifying, almost hypnotizing. His mind raced ahead, and he saw the tiny monster sink its stinger into her soft flesh, he saw her gasping for air, sinking to the ground.
He saw her here at Aubrey Hall, laid out on the same bed that had served as his father’s first coffin.
“Just be quiet,” he whispered. “We’re going to stand—slowly. Then we’re going to walk away.”
“Anthony,” she said, her eyes crinkling in an impatiently confused manner, “what is wrong with you?”
He tugged on her hand, trying to force her to rise, but she resisted. “It’s a bee,” she said in an exasperated voice. “Stop acting so strangely. For heaven’s sake, it’s not going to kill me.”
Her words hung heavy in the air, almost like solid objects, ready to crash to the ground and shatter them both. Then, finally, when Anthony felt his throat relax enough to speak, he said in a low, intense voice, “It might.”
Kate froze, not because she meant to follow his orders, but because something in his aspect, something in his eyes, frightened her to the bone. He looked changed, possessed by some unknown demon. “Anthony,” she said in what she hoped was an even, authoritative voice, “let go of my wrist this instant.”
She pulled, but he did not relent, and the bee kept buzzing relentlessly about her.
“Anthony!” she exclaimed. “Stop this right—”
The rest of her sentence was lost as she somehow managed to yank her hand from his crushing grasp. The sudden freedom left her off balance, and her arm flailed up and about, the inside of her elbow knocking into the bee, which let out a loud, angry buzz as the force of the blow sent it hurtling through space, smashing right into the strip of bare skin above the lace-edged bodice of her afternoon d
ress.
“Oh, for the love of—Ow!” Kate let out a howl as the bee, no doubt infuriated by its abuse, sank its stinger into her flesh. “Oh, damn,” she swore, completely past any pretensions toward proper language. It was just a bee sting, of course, and nothing she hadn’t suffered several times before, but bloody hell, it hurt.
“Oh, bother,” she grumbled, pulling her chin against her chest so she could look down and get the best view of the red welt rising right along the edge of her bodice. “Now I’ll have to go inside for a poultice, and it’ll get all over my dress.” With a disdainful sniff, she brushed the dead carcass of the bee from her skirt, muttering, “Well, at least he’s dead, the vexing thing. It’s probably the only justice in the—”
That was when she looked up and spied Anthony’s face. He’d gone white. Not pale, not even bloodless, but white. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, and the oddest thing was that his lips didn’t even move. “Oh, my God.”
“Anthony?” she asked, leaning forward and momentarily forgetting about the painful sting on her chest. “Anthony, what is wrong?”
Whatever trance he was in suddenly snapped, and he leaped forward, roughly grabbing one of her shoulders with one hand while his other grappled with the bodice of her gown, pulling it down to better expose her wound.
“My lord!” Kate shrieked. “Stop!”
He said nothing, but his breath was ragged and fast as he pinned her against the back of the bench, still holding her dress down, not low enough to expose her, but certainly lower than decency allowed.
“Anthony!” she tried, hoping that the use of his given name might get his attention. She didn’t know this man; he wasn’t the one who had sat at her side just two minutes earlier. He was crazed, frantic, and completely heedless of her protestations.
“Will you shut up?” he hissed, never once looking up at her. His eyes were focused on the red, swollen circle of flesh on her chest, and with trembling hands he plucked the stinger from her skin.
“Anthony, I’m fine!” she insisted. “You must—”
She gasped. He’d moved one of his hands slightly as he used the other to yank a handkerchief from his pocket, and it now rather indelicately cupped her entire breast.
“Anthony, what are you doing?” She grabbed at his hand, trying to remove it from her person, but his strength was beyond her.
He pinned her even more firmly against the back of the bench, his hand nearly pressing her breast flat. “Be still!” he barked, and then he took the handkerchief and began to press against the swollen sting.
“What are you doing?” she asked, still trying to scoot away.
He didn’t look up. “Expressing the venom.”
“Is there venom?”
“There must be,” he muttered. “There has to be. Something is killing you.”
Her mouth fell open. “Something is killing me? Are you mad? Nothing is killing me. It’s a bee sting.”
But he ignored her, too focused on his self-appointed task of treating her wound.
“Anthony,” she said in a placating voice, trying to reason with him. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been stung by bees at least a half dozen times, and I—”
“He’d been stung before, too,” he interrupted.
Something about his voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Who?” she whispered.
He pressed more firmly against the raised hive, dabbing the handkerchief against the clear liquid that oozed out. “My father,” he said flatly, “and it killed him.”
She couldn’t quite believe it. “A bee?”
“Yes, a bee,” he snapped. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“Anthony, a little bee cannot kill a man.”
He actually paused in his ministrations for a brief second to glance up at her. His eyes were hard, haunted. “I assure you that it can,” he bit off.
Kate couldn’t quite believe that his words were true, but she also didn’t think he was lying, and so she held still for a moment, recognizing that he needed to treat her bee sting far more than she needed to scoot away from his attentions.
“It’s still swollen,” he muttered, pressing harder with the handkerchief. “I don’t think I got it all out.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said gently, her ire with him turning into an almost maternal concern. His brow was wrinkled with concentration, and his movements still carried an air of frantic energy. He was petrified, she realized, scared that she would drop dead right there on the garden bench, felled by a tiny little bee.
It seemed unfathomable, and yet it was true.
He shook his head. “It’s not good enough,” he said hoarsely. “I have to get it all out.”
“Anthony, I—What are you doing?”
He’d tipped her chin back and his head was closing the distance between them, almost as if he meant to kiss her.
“I’m going to have to suck the venom out,” he said grimly. “Just hold still.”
“Anthony!” she shrieked. “You can’t—” She gasped, completely unable to finish her sentence once she felt his lips settling on her skin, applying a gentle, yet inexorable pressure, pulling her into his mouth. Kate didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him toward her.
But in the end she just froze. Because when she lifted her head and looked over his shoulder, she saw a group of three women staring at them with equal expressions of shock.
Mary.
Lady Bridgerton.
And Mrs. Featherington, arguably the ton’s biggest gossip.
And Kate knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her life would never be the same.
Chapter 14
And indeed, if a scandal does erupt at Lady Bridgerton’s party, those of us who remain in London may be assured that any and all titillating news shall reach our tender ears with all possible haste. With so many notorious gossips in attendance, we are all but guaranteed a full and detailed report.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 MAY 1814
For a split second, everyone remained frozen as if in a tableau. Kate stared at the three matrons in shock. They stared back at her in utter horror.
And Anthony kept trying to suck the venom from Kate’s bee sting, completely oblivious to the fact that they had an audience.
Of the quintet, Kate found her voice—and her strength—first, shoving with all her might against Anthony’s shoulder as she let out an impassioned cry of, “Stop!”
Caught off guard, he proved surprisingly easy to dislodge, and he landed on his bum on the ground, his eyes still burning with determination to save her from what he perceived as her deathly fate.
“Anthony?” Lady Bridgerton gasped, her voice quavering on her son’s name, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
He twisted around. “Mother?”
“Anthony, what were you doing?”
“She was stung by a bee,” he said grimly.
“I’m fine,” Kate insisted, then yanked up her dress. “I told him I was fine, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
Lady Bridgerton’s eyes misted over with understanding. “I see,” she said in a small, sad voice, and Anthony knew that she did see. She was, perhaps, the only person who could see.
“Kate,” Mary finally said, choking on her words, “he had his lips on your…on your—”
“On her breast,” Mrs. Featherington said helpfully, folding her arms over her ample bosom. A disapproving frown crossed her face, but it was clear that she was enjoying herself immensely.
“He did not!” Kate exclaimed, struggling to her feet, which wasn’t the easiest task, since Anthony had landed on one of them when she’d shoved him off the bench. “I was stung right here!” With a frantic finger, she pointed at the round red welt that was still rising on the thin skin covering her collarbone.
The three older ladies stared at her bee sting, their skin assuming identical blushes of faint crimson.
“It’s not anywhere near my
breast!” Kate protested, too horrified by the direction of the conversation to remember to feel embarrassed at her rather anatomical language.
“It isn’t far,” Mrs. Featherington pointed out.
“Will someone shut her up?” Anthony snapped.
“Well!” Mrs. Featherington huffed. “I never!”
“No,” Anthony replied. “You always.”
“What does he mean by that?” Mrs. Featherington demanded, poking Lady Bridgerton in the arm. When the viscountess did not respond, she turned to Mary and repeated the question.
But Mary had eyes only for her daughter. “Kate,” she ordered, “come here this instant.”
Dutifully, Kate moved to Mary’s side.
“Well?” Mrs. Featherington asked. “What are we going to do?”
Four sets of eyes turned on her in disbelief.
“ ‘We’?” Kate questioned faintly.
“I fail to see how you have any say in the matter,” Anthony bit off.
Mrs. Featherington just let out a loud, disdainful, and rather nasal sniff. “You have to marry the chit,” she announced.
“What?” The word was ripped from Kate’s throat. “You must be mad.”
“I must be the only sensible one in the garden is what I must be,” Mrs. Featherington said officiously. “Lud, girl, he had his mouth on your bubbies, and we all saw it.”
“He did not!” Kate moaned. “I was stung by a bee. A bee!”
“Portia,” Lady Bridgerton interjected, “I hardly think there is need for such graphic language.”
“There’s little use for delicacy now,” Mrs. Featherington replied. “It’s going to make a tidy piece of gossip no matter how you describe it. The ton’s most fervent bachelor, brought down by a bee. I must say, my lord, it’s not how I imagined it.”
“There is not going to be any gossip,” Anthony growled, advancing on her with a menacing air, “because no one is going to say a word. I will not see Miss Sheffield’s reputation besmirched in any way.”
Mrs. Featherington’s eyes bugged out with disbelief. “You think you can keep something like this quiet?”
“I’m not going to say anything, and I rather doubt that Miss Sheffield will, either,” he said, planting his hands on his hips as he glared down at her. It was the sort of stare that brought grown men to their knees, but Mrs. Featherington was either impervious or simply stupid, so he continued with, “Which leaves our respective mothers, who would seem to have a vested interest in protecting our reputations. Which then leaves you, Mrs. Featherington, as the only member of our cozy little group who might prove herself a gossipy, loudmouthed fishwife over this.”
