Archive of Our Own

In retrospect, Kathani Sharma could not truthfully say that she had nursed high hopes for the gentlemen of England. She had spent all her girlhood years in India, but the English gentlemen who had ventured there had not been of a calibre she would have envisioned for her sister. Majority were boorish, drunken louts, and the ones who were not did not seem to venture out into society. Sample prediction dictated that this was likely to be representative of the rest of the country. 

She had not seen fit to share that with her young, impressionable sister, Edwina, of course, nor with her absent-minded mama, Mary. There simply had not been the need to trouble them. Not when they had hung all their hopes on a mythical English gentleman who might catch Edwina’s eye from across a crowded ballroom (Almack’s, in Kate’s wistful imaginings, though who was to say where they might find a voucher), fall desperately and violently in love (or at least with enough fervour to be able to ignore Edwina’s lack of dowry, connections, and the additional burden of two unsupported ladies), and whisk her away into a life far superior to the one Edwina had known thus far. 

Not that that was to say that the life she had known was bad, per se. It was just that it could not go on forever. 

Not like this. Not without money.

And that was the sticking point, really. To find a wealthy English gentleman was difficult enough. To find an independently wealthy gentleman, ideally titled, who was willing to overlook these flaws of Edwina’s which were truly no fault of her own - well, that seemed nigh on impossible. Improbable. Implausible. 

But Kate Sharma was not one to admit defeat so easily. Therefore, she held her tongue as they sailed across what felt like the Charybdis, buttoned her lip as Edwina and Mary waxed lyrically of the parties they would attend, and shelved her pride to entreat Mary’s dour parents for assistance. 

Finding a gentleman for Edwina might be difficult, she reasoned with herself, but it was not going to be impossible, improbable, or implausible. Not if she had anything to do with it. 

Or at least, that had been what Kate Sharma had thought. In this instance, however, she was wrong. 

Finding a gentleman for Edwina was not to be the issue.

Finding a gentleman at all would prove to be the problem. 

Or rather, finding one particular man to be a gentleman would be the sticking point.

Or, to be plain, the challenge that Kate Sharma would soon face would be her entanglement with that one man whose behaviour she would not, under any circumstances, term that of a gentleman, no matter how many times he might arrogantly proclaim himself so. 

*** 

Anthony Bridgerton was a gentleman. This required many things of him. Not least of all: exacting control over any errant wish or desire that might befall him along the regimented road that some might call the merry walk of life. This was not usually a problem. There had been many a time where Anthony had obtained control over his wishes. Soul crushing desires took plenty of experience for one to keep them in check; an experience Anthony had in spades. This — self-awareness, commitment and, of course, the humility involved while recognizing such (for he was so, very humble) — was to be expected and, therefore, not to be praised; as it was his duty as the firstborn Bridgerton son, nine times over.

If only he did not also carry the burden of other responsibilities and the performance of a great number of deeds on a daily basis. It was also his duty to bear the heavy weight of his family’s reputation - to meet the ton’s expectation how a Bridgerton heir must act and to uphold this pristine view of his family name so as not to tarnish his siblings’ future. 

All that to say that for Lord Anthony Bridgerton the idea of straying from his late father’s teachings of what was to be a gentleman was very much unfathomable.  

And yet, on that foggy London morning, being a gentleman was the absolute furthest thing from Anthony’s befuddled mind. 

She was a comely woman. That was apparent from the start. The very first moment in the woods when she appeared, a mirage through the mist, a miracle on horseback, set his pulse to rise. His breeches were quick to follow. One flash of her face, a hint of her tawny skin beneath the muddied hem of her skirt and he had been lost to lust, driven restless with want.

This was, of course, for a man of such fine countenance as himself, hardly the first time he had been seized by desire. He had found his pleasure between many pairs of prettily parted thighs, delivered it ripe on his tongue to whichever woman was writhing beneath him in rapture on any given evening. But such pleasure was a containable thing, one that could be restrained by one’s own self-mastery. And yet he felt beholden to it on that fated morning, entirely at the mercy of his flesh. Nay, at the mercy of hers.

He snapped the reins to hasten his pace, pursuing the woman as she raced across the green and cleared a hedgerow with outstanding grace. It was then that he saw her face, fine-featured and proud, a self-satisfied smile curving upon her lips and softening the edges of her dark eyes. He wondered what those lips might feel like against his own, if her lashes might flutter low when satisfaction overtook her, if he might clutch those ink-dark curls in his palm as he came.

The tip of his ears reddened at the thought; the air still and burnt inside his chest. She was barely visible as he chased her through the mist, yet that seemed of little importance to his deranged brain. His blood was rushing, hot and fast, while all the while his breeches grew tighter. 

He came.

Devil take him, he had just spent in his trousers on the back of a horse with less dignity than a green boy in his bedchamber.

For a moment, he feared the woman might have noticed, distant though she was. A slight furrow had found its way to her handsome brow before she shook the expression loose and turned heel toward the field beyond. Compelled by no great gentlemanly urges and undeterred by the slow-seeping seed soaking his trousers, he followed the woman once more, calling out when he neared. She startled at the sound and cursed under her breath. The words were unintelligible but her voice was beautiful all the same – like raw silk, fluid with a frayed edge. 

He doffed his hat to her as their horses grew closer, hooves treading a slow gait. Said hat was positioned precariously over the mess of his lap for the remainder of their sojourn. He said some words. As did she. His cock stirred again. He grew ever-grateful for the height of such a hat.

Anthony closed his eyes momentarily, letting the contours of her speech spread over him with warmth. His breeches strained further. It had to be some sort of magic in her. That, or a great malady in him. Never had he been so affected by a woman’s presence, let alone the mere sound of her voice. His eyes opened once more, gazing upon the marvelous slope of her nose and the sharp cut of her jaw. A tendril of hair, loose from her braid, swept over the curve of her cheek. Dared his fingers to follow. Her mouth. Her bosom. Her scent. All of her was intoxicating, it seemed.

He had little recollection of their conversation, too aware that he had been thinking with his cock and, thusly, speaking from his arse. Moderately incensed – and perhaps mildly amused – by whatever drivel he had managed to string into sentences, the woman, still unnamed, offered a proposal.

“Perhaps we pretend this encounter never took place?”

He adjusted the hat resting over the dampened crotch of his breeches and nodded stiffly.

“Indeed.”

She left for her victory lap with a peal of laughter and a parting wave, Anthony perched dumbly on the back of his steed. Watching her pert arse rise and fall with the rhythm of her horse’s galloping, the scent of lilies blooming in her wake, his vision turned white. So too did his trousers. It was only then, with the clarity of mind that is born of empty bollocks, that he realised he never got her name. No need, though. He would not be seeing her again. Nor would his body behave in such an unbecoming manner if he did.

This was the first time Kathani Sharma had thrown his cock off-course.

He had been naïve in his hope that it would be the last.

***

Anthony would have liked to say that, upon encountering the woman from the park for the second time, he had conducted himself with the balance and poise expected of a man in his position. A man raised to be the epitome of a gentleman, who had witnessed enough women in his bed to not be reduced to a state of humiliation before a lady for the second time.

Unfortunately, what happened next was not something his pride would survive with grace.

In his most foolish hopes, when he saw her emerge from the shadows of the garden, he smiled. It was an attempt at charm, a silent prayer of thanks to luck for finding her again. That, of course, was before discovering she possessed a sharp tongue, insolent manners, and was entirely pretentious.

Who did she think she was to speak to him in such a manner?

And why, in God’s name, was his body reacting to it as if it had been graced rather than insulted?

“I find your opinion of yourself entirely too high,” she snapped and Anthony’s cock throbbed in response, hard as stone, reacting to her insolence with an urgency that terrified him. “Your character is as deficient as your horsemanship. I shall bid you goodnight.”

That final sentence was the spark. The combination of the disdain in her eyes and the way her silk gown clung to the perfect curve of her backside as she turned to leave was too much for his meager resistance. Right there, standing in the middle of the garden while she walked away with the elegance of a queen, Anthony felt the violent spasm.

Fuck. Not again. 

He had nowhere to run. The pleasure came as a punishment – hot and shameful, ruining the fine linen of his breeches as if he were a green boy having his first awakening in a low-rent brothel. He watched her silhouette disappear, feeling like a hunted animal. That woman, whose name he still did not even know, had certainly bewitched him. She was a witch, he was convinced.

With a growl of fury, he ripped off his coat, using it to cover the front of his breeches. He could not return to the party in such a deplorable state. Moving through the side shadows of the conservatory, he skirted the estate until he reached his carriage, his mind on fire.

She had not affected him at all, he told himself, already settled in the dark interior of the carriage.

She was merely a petulant stranger. It did not matter to him that she found his requirements for a wife offensive. Her opinion mattered very little. So did her sharp tongue. So did her eyes, dark and steady as they met his. So did the sound of her voice, which had lodged itself under his skin to an absurd degree.

None of it mattered.

It was only deeply inconvenient that his body insisted on proving him a liar.

Anthony could not even reach his bedchamber. What remained of his desire drove him to the nearest private room. By the time he shut himself inside the office, it had become unbearable. With one hand braced heavily upon the oak desk, he freed his member with rough movements.

He imagined her there, bent over that very same desk, her silk gown hiked up to her waist. He would teach her a lesson in how to behave. His cock was already throbbing, hot against his palm as he closed his eyes and evoked the image of the white stockings she wore, the contrast of the pale silk against the tawny skin of her thighs.

He would set himself behind her, pressing his rigid, pulsing length against her perfect backside, aligning their bodies before yielding to the brutal impulse. He would make her moan his title between muffled whimpers, begging him to give her pleasure.

In his mind, he buried his face in the curve of her exposed neck, breathing in her maddening scent, biting at her skin while his hands held her firmly against the desk. One of them slipped beneath silk and stays to find the soft peak of her breast, kneading with a roughness that matched the violence of his need. 

When release finally overtook him, he pressed a handkerchief to himself, stifling a roar of satisfaction and hate. He slumped into his chair, his breathing heavy, the office suddenly far too silent.

The shame settled in only after, thick and sour, once the heat had burned itself out. He should not have allowed himself such mental debauchery with a lady. She was clearly a woman of birth, someone from whom he should keep his distance at all costs. She was not an object for his darkest desires, and much less a candidate for a wife – not if he wished to maintain his sanity and the integrity of his breeches.

He would set his sights on the diamond. Whoever she may be, he could not imagine she'd be a woman like Miss Sharma. That is, he would not react to her as he did to Miss Sharma.

***

Lord Anthony Bridgerton was a thoroughly unsatisfactory suitor. He knew it, and Kate knew it, but oh, if only Edwina could know it too. Being named the Queen’s Diamond seemed a coup, even if Kate couldn’t quite understand the sense in it, for all that it had attracted a bevy of eager young bucks to their door. She was hardly one to look a gift horse in the mouth though, for the Queen’s admittedly arbitrary decision now meant that Edwina could have her pick of the litter, squalling young pups these English gentlemen seemed to be. 

But why then, did Edwina want him? 

More specifically, why did Edwina wanting him mean that Kate had to be in his vicinity? She thoroughly disliked him, that much she knew. How else could she explain the way her heart thumped emphatically in her chest whenever he neared, or her occasional inability to breathe when he looked at her with that strange fire in his eyes – dislike, no doubt. The occasional stabbing in her throat whenever his gaze slid right off her was dyspepsia, she was sure. The incidental clamminess of her palms was simply her fight or flight response, not that she was apt to give in to the latter. No, she could not be held responsible for her biological (and therefore very natural) response to his presence. Dislike, nay detestation, presented in mysterious ways, or so it seemed. 

And then there was the matter of how strange the man was. Presumably with Edwina he came equipped with a semblance of charm (dubious) and the ability to speak more than five words without breaking off into a queer sort of expression, back stiffening, and muscles ticking in his face (no evidence to the contrary). Presumably with Edwina he did not break off halfway through a sentence, turn tail and awkwardly amble away in a manner that appeared that he was trying to run but had put on pants two sizes too small, thereby restricting his motion and his attempted ability to flee. 

It was all very peculiar. 

No more peculiar though, than the way Lord Bridgerton had insinuated himself between her and Edwina. That itself was not the perplexing part. Odd and unsuitable as the man might be, there was nothing objectively wrong with trying to foist some nearness on the woman he might be considering taking to wife. The day was fine, blood was running high at the prospect of hearty horseflesh, and even Kate was enjoying herself as she peered over the heads of the gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen, all assembled to watch the race.

There was nothing she loved quite so much as riding. In her youth, her father used to take her out across the country. Away from the stifling confines of the city the air had felt lighter, the wind more tender as it brushed her face. Even after her father had died, she would steal away in the early hours of the morning when she was least likely to be discovered to relieve the stress and tension from the hard days in the wake of being left behind. It had always been a balm. Soothing. Entirely unlike her first ride in the Park where her encounter with Lord Bridgerton had left her flustered, heart racing. Inexplicably. Presumably that reaction had something to do with the change of air, though she had not attempted a repeat encounter. 

Lord Bridgerton was a fine rider, she recalled now, though Kate had not known who he was then. Nor how he would plague her. Why, just the other night, he had played a most pivotal role in one of her dreams – though the less she dwelt on that now in public the better. Already her cheeks were growing hotter. Her gaze was instinctively drawn to Lord Bridgerton’s seat, as he stood. He had a very fine derriere. That was simply an objective assessment. 

As she stared, Kate found herself returning to peculiarities of the man. What was truly perplexing about his behaviour this afternoon was the way that he did not seem inclined to speak to Edwina. Nor was he encroaching on Edwina’s personal space in that sly, flirtatious way men seemed to employ: coy brushes of skin on skin, a stray touch on a bare wrist. Stares that lasted a little too long or dropped a little lower than was appropriate. No. Lord Bridgerton was certainly not employing any of that –

… on Edwina, anyway. 

But he very much did seem to be employing it. 

The crowd jostled her as the horses and their riders lined up at the starting line. Kate’s breath caught sharply in her chest as the person next to her – Lord Bridgerton’s schoolfriend, Mister Tom Dorset – pushed her into Lord Bridgerton’s very hard, very firm body. 

Lord Bridgerton had introduced them at the start of the afternoon then proceeded to scowl most fearsomely at him every time Mr Dorset attempted to speak to Kate. It was almost comical to see Mr Dorset’s dismay, and the pathetic way he looked toward Lord Bridgerton. Given the frequency at which that occurred, and the way Lord Bridgerton tended to position himself between them, it hadn’t been too difficult to discern his objectives. Distract the sister, Kate imagined he had told Mr Dorset. Distract the sister so I can court the Diamond. 

Only, he didn’t seem too interested in courting either Edwina as a person or Edwina as the Diamond. No. He seemed more interested in hounding Kate. Once, she had even seen him use that very nice derriere to gently butt Mr Dorset out of her vicinity. 

The crowd surged again, and Kate stumbled, reaching out blindly for something to steady herself. Lord Bridgerton’s arm came up around her waist, briefly steadying her against his body and releasing her swiftly when she had maintained her balance. Kate’s heart stuttered. He was so very warm. He smelled so very nice. 

She chanced a glance sideways at Lord Bridgerton - Anthony, she had cried out for him in her dreams. He was still so very near to her, his arm resting lightly against hers; shoulder brushing shoulder. She could still feel the shadow of his palm laid over the back of her waist, and she wanted - god, she wanted - to pull him even closer until their scents mingled and they could not tell each other apart, nor where he began and where she ended. 

But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? He was infuriating, awkward, impossible. He could barely share space with her for longer than two minutes - this current encounter was likely some kind of record for him. And not to mention, they were in public in full view of the entire ton, and they were with her sister, who he was all but courting, and he didn’t even like her; and –– God. She had never wanted anyone this much. 

***

It had been entirely too much to hope for that Anthony might have been able to contain himself at the races. 

It was actually exceedingly fortunate that his release had been containable within his breeches. Certainly, he had felt it dripping shamefully down his leg on his journey home. 

It was just … Miss Sharma had looked so magnificent cheering her chosen horse to its victory. Her cry of triumph had been so … rousing … that Anthony had been helpless against the image that his traitorous mind had conjured up: Miss Sharma in his arms, Miss Sharma in his bed, Miss Sharma splintering around his cock with that self-shame victory cry. 

How exactly was a man to resist? 

That, of course, was not going to happen tonight. Animal spirits were naturally high at the races. It was only to be expected: men and women alike enjoyed a spot of gambling - it got the blood going. His little - alright, it was sizeable - indiscretion - or voluminous at the very least - was not standard, exactly, but – considering the brief history of his interactions with Miss Sharma – it was appallingly predictable. 

But a poetry reading, on the other hand. Well! That was certainly not designed to rouse Anthony’s spirits, nor his cock. Verse had always cooled, rather than raised his ardour. Something about the triteness of rhyme. 

What a poetry reading was designed to do, however, was woo Miss Edwina, which was his main objective. Wasn’t it? 

He glanced at the woman in question. She had been utterly blown away by the words he’d stolen from Benedict, and even more so when he had caught a glimpse of her sister and found himself unable to continue with his stolen valour. 

She was pretty, charming, and utterly perfect for his purposes: it would be of no trouble to muddle along with an easy sort of life. He would not fall in love with her. But that would all be for naught, would it not, if he could not tolerate more than five minutes in her sister’s company without a cockstand. A wedding, for example, would be utterly intolerable, not to mention an entire life.

He looked at Miss Edwina experimentally. Perhaps it was not Miss Kate Sharma that was the issue. Perhaps it was just his cock that was broken. Or whatever the opposite of broken was. Perhaps any woman would ignite this fire in him, not just she. 

But though he stared at Miss Edwina long and hard, nothing stirred: not in his soul, nor in his pants. 

Impossible. This affliction of his was surely not isolated to Miss Sharma. Why that would entirely stymie his plans - for who would want a husband, however disinterested, who was only able to achieve completion while staring at another woman. Most uncouth. Dreadful for business - the business of making heirs, of course. 

Anthony looked at Miss Edwina harder, but to no avail. 

“My lord?” His scrutiny had not gone unnoticed. Miss Edwina looked thoroughly discomfitted. 

“I beg your pardon,” Anthony mumbled. “I was not attending.” 

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “I am boring you! I forget that not all men share my love of Byron. Certainly my sister does not.” 

Anthony’s perfidious cock made a half-hearted attempt to stir at the invocation of the sister. He blinked away his annoyance. This preoccupation with Miss Sharma was illogical. It would not do. His frustration made him terse. 

“I’m not a man of poetry. Words of flattery are beautiful and sweet, but they’re also hollow unless accompanied by action. I may not be able to offer a display of passion that you truly deserve. But I assure you that when it comes to action and duty, I shall never be found lacking,” he said, feeling the bitter lie of those words as soon as they fell from his mouth. 

That’s what they were: lies. Not because any of the words uttered were dishonest, nor because he did not mean to follow through on them. No, these words fell flat only because they were not meant for Miss Edwina. Certainly, Miss Edwina did not receive them well either, if her disappointed pout was anything to go by. 

Out of the corner of his eye, as if conjured by magic, he saw her. It was strange how realisation struck: part by part and fractured, then suddenly! the sea: a beautiful dark gown, glimmering in candlelight; that small twist upon her lips, her hands atop of one another, gently resting over her stomach; her serious eyes, all the while watching him just as closely, but always looking away the moment their eyes meet. 

It was her, and only her, for what he feared was to be always and forever. 

All of the words were for her, but they went unheard. And just what was the point of that – what was the point of actions if not directly expressed? 

***

Expression did not seem like a problem for one Lord Anthony Bridgerton. That was to say, there were likely many who might have taken issue with the expression he currently wore on his otherwise handsome mien; certainly the young ladies of London did not typically like to be looked at as though they had relieved themselves in a chamberpot in front of him. Well, Kate had always prided herself on having more gumption than that, but it was still mildly disconcerting. She supposed that gentlemen typically did not enjoy being bested in a sport, although, for some reason, she had thought Lord Bridgerton might have been a better sport than that. 

Stupid.

In any case, it had been a very unpleasant and silent venture into the forest to retrieve the balls that she had, in a fit of pique, whacked most soundly off the pall mall pitch. He had even started that awkward waddling walk that he seemed to employ around her and only her. Her presence seemed so repugnant to him that he had had to whip his hat off his head in frustration. He was clutching it now in front of him, hair mussed in a particularly delicious way, turning its brim over and over. The furrow between his brows was deepening, and Kate knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was because of her.

Really. Was she truly that odious that Lord Bridgerton could not tolerate her company, even momentarily?

The branches scratched a little at her arms as they pushed through the undergrowth. How likely were they to even find two small balls in such a thick cover of foliage, Kate wondered. She winced, rubbing her arm. Hopefully it had not drawn blood. Lord Bridgerton glanced back, noticing her discomfort. He said nothing, but did manage to tear one hand away from his hat to hold another stray branch out of her way.

“Thank you,” Kate said. Far be it from her to be churlish. 

“Mmph,” Lord Bridgerton grunted, eloquently. He stopped suddenly. Kate, not expecting his sudden halt, ran directly into him. The stiffness of his walk had set into his shoulders now, and the rest of his body. She shivered, suddenly recalled to his palm on the small of her back, that day at the races. 

He stepped away quickly and she felt the loss of it. 

“There,” he said, pointing. Sure enough, perched there in the mud were their two balls. He made no move to retrieve his. 

“Well?” Kate said. “Will you not play?” 

He looked dubiously at the mud and then down at his very fine boots. 

“Will you cry off then?” Kate mocked. She should hold her tongue, she knew – Lord knew the man despised her enough. But there was something singularly satisfying about riling him up. Watching him squirm. “Are your boots too fine, my lord?” 

Through gritted teeth, Lord Bridgerton eked out, “Do not worry about my boots.” 

The squelch when he stepped into the mud was delightful, but not more so than the way his expression twisted with distaste. Barely looking at the direction the ball travelled, he hit it as quickly as possible, and then with a hop and a skip he was free from the mud.

Kate’s turn then. She stepped in. 

Well. It was significantly colder than she had expected. Stickier too. Perhaps the English mud, like the English men, were designed to suck at one’s spirits. Certainly Kate’s position on the ground, like said spirits, were growing more and more … depressed. 

She had just barely enough reach to tap her ball lightly so that it rolled out to solid ground. Retrieving herself, on the other hand, did not seem so simple.

She tugged experimentally at one foot, then the other. The mud did not see fit to release her. 

She glanced up. Lord Bridgerton had half turned away. He was still clutching that infernal hat. 

“Um, my lord?” she ventured. “Some assistance?”

“Hm? Oh.” Still, he did not seem inclined to release the hat, sparing her the grasp of only one hand, his left. He yanked, ineffectually.

“I think you might need to come a little closer,” Kate suggested, a little tersely. He was rendering her aid, no doubt, but did he have to do it from such a distance? She had no intention of spending the rest of her life in this quagmire. 

For some reason, Lord Bridgerton blushed, the tips of his ears turning pink. Before Kate could puzzle that mystery out, he was taking one step into the mud and then another, his grip tightening around her forearm. 

His hand was very nice, she noted hazily. As were his eyes, when they were not screwed up in disgust at her. In fact, they were very brown and very warm. A girl could drown in eyes like those.

It was an unfortunate time to have that realisation for it meant that Kate was utterly unprepared for the force of Lord Bridgerton’s tug. Instead of rising to meet it, she found herself toppling forward, finally freed. Not expecting the full force of her weight, Lord Bridgerton overbalanced too, his eyes – the same ones that Kate had just been dreamily contemplating – widening in shock.

He stumbled, hands flying up and his hat with it, uncovering his groin in the process. Kate could not help but notice the very prominent bulge featured – but it was too late to have any significant realisations, for then he was falling and she was falling and his hand was still caught tightly around hers so they both tumbled down together. 

He twisted as they fell, so that he would take the brunt of the fall, his body cushioning hers and preserving the front of her gown. By unfortunate circumstance, Kate found that she was straddling him, legs spread around his body, the very centre of her pressed against the very hard ridge that it appeared he was containing in his pants. 

Oh, she thought, pulse racing wildly. Her thoughts were echoed by a strangled moan emanating from Lord Bridgerton’s lips. His fingers were curled impossibly into her hips, moving her body up and down to rub against him. He caught against her entrance and the spike of pleasure and heat that rushed through Kate did not seem like it could be contained by her body. 

“Oh,” she groaned, aloud this time. The sound seemed to recall Lord Bridgerton to himself and he set her aside with haste, as though her skin burned. That was understandable – certainly Kate felt as though she was burning up from the inside. She ached to touch him. She ached for him to touch her. She wanted him nearer, further, away from her. And she could not take her eyes off the swelling in his pants that Lord Bridgerton was trying so hard and with such futility to conceal.

Kate had been around enough farm animals and other children to know what that hardness meant. 

Was it possible that Lord Bridgerton did not, in fact, despise her after all? 

Was it possible that he desired her instead? 

***

God. How was it possible for his need to be this strong and his cock this hard? Surely it was not healthy for a man’s skin to grow this fervent. 

Yet there appeared no other way to erase these feelings but to indulge.

It was a delirious dance: the loosening of his breeches, the quickness with which he stood from his seat, the panting, the blood painting his cheeks, the sweat, the sound. He could almost smell her scent, could almost believe that she was near. Could almost believe that she too suffered from that same ailment and that she would succumb if he asked. 

It was with - and because of - the memory of her voice and how it rumbled through his flesh that he groaned; it was with the image of her hair, unbraided and flowing that he moaned her name; it was by imagining her taste, the sounds she would make, and the feel of her skin against his that he spilled his seed over his desk.

And with that, the rush – the eagerness that had overcome him and continued to do so whenever he thought of her – went as quickly he had come, leaving only shame. 

Utterly humiliating.

Even more so, if he considered that it was not remotely the first time that this had occurred. In fact, it seemed to never stop occurring. 

Still, he tried to convince himself that it was of no consequence. Out of sight, out of mind, after all. That was to say, if he could contain his lust until he had secreted himself out of sight then, surely, it would not matter. It would be as if he did not lust for her at all. 

***

Once Kate had reached the realisation that it had been lust, not dislike driving Lord Bridgerton’s intolerance of her company, it felt like the universe conspired to keep them in company. She could not account for how it had started, only that it did not seem to stop. 

On this occasion, they were ostensibly on a hunt but had somehow managed to separate from their company. That he had allowed her to accompany the men at all had given Kate the flutter of tender feeling towards him, begrudging as his acquiescence had been. But that had been near-instantly extinguished by his infernal need to rouse her temper … and other tender feelings. Heated words were exchanged, though she could not now remember specifics. It was tone that mattered. Tone, and the fact he was standing so damnably close. His gaze had dropped to her lips and he was shifting uncomfortably once more. He looked like he wanted to devour her whole. 

As seemed to frequently be the case – for who would concern themselves with a spinster? Not her stepmother, certainly – there were no chaperones in sight, and as always, they were too close and utterly alone. Propriety seemed to only be a notion they both demanded due to their positions in society, yet skirted around in actuality. 

Anthony Bridgerton was a sight to behold when angry, whole body vibrating with the blood rush of the fight. As if he was not distracting enough with his handsome good looks and boyish charm he seemed to turn on everyone but Kate. Spitting vitriol just shy of malice, they were entangled into each other's orbits, unable to disengage as the rest of the world faded. 

Kate’s vision sharpened down to the crinkle hewn deep in his brow, to the stubborn set of his mouth, and to the uncontrolled, feral look in his eyes as he leaned forward to yell at her. He was beautiful in the way a talwar was beautiful; cold, and ruthless, but artfully made. And she – she was overcome with the sudden sense that she would be unable to rid herself of him, no matter how far she sent herself. And god, how she wanted to bury herself in the marrow of his bones so that he would be unable to rid himself of her, so that the knowledge of her would linger, long after his lust had faded.

She roughly shook her head as if to rid herself of the thought. A pin came loose, several curls spilling from their bonds, and Anthony went still. 

His eyes were wide, like a chital encountering a tiger, suddenly overcome. There was nothing but base instinct – no better than an animal. 

"Lord Bridgerton?" 

He gave no response. 

She tried again. "Anthony?" Led by a desire she did not entirely understand, she reached a hand towards him, fingers lightly skimming the sliver of skin at his wrist between glove and sleeve. A frisson of want swelled, warm and demanding and low. 

She swallowed a moan. He – he did not. 

A low groan – no, a desperate keen – rumbled through his chest, and Kate could not just hear, but see how his breath hitched, how his eyes went wider and wider, as if he himself was shocked at the reaction she had just been privy to. For a moment, the air between them stilled. 

Kate swallowed, heat still pooling somewhere deep in her belly, spreading further and further the longer she looked at him, the longer he kept looking at her. There was something in his expression she couldn't fully explain, yet it felt familiar, a twin flame or mirror image of something she knew deep in her bones but couldn't name. 

Words formed on the tip of her tongue, but before she could speak, the man in front of her - the usually so composed lord, the rake - opened his mouth, closed it again and ran. 

Kate blinked, watching him disappear between the trees. Now that she knew better, she could afford him some sympathy for how uncomfortable each step must have been. His waddling gait made so much more sense now that she had become familiar with the shape and size of his … ardour.  

Letting out a long breath, the moan that she had repressed mere seconds ago finally escaped. Damn that wretched man! Damn him and the way his entire being set her on fire, made her want the most indecent and stupid things despite knowing all too well that it would only lead to ruin and misery. 

Because that was the problem with Anthony Bridgerton: his presence silenced that inner voice that should tell her to flee, to run, to turn around, leave and never come back. But it didn't. Instead it whispered of want. Of need. Of desire. 

There was nothing to it. She'd have to take care of these… feelings soon, lest they drive her to insanity. At night, under the cover of darkness and crisp linens, with nimble fingers, and images of him doing unspeakable things to her flashing before her eyes. 

Would he touch her the way she imagined him touching her, should she ever be reckless enough to ask? Or would he just laugh at her and call her a fool? Not so long ago, she'd have been sure of the answer. But that was before today, before he made that sound looking at her like… 

The revelation sent a shiver down her spine. Anthony Bridgerton had looked at her like a man willing his blood to rush upwards and failing miserably. It would have been the sort of rakish behaviour she'd have expected from him if it wasn't for the fact that instead of taking a step in her direction, instead of uttering words no gentleman should ever say to a lady, he had fled. 

A faint blush coloured Kate's cheeks as she thought of what he might have fled to do, and she repressed the urge to run after him. Though not well-versed in specifics, she’d had sufficient exposure to the world to know what it meant when a man – when a man looked at a lady like that. 

Kate closed her eyes, bit her lip and let out a shuddering breath, then a whimper, pressing together her thighs. 

***

Her thighs. God. He could barely breathe for thinking of the glimpse of her thighs. Perhaps that had been the reason that he had been driven so utterly out of his mind. And not just her thighs - the hint of her bosom, and that enticing, maddening collarbone. He had had no business thinking of her in that manner. He had invited Miss Edwina to Aubrey Hall for the purposes of courtship, for god’s sake. He had no business thinking of Miss Kate Sharma, nor of how her skin would taste beneath his tongue, nor how she would cry out as his teeth scraped across her chest. 

Anthony threw himself into his room and slid to the floor, palming himself with a desperation that he could not recall having reached. 

No business whatsoever, Anthony reminded himself, even as he rubbed himself, imagining that his hands were hers – only that he knew that she would taste exquisite, that her thighs – those wretched thighs—would clench around his hand as she writhed in the pleasure that he would bestow.

He had been moments from disgracing himself, and her, he knew – hell, he was debasing himself on her account now – and so he had run. Having her at Aubrey Hall was entirely too much. The library had been too intimate, as the pall mall field had been too passionate, as their interlude during the hunt had been too – had been too –

Words failed him then, as they failed him now.

Well. It didn’t particularly matter. He had come off in his breeches then, as he was on the cusp of doing now. 

Hopefully Kate – Miss Sharma – hadn’t noticed. Surely she was too much a gentlewoman to realise that his choked, strangled breathing and sharp intakes of air was not because he had been apoplectic with rage. And his awkward, waddling gait as he had dismounted from the end of his sticky canter had not been because he had let himself go to seed in town. 

Quite the contrary. He had had a different sort of mounting in mind. A different sort of seed. And riding – god, he would ride her all night long, if only she would deign to look at him with those fiery, hunted eyes; or perhaps she would see fit to sit astride his pr –

Ah.

Anthony pressed his hand to his mouth in an effort to stifle his groan. The image he conjured had been too much and his self-control splintered, taking him with it. He convulsed - once, twice - and came off in his pants, yet again.

From the other side of the door, he heard footsteps. 

“Goodness,” came Miss Edwina’s voice. “Did you hear that?” 

Anthony froze, stickily. 

“I did,” Miss Sharma replied. What the devil was she doing here? Had he summoned her with his thoughts? “It sounded like some kind of wounded animal.” 

At the sound of her voice, Anthony’s cock twitched, valiantly spurting its last – for now, in any case. Indubitably, the new day would bring with it more inconvenient cockstands.

”A wild beast, indeed,” continued Edwina, sounding puzzled. “I must admit to being a little afraid.” 

Miss Sharma laughed. “For you I would face it head on.” 

Their footsteps and voices faded. 

Anthony was left with headache and a now-familiar burgeoning damp patch on his pants. 

Promises, promises, he thought. 

*** 

The events surrounding the hunt haunted her. No, Anthony haunted her. 

She did not ask to be plagued with thoughts of him. She could barely breathe for thinking of his muscular thighs straining against good breeches. It was so unfortunate that he was such a proficient rider, despite her assertions otherwise, for surely a deficient horseman would not have her laying in bed at night, dreaming of how masterfully he controlled the animal. 

Kate would go to her grave before admitting that she had deliberately exposed her leg to Anthony Bridgerton, but turnaround was fair play. He had, after all, done the same to her. It was nothing more than leveling the field - of what game, though, Kate found she was at a loss. 

And if she felt a modicum of guilt, teasing the man who, despite his actions at Aubrey Hall, was for all intents and purposes courting her sister, she hid it away – just as she did with every single one of her wants and needs and desires and aches – and never once allowed herself to dwell on those feelings, for they always brought conflicting and complicated feelings. Kate should be focused on Edwina’s prospects. This was no time for self-indulgent pity. 

Of course, occasionally her self-control did leave her, and she could not stop herself from wallowing in the bitter, glorious ache of it: in the yearning of her heart … and between her thighs.

***

In the sober light of day, all that remained was an aching sense of shame in Anthony’s chest and shameful sensation of ache in his balls. They gathered on the drive to see off their guests. The Sharmas’ visit had come and gone so quickly – almost as quickly as Anthony himself. He had made negligible progress in his courtship of Miss Edwina. By now, he was near convinced that they would not suit. How could he continue to endure Miss Sharma’s presence? Surely he would die of dehydration if this continued any longer. 

Still, the thought of returning back to the drawing board, of consulting his lists to find a suitable lady felt exhausting. All he wanted to do was to fulfil his duty to his family: to wed expeditiously and get on with the business of continuing their life. 

He had not anticipated Miss Sharma – Kate. He had not anticipated how she would stymie his plans. It was incredible how deeply Miss Sharma had ingrained herself in his brain. No matter how many times he touched himself while dreaming of her it was never enough. How would it feel, he wondered, to truly have her? To feel her warmth engulfing him, to touch her skin and press his lips over her. To hear her sighs and moans - ah, the noises she would make. Her hands on him - on him - touching and her mouth kissing and her tongue licking and— 

A sound; Gregory’s laughter, stirred him from his dreams. 

What was he doing? What kind of malady had overcome him for him to be so cuntstruck? He must put an end to this. He must come back to reality, must think with his head - the higher one - first. 

He must propose. To Miss Edwina. Surely an engagement would frighten him back to his senses. Surely that would set him right. The ring secured in his pocket seemed to burn a hole. How difficult could it be? He had practiced the words just the night before. Now they repeated themselves over and over inside his addled mind, warping into something different. Would you do me the honour? Please do? I will be in an extremely confusing situation if not? 

But there was no time to think – the Sharmas were leaving. He had to act now, and quickly.

“Wait!” he yelled towards his leaving guests. It was all so close, nearly within his grasp. Soon he would no longer have stained breeches; he would be free of her.

“Milord?” Miss Sharma was standing next to Miss Edwina and – 

God. 

His heart leapt in his throat. It was her eyes, her deep, beautiful eyes, staring into his soul with an expression so similar to hope. Her dark purple gown somehow only made her beautiful skin shine more. Her lips, wet, inviting and wanting. 

Oh god. 

Oh god –

“Lord Bridgerton? We are waiting,” said Lady Danbury. The cane in her hand tapped in time with the rise of her brow. 

Anthony gulped. 

“Ah –,” Miss Sharma’s voice was all too knowing, as was the look in those beautiful eyes as they lowered to his pants. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, though it did not help in the slightest. 

God. It was all futile, wasn’t it? He would never stop thinking of her. Quickly, Anthony rethought his course of action. “It is nothing! All is well! Good journey!” 

His voice had come out too strained yet he could not bring himself to care. Miss Sharma, a lady, had seen and understood the physical evidence of his lust for her. Anthony’s cheek turned crimson. 

Hands covering his growing bulge, Anthony all but ran away to the insides of his house, rushing towards the solitude of his bedroom. And if he heard muffled laughter and snickers from his siblings - well. He simply would not perceive it. What did they understand, after all? What did they understand of the trials of a gentleman and the consequences that it wrought?

***

She harboured no aim to think of him further. Truly. From the moment their carriage door closed, Kate had every intention of casting Lord Bridgerton aside, turning him to ash in her memory. Her sister, however, had other plans.

“Lord Bridgerton did not propose.” Her sister’s brown eyes were wide and watering, chin wobbling and dimpled. “Whyever did he not –” Edwina’s voice broke on a wounded sound. “Do you think it was something I have done?”

“Of course not.” Kate reached for her sister’s hands, which were knit tightly and blanching against the peach silk of her frock. “He is a knave, Edwina. He does not deserve you.”

“He is a viscount,” Edwina insisted through tears. “If there is anyone undeserving, it is me.”

“You are the diamond,” Kate reminded her sister fiercely. “And he is a wretch.”

“Miss Sharma.”

Lady Danbury’s voice was pointed as it cut across the carriage, a small blade slanted between Kate’s ribs.

She bared her teeth in aggravation.

“Do you disagree?”

“I will not stoop so low as to engage in that sort of talk. My disagreement is with this discussion occurring while we are still on the viscount’s drive.” The old woman’s eyes shifted to the carriage window. Kate’s gaze followed.

There was a brief flicker of movement in the library window, but there was little to suggest any undue earwigging. Perhaps a drape fluttering in the morning breeze. The drive was empty. The Bridgerton family had already retreated into the estate and their staff was quick to follow. Still, she worried for a moment that she might have been heard maligning the master of the house. Not that she would not do the very same to his face. In fact, she wagered he might enjoy it as much as she would. She was certain, in fact, that he would rise to the occasion.

“Some decorum, Miss Sharma, would do you well.”

With that, Lady Danbury rapped her cane on the roof of the interior and the horses took to a slow trot. The carriage began its departure from the drive, kicking up dust and gravel between its wheels.

A shadow in the library window again. Not a curtain drifting in a breath of wind, but a man draped surreptitiously against the frame. Her gaze latched to his. There was a familiar look in his eyes: feral, furtive, foolish. She recognized it from mere minutes before on the drive, from unchaperoned encounters in the woods.

“Anthony,” she murmured.

His head lifted as though he’d heard her voice, had felt her lips graze against his ear.

“Did you say something, dear?” This was the first Mary had spoken since she and Lady Bridgerton exchanged pleasant farewells.

“No, it –” The carriage turned. Aubrey Hall disappeared. “It is nothing.”

Lord Bridgerton was cast out of view. And yet – she could not cast him from her mind. As Mary and Lady Danbury consoled Edwina with promises of better suitors, the next hour of Kate’s journey toward Mayfair was consumed by thoughts of Anthony: the memory of his palm grazing against her breast, the warmth of his breath caressing her damp mouth, the falling of his lashes and the softening of his tight-knit brow as his features slackened with involuntary ecstasy.

Kate met her own warped gaze in the carriage glass. That look in her eyes was a familiar sort – for it was the very same as his. There was no mistaking his past behaviour for mere rakishness, some sort of coincidental lust or serendipitous lechery. No, his desire belonged to Kate alone. She knew for certain now, that she was the sole cause of his untimely cockstands, of that wounded animal cry that carried through a closed door. A beast, they’d called him. She smiled something small and wicked to herself. What sort of beast might he be?

This much was clear: Anthony was no suitable match for her sister, and a viscount was no suitable match for a prickly spinster such as she. But perhaps a reprobate, an animal such as him, would be well-suited to a woman as indecorous as she.

“Kate?”

Edwina’s voice drew her from her thoughts.

“Hm?”

“I know you say that Lord Bridgerton’s refusal is no fault of my own.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you … do you think it was perhaps something you have done?”

Perhaps, Kate thought wryly, it was something that she hadn’t done.

“Worry not. All will be amended.”

***

It became painfully clear to Anthony, after the dreadful incident before the carriage, that he had to abandon his courtship of Miss Edwina. It was not a decision he made lightly; in a sense, it felt like handing victory to Miss Sharma. Even so, it had become evident that she possessed the most powerful weapon between them – one capable not only of defeating him, but of humiliating him in the most ridiculous manner imaginable.

She had bewitched him.

And so he needed to keep as great a distance from her as possible. Obviously, he had not given up on marrying – that was still his duty after all, and one he took very seriously. Not even she, with her shapely thighs and wild curls, would divert him from that purpose.

“And how is that supposed to happen now that you have offended every young lady in polite society?” Benedict asked, with far less genuine concern for Anthony’s situation than a simple desire to mock him.

It did not matter. Anthony had a plan. Miss Sharma, against her will and against his, had shown him that perhaps he need not marry a debutante after all, perhaps a slightly older young woman would be a better choice to preside over his household.

He knew Miss Sharma was twenty six, he had seen that detail when he had looked into the family while considering Miss Edwina as a future bride. Perhaps a lady of a similar age, one with a degree of self-possession (like Miss Sharma), with steady manners and an imposing presence (he had no objections to Miss Sharma’s manners or presence), might be a more suitable choice for a viscountess.

So he began a new round of interviews, selecting from among the daughters of his fellow peers, but he was not in the least impressed. But neither was he stirred and perhaps that was the more important point. 

After some weeks without progress worthy of note, his mother appeared in his office wearing that unassuming expression that had never once deceived him. It was always the prelude to an unpleasant conversation.

“I hear you have been paying calls,” Violet said, pausing before his desk.

“Yes,” he replied, not truly lifting his eyes from the papers before him. He found that he was already braced for whatever criticism was certain to follow, though he did not yet know the cause of it this time.

“And has there been any progress?”

Anthony set the document aside. “If you have come merely to inquire into the efficiency of my search, I fear I must disappoint you.”

“On the contrary, I am glad to know you have not abandoned your object this season,” she said, in a tone far too mild to be innocent. “That of finding a wife.”

“Is there something you actually wish to say?”

Violet regarded him for a moment before speaking. “I wonder whether there was something amiss with Miss Edwina. You seemed so very decided upon her.”

“And you seemed rather opposed to her, if I remember correctly.”

“I had nothing against the young lady. She always seemed perfectly charming to me.”

“But you very clearly did not wish me to marry her.”

“Because I wished you to marry for love, and you showed her no affection whatsoever.”

Anthony gave her a brief, almost ironic smile. How easy it would be, he thought, to yield to that. To marry the woman he loved. It hit him with all the force of a carriage, racing out of control: he loved Miss Sharma. He loved the fierceness with which she defended her sister. He loved how staunchly she maintained her opinions. He loved how she was willing to go toe-to-toe with him, that she would not back down simply because he was a lord and she a lady. He loved her: all of her. And that was precisely why he could not marry her.

Or could he? In this moment, he could barely remember the reasons against marrying for love. His mother’s example was one, he recalled: how wrecked she had been by the tide and force of her grief. He had no desire to feel that despair. But for Miss Sharma … would it not be worth it? Would a life with her – truncated as it might be – not be worth the grief of inevitably losing her? And was that loss truly an inevitability? 

He could say none of this to his mother. He did not know how to parse through this tumult. He did not even know whether Violet would approve of Kate as his bride, even if he were to open his heart to her. And yet, for a moment, he was tempted to do so, if only to silence her.

“I have already told you that love shall have no place in my marriage,” he said instinctively, reverting back to form instead of confessing anything at all.

“It is not what I, or your father, would have wished for you.”

Anthony drew a slow breath and let it out through his nose. Was it true? She always invoked his father when she wished to tighten the screw a little further. He could barely remember.  Today, the memory of his father twisted something in his chest. 

“Is that all?” he asked, looking away. If he dwelt on it too long, he might start crying and what on earth would he do with that?

“No. I came to speak of the Misses Sharma.”

“What of them?” All the attention he had previously pretended not to possess settled upon her at once.

Violet noticed, of course.

“Miss Edwina’s reputation has suffered a blow after you withdrew your attentions so abruptly. You paid her a very public distinction, Anthony. It was only natural that an offer should be expected.”

“I did not commit myself to her.”

“Not formally, no. But you allowed society to believe that you would. For a young lady, that is quite enough.”

“She is the diamond of the season. I doubt she will remain at a disadvantage for long.”

“Perhaps not. But people talk. They always do.” Violet paused before continuing. “And the family does not occupy so secure a position that they may simply disregard such talk. Your name carries weight. When you approach a young lady and then withdraw, a reason is imagined. And rarely a flattering one.”

Anthony was silent for a moment.

“I have nothing against Miss Edwina,” he said at last. “I have merely come to the conclusion that a somewhat older lady may be better suited to the role of viscountess.”

“If that is so, the rest of society must be made to understand as much. There is nothing discreditable in Miss Edwina. I have arranged a promenade in Hyde Park with Lady Danbury and the Sharmas, and I should like you to attend. A public display of civility will do much to dispel at least some of the speculation.”

He did not wish Miss Edwina to suffer in the marriage mart on his account, especially when any injury done to her would, inevitably, fall upon Kate as well. And was that not precisely what he had been trying to avoid? Was that not why he had kept his distance, denied himself her presence, endured the separation? What would be the point of all that effort if, by another route, he should still prove the cause of her suffering?

Besides, perhaps Kate would not attend the promenade at all. Considering the way he had behaved toward her, perhaps she would prefer to keep her distance.

He sincerely hoped she had sense enough to do so.

“If you believe it will be of benefit to the Sharmas,” he said, “I shall attend the promenade.”

***

Kate had contemplated not joining her sister, mother, and Lady Danbury during the promenade with the Bridgertons. She really had. For maybe half a minute. 

Her sister's words were still ringing in her ears. Do you think it was maybe something you have done? she had said, and well … it was, wasn't it? Her presence alone seemed to be enough to unlock certain things in the man who did not, in the end, propose to Edwina. And thank god for that. He was a most unsuitable suitor. She had decided that from the beginning. Thank goodness he had finally agreed. 

He did not propose because of Kate. Because for some reason Anthony Bridgerton, of all people, was rendered speechless with apparent arousal when she was close. Arousal she seemed to ignite in him. It was a powerful weapon. One Kate had inadvertently already used to her own advantage – to circumvent the proposal that had not come to be. Would it be so wrong to continue to wield it for her own entertainment? Or … if not her own entertainment, for her own … satisfaction? 

So there she was, wearing her favourite blue day dress, the one she knew she looked particularly well in, a bright smile on her face. “Remember, Bon, we must show that nothing bad has happened. The lack of proposal is irrelevant. You are still the diamond.”

“Lady Danbury! Lady Mary!” Violet Bridgerton appeared to greet them. God the woman was good at pretending that their meeting was not well orchestrated by the parties involved. She was not alone, of course, Anthony Bridgerton stood a few steps away, his expression the epitome of forced neutrality and politeness, next to some of his other siblings - a very bored Eloise, a not bored in the slightest Hyacinth and Gregory, and an amused looking Benedict. 

“Lady Bridgerton,” Kate curtsied, before turning to the Viscount. “Lord Bridgerton.” 

His expression changed immediately, even if said change was probably not visible to anyone but her. 

“Miss Sharma,” he bowed, trying to avoid her eyes. Kate smiled brightly. That smile stuttered when Lord Bridgerton suddenly looked up again, made a step in her direction and offered her his arm. What was he playing at? Surely he should be at pains to avoid her. 

“It is rather fine weather, don't you think,” he mumbled apropos of nothing, flashing her a sudden, if slightly wan smile.

She blinked in response. There was resignation written across his face, and a stirring of that fire she’d seen in all their interludes together. Well. It wasn’t resignation exactly – more the appearance of a man giving in. It made close to no sense to her - she looked well in the day dress that Lady Danbury had procured for her, but surely no finer than any of the other ladies about. Certainly no prettier than Edwina, who still looked at Lord Bridgerton with no small amount of longing. Yet he spared not a glance for her.

Too late, she recognised that she had spared too long a glance for him in return.

Aware that Lord Bridgerton was still awaiting an answer to his inane comment, she replied sharply, “Fine for now, but I believe I do see a cloud in the sky. And we Sharmas are all too acquainted with what happens when fairweather friends - or suitors - turn.” 

His eyes flashed at her. There was that fire again, smouldering dangerously. If she did not tread carefully, it would soon turn into a furnace, a conflagration. They might never get out alive. 

Kate frowned. Surely he did not take pleasure in such public beratement. But then, she should not find pleasure in berating him. Indeed, they were well-matched in this singular manner.

“You cannot still want me for your sister.” 

Unbeknownst to them, they had fallen behind their entourage. The Serpentine had curved gently so that they were now approaching a little copse of trees. Lord Bridgeton’s arm suddenly felt scorching under Kate’s palm. Or perhaps it was just that her pulse was racing so. 

“I do not,” she snapped. For all her notions of teasing him, she found that she was still irritated. They would not have found themselves in this situation had he not listened to her from the outset and left Edwina well alone. “I have always thought you were very ill-suited, but Edwina still desires you for a husband.”

”Desires –!” He huffed out a disbelieving laugh that sounded very loud in the sudden silence. Kate looked around. They had wandered off path now, it would seem. The others - likely now having reached their destination, the Exhibition - were nowhere to be found.

”Yes!” Kate exclaimed, then blushed at the impropriety of her words. Instinctively, she glanced netherwards, to where she could already see an unmistakable swelling in the Viscount’s breeches. “That is to say, she thinks you will make a good husband. I have tried again and again to disabuse her of this notion, but it would not have been so difficult if you had not raised her hopes only to disappoint her so thoroughly.”

“I did not mean to lead her on,” he snapped. “I had honourable intentions from the start.” 

She snorted. “Honourable,” she huffed. “You have not behaved with honour in any of your dealings with me.” 

He took a step closer to her and Kate felt her heart catch in her chest. At this distance she could count every lash on his cheek. Could feel his breath on her cheek. He had lowered his arm, but not relinquished hold of her hand. 

She could kiss him.

“You,” he said, voice rough and low. “You have made this match impossible.” 

“Me?” she gasped, outraged. She no longer recognised herself, so breathy she sounded. “What have I done?” 

“You have done everything. You must know what you do to me, but if it is unclear, let me be plain. Seeing you reduces me to a gibbering fool. Being in your presence sets my blood afire. Can you not see? I never wanted this - never wanted to be so consumed by another, and yet - you consume me. Night and day I burn for you.” He laughed bitterly. “Miss Sharma. Kate. I cannot marry your sister - to be forced into your presence day after day with no relief would be a torment for us. ” 

“I vex you.” It came out as a question. Her hand had come up to alight on his chest. He gasped at the contact, already looking undone. God, but he was hard under her palm. It would be too easy to slide her hand southward. 

“You vex me.”

“I do not flatter you, do not mince when you come near. This – this reaction makes no sense.” 

He shrugged helplessly, unable to take his eyes off her. Under her hand, his breath was coming out in ragged pants. She could feel his heart beating wildly. Hers felt no better. 

It made no sense, and yet -. 

“I think you like it,” she said boldly. “I think you like being challenged, being vexed. I think it arouses you beyond belief.” 

If she stepped closer, she would find unmistakable proof between them, no doubt. Still, she kept her distance – miniscule as it was. It was delicious to watch his self-control flicker as the muscle in his cheek. 

“I like you.” The words burst out of him as though held back behind his teeth. “God, Kate. I like you so much.” 

It shouldn’t be surprising, but the admission of it – the words he rendered to the air – somehow was. All his actions had led to this moment. No matter what lies he fed himself - and, by extension, everyone else - this, this was the truth, and only this. 

Her heart raced, even as her expression hardened, “You have not shown it well.” 

Lord Bridgerton barely blinked at her response and simply nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly. “Yes. Yes, I know.” 

He did not take his eyes away from her face and oh how beautiful his eyes were, how intensely he studied her, how imploringly he looked. His jaw was tense, his breath was hard and irregular. Never before had he looked more appealing. 

She wished she did not care for him, wished she did not like him more than he liked her. 

How utterly pathetic; to be in love with a man that only desired her body and nothing more.

“And you hate me.”

“I – what?”

He let out a low, brittle laugh. “You hate me.” He said the words with venom, enough to perhaps convince himself of their veracity.

A breath caught in Kate’s throat and the sound that spilled from her mouth was a broken little thing. She could not hate him less. She could not love him more. She could do nothing to change these facts, same as he could not change the way his body reacted to hers.

She blinked, shook her head sharply to clear the cobwebs that had briefly clouded her mind.

“I do,” she said softly. “I hate you.” Somehow, the words were rendered tender on her tongue, hopelessly hateless.

Yet Lord Bridgerton nodded, as though assuaged by such unkind speech, comforted by her contempt. He drew closer to her. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his gaze drifted to her mouth.

She could kiss him, she thought again.

She wet her lips too without thought, then drew the flesh between her teeth and bared down, begging to break the skin, to bleed, to be confronted by the bitter tang of her own blood.

“Why must you –”

“Why must you,” she returned sharply.

His hand was halted, half-raised and reaching for her mouth. As if he might loose her lower lip from between her teeth and tend to the bruised flesh with his thumb. But she could not afford that. Such intimacy, such tenderness would be a dangerous thing indeed.

Lord Bridgerton’s breath was ragged against her cheek, fluttering the loose tendrils of hair at her temples with every exhalation. Her teeth sank deeper into her lip. Once more she thought of his mouth on hers. What it might be like to breathe in as he breathed out. To feel the hard press of his breeches against the slick apex of her thighs.

They were well-matched in the way of petty words. Perhaps they would be well-matched in this manner too. The one of bodies; of fingers, teeth, and tongues.

She nodded, ever-slight, and he reached his hand outward with hesitance. With hope. This time, she did not dissuade him from reaching for her cheek, from skimming the calloused edge of his thumb against her lip.

“Show me.”

“What?” he mumbled, dazed, thumb still brushing against her mouth with an achingly light touch.

“You like me,” she reminded him, in case he had changed his mind already. “You have made a proper hash of showing it, have you not?”

“Indeed, I have. And I lament it, truly –”

“You needn’t tell me so.” There was always such trouble when they spoke. Such vexation and consternation and needless disagreement. But their bodies seemed to speak a second language, something fluent and fluid. Though their hearts could not be reconciled, their flesh was always in accord. So, she told him, “Show me.”

“Miss Sharma, I could not do such a thing … here.”

His cock was straining against his trousers. His hand was hot against her cheek. And still his stupidity reigned supreme, trouble striking with his speech – just as it always had.

“My lord, you have found your pleasure plenty of times in unsuitable environments. I do not think it more scandalous for you to spill beneath the shade of a willow than behind the door of your study.”

“How did you –?”

“The sounds you make are rather loud. Beastly, some might say.”

Kate’s hand lifted to his chin, mirroring his own movements. The viscount shuddered at her touch, groaned at the slight press of her palm against his stubbled skin. That sound, she thought, was rather beastly.

“It is rather funny that I … I had in fact … found myself in such a predicament as this when I came upon you on horseback.” He was panting heavily then, exerted though he had not moved an inch. “From that very morning, I was bewitched.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest at such a confession, though it was one of lust and nothing more.

“It is fate then,” she told him. “For us to find ourselves here once more.”

“You hate me,” he reminded her. The attempt to dissuade her was half-hearted, a hint of pleading in his tone that suggested he hoped she would tell him otherwise.

But she would not offer him such honesty.

“The flesh’s desires differ from the heart’s, my lord.”

“Anthony. If we are to … Please. Call me Anthony.”

“Anthony.”

“Kate.”

She shook her head. “Kathani.”

“Kathani,” he repeated.

He whispered her name as if it belonged to him alone. As if he had found new ways to make music of the word she had heard her entire life. As if he had brought it back to life, revived on the English shores on which she had abandoned it. The way he spoke was too precious for her liking.

Her thumb drifted between his teeth and settled on his tongue, stilling the muscle. Silencing him. Enough words. Their bodies would do the talking. He curled his tongue around her thumb with such deliberate attention that her stomach dropped, his eyes fixed on hers all the while, dark, intent, entirely aware of the game they were playing.

He released her thumb with excruciating care and pressed his lips to her palm, then to the inside of her wrist, where her pulse betrayed her completely. His hands found her waist, firm and certain, as though he had always known exactly how she would fit beneath his hands. As though he had only been waiting for permission to prove it. He guided her one step back, then two, until the curtain of willow branches closed around them like drawn drapes, the light turning green and soft, the noise of the park dissolving into something distant and irrelevant. 

He pressed her back against the trunk of the willow.

One of his hands rose beside her head, bracing against the rough bark of the tree. The other remained at her waist, firm, possessive, pulling her to him until there was no respectable distance left between them. Until Kate could feel the heat of him through the layers of fabric, the solid breadth of his chest against hers, his uneven breath near her mouth and then, lower, the evidence of his desire.

And God, there was something absurdly comforting in it.

The trunk of the willow against her back. His body before hers. Surrounded by his arms, it was as if the whole world could be kept away, as if only the two of them existed.

There was only Anthony.

And the way he looked at her.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice rough, almost reverent, leaning down until his lips were mere inches from hers, close enough for Kate to feel the warmth of his mouth, close enough for that almost-touch to become a cruelty.

He brushed his lips against hers.

Only that.

A touch too light. Too insufficient.

Kate could no longer bear to wait.

She had never been accused of being a patient woman. Her fingers closed around the lapel of his coat, and she pulled him to her.

The instant their mouths touched, something inside her broke.

He kissed her as though he wanted nothing else in life but her. The hand at her waist tightened, drawing her hard against him, while the other slid to the nape of her neck, holding her there, captive to his mouth.

Not that she needed to be held.

Kate had already opened herself to him.

And Anthony took her.

His tongue found hers, and Kate felt the kiss tear through her entire body. Her fingers rose into his hair, feeling the soft strands tangle between her hands.

When Anthony drew his mouth away just enough to speak, his lips still brushed hers.

“I have never wanted anything in my life the way I want you.”

Kate felt her breath falter.

“It is maddening,” he murmured, “the way you consume me. All I can think of is you. All I can breathe is you.”

“I never asked for any of this…”

“No,” he said, his gaze fixed on her lips. “You did not.”

“Even so, you blame me.”

“I do not blame you.” He shook his head, sliding his fingers up from her waist, along the curve of her side with a slowness that made her breath catch.

“Do you even know,” he murmured, “the ways a lady can be seduced?”

Kate went still.

Anthony leaned in, his lips grazing her jaw, his voice entering her like an indecent promise.

“The things I could teach you.”

She closed her eyes for a second.

“I want you to teach me.”

His eyes darkened at her confession, and he lifted his hand to her face. His fingers touched her cheek with startling delicacy, then drifted downward, slowly, to her mouth.

His thumb brushed her lower lip.

“Open your mouth, darling.”

Darling… she wanted so much to be his darling. Wanted so much to be desired by him in this way.

So she did as he asked.

Two fingers slid inside, slow, warm, entering her with an intimacy so improper, so improper that Kate felt her whole body catch fire. There was the taste of him on her tongue — salt, skin, something clean and masculine — and the absurd, impossible notion that she had allowed this, that she wanted this, sent liquid heat spreading through her belly.

She closed her lips around his fingers almost by instinct and sucked them, hesitant at first, then with more confidence when she felt that he liked it.

“Like that,” he murmured. “God, Kate. Like that.”

She felt a completely inappropriate pride bloom in her chest. Kate took pride whenever she was good at something — and she wanted to be good at this too. At leaving him in that state of supplication.

Anthony withdrew his fingers slowly. With his other hand, he found the hem of her dress and lifted it little by little, sliding the fabric up her legs until it bunched at her waist.

The air touched her skin.

For one instant, the awareness of where they were returned to her with brutal force. The park. The distant murmur of society only a few steps away. Their families nearby. The possibility of being discovered. The ruin that might follow.

And still, she did not move.

Perhaps, if she were truly honest, she liked the risk.

He lowered his gaze to her exposed legs, and then his fingers — still slick with her saliva — traced a gentle path along the inside of her thighs.

Kate felt her face burn. She felt suddenly shy, absurdly exposed. But if she had come this far, if she had surrendered to this madness, she would not show weakness before him now.

She lifted her chin.

Anthony raised his dark eyes to hers, his face tense, as if asking for a permission his hand already seemed to know it possessed.

“If you want me to stop…” he whispered, his breath striking her face.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

Then his fingers moved higher, finding the most intimate part of her. Kate gasped, her knees suddenly weakening when he touched her. She was so wet, so painfully sensitive. He learned her by touch, sliding his thumb over the small knot of nerves pulsing there, and an involuntary, high little moan escaped her lips. She arched her back against the trunk of the willow, pressing herself instinctively into his touch.

To smother the sound she made, Anthony kissed her.

It was a kiss even more desperate than the first, open-mouthed, their tongues tangled together, while below, he continued his exploration. He slid one finger inside her, then two, moving in a steady rhythm, as though imitating with his hand the same hunger with which his mouth took hers. The friction was divine, a motion that made her lose all sense of decorum, sending shocks of pleasure through her entire body.

He deepened the touch, feeling the full extent of the heat and wetness that soaked his fingers – the physical, undeniable evidence of her desire. He drew back a bare inch from the kiss, his lips still brushing hers, his breathing uneven.

“Oh.”

The word left him like a perverse discovery. A triumphant smile spilled across his lips with a masculine arrogance that somehow made him even more attractive.

“It does not seem as though you hate me quite so much.”

“Be quiet,” she whispered, pulling him back by the collar to ensure he did not stop.

But his fingers stopped.

Kate let out a sound of protest before she could contain it, low and indignant, almost shameful in the way it escaped her jaw.

“What do you think you are doing?” she asked, confused and honestly impatient.

Anthony did not answer at once. He merely lowered his mouth to her jaw, to her neck, to the sensitive skin beneath her ear, as though he meant to distract her from his absence. His fingers began to move again, slowly, so slowly, almost torturously.

“I want to taste you,” he whispered against her ear.

Kate opened her eyes. The haze beginning to cloud her mind broke for an instant.

“I do not believe I have understood you.”

Anthony let out a short laugh against her skin. Not an amused laugh, but enough to irritate her.

“I believe you have understood quite enough.”

“I believe I have not.”

“Then allow me to be clear. I want to put my mouth where my fingers have been.”

“Oh.”

Kate was not so ignorant as society might prefer to believe. She had heard enough conversations, enough insinuations, enough crude propositions from men since her father’s death — men who presumed that, because she was unmarried and without fortune, she was also without protection. Still, nothing had prepared her for the Viscount’s frankness.

“I want to feel your taste on my tongue,” he continued, with that rough, maddening voice. “Your scent is enough to make me lose my mind… I know your taste will be better still.”

Before she could process the obscenity of those words, he withdrew his fingers from inside her. Kate let out a sound of protest, a frustrated murmur she tried to contain, not quite understanding what he wanted or why he had deprived her of that relief.

And then he took a step back.

And knelt before her.

The great and honourable Viscount Bridgerton. The most arrogant man she had ever known. The head of one of the most important families in England. A gentleman whose mere presence made mothers adjust their daughters’ posture, a man feared among his peers.

On his knees before her.

With his mouth far too close to where no mouth ought to be.

“I am going to have you now, Kathani.”

He leaned in and kissed the inside of her thigh.

The next kiss came higher.

Then another.

And then his mouth… his mouth touched her, and Kate clutched at the rough trunk of the willow as if her life depended upon it. A violent, profane shock shot up her spine 

Heavens. It was his mouth. His tongue, hot and relentless, parting her lips and exploring her with intensity.

She had no idea this was even possible.

That a man could do this to a woman.

The shock of her innocence gave way to a torrent of pleasure so absolute that her knees buckled. Anthony’s hands, however, held her thighs firmly. 

“Hold on,” he instructed, his voice rough and muffled against her sensitive skin.

Before Kate could process the command, his hands slid to the back of her knee. With one deft, decisive movement, he lifted one of her legs and draped it over his broad shoulder.

The new position left her entirely at his mercy, absurdly exposed. His mouth returned to her with greater ease, the friction changed, deepened in a maddening way, and pleasure struck her so suddenly that she lost control.

“Oh … Anthony!”

The moan tore from her throat, uncontrolled, much louder and needier than she had intended, echoing dangerously through the silence of the little copse.

His hand shot up, covering her mouth with enough firmness to smother the sound, but not enough to hurt her. His eyes found hers from beneath the shadow of her raised skirts, dark and severe.

“Quiet,” he ordered, his voice rough against her skin. “Unless you want half of London to know exactly what I am doing to you.”

Kate was indignant.

Absolutely indignant.

As though it were her fault.

As though he had not just put his mouth there, provoked that sound, turned her legs into something useless and trembling.

She bit his palm in protest.

Anthony let out a low laugh against her.

The vibration of that laugh nearly made her lose her mind.

“Behave,” he murmured.

Kate would have answered with something sharp, something cruel, something worthy of him.

But then his tongue touched her again, and all words disappeared. She melted over him.

This time, it was faster, deeper, with an insatiable hunger. The perfect angle offered by her leg over his shoulder allowed him to devour her without mercy, and Kate’s irritation gave way to pure ecstasy. With every lick, every skilled pull of his mouth that pushed her toward the abyss, the tension low in her belly coiled tighter and tighter.

She buried her hands in his thick hair, guiding him the way she wanted. He groaned against her, and the vibration of that sound made her arch so sharply that, for one second, she thought she might fall.

“Anthony,” she whimpered, barely recognising her own voice.

“Quiet,” he reprimanded her again. “Almost, darling. Just stay quiet.”

Then he touched her with his fingers at the same time his mouth returned to her.

Kate lifted her free hand to her own mouth and bit down on her knuckles to smother the sound. The pleasure, which until then had spread through her in waves, became something almost painful. It grew inside her with a terrifying urgency, as if something were about to break.

“Anthony,” she whispered, frightened now.

His hand tightened at her waist.

“I have you.”

It was absurd that those words calmed her.

His mouth became more insistent, his fingers more precise, and Kate let her head fall back against the trunk, her eyes closed, her breath breaking into small sounds she tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow. The world narrowed until there was nothing but him. His mouth. His hands. Her name on his tongue. The pressure building, building, building—

And then it broke.

Kate smothered the cry against her own hand.

Pleasure tore through her in waves so strong that, for a moment, she no longer knew where she was. Her whole body shook, her knees gave way, and if Anthony had not been holding her firmly, she would have slid down the trunk and onto the grass. Her hand tightened in his hair, perhaps too hard, but he only kept her there, his mouth still gentle against her, guiding her through it until the last tremor dissolved into her skin.

When she finally managed to breathe again, Kate became aware of Anthony rising slowly. She almost hated the ease with which he seemed to compose himself, though his breathing was still uneven and his eyes were still dark. He adjusted her skirt with care, then kissed her.

Kate tasted herself in his mouth.

And it drove her mad.

She swept her tongue over his mouth, and Anthony lost his breath. Kate smiled against his lips.

“The agreement,” she said, her voice still unsteady, “was that you would show me what you did all those times you thought of me.”

His expression changed.

“Kate.”

“I want to know.”

“No.”

“I want to know what you thought about.”

He closed his eyes, his jaw locking as though she had pressed the blade of a dagger to his throat.

“You.”

“That much I know.”

“Your mouth.”

“Oh,” Kate murmured.

His mouth. 

She looked at him. At the tense line of his jaw. At his chest rising and falling too quickly. At the obvious hardness still pressing against his trousers.

“I can do that,” she concluded, her voice lowering. 

“No.” The word left him at once. Almost violently. “You cannot.”

Kate arched a brow.

“I cannot?”

“You are a lady.”

“And what was I two minutes ago?” she returned, mercilessly.

“Kate.”

“Do not use that commanding tone with me.”

“I am trying to maintain some shred of honour,” he growled, closing his hands into fists at his sides so he would not touch her.

“A little late for that, Lord Bridgerton.”

“You have no idea what you are asking for.”

“Then guide me, my lord.”

Kate pushed herself away from the trunk of the willow, arranging the heavy muslin skirts with hands that still trembled, but her determination was absolute. Then, deliberately and slowly, never once looking away from him, she sank down to her knees. 

The Viscount seemed to forget how to breathe. The air simply left his lungs, and Anthony’s entire body went taut, like a rope about to snap.

“Kate.”

She shook her head. “No, not Kate. Kathani.”

“Kathani.”

Her name came out almost like a plea, and for a moment she thought he would step back, that he would beg her to rise and that his damned honour would win.

But then his hand descended to her hair. His fingers touched the pins holding her curls in place and loosened them with almost reverent care.

She undid his falls with astonishingly steady hands.

A warm palm encircled his cock, and Anthony's mind went blank. Everything narrowed to the tight, wet glide of Kate's hand around his traitorous prick. His hips jerked forward, and he immediately began to babble apologies. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen do not (intentionally or otherwise) fuck the faces of gently bred women.

He closed his eyes, and counted to ten – anything to prevent yet another premature ejaculation. It would do him no favors to spend so freely, so swiftly, so early, now that he had finally gotten the bane of his existence right where he would never admit he wanted her.

Her warm mouth enveloped his cock.

What happened next, Anthony would deny until his dying breath.

A sound so shrill that one could classify it somewhere between a squeak and a squawk escaped from his mouth as his whole body jerked away from Kate in an odd reflex of self preservation.

Before Kate could react, his cock slipped from her mouth as she watched in shock as Anthony began to scramble to pull his falls closed. His movements were frantic and frenetic — a man suddenly possessed by the gentleman he claimed to be as he tried to adhere to propriety with her for what seemed like the first time.

"What —?" Kate started, before she was interrupted.

"Apologies," Anthony said, voice a tick too loud. "I have no desire to inflict more humiliation on myself, as I have done time and time again in your presence, by spending too soon."

He sat down in the grass, as if defeated and embarrassed.

Kate, still on her knees, inched closer until she was close enough to touch him if she reached out. Debating between teasing or comforting him, Kate instead scrutinized him.

Dark bags under his eyes should have aged him, yet he merely looked the part of a debauched rogue, returning from a night of frivolity. His face was not perfectly shaven. On anyone else in her acquaintance, it would have made them look unkempt; it simply made Kate want to make a further mess of Anthony Bridgerton.

Her musings left her distracted.

Anthony, as he was wont to do, used that to his advantage.

Strong hands looped around her waist as Anthony guided Kate up onto his lap until he was cradled between her thighs, and her knees were able to make purchase on the soft grass. Those same hands settled on her calves, gently tracing soothing circles against her stockings.

Her breath caught as she looked down at him. The sun streaked through the willows, the shadows dappled across his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. He was beautiful. Warm brown eyes stared back up at her.

Reaching up, he tenderly tucked a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear.

"We can stop here," he said, his voice a whisper. If she had not been devoting all of her attention to his mouth, she would have missed it altogether.

Trying not to emphasise her inexperience, Kate leaned closer to him, her chest barely brushing him. She smirked as his breath stuttered, his nose flaring as he caught a trace of her soap. "I thought you still had more to teach me. Already emptied your arsenal? Not much of a rake, are you?"

"You minx," he groaned through his teeth. "If a lesson is what you are looking for —" his voice trailed off as his clever fingers found her still slick and aching cunt.

Swallowing her hesitation, she reached down for his cock. Together, they moved slowly — her rising forward onto her knees, him aligning himself with her cunt— to sink Kathani down onto him. "I have you, let go for me."

The stretch was slow but constant and unrelenting. Anthony took his time, carefully watching her face for discomfort until she was fully seated on his cock.

She nearly whimpered at the thick swell of him, biting her lip in an attempt to keep quiet.

Anthony reached up, his thumb freeing her lip from between her teeth. He lightly rubbed the bruised flesh as if to soothe the sting.

It only ignited the growing burning desire in her. Cognizant of society just past the willow branches, Kate willed herself quiet, fighting soft moans bit off into exhales.

His hands on her hips allowed him to help her find a rhythm that worked for both of them. Always a fast learner, Kathani soon did not require his assistance, letting her thighs set the pace, similar to that of her morning rides. Her hands eventually settled on his shoulders to give herself more leverage.

Anthony didn't appear to mind the bit of manhandling.

He rocked into her, one hand over her mouth, one hand grabbing at her arse, helping her grind her clit into him as they chased release.

In a Herculean effort of intellect and partially sound mind, he pulled out and instead spent himself on the taut bronzed expanse of Kate's abdomen.

Exhausted, Anthony watched as Kate rolled off of him, and laid down next to him. Her breathing slowed as she caught her breath.

Neither wanted to break the delicate stillness of the moment.

Eventually, they had to return to the ton waiting just beyond the willows.

He helped her to her feet and she pulled her hand from his grasp the moment she was upright, busying herself with smoothing out her skirts instead.

“I must remind you that you cannot marry my sister now,” she told him, a touch cold. “It would not be proper.”

“Of course I would never –”

“I mean it. I shall call you out if you do.” She began plucking stray leaves from her hair, winding the mussed curls back into a tidy braid. “I do not require any promises from you, for you have made none to me. In fact, it is apparent that we are not suited for matrimony. But you shall find a wife in anyone but her.”

A pained look pierced his expression. “Is that all this was to you? A means to …”

“Spare her from a loveless marriage?” she finished. For a moment, Kate considered the lie. To tell him this was a mercenary fuck and nothing further. But that was an impossible thing to say to the person she loved, even if she would be smarter for it. “No,” she said softly. Tendrils of hair spilled between her fingertips. She had lost her pins. She was unravelling. “No, I have found myself drawn to you, for reasons beyond my control or intelligence. The same as you have been drawn to me.”

He huffed a laugh. “I believe the reasons I am drawn to you are rather obvious.”

“Indeed.” She allowed a moment of agreement, accompanied by a curt nod. “Even at our worst, your cock betrayed you quite constantly.”

Anthony coughed and his face turned a scarlet hue for a few seconds before he sorted out the act of breathing once more. “That is not what I intended to say in the slightest.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I – I know you told me to show you, but I wager words will serve better here.” He approached her carefully, motioning for her to turn around so he might stand behind her. “Indeed, you are beautiful,” he remarked, gathering her mass of hair in his hands. “It is the first thing I noticed about you. For better or worse.” He smiled privately to himself, half-endeared and half-embarrassed by the memories of his enduring arousal. “But I would be remiss not to mention why you plague me.”

He twisted her hair upward as he spoke, pinning tendrils against her nape. It seemed he had managed to find her missing pins. Perhaps they had been hidden in his pocket or tucked behind his back in a fist. She wanted to think poorly of him at this moment, to malign him in her mind, but his hands were too gentle in her hair, too warm against the curve of her neck for Kate to pretend she hated him. It was good luck that he did not see her face. Her gratitude would betray her.

“You plague me,” he said, “because you are unlike any person I have ever met. You are clever. Wildly so. Far cleverer than I. You are willful and exceedingly self-certain. You are intelligent and generous and kind – perhaps to others more than I, though that is deserved – and yes, you are vexatious and challenging and I lo– I like that you do not permit me a single offence. You see through me. So entirely Kathani, it is astonishing.”

“Perhaps you are merely transparent,” she replied. It was an attempt at a jab, one of those vexing little comments he claimed to like so much, but her voice had lost its sting. For it appeared he had seen her, too.

“If I am so transparent,” he said, turning her to face him in his arms, “tell me what I am to do next.” She took a breath to answer and he swiftly interrupted. “Do not say that I shall aim to marry your sister.”

“No, my lord. Anthony.” She smiled a little. Kate could see plainly now that he would do no such thing. “I suppose you ought to take a wife.”

“I suppose so.”

“I suppose she will be the closest thing to the diamond.” If it is not the diamond, the viscount would take another jewel, surely.

“Suppose she is,” he returns softly.

“But there would be no love in that marriage.”

“Would there not be?” He looked vexed then. Hurt, even.

“Of course not,” she said tightly. “You told my sister as much.”

“And you think it is unlikely for this wife of mine … it would be impossible for her to love me?”

“Oh.” Kate’s brow knit together and a knife turned in her chest at the thought. To be wed was one thing, but for Anthony to love someone else was another. “I do not think it so impossible a thing.”

“But you, Kathani …” Anthony trailed off, his eyes searching hers for some unknowable answer. “You would not.”

“Pardon?”

“You hate me. Even after this.”

“Might you speak plainly? I do not believe I understand.”

“I told your sister before that love shall have no place in my marriage. And that is why I did not court you. That is why I did not ask to marry you.”

“You … what? Do you mean to say that –”

“I love you, Kathani. I suppose I might’ve begun with that. But I simply thought … well, you hate me.”

“Anthony, I do not hate you.”

“What?”

“Indeed, I love you too.”

“Oh. Goodness.” He raked a hand through his hair. “And this development, was it –” he gestured to the flattened patch of grass upon which they’d fucked, “– recent?”

She chuckled at that. He was gifted, but not a miracle-worker.

“Strangely not. I believe it’s been weeks in the making.”

“Minutes ago you told me you hated me.”

“I suppose I did. But to say such a thing … I was furious with you, Anthony. And I thought that you certainly did not love me.”

“You truly had no idea?” He blinked incredulously.

“Perhaps I am not as clever as you think.”

“Perhaps neither of us are the clever sort.” He laughed then, a delirious sound. “I wonder, might we be the marrying sort?”

Kate barked a laugh, a rather unladylike sound. Anthony joined her, ungentlemanly in the noise.

“Why, marrying my sister’s former suitor after tupping him in a park during a promenade is certainly the least clever thing one could do.”

“Is that a yes?”

Kate grinned, kissing him soundly in reply.

His cock stood in celebration.