Chapter Text
He knew this was going to happen.
The royal announcement arrived in a thick envelope, sealed with the golden crest of the royal family, carrying all the pomp and authenticity of a royal decree, as if that made the situation any less absurd.
For months, London had been talking about it, about those so-called time-travel experiments. Some called them miracles of science; Anthony thought the term “organized catastrophe” far more accurate.
People from the past appearing and living alongside their future selves, only to vanish later as if nothing had ever happened.
None of it seemed to affect the timeline, or at least not the one they knew. If there was a fracture somewhere in the fabric of time, no one seemed interested in admitting it.
So, when he received the notice that his younger self would be arriving that week, Anthony was not surprised.
It was not the best moment, then again, there was never such a thing.
He only prayed that the version of himself who appeared would be over eighteen. He had neither the patience nor the tenderness to console himself if the boy still expected to find their father alive.
In any case, he prepared.
He informed the family; his mother ordered a room to be made ready, for no one knew how long the visiting version would remain wandering in the present. Some people had been trapped for months in times that did not belong to them.
He also told Miss Edwina. She listened with the same serenity and sweetness as always, finding the idea of meeting the “Anthony of the past” utterly charming.
He did not share her enthusiasm. Anthony had no intention of letting her learn more about him, nothing good could come of that.
Lady Mary had been present for the conversation, but Miss Sharma had not.
And, for some reason he preferred not to examine, that bothered him.
He did not know what she would think of the news, whether she would find it curious, or simply ignore it as she had done with everything concerning him lately.
Anthony only knew that, if the situation were reversed, he would want to see any version of her. To gather crumbs of anything about her life before London and drink in every possible piece of knowledge about Kathani.
Her real name he had discovered by accident, reading one of Lady Danbury’s legal documents while reviewing the dowry contract, he had planned to include a discreet clause, a reserved fund for Lady Mary and Miss Sharma, something that would guarantee them comfort.
He would have preferred to learn it from her lips.
But they were not friends. She would never share anything with him.
And she certainly would not care to know that a younger version of him was arriving.
It was, therefore, with an unexpected sense of relief that Anthony watched, that afternoon, as a not-much-younger version of himself entered Bridgerton House.
A year or two younger, at most.
Anthony Bridgerton had no interest whatsoever in fast-forwarding time.
He did not want to see the future, nor himself in it.
They had told him it was safe, that everyone eventually returned to their own time after a few weeks or months, but he did not believe in promises made by scientists meddling with something so unstable.
And he certainly had no desire to catch a glimpse of an older version of himself.
Nothing good could come of that.
Yet, when he stepped through the doors of Bridgerton House and found his family almost identical to the one he had left behind, and a version of himself still very much alive, he felt a wave of relief wash over him.
Although, knowing himself as he did, he could say with certainty that this future version was utterly miserable.
There was something unsettling about the older man. It wasn’t just the haircut, too short, too tamed, nor the absence of sideburns. It was the whole picture: the clothes without a single crease out of place, the cravat perfectly aligned, the waistcoat buttoned all the way up.
He looked stiffer. More restrained.
That man had hardened, and something about it reminded him of his early days trying to be a viscount.
It took barely three exchanged questions for everyone to realize he had come from just one year in the past, which came as a relief.
A year was little.
Too little time to ruin anything, or to learn something he did not wish to know.
“Where’s Daphne?” he asked, noticing that his eldest sister was the only one missing. “Did she marry the prince?”
For a moment, silence filled the room like an uncomfortable pause, before Hyacinth and Gregory began stifling their laughter behind their hands.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” said Benedict.
“It’s going to be a disaster,” Eloise replied, huffing as she dropped into an armchair.
Anthony blinked, confused. What the devil was going on?
“Perhaps,” began the other Anthony—the older version—“we should talk in the study. So I can bring you up to date on… recent events.”
There was something so condescending in the way the man spoke that it grated on him. It might have sounded like a suggestion, but Anthony knew perfectly well it was an order.
“Yes, you two have much to discuss,” said Lady Violet, resting a maternal hand on his shoulder.
“If there’s any time left in your schedule,” added Colin, mouth full of cake, “you might also talk about your fiancée. And the upcoming wedding.”
Anthony turned so fast he nearly stumbled against a small side table. “What?” His gaze darted to the other Anthony. “Who are we marrying?”
The elder sighed, visibly irritated.
Was he really that transparent in his displeasure?
“As I said,” the other replied, his voice dry and impatient, “we have much to discuss.” He gestured toward the corridor with a measured movement of his hand. The precise, almost impersonal manner irritated Anthony, no one gave him orders in his own house.
Still, he followed.
The younger Anthony could not decide what bothered him more: walking beside himself, or the sensation of being led through his own home like a guest.
The study was his refuge, or used to be. Yet upon entering, he had the strange impression of intruding into another man’s space.
Everything looked the same: the curtains were drawn, the desk was covered with papers yet perfectly organized. He watched as Lord Bridgerton walked to the desk, placed their father’s pocket watch atop a small stack of books, and sat in the armchair behind it.
Anthony stood for a moment, watching him.
It felt uncomfortable to think he would have to sit as a guest in his own study.
He forced a short smile, walked to one of the armchairs before the desk, and dropped into it with deliberate nonchalance.
If the other was a portrait of discipline, he would be one of indifference.
“So?” he asked. “What do you want to tell me first?”
“What do you want to know first?” came the reply.
Anthony raised his chin. “Daphne’s marriage, did she marry or not? And why does everyone think it’s such a great joke?”
The other sighed. At length. “She is married. And happy.” A short, measured pause. “To Basset.”
Anthony blinked, incredulous.
“What? Basset? The duke?” He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That man never had any serious intention of marrying, and you… you allowed him to wed Daphne?”
“I was against it,” the other answered curtly. “But they are in love. And they are well. Simon has proven a good husband.”
Anthony gave a muffled, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve gone soft. Or stupid. Perhaps both. Basset is a rake, a libertine. Hardly a man for one woman. I couldn’t imagine anyone less suited for Daphne.”
“Watch your words.” For a moment, the air seemed to vibrate between them. “Simon and Daphne are fine. They’re happy. He’s a better husband than most and a good father.”
“Father?”
“Yes. They have little August.” The older man rose, walking to the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “And when you see them,” he continued without turning around, “I ask that you don’t cause a scene.”
Well, the devil take him if he stayed silent. He would have a very serious talk with Basset and if his older self had become a docile man, he certainly did not share the defect.
Anthony leaned forward in the chair, impatient. “And what about your fiancée?”
The other turned slowly. “What about her?”
“Well, who is she?”
“She is Miss Edwina Sharma. She was named the diamond of the season.”
The name sounded strange to his ears, he had never heard of such a family.
“Sharma?” he repeated. “I don’t recall anyone by that name.”
“Not surprising,” the elder replied. “The family is new to London society. The father was secretary to the royal family in India. He died a few years ago. The daughters were educated in the English manner. Lady Danbury sponsors them.”
“Lady Danbury,” he raised his brows. “Good luck, then. I hope the dragon has kept her flames under control.”
The other did not find it amusing.
“And what is this Miss Edwina like?” The lack of information was starting to irritate him.
“The very picture of beauty and grace.”
Anthony tilted his head, studying him. Perhaps that was the most polite way a man could describe the woman he intended to marry.
Yet there was no enthusiasm in his voice. Not even a flicker of desire.
“Seems… suitable,” he said at last. “And what about Siena?”
“Our affair ended before the season even began. And it shall remain that way,” the elder replied, his tone bordering on a warning. “I want no trouble.”
“With your fiancée? Then it must be a love match.”
“Of course not,” the other snapped, offended by the mere suggestion. “Neither I nor you believe in such nonsense. Even so, I want no whispers. The Queen herself sponsors this marriage, and all of London’s attention is upon our family. I have no need of scandal.”
It all sounded dreadfully dull, exactly as Anthony imagined it would. Not a hint of amusement in sight.
“And when may I meet the future Viscountess?”
Lord Bridgerton hesitated, as though weighing whether he should introduce him to his bride.
“There is a ball tonight. However, there is no need for you to attend. I recall all too well how balls used to bore you to death.”
“I agree. But in this case, I’ll make an exception. I wish to meet the lady. And in the next ones, should I still be around, I might choose to devote myself to… more pleasurable pursuits.” He leaned back in the armchair, an insolent smile on his lips. “It might be interesting, after all, to be the younger brother.”
The elder’s jaw tightened. “Just what I need, another mouth to feed.”
“Let’s not forget the money is mine as well, Lord Bridgerton.”
The other’s gaze narrowed. “Do I need to explain how the law of primogeniture works?”
“No, of course not.” He mimicked him, adopting the same ironic and insolent tone. “But tell me, if I stay for more than a year, will you send me to the army, as you never had the courage to do with Colin?”
“Or to the clergy,” his other self replied with a wry smile.
Nothing truly seemed different.
Anthony reached that conclusion while Benedict’s valet, a frail, nervous-looking young man, struggled to straighten his white cravat with precision.
The world had advanced by a year, yet as far as his family was concerned, little appeared to have changed.
Except that now he was in a different room from the one he used to occupy, and it was no longer he who gave the orders in the house.
Anthony frowned at his reflection in the mirror, at the familiar figure staring back. He preferred this version of himself, with sideburns.
The idea of seeing himself turned into a respectable fiancé made his stomach churn.
Still, if he was doomed to spend some time in this future, he would at least make the most of it: attend the ball, inspect his supposed fiancée, draw his own conclusions, the ones the other Bridgerton so carefully avoided discussing, and afterward, perhaps, make a discreet visit to White’s.
It was unlikely the club had changed much in a year, and with some luck, if he were discreet, he might even find feminine company.
The valet adjusted the cravat, buttoned the navy-blue waistcoat, and waited, submissive, for approval. Anthony put on his coat, inspected the result, and nodded, dismissing him.
Descending the staircase, he found the rest of the family gathered in the hall.
Lady Bridgerton looked tense; the viscount—his older self—was visibly irritated. Benedict was absent, reportedly at the Royal Academy of Arts. Eloise wore her usual mask of intelligent boredom, and Colin… well, Colin was still Colin: cheerful, reckless, and perfectly useless.
It was comforting, in a way.
The carriage took them to Lady Cotswold’s Rose Ball. When their arrival was announced, the ballroom seemed to freeze for a moment.
Anthony was accustomed to being watched, he had grown up under the scrutiny of others, but never with such intensity.
And for once, he could not blame London society.
After all, there were two Lord Bridgertons, identical save for the color of their waistcoats: one blue, the other white.
“Let’s get this over with,” muttered the elder Lord Bridgerton, crossing the room with a furrowed brow, ready to face greetings and flattery with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution.
The younger kept a step behind, enduring the curious stares like one endures a toothache, with dignity, but irritation.
He saw Eloise slip discreetly toward the side of the room. He would follow her once the other was done introducing him to the fiancée.
He would not, under any circumstances, leave his sister alone in that nest of peacocks and serpents.
“It’s a pleasure, Lady Cotswold,” he said to their hostess, without truly looking at her, bowing just enough to satisfy decorum.
The woman, clearly intrigued by their peculiar situation, responded with an eager, overbright smile. It was obvious she intended to prolong the conversation, but both Anthonys managed to move away before she could.
The ballroom, filled with roses and mirrors, buzzed with the familiar hum of the season, false laughter, overly sweet perfume, and the constant rustle of silk.
Then Lady Violet, ever watchful, turned to the elder man. “Oh, I see Miss Edwina and her family near the flower arrangements, Anthony.”
The older Anthony followed his mother’s gaze, and the younger mirrored him, having no idea whom, exactly, they were searching for, since he did not know the girl.
Lord Bridgerton seemed to notice his curiosity, for he said, “The young lady in pink, at the end of the room. That is Miss Edwina Sharma. Do keep your best manners when you meet her.”
Good God. Did he always sound that pompous?
“Of course,” Anthony replied, scanning the guests until he found the girl in pink.
When he did, he noticed she was already watching them, a docile smile upon her lips, looking every bit the debutante she was meant to be.
Nothing wrong. Nothing interesting.
“She’s… short,” he remarked, more to irritate the other man than from any real objection.
The man beside him shot him a sharp look, while Colin tried to stifle a laugh behind his glass.
“Then she suits you perfectly, brother,” Colin murmured.
“Absurd,” he replied, shrugging and looking ahead again.
And then she appeared within his line of sight.
A young woman was approaching the lady in pink, adjusting her gloves with a kind of absentminded grace.
Her gown, a deep shade of burnt orange, like sunlight caught on metal, set off her warm skin in a way that made it impossible for his eyes to look elsewhere. The fabric moved over her body as though it had learned the shape of her by heart.
She turned her head slightly, and that single motion robbed him of breath. Her face was striking, high-boned, proud and her full lips curved in a fleeting, knowing smile. A few loose curls had escaped her coiffure, softening her poise, and the golden tiara caught the light against her dark hair, gleaming like fire over silk.
She was devastatingly beautiful.
Anthony stopped. Simply stopped, right there in the middle of the ballroom, as if his body had forgotten what to do next.
“What is it now?” grumbled the older man, noticing that he had stopped dead. He followed his gaze and something shifted in his face. His nostrils flared, his jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened.
“Who is she?” Anthony asked before he could stop himself.
“She’s Miss Edwina’s sister.”
Oh.
Bloody hell.
She must already be married. Otherwise, well, it was painfully clear that he would have chosen her over the sister.
“Out of your reach,” the elder warned in a low voice, gripping his arm to make him move. “Stay away from her.” That was all the man said before they reached the group.
Anthony barely heard the rest. His gaze had already found her again.
Two other ladies were standing with the Sharma sisters, Lady Danbury unmistakable with her cane and air of perpetual disapproval, and another woman with a kind face, who could only be their mother.
The older Viscount stepped forward, greeting the group with a perfectly trained smile the kind that never reached the eyes. “Lady Danbury, Lady Mary, Miss Edwina, Miss Sharma.” One word in the introduction caught Anthony’s attention.
Miss.
He lifted his chin slightly.
So she wasn’t married.
“I imagine you received my correspondence about… our guest,” the Viscount continued, turning to Anthony. “I admit I’m not entirely sure what the etiquette is in such a case, but allow me to introduce Mr. Anthony Bridgerton.”
Anthony bowed politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Miss Edwina was the first to respond, her sweet smile still perfectly in place. “The pleasure is ours, Mr. Bridgerton. What an exciting situation this must be!”
“It’s… something,” he replied, his voice dry, distracted. His eyes had already drifted inevitably toward her sister.
Miss Sharma gave a slight curtsey without saying a word. Then she looked away deliberately.
In fact, she seemed determined to look anywhere but at him or at Lord Bridgerton: the flowers, the floor, Lady Danbury, the ceiling.
Anthony tried to convince himself that she had no particular issue with him, perhaps she was expecting another gentleman.
Perhaps she was already engaged.
The thought was absurdly unpleasant, which was ridiculous. He hardly knew her.
And besides, she would be his sister-in-law soon enough.
He ought to be interested in the other one, the bride. That was the entire reason he had come to this ball: to meet Miss Edwina.
But he realized, with some discomfort, that he had already lost track of half the conversation.
When he came back to himself, Lord Bridgerton was already leading his fiancée to the dance floor, the matrons had retreated to a corner to gossip, and Miss Sharma, of course, had found an excuse to disappear.
Anthony looked around for her, but she was already heading toward the ladies’ retiring room.
Vanishing.
All that remained was Colin, standing beside him with his usual lazy smile.
“She’s charming, isn’t she?” said his brother, taking a sip of lemonade.
Anthony wasn’t entirely sure which she Colin meant. But he answered as best he could: “Yes, I suppose so.”
And he stood there, motionless, staring at the glittering room, trying to understand what had just happened to him.
The entire ball was unfolding as tediously as he had expected. He spoke with Miss Edwina after she finished dancing with the Viscount, nodded and smiled at her rehearsed answers, and was as attentive as he could manage.
He found Eloise outside the ballroom, chatting animatedly with Miss Featherington, and promptly placed her back in their mother’s line of sight, if only to prevent another sister from marrying a rake.
After that, he spent the rest of the evening dodging conversations and, above all, the matchmaking mamas who inexplicably approached him as if he were still a good prospect, ignoring the fact that the real Lord Bridgerton was already engaged.
“So,” said Lord Fife at one point, with the languid air of a man who had already had too much wine for one night, “enjoying the season?”
“A dreadful bore so far.”
“Ah, but you’ve the advantage of existing in duplicate,” said Cho, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Let the Viscount tend to his reputation while you enjoy… more gratifying company.”
Anthony raised a brow. “I hear Her Majesty has made my marriage a matter of national interest. A proper watchdog, if ever there was one.”
“Poor fellow,” Lord Fife mocked, swirling his glass between his fingers. “The great burden of being the most sought-after man of the season.”
“It is rather unfair,” added Lord Hatherleigh, a man Anthony found intolerable, “that, among all of us, you’re the only one who doesn’t have to pay to get married.”
Anthony turned to him, his gaze glacial.
“My dear fellow, speaking of money amidst music and champagne is the height of bad manners, almost as grave as losing what little one has at a gaming table.”
The others laughed; the target flushed but said nothing.
“And what about you?” Anthony asked. “Any of you decided to whom you’ll surrender the rest of your freedom?”
“Fife is about to propose to Miss Goring,” said Cho with a teasing smile.
“Nothing official yet,” Fife replied. “The young lady seems far too eager, and a sensible man distrusts women who want him too quickly.”
“Sensible man,” Anthony repeated with a laugh. “I don’t recall ever meeting one among us.”
“What did you think of the diamond?” asked Cho.
“Graceful,” he said, without emotion.
“Ah, the word men use when they don’t desire a woman but can’t bring themselves to criticize her,” observed Fife. “Your lack of enthusiasm is almost virtuous, Bridgerton. I daresay the actresses and opera singers will be grateful for whatever devotion you have left to spare.”
“I appreciate your concern, Fife,” Anthony replied smoothly, “but perhaps focus on the fact that even paid company rarely tolerates yours.”
Laughter broke out, the good-natured sort that followed Anthony’s own, enough to make it seem like camaraderie, not cruelty. Even Fife laughed, though with the look of a man who didn’t quite find the joke amusing.
“So,” Anthony said, feigning indifference, “is there anyone else of interest this season I ought to know about?”
In truth, what he wanted to know, though he could not explain why, was whether Miss Sharma was already spoken for.
The men began listing names, daughters of baronets, nieces of earls, heiresses of bankers, all, according to them, intolerably similar. They spoke of arranged matches, minor scandals, debts and dowries, but none of them mentioned Miss Sharma. It was as though her name didn’t exist in their world at all, which only intrigued him further.
When the group finally decided to move to the card room, Anthony excused himself politely and stayed where he was, his eyes immediately seeking out Miss Sharma’s, not that he had truly lost sight of her all evening.
There was something profoundly unsettling about that woman.
She stood apart from the dance floor, alone and solitude, in a lady, was never innocent. No vigilant mother would allow such a thing. No gentleman, however distracted, would fail to claim a beauty so arresting.
He watched her more closely from across the room.
Candlelight caressed the strong lines of her face, the deep brown eyes, wide and expressive, with the startled grace of a doe, the perfect curve of her full lips, the fine bridge of her nose, the slender waist hinted at beneath the fabric of her gown. The neckline, though modest, revealed just enough to stir the imagination of any man with blood still running in his veins.
She was, without exaggeration, a stunning woman and to be standing alone with such an air of indifference was, at the very least, unsettling.
Anthony felt an urge to decipher her.
What was wrong with her, after all?
She carried no dance card, something he did not fail to notice.
Perhaps she was promised, he thought, his gaze narrowing.
A fiancé, then. But where?
No man of standing would leave a woman like her alone in a ballroom.
The conclusion came with uncomfortable clarity: her betrothed must be of lower rank, perhaps a country baronet, a gentleman without title, someone insignificant, unworthy of mention among peers.
Anthony stifled a dry laugh. So, the future sister-in-law of the Viscount was promised to a man who did not even take part in the season.
Impossible, he thought, irritation rising. Surely he hadn’t become the kind of man who would allow such a disgrace within his own family.
He certainly needed to find out what was going on. He might even find her a more suitable match, or so he told himself as he began walking toward the lady.
When she was a girl, Kate, educated in both Indian and English fashion, thanks to her stepmother’s influence, had once heard, from a governess devoutly Catholic, the story of souls that, after death, were neither pure enough for heaven nor wicked enough for hell.
They lingered somewhere between the two, in a vast corridor of torment, where every mistake repeated itself and every pain renewed, until forgiveness at last set them free.
They called that place Purgatory.
As a child, Kate had imagined it made of fire and stone, with stern angels and golden chains.
Now she knew that her purgatory was London, for there could be no other explanation for being cast into such a torment.
As if one Bridgerton were not enough, now there were two.
She had spent most of the ball doing what she always did, pretending that sharing a room with the Viscount did not torment her, and that seeing him with her sister did not matter. Luckily, there were always enough flowers, and bouquets tall enough, for her to slip behind and redirect her thoughts toward anything else.
And now, she also had to pretend not to see the other one.
Kate had not expected the difference between them to be so striking. That man—that Lord Bridgerton from the past—had slightly longer hair, rebelliously untidy, and sideburns that had no business being so attractive.There was something insolent in his gaze, a wild spark in it, as though he might truly be the kind of man who would ruin a lady.
She realized, with some discomfort, that she found him attractive. Not elegant. Not distinguished. But very, very attractive.
It was absurd.
Utterly insane.
She had clearly lost her mind.
London was wreaking havoc on her sanity.
Or perhaps it was him, the damned man with the rough voice who whispered in her ear when they were alone, yet in public treated her like a nuisance, pretending she did not exist whenever they found themselves in crowded ballrooms.
It would have been so much easier if she could simply hate him. Sometimes she almost managed it, when she forced herself to remember how she had felt when he proposed to Edwina right in front of her.
But London was not inclined to be merciful to her.
It was precisely when she managed to steal a few moments behind a large arrangement of roses, just long enough to breathe and convince herself she was above it all, that his voice came.
Not the Viscount she was used to. The other one.
“Miss Sharma.”
She inclined her head politely, as etiquette required, and offered a small curtsey. “My lord.”
“You seem… remarkably solitary tonight.”
Kate held her polite smile. “Solitude is sometimes preferable to misguided company.”
He gave a low laugh. “Ah, but I fear that sounds ungrateful to your fiancé. It must be punishment enough to have you kept from dancing for so long.”
Her smile faltered. “My… fiancé?”
Lord Bridgerton gave a brief bow. “Indeed. I quite understand his absence, a provincial man, I imagine? Far too occupied with weighty matters to bother with the whims of the season.” His gaze dropped to her hands. “Which must be why you are not wearing a dance card.”
All versions of that man, apparently, were arrogant. And, clearly, blind.
“I do not wear a dance card,” she replied, with studied calm, “because I am no longer of an age for such frivolities. I am what one might call a spinster, as they so kindly say in England.”
He looked genuinely surprised and, to her delight, somewhat unsettled.
Kate tilted her head, savoring the moment. “It’s rather liberating, actually.”
“It doesn’t look particularly liberating when one is hiding behind flower arrangements.”
“I am not hiding.” The reply came out sharper than intended.
He raised a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Lord Bridgerton could help you find a good husband,” he continued. “I doubt he would deny a dowry to his future sister-in-law.”
Kate very much wished to end the conversation.
The idea of Lord Bridgerton—of all people—arranging her marriage was absurd, foolish, and unbearably cruel.
“I’m unsure whether to find your concern for my private life admirable, my lord, or simply irritating. But rest assured, I have no intention of seeking the Viscount’s help in finding a husband.”
“You don’t like him,” he said at once, his tone sharp, curious and far too perceptive.
“I have no opinion of the Viscount.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
He took a step closer, and the space between them seemed to shrink.
“You barely looked at him when he greeted your family. And, from where I stand, you seem to be punishing yourself this evening, keeping away from everything and everyone.”
“Sadly, not everyone,” she murmured, more to herself than in answer.
“You disapprove of his marriage to your sister?” He asked it as though he already knew.
Kate’s heart gave a sharp, traitorous leap, and her breath caught for a few seconds, because the answer was yes. She did disapprove.
She remembered Lady Danbury’s words in the park: ‘A scandal from which the impoverished Sharma family would never recover.’
“No…” she said, far too quickly.
His smile made it clear he didn’t believe a single word.
“That’s all right, Miss Sharma,” he murmured, that insolent gleam in his eyes. “I don’t much like him either.”
“You’re the same person!”
“Yes,” he admitted with a laugh. “But you see, I haven’t yet become the tedious man he is. I can hardly blame you for finding his company unpleasant.”
“Is this some sort of test, to see if I’ll speak ill of you behind your own back?”
“Never.” He leaned a little too close, and his scent reached her: faint tobacco, polished wood, and something warm, almost spicy, that made the air between them feel heavier.
She very much wished he would step back, but she didn’t move.
“You think they’re a poor match,” he went on, turning his eyes toward the dance floor. “Or do you think she could have done better?”
Kate tried to ignore the heat climbing her neck. “If you must know, I think my sister is the sweetest, kindest person alive and she deserves nothing less than a husband who loves her.”
“And you don’t believe he can do that for her?” asked the Viscount before her.
“Do you believe he can?” she challenged.
“I hardly know the young lady,” he replied, evasive. “But it’s a suitable match and one approved by the Queen.”
“Yes.” She nodded, resigned. The marriage did seem perfect for Edwina. It would bring her every comfort she could ever need. She would never know hardship, never worry about another year’s expenses. “But I wish she could have both, a good marriage and a good husband.”
“And you don’t think Lord Bridgerton will be a good husband.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Well, what I think hardly matters. The wedding is already set.”
For a moment, he only studied her. Then, with a hint of curiosity, he asked, “Is there any other reason you dislike him?”
“No.” Too fast again.
“Then I’ll take you at your word,” he said, smiling. “Which means you’ve nothing against me, since I’m not yet your sister’s fiancé.”
“Yet,” she reminded him.
“Indeed. In any case, until then, you mustn’t judge me for actions I haven’t yet committed.”
“Then I won’t.”
“Excellent.”
He stepped away and for an instant, she thought he had gone. But he soon returned, holding two glasses of champagne.
“A promise deserves a toast.”
“I made no promise.”
“Oh, you did. You promised not to judge me.”
“I did not.”
“You gave me your word.”
Kate couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out light, unexpected, warming her cheeks. “Fine,” she conceded. “You have my word.”
Their glasses touched, the sound lingering in the air longer than it should have.
The champagne fizzed and burned pleasantly on her tongue, but not nearly as much as his gaze, fixed on her, curious and just a little too self-assured.
“You know,” he said, swirling his glass between his fingers while studying her face, “we have more in common than a mutual dislike for the Viscount.”
Kate raised an eyebrow. “Do we?”
“I don’t much like these balls either.” He looked around with an expression that was equal parts boredom and mild horror. “Technically, I’m a foreigner here too.”
“I don’t think one qualifies as a foreigner if one was born in this country and has lived here all one’s life.”
“Well, perhaps not a foreigner, exactly, but someone out of place. And I don’t like dancing either.”
Kate kept her polite smile. She had nothing against dancing, in truth, she rather liked it. But that was not something she intended to confess to him. It was far more convenient for everyone to believe the story of the spinster who disdained such things.
And nothing—nothing in the world—would make her admit she had enjoyed dancing with the Viscount at Aubrey Hall. Just recalling the foolish feelings he’d stirred in her was enough to make her flush with shame.
“Oh, I can imagine,” she said lightly. “At the first ball of the season, you seemed to be having… considerable difficulties on the dance floor.”
The corner of her mouth lifted in a teasing smile.
The man before her blinked, confused.
“I’m an excellent dancer,” he said indignantly, straightening his shoulders.
“I think poor Miss Hallewell might disagree.” She laughed even more.
“Who?” He frowned, the line between his brows deepening. It was ridiculously endearing to see him so bewildered.
“At the first Conservatory Ball,” she explained, leaning in slightly as though sharing a delightful secret, “you and Miss Hallewell were on the dance floor, it was painful to watch your lack of grace, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed. “I assure you, I dance perfectly well. Why don’t you grant me the honor of a dance, and I’ll prove just how capable I am?”
Oh, God, she thought. The man is ridiculous.
“I don’t have a dance card, remember?” she lifted her wrist as proof.
“That can be arranged,” he said, already glancing around as if he truly meant to summon someone.
“No, it cannot,” she cut in. “Because if I dance with you, I won’t be able to refuse any other invitations without appearing rude. So I’d rather not dance at all.”
Of course, that wasn’t the only reason. She simply didn’t want to dance with him. It didn’t matter that he was a different version of Anthony Bridgerton, he was still him. And she knew all too well what happened when he got too close.
“You really are avoiding attention, aren’t you?”
His tone was teasing, but his eyes, those insistent, searching eyes, seemed to look straight through her.
And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to the Viscount’s gaze on her. It was that this version of him seemed determined to understand her, as if she were some kind of puzzle.
And Kate had no desire to be solved.
So instead of being honest, she managed a false smile and said, “I simply don’t see the point in taking part in all this nonsense when I’m not in the marriage market.”
“I knew it!” he exclaimed, delighted, with the childish triumph of a man who’s just won a bet. “I told you we had much in common.”
He looked so pleased with himself, so absurdly smug, that Kate’s laughter escaped before she could stop it.
Unfortunately, it was precisely at that moment that the other one appeared.
Lord Bridgerton, the current one, the man she spent most of her days trying to ignore, emerged from among the guests, his expression dark as thunder as he looked from one to the other.
“What the devil are you doing hiding here?” he demanded, his tone glacial enough to make the air feel heavier and guilt crawl up Kate’s spine.
“We’re hardly hiding,” replied the younger version. “We’re standing in the middle of the ballroom.”
But the older man didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes had already found Kate’s and, as always, held her there like a punishment.
Her heart quickened, not from fear, but from the unbearable awareness of his attention. Overwhelmed, caught between them, she could feel the weight of both their gazes pressing down on her.
For heaven’s sake—for all saints, gods, and deities in every faith—why was she being punished with two versions of Anthony Bridgerton?
“The night is over,” said the elder in a tone that brooked no argument. “We’re leaving. Your family is looking for you, Miss Sharma.”
Kate seized the excuse and dipped her head in farewell.
“Good evening, my lords.”
She turned and walked away before either could say another word, though she could still feel their eyes on her as she crossed the length of the ballroom.
And if there was a hell reserved for women who flirted with fate, Kate was quite certain she had just stepped into it.
Anthony had no idea what was happening, but he knew, with the same certainty with which he knew his own name, that something was very wrong with his older self. And somehow, he would find out what it was before he was sent back.
He stayed quiet for most of the carriage ride.
He heard only his mother’s soft chatter, Colin’s enthusiastic remarks, Eloise’s distracted replies.The other Viscount sat motionless, staring into the darkness outside the window, jaw tight, fists clenched over his knee.
And though Anthony answered the occasional question mechanically, his mind was elsewhere.
With Miss Sharma.
She was all he could think about.
He didn’t even know her full name, he cursed himself for not asking, but he’d been far too distracted by her smile, by the way she looked away from him as if he were dangerous, and by her scent: floral, fresh, clean, like the memory of a pleasant spring day.
When the carriage stopped and everyone bid their goodnights in the hall, the Viscount went straight to his study without a word.Anthony would have let it go, if not for the persistent unease gnawing at him. So he followed.
The study was darker than usual, lit only by a few candles and the fire in the hearth. The Viscount sat behind the desk, pretending to read something he clearly wasn’t reading.
“I have work to do,” he said without looking up. “I can’t entertain you.”
Anthony clasped his hands behind his back, fighting the irritation of being dismissed. “Why were you so rude to Miss Sharma?”
The sound of her name seemed to ignite something in the Viscount, his head snapped up, eyes flashing with sudden, feverish anger.
“I told you to stay away from her.”
“Is something wrong with her?” Anthony asked. He needed to know. “If you consider her a problem, then why in God’s name are you marrying her sister?”
“There’s nothing wrong with her.” The answer came too fast.
The Viscount ran a hand along his clean-shaven jaw and leaned back in the chair, as though trying to compose himself. But Anthony could see it, the flush rising in his face, the vein pulsing at his temple, his fingers gripping the armrest until the knuckles turned white.
“Why are you suggesting that?” the elder pressed.
“Because she spent the entire night alone, hiding behind vases and people—”
“And why the devil were you watching her in the first place?” the Viscount cut him off.
“I think you know my reasons.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tugged at his cravat in a sudden, frustrated motion, as if the fabric were strangling him.
“Unless you’ve gone blind in the past year, you must have noticed she’s a very beautiful woman. She’s under Lady Danbury’s patronage, her sister is about to become Viscountess Bridgerton and yet she does everything in her power to make herself invisible. I was merely curious to know why.”
There was a pause. Something in the other man’s expression told Anthony that the Viscount did not appreciate his candor.
“She has no interest in marriage,” the elder said at last, each word sounding as though it cost him effort. “Just leave her alone.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” Anthony prodded. “Knowing your future sister-in-law intends to remain single?”
“That’s none of my concern.” He gave a bitter grimace. “And neither is it yours.”
Anthony tilted his head, studying him. “Has it never crossed your mind to marry her instead of the sister?”
The Viscount went pale. “Why would you suggest that?” he demanded, eyes wide, voice no longer steady, as if he’d just been caught doing something wrong.
“As I said, she’s very beautiful.” Anthony saw the man’s jaw tighten. “Graceful. And, from what I gather, as well connected as her sister. It seems the sensible choice.”
“Miss Edwina is the diamond of the season.” His voice was slow, controlled, cold as ice. “The Queen herself introduced us. She is the one I’m meant to marry. Besides, Miss Sharma has no interest in marriage. It isn’t what she wants.”
Anthony watched him in silence. The tone was too cold, the hands restless, the eyes refusing to meet his.
He was lying.
And worse, lying badly.
But there wasn’t much to be done. He knew himself well enough to recognize that, once he shut down like that, nothing could make him talk. He would bury himself in whatever torment haunted him and shut the rest of the world out.
So it would be up to him to find out what was wrong with this story.
He was halfway to the door when the Viscount spoke again. “Stay away from her.” This time, the warning came out as a growl.
Anthony didn’t reply. He simply closed the door and walked away.
When he went to bed that night, a bed he did not know, which made sleep all the more elusive, his thoughts were all of her.
Miss Sharma.
He could still smell her perfume. He couldn’t have said which flower it came from, only that there was something in it that made him want to taste her skin.
He remembered the curve of her breasts beneath the light fabric, the narrow line of her waist, the tempting fullness of her mouth. That image of her was what kept him awake long after the house had fallen silent.
When he woke the next morning, he felt bruised all over, his body sore, his neck stiff, his sleep broken into short, restless hours.
He went down to breakfast without much enthusiasm.
Lord Bridgerton was already at the table, the newspaper spread open before him, but as soon as Anthony entered, the elder cleared his throat, snapped the paper shut, and stood.
“I’m going to Parliament later,” he said, with no attempt at courtesy. “Find something to do, your club, fencing, whatever it is you waste time with. Just stay out of trouble.”
Anthony raised his brows but held his tongue. The sharp, deserved retort hovered behind his teeth, but he swallowed it, settling instead for a curt nod as the man strode from the room in long, irritated steps.
The door closed. The silence that followed was filled only by the clinking of silverware and the cheerful voices of his siblings, all talking at once, as they always did.
Anthony sank into a chair, poured himself some coffee, and began to eat slowly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the luxury of enjoying a meal. The scent of warm bread and fresh coffee almost made him forget, for a moment, the constant unease this future stirred in him.
“What are your plans for today, dear?” his mother asked.
He looked over the rim of his cup, wary.
“I haven’t given it much thought.” He swallowed a piece of bread, keeping his tone even. “Perhaps I’ll take the Viscount’s advice and go to White’s.”
“Oh, that would be good.” She smiled, stirring her tea, her eyes much too perceptive. “I’ll be with Miss Edwina and Lady Mary this afternoon. We’re going to the modiste, then they’ll come here for tea. We plan to discuss the final arrangements for the wedding and Miss Edwina’s new household. You might join us, it would be a good opportunity to know her better. You hardly spoke last night, did you?”
“Will it be just the two of them?” he asked, aiming for indifference.
“Lady Danbury has an audience with the Queen, so only the two have confirmed.”
He nodded slowly, chewing his omelet. The name he truly wanted to hear, Miss Sharma, hadn’t been mentioned. Asking would be reckless. Violet would see through him in an instant.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said at last, setting his fork down. “Besides, I doubt I could be of any use in matters of trousseau and ribbons.”
“But it would be very kind of you, Anthony—”
“I’m sure Miss Edwina will be delighted with whatever the ladies decide,” he cut in with a polite smile.
Violet studied him for a moment, as if tempted to press further, but only nodded.
He lifted his cup again, an idea beginning to take shape, dangerous and tempting.
So he waited, idling in a kind of leisure he was not accustomed to, until Lord Bridgerton left for Parliament and his mother departed for the modiste, before finally setting out himself.
When the carriage stopped before Lady Danbury’s house, the footman who received him regarded him with evident curiosity, likely because of the sideburns, which betrayed that he was not the right Viscount.
“I’m here to see Miss Edwina,” he lied effortlessly.
“Miss Edwina is not at home, Lord Bridgerton.” The man hesitated slightly over the title.
Anthony wasn’t sure he still had a claim to it, but thought it best not to correct him.
“Oh, what a pity. And Miss Sharma?”
The footman looked at him a moment too long, as if to make certain he had indeed said what he meant. “She is at home, my lord.”
Anthony merely nodded and followed the man into the drawing room.
It didn’t take long for Miss Sharma to appear.
And the moment he saw her, Anthony realized that memory had betrayed him. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.
Her scent filled the air, mingling with the faint sound of fabric brushing against skin and the soft chime of jewelry shifting as she moved.
Her eyes, dark and alert, regarded him with caution; there was something almost defensive in her gaze.
“Lord Bridgerton.” Her voice broke the silence with elegance, though confusion still lingered in her expression. “We weren’t expecting your visit. My sister isn’t here.”
“I know.” She looked even more puzzled. “I mean, the footman told me when I arrived. So I thought that, since she isn’t home, perhaps we might take a walk.”
She didn’t answer right away.
“I’m sure, given the nature of your visit, you have far more interesting things to do,” she said, smiling politely. “I wouldn’t want to steal your time.”
It was a dismissal.
Gentle, firm and completely ineffective.
There was nothing he wanted less than to leave. And nothing he wanted more than to stay. Not out of any foolish romantic impulse, of course, he told himself, but simple curiosity. He needed to understand what it was about her that unsettled his older self so profoundly.
“I’ve nothing more pressing to do. And if we are to be family in the future, it would be pleasant to spend a little time together, wouldn’t it?”
“I thought you and Lord Bridgerton weren’t the same person,” she said, the words sharp as a blade.
“We’re not,” he replied, keeping his hands clasped behind his back in a show of false docility. “But one day, both of us will belong to the same family. There’s no harm in wishing to know my future sister-in-law, is there?”
She seemed to think for a moment, no doubt searching for a polite escape, then asked, with the calm precision of someone setting a trap:
“Do you like dogs, my lord?”
He blinked, surprised. That was not the question he’d been expecting.
“I’ve nothing against dogs,” he replied cautiously.
“Perfect.” She adjusted her gloves, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I was just about to take Newton for a walk. If you’re so eager to become acquainted with your future wife’s family, perhaps you might accompany me in this task.”
Anthony almost laughed. She truly thought he would back down.
You see, he had never been particularly fond of dogs and she, it seemed, knew that. But there was something in her challenge, in that silent confidence that he would retreat, that compelled him to do precisely the opposite.
“I would be delighted to have the opportunity,” he said, with false modesty.
And she was left with no real alternative.
He suppressed a smile as he watched her leave the room, her steps firm, the fabric of her gown shaping itself to her body with every graceful movement.
Lilac, he thought, was an indecently beautiful color on her.
A few minutes later, she returned.
She had a short, round corgi in tow, who, despite his considerable weight, looked quite thrilled by the prospect of a walk.
“Hello, dog,” Anthony said, leaning down to greet the creature that was apparently of great importance to Miss Sharma.
“His name is Newton,” she replied, and the dog wagged his tail, as if pleased by the mention.
“Right,” said Anthony, straightening up. “Shall we, then?” He offered his arm.
She hesitated for a moment, perhaps debating whether it would be wiser to refuse, but in the end, she placed her hand on his arm.
If his body reacted instantly to her nearness and her scent, Anthony chose to ignore it.
They stepped out together from Lady Danbury’s house. The London air was cool and damp, the sound of other carriages blending with the distant laughter of passersby.
Newton trotted happily ahead, tugging at his leash with determination.
A quiet sense of satisfaction settled in Anthony’s chest, not only because he’d convinced her, but because, quite simply, it was pleasant to be in her company.
“I must confess,” he began, breaking the silence, “that although we’ve been formally introduced, and you are, so far, the person I’ve spoken to the most in this place, I still don’t quite know how to address you properly.”
"Miss Sharma’ usually suffices,” she replied without even glancing at him, her eyes fixed on the dog sniffing his way along the path.
“Ah, yes, of course.” He pretended to think. “But it feels… impersonal, considering we’ll be family soon.”
She turned her face toward him. “Then you suggest we break decorum?” Her tone was light, though her eyes studied him carefully.
He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, Lord Bridgerton still called her sister ‘Miss Edwina,’ after all, but he would sooner die than not know her first name.
“Perhaps only bend it a little,” he replied, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t keep calling you ‘Miss Sharma’ when even your dog answers to a name.”
She seemed to consider it for a moment before dipping her chin slightly and saying, “Kate. My name is Kate.”
“Kate,as in Katherine?”
“No.” She looked at him with those lovely brown eyes, as if deciding whether he was worthy of what she was about to share, then said softly, “Kathani.”
Kathani, it sounded like the name of a princess. It suited her perfectly.
“It’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, a shy smile, but sweet enough to make something warm stir uncomfortably in his chest.
She turned away almost at once, and Anthony noticed the faint flush coloring her cheeks.
“God,” she murmured, lifting her face toward the sky, “it’s nice to feel a bit of sun in this perpetually cloudy country.”
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, her face bathed in gold, the breeze playing with the loose strands of her hair. Newton stopped sniffing for a moment, perhaps equally entranced.
Anthony had no idea how long he’d been standing there simply watching her. There was a restless lightness about her, an effortless grace that made him want to… keep looking.
He cleared his throat, as if the sound might scatter whatever had begun to take hold of him.
“You haven’t been enjoying England, then?”
She frowned, turning her face toward him, genuinely surprised by the question.
“I’m here for my sister’s season. There are so many engagements, balls, teas, dinners, it’s difficult to find time to enjoy anything at all.”
He thought there was something deeply wrong with that, the idea of a woman like her living entirely for her sister’s whims.
“But there’s nothing you’ve done just for yourself?”
She seemed to consider. “Well… I do enjoy riding. I’ve done it less than I’d like since I arrived, but still, I’ve had a few chances. I rode at Aubrey Hall, for instance.”
He looked at her, surprised. “You’ve been to Aubrey Hall?”
“Yes, just over a fortnight ago. A lovely place.” Her whole face brightened as she spoke, and he felt a sudden, irrational swell of pride that she liked his country estate.
“I also went out for a hunt,” she continued. “But the men were dreadful at listening to reason, so we ended up catching nothing.”
Anthony almost stumbled.
“You hunt?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, lifting her chin and giving him a look of challenge, as if daring him to comment.
He wanted to ask whether the Viscount, his older self, had approved of her hunting with the men. There was no world in which he would have thought it appropriate.
It was reckless. Dangerous.
And yet, all he could picture was her astride a horse, the strength in her thighs, the curve of her back, the wind ripping through her hair as her body moved in rhythm.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
Anthony turned his gaze to her. “I doubt that very much.”
She looked away, but the faint flush on her cheeks betrayed her. His tone had not gone unnoticed.
“In any case,” she went on, tightening Newton’s leash, “aside from the activities at Aubrey Hall, I’ve had few chances to enjoy what England has to offer.”
They had reached the edge of the park. The dog pulled ahead, sniffing flowers and chasing the shadows the wind scattered across the ground. Sunlight filtered through the trees, spilling in patches of gold and shade across her face.
“Well,” he said, “now that your sister is engaged and the wedding is being organized by the Queen herself, I imagine you’ve a bit more time.”
“Yes… a little.” She hesitated. “But I… I don’t have friends in England.”
She didn’t look at him when she said it. Her voice came soft, and then she lifted her chin quickly, as if to disguise the confession.
“No friends?” Anthony frowned. “Hard to believe.”
“But it’s true. I… I don’t mind being unmarried, truly I don’t.” Her tone was steady. “But it can be a little lonely, and I don’t know many people here yet.”
He didn’t like hearing that. He couldn’t have said why, perhaps it was the resigned tone, or the quiet loneliness in her eyes, but it unsettled him.
“Well,” he said before he could stop himself, “I could be your friend.”
She turned her face toward him, startled.
It was, admittedly, a ridiculous idea.
He didn’t have friends, not real ones. He had duties, acquaintances, the occasional alliance. The closest he had ever come to a friend was Basset, who had betrayed him and married Daphne without his approval.
And yet, he’d said it anyway. Perhaps it was simply that he couldn’t stand the sadness in her eyes.
“It’s hardly possible that you could be my friend,” she said, voicing precisely what he was thinking. “You don’t even know how long you’ll be here.”
“Which makes me the perfect friend.”
She raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
“Look,” he went on, “I know London better than anyone. I have… free time now, since there’s another me doing all my work. And, frankly, I find your company delightful.” His smile widened. “Besides, if we’re seen together, no one will think it strange. After all, we’ll soon be family.”
She seemed to consider that, her eyes scanning his face as if searching for the trap.
“Surely you have more interesting things to do. Aren’t you curious about your life here? I thought you’d want to follow the Viscount. Or perhaps… my sister.”
“Well, your sister is busy with the wedding preparations.”It was a weak excuse, and he knew it.
She was right, he should be spending time with his future fiancée, not her sister. But that wasn’t what he wanted.
“What were you doing before you came here?” she asked.
“It was my sister’s season.”
“The Duchess, right?”
“Yes.” He gave a humorless laugh. “I was busy looking after her and failing rather miserably at it.”
“She seems very happy. Married to a duke, with a lovely child… she doesn’t strike me as anyone’s idea of failure.”
“I’ve no idea how that happened,” he admitted. “But I doubt I had anything to do with it.” The name Simon sat heavy on his tongue. “I can’t imagine I ever approved of Basset.”
“You have something against the Duke?” There was genuine curiosity in her voice and somehow that made him want to answer.
“We used to be friends,” he said, running a hand over his jaw. “Perhaps we still are. But knowing him as I do, I knew he wasn’t the right man for her. Basset never wanted a family and that’s all Daphne ever wanted. I don’t know what she had to give up to make him change his mind.”
“Oh, I understand that perfectly.” She stopped, turning to face him. “That was my concern about my sister’s marriage to Lord Bridgerton. Their interests are… incompatible. Edwina is sweet, romantic. She wants and deserves love. And Lord Bridgerton…”
“Doesn’t want a marriage built on love,” he finished for her and the air between them grew heavy.
“Exactly.”
Anthony didn’t reply.
He had always believed marriage ought to be an arrangement, sensible, practical, free of sentiment.
But now, hearing those words from her lips, he couldn’t help wondering what had changed in him a year later. What had driven him to choose a woman who did want to marry for love.
Perhaps Kate was right to disapprove of the match, and to dislike him for it, just as he’d been disappointed in Simon for what he’d taken from Daphne.
“I could speak to him,” he said, trying to sound practical. “Make him see reason.”
“It would do no good now.” She shook her head, a small, resigned motion. “A broken engagement at this point, after the Queen’s approval and the announcements, would be a scandal my sister would never recover from.” She shrugged. “What’s done is done.”
Anthony didn’t know why he felt so utterly wrecked by that.