by Julia Quinn
Oddly enough, the straightforward tone of her voice was rather reassuring. Anthony even felt one corner of his mouth lift up in the palest of smiles. “You think I’m unaware of how ludicrous it all sounds?”
“I don’t think it sounds ludicrous at all. It sounds like a perfectly normal reaction, actually, especially considering how much you adored your father.” She lifted her shoulders in a rather self-aware shrug as her head tipped to the side. “But it’s still wrong.”
Anthony didn’t say anything.
“Your father’s death was an accident,” Kate said. “An accident. A terrible, horrible twist of fate that no one could have predicted.”
Anthony shrugged fatalistically. “I’ll probably go the same way.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Kate managed to bite her tongue a split second before she blasphemed. “Anthony, I could die tomorrow as well. I could have died today when that carriage rolled on top of me.”
He paled. “Don’t ever remind me of that.”
“My mother died when she was my age,” Kate reminded him harshly. “Did you ever think of that? By your laws, I should be dead by my next birthday.”
“Don’t be—”
“Silly?” she finished for him.
Silence reigned for a full minute.
Finally, Anthony said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t know if I can get past this.”
“You don’t have to get past it,” Kate said. She caught her lower lip, which had begun to tremble, between her teeth, and then laid her hand on an empty spot on the bed. “Could you come over here so I can hold your hand?”
Anthony responded instantly; the warmth of her touch flooded him, seeping through his body until it caressed his very soul. And in that moment he realized that this was about more than love. This woman made him a better person. He’d been good and strong and kind before, but with her at his side, he was something more.
And together they could do anything.
It almost made him think that forty might not be such an impossible dream.
“You don’t have to get past it,” she said again, her words blowing softly between them. “To be honest, I don’t see how you could get completely past it until you turn thirty-nine. But what you can do”—she gave his hand a squeeze, and Anthony somehow felt even stronger than he had just moments before—“is refuse to allow it to rule your life.”
“I realized that this morning,” he whispered, “when I knew I had to tell you I loved you. But somehow now—now I know it.”
She nodded, and he saw that her eyes were filling with tears. “You have to live each hour as if it’s your last,” she said, “and each day as if you were immortal. When my father grew ill, he had so many regrets. There were so many things he wished he’d done, he told me. He’d always assumed he had more time. That’s something I’ve always carried with me. Why on earth do you think I decided to attempt the flute at such an advanced age? Everyone told me I was too old, that to be truly good at it I had to have started as a child. But that’s not the point, really. I don’t need to be truly good. I just need to enjoy it for myself. And I need to know I tried.”
Anthony smiled. She was a terrible flutist. Even Newton couldn’t bear to listen.
“But the opposite is true as well,” Kate added softly. “You can’t shun new challenges or hide yourself from love just because you think you might not be here to carry your dreams to completion. In the end, you’ll have just as many regrets as did my father.”
“I didn’t want to love you,” Anthony whispered. “It was the one thing I feared above all. I’d grown rather used to my rather odd little outlook on life. Almost comfortable, actually. But love—” His voice caught; the choking sound seemed unmanly, it made him vulnerable. But he didn’t care, because this was Kate.
And it didn’t matter if she saw his deepest fears, because he knew she’d love him no matter what. It was a sublimely freeing feeling.
“I’ve seen true love,” he continued. “I wasn’t the cynical jade society made me out to be. I knew love existed. My mother—my father—” He stopped, sucking in a ragged breath. This was the hardest thing he’d ever done. And yet he knew the words had to be said. He knew, no matter how difficult it was to get them out, that in the end, his heart would soar.
“I was so sure that it was the one thing that could make this . . . this . . . I don’t really know what to call it—this knowledge of my own mortality . . .” He raked his hand through his hair, fighting for words. “Love was the only thing that was going to make that unbearable. How could I love someone, truly and deeply, knowing that it was doomed?”
“But it’s not doomed,” Kate said, squeezing his hand.
“I know. I fell in love with you, and then I knew. Even if I am right, even if I’m fated to live only as long as my father did before me, I’m not doomed.” He leaned forward and brushed a feather-light kiss on her lips. “I have you,” he whispered, “and I’m not going to waste a single moment we have together.”
Kate’s lips spread into a smile. “What does that mean?”
“It means that love isn’t about being afraid that it will all be snatched away. Love’s about finding the one person who makes your heart complete, who makes you a better person than you ever dreamed you could be. It’s about looking in the eyes of your wife and knowing, all the way to your bones, that she’s simply the best person you’ve ever known.”
“Oh, Anthony,” Kate whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That’s how I feel about you.”
“When I thought you’d died—”
“Don’t say it,” she choked out. “You don’t have to relive that.”
“No,” he said. “I do. I have to tell you. It was the first time—even after all these years of expecting my own death—that I truly knew what it meant to die. Because with you gone . . . there was nothing left for me to live for. I don’t know how my mother did it.”
“She had her children,” Kate said. “She couldn’t leave you.”
“I know,” he whispered, “but the pain she must have endured . . .”
“I think the human heart must be stronger than we could ever imagine.”
Anthony stared at her for a long moment, his eyes locking with hers until he felt they must be one person. Then, with a shaking hand, he cupped the back of her head and leaned down to kiss her. His lips worshiped hers, offering her every ounce of love and devotion and reverence and prayer that he felt in his soul.
“I love you, Kate,” he whispered, his lips brushing the words against her mouth. “I love you so much.”
She nodded, unable to make a sound.
“And right now I wish . . . I wish . . .”
And then the strangest thing happened. Laughter bubbled up inside of him. He was overtaken by the pure joy of the moment, and it was all he could do not to pick her up and twirl her grandly through the air.
“Anthony?” she asked, sounding equal parts confused and amused.
“Do you know what else love means?” he murmured, planting his hands on either side of her body and letting his nose rest against hers.
She shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly even hazard a guess.”
“It means,” he grumbled, “that I’m finding this broken leg of yours a damned nuisance.”
“Not half so much as I, my lord,” she said, casting a rueful glance at her splinted leg.
Anthony frowned. “No vigorous exercise for two months, eh?”
“At least.”
He grinned, and in that moment he looked every inch the rake she’d once accused him of being. “Clearly,” he murmured, “I shall have to be very, very gentle.”
“Tonight?” she croaked.
He shook his head. “Even I haven’t the talent to express myself with that light a touch.”
Kate giggled. She couldn’t help herself. She loved this man and he loved her and whether he knew it or not, they were going to grow very, very old together. It was enough to make a gir
l—even a girl with a broken leg—positively giddy.
“Are you laughing at me?” he queried, one of his brows arching arrogantly as he slid his body into place next to her.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Because I have some very important things to tell you.”
“Really?”
He nodded gravely. “I may not be able to show you how much I love you this eve, but I can tell you.”
“I should never tire of hearing it,” she murmured.
“Good. Because when I’m done telling you, I’m going to tell you how I’d like to show you.”
“Anthony!” she squeaked.
“I think I’d start with your earlobe,” he mused. “Yes, definitely the earlobe. I’d kiss it, and then nibble it, and then . . .”
Kate gasped. And then she squirmed. And then she fell in love with him all over again.
And as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear, she had the strangest sensation, almost as if she could see her entire future laid out before her. Each day was richer and fuller than the last, and every day she was falling, falling, falling . . .
Was it possible to fall in love with the same man over and over again, every single day?
Kate sighed as she settled into the pillows, letting his wicked words wash over her.
By God, she was going to try.
Epilogue
Lord Bridgerton celebrated his birthday—This Author believes that it was his thirty-ninth—at home with his family.
This Author was not invited.
Nonetheless, details of the fête have reached This Author’s always attentive ears, and it sounds to have been a most amusing party. The day began with a short concert: Lord Bridgerton on the trumpet and Lady Bridgerton on the flute. Mrs. Bagwell (Lady Bridgerton’s sister) apparently offered to mediate on the pianoforte, but her offer was refused.
According to the dowager viscountess, a more discordant concert has never been performed, and we are told that eventually young Miles Bridgerton stood atop his chair and begged his parents to cease.
We are also told that no one scolded the boy for his rudeness, but rather just heaved huge sighs of relief when Lord and Lady Bridgerton laid down their instruments.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 17 SEPTEMBER 1823
“She must have a spy in the family,” Anthony said to Kate, shaking his head.
Kate laughed as she brushed her hair, readying herself for bed. “She didn’t realize that today is your birthday, not yesterday.”
“A trifling matter,” he grumbled. “She must have a spy. There’s no other explanation.”
“She did get everything else right,” Kate couldn’t help noting. “I tell you, I’ve always admired that woman.”
“We weren’t that bad,” Anthony protested.
“We were dreadful.” She set the brush down and walked to his side. “We’re always dreadful. But at least we try.”
Anthony wound his arms around his wife’s waist and settled his chin on the top of her head. There was little that brought him more peace than simply holding her in his arms. He didn’t know how any man survived without a woman to love.
“It’s almost midnight,” Kate murmured. “Your birthday is almost over.”
Anthony nodded. Thirty-nine. He’d never thought he’d see the day.
No, that wasn’t true. Since the moment he’d let Kate into his heart, his fears had been slowly melting away. But still, it was nice to be thirty-nine. Settling. He’d spent a goodly portion of the day in his study, staring up at his father’s portrait. And he’d found himself talking. For hours on end, he’d talked to his father. He told him of his three children, of his siblings’ marriages and their children. He told him of his mother, and how she’d recently taken up painting with oils, and that she was actually quite good. And he told him of Kate, and how she’d freed his soul, and how he loved her so damn much.
It was, Anthony realized, what his father had always wanted for him.
The clock on the mantel began to chime, and neither Anthony nor Kate spoke until the twelfth bell rang.
“That’s it, then,” Kate whispered.
He nodded. “Let’s go to bed.”
She moved away, and he could see that she was smiling. “That’s how you want to celebrate?”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I can think of no better way. Can you?”
Kate shook her head, then giggled as she ran for the bed. “Did you read what else she wrote in her column?”
“That Whistledown woman?”
She nodded.
Anthony planted his hands on either side of his wife and leered down at her. “Was it about us?”
Kate shook her head.
“Then I don’t care.”
“It was about Colin.”
Anthony let out a little sigh. “She does seem to write about Colin a great deal.”
“Maybe she has a tendre for him,” Kate suggested.
“Lady Whistledown?” Anthony rolled his eyes. “That old biddy?”
“She might not be old.”
Anthony snorted derisively. “She’s a wrinkled old crone and you know it.”
“I don’t know,” Kate said, scooting out of his grasp and crawling under the covers. “I think she might be young.”
“And I think,” Anthony announced, “that I don’t much want to talk about Lady Whistledown just now.”
Kate smiled. “You don’t?”
He slid into place next to her, his fingers settling around the curve of her hip. “I have much better things to do.”
“You do?”
“Much.” His lips found her ear. “Much, much, much better.”
And in a small, elegantly furnished chamber, not so very far from Bridgerton House, a woman—no longer in the first blush of youth, but certainly not wrinkled and old—sat at her desk with a quill and a pot of ink and pulled out a piece of paper.
Stretching her neck from side to side, she set her quill to paper and wrote:
Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 19 September, 1823 Ah, Gentle Reader, it has come to This Author’s attention . . .
Author’s Note
Anthony’s reaction to his father’s untimely death is a very common one, especially among men. (To a much lesser degree, women whose mothers die young react in a similar fashion.) Men whose fathers die at a very young age are very often gripped by a certainty that they, too, will suffer the same fate. Such men usually know their fears are irrational, but it is nearly impossible to get past these fears until one has reached (and passed) the age of one’s father’s death.
Since my readers are almost exclusively women, and Anthony’s issue is such (to use a very modern phrase) a “guy thing,” I worried that you might not be able to relate to his problem. As a writer of romance, I constantly find myself walking a fine line between making my heroes utterly and completely heroic, and making them real. With Anthony, I hope I struck a balance. It’s easy to scowl at a book and grumble, “Get over it already!” but the truth is, for most men, it’s not so easy to “get over” the sudden and premature loss of a beloved father.
Sharp-eyed readers will note that the bee sting that killed Edmund Bridgerton was actually the second sting he’d received in his life. This is medically accurate; bee sting allergies generally don’t manifest themselves until the second sting. Since Anthony has only been stung once in his life, it’s impossible to know whether or not he’s allergic. As the author of this book, however, I’d like to think I have a certain creative control over the medical conditions of my characters, so I’ve decided that Anthony has no allergies of any kind, and furthermore will live to the ripe old age of 92.
My very best wishes,
Dear Reader,
Have you ever wondered what happened to your favorite characters after you closed the final page? Wanted just a little bit more of a favorite novel? I have, and if the questions from my readers are any indication, I’m not the only one. So a
fter countless requests from Bridgerton fans, I decided to try something a little different, and I wrote a “2nd Epilogue” for each of the novels. These are the stories that come after the stories.
At first, the Bridgerton 2nd Epilogues were available exclusively online; later they were published (along with a novella about Violet Bridgerton) in a collection called The Bridgertons: Happily Ever After. Now, for the first time, each 2nd Epilogue is being included with the novel it follows. I hope you enjoy Anthony and Kate as they continue their journey.
Warmly,
Julia Quinn
The Viscount Who Loved Me:
The 2nd Epilogue
Two days prior . . .
Kate stomped across the lawn, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that her husband was not following her. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her a thing or two, and she knew that he would be watching her every move.
But she was clever. And she was determined. And she knew that for a pound, Anthony’s valet could feign the most marvelous sartorial disaster. Something involving jam on the iron, or perhaps an infestation in the wardrobe—spiders, mice, it really didn’t matter which—Kate was more than happy to leave the details up to the valet as long as Anthony was suitably distracted long enough for her to make her escape.
“It is mine, all mine,” she chortled, in much the same tones she’d used during the previous month’s Bridgerton family production of Macbeth. Her eldest son had casted the roles; she had been named First Witch.
Kate had pretended not to notice when Anthony had rewarded him with a new horse.
He’d pay now. His shirts would be stained pink with raspberry jam, and she—
She was smiling so hard she was laughing.
“Mine mine mine miiiiiiiiiiiine,” she sang, wrenching open the door to the shed on the last syllable, which just so happened to be the deep, serious note of Beethoven’s Fifth.
“Mine mine mine miiiiiiiiiine.”
She would have it. It was hers. She could practically taste it. She would have tasted it, even, if this would somehow have bonded it to her side. She had no taste for wood, of course, but this was no ordinary implement of destruction. This was . . .