Chapter Text
Much of Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton’s journey to London is spent debriefing one another on family matters and crafting subsequent battle plans.
Kate shares updates on Mary’s plans to sort out a dower house and extends her mama’s appreciation for the robust allowance from the Bridgerton coffers. She spins on Edwina’s possible reasons for requesting an immediate audience with her; informs her husband that Newton would be residing in their rooms, despite his grumbled protests.
Anthony notes Violet’s insistence to co-host a ball in the countryside with Kate later in the year; shares his desire to find his mother a dower house of her own; warns that Colin will likely corner Kate with discussions of Bombay and Chennai; alludes to Hyacinth and Gregory’s most recent tiff; passes along Benedict’s request to paint their marriage portrait. Also unveiled is the not insignificant matter of his donating a hefty sum to ensure Benedict’s acceptance into the Academy.
“He is a gifted artist,” Anthony assures her quickly.
“I believe it,” Kate pats his hand and casts him a knowing look. “But he may find out eventually. Perhaps it is best to tell him sooner?”
Anthony nods in agreement, resigned and relieved at once. And that is it. She does not offer judgment or admonish him for using his means to circumvent merit. Would she not do the same for her sister’s dreams, if she had the chance?
Of everything discussed on the road from Kent to Mayfair, Kate had been certain that Edwina's vague missive would remain the greatest mystery. To her shock, Anthony divulges an even greater bit of intrigue: Eloise’s campaign to unmask Lady Whistledown, alongside Queen Charlotte herself.
“You are joking.” Kate searches his face for some hint of humor.
“I wish to heaven I were,” Anthony sighs. “I would have kept it from you if I could, but I am not certain of her itinerary. You may encounter her entering and exiting royal carriages at odd hours.”
“Are we the only ones to know?”
“So it seems.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I imagine she has confided her endeavors to Benedict or Miss Penelope Featherington, but I am not certain.”
Following that particular exchange, Kate finds herself quietly rejoicing once more in their decision to delay procreation. These children—adult or otherwise—will surely be a handful on their own.
“Thank you for telling me,” she says abruptly, some ten minutes later. “About Eloise, I mean.”
“You are… welcome?” Anthony’s brow folds curiously, but it does not stop him from reaching for his wife’s hand.
“Perhaps it is an odd thing to be grateful for,” Kate chuckles, squeezing his fingertips. “But in the name of proper partnership, I quite like that we share every matter at hand—important or otherwise.”
Anthony mulls over her words, silently considering their final days at Aubrey Hall. It is no burden for him to aid Kate or her family, no strain to share a favored pastry, no harm to hold her as a rainstorm rattles their bedroom windows. No, it is, in fact, an honor—a point of pride, really—to be trusted by her so wholly, to be present for the woman he loves so dearly. Even the sacrifice of an extended honeymoon was made simple by the relief on Kate’s when he told her, I understand.
It was terrifying to relive that day of Hyacinth’s birth, to offer up his worst memories and ask Kate to witness his greatest worries. But, Anthony can concede that, perhaps, his wife feels similarly honored to do so.
He must admit, he—they—feel firmer in this union upon peeling back such vulnerabilities. From their engagement to their marriage, every ounce of honesty has only served to strengthen their partnership. Strange, how a thing he so valiantly attempted to outrun has become their greatest virtue.
“I am grateful for a great many odd things,” Anthony returns finally. “Seven of which are my siblings. So I shall find it easy to be grateful for this, too.”
His hand finds her cheek and he tips her jaw upward, just a little. Kate leans into his palm and his thumb coasts the crest of her cheek reverently. He wishes to talk with her endlessly, or gaze upon her face without words, or kiss her without great reason (merely because he can). He must choose one.
She chooses for him.
Kate runs the back of her fingertips through the soft hairs at his temple, cups her hand around his jaw. For a moment she is simply looking. Just as he is. And then she is kissing him. An unhurried and tender thing; gentle and chaste and warm.
As the wheels on the carriage turn, he can feel how close they are to home. Perhaps it is the texture of the street or the hue of lamplight filtering in through the window shade that tells him so. It is both because and in spite of their impending arrival that he welcomes her kiss, pressing his lips back to hers for more.
For these last few minutes, the world remains theirs and theirs alone.
“Are you ready?” Anthony asks, a touch wry. His hand still lives on her cheek.
“As ever.” Kate straightens her spine and smiles against his wrist.
They approach Bridgerton House amid a foggy evening, their carriage greeted by a blue flame in a streetlamp, housestaff and a horde of siblings spilling onto the gravel drive. For Kate, the sight is a dizzying one. There is an immutable warmth to the clamoring children, an ease she finds among the elder set and the employees whom she recalls from her wedding night. The house is inviting and familiar, despite its grandiosity.
Nothing about this scene is imposing. However, it is a little much.
“It is good to have you back,” Eloise exhales, wrapping her eldest brother in a hug.
Anthony returns the gesture, surprised yet grateful, and leans backwards with a ticked brow.
“Sorry.” His lips twist in a small smile. “Did you say that it is good that I am back? Me, Anthony? Shall we fit you for spectacles or check for a fever? Surely you are thinking of Benedict or some other brother.”
“You are taking too much joy in this,” Eloise huffs, breaking their hug. “I rescind my welcome. Go back to Kent.”
“I have missed you, too.” Anthony chuckles fondly and squeezes her shoulder.
There is no further time for retort as Eloise bounds toward Kate, jostling her new sister in a hearty embrace.
“It will be a boon to have you here.”
Kate grins, returning the hug. “I quite agree.”
“Have you grown weary of him yet?” Eloise asks. “I imagine you find yourself still bickering with my brother quite often.”
An excessively adoring laugh falls from Kate’s lips. “We bicker plenty.” Over tea and backgammon; over assessments of the Dashwood sisters; over who must eat the last bite of pastry or find their pleasure first. “It is one of the many reasons I think I shall never tire of him.”
Beside them, Benedict and Colin crush Anthony in the center of a hug. Gregory wriggles between them, turning Anthony’s mild indignation into immediate acceptance.
The scene is endearing. Touching, even. But Kate would be lying if she denied that her favorite reunion is with Newton, whom Hyacinth produces proudly in her small arms.
And on it goes. The newlyweds are swallowed in a series of embraces and volleyed between innumerable conversations. By the end, Kate finds herself immensely grateful for her mother-in-law, who sweeps her inside quickly before a dozen more hands can find her.
In the foyer, Violet grasps Kate’s shoulders gingerly and beams. “Welcome home.”
–
The next few hours unwind in a comfortable chaos.
Over a dinner of roast duck, there is ceaseless, overlapping chatter from all corners of the table. Hyacinth and Gregory swat at one another with stalks of asparagus in a farcical bit of fencing. Violet attempts to intercede, unsuccessfully. Colin, when not requesting a third helping of biscuits, peppers Kate with questions about the food in Bombay. Anthony attempts to spare his wife, but she quiets him with a hand on his wrist.
“It is alright,” she promises, eyes shining with mirth.
This is her family now, and they are a blessedly unconventional sort. It warms her to be immersed so immediately, even if their volume (both in number and in noise) requires some minor adjustment. Their obvious, unpretentious closeness was one of her favorite aspects of her first visit to Aubrey Hall. In truth, there had been a small worry that wove through her upon her second visit to the country estate, a concern that perhaps she would remain only witness to the Bridgertons’ warmth, rather than be made a part of it. Every minute that has passed this evening has proven that worry incredibly wrong.
So Kate answers Colin’s inquiries gladly, tells him of her favored foods and spices and enjoys the proud gleam in her husband’s eye as he passionately informs his brother of the best manner to craft a proper cup of chai.
“Is that all you did in the country, brother?” Eloise teases. “Perfected the art of tea?”
“Not entirely,” Anthony chuckles. “I shall have you know we’ve been reading Sense and Sensibility,” he tells his sister proudly. “It’s quite engaging.”
“You mean you are still reading it? I finished that book ages ago,” Eloise says, crinkling her nose. “I understand you had much to busy yourselves with during the engagement, but you have been confined to the countryside for a fortnight. Surely you could have finished the novel then. What on earth were you doing with all your time?”
Anthony’s knowing eyes find Kate’s just then, an undercurrent of desire present in his gaze. She feels her cheeks warm at the memory of their days, most hours spent testing the limits of furniture or their own flexibility. She quite suddenly requires a sip of her wine.
“Oh, yes, do tell.” Colin leans forward with mock interest. “How did the two of you spend all those long days and nights? Spare us no detail.”
Anthony’s expression turns mildly murderous before a thud sounds from beneath the table.
“Uncalled for,” Colin grunts, reaching down to rub his calf.
Benedict cackles.
“What joke am I missing here?” Eloise asks crossly. She prods Benedict’s shoulder until he flicks her hand away. “Tell me!”
“Much of a honeymoon is getting to know one another, Eloise,” Violet says quickly, silencing Benedict’s retort. “Talking and gameplay and suchlike.”
“Exactly,” Anthony agrees gratefully. “We played pall mall.”
“Mighty long game,” Benedict smirks into his glass.
“Say, did you two end up on your backs in the mud again?” Colin quips.
“No,” Anthony answers pointedly. “As it happens, the game is best played without the interference of siblings.” He covers Kate’s hand with his own on the tabletop, turning his focus back to her with a fond smile.
Benedict hums and leans back in his chair, watching the pair with a pleasant curiosity. Colin returns to chewing, all teasing abandoned for the sake of a bruised shin and the promise of plum pudding. Eloise considers pushing further, but then thinks better of it.
“Oh,” Eloise exclaims, a fresh question coming to mind. She lays a hand on Kate’s arm as the elder woman raises her glass. “Did you get to have many morning rides?”
Kate sputters, nearly choking on her wine. Wiping her mouth, she croaks out a Yes , but the answer is drowned out by Benedict’s chortle, noisy even through the hand covering his lips.
This time, Anthony cannot feign irritation or chastise his brothers and he joins the laughter. Kate, too, is caught in the infectious discomposure, her eyes watering at the absurdly innocent double-entendre.
“I do not know what is so amusing,” Eloise huffs. “Heaven forbid a woman have hobbies.”
–
By the evening’s end, the siblings splinter into separate corners of the house. Eloise and Colin drift upstairs—she with her books, he with a pen and parchment—to draft a letter to Francesca in Bath. Violet retires to a sitting room to focus on a pesky patch of embroidery and Kate is tugged into a parlor by the two youngest Bridgertons, who beg to show off the tricks they have taught Newton in her absence. It is an obvious attempt to circumvent their bedtimes. She entertains them anyway.
Anthony, meanwhile, is halted in the hallway by a hand on his elbow.
“Could you spare a moment?” Benedict asks, head tilted in the direction of the library.
Inside, Anthony leans upon the doorframe, pensive. It is so very unlike his brother to seek a quiet word behind closed doors. He wonders, briefly, if something truly has gone amiss in his and Kate’s absence. Worse, if he has learned the truth of his admission to the Academy.
“Is everything alright?”
“I had meant to ask you the same,” Benedict returns, seating himself in an armchair. “Honestly, I was a bit concerned about the state we would receive you in this evening.”
Anthony’s forehead furrows. “Why would that be a matter of concern?”
Benedict ticks a brow. “I received two conflicting missives from you a mere day apart. The first, stating that you aimed to extend your honeymoon for another fortnight. The next, a reversal of that very decision. I worried that you and Kate had perhaps…”
“Oh,” Anthony exhales, deflating with relief. He flops into an adjacent chair. “Kathani and I are well and truly alright. More than,” he says honestly.
Alright is not a word worth assigning to a person as wonderful as Kate; not an adjective relative to a partnership as treasured as theirs. It is a weak and entirely inaccurate descriptor of the marriage he has found himself in.
“I can see that quite clearly,” Benedict smiles. “I feared we would find you falling out of the carriage mid-argument, but the two of you appear to be well and truly besotted.”
Anthony swallows a smile. It is no secret, he knows, that he greatly adores and admires his wife. Nor should it be. The open fact of his affection, its obviousness to observers, is something he is finding himself better acclimated to with each passing day.
“We still bicker,” he adds, a bit uselessly. “If that concerns you.”
“Of course you do.” His younger brother chuckles. “You remain yourself. Kate remains Kate. I cannot imagine marriage stripping you of all arguments.”
“Certainly not.” Anthony smiles unbidden at that. He is reminded of Kate’s teasing shouts on horseback, her strategic taunts over a chessboard, her insistence after wrecking the dining room that they really ought to confine their amorous exploits to the bedchamber for the sake of their staff. (Anthony had disagreed vehemently and swayed his wife with the rather underhanded tactic of returning his mouth to her cunt.) “But our arguments are rather different from those in our early days.”
“Hmm, I’d say since that morning I caught you two at odds in the study—”
“Eavesdropped,” Anthony corrects.
“Yes, since that morning I happened upon a pair of raised voices,” Benedict rolls his eyes, “I have found you both rather content with one another.”
“We are. Very much so.”
“Just content?” Benedict prods. “Not captivated?” Absolutely. “Enamored?” Entirely. “In love?” he finishes softly.
Anthony finds his tongue has turned to cotton, his heart too fragile to allow his lips to form an answer. So he simply looks at his brother—ever the romantic; that pining, hopeful poet—and begs him not to force the truth from his mouth. Benedict demands nothing further, merely nods and offers a far too gentle smile.
“I admit,” Ben starts again, “It was a bit vindicating to know you wished to lengthen your honeymoon. That you trusted me to carry on. And, of course, that you enjoyed yourself so thoroughly,” he tacks on quickly. “It felt good to be useful in some ways. In the ways I perhaps was not after Father…”
Anthony’s tongue dances on the back of his teeth. There is one urge to deny his own sacrifices, to bury them further. There is another urge to thank Benedict for seeing them at all. Both press against his enamel in equal measure.
“You did plenty,” he says finally.
“Not enough.”
“You were young, Benedict.”
“And you were, too.” He shakes his head. “I feel as though you gave me a year’s worth of preparation but even so, I found it rather daunting to spend a fortnight in your shoes. I cannot fathom bearing that weight with such little knowledge, at all of eight and ten.”
The urge for gratitude wins quite unanimously, then. “Thank you,” Anthony says thickly. After a heavy breath, he continues. “For what it is worth, I never would have allowed you to do any more than you had. You know that, right?”
If Anthony could spare anyone’s youth in the wake of that awful summer, he had thought, let it be his siblings.
“I do know that. I understand it better now. But, Anthony? Please allow it now. I am a decade older. If there is ever anything that I might do to support you—in more than your honeymoon or a tour of the continent—you need only ask.”
Only. As though saddling his family with the responsibilities of his role is a small and simple favor. But he thinks of his promise to Kate some days ago, to trust them—Benedict, his mother, her—and finds himself nodding in assent.
“Very well. I will aim to practice that particular request. Though I cannot promise it shall come too easily,” he warns.
Benedict laughs at that. “I would expect nothing less from you.”
“I remain myself,” Anthony echoes, wry.
“So,” Benedict sighs, the smile drifting from his lips. “Why did you leave Kent?” The corners of his eyes crinkle softly, telling Anthony he is not inquiring out of accusation. No, there is the implicit assumption written within these small creases of his skin: You left because you love her. Because staying would make that fact impossible to stifle.
“Because of Kate’s family.”
“Ah. And that is not love?”
“I believe that is duty,” Anthony corrects him quietly.
“Hm. Convinced yourself thoroughly of that, have you?”
He did, in fact, leave Kent because he loves her. Because he loves her too much to ask her to stay. To never leave him. To love him back. Because, if he does not say the words, then it cannot make his actions a mirror of their meaning. Because, perhaps here in Mayfair, he can keep it a secret from her still.
But it is true that he also left for the sake of duty. Because he understands Kate’s fealty to her family completely, for it is the same as his. Because his duty now is to her, too.
Not for the first time, he is reminded here—love is not the death of duty, but rather what gives it breath. He is somehow more convinced of that notion now.
–
By luring the two youngest Bridgertons to bed with promises of Robinson Crusoe, Anthony expertly allows his weary wife to escape into a warm bath. She adds this act to the laundry list of reasons she adores him as she sinks into the suds.
Half-awake, her ears perk at the sound of his voice, hoarse from storytelling and hushed by the late hour.
“Kathani?”
“In here,” she calls.
On instinct, her arm reaches backward, blindly meeting his firm torso with the motion. Anthony catches her arm and scatters a few small kisses on the skin—wrist, forearm, elbow—before marrying their fingers.
“Join me,” she yawns, a hand dipping into the lukewarm water.
He shakes his head and sinks to his knees instead. “I shall refresh myself in the morning.” Forearms resting on the basin’s edge, he sweeps a free hand across the stray hairs framing her forehead. “I’m knackered. And it appears you are, too,” he notes as a yawn creeps past her lips. “Let us go to bed.”
“Can we not sleep here?” she mumbles.
“I do not wish to awaken as a prune.”
Kate sighs, too tired to argue on account of her own laziness. “Very well.” She makes no move to exit the tub and lets her eyes drift shut.
There is some rustling of fabric in the periphery, perhaps Anthony shedding his shoes, shirtsleeves and the like, but it does not faze her. Not until her husband’s hands reach beneath her knees and behind her back does Kate open her eyes once more. Anthony lifts her from the copper tub and swiftly shrouds her damp skin in cotton, then carries her back through to their bedchamber.
He prepares her for bed with quiet focus, offering a nightgown which she refuses with a slight tilt of the head. It would feel odd to sleep against his body clothed now, even if they have no amorous intentions.
“Will you take those off, too?” Kate gestures to his breeches with her chin. He sheds them without a second thought.
She allows him to braid her hair and he does so slowly, pressing his nose to her roots every now and then, dropping kisses to her ears or cheeks at random. He massages her scalp, too, just as she taught him in Kent, though there is no oil warmed between his palms.
Kate is a bit bereft of words—or thought, really—as she crawls into bed. Anthony, too.
Still, he finds himself speaking.
“I am sorry if they are a bit much.” He mumbles the apology more than says it, his mouth pressed against the back of Kate’s shoulder.
Kate twists her head, turning her body in suit until her sternum greets his. Despite the dark, her eyes find Anthony’s face rather clearly and she swirls the pads of her fingertips gently into his temples.
“I would not wish for them to be anything less,” she says with unadorned honesty.
Her fingertips continue to flutter over his face. She traces the divot between his brows as he speaks, the ridge easy to find in the shadows of the room.
"I had wished to stay in Kent longer but… it is good to be back," he admits. “I only hope you do not find yourself overwhelmed by their, ah, enthusiasm.”
“I should say the same to you, then.” She hums a small laugh and Anthony sweeps a thumb against her waist, where his arms remain snugly slung. “Your family adores you,” she murmurs.
He chuckles. “They adore you. And much as I loathe to admit it, Newton, too. I am afraid I am a mere accessory.” He kisses her jaw, smiling still, but the jape strikes her.
She sits up in bed, weight resting on her bent elbows. “Do you truly believe that?”
“Not entirely,” he answers slowly. “Perhaps I believed it more a few months ago. Weeks, even.” Kate’s hands move to cover his cheeks. “Honestly,” he continues, whisper-quiet, “if you had asked me at the start of this season? I would wager they hated me.”
Anthony’s eyes flick downward as he says it, ashamed to confess such a thing. That is perhaps why he misses the way his wife’s face crumples, how her eyes track the contrite cast of his features.
“How could anyone hate you?” she says, refusing to entertain it. Her hushed words are more an admonishment than a question.
“You certainly did.”
“And look how poorly I managed that.” Kate leans closer, pulling his face flush with her lips until she has covered every inch of it—nose, eyelids, ears—with soft pecks. “It is impossible to hate you, Anthony. Even when I purported to, I did not.”
Anthony’s eyes find hers, so warm and open with hope that it makes her heart turn. “Truly?” he breathes.
Her lips meet his in the bruised blue-dark, sweeter than any salve as she whispers truly on his tongue.
“I never hated you for a moment,” he confesses in return. Her curved smile upon his mouth is his absolution.
“Your family,” she starts again. “You know they do not hate you.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She bestows another kiss upon his cheek. “Are you certain of their affection? Or will I have to convince you of that, too?”
He considers his answer a long while, thinking of a great many recent memories. Eloise by his side in the bookshop; Benedict holding the house together gladly, offering an ear this evening in the library; Colin, full of questions about his wife, his wedding, his honeymoon; the three of them, all boisterous and delighted at the haldi and sangeet. Daphne, too, unwaveringly supportive in this past mess of a month. Francesca, ever-quiet but concerned in her own way. Gregory and Hyacinth, left snoring halfway down the hall after begging for one more page in this evening’s books.
Not in the past decade has Anthony felt so welcome in his own home.
“I am perhaps more convinced of the affection of this house than I have ever been,” he promises.
Kate swallows, a silent smile covering her face before Anthony’s lips follow suit. She basks in it, aglow at her husband’s assiduous attentions. Though they do not take pleasure in one another’s bodies tonight, it is a small gift to know that there are other joys to be found in a marriage bed; that their own affection is not a fleeting thing confined to the country.
As they slip toward slumber, Kate’s thoughts turn to her sister. Edwina will come calling tomorrow afternoon, escorted by Lady Danbury. It will be an odd thing, to host her sister in a new home, with a new name and new husband.
All these adornments once meant for Edwina.
The thought seizes Kate for an awful moment, then passes. Her sister would not be happy here. Nor would Anthony. That, she knows with absolute certainty. With her husband's arms woven around her ribs like ivy, Kate sighs contentedly.
She is so very happy. Anthony, too.
Happiness aside, it will be easy for her to feign ignorance of her feelings here, if this evening is any indication. Amid the melee of Bridgerton House, full of eager bodies and demanding estate business, her love can remain a quiet thing. It will be easily drowned amid such noise.
–
Kate enters the sitting room with her copy of Sense and Sensibility in one hand, a plate of honeyed cake in the other. She is too early to receive her sister, the rest of the Bridgerton brood still breaking fast, but she cannot sit still, cannot speak politely with Violet about her favorite blooms, cannot stomach a bite of bread.
She is ever-grateful for her husband, who had ushered her out of the parlor with a slice of cake and a kiss on the cheek. Listless, she wanders the halls, until slipping into this room for a bit of respite.
“Ah, the never-ending novel.”
Kate’s eyes land on a settee in the corner. Eloise is lounging with her legs tossed over the upholstered arm of the couch. She makes no great effort to rearrange her position. Kate suddenly wishes she had brought Robinson Crusoe instead.
“Seems so.” She waves the book. “I truly am enjoying it quite thoroughly. Though I believe I will enjoy anything which our good Lady pens.”
“Oh, really?” Eloise brightens, sitting up properly now. “Have you read Pride and Prejudice?”
“Only a few times,” Kate smiles. It had been one of many novels to keep her company amid rain-riddled eves and afternoons. “And you?” she asks, settling next to Eloise.
“Only a few dozen times,” she grins.
“I did not take you for such a fan of her novels. I thought you might turn your nose up at romance.” She thinks of their interlude over chai at Aubrey Hall, Eloise’s fearful reaction to the haldi, and her expressions of discomfort, the night prior, as Kate and Anthony had discussed their honeymoon in the vaguest of detail.
“Ah, but she is not just a writer of romance—her works are social commentaries too.”
“Indeed,” Kate smiles. “I find her a delightful satirist. Honestly, it is a bit of a comfort that someone else from this world recognizes its ridiculousness.” She laughs lightly, picking at the edge of her cake. Her stomach is rumbling rather insistently now, she realizes.
“Oh, I quite agree! Goodness,” Eloise sighs forlornly and takes her sister’s hand into her own. “Where were you three months ago? I could have used you when my mother shoved a very heinous feather on my head and trotted me around the queen’s court.”
Kate laughs supportively. “In all likelihood, I was secretly riding a borrowed horse astride in some place I should not have been.”
Eloise’s eyes roll into the back of her head. “I adore you.”
“And then I returned to the ton and trussed up my sister all the same.” Kate sighs, a grimace settling in. “I am much the same as your mother.”
Eloise contorts her mouth in thought. “Well, your situation was different. Miss Edwina is the diamond,” she rationalizes, “she loves this world, was practically born for it.”
“I do not think any diamonds are born, but simply molded by matter of necessity,” Kate replies slowly. “Just as your sister, the duchess, had to set a precedent for your debuts and matches with her own, my sister’s marriage would dictate our family’s future.”
“That all sounds rather grim,” Eloise grumbles. “I am glad to divest myself of such an awful practice.”
Kate does not bother to raise the fact that Eloise can only relieve herself from such responsibility because of Daphne and Anthony: her elder siblings, at whom she wrinkles her nose. Her elder siblings, who have made the difficult decisions so she would not have to.
“The alternative is worse,” she says softly. “You are one of the lucky ones, Eloise. I am, too.”
“I am glad to hear you think yourself lucky.” Eloise nods, thoughtful as she thumbs the corner of her book. “I suppose I had thought you brave. Both in remaining unwed and for marrying my brother.”
Kate smiles warmly then. the past few weeks fresh in her mind. “I do not know if bravery was involved in either decision, if I am honest.”
“Though I understand the joy of marriage very little, and loathe as I am to lose another intelligent woman to the institution, it does indeed seem to suit you.” The younger woman smiles also, a secret in the twist of her lips. “Perhaps one day I will be persuaded of its merits. Though I find that very unlikely,” she sniffs.
“I thought I understood the merits of marriage before wedding Anthony, but I admit I am still learning the depths of its joys.”
“Somehow, the strangest part of this is you calling him Anthony.” Kate hums, passive. To her, it is the easiest thing. Eloise leans forward then, a clear question in her eyes. “Might you share with me some guidance about marriage?”
“I—I suppose,” Kate returns cautiously. Is she fit for such a thing? Yes, she’d dare say so, now. “What do you wish to know?”
“What really occurs on a honeymoon? I know it is more than lawn games.”
She freezes, eyes wide, a deer spotting its hunter. “What do you think occurs on a honeymoon?”
“I do not know!” the young woman returns, her frustration apparent. “Though I assume it is something impolite because only my brothers know of it.”
Kate swallows, then sets her cake aside, the decision made. It rankles her too, in all honesty, that so many young ladies of marriageable age are left ignorant to the activities of a marriage bed. She cannot, in good conscience, allow another to be so nescient about these matters. At least, in the abstract.
Heaven help her. And let Violet Bridgerton forgive her.
–
“Danbury’s carriage is approaching the drive.”
For the past hour, Anthony has been eyeing the house’s gravel path, a finger tugging the edge of his study’s curtain rather than thumbing through the latest papers on his desk. He knows his wife is nervous and he should like her to have some amount of preparation before her sister crosses the threshold, even if it is a mere minute.
Still, Kate’s nerves do not account for the flustered response that his words receive. As he pokes his head into the parlor, Anthony observes his wife and sister recoil from a conspiratory posture. Eloise’s hand flies backward, smacking a crumb-covered fork against a porcelain plate. Kate, to her credit, maintains some modicum of composure.
“Oh, goodness,” she says, raising a hand to settle her quickened heartbeat. “How the time has gone.” She ekes out a startled little laugh, most unlike her natural sound. “Thank you for informing me.”
Eloise hastens to exit, avoiding her brother’s confused gaze, and Kate moves to follow suit. Before she can slip from the room, Anthony halts her with a hand on her wrist.
“Are you alright?” He rubs a thumb against her pulsepoint comfortingly. “If you should find yourself apprehensive about your sister, I can—”
“No,” Kate exhales a breathy laugh, one more her own. Her stiff posture softens and she shifts her palm so it slips into his. “No, I am fine.” She squeezes his fingers firmly as proof. “I am perhaps a bit concerned for her, of course, but I am not afraid in any sense.”
Her husband’s worry is touching. So sweet it makes her chest ache. But, truly, he ought to be more concerned with his own sister. The temerity of her questions are unlikely to decrease now that Kate has promised a review of some anatomical texts to accompany her inelegant analogies. But that is not a matter worth mentioning at this particular moment.
“Well, I would certainly never accuse you of being afraid.”
“That is very generous of you.” Kate leans forward, kissing the corner of his mouth.
Anthony smiles, countenance softened by her assurances. “But all the same, I am glad to hear.” He takes this opportunity of closeness to steal another small kiss. “In any case, I shall be in my study if you…” He abandons the sentence. He is the one who so often needs her.
“Thank you,” she tells him anyway.
–
After the sisters are settled, Anthony retreats to his study in an attempt to make himself scarce. He does not wish to impede their reunion. There are a handful parliamentary acts that require his review ahead of a vote anyway, some issues regarding the importation of wine and manufacturing of wool and the like. But it is all so banal, he can hardly stand to read it. Perhaps if these were matters of the Treasury or some revisions to a bridge he could find the interest to flick through the stack of dry text.
“Lord Bridgerton.”
His study door swings open without a knock and, for once, Anthony is glad for the company.
“Lady Danbury.” He rises from his seat and gestures toward an open armchair. “Are you joining me this afternoon?”
“If you will have me,” she smiles.
Perhaps he is seeking a distraction, or perhaps he is truly glad for the dowager’s company. Whatever the case may be, Anthony acquiesces immediately.
“Brandy?” he asks. “Or whisky?”
“Please,” she sniffs, settling into the chair. “It is far too early in the afternoon.”
Anthony lifts a brow in silent question.
Danbury crosses her ankles. “Whisky.”
He grins.
“How do you find married life?” she asks as he crosses the room to collect glasses and liquor. “You two seem quite besotted.”
“That appears to be the common consensus. Marriage has suited us quite seamlessly, to be honest.” He pauses, hand hovering on a glass, mouth poised on the edge of honesty. “It is so easy to be married to her, I sometimes forget what it would be like not to be.”
“Ah, yes. Easy. To bask in its benefits and avoid its implications.”
Anthony shifts uncomfortably at her words. They are said without contempt, which somehow makes them worse.
“What implications are those?” he asks Danbury, depositing a glass in her waiting hand.
“Oh, every marriage has many.” She takes a sip, eyeing him shrewdly. “I daresay you are less ignorant to them since last I saw you.”
“I do not know whether that is for the better,” he admits, thumbnail tapping against the crystal of his own cup.
“Depends what you do with the knowledge.”
How long can he quiet it? How much further can he compress it? Love, it seems, threatens to seep from the seams of him. It is obvious to everyone, save his own wife. With each passing day, he is less certain whether that fact is a stroke of strange luck or terrible misfortune.
Marriage to Kate is an unmatched marvel. She is clever and kind, unparalleled in both intelligence and beauty, a quick study in practical matters of estate and intimate matters of their bedchambers. She is uninhibited in her desires. She does not flinch in the face of his worst fears. But he still does.
“I remember when you were so small,” Danbury says, drawing him from thought. “Just a babe. Little Anthony in leading strings.” He chuckles, mind turning to fond memories of the time spent pestering the older woman as a boy. She was always much like an aunt to him, more a mother to Simon. In retrospect, he has very few recollections of his youth devoid of Agatha Danbury. “I remember a time before you knew how to be afraid of anything. Look at you now. A man. A viscount.”
Scared to speak the truth to your own wife.
“I am terrified to lose her,” Anthony admits.
Agatha nods. She neither needs to ask nor push him further. She was there when he was eight and ten, too.
“I am glad you love her enough to fear it,” she says finally. “Better that than a union without feeling.”
He ponders the words slowly, nodding. “I quite agree.” The pair sip in silence for a few moments, before Anthony speaks again. “You know, you ought to call upon our family more often, Lady Danbury. Not just as a chaperone, but a guest. I know my mother would favor your company but I myself would too.”
She has been here for the past years of his life. Should she not be for the next?
“Oh, I would hate to be an imposition.” She shifts a fist uncomfortably against her cane.
“You are not one. And even if you were, I would grin and bear it. I have spent enough early mornings being interrogated over a pot of tea, I’ll remind you,” he teases.
“I will remind you that I did not take great pleasure in that ritual either.”
“I am aware how greatly you value your sleep and detested my presence before calling hours. But you did it for Kate, did you not?”
“I did.” It is impossible for Agatha to hide the fondness in her tone. Ah. He can perhaps see how his love for Kate has been made obvious, too.
“You have done so very much for her. For the people who matter most to me. You gave my wife a home before you had ever seen her face. You gave my closest friend some semblance of family before he wed my sister.” He pauses to swallow a thick tongue. “You were my mother’s greatest friend in her grief. Perhaps her only one.”
“Well, if that is your only reason for the invitation, there is no need to repay me,” she rebuts firmly. “I was only—”
“Let me be clear: I wish you here not in some sort of repayment, but because I truly value your company and counsel. I know Kathani does, too.” His speech leaves no room for further rebuttal. “But if you are uncomfortable with that fact, then I will gladly list all the times I have been in your debt and allow us both to pretend that is why I wish to have you among my family.”
“Alright then,” Agatha concedes, chuckling against the rim of her glass. “You may begin enumerating my many good deeds. We have the entire afternoon ahead of us.”
–
“He has proposed?” Kate asks, brow furrowed.
“Yes. No. Sort of.” Edwina says all three answers like they are questions.
“He has sort of proposed?”
“He has proposed the notion of a proposal.”
“You realize this grows more confusing the further you explain.”
Edwina sighs heavily, shaking her head to clear its clutter. “Friedrich told me he loves me.”
“Oh, bon,” Kate breathes. Her hand covers her mouth.
“He loves me and he wishes to propose. And he asked if I would be amenable. That is, if he were to propose in front of the ton or the queen’s court, he wished to know what my answer would be.” Her face is downturned, fixated on the fingers worrying the silk of her dress, so it is difficult for Kate to read her opinion on the matter.
“And you said?”
“I do not know!” Edwina yelps, eyes wild and searching, an animal in a trap.
“Then that is answer enough, yes?” Kate lifts a soothing hand to her sister’s elbow. “If you are not certain of marrying him, then you should not. You are under no contract. You do not need to marry for his sake or ours, only for your own. Only for love.”
If her sister wishes to wed Bagwell, so be it.
“Therein lies the problem,” Edwina groans. “I love him, didi. So much.” She sighs, some of the scattered, anxious energy dissipating with this confession. “You see now why I need your guidance desperately.”
Kate blinks. “Frankly, I am unsure what guidance I ought to offer. And I remain unclear of the particular issue.”
When Edwina first swept into Bridgerton House, she had gathered Kate in an embrace so robust, it nearly knocked her off her feet. Kate had been bemused but slightly comforted by the affectionate display. As she shepherded her younger sister into the drawing room, Edwina had begun chattering nonsensically, pacing the rug before taking a seat, standing once more, then sitting again.
Now, though her dilemma remains unclear, two things are readily apparent to Kate. One: she is well and truly troubled over it. Two: it has absolutely nothing to do with her elder sister.
“I have made a mess of this haven’t I?” Edwina falls back against the couch cushions.
Kate wraps an arm around her shoulders supportively. “Perhaps I might attempt to ask some questions to help us sort it?”
Edwina nods. “Please.”
“Firstly, what has become of Mister Bagwell?”
“Oh! I am afraid there is little to say. I enjoy his company greatly,” she says brightly. “He is an intellectual equal and excellent companion but…” Her brightness fades with the words left unspoken. “It pales in comparison to what I feel for Friedrich.”
Her words are familiar. It puts Kate to mind of a particular doctor, kind and companionable and warm, his laughter easily offered, his temperament unaltered by a toppled boat in the Serpentine. The remembrance of this man inspires no radical emotion.
“I understand entirely,” she promises. “And you are certain you love the prince?”
“Oh, yes,” Edwina replies without a moment’s hesitation. “I love Freddie.” She sighs, warm and wistful, saying the words like a precious secret. “I realized it when you were away on honeymoon, when I had nothing to fill my days but him—rows and reading and promenades—and it was still not enough time. I realized that it was because I wished for every day with him.” Her cheeks tinge pink at the memory. “But, if I am honest, I think I have loved him even sooner than that. And every time he kisses my hand or sends daisies or brings the first edition of a novel I have only mentioned offhand in his company, I know he loves me too. I know it in the way he looks at me. In the way he listens.” Kate’s mouth parts in wonderment, heart twisting tenderly in her chest at her sister’s words. “Oh, I love him. So greatly it is overwhelming at times. I would love him without wealth or title. With nothing but himself.”
She is a touch relieved, in truth, that Edwina is not blinded by the fantasy of crowns and castles and silk gowns. But, more than that, she is so glad she will have love. Kate gathers her hands between her own and smiles, broad and giddy. This is all she has ever wished for her sister. And it is greater than she could have dreamt. It takes some effort not to turn misty-eyed as she speaks again.
“Edwina, that is wonderful news. I am thrilled for you, truly. But… what issue remains?”
“The issue is that he does have these things, Kate. Great wealth and great title,” she says, worrying her lip between her teeth briefly, “and I am quite frightened.”
“Frightened?”
“Yes. I thought I was going to be a viscountess. But watching you, Kate? Even during your engagement, you inhabited this role so easily.” She shakes her head. “I know I could not do what you have. I was made to be a debutante, not a lady; a bride, not a wife. If I cannot adequately match a viscount, how could I marry a prince?” She swallows, as though battling a bout of nausea. “How can I be expected to be a queen?”
“Oh, bon.” Kate’s face turns soft. Now she understands.
“I would sooner marry him without his title. Truly, were he not a prince, I would be wearing his ring right now.” She smiles, self-deprecating. “I am so out of my depth.”
“That is untrue.”
“Even now, I cannot make a simple decision to marry the man I love without begging for my sister’s guidance.”
“It does not sound so simple a decision,” she returns gently.
“Every day I delay my answer, I worry he will rescind or doubt my commitment.” She dabs at her eyes, turning damp with tears. “But the sooner I say Yes, the sooner everything changes. I love him. I truly do. But I do not know if that is—if I am… enough.”
Kate grits her teeth. It wounds her to hear Edwina speak of herself so poorly. As if she was not once the center of her elder sister’s universe.
“You are more than enough. If you do not believe that fact simply because I say it, then believe it for all the reasons that made you the Diamond. You are lovely at court. You are genteel and witty, well-versed in literature and history, gifted in three languages and four instruments and all forms of dance. The queen herself sought to match you with the prince. That was not a decision made in haste or by happy accident.”
“Mama has said the same,” she replies. “But I cannot help thinking—”
“Stop thinking,” she interjects firmly. She can see the wheels turning, constant cogs telling Edwina that she will fail. It is a useless practice. “Because above all these things, these ornaments, you are kind. You are wise and clever and capable. Despite everything we have endured in recent years, you remain the gentlest spirit I have ever met, bon.” Kate pauses, considering the child she knew for nearly two decades. The girl who waded through streams with her elder sister and knew her favorite turtles by name. The young woman who sits by her side now. “You possess the tenderest heart I have ever known.
“And you promised me that you would follow your heart,” Kate reminds her. “It is the most courageous thing you can do. So do not consider the trappings of his position. Choose neither for riches or comforts, nor responsibilities or concerns. Choose Friedrich because he is who your heart beats for, who you wish to spend all your days with. Choose him because he is a partner and a friend in all things. What matters, above title and duties and all else, is the character of the person by your side and the love that you share. It will only aid the difficult moments. When you are uncertain, he will make you sure. And when he is overwhelmed, you will make him light. It is what you are for one another that will determine how well you do. And what you are, Edwina? It is wonderful.”
It is then that Edwina finally allows the tears to fall. She folds herself into her sister’s embrace with relief and gratitude.
“Thank you, didi.” She sniffles a few times and Kate runs a soothing hand along her back. “I am going to be engaged soon,” she whispers, the words accompanied by a watery laugh. “To Friedrich.”
“To Friedrich,” Kate repeats with a gentle grin. But her heart aches as she says it, thinking of what comes next: her sister, so far away in Prussia. “I am glad of it and he is a fine fellow. Though selfishly, I admit I once hoped you would choose Bagwell, simply so I might have you close.”
“Imagine how I felt,” Edwina returns softly, voice mild and muffled against her sister’s dress. “Thinking of you returned to India.”
Kate squeezes her tighter then. Such a fate is unfathomable now. “It is a blessing I was not.”
“You are happy, then, with the viscount.” She phrases it not as a question, but a confirmation.
“The happiest,” she affirms neatly. She cannot stop the stretch of a smile as she speaks. “These past days with Anthony have been so wonderful that we nearly extended our honeymoon another fortnight.”
“Didi!” Edwina gasps and pulls back from their embrace. “Whyever did you not?”
Kate glances away guiltily.
“No, tell me you did not,” she says, aghast. “Kate, not for me.”
“Not… entirely.” She winces at her own lie.
“If I had known you intended to stay in Kent, I would have never sent that letter.” Edwina sighs. “When will you stop putting the rest of us before yourself?”
“Honestly, bon, I do not know. I think I am better at it these days, but I do not mind so much anymore. The same could be said of Anthony. It is what makes our partnership so… easy. That understanding. We will always have a certain duty to our families. But we are not so alone in it any longer.”
As Kate says it, she knows that it is true for herself and her husband. They have neither abandoned duty nor desire, but married the two. A feat she did not think possible until recent days.
“Well, I suppose I can accept that,” Edwina says slowly. “But either way, I am immensely sorry for interrupting your honeymoon.”
“All is forgiven, I swear it.” Kate laughs lightly. “I am only glad you are alright.” The sisters sink into the couch cushions, settled. Then, a sudden thought occurs to her. “Edwina, do you know what occurs on a honeymoon?”