Bridgerton Collection Volume 1 (Bridgertons)

by Julia Quinn

  “There is not going to be any gossip,” Anthony growled, advancing on her with a menacing air, “because no one is going to say a word. I will not see Miss Sheffield’s reputation besmirched in any way.”

  Mrs. Featherington’s eyes bugged out with disbelief. “You think you can keep something like this quiet?”

  “I’m not going to say anything, and I rather doubt that Miss Sheffield will, either,” he said, planting his hands on his hips as he glared down at her. It was the sort of stare that brought grown men to their knees, but Mrs. Featherington was either impervious or simply stupid, so he continued with, “Which leaves our respective mothers, who would seem to have a vested interest in protecting our reputations. Which then leaves you, Mrs. Featherington, as the only member of our cozy little group who might prove herself a gossipy, loudmouthed fishwife over this.”

  Mrs. Featherington turned a dull red. “Anyone could have seen from the house,” she said bitterly, clearly loath to lose such a prime piece of gossip. She’d be fêted for a month as the only eyewitness to such a scandal. The only eyewitness who’d talk, that is.

  Lady Bridgerton glanced up at the house, her face going pale. “She’s right, Anthony,” she said. “You were in full view of the guest wing.”

  “It was a bee,” Kate practically wailed. “Just a bee! Surely we can’t be forced to marry because of a bee!”

  Her outburst was met with silence. She looked from Mary to Lady Bridgerton, both of whom were gazing at her with expressions hovering between concern, kindness, and pity. Then she looked at Anthony, whose expression was hard, closed, and utterly unreadable.

  Kate closed her eyes in misery. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Even as she had told him he might marry her sister, she’d secretly wished he could be hers, but not like this.

  Oh, dear Lord, not like this. Not so he’d feel trapped. Not so he’d spend the rest of his life looking at her and wishing she were someone else.

  “Anthony?” she whispered. Maybe if he spoke to her, maybe if he just looked at her she might glean some clue as to what he was thinking.

  “We will marry next week,” he stated. His voice was firm and clear, but otherwise devoid of emotion.

  “Oh, good!” Lady Bridgerton said with great relief, clapping her hands together. “Mrs. Sheffield and I will begin preparations immediately.”

  “Anthony,” Kate whispered again, this time with more urgency, “are you certain?” She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away from the matrons. She gained only a few inches, but at least now they weren’t facing them.

  He gazed at her with implacable eyes. “We will marry,” he said simply, his voice that of the consummate aristocrat, brooking no protest and expecting to be obeyed. “There is nothing else to do.”

  “But you don’t want to marry me,” she said.

  This caused him to raise a brow. “And do you want to marry me?”

  She said nothing. There was nothing she could say, not if she wanted to maintain even a shred of pride.

  “I suspect we shall suit well enough,” he continued, his expression softening slightly. “We’ve become friends of a sort, after all. That’s more than most men and women have at the beginning of a union.”

  “You can’t want this,” she persisted. “You wanted to marry Edwina. What are you going to say to Edwina?”

  He crossed his arms. “I never made any promises to Edwina. And I imagine we’ll simply tell her we fell in love.”

  Kate felt her eyes rolling of their own volition. “She’ll never believe that.”

  He shrugged. “Then tell her the truth. Tell her you were stung by a bee, and I was trying to aid you, and we were caught in a compromising position. Tell her whatever you want. She’s your sister.”

  Kate sank back down onto the stone bench, sighing. “No one is going to believe you wanted to marry me,” she said. “Everyone will think you were trapped.”

  Anthony shot a pointed glare at the three women, who were still staring at them with interest. At his, “Would you mind?” both his and Kate’s mothers stepped back several feet and turned around to afford them more privacy. When Mrs. Featherington did not follow immediately, Violet reached forward and nearly pulled her arm out of the socket.

  Sitting down next to Kate, he said, “There is little we can do to prevent people from talking, especially with Portia Featherington as a witness. I don’t trust that woman to keep her mouth shut any longer than it takes her to return to the house.” He leaned back and propped his left ankle on his right knee. “So we might as well make the best of it. I have to get married this year—”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you have to get married this year?”

  He paused for a moment. There wasn’t really an answer to that question. So he said, “Because I decided I would, and that’s a good enough reason for me. As for you, you have to get married eventually—”

  She interrupted him again with, “To be honest, I rather assumed I wouldn’t.”

  Anthony felt his muscles tense, and it took him several seconds to realize that what he was feeling was rage. “You planned to live your life as a spinster?”

  She nodded, her eyes innocent and frank at the same time. “It seemed a definite possibility, yes.”

  Anthony held himself still for several seconds, thinking he might like to murder all those men and women who had compared her to Edwina and found her lacking. Kate truly had no idea that she might be attractive and desirable in her own right.

  When Mrs. Featherington had announced that they must marry, his initial reaction had been the same as Kate’s—utter horror. Not to mention a rather pricked sense of pride. No man liked to be forced into marriage, and it was particularly galling to be forced by a bee.

  But as he stood there, watching Kate howl in protest (not, he thought, the most flattering of reactions, but he supposed she was allowed her pride as well), a strange sense of satisfaction washed over him.

  He wanted her.

  He wanted her desperately.

  He wouldn’t, in a million years, have allowed himself to choose her as a wife. She was far, far too dangerous to his peace of mind.

  But fate had intervened, and now that it looked like he had to marry her . . . well, there didn’t seem much use in putting up a big fuss. There were worse fates than finding oneself married to an intelligent, entertaining woman whom one happened to lust after around the clock.

  All he had to do was make certain he didn’t actually fall in love with her. Which shouldn’t prove impossible, right? The Lord knew she drove him crazy half the time with her incessant arguing. He could have a pleasant marriage with Kate. He’d enjoy her friendship and enjoy her body and keep it at that. It didn’t have to go any deeper.

  And he couldn’t have asked for a better woman to serve as mother to his sons after he was gone. That was certainly worth a great deal.

  “This will work,” he said with great authority. “You’ll see.”

  She looked doubtful, but she nodded. Of course, there was little else she could do. She’d just been caught by the biggest gossip in London with a man’s mouth on her chest. If he hadn’t offered to marry her, she’d have been ruined forever.

  And if she’d refused to marry him . . . well, then she’d be branded a fallen woman and an idiot.

  Anthony suddenly stood. “Mother!” he barked, leaving Kate on the bench as he strode over to her. “My fiancée and I desire a bit of privacy here in the garden.”

  “Of course,” Lady Bridgerton murmured.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Mrs. Featherington asked.

  Anthony leaned forward, placed his mouth very close to his mother’s ear, and whispered, “If you do not remove her from my presence within the next ten seconds, I shall murder her on the spot.”

  Lady Bridgerton choked on a laugh, nodded, and managed to say, “Of course.”

  In under a minute, Anthony and Kate were alone in the garden.r />
  He turned to face her; she’d stood and taken a few steps toward him. “I think,” he murmured, slipping his arm through hers, “that we ought to consider moving out of sight of the house.”

  His steps were long and purposeful, and she stumbled to keep up with him until she found her stride. “My lord,” she asked, hurrying along, “do you think this is wise?”

  “You sound like Mrs. Featherington,” he pointed out, not breaking his pace, even for a second.

  “Heaven forbid,” Kate muttered, “but the question still stands.”

  “Yes, I do think it’s very wise,” he replied, pulling her into a gazebo. Its walls were partially open to the air, but it was surrounded by lilac bushes and afforded them considerable privacy.

  “But—”

  He smiled. Slowly. “Did you know you argue too much?”

  “You brought me here to tell me that?”

  “No,” he drawled, “I brought you here to do this.”

  And then, before she had a chance to utter a word, before she even had a chance to draw breath, his mouth swooped down and captured hers in a hungry, searing kiss. His lips were voracious, taking everything she had to give and then demanding even more. The fire that glowed within her burned and crackled even hotter than what he’d stoked that night in his study, hotter by a tenfold.

  She was melting. Dear God, she was melting, and she wanted so much more.

  “You shouldn’t do this to me,” he whispered against her mouth. “You shouldn’t. Everything about you is absolutely wrong. And yet . . .”

  Kate gasped as his hands stole around to her backside and pressed her harshly against his arousal.

  “Do you see?” he said raggedly, his lips moving along her cheek. “Do you feel?” He chuckled hoarsely, an odd mocking sound. “Do you even understand?” He squeezed mercilessly, then nibbled the tender skin of her ear. “Of course you don’t.”

  Kate felt herself sliding into him. Her skin was starting to burn, and her traitorous arms stole up and around his neck. He was stoking a fire in her, something she could not even begin to control. She’d been possessed by some primitive urge, something hot and molten which needed nothing so much as the touch of his skin against hers.

  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 t
o. 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.

  Chapter 15

  Once again. This Author has been proven correct. Country house parties do result in the most surprising of betrothals.

  Yes indeed, dear reader, you are surely reading it here first: Viscount Bridgerton is to marry Miss Katharine Sheffield. Not Miss Edwina, as gossips had speculated, but Miss Katharine.

  As to how the betrothal came about, details have been surprisingly difficult to obtain. This Author has it on the best authority that the new couple was caught in a compromising position, and that Mrs. Featherington was a witness, but Mrs. F has been uncharacteristically close-lipped about the entire affair. Given that lady’s propensity for gossip, This Author can only assume that the viscount (never known for lacking a spine) threatened bodily injury upon Mrs. F should she even breathe a syllable.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 11 MAY 1814

  Kate 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.