She was curled up into a ball, her arms wrapped around her bent legs so tightly it looked as if she were about to shatter. Her head was bent down, her eye sockets resting on her knees, and her entire body was shaking with fast, intense tremors.
Anthony’s blood ran to ice. He’d never seen someone shake like that.
“Kate?” he said again, setting his candle down on the floor as he moved closer. He couldn’t tell if she could hear him. She seemed to have retreated into herself, desperate to escape something. Was it the storm? She’d said she hated the rain, but this went far deeper. Anthony knew that most people didn’t thrive on electrical storms as he did, but he’d never heard of someone being reduced to this.
She looked as if she’d break into a million brittle pieces if he so much as touched her.
Thunder shook the room, and her body flinched with such torment that Anthony felt it in his gut. “Oh, Kate,” he whispered. It broke his heart to see her thus. With a careful and steady hand, he reached out to her. He still wasn’t sure if she’d even registered his presence; startling her might be like waking a sleepwalker.
Gently he set his hand on her upper arm and gave it the tiniest of squeezes. “I’m here, Kate,” he murmured. “Everything will be all right.”
Lightning tore through the night, flashing the room with a sharp burst of light, and she squeezed herself into an even tighter ball, if that was possible. It occurred to him that she was trying to shield her eyes by keeping her face to her knees.
He moved closer and took one of her hands in his. Her skin was like ice, her fingers stiff from terror. It was difficult to pry her arm from around her legs, but eventually he was able to bring her hand to his mouth, and he pressed his lips against her skin, trying to warm her.
“I’m here, Kate,” he repeated, not really sure what else to say. “I’m here. It will be all right.”
Eventually he managed to scoot himself under the table so that he was sitting beside her on the floor, with his arm around her trembling shoulders. She seemed to relax slightly at his touch, which left him with the oddest feeling—almost a sense of pride that he had been the one to be able to help her. That, and a bone-deep feeling of relief, because it was killing him to see her in such torment.
He whispered soothing words in her ear and softly caressed her shoulder, trying to comfort her with his mere presence. And slowly—very, slowly; he had no idea how many minutes he sat under that table with her—he could feel her muscles begin to unwind. Her skin lost that awful clammy feeling, and her breathing, while still rushed, no longer sounded quite so panicked.
Finally, when he felt she might be ready, he touched two fingers to the underside of her chin, using the softest pressure imaginable to lift her face so that he could see her eyes. “Look at me, Kate,” he whispered, his voice gentle but suffused with authority. “If you just look at me, you will know that you are safe.”
The tiny muscles around her eyes quivered for a good fifteen seconds before her lids finally fluttered. She was trying to open her eyes, but they were resisting. Anthony had little experience with this sort of terror, but it seemed to make sense to him that her eyes just wouldn’t want to open, that they simply wouldn’t want to see whatever it was that so frightened her.
After several more seconds of fluttering, she finally managed to open her eyes all the way and met his gaze.
Anthony felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.
If eyes were truly the windows to the soul, something had shattered within Kate Sheffield that night. She looked haunted, hunted, and utterly lost and bewildered.
“I don’t remember,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He took her hand, which he’d never relinquished his hold on, and brought it to his lips again. He pressed a gentle, almost paternal kiss on her palm. “You don’t remember what?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Do you remember coming to the library?”
She nodded.
“Do you remember the storm?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if the act of keeping them open had required more energy than she possessed. “It’s still storming.”
Anthony nodded. That was true. The rain was still beating against the windows with just as much ferocity as before, but it had been several minutes since the last bout of thunder and lightning.
She looked at him with desperate eyes. “I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”
Anthony squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to say anything.”
He felt her body shudder and relax, then heard her whisper, “Thank you.”
“Do you want me to talk to you?” he asked.
She shut her eyes—not as tightly as before—and nodded.
He smiled, even though he knew she could not see it. But maybe she could sense it. Maybe she’d be able to hear his smile in his voice. “Let’s see,” he mused, “what can I tell you about?”
“Tell me about the house,” she whispered.
“This house?” he asked in surprise.
She nodded.
“Very well,” he replied, feeling rather absurdly pleased that she was interested in the one pile of stone and mortar that meant so much to him. “I grew up here, you know.”
“Your mother told me.”
Anthony felt a spark of something warm and powerful in his chest as she spoke. He’d told her she didn’t have to say anything, and she’d been quite obviously thankful for that, but now she was actually taking part in the conversation. Surely that had to mean she was beginning to feel better. If she’d open her eyes—if they weren’t sitting under a table—it might seem almost normal.
And it was stunning how much he wanted to be the one to make her feel better.
“Shall I tell you about the time my brother drowned my sister’s favorite doll?” he asked.
She shook her head, then flinched when the wind picked up, causing the rain to beat against the windows with new ferocity. But she steeled her chin and said, “Tell me something about you.”
“All right,” Anthony said slowly, trying to ignore the vague, uncomfortable feeling that spread in his chest. It was so much easier to tell a tale of his many siblings than to talk about himself.
“Tell me about your father.”
He froze. “My father?”
She smiled, but he was too shocked by her request to notice. “You must have had one,” she said.
Anthony’s throat began to feel very tight. He didn’t often talk about his father, not even with his family. He’d told himself that it was because it was so much water under the bridge; Edmund had been dead for over ten years. But the truth was that some things simply hurt too much.
And there were some wounds that didn’t heal, not even in ten years.
“He—he was a great man,” he said softly. “A great father. I loved him very much.”
Kate turned to look at him, the first time she’d met his gaze since he’d lifted her chin with his fingers many minutes earlier. “Your mother speaks of him with great affection. That was why I asked.”
“We all loved him,” he said simply, turning his head and staring out across the room. His eyes focused on the leg of a chair, but he didn’t really see it. He didn’t see anything but the memories in his mind. “He was the finest father a boy could ever want.”
“When did he die?”
“Eleven years ago. In the summer. When I was eighteen. Right before I left for Oxford.”
“That’s a difficult time for a man to lose his father,” she murmured.
He turned sharply to look at her. “Any time is a difficult time for a man to lose his father.”
“Of course,” she quickly agreed, “but some times are worse than others, I think. And surely it must be different for boys and girls. My father passed on five years ago, and I miss him terribly, but I don’t think it’s the same.”
He didn’t have to voice his question. It was there in his eyes.
“My father was wonderful,” Kate explained, her eyes warming as she reminisced. “Kind and gentle, but stern when he needed to be. But a boy’s father—well, he has to teach his son how to be a man. And to lose a father at eighteen, when you’re just learning what all that means . . .” She let out a long exhale. “It’s probably presumptuous for me even to discuss it, as I’m not a man and therefore couldn’t possibly put myself in your shoes, but I think . . .” She paused, pursing her lips as she considered her words. “Well, I just think it would be very difficult.”
“My brothers were sixteen, twelve, and two,” Anthony said softly.
“I would imagine it was difficult for them as well,” she replied, “although your youngest brother probably doesn’t remember him.”
Anthony shook his head.
Kate smiled wistfully. “I don’t remember my mother, either. It’s an odd thing.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“It was on my third birthday. My father married Mary only a few months later. He didn’t observe the proper mourning period, and it shocked some of the neighbors, but he thought I needed a mother more than he needed to follow etiquette.”
For the first time, Anthony wondered what would have happened if it had been his mother who had died young, leaving his father with a house full of children, several of them infants and toddlers. Edmund wouldn’t have had an easy time of it. None of them would have.
Not that it had been easy for Violet. But at least she’d had Anthony, who’d been able to step in and try to act the role of surrogate father to his younger siblings. If Violet had died, the Bridgertons would have been left completely without a maternal figure. After all, Daphne—the eldest of the Bridgerton daughters—had been only ten at Edmund’s death. And Anthony was certain that his father would not have remarried.
No matter how his father would have wanted a mother for his children, he would not have been able to take another wife.
“How did your mother die?” Anthony asked, surprised by the depth of his curiosity.
“Influenza. Or at least that’s what they thought. It could have been any sort of lung fever.” She rested her chin on her hand. “It was very quick, I’m told. My father said I fell ill as well, although mine was a mild case.”
Anthony thought about the son he hoped to sire, the very reason he had finally decided to marry. “Do you miss a parent you never knew?” he whispered.
Kate considered his question for some time. His voice had held a hoarse urgency that told her there was something critical about her reply. Why, she couldn’t imagine, but something about her childhood clearly rang a chord within his heart.
“Yes,” she finally answered, “but not in the way you would think. You can’t really miss her, because you didn’t know her, but there’s still a hole in your life—a big empty spot, and you know who was supposed to fit there, but you can’t remember her, and you don’t know what she was like, and so you don’t know how she would have filled that hole.” Her lips curved into a sad sort of smile. “Does this make any sense?”
Anthony nodded. “It makes a great deal of sense.”
“I think losing a parent once you know and love them is harder,” Kate added. “And I know, because I’ve lost both.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“It’s all right,” she assured him. “That old adage—time heals all wounds—it’s really true.”
He stared at her intently, and she could tell from his expression that he didn’t agree.
“It really is more difficult when you’re older. You’re blessed because you had the chance to know them, but the pain of the loss is more intense.”
“It was as if I’d lost an arm,” Anthony whispered.
She nodded soberly, somehow knowing that he hadn’t spoken of his sorrow to many people. She licked nervously at her lips, which had gone quite dry. Funny how that happened. All the rain in the world pounding outside, and here she was, parched as a bone.
“Perhaps it was better for me, then,” Kate said softly, “losing my mother so young. And Mary has been wonderful. She loves me as a daughter. In fact—” She broke off, startled by the sudden wetness in her eyes. When she finally found her voice again, it was an emotional whisper. “In fact, she has never once treated me differently than she has Edwina. I—I don’t think I could have loved my own mother any better.”
Anthony’s eyes burned into hers. “I’m so glad,” he said, his voice low and intense.
Kate swallowed. “She’s so funny about it sometimes. She visits my mother’s grave, just to tell her how I’m doing. It’s very sweet, actually. When I was small, I would go with her, to tell my mother how Mary was doing.”
Anthony smiled. “And was your report favorable?”
“Always.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, both staring at the candle flame, watching the wax drip down the taper to the candlestick. When the fourth drop of wax rolled down the candle, sliding along the column until it hardened in place, Kate turned to Anthony and said, “I’m sure I sound insufferably optimistic, but I think there must be some master plan in life.”
He turned to her and quirked a brow.
“Everything really does work out in the end,” she explained. “I lost my mother, but I gained Mary. And a sister I love dearly. And—”
A flash of lightning lit the room. Kate bit her lip, trying to force slow and even breaths through her nose. The thunder would come, but she’d be ready for it, and—
The room shook with noise, and she was able to keep her eyes open.
She let out a long exhale and allowed herself a proud smile. That hadn’t been so difficult. It certainly hadn’t been fun, but it hadn’t been impossible. It might have been Anthony’s comforting presence next to her, or simply that the storm was moving away, but she’d made it through without her heart jumping through her skin.
“Are you all right?” Anthony asked.
She looked over at him, and something inside of her melted at the concerned look on his face. Whatever he’d done in the past, however they’d argued and fought, in this moment he truly cared about her.
“Yes,” she said, hearing surprise in her voice even though she hadn’t intended it. “Yes, I think I am.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “How long have you been like this?”
“Tonight? Or in my life?”
“Both.”
“Tonight since the first clap of thunder. I get quite nervous when it begins to rain, but as long as there is no thunder and lightning, I’m all right. It’s not the rain, actually, which upsets me, but just the fear that it might grow into something more.” She swallowed, licking her dry lips before she continued. “To answer your other query, I can’t remember a time I wasn’t terrified by storms. It’s simply a part of me. It’s quite foolish, I know—”
“It’s not foolish,” he interjected.
“You’re very sweet to think so,” she said with a sheepish half-smile, “but you’re wrong. Nothing could be more foolish than to fear something with no reason.”
“Sometimes . . .” Anthony said in a halting voice, “sometimes there are reasons for our fears that we can’t quite explain. Sometimes it’s just something we feel in our bones, something we know to be true, but would sound foolish to anyone else.”
Kate stared at him intently, watching his dark eyes in the flickering candlelight, and catching her breath at the flash of pain she saw in the brief second before he looked away. And she knew—with every fiber of her being—that he wasn’t speaking of intangibles. He was talking about his own fears, something very specific that haunted him every minute of every day.
Something she knew she did not have the right to ask him about. But she wished—oh, how she wished—that when he was ready to face his fears, she could be the one to help him.
But that wasn’t to be. He would marry someone else, maybe even Edwina, and only his wife would have the right to talk to him about such personal matters.
“I think I might be ready to go upstairs,” she said. Suddenly it was too hard to be in his presence, too painful to know that he would belong to someone else.
His lips quirked into a boyish smile. “Are you saying I might finally crawl out from under this table?”
“Oh, goodness!” She clapped one of her hands to her cheek in a sheepish expression. “I’m so sorry. I stopped noticing where we were sitting ages ago, I’m afraid. What a ninny you must think me.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “Never a ninny, Kate. Even when I thought you the most insufferable female creature on the planet, I had no doubts about your intelligence.”
Kate, who had been in the process of scooting out from under the table, paused. “I just don’t know if I should feel complimented or insulted by that statement.”
“Probably both,” he admitted, “but for friendship’s sake, let’s decide upon complimented.”
She turned to look at him, aware that she presented an awkward picture on her hands and knees, but the moment seemed too important to delay. “Then we are friends?” she whispered.
He nodded as he stood. “Hard to believe, but I think we are.”
Kate smiled as she took his helping hand and rose to her feet. “I’m glad. You’re—you’re really not the devil I’d originally thought you.”
One of his brows lifted, and his face suddenly took on a very wicked expression.
“Well, maybe you are,” she amended, thinking he probably was every bit the rake and rogue that society had painted him. “But maybe you’re also a rather nice person as well.”
“Nice seems so bland,” he mused.
“Nice,” she said emphatically, “is nice. And given what I used to think of you, you ought to be delighted by the compliment.”
He laughed. “One thing about you, Kate Sheffield, is that you are never boring.”
“Boring is so bland,” she quipped.
He smiled—a true grin, not that ironic curve he used at society functions, but the real thing. Kate’s throat suddenly felt very tight.
“I’m afraid I cannot walk you back to your room,” he said. “If someone should come across us at this hour . . .”
Kate nodded. They’d forged an unlikely friendship, but she didn’t want to get trapped into marriage with him, right? And it went without saying that he didn’t want to marry her.
He motioned to her. “And especially with you dressed like that . . . .”
Kate looked down and gasped, yanking her robe more tightly around her. She’d completely forgotten that she wasn’t properly dressed. Her nightclothes certainly weren’t risqué or revealing, especially with her thick robe, but they were nightclothes.
“Will you be all right?” he asked softly. “It’s still raining.”
Kate stopped and listened to the rain, which had softened to a gentle patter against the windows. “I think the storm is over.”
He nodded and peered out into the hall. “It’s empty,” he said.
“I should go.”
He stepped aside to let her pass.
She moved forward, but when she reached the doorway she stopped and turned around. “Lord Bridgerton?”
“Anthony,” he said. “You should call me Anthony. I believe I’ve already called you Kate.”
“You did?”
“When I found you.” He waved a hand. “I don’t think you heard anything I said.”
“You’re probably right.” She smiled hesitantly. “Anthony.” His name sounded strange on her tongue.
He leaned forward slightly, an odd, almost devilish light in his eyes. “Kate,” he said in return.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said. “For helping me tonight. I—” She cleared her throat. “It would have been a great deal more difficult without you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said gruffly.
“No, you did everything.” And then, before she’d be tempted to stay, she hurried down the hall and up the stairs.
Chapter 13
There is little to report in London with so many people away in Kent at the Bridgerton house party. This Author can only imagine all the gossip that will soon reach town. There will be a scandal, yes? There is always a scandal at a house party.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 MAY 1814
The following morning was the sort that usually follows a violent storm—bright and clear, but with a fine, damp mist that settled cold and refreshing on the skin.
Anthony was oblivious to the weather, having spent most of the night staring into the darkness and seeing nothing but Kate’s face. He’d finally fallen asleep as the first streaks of dawn fingered across the sky. By the time he woke, it was well past noon, but he did not feel rested. His body was suffused with a strange combination of exhaustion and nervous energy. His eyes felt heavy and dull in their sockets, and yet his fingers kept drumming the bed, inching toward the edge as if they alone could pull him out and to his feet.
Finally, when his stomach growled so loudly that he could swear he saw the plaster on the ceiling shake, he staggered upright and pulled on his robe. With a wide, loud yawn, he moved to the window, not because he was looking for anyone or anything in particular, but simply because the view was better than anything else in his room.
And yet in the quarter second before he looked down and gazed upon the grounds, he somehow knew what he would see.
Kate. Walking slowly across the lawn, far more slowly than he’d ever seen her walk before. Usually, she walked as if in a race.
She was much too far away for him to see her face—just a sliver of her profile, the curve of her cheek. And yet he could not take his eyes off of her. There was so much magic in her form—a strange grace in the way her arm swung as she walked, an artistry in the posture of her shoulders.
She was walking toward the garden, he realized.
And he knew he had to join her.
The weather remained in its contradictory state for most of the day, dividing the house party neatly in half, between those who insisted the bright sunshine beckoned outdoor play, and those who eschewed the wet grass and damp air for the warmer, drier clime of the drawing room.
Kate was firmly in the former group, although she was not in the mood for company. Her mind was in far too reflective a mood to make polite conversation with people she barely knew, and so she stole away once again to Lady Bridgerton’s spectacular gardens and found herself a quiet spot on a bench near the rose arbor. The stone was cold and just a little bit damp beneath her bottom, but she hadn’t slept particularly well the night before, and she was tired, and it was better than standing.
And it was, she realized with a sigh, just about the only place where she might be left to her own company. If she remained in the house, she’d surely be roped into joining the group of ladies chatting in the drawing room while they wrote correspondence to friends and family, or worse, she’d be stuck with the coterie who’d retired to the orangery to pursue their embroidery.
As for the outdoor enthusiasts, they’d also broken into two groups. One had hied off to the village to shop and see whatever sights there were to be found, and the other was taking a constitutional walk to the lake. As Kate had no interest in shopping (and she was already quite familiar with the lake) she’d eschewed their company as well.
Hence, her solitude in the garden.
She sat for several minutes, just staring off into space, her eyes focusing somewhat blindly on the tightly furled bud of a nearby rose. It was nice to be alone, where she didn’t have to cover her mouth or stifle the loud sleepy noises she made when she yawned. Nice to be alone, where no one was going to comment on the dark circles beneath her eyes or her uncommon quietude and lack of conversation.
Nice to be alone, where she could sit and attempt to sort through her muddle of thoughts about the viscount. It was a daunting task, and one she’d rather put off, but it had to be done.
But there really wasn’t all that much to sort out. Because everything she had learned in the past few days pointed her conscience in one, singular direction. And she knew that she could no longer oppose Bridgerton’s courtship of Edwina.
In the past few days he’d proven himself sensitive, caring, and principled. Even, she thought with a glimmer of a smile as she recalled the light in Penelope Featherington’s eyes when he’d saved her from the verbal talons of Cressida Cowper, heroic.
He was devoted to family.
He had used his social position and power not to lord over others but simply to spare another person insult.
He had helped her through one of her phobic attacks with a grace and sensitivity that, now that she could view it with a clear head, stunned her.
He might have been a rake and a rogue—he might still be a rake and a rogue—but clearly his behavior to those ends did not define the man. And the only objection Kate had to his marrying Edwina was . . .
She swallowed painfully. There was a lump the size of a cannonball in her throat.
Because deep in her heart, she wanted him for herself.
But that was selfish, and Kate had spent her life trying to be unselfish, and she knew she could never ask Edwina not to marry Anthony for such a reason. If Edwina knew that Kate was even the tiniest bit infatuated with the viscount, she would put an end to his courtship at once. And what purpose would that serve? Anthony would just find some other beautiful, eligible woman to pursue. There were plenty to choose from in London.
It wasn’t as if he were going to ask her instead, so what would she have to gain by preventing a match between him and Edwina?
Nothing except the agony of having to see him married to her sister. And that would fade in time, wouldn’t it? It had to; she herself had just said the night before that time truly did heal all wounds. Besides, it would probably hurt just as much to see him married to some other lady; the only difference would be that she would not have to see him at holidays and christenings and the like.
Kate let out a sigh. A long, sad, weary sigh that stole every breath from her lungs and left her shoulders sagging, her posture drooping.
Her heart aching.
And then a voice filled her ears. His voice, low and smooth, like a warm swirl around her. “My goodness, you sound serious.”
Kate stood so suddenly that the backs of her legs knocked into the edge of the stone bench, setting her off balance and causing her to stumble. “My lord,” she blurted out.
His lips curved with the barest hint of a smile. “I thought I might find you here.”
Her eyes widened at the realization that he’d deliberately sought her out. Her heart started beating faster as well, but at least that was something she could keep hidden from him.
He glanced briefly down to the stone bench, signaling that she should feel free to resume her seat. “Actually, I saw you from my window. I wanted to make certain that you were feeling better,” he said quietly.
Kate sat down, disappointment rising in her throat. He was merely being polite. Of course he was merely being polite. Silly of her to dream—even for a moment—that there might be something more. He was, she’d finally realized, a nice person, and any nice person would want to make sure that she was feeling better after what had transpired the night before.
“I am,” she replied. “Very much. Thank you.”
If he thought anything of her broken, staccato sentences, he did not make any discernible reaction of it. “I’m glad,” he said as he sat beside her. “I worried about you for much of the night.”
Her heart, which had already been pounding much too quickly, skipped a beat. “You did?”
“Of course. How could I not?”
Kate swallowed. There it was, that infernal politeness again. Oh, she didn’t doubt that his interest and concern were real and true. It just hurt that they were prompted by his natural kindness of spirit, not any special feeling for her.
Not that she had expected anything different. But she’d found it impossible not to hope, anyway.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you so late at night,” she said quietly, mostly because she thought she should. In truth, she was desperately glad that he’d been there.
“Don’t be silly,” he said, straightening slightly and fixing upon her a rather stern sort of look. “I hate to think of you all alone during a storm. I’m glad I was there to comfort you.”
“I’m usually alone during storms,” she admitted.
Anthony frowned. “Your family does not offer you comfort during storms?”
She looked a little sheepish as she said, “They do not know that I still fear them.”
He nodded slowly. “I see. There are times—” Anthony paused to clear his throat, a diversionary tactic he frequently employed when he wasn’t quite certain what it was he wanted to say. “I think you would gain comfort by seeking the aid of your mother and sister, but I know—” He cleared his throat again. He knew well the singularly strange sensation of loving one’s family to distraction, and yet not feeling quite able to share one’s deepest and most intractable fears. It brought on an uncanny sense of isolation, of being remarkably alone in a loud and loving crowd.
“I know,” he said again, his voice purposely even and subdued, “that it can often be most difficult to share one’s fears with those one most deeply loves.”
Her brown eyes, wise and warm and undeniably perceptive, focused on his. For one split moment he had the bizarre thought that she somehow knew everything about him, every last detail from the moment of his birth to his certainty of his own death. It seemed, in that second, with her face tipped up toward his and her lips slightly parted, that she, more than anyone else who would ever walk this earth, truly knew him.
It was thrilling.
But more than that, it was terrifying.
“You’re a very wise man,” she whispered.
It took him a moment to remember what they’d been talking about. Ah yes, fears. He knew fears. He tried to laugh off her compliment. “Most of the time I’m a very foolish man.”
She shook her head. “No. I think you’ve hit the nail squarely on its proverbial head. Of course I would not tell Mary and Edwina. I do not want to trouble them.” She chewed on her lip for a moment—a funny little movement with her teeth that he found oddly seductive.
“Of course,” she added, “if I am to be true to myself, I must confess that my motives are not entirely unselfish. Surely, an equal part of my reluctance lies in my desire not to be seen as weak.”
“That’s not such a terrible sin,” he murmured.
“Not as far as sins go, I suppose,” Kate said with a smile. “But I would hazard a guess that it is one from which you, too, suffer.”
He didn’t say anything, just nodded his assent.
“We all have our roles to play in life,” she continued, “and mine has always been to be strong and sensible. Cringing under a table during an electrical storm is neither.”
“Your sister,” he said quietly, “is probably a great deal stronger than you think.”
Her eyes flew to his face. Was he trying to tell her that he’d fallen in love with Edwina? He’d complimented her sister’s grace and beauty before, but never had he referred to her inner person.
Kate’s eyes searched his for as long as she dared, but she found nothing that revealed his true feelings. “I did not mean to imply that she wasn’t,” she finally replied. “But I am her older sister. I have always had to be strong for her. Whereas she has only had to be strong for herself.” She brought her eyes back up to his, only to find that he was staring at her with an odd intensity, almost as if he could see past her skin and into her very soul. “You are the oldest as well,” she said. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”
He nodded, and his eyes looked amused and resigned at the same time. “Exactly.”
She gave him an answering smile, the kind that passed between people who know similar experiences and trials. And as she felt herself growing more at ease next to him, almost as if she could sink into his side and bury herself against the warmth of his body, she knew that she could put off her task no longer.
She had to tell him that she’d withdrawn her opposition to his match with Edwina. It wasn’t fair to anyone to keep it to herself, just because she wanted to keep him to herself, if only for a few perfect moments right here in the gardens.
She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and turned to him.
He looked at her expectantly. It was obvious, after all, that she had something to say.
Kate’s lips parted. But nothing came out.
“Yes?” he asked, looking rather amused.
“My lord,” she blurted out.
“Anthony,” he corrected gently.
“Anthony,” she repeated, wondering why the use of his given name made this all the more difficult. “I did need to speak with you about something.”
He smiled. “I’d gathered.”
Her eyes became inexplicably fastened on her right foot, which was tracing half-moons on the packed dirt of the path. “It’s . . . um . . . it’s about Edwina.”
Anthony’s brows rose and he followed her gaze to her foot, which had left half-moons behind and was now drawing squiggly lines. “Is something amiss with your sister?” he inquired gently.
She shook her head, looking back up. “Not at all. I believe she’s in the drawing room, writing a letter to our cousin in Somerset. Ladies like to do that, you know.”
He blinked. “Do what?”