The Viscount Who Loved Me (9 page)

She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. She shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t desire this man who was marrying her for all the wrong reasons.

And yet she wanted him with a desperation that left her breathless.

It was wrong, so very wrong. She had grave doubts about this marriage, and she knew she ought to maintain a clear head. She kept trying to remind herself of that, but it didn’t stop her lips from parting to allow his entry, nor her own tongue from shyly flicking out to taste the corner of his mouth.

And the desire pooling in her belly—and surely that was what this strange, prickly, swirling feeling had to be—it just kept getting stronger and stronger.

“Am I a terrible person?” she whispered, more for her ears than for his. “Does this mean I am fallen?”

But he heard her, and his voice was hot and moist on the skin of her cheek.

“
No
.”

He moved to her ear and made her listen more closely.

“
No
.”

He traveled to her lips and forced her to swallow the word.

“
No
.”

Kate felt her head fall back. His voice was low and seductive, and it almost made her feel like she’d been born for this moment.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his large hands moving urgently over her body, one settling on her waist and the other moving up toward the gentle swell of her breast. “Right here, right now, in this moment, in this garden, you’re perfect.”

Kate found something unsettling about his words, as if he were trying to tell her—and perhaps himself as well—that she might not be perfect tomorrow, and perhaps even less so the next day. But his lips and hands were persuasive, and she forced the unpleasant thoughts from her head, instead reveling in the heady bliss of the moment.

She felt beautiful. She felt…perfect. And right there, right then, she couldn’t help but adore the man who made her feel that way.

Anthony slid the hand at her waist to the small of her back, supporting her as his other hand found her breast and squeezed her flesh through the thin muslin of her dress. His fingers seemed beyond his control, tight and spasmodic, gripping her as if he were falling off a cliff and had finally found purchase. Her nipple was hard and tight against his palm, even through the fabric of her dress, and it took everything in him, every last ounce of restraint, not to reach around to the back of her frock and slowly pull each button from its prison.

He could see it all in his mind, even as his lips met hers in another searing kiss. Her dress would slip from her shoulders, the muslin doing a tantalizing slide along her skin until her breasts were bared. He could picture those in his mind, too, and he somehow knew they, too, would be perfect. He’d cup one, lifting the nipple to the sun, and slowly, ever so slowly, he’d bend his head toward her until he could just barely touch her with his tongue.

She’d moan, and he’d tease her some more, holding her tightly so that she couldn’t wriggle away. And then, just when her head dropped back and she was gasping, he’d replace his tongue with his lips and suckle her until she screamed.

Dear God, he wanted that so badly he thought he might explode.

But this wasn’t the time or the place. It wasn’t that he felt a need to wait for his marriage vows. As far as he was concerned, he’d declared himself in public, and she was his. But he wasn’t going to tumble her in his mother’s garden gazebo. He had more pride—and more respect for her—than that.

With great reluctance, he slowly tore himself away from her, letting his hands rest on her slim shoulders and straightening his arms to keep himself far enough away so that he wouldn’t be tempted to continue where he’d left off.

And the temptation was there. He made the mistake of looking at her face, and in that moment he would have sworn that Kate Sheffield was every bit as beautiful as her sister.

Hers was a different sort of attraction. Her lips were fuller, less in fashion but infinitely more kissable. Her lashes—how had he not noticed before how long they were? When she blinked they seemed to rest on her cheeks like a carpet. And when her skin was tinged with the pinks of desire, she glowed. Anthony knew he was being fanciful, but when he gazed upon her face, he could not help thinking of the new dawn, of that exact moment when the sun was creeping over the horizon, painting the sky with its subtle palette of peaches and pinks.

They stood that way for a full minute, both catching their breath, until Anthony finally let his arms drop, and they each took a step back. Kate lifted a hand to her mouth, her fore, middle, and ring fingers just barely touching her lips. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered.

He leaned back against one of the gazebo posts, looked extremely satisfied with his lot. “Why not? We’re betrothed.”

“We’re not,” she admitted. “Not really.”

He quirked a brow.

“No agreements have been made,” Kate explained hastily. “Or papers signed. And I have no dowry. You should know that I have no dowry.”

This caused him to smile. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Of course not!” She fidgeted slightly, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

He took a step toward her. “Surely you’re not trying to provide me with a reason to be rid of
you
?”

Kate flushed. “N-no,” she lied, even though that was exactly what she had been doing. It was, of course, the utmost stupidity on her part. If he backed out of this marriage, she’d be ruined forever, not just in London, but also in her little village in Somerset. News of a fallen woman always traveled fast.

But it was never easy to be the second choice, and a part of her almost wanted him to confirm all of her suspicions—that he didn’t want her as his bride, that he’d much prefer Edwina, that he was only marrying her because he had to. It would hurt dreadfully, but if he would just say it, she would know, and knowing—even if the knowledge was bitter—was always better than not knowing.

At least then she would know exactly where she stood. As it was, she felt as if her feet were planted firmly in quicksand.

“Let us make one thing clear,” Anthony said, capturing her attention with his decisive tone. His eyes caught hers, burning with such intensity that she could not look away. “I said I was going to marry you. I am a man of my word. Any further speculation on the subject would be highly insulting.”

Kate nodded. But she couldn’t help thinking:
Be careful what you wish for…be careful what you wish for.

She’d just agreed to marry the very man with whom she
feared she was falling in love. And all she could wonder was:
Does he think of Edwina when he kisses me?

Be careful what you wish for,
her mind thundered.

You just might get it.

K
ate soon realized that notoriety did not agree with her.

The remaining two days in Kent had been bad enough; once Anthony had announced their engagement at supper
following their somewhat precipitous betrothal, she had scarcely a chance to breathe between all the congratulations, questions, and innuendos that were being tossed her way by Lady Bridgerton’s guests.

The only time she felt truly at ease was when, a few hours after Anthony’s announcement, she finally had a chance to talk privately with Edwina, who’d thrown her arms around her sister and declared herself “thrilled,” “overjoyed,” and “not even one tiny bit surprised.”

Kate had expressed
her
surprise that Edwina was not surprised, but Edwina had just shrugged and said, “It was obvious to me that he was smitten. I do not know why no one else saw it.”

Which had left Kate rather puzzled, since she’d been fairly certain that Anthony had had his matrimonial sights set on Edwina.

Once Kate returned to London, the speculation was even worse. Every single member of the
ton
, it seemed, found it imperative to stop by the Sheffields’ small rented home on Milner Street to call on the future viscountess. Most managed to infuse their congratulations with a healthy dose of unflattering implication. No one believed it possible that the viscount might actually
want
to marry Kate, and no one seemed to realize how rude it was to say as much to her face.

“My goodness, you were lucky,” said Lady Cowper, the mother of the infamous Cressida Cowper, who, for her part, did not say two words to Kate, just sulked in the corner and glared daggers in her direction.

“I had no
idea
he was interested in you,” gushed Miss Gertrude Knight, with a facial expression that clearly said she still didn’t believe it, and perhaps even hoped that the betrothal might still prove to be a sham, announcement in the
London Times
notwithstanding.

And from Lady Danbury, who’d never been known to mince words: “Don’t know how you trapped him, but it must have been a neat trick. There are a few gels out there
who wouldn’t mind taking lessons from you, mark my words.”

Kate just smiled (or tried to, at least; she suspected that her attempts at gracious and friendly response were not always convincing) and nodded, and murmured, “I am a fortunate girl,” whenever Mary poked her in the side.

As for Anthony, the lucky man had been able to avoid the harsh scrutiny she’d been forced to endure. He had told her he needed to remain at Aubrey Hall to take care of a few estate details before the wedding, which had been set for the following Saturday, only nine days after the incident in the garden. Mary had worried that such hastiness would lead to “talk,” but Lady Bridgerton had rather pragmatically explained that there would be “talk” no matter what, and that Kate would be less subject to unflattering innuendo once she had the protection of Anthony’s name.

Kate suspected that the viscountess—who had gained a certain reputation for her single-minded desire to see her adult children married off—simply wanted to get Anthony in front of the bishop before he had the chance to change his mind.

Kate found herself in agreement with Lady Bridgerton. As nervous as she was about the wedding and the marriage to follow, she’d never been the sort to put things off. Once she made a decision—or, in this case, had one made for her—she saw no reason for delay. And as for the “talk,” a hasty wedding might increase its volume, but Kate suspected that the sooner she and Anthony were married, the sooner it would die down, and the sooner she might hope to return to the normal obscurity of her own life.

Of course, her life would not be her own for much longer. She was going to have to get used to that.

Not that it felt like her own even now. Her days were a whirlwind of activity, with Lady Bridgerton dragging her from shop to shop, spending an enormous amount of
Anthony’s money for her trousseau. Kate had quickly learned that resistance was useless; when Lady Bridgerton—or Violet, as she had now been instructed to call her—made up her mind, heaven help the fool who got in her way. Mary and Edwina had accompanied them on a few of the outings, but they had quickly declared themselves exhausted by Violet’s indefatigable energy and gone off to Gunter’s for a flavored ice.

Finally, a mere two days before the wedding, Kate received a note from Anthony, asking her to be at home at four that afternoon so that he might pay her a call. Kate was a little nervous at seeing him again; somehow everything seemed different—more formal—in town. Nonetheless, she seized upon the opportunity to avoid another afternoon on Oxford Street, at the dressmaker, and the milliner, and the glovemaker, and to whomever else Violet had it in mind to drag her.

And so, while Mary and Edwina were out running errands—Kate had conveniently forgotten to mention that the viscount was expected—she sat down in the drawing room, Newton sleeping contentedly at her feet, and waited.

Anthony had spent most of the week thinking. Not surprisingly, all of his thoughts were of Kate and their upcoming union.

He’d been worried that he could, if he let himself, love her. The key, it seemed, was simply not to let himself. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that this would not pose a problem. He was a man, after all, and well in control of his actions and emotions. He was no fool; he knew that love existed. But he also believed in the power of the mind, and perhaps even more importantly, the power of the will. Frankly, he saw no reason why love should be an involuntary thing.

If he didn’t want to fall in love, then by damn, he wasn’t going to. It was as simple as that. It
had
to be as simple as that. If it weren’t, then he wasn’t much of a man, was he?

He would, however, have to have a talk with Kate on this measure prior to the wedding. There were certain things about their marriage that needed to be made clear. Not rules, exactly, but…
understandings
. Yes, that was a good word for it.

Kate needed to understand exactly what she could expect from him, and what he expected in return. Theirs was not a love match. And it wasn’t going to grow into one. That simply was not an option. He didn’t think she had any delusions on that measure, but just in case, he wanted to make it clear now, before any misunderstandings had the chance to grow into full-fledged disasters.

It was best to lay everything out on the proverbial table so that neither party would be unpleasantly surprised later on. Surely Kate would agree. She was a practical girl. She’d want to know where she stood. She wasn’t the sort who liked to be kept guessing.

At precisely two minutes before four, Anthony rapped twice on the Sheffields’ front door, trying to ignore the half dozen members of the
ton
who just
happened
to be strolling along Milner Street that afternoon. They were, he thought with a grimace, a bit far from their usual haunts.

But he wasn’t surprised. He might be recently returned to London, but he was well aware that his betrothal was the current scandal
du jour
.
Whistledown
was delivered all the way in Kent, after all.

The butler opened the door quickly and ushered him in, showing him to the nearby drawing room. Kate was waiting on the sofa, her hair swept up into a neat something-or-other (Anthony never could remember the names of all those coiffures the ladies seemed to favor) and topped with a ridiculous little cap of some sort that he supposed was meant to match the white trim on her pale blue afternoon dress.

The cap, he decided, would be the first thing to go once they were married. She had lovely hair, long and lustrous and thick. He knew that good manners dictated that she
wear bonnets when she was out and about, but really, it seemed a crime to cover it up in the comfort of her own home.

Before he could open his mouth, however, even in greeting, she motioned to a silver tea service on the table in front of her and said, “I took the liberty of ordering tea. There’s a slight chill in the air and I thought you might like some. If you don’t, I’d be happy to ring for something else.”

There hadn’t been a chill in the air, at least not one that Anthony had detected, but he nonetheless said, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Kate nodded and picked up the pot to pour. She tipped it about an inch, then righted it, frowning as she said, “I don’t even know how you take your tea.”

Anthony felt one corner of his mouth tipping up slightly. “Milk. No sugar.”

She nodded, setting the pot down in favor of the milk. “It seems a thing a wife should know.”

He sat down in a chair that sat at a right angle to the sofa. “And now you do.”

She took a deep breath and then let it go. “Now I do,” she murmured.

Anthony cleared his throat as he watched her pour. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and he found he liked to watch her hands as she worked. Her fingers were long and slender, and they were incredibly graceful, which surprised him, considering how many times she’d trod on his toes while dancing.

Of course some of those missteps had been done on purpose, but not, he suspected, as many as she would have liked to have him believe.

“Here you are,” she murmured, holding out his tea. “Be careful, it’s hot. I’ve never been one for lukewarm tea.”

No, he thought with a smile, she wouldn’t be. Kate wasn’t the sort to do anything in half measures. It was one of the things he liked best about her.

“My lord?” she said politely, moving the tea a few inches farther in his direction.

Anthony grasped the saucer, allowing his gloved fingers to brush against her bare ones. He kept his eyes on her face, noticing the faint pink stain of blush that touched her cheeks.

For some reason that pleased him.

“Did you have something specific you wanted to ask me, my lord?” she asked, once her hand was safely away from his and her fingers wrapped around the handle of her own teacup.

“It’s Anthony, as I’m sure you recall, and I can’t call upon my fiancée merely for the pleasure of her company?”

She gave him a shrewd look over the rim of her cup. “Of course you can,” she replied, “but I don’t think you are.”

He raised a brow at her impertinence. “As it happens, you’re right.”

She murmured something. He didn’t quite catch it, but he had a sneaking suspicion it had been, “I usually am.”

“I thought we ought to discuss our marriage,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

He leaned back in his chair. “We’re both practical people. I think we’ll find ourselves more at ease once we understand what we can expect from one another.”

“Of—of course.”

“Good.” He set his teacup down in the saucer, then set both down on the table in front of him. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

Kate nodded slowly but didn’t say anything, instead choosing to keep her eyes trained on his face as he cleared his throat. He looked as if he were preparing for a parliamentary speech.

“We did not get off to the most favorable of starts,” he said, scowling slightly when she nodded her agreement,
“but I feel—and I hope that you do as well—that we have since reached a friendship of sorts.”

She nodded again, thinking that she might make it all the way through the conversation doing nothing but nodding.

“Friendship between the husband and the wife is of the utmost importance,” he continued, “even more important, in my opinion, than love.”

This time she didn’t nod.

“Our marriage will be one based on mutual friendship and respect,” he pontificated, “and I for one could not be more pleased.”

“Respect,” Kate echoed, mostly because he was looking at her expectantly.

“I will do my best to be a good husband to you,” he said. “And, provided that you do not bar me from your bed, I shall be faithful to both you and our vows.”

“That’s rather enlightened of you,” she murmured. He was saying nothing she did not expect, and yet she found it somewhat needling all the same.

His eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re taking me seriously, Kate.”

“Oh, very much so.”

“Good.” But he gave her a funny look, and she wasn’t sure if he believed her. “In return,” he added, “I expect that you will not behave in any manner that will sully my family’s name.”

Kate felt her spine stiffen. “I would not dream of it.”

“I didn’t think you would. That is one of the reasons I am so pleased with this marriage. You will make an excellent viscountess.”

It was meant as a compliment, Kate knew, but still it felt a bit hollow, and maybe a touch condescending. She’d much rather have been told that she’d make an excellent wife.

“We shall have friendship,” he announced, “and we
shall have mutual respect, and children—intelligent children, thank God, since you are quite the most intelligent woman of my acquaintance.”

That made up for his condescension, but Kate had barely time to smile at his compliment before he added, “But you should not expect love. This marriage will not be about love.”