The Viscount Who Loved Me

by Julia Quinn

  His mouth moved along the line of her jaw to her neck, pausing only to whisper, “Where is your mother?”

  “Out,” Kate gasped.

  His teeth tugged at the edge of her bodice. “For how long?”

  “I don’t know.” She let out a little squeal as his tongue dipped below the muslin and traced an erotic line on her skin. “Good heavens, Anthony, what are you doing?”

  “How long?” he repeated.

  “An hour. Maybe two.”

  Anthony glanced up to make sure he’d shut the door when he had entered earlier. “Maybe two?” he murmured, smiling against her skin. “Really?”

  “M-maybe just one.”

  He hooked a finger under the edge of her bodice up near her shoulder, making sure to catch the edge of her chemise as well. “One,” he said, “is still quite splendid.” Then, pausing only to bring his mouth to hers so that she could not utter any protest, he swiftly pulled her dress down, taking the chemise along with it.

  He felt her gasp into his mouth, but he just deepened the kiss as he palmed the round fullness of her breast. She was perfect under his fingers, soft and pert, filling his hand as if she’d been made for him.

  When he felt the last of her resistance melt away, he moved his kiss to her ear, nibbling softly on her lobe. “Do you like this?” he whispered, squeezing gently with his hand.

  She nodded jerkily.

  “Mmmm, good,” he murmured, letting his tongue do a slow sweep of her ear. “It would make things very difficult if you did not.”

  “H-how?”

  He fought the bubble of mirth that was rising in his throat. This absolutely wasn’t the time to laugh, but she was so damned innocent. He’d never made love to a woman like her before; he was finding it surprisingly delightful. “Let’s just say,” he said, “that I like it very much.”

  “Oh.” She offered him the most tentative of smiles.

  “There’s more, you know,” he whispered, letting his breath caress her ear.

  “I’m sure there must be,” she replied, her voice mere breath.

  “You are?” he asked teasingly, squeezing her again.

  “I’m not so green that I think one can make a baby from what we’ve been doing.”

  “I’d be happy to show you the rest,” he murmured.

  “Not—Oh!”

  He’d squeezed again, this time allowing his fingers to tickle her skin. He loved that she couldn’t think when he touched her breasts. “You were saying?” he prompted, nibbling on her neck.

  “I—I was?”

  He nodded, the faint stubble of his beard brushing her throat. “I’m sure you were. But then again, perhaps I’d rather not hear. You’d begun with the word ‘not.’ Surely,” he added with a flick of his tongue against the underside of her chin, “not a word that belongs between us at a time like this. But”—his tongue moved down the line of her throat to the hollow above her collarbone—“I digress.”

  “You—you do?”

  He nodded. “I believe I was trying to determine what pleases you, as all good husbands should do.”

  She said nothing, but her breathing quickened.

  He smiled against her skin. “What, for example, about this?” He flattened his hand so that he was no longer cupping her, instead just letting his palm graze lightly over her nipple.

  “Anthony!” she choked out.

  “Good,” he said, moving to her neck, nudging her chin up so that she was more open to him. “I’m glad we’re back to Anthony. ‘My lord’ is so formal, don’t you think? Far too formal for this.”

  And then he did what he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. He lowered his head to her breast and took her into his mouth, tasting, suckling, teasing, reveling in each gasp he heard spill forth from her lips, each spasm of desire he felt shivering across her body.

  He loved that she reacted this way, thrilled that he did this to her. “So good,” he murmured, his breath hot and moist against her skin. “You taste so damn good.”

  “Anthony,” she said, her voice hoarse, “Are you sure—”

  He put a finger to her lips without even lifting his face to look at her. “I have no idea what you’re asking, but whatever it is”—he moved his attention to her other breast—“I’m sure.”

  She made a soft little moaning sound, the sort that came from the very bottom of one’s throat. Her body arched under his ministrations, and with renewed fervor, he teased her nipple, grazing it gently between her teeth.

  “Oh, my—oh, Anthony!”

  He ran his tongue around the aureole. She was perfect, simply perfect. He loved the sound of her voice, hoarse and broken with desire, and his body tingled at the thought of their wedding night, of her cries of passion and need. She’d be an inferno beneath him, and he relished the prospect of making her explode.

  He pulled away so that he could see her face. She was flushed and her eyes were dazed and dilated. Her hair was starting to come undone from that hideous cap.

  “This,” he said, plucking it from her head, “has got to go.”

  “My lord!”

  “Promise me you’ll never wear it again.”

  She twisted in her seat—on his lap, actually, which did little to help the rather urgent state of his groin—to look over the edge of the chair. “I’ll do no such thing,” she retorted. “I quite like that cap.”

  “You can’t possibly,” he said in all seriousness.

  “I can and—Newton!”

  Anthony followed her line of vision and broke out into loud laughter, shaking the both of them in their seats. Newton was happily munching away on Kate’s cap. “Good dog!” he said on a laugh.

  “I would make you buy me another,” Kate muttered, yanking her dress back up, “except that you’ve already spent a fortune on me this week.”

  This amused him. “I have?” he inquired mildly.

  She nodded. “I’ve been shopping with your mother.”

  “Ah. Good. I’m sure she didn’t let you pick out anything like that.” He motioned toward the now mangled cap in Newton’s mouth.

  When he looked back at her, her mouth was twisted into a fetchingly disgruntled line. He couldn’t help but smile. She was so easy to read. His mother hadn’t let her buy such an unattractive cap, and it was killing her that she couldn’t offer a retort to his last statement.

  He sighed rather contentedly. Life with Kate wasn’t going to be dull.

  But it was getting late, and he should probably be going. Kate had said her mother wasn’t expected for at least an hour, but Anthony knew better than to trust the female sense of time. Kate could be wrong, or her mother could have changed her mind, or any number of things might have happened, and even though he and Kate were due to be married in just two days, it didn’t seem particularly prudent to get caught in the drawing room in such a compromising position.

  With great reluctance—sitting in the chair with Kate and doing nothing but hold her was surprisingly satisfying—he stood, lifting her in his arms as he did so, and then set her back in the chair.

  “This has been a delightful interlude,” he murmured, leaning down to drop a kiss on her forehead. “But I fear your mother’s early return. I shall see you Saturday morning?”

  She blinked. “Saturday?”

  “A superstition of my mother’s,” he said with a sheepish smile. “She thinks it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see one another the day before the wedding.”

  “Oh.” She rose to her feet, self-consciously smoothing her dress and hair. “And do you believe it as well?”

  “Not at all,” he said with a snort.

  She nodded. “It’s very sweet of you to indulge your mother, then.”

  Anthony paused for a moment, well aware that most men of his reputation did not want to appear tied to apron strings. But this was Kate, and he knew that she valued devotion to family as much as he did, so he finally said, “There is little I would not do to keep my mother content.”

  Sh
e smiled shyly. “It is one of the things I like best about you.”

  He made some sort of gesture designed to change the subject, but she interrupted with, “No, it’s true. You’re far more caring a person than you’d like people to believe.”

  Since he wasn’t going to be able to win the argument with her—and there was little point in contradicting a woman when she was being complimentary—he put a finger to his lips and said, “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.” And then, with one last kiss to her hand and a murmured, “Adieu,” he made his way out the door and outside.

  Once on his horse and on his way back to his small townhouse across town, he allowed himself to assess the visit. It went well, he thought. Kate had seemed to understand the limits he had set upon their marriage, and she’d reacted to his lovemaking with a desire that was sweet and fierce at the same time.

  All in all, he thought with a satisfied smile, the future looked bright. His marriage would be a success. As for his previous concerns—well, it was clear he had nothing to worry about.

  Kate was worried. Anthony had been practically tripping over himself to make certain that she understood that he would never love her. And he certainly didn’t seem to want her love in return.

  Then he’d gone and kissed her as if there were no tomorrow, as if she were the most beautiful woman on earth. She’d be the first to admit that she had little experience with men and their desires, but he’d certainly seemed to desire her.

  Or was he simply wishing she was someone else? She was not his first choice for a wife. She’d do well to remember that fact.

  And even if she did fall in love with him—well, she’d simply have to keep it to herself. There was really nothing else to do.

  Chapter 16

  It has come to This Author’s attention that the wedding of Lord Bridgerton and Miss Sheffield is to be a small, intimate, and private affair.

  In other words, This Author is not invited.

  But have no fear, dear reader, This Author is at her most resourceful at times such as these, and promises to uncover the details of the ceremony, both the interesting and the banal.

  The wedding of London’s most eligible bachelor is surely something which must be reported in This Author’s humble column, don’t you agree?

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 13 MAY 1814

  The night before the wedding, Kate was sitting on her bed in her favorite dressing gown, looking dazedly at the multitude of trunks strewn across the floor. Her every belonging was packed away, neatly folded or stored, ready for transport to her new home.

  Even Newton had been prepared for the journey. He’d been bathed and dried, a new collar had been affixed to his neck, and his favorite toys were loaded into a small satchel that now sat in the front hall, right next to the delicately carved wooden chest Kate had had since she was a baby. The chest was filled with Kate’s childhood toys and treasures, and she’d found tremendous comfort in their presence here in London. It was silly and sentimental, but to Kate it made her upcoming transition a little less scary. Bringing her things—funny little items that meant nothing to anyone but her—to Anthony’s home made it seem more like it would truly be her home as well.

  Mary, who always seemed to understand what Kate needed before she understood it herself, had sent word to friends back in Somerset as soon as Kate had become betrothed, asking them to ship the chest to London in time for the wedding.

  Kate stood and wandered about the room, stopping to run her fingers across a nightgown that was folded and laid upon a table, awaiting transfer to the last of her trunks. It was one that Lady Bridgerton—Violet, she had to start thinking of her as Violet—had picked out, modest in cut but sheer in fabric. Kate had been mortified throughout the entire visit to the lingerie maker. This was her betrothed’s mother, after all, selecting items for the wedding night!

  As Kate picked up the gown and set it carefully in a trunk, she heard a knock at the door. She called out her greeting, and Edwina poked her head in. She, too, was dressed for bed, her pale hair pulled back into a sloppy bun at the nape of her neck.

  “I thought you might like some hot milk,” Edwina said.

  Kate smiled gratefully. “That sounds heavenly.”

  Edwina reached down and picked up the ceramic mug she’d set on the floor. “Can’t hold two mugs and twist the doorknob at the same time,” she explained with a smile. Once inside, she kicked the door shut and handed one of the mugs to Kate. Eyes trained on Kate, Edwina asked without preamble, “Are you scared?”

  Kate took a gingerly sip, checking the temperature before gulping it down. It was hot but not scalding, and it somehow comforted her. She’d been drinking hot milk since childhood, and the taste and feel of it always made her feel warm and secure.

  “Not scared precisely,” she finally replied, sitting down on the edge of her bed, “but nervous. Definitely nervous.”

  “Well, of course you’re nervous,” Edwina said, her free hand waving animatedly through the air. “Only an idiot wouldn’t be nervous. Your whole life is going to change. Everything! Even your name. You’ll be a married woman. A viscountess. After tomorrow, you will not be the same woman, Kate, and after tomorrow night—”

  “That’s enough, Edwina,” Kate interrupted.

  “But—”

  “You are not doing anything to ease my mind.”

  “Oh.” Edwina offered her a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Kate assured her.

  Edwina managed to hold her tongue for about four seconds before she asked, “Has Mother been in to speak with you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She must, don’t you think? Tomorrow is your wedding day, and I’m sure there are all sorts of things one needs to know.” Edwina took a big gulp of her milk, leaving a rather incongruous white mustache on her upper lip, then perched on the edge of the bed across from Kate. “I know there are all sorts of things I don’t know. And unless you’ve been up to something I don’t know about, I don’t see how you could know them, either.”

  Kate wondered if it would be impolite to muzzle her sister with some of the lingerie Lady Bridgerton had picked out. There seemed to be some rather nice poetic justice in such a maneuver.

  “Kate?” Edwina asked, blinking curiously. “Kate? Why are you looking at me so strangely?”

  Kate gazed at the lingerie longingly. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Hmmph. Well, I—”

  Edwina’s mutterings were cut short by a soft knock at the door. “That’ll be Mother,” Edwina said with a wicked grin. “I can’t wait.”

  Kate rolled her eyes at Edwina as she rose to open the door. Sure enough, Mary was standing in the hall, holding two steaming mugs. “I thought you might like some hot milk,” she said with a weak smile.

  Kate lifted her mug in response. “Edwina had the same notion.”

  “What is Edwina doing here?” Mary asked, entering the room.

  “Since when do I need a reason to talk with my sister?” Edwina asked with a snort.

  Mary shot her a peevish look before turning her attention back to Kate. “Hmmm,” she mused. “We do seem to have a surfeit of hot milk.”

  “This one’s gone lukewarm, anyway,” Kate said, setting her mug down on one of the already-closed-up trunks and replacing it with the warmer one in Mary’s hand. “Edwina can take the other one down to the kitchen when she leaves.”

  “Beg pardon?” Edwina asked, vaguely distracted. “Oh, of course. I’m happy to help.” But she didn’t rise to her feet. In fact, she didn’t even twitch, save for the back and forth of her head as she looked from Mary to Kate and back again.

  “I need to speak with Kate,” Mary said.

  Edwina nodded enthusiastically.

  “Alone.”

  Edwina blinked. “I have to leave?”

  Mary nodded and held out the lukewarm mug.

  “Now?”

  Mary nodded again.

  Edwina looked stricken
, then her expression melted into a wary smile. “You’re joking, right? I may stay, right?”

  “Wrong,” Mary replied.

  Edwina turned pleading eyes to Kate.

  “Don’t look to me,” Kate said with a barely suppressed smile. “It’s her decision. She’ll be doing the talking, after all. I’ll just be listening.”

  “And asking questions,” Edwina pointed out. “And I have questions, too.” She turned to her mother. “Lots of questions.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Mary said, “and I’ll be happy to answer them all the night before you get married.”

  Edwina groaned her way upright. “This isn’t fair,” she grumbled, snatching the mug out of Mary’s hand.

  “Life isn’t fair,” Mary said with a grin.

  “I’ll say,” Edwina muttered, dragging her feet as she crossed the room.

  “And no listening at the door!” Mary called out.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Edwina drawled. “Not that you’d talk loudly enough for me to hear a thing, anyway.”

  Mary sighed as Edwina stepped out into the hall and shut the door, her movements punctuated by a constant stream of unintelligible grumbles. “We shall have to whisper,” she said to Kate.

  Kate nodded, but she did feel enough loyalty toward her sister to say, “She might not be eavesdropping.”

  The look Mary gave her was dubious in the extreme. “Do you want to swing the door open to find out?”

  Kate grinned despite herself. “Point taken.”

  Mary sat down in the spot Edwina had just vacated and gave Kate a rather direct look. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

  Kate nodded.

  Mary took a sip of her milk and was silent for a long moment before she said, “When I married—for the first time, not to your father—I knew nothing of what to expect in the marriage bed. It was not—” She closed her eyes briefly, and for a moment she looked to be in pain. “My lack of knowledge made it all the more difficult,” she finally said, the slowness of her carefully chosen words telling Kate that “difficult” was probably a euphemism.

  “I see,” Kate murmured.