Archive of Our Own

They are happy in the end, more or less.

Or at least - that’s the lie they tell themselves. That’s what Anthony says, while he plays with his nieces and nephews and tries not to crave domestic felicity for himself. That’s what Kate says, when one curious acquaintance or another asks her whether it was her choice, never to marry.

That’s what they tell Edwina, each and every time she asks after their health and happiness. That’s what Anthony claims, when they dance together for old time’s sake. That’s what Kate writes, in letter after letter after letter.

But Edwina knows the truth, and she is sick and tired of the lie.

…….

Anthony is rather looking forward to his visit to the Bagwell family home. It won’t be his first house party there, and he very much doubts it will be his last. They’re good folk, the Bagwells, and they keep a fine table as well as owning land rich in game.

Funny how he has become such a frequent visitor to the home of the woman he was once engaged to marry. The Holy Spirit must have an odd sense of humour, he sometimes thinks. Mrs Bagwell used to be Miss Edwina Sharma, and was the diamond of the season on her coming out. Anthony set his cap at her, secured an engagement, and inconveniently fell in love with her older sister along the way.

And yet now, five years later, Mrs Bagwell routinely includes him on the guest list for her house parties, and is quite happily married to a gentleman who adores her.

It has turned out rather well, all in all. After the interrupted wedding, the broken engagement, the scandal of the season, their families obliged Anthony and Miss Edwina to be civil to one another. And now, indeed, they are the very epitome of civility. They quite often cross paths at society events, and have formed a genuine friendship along the way.

Meanwhile Miss Kate Sharma, the sister he went and fell in love with, sailed back home to India and he hasn’t seen her since.

He supposes that’s why he has managed such a clean, cheery kind of friendship with Mr and Mrs Bagwell. With Miss Sharma overseas, there are no inconvenient reminders of his poor behaviour. The incident has simply been brushed under the carpet like last week’s dust - or the dust of five seasons past, more precisely.

Indeed, Anthony himself has all but forgotten it. Truly, he has. He’s quite sure he would scarcely recognise Miss Sharma if he were to set eyes on her tomorrow. He has entirely forgotten his fascination with her, and is quite happy with his bachelor status.

He repeats his lines out loud as he sits alone in his carriage. He’s just entering the Bagwells’ driveway, now, and it’s best to be prepared and fresh from practising for the questions which he is so often asked. He has learnt this from certain awkward conversations over the last five years.

“Yes, I’m quite happy as a bachelor. Entirely at ease with my decision on that front. Indeed - the elder Miss Sharma - I suppose I did once have a fancy for her, but that’s long forgotten. A fickle young man’s fancy - you know how it is.”

The empty seat opposite looks back at him, mocks him, throws lonely echoes at the window panes.

“The bachelor life is a fine life indeed. My nephew is a splendid young boy and will make a marvellous Viscount.”

He’s not proud of talking to himself. He’s proud of very little, these days.

…….

Kate is happy with her lot in life - truly, she is - so she slightly resents travelling all this distance to attend a few social engagements with her sister.

No. That’s not quite right. She could never resent Edwina. Or at least - if she didn’t resent her over securing an engagement to Lord Bridgerton all those seasons ago, she is certainly not going to resent her over the inconvenience of travelling now.

It’s only that travelling really is very inconvenient. And time-consuming. And expensive - although Edwina sent her funds to cover that. And stressful and tiresome and really quite close to overwhelming.

Never mind. She has almost reached her destination, now. And then she’s to be settled with Edwina throughout the whole season and possibly into the one following. Obviously it would be foolish to make a brief visit from such great distance, so they have agreed that Kate will spend a substantial amount of time in England. It will be the first time the sisters have seen each other in the flesh since Kate moved back to India.

She thought letters were serving quite well by way of contact, but apparently Edwina disagreed.

Never mind. All will be well. Kate is happy with her lot in life, and a season or two in England will not make her regret the Lord she will never marry, the English estate she will never call home. She is perfectly able to cheerfully attend some social events with her sister and then return to being a governess.

At least, she hopes she is.

She sighs. The older lady sitting beside her on the stagecoach shoots her a look, clearly displeased with her for breaking the peace.

“Sorry.” Kate mutters. She’s out of practice with these English manners.

Nothing. No response. Just silence. Or rather - no words, but only the sounds of the road outside and the occupants of the stagecoach breathing in the too-small space.

Kate will be happy to arrive at her destination. She will be happy to disembark this damn stagecoach and see her sister.

That much, at least, is the honest truth.

…….

Anthony is just making himself at home under the Bagwells’ roof when it happens.

He is to stay in the same guest room as usual. It has a fine view over the front lawn, the terrace, the few formal borders along the final straight of the drive. He’s quite fond of it, as borrowed guest rooms go. He really is rather comfortable as a visitor in this familiar house.

So when he has changed out of his travelling clothes and seen to it that his valet is unpacking his things, he leaves his room and sets out down the hall. He’s intending to head to the sitting room where the Bagwells can usually be found on a quiet afternoon while their guests are starting to arrive.

He rounds the first corner and walks straight into Miss Kate Sharma.

He stumbles backwards, absolutely shocked. It’s her. It is most definitely her. He’d recognise her anywhere, even though she is five years older, even though she has lived half a world away since he saw her last.

He hasn’t even had a chance to greet her when her hand flies to her chest.

“Miss Sharma?” He asks, with considerable alarm. Why is she clutching at her bosom like that?

She doesn’t reply. Or - she doesn’t manage actual words. She’s breathing quickly, loudly, that clutched hand tightening against her breastbone until he can see her fingernails digging into her skin.

“Miss Sharma?” He asks again. “Are you feeling unwell?”

An odd, twitching movement of the head. A shake? A nod? He has absolutely no idea. She’s breathing louder still, and he can hear it rasping in her throat, and he’s suddenly quite terrified that she’s about to fall dead at his feet.

Is it some problem with her heart? Has she developed an illness of that nature since he knew her? He remembers her as quite a robust, sporting sort of lady, but now she’s clutching at her chest and can’t speak a word.

All at once, panic hits him. This is like that bee sting all over again. He hasn’t seen her in five years, and now - just as they are on the cusp of renewing their acquaintance, just as he’s reeling in shock at finding her here at all - he’s about to lose her all over again.

He reaches for her urgently, one hand to her shoulder, the other to cover her own where it clutches at her chest. He guides her a couple of steps sideways into an ornamental hall chair, sits her in it, falls into a squat at her side.

“Just breathe.” He mutters the advice to her, although he’s scarcely doing better himself. “Just try to keep breathing. Is it - is it your heart? Should I send for a physician? Do you often have episodes like this?”

She manages to shake her head quite clearly at him, this time. Frantic fool that he is, he has no idea what she means by shaking her head, because of course he has asked her far too many hurried questions.

“Might it be some weakness in your heart?” He asks urgently, trying to feel for her pulse around her hand. “Is your chest very painful? I must find a servant to send for a physician.”

“No. I’m well.” She bites out, short and breathless.

He frowns at her. She’s not well. She’s not well at all. She’s still in visible distress, still clutching at her chest, still scaring him half-witless. He can’t lose her now.

He can’t lose her, not today, not when she isn’t his to lose.

Her breathing is perhaps a mite less laboured, now. He has a beat in between each moment of panic to start taking stock of the situation, to build up a picture of their surroundings little by little.

Miss Sharma seems to be here in England. He’d have said something about how surprised he was to see her, if they’d met under less alarming circumstances. But this is definitely her - he can feel her, warm and solid beneath his fingertips.

He can catch on the disturbed air that her hair still smells the same.

He’s squatting, squeezing a lady’s shoulder, in a dim corner of the Bagwells’ home, while the lady in question has a fit of illness on an ornamental piece of hall furniture. This is probably some priceless family heirloom chair - a carved piece from the Tudor period, or something of the sort. He’ll apologise to the Bagwells for treating it so ill later, he supposes.

He’ll worry about that, just as soon as he’s stopped worrying about Miss Sharma.

“Might I send for help? I really am most concerned that you have chest pain.” He manages - a whole entire coherent sentence. He’s beginning to believe she might not die imminently, now. He’s beginning to hope that he might not be teetering on the brink of losing her before his very eyes.

“Not pain. Tightness.” She argues. Even five years later and whilst taken poorly, it would appear she does still love to argue.

“I believe even tightness in the chest might indicate a need for a physician.” He insists.

“No - really. I’m quite well. It’s the dust.” She tells him, a short snatch of words at a time. “The dust from my journey. A long journey.”

“Yes. A very long journey indeed, I should say. Last I heard you were in India.”

She nods.

This is better. She seems coherent, conversant, even if breathing still troubles her. He gives himself permission to relax a little, to grip her hand less tightly, to slacken his hold on her shoulder.

He doesn’t lean back, though, nor stand and step away. That’s because he’s still concerned about her, to be clear, not because he is desperate to stay near to her.

He fishes around for some sense, tries to compose an idea or two as to how he might see to her health.

“If it is the dust, perhaps you would like some water? Or perhaps - perhaps someone should carry you to the summer sitting room? It’s very clean and fresh in there. We could put a chair next to the window so you might benefit from a healthy breeze.” He tries desperately. He’d do anything, honestly, to have her look like her usual hale and hearty self.

This has been quite a startling, frightening reunion, in case that wasn’t clear.

“I’m well. Truly - I am well.” She insists.

And then she simply stands up. She rises from the chair, and Anthony’s hands fall away uselessly as she goes. She strides off, down the hallway, without waiting for him to catch up with the situation.

This is all very odd. A lady, clearly in a poorly state, marching off down a hallway while he can still hear her fighting for breath?

He’s too late to run after her. He’s still scrambling for his scattered wits, still trying to get his own breathing under control.

He had best find a servant and have them send for a physician for Miss Sharma, and send a message to Mrs Bagwell, too.

Yes. Yes - that’s exactly what any responsible Viscount would do.

…….

Kate is absolutely mortified.

Indeed - she’s never been so embarrassed and confused and startled in her life. To think that she has just had a moment of illness over a gentleman. It’s ridiculous. She’s behaving like a swooning schoolgirl.

She ought to be stronger than this. She has survived five years perfectly well without the Viscount. There is no call to go having fits of the vapours over his sudden appearance now.

She can’t believe she just did that. She can’t believe she was so overcome. It doesn’t feel real, that she was genuinely so taken aback by seeing him here that she had that odd episode of tight chest and dizziness.

She feels sick to her stomach at the thought of it.

Or maybe she feels sick to her stomach because of the stagecoach ride, because of the long journey, because of the whole assorted anxiety of the situation. This has been a truly wretched beginning to a house party, and she doesn’t know how to remedy it.

Ah - yes she does. She ought to take a walk outside.

She heads directly into the gardens. She bumps into a few servants on the way - they seem rather eager to find her, rather confused when she informs them stridently that she is quite well and wishes to take a walk.

She can’t see why that should be. She’s a bold, healthy lady who is accustomed to spend a great deal of time out of doors. This afternoon’s odd moment of ill-health was just a passing aberration.

The Viscount has always had a way of getting her in a state.

Walking in the garden turns out to be exactly the correct thing to do. Kate breathes much more easily, after a few minutes out amongst the flowerbeds. She manages, even, to rein in her emotions well enough to have a good think about the situation.

She didn’t realise the Viscount would be here. Indeed - she presumed he would not be here. That’s why she was so utterly thunderstruck by his appearance.

Her sister never gave her reason to think he would be here.

She must take this up with Edwina when she returns to the house. That’s what she decides. She must ask what the meaning of all this is - but carefully, perhaps, since she is her sister’s guest and they have not seen each other in person for many years. She’s not at all sure what their relationship will be like, now, when they have been so long apart and her sister has just sprung this surprise on her.

That’s a thought which makes her feel immensely lonely.

She’s a spinster. She’s here as the guest of her married sister - a married sister she now feels she barely knows, if she could keep such an enormous secret about the guest list.

And to top it all, the Viscount just saw her having a silly fit of the vapours.

She expected that they might meet again during her visit to England, of course. She was prepared to meet him in passing at a large society event or two. But she certainly didn’t imagine that he would be here, amongst her very family, under her sister’s roof at the beginning of her visit.

Yes. Well. Nothing to be done about that now but to press on and try to keep her dignity intact. She will speak with her sister, and she will keep her head held high, and sooner or later this damn house party will be over.

With that resolved, she returns to the house. But she’s been gone longer than she thought, and she won’t have time to catch her sister for that conversation before dinner. The guests are already being ushered into the dining room.

Perhaps that’s just as well. Perhaps she’s not supposed to speak honestly with her sister, not any more. Perhaps her entire world is falling apart around her shoulders.

She should have stayed in India.

It gets worse. Just as she thinks she’s at her very lowest ebb - all along amongst company, wearing a dress splattered with mud from the garden for her first dinner with English high society in some five years - the situation deteriorates even further.

She is to sit next to the Viscount at dinner.

Suddenly, all at once, she understands. She realises she doesn’t need to confront her sister at all. Rather, she needs to abandon all hope of having an easy relationship with her sister ever again. Because it’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s clear as day that Edwina has meddled in a very specific way, here. There is no other reason that an ageing spinster and a Viscount would be set together in the seating plan.

Edwina is trying to throw Kate at the Viscount.

It’s mortifying - more mortifying even than that odd episode of illness earlier. Her sister must think she’s pathetic, throwing her at a man like this. It’s a most pointless and embarrassing idea in every possible way. He must be quite happy as a bachelor, otherwise he’d have married. He has the whole of high society to choose from.

She’s never been so uncomfortable in her life.

“Good evening, My Lord.” She says, all coldly polite, the discomfort of the situation making her quite stiff and unsociable, she fears.

“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Sharma. Might I inquire after your health?” He asks, too charming, too earnest, eyes too bright in the candlelight.

She swallows hard. He has always been too charming, right when it must inconvenience her most. This is nothing new to be upset about.

“I am entirely well, thank you. I took a pleasant walk in the gardens to blow away the dust of the journey. It is such a fine diversion to see an English formal garden again after so many years.”

He nods quickly, too quickly. “Indeed. A fine diversion. A walk can be so beneficial for the health.”

Silence.

There is another gentleman at her other elbow, of course, but she hasn’t the foggiest clue who he is, so she doesn’t try to speak to him.

Or rather - she knows that he is not Lord Anthony Bridgerton, so she’s helpless to do any differently than flounder onwards into this quicksand.

“I have been in good health in every way, these last five years.” She tells him brightly. It is almost the truth. “I have been very happy with my decision to move back to India and work as a governess.”

“Ah. You enjoy your work?”

“It is always so cheery to work with children.”

“Indeed. Children are a blessing indeed. My nephew is a fine boy - Arthur, son of Mr Benedict Bridgerton.”

She blinks at him. It strikes her as an odd conversational path to wander down - sort of overgrown and irrelevant. He has many nieces and nephews, she understands. Why is he telling her about this Arthur in particular?

“Young Arthur is particularly precious to you for some reason?” She asks, with absolutely no attempt at subtlety. She simply hasn’t the energy to spare for such things as tact, this evening.

“Yes. Quite so. He’s my heir - my splendid nephew, Arthur. A very worthy heir.”

She’s frowning at him, now. Is he babbling? She thinks he’s babbling. Is it perhaps the case that he has not recovered from that odd scene in the hall earlier?

He ought to have gone for a walk in the gardens, perhaps, but it is just as well he did not walk in the gardens with her.

She hears him clear a throat, watches him take a hearty swallow of wine. He’ll be quite sozzled by the end of the meal if he keeps that up.

She suddenly wonders what a drunken Viscount Bridgerton might be like. Would he be lighter, more relaxed? Or darker, more intensely, broodingly emotional than ever?

No. None of her business. Not her -

“I am very pleased that young Arthur will be my heir. It is just as well I never married and had children of my own - it would be almost criminal to deprive such a suitable young boy of his inheritance. It is certainly for the best that I chose to remain a bachelor.” He says the words carefully, quickly, like a schoolboy reciting a tongue-twister, she thinks.

Only - if he is so proud of this nephew, why would he be tongue-tied?

No. She ought not dwell on it. That way lies madness - even more madness than that intense, embarrassing moment of madness in the hallway this afternoon.

“So - we have both been in good health these five years.” She concludes determinedly. “That’s happy news. I am glad indeed to hear that an old acquaintance is content with his lot in life. Come - you must tell me more about this nephew you are so proud of.”

He describes the boy in minute detail for the entire remainder of the meal - his aptitudes, his personality, his likes and dislikes.

That’s quite impressive, she thinks. As far as she can gather from the conversation, the boy in question is a babe not yet two years of age.

…….

Anthony spends a great deal of time pacing the hallways of the Bagwells’ home that night.

It’s partly because he’s worried he’ll stumble into Miss Sharma taking ill again, if he’s truly honest. After that scene he witnessed earlier, he thinks it’s imperative that someone ought to be on guard and on patrol in case of ladies clutching a breathless hand over their heart. A man never knows when someone might be felled by just such a mishap.

So - there’s that. There’s the fact that he himself is still quite unsettled by the shock of seeing her, the shock of her odd episode, the shock of his own babbling inanity at dinner. He’s usually quite confident in his ability to be a charming conversationalist, but evidently that flies out the window where Miss Sharma is concerned.

Damn it. Why did he spend two hours talking about Arthur? No dinner companion wants to hear anecdotes about a child they have never even met.

But most of all he’s pacing because he can’t decide how to feel. It’s not even that he can’t decide what to do, not yet. He’s still in that first, startled haze of trying to determine what’s going on inside his own head and heart.

He seems to remember he spent fully half a season in that exact state, when he first met Miss Sharma.

He dreads seeing her again tomorrow. It sounds frightening. He had finally, in these last two years or so, started to regain some equilibrium. He had almost reached a point where he could sometimes convince himself when he told all the world he was perfectly happy as a bachelor.

But now she’s been back in his life for scarcely six hours and already he’s on the point of throwing himself at her feet.

She’s as stunning as ever, as graceful as ever, as dangerous as ever. But he must admit, he’s been left feeling rather… flat about certain other aspects of their reunion. He remembers her as a most challenging sort of lady - whether arguing with him or making him laugh, there was always that bold spark in the air.

Today she seemed strangely empty of spirit, and it worries him. It shouldn’t worry him - she is not his wife to worry about - but he worries all the same.

He takes one last lap of the hallway in the guest wing. It must be very late, now. His feet are growing heavy but his head is still teeming with the most confusing mess of thoughts.

Hmm. Well - nothing new there, at least. He’s always been a bit of a maelstrom of a man whenever Miss Sharma is near.

Honestly? In a strange, twisted, bittersweet sort of way? 

He’s missed it. She makes him feel more alive.

……..

Kate is an habitually early riser. She always has been, for as long as she can remember. When she was younger, she would rise early to take a ride. Then, more recently, she has had to be up in good time to take care of her young charges.

Today she’s up and about well before breakfast in order to speak to her sister.

She simply must catch her to say something about the Viscount. After that excruciatingly awkward dinner last night, she simply can’t let it go unmentioned. Apart from anything else, she must ask Edwina to stop seating them together at table.

She knocks on her sister’s dressing room door. That must be a way to catch her alone before everyone starts getting on with the day, she hopes.

She’s in luck. Edwina greets her wearing a dressing gown over her nightrobe, hair still plaited, and all at once Kate is reminded of their younger days living together.

Hmm. Perhaps their relationship is not so irrevocably broken, even if Edwina did blindside her with that encounter with the Viscount. This morning, after sleeping on it, Kate does feel rather calmer and more coherent. Her usual confidence has reasserted itself, perhaps.

That’s what gives her the courage to address the issue once and for all.

“I must ask you not to have me sit near the Viscount at dinner tonight.” She begins there, because that it something which does not make her sound unsisterly, she hopes. “It was rather uncomfortable for us both, I believe, last night.”

Edwina looks utterly unrepentant. “Consider this - it was not my intention to cause anyone discomfort. But I knew neither of you would show your faces at all if I told you the real purpose of this house party, so I was left with little choice but to make my plans. I know neither of you is truly as happy with your life as you pretend to be, and I am altogether tired of allowing you both to exist in misery.”

“Neither of us?” Kate dares to ask. “You believe neither of us is happy with our choices?”

Suddenly Edwina is bustling around the room, taking great care to rearrange some cosmetics on her dresser. “I know neither of you is happy. We have become quite good friends with the Viscount in recent years - and I am close with his sisters too, the Duchess most of all. She will join us later in the week. I know what I am about when I tell you he still thinks of you.”

Kate snorts. She can’t allow herself to think that. She simply can’t give herself permission to pretend that the Viscount still has those same tortured dreams as she does - if indeed he ever dreamt of her so very much at all. In fact, she’s quite convinced that any partiality he ever had for her was a fickle, fleeting sort of partiality.

Edwina presses on. Kate has rarely known her to be so tenacious - not since the enforced resilience of that season where she realised her betrothed preferred her sister, perhaps.

“What’s the worst that could happen if you give me the benefit of the doubt here?” She asks now. “Why not simply try renewing your acquaintance with him - with good grace, perhaps, and without guarding your heart too carefully?”

“The worst that could happen is that the man breaks my heart a second time.” Kate says easily. That’s a simple question to answer, frankly.

Edwina softens a little, nods slightly. “Very well. Then perhaps I should have asked - what’s the best that could happen? He might choose not to be a bachelor altogether after all. But if nothing else, you might at least have a few weeks of pleasant company here in the country, or a couple of months of renewed friendship in London, before you must return to India. I know you always did find his company… engaging if nothing else.”

She chooses to ignore that in favour of focussing on a new point. “A few weeks here? You told me we were only to be hosting a house party for perhaps ten days.”

“Ah. Well. Since then the Viscount has had a word with Mr Bagwell. Late last night he bumped into him in the library and told him he might have to stay an extra week or more. Apparently his carriage is in sore need of repairs.” She raises her brows pointedly. “Very complex repairs.”

That’s it. That’s the first moment Kate allows herself to believe any of Edwina’s wishful thinking, even a little bit. That’s the first point in this whole confusing charade of a house party that she begins to dream, just gently, that the Viscount might have any interest in her existence whatsoever.

That’s when she decides she might as well give herself permission to enjoy his company while they’re here.

After all - he’s a very engaging man, isn’t he?

“Very well. I ought to remain calm and make the best of it.” She tells Edwina, with as much dignity as she can muster.

Under the circumstances, that’s not very much dignity at all, she fears. She did have a fit of the vapours yesterday just from seeing the man.

But Edwina seems to think she’s doing something right at last. She’s darting forward, pulling Kate in for a rather enthusiastic hug. It’s the first true sisterly embrace they’ve shared since the start of this visit, and it’s rather lovely.

Kate was beginning to fear they weren’t such sisters after all, since Edwina got all grown up with a husband and children of her own. She’s not sure what her role is, if Edwina doesn’t need her for an unconventional father figure.

She leans into the embrace, tries to take some calming breaths. This is good. She and her sister are on warm terms. Her sister does earnestly want the best for her, does still have some human sympathy for the fact that seeing the Viscount is hard for her.

In fact -

“I am sorry.” Edwina mutters now. “I did realise it would distress you. But I was at a loss as to what else to do. I wanted to speak with you properly before you first saw him, really I did, but -”

“It’s fine. I’m quite well.” Kate says, and it is almost the truth.

Silence. Edwina pulls back from the hug, smiling sheepishly, and sets to rearranging those bottles on her dresser once again.

Hmm. She’ll have a very tidy dressing room before the week is out, if every conversation between the sisters is to be as emotional and strained as this.

Kate does her best to put on a brighter attitude. Her sister wants all to be well between them. The Viscount might want to see her - at least, he does seem to have fabricated a broken carriage to stay here, where she is, rather longer. That does seem to be the obvious conclusion.

She gathers her courage.

“What entertainments did you have planned for the day? What should I be wearing?”

Edwina grins at her. “The ladies are to take tea on the terrace. The gentlemen are to go hunting. I leave it to you to decide where you would rather be.”

Well, then. There’s only one possible answer to that, isn’t there?

…….

Anthony sets out to the stables that morning in a rather terse mood.

He’s slept very little. He thinks Mr Bagwell saw through his lie about the carriage repairs - so it is bound to have got back to the man’s sister-in-law by now, and Anthony fears he will look pathetic in her eyes.

That was a poor move on his part. He ought not to have come up with such a transparently foolish story. Why would Miss Sharma, who is perfectly happy as a governess, want anything to do with a boring, ageing Englishman who talks about his nephew all through supper and lies about broken carriages to inflict his company on her?

She wouldn’t. It’s as simple as that.

Not that he necessarily wants anything to do with her, of course. She’s not quite the lively lady he remembers, as far as he can tell. But all the same, it can’t hurt to stay here with the Bagwells long enough to check. Long enough to see, absolutely and for certain, whether there’s still anything of that same spark in her manners.

And anyway - if it turns out that there isn’t, he might like to know why. He might like to know what has happened to have her so beaten-down. And he thinks, too, that he had better stay a few more days just to check whether she ever has another funny turn in another hallway. He wouldn’t want her health to be neglected.

So really, he must stay as long as possible. It’s just a shame he told such a daft lie about his carriage.

Never mind. Nothing to be done about it now. He must just get on with the hunt - that ought to be a good distraction. And then maybe he’ll see Miss Sharma at dinner again, if he’s very lucky, and maybe - 

“Are you hunting today, My Lord?”

Oh. Ah. Well. That’s her. That’s Miss Sharma herself, popping up at his shoulder, and asking an inane question about the hunt. Obviously he intends to go hunting - why else would he be standing here next to a horse in a yard full of huntsmen?

Hmm. There seems to be a lot of inanity about, lately.

“I am indeed. And you? Are you joining us or are you sitting with the ladies this morning?” He asks desperately.

Miracles of miracles, she gives him the ghost of a grin for his trouble. 

“Have you ever known me to sit and take tea on the terrace when hunting is an option?” She asks. “Naturally I am joining you.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. I have been wondering whether you are still a sportswoman. You seemed perhaps less… strident than I remembered, last night.”

“I had a rather wretched journey and was very tired. My good mood is quite restored now.” She says brightly.

He feels a smile stealing across his face, even though he knows that’s not quite the right sentiment. “I am sorry that your journey was so trying.”

She waves a hand. “It’s nothing. I’m quite well. I - ah - I believe I gave you a fright yesterday when I was overcome by the dust. But really, I am in excellent health.”

He nods. It still sounds a little bit like a protest, he thinks. But he believes her more and more each time she says it, and she intends to come hunting, and really he’s not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hmm. Didn’t he tease her about that, once upon a time?

“Do you have a horse ready?” He asks her now. “I’d be only too pleased to help you select one. I know the Bagwells’ stables almost as well as I know my own.”

“I see - still determined to make my decisions for me, My Lord?”

He feels the blood leave his face in horror. “Not at all. No. Of course - you are perfectly capable of making your own selection. I must apologise for -”

“I was teasing you.” She interrupts him, evidently mortified, her eyes fixed on his horse’s noseband.

He nods. He swallows. He gathers his dignity as best he can, tries for a stiff smile.

“Come, then, sir. I’d be delighted if you would help me choose a horse.” She concludes neatly.

They do better after that. They manage a very little bit better, now that it has been established that she is willing to tease him, now that he understands he had best be on the lookout for tentative, rusty humour. They’re both out of practice at this, to be sure, but they manage well enough.

Naturally they do. Miss Sharma is very good at managing.

They choose her a horse - one he knows to be safe and sensible, but with enough spirit that he hopes she won’t be bored. He gets the sense she hasn’t been able to ride very much in recent years.

He can’t quite tell how he knows that. There’s just something in her manner - she’s less confident and relaxed around the yard than he remembers her being in days gone by.

They get mounted up, move out of the yard. There’s a large party hunting, and Anthony finds it rather interesting that Miss Sharma sticks mostly to his company. That’s probably because she doesn’t know a great number of these other gentlemen, he presumes. Her sister has sent a maid along, but apart from that she seems very outnumbered by people she might not remember from five years past.

He does his best to be entertaining company. That’s important to him for reasons he can’t entirely pin down. He asks whether she has had much chance to hunt since becoming a governess, and she concedes that she has been sorely out of practice. He tries his best to cover the awkward moment by asking what she enjoys about her work, but she doesn’t seem too keen to speak about that at length.

Hmm. Probably because she realises one ought not talk about something unknown to the other party at great length. Probably because she’s showing him better manners than he showed her, last night, talking only about his nephew.

He does his best to insist that he really would like to hear about her occupation. She counters by asking after his family. They end up managing a sort of odd, stilted back-and-forth about acquaintances she barely remembers, books he has never read, places one is closely acquainted with and the other has never seen.

It’s still the most engaging conversation he’s had all this year at least.

The party breaks up. Of course it does. He recalls just such a moment from the day he went hunting with her all those years ago - except this time, he knows he would be wise to follow her.

So it is that they both leave their horses and he follows her deeper into the forest on foot.

He’s the one who spots the trail, this time. An odd reversal from the one and only time they have ever hunted together before this. Perhaps her eyes are less sharp, five years later, or perhaps she’s had no opportunity at all to be out in nature.

He’s hunted quite often, as it happens, since he resolved to remain a bachelor. That’s because it’s a better use of his time than attending society entertainments, of course, and not because he’s been trying to stay close to his memories of Miss Sharma.

He leads her further along the trail. There’s no conversation between them, now, for fear of spooking their quarry. Just breath, and footsteps, and the occasional whispered direction.

At last they emerge into a small clearing, where a stag stands drinking from a stream.

Silently, carefully, they crouch to line up their shots. Here’s a fallen tree, conveniently positioned, just the right height to work with. Anthony concentrates for several long seconds on arranging himself without making a noise, on faffing with his gun, on resolutely not staring at Miss Sharma’s face.

And then -

“You ought to take the shot.” He invites her in a whisper. “I know you must have missed such sport very much in recent years.”

She shakes her head urgently. “No - you should. It is years since I last held a gun. Suddenly, now we are on the cusp of firing, it feels quite awkward in my hands.”

He hesitates a moment. He fully dithers, crouched behind a log with the woman who has haunted his dreams since the day he met her.

Should he insist she takes the shot? Would it be less awkward for them both if he simply got on and did it, rather than expose her for being out of practice? Or - or should he help her?

He did that, once before - in a manner of speaking, at least. He could help her get her grip perfectly adjusted and line up her shot. That might be a gentlemanly thing to do.

It might also be a distinctly ungentlemanly thing to do, since it involves his arms around Miss Sharma, but he decides it’s worth a try.

“May I?” He asks, setting his own gun aside, opening his arms and gesturing towards her.

A pause. A beat of silence. She swallows and he sees her throat work.

Then she nods, clean and swift, with a small, cautious smile.

It’s not like her to be cautious. Or rather - he understands that it is more like her, these days, and he’s trying to learn to welcome her cautiousness as well as her confidence, little by little. That’s why he moves slowly as he reaches his arms around her, settles his hand over hers, tries to get a good view down the barrel of the gun over her shoulder.

He takes his time helping her to line up the shot. That stag isn’t going anywhere, hasn’t a clue they’re here, and Anthony is in no mood to move away from Miss Sharma any sooner than he must.

At last, he is satisfied that all is ready.

“Now.” He whispers, scarcely breathing the word against her ear.

She fires. The shot cracks loudly in the quiet forest, but it doesn’t startle him. He feels an overwhelming sense of calmness, here with her, which is most unlike him.

Ah. They missed. The stag runs free.

Never mind.

Anthony waits. He waits for Miss Sharma to blame him, to jump to her feet in frustration, to throw off his embrace from around her.

She never does.

So he simply stays put. He kneels on the forest floor, his arms snug around her, and gives himself permission to look at her face from up close at last. These five years have not been kind to her - he can see that. There are creases around her eyes and brows as if she has grown too accustomed to frowning.

But honestly, he’s still utterly besotted. He still thinks she’s the most breathtaking creature he ever beheld.

It’s funny, isn’t it? Less than a day ago he was practising telling the world that he was happy as a bachelor. Even last night he wasn’t at all sure what to think about seeing her again.

Here and now, all at once, he’s suddenly certain that he’ll die of heartbreak if she goes back to India without him again.

That’s not an exaggeration. He’s overwhelmed by the absolute conviction that he can’t survive another disappointment where Miss Kate Sharma is concerned. That might be inconvenient, because she might not be even half as attached to him as he is to her. Even if she does have some vague inclination towards him still, even if her smiles this morning are anything to go by, she might just have a fondness for flirtation but still intend to go back home and back to her work.

So, then, there is only one way to look at this situation.

He has only a couple of weeks to convince her that a life with him is what she wants.

…….

Kate is in rather high spirits, as the day rolls on towards evening.

She had rather a buoyant time out hunting with the Viscount, even though they caught nothing. But she’s far more interested in a good laugh over a missed shot or two - and a close embrace besides - than in another trophy or a meal of venison. And then, when they arrived back to the house, she found a moment to tell Edwina that all was well and suggest that, as far as she was concerned, it would be quite alright if she did end up sitting next to the Viscount at dinner once again after all.

So now, here she finds herself, three courses later, walking into the drawing room with her hand wrapped around his elbow.

“I understand there is to be a little music and some informal dancing. I believe your sister intends to play a reel or two on the pianoforte.” He tells her, in the tone of a man who is talking carefully about the weather, perhaps.

She throws him an arch smile. She thinks she is beginning to understand how this works, now. They are neither of them finding it truly easy to rekindle their acquaintance, but evidently they both think it is worth a try.

“I see. And have you developed a particular fondness for Scotch reels in the last five years, My Lord?”

“You and I both know I couldn’t tell a reel from a polka.” He breaks into a nervous laugh at last. “But all the same, I’d like to dance with you, if you are so inclined.”

“Gladly. But you’ll find me sorely out of practice at this, too.”

“Never mind. We managed well enough with our shooting.” He rushes to assure her.

She laughs warmly. “We missed every shot. By the same logic, then, I am likely to tread on your toes.”

“No - I won’t have that.” He argues with spirit. “Your analogy doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. We missed our shots, to be sure, but there was no disaster. It’s not as if you shot me by mistake. So I do believe my toes will be quite safe from you.”

She’s laughing, shaking her head in exasperation, as the set forms up.

Or rather - as some few couples take to the floor. It’s not a formal set, not as such. There will be no parading up and down the line, no swapping from partner to partner.

Good. There’s only one man in the world this ageing spinster wishes to dance with. There’s only one man she would go to such humiliating lengths for as to attempt to dance like a young, carefree debutante.

They don’t speak for the first few bars. She’s profoundly grateful for that. She is managing the steps quite creditably, she thinks, but it does take considerable concentration.

Then, all at once, he speaks up - or rather, speaks quietly for her ears alone under the bright cover of the music.

“I am truly sorry you have not had the opportunity to hunt or dance these five years. I don’t know how important dancing is to you, to be sure, and I imagine your stay with your sister will afford you many opportunities to dance. But I do recall that you are very fond of sport so I must see if there is anything we can do to set that right while you are visiting. Perhaps - perhaps you might come to visit Aubrey Hall again. You’d be at perfect liberty to ride where you liked and we could organise a hunt or two besides.” He concludes in a rush.

She blinks at him, utterly taken aback. Who is this man, and what has he done with Viscount Anthony Bridgerton?

No - that’s unfair. He was always a man who cared, who was deeply, determinedly kind to anyone important to him. She’s only rather shocked to find herself so suddenly and openly included in that number.

Or perhaps he’s simply mellowed in the last half-decade.

“That’s a very kind offer, My Lord.” She manages at last.

He frowns, fixes his eye somewhere over her shoulder. “I wish I had been a little kinder when we first met, in all honesty. But - better late than never as I try to make amends, I hope.”

She doesn’t know what to say. It’s true that he was sometimes unkind - but the great unkindness really was not in his rude words but in his breaking her heart. She’s hardly going to explain that to him in the middle of a drawing room, while her sister plays a cheery country tune at the pianoforte.

And anyway - she’s not sure she wants to. She’s not at all sure she has the strength or courage to rake up the past. She’s hardly a wilting daisy, but she’s exhausted from these strange few days and distinctly dazzled by seeing his fine face again after all this time apart.

More than that, though, she’s feeling shockingly optimistic, and finds herself abruptly very happy to be able to enjoy his challenging company once again.

So it is that she says something perhaps even more dangerous, instead.

“I would very much like to visit Aubrey Hall again while I am in England, if you are serious in your invitation. I believe I would very much enjoy the opportunity to hunt with you again.”

“Excellent. Perfect. I shall make arrangements as soon as can be. Your sister and her husband are very welcome too, of course. I do - ah - I understand that it wouldn’t be proper for you to visit alone, naturally.”

How fascinating. His ears have turned a most enchanting shade of red, and he seems suddenly incapable of meeting her eyes. And yet, all the same, he’s clutching her hand more tightly than ever as they dance together.

If she didn’t know better, she’d say he feels almost as thrilled yet unsettled about their reunion as she does.

…….

Anthony is pleased to see the new arrivals at the house party the next morning, at first.

He’s pleased to see his sister and Simon, pleased to greet Augie before he is ushered up to the nursery with the Bagwells’ children. He’s pleased to see an assortment of familiar faces from the Ton arrive to boost the numbers, too - or at least, he pretends to be. Frankly he’d quite happily spend the whole week speaking to no one besides Miss Sharma.

He’s not so pleased to see Thomas Dorset.

In fact - that’s not quite true. He was pleased to see him for about thirty seconds, for the whole half a minute the two gentlemen spent greeting each other.

But then Dorset recognised Miss Sharma and went to greet her, and now Anthony can’t imagine being pleased to see his old friend ever again.

It’s been seven entire minutes, now. Anthony has been keeping track of them on his watch - that precious watch he inherited from his father. It’s unfortunate, being unable to tell the time without that bittersweet reminder, and it’s even more unfortunate now he’s in a gruff mood on account of envy, too.

Really - what do Miss Sharma and Thomas Dorset have to talk about which could possibly last seven entire minutes? Their previous acquaintance was not so very close, was it? As far as Anthony can recall, they spoke on perhaps three or four occasions.

Were they three or four very memorable occasions? Has she been pining for him ever since?

Anthony steps a little closer to the pair, sort of hovers awkwardly behind them feeling like a fool. He can’t quite hear the words they are saying, but he can pick up something of the tone, he believes. They are speaking sort of softly and lightly as ladies and gentleman often do whilst dancing at a ball or enjoying a morning call together.

Damn it. That’s a disaster. Anthony has never managed to speak with her in that light, easy way. Their relationship has always been more fiery - and he likes it like that, of course, but maybe Miss Sharma doesn’t.

No wonder he’s still a bachelor. No wonder Miss Sharma would rather go home to India than stay in England with him. No wonder he’s lonely, no wonder she’s been avoiding him for five years, no wonder he’s become a sad, shrivelled old man who would rattle on about his nephew and heir for two hours quite nonsensically.

Then it gets worse. Then the whole party starts moving out – today they are to take a walk to a local beauty spot and then eat a picnic, Anthony understands. But frankly, he’s no longer interested in chicken legs or chilled lemonade.

Miss Sharma is holding Dorset’s arm, now, her face tilted politely towards him as the two of them start walking.

Anthony is left to trail behind with his jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

…….

Kate knows she ought to be grateful for this time spent in company with Mr Dorset. He’s a good man, and he’s not a Viscount, so he might reasonably be expected to show some serious interest or even marry her. 

She would be wise to think of sensible considerations like that. She does enjoy being a governess, to be sure, and relish her independence. But it is hard work, and her income is small, and she has had no chance to set aside savings to keep herself in her old age. Even in the last couple of days she has realised how much she misses the life of landed gentry, including the hunting and dancing and talking late into the night in the drawing room with an engaging gentleman, without fear of losing sleep and being too tired for her work the next morning.

Yes. Well. The point stands - she has rather enjoyed this change from her routine.

So - here she finds herself. She is walking arm-in-arm with a gentleman who is kind and considerate and not of such lofty social station as to be a ludicrous suitor for an ageing spinster. He’s even interesting, on occasion, with his conversation about the many places he has travelled or read about, and his thoughtful questions about her own experiences.

But fundamentally he’s not Lord Bridgerton, so she can’t help but feel disappointed.

She has honestly spent most of the morning stealing furtive glances at the Viscount, even as she has been walking with Mr Dorset. She wonders whether Lord Bridgerton is enjoying the excursion, whether he has any sharp, cynical opinions on the slight chill in the air, whether he has anything remarkable to say about the view in this part of Surrey.

She wonders whether he cares that she is being escorted by another gentleman - indeed, she wonders whether he has even noticed.

She’s being foolish. Behaviour like this is not befitting her sense and age. She’s acting like a daft debutante, all obsessed over a man. Didn’t she tell her sister this would happen - that she would get all upset, get her heart broken a second time?

Although - she also as good as told her sister that she’d give it her best attempt, that she would make a serious try at renewing her acquaintance with the Viscount and exploring whether, perhaps, they might still enjoy one another’s company.

So perhaps, if she is missing his company this morning, she ought to gather her courage and do something about it. She ought to scheme a bit, and be bold, and set about pursuing what she wants from her life.

Didn’t she used to be a more confident lady like that, once upon a time?

By the time they arrive at the picnic spot, her mind is made up. She tells Mr Dorset she must go and have a private word with her sister - and tells him truthfully, too, that she has enjoyed his company. He’s a good man, warm and friendly and intelligent.

But she has never laughed so loud with him that her stomach hurt, has she? Nor permitted herself to be properly vulnerable and tearful in his presence, neither. And there’s something about the Viscount, even now he looks softer and tireder and his hair is just starting to streak with grey, that never fails to make her flush.

So she’s determined to pursue his company for the rest of the day, thank you very much.

She does walk to her sister first. She must sell her scheme, after all, so she does even bend close to her and start a private conversation.

“Might we talk?” She asks simply.

“Certainly. Are you not having a pleasant morning?” Edwina asks, eyes all thoughtful and earnest.

“Mr Dorset is a fine gentleman, but I would be grateful if you can arrange things so that I might have some conversation with the Viscount at lunch or later in the day.”

Edwina laughs brightly. “You don’t need any help of mine for that, Kate.”

“I must have a pretext at least. I refuse to make myself ridiculous in openly pursuing such an eligible gentleman.”

She finds her sister looking at her a little too softly at that - too understanding, too thoughtful and perceptive and concerned.

“It’s true. I am already a spinster - I won’t be a laughing stock.” She insists. She might be brave enough to come over here and admit the implicit truth to her sister about her feelings for the Viscount, but she refuses to broadcast them to the whole party.

Edwina pats at her arm fondly and reaches for a rolled up picnic blanket. “Here, then. A pretext of sorts. I recommend you simply march up to him and ask whether he might like to sit with you. If anyone asks, I shall put it about that I sent you over because this is his preferred blanket, or some such nonsense.”

Can she do that? Can she simply ask it? She’s thirty one years old, speaks more languages than some folks have fingers, and has seen a great deal of the world.

Can she really ask the love of her life if he would like to sit with her?

She nods. She can do it. Edwina’s faint pretext is better than nothing. It’s just enough of a little ladder to allow her to reach for her confidence. She knows she must have stored it here inside herself, somewhere.

She takes the picnic blanket, draws her shoulders back and her head high, and strides across the field as boldly as she can manage.

“Good day, My Lord.” She greets him with a smile which feels stiff on her face.

“Miss Sharma.” He bows - too deeply for the disparity in their stations, she rather thinks. “Are you enjoying the excursion? Did you have a pleasant walk? You’re looking very well this morning - have you perhaps arranged your hair in a new fashion?” He rattles the questions off, then seems to realise he has asked too much, too quickly, and ends by biting his lip instead.

Right. Well. That’s not a bad sign, she supposes, considering her intention in walking over here. He does seem keen to converse with her at least.

She gathers her courage and makes her reply. “I thank you, I suppose. I have - ah - that is to say, my hair is as it ever was, I believe. I came over to ask if you would like to share my picnic blanket?”

He looks transparently delighted. It’s the first time she’s been able to read his expression easily after those five years apart, and it does her quite a lot of good to see it, honestly. She’s suddenly feeling much more hopeful about this renewal of their acquaintance.

“I’d very much enjoy sitting with you.” He tells her eagerly. “But it occurs to me that I ought to check whether that’s what you mean to ask. I know you too well to presume your suggestion is such a simple one. Did you mean we might eat our picnic together? Or perhaps you meant to share it as we use it for a sail or a bullfighting cloak?”

She laughs, dares to push her luck. “What - you would not like to set sail with me? A shame.”

He does not laugh at that. Indeed, he looks oddly serious as he makes his reply. “I did not say that - I only said I would not want to use that paltry blanket as a sail. I think it would not be much use to us in a storm.”

“Ah - and do you have much experience of sailing?”

“A very little bit. You?”

“None at all.” She answers honestly. “But perhaps I would like to learn. Shall we sit?”

They have a minor dispute about where to put the picnic blanket, then how to lay it out most smoothly, then whether he should fetch food for them both, or whether she can fill her own plate. Naturally they do - how could they do any differently? Testing each other’s mettle like this is how they show respect and perhaps even affection. She understands that now.

She understands it better than she did when she was six-and-twenty, in fact. Funny how time and reflection can help with a thing like that.

At last, when he has chosen a place without thistles, and they have both stretched the blanket smooth between them, and she has filled her own plate, the conversation turns away from such logistics and towards more light-hearted matters.

“So - I believe you promised to teach me how to sail?” She prompts him, waving a chicken leg in his general direction.

He frowns at her, mock stern. “I made no such promise. I’ll thank you not to twist my words and use them against me.”

“Oh, but come now - don’t you think that would be fabulously entertaining, My Lord? Don’t you think I’d be a fine yachtswoman?”

“I’m sure you’d be adept at anything you applied yourself to, but all the same, I shan’t take responsibility for teaching you to sail. Your sister would never invite me to another of her lovely house parties ever again.” He argues.

She preens at that passing compliment and decides to press on with her idea. “Very well. I shall consider it settled. You will teach me to sail when I visit Aubrey Hall later this season.” She concludes bravely.

He splutters a bit in protest. She makes a show of patting him robustly on the back, as if perhaps he had swallowed some pastry awry.

“Aubrey Hall is a considerable distance from the sea or any lake large enough for sailing.” He points out, when he has gathered his thoughts. “I think you ought to abandon this sailing scheme and we should concentrate on arranging the details for your visit instead.”

“Hmm. I had forgotten your habit of telling me what to do.” She says, mostly teasing.

He frowns a tight, fleeting little frown. He goes for a rather abrupt bite of pork pie, chews it with a determination she thinks is not entirely warranted.

“I apologise. Perhaps I have forgotten how to tease you.” She mutters, eyes on her knees.

“I apologise for giving you reason to think me some gruff tyrant. I - I hoped I was suggesting, not ordering, these days.”

She swallows hard. She has very rarely seen him all vulnerable and honest like this - only when talking about his father or his siblings, perhaps. It makes an odd change to see him speaking about his acquaintance with her in such terms - sort of unsettling and deeply exciting, both at once.

She gets brave. She reaches across, gives a fleeting squeeze of his arm, just above the elbow, just as if she was about to walk with him or have him turn her in the dance. There’s no sense to it, of course, while they are sitting down and not moving anywhere, but she hopes it conveys something of the warm, easy affection she feels for him, in this moment.

Was she scared of renewing their acquaintance, two days ago? That feels like ancient history now.

“I believe you have been the perfect gentleman on this visit, ever since you took pity on me whilst I took ill in the hallway two days ago. I’m most grateful for your kind manners, truly. And - and I am grateful for the invitation to Aubrey Hall. I would earnestly like to accept it, if you are earnest in issuing it. I must learn not to be so saucy - I would not want to make you regret such an invitation.”

“Please, don’t. I like you saucy.” He says, in a strangled sort of voice, staring very determinedly at that pork pie. “I think we must only get to know one another better again after all this time apart. If it suits you, I think we might speak to the Bagwells this evening about a date for your visit to Aubrey Hall.”

“I’d like that.” She agrees simply, reaching out to squeeze his arm once again.

She heard what he did there. She heard him use might instead of should or ought. She saw the way his eyes flickered up to her face at that exact moment, as if checking what she thought of his attempt to leave room for her independent spirit.

That’s it. That’s the moment she falls in love with him again, once and for all, after just two days reunited and five long years spent apart.

Only - hang on - has she fallen in love with him again, or did she never fall out of love in the first place? Are five years and a few thousand miles not sufficient to quell the warm rush of excitement when she thinks of this man?

It’s possible that she’s a lost cause.

So - spinster or not, she supposes she had better make the best of the situation and throw herself at him as hard as she can.

…….

Anthony can’t get that conversation about sailing out of his head.

It’s the silliest thing. He’s not even so very fond of sailing, and evidently Miss Sharma knows nothing of it at all. But to his mind, it’s now the most fascinating topic available, since he has discussed it with her. And he’s suddenly determined that they must both learn some more seafaring skills - perhaps because it feels like a sort of shared joke he’d like to prolong.

So it is that, the following morning, he invites her out in a rowing boat on the fishing lake to one side of the Bagwells’ front lawn.

It’s not a large lake, and it’s an even smaller boat. Rowing is hardly the scheduled activity for the day - far from it. The other guests are having a much more restful day playing cards and other such indoor activities because of the drizzle.

But he’s not about to be put off by damp air, and he doubts Miss Sharma is either.

Sure enough, she says yes.

“Do you think we could make it a sailing boat?” She asks thoughtfully, with the most adorable frown. “Perhaps if we rig a sail made from that picnic blanket…?”

“I would suggest we master rowing first, and progress to makeshift sails if we meet with roaring success.” He says drily.

She laughs. He’s heard her laugh quite often, in the last couple of days, and yet still he can’t get enough of it. He’s trying to make up for five years without her laughter, perhaps - or maybe his whole lifetime of too little laughter altogether.

She’s good for him. She’s so damn good for him it almost hurts, like salt water stinging a grazed knee. There’s something very bittersweet about implicitly admitting his past mistakes and trying desperately to pursue her now, too late, too rushed, too frantic and desperate as he tries to win her over before the end of her visit.

She’s staying at least until the end of the season. He doesn’t have to throw everything at her all at once. He doesn’t want to overwhelm her, to be sure.

But - he does want to go boating with her, and he thinks she wants that too.

“Come on, then. We can go whenever you’re ready.” He suggests. “Do you need to change? Do you have - I don’t know - a boating habit?”

She looks down at her dress, then back up at him. “This will do just fine. Let’s go.”

They don’t run down to the lake, not quite. They take a sort of brisk walk together, side by side, and as they walk they enjoy one of those conversations which is more about laughter and nonsequiturs than any actual exchange of information.

“Do you want to take the oars first or shall I?” He asks, when they arrive at the little jetty.

“Don’t you think it would be rather more entertaining if we were to take one oar each?” She counters, brows quirked in challenge.

Needless to say, that’s what they do.

Anthony has never had more fun in his life, to be clear, than he has in the next hour or two squeezed onto a tiny wooden rowing boat bench at Miss Sharma’s side. There is definitely not room for two people on this bench, and yet they neither of them complain about it.

He hopes that’s a good sign for his dreams of a future with her.

They spend a lot of time going around in circles initially. That’s no surprise, perhaps. He has rowed occasionally before, and she never has. He’s a man, and she’s a lady - more accustomed to exercise and time spent outdoors than most ladies, to be sure, but her arms are still rather more slender than his.

Little by little, they find a straighter course. Miss Sharma gets more confident handling an oar. Anthony learns to slack off a very little bit, just enough to keep from overpowering her but without offending her, he hopes. He wouldn’t like to patronise her, but he also wouldn’t like them to have an accident.

That’s partly because he’s an anxious sort of fellow when it comes to the safety of people he cares about, and partly because he thinks a disastrous boating accident might not be the best way of securing her company for the foreseeable future.

He hasn’t really decided what to do about that long term. He had best try to convince her to warm to him a bit and then propose to her, he supposes. He didn’t exactly intend to propose to anyone ever again, after his misguided first engagement, but now he’s reunited with Miss Sharma he can’t see another option.

He only hopes she likes him even half as much as he adores her.

He shakes himself. No sense in dwelling on such things now, while he should be concentrating on rowing safely around this small lake. He could spend hours fretting over whether she liked him and still -

“Oh dear. Are you feeling cold? You do keep shivering.” She frowns at him, and he dares to hope she looks sort of fussy and fond.

“I’m quite well.”

“No. I’ll not believe it. That was most definitely a shiver. I know a gentleman is not supposed to feel the cold, but it has been drizzling more steadily this last half hour and we are quite soaked through.”

“I’m not soaked at all.” He protests. “But - ah - I can see that you are. Perhaps you are the one who is feeling a chill? Is this your polite way of encouraging me to abandon this boat and return inside with you?”

“I don’t wish to return to the house. I am enjoying our excursion and I’m not at all chilled.” She tells him, chin jutting out in defiance.

Hmm. He rather thinks she’s very cold indeed, actually. Now she has brought it up, he can’t help but notice that her gown is clinging to her skin with damp.

What a shame. What a terrible opportunity to admire her figure for a moment or two as he takes stock of their situation.

Well, now. He believes he has an idea.

“You should take my greatcoat. It’s keeping the weather out quite well - I think you’d be considerably warmer.” He offers.

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t. I won’t have you catching a chill.”

Hmm. Interesting. So she is saying no out of some kind of protectiveness, not because she hates the idea of wearing his coat?

How fascinating.

He pushes his luck.

“I’ll be fine, really. I am wearing rather more layers than you are. I can easily spare this one to keep you warmer. Think of it this way - you’d be doing me a favour by accepting my coat, because if you have a coat we might stay out here longer, but if you insist on managing without, I wager you’ll soon be so cold we’ll have to return to the house.”

She nudges him with a playful elbow, throws him the most fond and exasperated look. “You are infuriating, sir. How am I supposed to argue with that? How am I supposed to disagree with you, when you have both my health and the longevity of our excursion at heart?”

“Ah - is that, perhaps, you admitting that I am correct on this occasion?”

She laughs, shakes her head, makes a great show of letting go of her oar and stretching her arms out as if to put on clothing.

He catches up with her as quickly as he is able. He shrugs off his coat - carefully, because it is tailored to be close-fitting, and he’s in a small, unstable rowing boat, and he’s sitting right up against a rather attractive lady.

But at last he manages it. At last he’s holding his greatcoat in his hands, trying to guide the sleeves onto Miss Sharma’s outstretched arms.

And then somehow, somewhere along the line, he finds that he is leaning rather close to her face as he pulls the coat smooth over her chest and fastens it up to her neck. It’s a ridiculous fit on her, of course, but all the same he must try to get it snuggly closed around her. It’s important that she should be as warm as possible.

So - he’s concentrating on his task. That must be his excuse for leaning so absurdly near to her face, her lips, her breath whispering against his cheek.

It’s five years since he last felt his heart thudding in his chest quite like this.

“Miss Sharma?” He asks. He’s not sure what the question is.

“Lord Bridg-”

“Anthony.” He informs her, almost roughly. “You are wearing my coat - I think I must be Anthony, now.”

“Anthony.” She agrees, hoarse.

He swallows. He leans in, even closer, lips parted slightly as he -

She pulls away, sudden, as if recoiling in shock.

He gulps. That’s not a good sign. It’s not a good sign at all. No man wants to see the love of his life physically recoiling from his imminent kiss. He’s suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, as he grips his oar too tight and turns it urgently in his hands, trying to burn off some of his frustration and sudden, loaded insecurity.

She, though, seems strangely unruffled.

When she speaks, suddenly, it all makes sense. 

“The house. They can see us from the house.” She points out.

“Ah. Yes. That’s why we have no chaperone.” Well - that and the fact that the hostess seems rather keen to encourage them to spend time together.

“So - ah - we had best be careful. I had best - you know - protect my reputation. No one can see me using your given name, I suppose, but they would see if - if -”

“They would see if we kissed.” He concludes neatly.

It’s the funniest business. They have never before in all their long, torturous acquaintance admitted that kissing might be an option, might be something they are both interested in, that the mere thought of it might keep them up at night.

But - it’s obvious, isn’t it? They spend a great deal of time breathing too close to each other’s faces to pretend disinterest.

Kate looks rather flabbergasted that he actually said it outright, even now. Or rather - she looks as if she has had a bit of a shock, but she’s struggling masterfully to overcome it.

Indeed, she seems to manage it, all at once, as she takes a deep breath and asks something remarkably brave.

“So - are you Anthony only when I am wearing your coat? Or am I to call you by your given name more often in future?”

He finds himself fighting down rather a strong wave of affection at that. She’s such a fabulous mix of confidence and insecurity, softness and fire, laughter and good sense, and he’s really rather besotted with her.

He shouldn’t ask her to marry him today. It’s too soon. They’ve only been reunited a few days. There’s a world of difference between leaning close as if considering a kiss, dabbling with using his given name and the like, and actually accepting a proposal of marriage.

But - he might ask her anyway, if she keeps provoking him like that.

“I suppose you may call me whatever you like.” He says, carefully light, returning to his rowing with deliberate force.

“Hmm. I do like Anthony. It suits you.”

He’s never really paused to consider that before - or at least, not since he became Lord Bridgerton in most people’s eyes. Does he suit his name? Is that a compliment? He thinks that, if anything, Anthony is a stiff and formal sort of name with too many syllables - is that what she’s trying to say?

Her eyes are glowing, so he dares to hope she might mean something rather more flattering than that.

“And you?” He asks now, as the boat turns in slow circles under his oar. “Would you run a mile if I simply yelled Kate next time we are tilting too far to starboard?”

“I would not run a mile under such circumstances at all - I’ve too much sense.” She argues. “Only a fool would try to run from a listing boat in the middle of a lake.”

“Pedant.” He accuses her fondly.

“What? You asked a poor question.”

“Fine - have it your way, Kate.” He starts rowing the boat around that circle a little faster.

“Thank you, Anthony. You’ve grown much more magnanimous in defeat, these last five years.” She says, all lightness and grace - and then digs her oar into the water, suddenly savage.

They go flying. Of course they do. Between his circular momentum and her determined stab at the water, there is only one possible outcome, here.

The boat tilts, and both occupants tip out, and Anthony gets a faceful of water.

He doesn’t panic, though. He’s usually prone to anxiety about situations like this, usually one to go out of his mind fretting about anyone he cares for. But on this occasion, he’s able to remain perfectly calm, because he realises right away that the lake is scarcely thigh-high.

Miss Sharma is standing in the water next to him, spluttering and laughing and clinging to his elbow.

“Are you quite well?” He asks, through his own chuckles.

“I’m exceedingly well. Never better. This has been a fabulous excursion, Anthony - thank you.”

“I quite agree. It rather reminds me of that occasion when we tried to play Pall Mall together - except that I am in less fear for my life on this occasion.”

She throws him a playful look for that, and then starts pushing the boat back to shore, still laughing.

“Are we abandoning this so soon? Do you not feel the urge to get back into the boat and take another lap?” He asks, mock-affronted.

“Perhaps we might go back to the house to dry out for now, and take another lap tomorrow or the next day?” She offers.

He makes a show of frowning. “Hmm. A tempting idea - and yet, I don’t think I have enough coats to lend you one to ruin every day of the week.”

Although - he could send for more coats. He could send an express to town or to Aubrey Hall and request more coats, if that is all that stands between him and a thousand days like this one.

No. Probably he’s being daft. Probably there are other activities he and Kate could share at this house party which don’t involve such a soaking.

…….

Kate has scarcely taken her place at dinner that night when she gets on with informing the Viscount of her latest scheme.

Or - Anthony. She’s allowed to think of him in that light, now, it seems. Only when there is company present, she must still remember to address him formally. She must keep a little wall of propriety around her heart and try not to look too transparently fond.

She’s not at all sure she’s succeeding at that.

She does her best to set her face in neutral lines as she speaks to him.

“We are playing cricket tomorrow.” She informs him plainly.

“Cricket?” He asks, frowning lightly.

“Cricket.” She agrees. “I was wondering what we might attempt which would not ruin your coats, and it struck me as a game we have never enjoyed together.”

“That’s because no one enjoys cricket.”

She gulps, tries to row backwards - but as they discovered this morning, she is not a terribly apt rower.

“Very well. Not cricket if you hate it.” She concedes. “There must be some other game we could try. Perhaps we could play at quoits or - or take a walk around the terrace.”

His face is unreadable. She presses on, increasingly worried.

“Indeed - I apologise - I ought not have propositioned you in such a familiar way." She splutters. "Clearly our - ah - exploits earlier have gone to my head. A lady ought not -”

“Are you quite well?” He asks, and suddenly he is actually reaching out a playful palm to her forehead, as if to check for fever. “I’ll not have you apologising for your high spirits.”

“You’ll not have it? You’ll forbid it?” She tries teasing.

He joins in. “Absolutely - I’ll forbid it by decree. I’ll not permit you to apologise for being yourself.”

She laughs a little, relaxes back into her seat. Evidently all is not lost.

“Now - where were we?” He asks, pointing a bread roll at her face. “We’re to play cricket tomorrow morning, yes? I apologise for my silence - I was only wondering if we might do something more interesting. I have concluded that I intend to argue with you a little about the merits of cricket, but that I’ll be there all the same.”

“Oh. You will?”

“Yes. I think it a very boring sport indeed.” He tells her robustly. “And yet, if anyone can make it entertaining, I imagine you can.”

“That’s quite the compliment.”

“It’s no more than the truth. And then the following day, perhaps we might get back to something which is actually inherently enjoyable? Another hunting excursion? Perhaps I might teach you to fence?” He suggests, audibly excited by those suggestions.

“The following day is to be the ball.” She reminds him.

“Not until the evening. Surely we could take a ride beforehand? Will it really take you so long to dress and have your hair styled and whatnot?”

“It will take me all the longer if I’m all blowsy from spending the day out riding.” She points out. Somehow she is less concerned with admitting to an occasional moment of blowsiness, after the fun they had falling in the lake this morning.

“A shame. I always think you look rather fetching on horseback.”

She blinks at him in shock. That’s an open compliment, that is - and almost a conventional one, too, some words of praise about her appearance rather than only her spirit or company. She can feel a slice of beef slipping from her fork, but somehow she’s still utterly powerless to look away from Anthony Bridgerton’s smiling face.

He is the one who breaks the moment.

“You’ll dance with me?” He asks simply.

“Dance?” She’s still in shock, perhaps.

He misunderstands her hesitation. “If you’re worried about stepping on my toes, I’m sure we can convince your sister to play the pianoforte again tonight or tomorrow so you might practise.”

“I thought you no longer danced?” She asks.

Then she realises what she’s done, splutters her way through a frantic explanation.

“I mean - I believed you no longer danced at balls. I know we did dance in the drawing room not so long ago. But my sister has remarked upon occasion that you are not in the habit of dancing at balls these days, since you resolved to become a bachelor.”

Does that sound even worse? She tries one more time to repair the damage.

“That is - she has happened to mention it. She has told me in passing that you do not dance these days. So - I presumed you would not like the guests at such a large occasion to speculate.”

“Ah. Yes. Speculation.” He agrees, in a tone she does not entirely understand. “I ought to clarify - I do dance at balls, so long as you are in attendance.”

Oh. Well, then. That’s - it’s quite something, is what it is.

She’s an ageing spinster. She could swear that’s true. It definitely was true, last time she checked - and yet somehow, somewhere along the line, Viscount Bridgerton has started speaking of her like she’s the catch of the season.

…….

Anthony finds himself quite frustrated by their attempts to play at cricket the next day - and not just because he thinks it a deathly boring game.

He’s frustrated because everyone has joined in. When Kate suggested the scheme, he envisaged it as just the two of them, one batting while the other bowled, just the sort of silly informal lawn cricket which is more about laughter and private conversation than actually playing the game.

But now the entire party has joined - so although it’s him bowling and Kate batting, there are the best part of a dozen people fielding, and he can’t help but feel that is too many spectators for a decent conversation.

Or at least - it’s too many spectators for the kind of conversation he wants to share with Kate. Now that they are on first name terms, now that they’ve spent the better part of a week almost constantly in company, he’s rather eager to get on and raise the matter of marriage.

He won’t ask her outright, he thinks. It’s far too early for that. But he thinks it’s about time he gave her some indication of his intentions - an outright declaration that he intends to call on her next season, perhaps, or at the very least an earnest enquiry into whether she prefers to remain unmarried forever, or whether she might be convinced to change her mind if the right man came along and offered for her.

If she could give him a detailed twelve-point description of the right man, too, that might be useful. He would like to know what he might do to please her.

He hopes her list of qualities for the right man does not include a fondness for cricket.

Hmm. Perhaps he need not be so sour about the whole thing. The morning is not entirely wasted. He’s in only his rolled-up shirtsleeves to have enough movement in his shoulders to bowl, and ever since he discarded his coat he could swear he has seen her staring at his forearms.

The end of another over. Thank goodness. The sooner this is finished, the better. He can’t bear to have all these eyes watching as he tries ineptly to win Kate’s heart.

Suddenly, he hits upon a capital idea.

“I believe we should allow some other members of the party the opportunity to take a turn at batting and bowling.” He suggests out loud.

“I shall bowl.” Dorset volunteers at once.

“My turn to bat.” Hastings speaks up, before Anthony can throw the ball at Dorset’s overly pleasing face.

“What are we to do instead?” Kate asks now, with a little pout.

“Ah - I believe I must teach you the finer points of fielding.” He says, with great dignity.

He gives the game away, though. He can feel his lips twitching, just a little, can see the smile in Kate’s gaze as he makes grazing eye contact with her.

She realises that the finer points of fielding is just code for the two of them standing together in silly-mid-off and having a good old chat.

No - in fact - best stand further back than that. Best traipse all the way out into deep cover so they may converse quite uninterrupted. Kate appears entirely uncomplaining, he notes, as they take a long hike into the overgrown grass where lawn meets treeline.

Ah. She is uncomplaining only until they are out of earshot, it seems.

“I was just starting to get the hang of that.” She grumbles cheerfully once they are some distance away from the rest of the party.

He calls her bluff. “I’m sure you may swap back in to bat if you prefer. But as far as I’m concerned, the only good thing about cricket is that nothing happens for hours at a time, so now we may stand here and chat quite uninterrupted.”

“It feels dangerous to admit this, but I do prefer to stand here and spend some time with you than learn how to handle a bat better.”

“I believe there’s no danger in that at all.” He rushes to assure her. “I shan’t let it go to my head - I like to think I’m a mite less arrogant these days than when we first met.”

“Ah, yes - and humble about your humility.” She teases. “But that’s not quite where I thought the danger might lie. You have been very… warm to me this week. Yet I fear making a fool of myself as a spinster who throws herself at a Viscount.”

“You have nothing to fear.” He rushes to assure her, excitement rising in his chest. Is this it? Is this his chance to clarify his intentions? Is she implying that she feels the same way?

Why else would she fear throwing herself at him?

“You’re certain?” She asks, her eyes searching his face.

“Absolutely. I swear it. If you throw yourself at me, I’ll gladly catch you. I -”

It’s at that exact moment that the cricket ball hits him in the face.

He’s falling, even though he knows it’s weak and foolish to fall, even though he knows he ought to be embarrassed to be brought low by a game of cricket. He’s crumpling to the floor, and the sky above is too blue, and he’s blinking, dazed, up into the light.

All at once, Kate’s frantic face is looming over him.

“Anthony?”

He groans.

“Anthony? Can you hear me? Are you alert?”

He groans a bit louder, blinks, wonders why she’s stroking his face.

Then somehow his sister is there, and Simon, and the Bagwells and Dorset and half the party.

It occurs to him rather suddenly that there are a great many people who care about him, considering he’s a lonely bachelor.

“I’m quite alright.” He protests, trying to sit up.

It doesn’t go too well. The world is spinning and the colours are too bright.

“I didn’t pass out.” He tries. That much is true. “I’m entirely well.”

“Forgive me for being dubious. That was a nasty knock to the head.” His sister offers.

“I am terribly sorry for my poor aim, brother.” Simon tries.

“You’ve got quite a mark on your cheek.” Dorset contributes.

Kate only crouches close by and stares at him in an odd, tense sort of silence.

He takes a shaky breath. He can well imagine he might have quite a mark on his cheek. There’s an awful, throbbing pain somewhere between his ear and his eye which he can’t altogether make sense of.

Also, the world is moving. There’s also that.

“I’m perfectly well.” He lies one more time for good measure.

He is roundly ignored. There’s a flurry of activity - Simon is to walk him to his room, Mrs Bagwell is to send for the physician, Daphne is to make him a cold compress.

He’s ushered to his feet, his brother-in-law’s arm slung around his waist to half-carry him. He’s not ready to leave. He’s not ready to abandon Kate half way through that precious conversation, not ready to go without asking why her hand was on his cheek in those first moments after the accident.

He glances back at her. She’s staring wide-eyed at him as he stumbles away.

But that one backwards glance makes him tip dizzily into Simon, so he doesn’t risk another.

…….

Kate is worried sick about Anthony.

She knows that’s daft, when the physician announced that he was fine within moments of arriving. She knows she’s overreacting, since the Duke of Hastings has been bringing almost hourly updates that the Viscount is on the mend, not seriously poorly, sending her his best wishes.

But she’s worried sick all the same. She’s worried partly about his health, even though she has heard and understood all those messages that he is more or less well. She’s even more worried about the situation, she thinks - the fact that he was struck and felled by that ball just as he seemed to be on the verge of saying something significant.

Does that mean he never will say it, now? Is this some sign of fate conspiring to keep them from that conversation? Or will Anthony shy away from her once he’s well, after all this drama?

She knows she can never count on a happy ending where Anthony Bridgerton is concerned.

She has had rather too many moments of distress this week, she thinks, between that awful fit of the vapours in the hallway at the start of this house party, and now this entire restless afternoon of wondering when Anthony will be well, and what he might want to say when that moment comes.

She’s too worried even to feel self-conscious that the Duke keeps giving messages about Anthony’s wellbeing and good wishes specifically to her.

She sighs and announces to the drawing room at large that she will take a walk on the terrace.

“I’ll come with you.” The Duchess, Anthony’s sister, decides at once. “It has been a trying day, has it not? I’m sure we will both feel better for some fresh air.”

Kate nods and expresses herself delighted, because she’s a polite woman like that. But she’s rather wondering what is afoot, here. She and the Duchess are not close. They played Pall Mall together once, five years ago, and have met on a couple of other occasions that season besides sharing this house party this week.

So really - their only connection is that Kate is besotted with the Duchess’ brother.

They set out through the doors onto the terrace. They take perhaps five steps - small, delicate, ladylike steps, not striding about the place as Kate would do if she were walking with Anthony.

And then -

“You must be in considerable distress on account of my brother’s accident.” The Duchess says outright, as if they are confidantes. “I intend to go and sit with him for a while before dinner. You may tell me if you have a particular message for him - or perhaps you would like to send a note?”

Kate shakes her head urgently. “You’re too kind - but I shall send no note. That would be terribly improper. We are - ah - not so intimately acquainted.”

“Ah. Of course. All the same - I presume you send your best wishes? Perhaps there is a sentence or two you wish me to report which you would not send through my husband?”

“I am very much looking forward to continuing my conversation with the Viscount when he is well again. We were in the midst of a most fascinating discussion.” She dares to offer.

The Duchess has a knowing sort of look in her eye. “I see. Simon reports that Anthony is very eager to get up and rejoin the party. I’m sure you’ll have the chance to continue that conversation before long.”

“I hope so. We are due to dance together at the ball tomorrow.” Kate tries. That’s an unobjectionable sort of thing to mention, no? A dance is not a particularly private or intimate detail.

The Duchess seems to think it remarkable all the same.

“A dance, hmm? A dance at a formal ball before half the ton, when my brother has not danced these last five years? What a fascinating development.”

Kate has no response to that.

The Duchess does not seem to mind. She’s pressing on, reaching out to whisper in a confidential sort of tone. “I knew he was fond of you right from the start. I saw it at Aubrey Hall, back when he was trying to court your sister. But when you returned to India, I never expected that the two of you would have this chance to renew your acquaintance.”

“It has indeed been an unexpected pleasure.” Kate hedges.

“I don’t blame you for your reticence. I can well imagine that it might be… challenging to have my brother for a suitor. He has not been at all open about his emotions ever since our father’s death. I think it made him quite a severe sort of man in many ways - so you can imagine why I have found it such a joy this week to see him so light and easy now he is reunited with you.”

Kate opens her mouth to reply. She realises she has no words prepared, closes it again, swallows hard. What on earth is she to say to such an overture of friendship - and such a shameless piece of gossip - from a Duchess?

Was she a nobody, a spinster, only last week? Somehow she seems to have made some friends in high places, lately.

She might as well be honest. That’s the conclusion she reached, more or less, when her sister challenged her to be open to Anthony’s company at the start of the week. That’s her resolution - to dive into this house party headfirst and heartfirst, to see what might come of it if she can only steel herself to be an optimist, just for a little while.

That’s why she tells the Duchess the truth.

“I am more light and easy with him, too.” She admits. “I - I have been very glad to see him this week. Although I must admit it was a terrible shock when I first saw him in the hallway - I thought he might be a ghost.”

“Ah. Yes. I heard you briefly took ill.”

“I believe I regained my health as soon as I went out hunting with your brother. A remarkable coincidence.” She jokes at her own expense.

“That’s as it should be. I’ll tell him you send your good wishes when I see him later.” The Duchess concludes.

“No. I think we must do better than that.” Kate decides, gathering her courage. “I think you must convey my tender regards or affectionate attentions or something of the kind.”

A loud, sudden laugh. “Well done, Miss Sharma. I believe I understand your message. You’d like me to tell him you’d be making a tremendous fuss over him, if only it were acceptable for you to be there in the room with him?”

“Yes. That. You have it exactly.”

“Very good. With such a message as that, I’m sure he’ll be back on his feet tomorrow.”

Kate can only hope that’s the truth. It would be a shame to go to her first ball in five years if Anthony’s not there to share it with her.

……..

Anthony wakes up the following morning with rather a headache.

No - he can be more specific than that. The overwhelming throbbing pain of yesterday is gone. He just feels a dull, persistent ache somewhere below his eye, over his cheekbone. He must have an awful bruise, he frets.

Kate might not like him if he looks like some sort of rakish pirate.

He’s being a fool. It won’t matter what he looks like at all if he can’t even see her to set right that interrupted conversation. He really must get out of bed as soon as possible, and perhaps secure her company for that hunting trip they discussed the night before last.

A hunting trip strikes him as the best setting for an important conversation between the two of them, he decides. They are always at their best when they are alone together out of doors. He could finish telling her he intends to catch her if she throws herself at him, and then maybe even ask her outright if he might call on her as a suitor in town for good measure.

Yes. He likes that idea. That’ll do nicely.

Well, then. He can’t waste another moment. He swings his legs out of the bed, gets hurriedly to his feet and reaches for the shirt he discarded yesterday.

The world tilts.

No. The world must not tilt. He forbids it, utterly and absolutely.

He can’t stay in bed sick from that blow to the head any longer. He can’t waste another moment. He only has another week or two with Kate here - it depends on how long he can stretch out that lie about his carriage - and thereafter he will simply have to hope that she accepts his calls in town, or settle the details of that visit to Aubrey Hall, or…

His brother-in-law finds him some thirty seconds later, sprawled over the edge of the bed with his breeches-half on, having abandoned the attempt midway when a particularly powerful wave of dizziness forced his hand.

It’s most embarrassing, really.

“Anthony?” Simon asks, poking him lightly in the foot. “Did you pass out?”

“I’m fine.” Anthony lies through gritted teeth. “I only had to - ah - rest a while. Dressing is quite a challenge after a powerful blow to the face, it turns out.”

“I am sorry about that. I did not mean to cause you such an injury.”

“I’m not so gravely injured.” He protests. “I’ll be quite alright now I’ve had a little rest. I must just finish getting my breeches arranged.”

His breeches are still nearer his knees than his waist, but Simon does not point that out.

Anthony rallies, shuffles to his feet, leans against the bed while he finishes dealing with his clothing.

There, now. He’s more or less dressed. He only needs a cravat, and a waistcoat, and a coat, and some stockings and boots and -

And he’s doomed. He’s totally and utterly doomed.

He collapses back onto the bed in a hopeless heap.

“Ah. It would appear you won’t be going hunting with Miss Sharma today.” Simon says in a sympathetic sort of tone.

“Did she say something?” Anthony asks urgently. “Did she ask after my whereabouts? I do hope she isn’t waiting for me. She must think me incredibly rude.”

“Eh - you tried to marry her sister once upon a time. I would say her fondness for you has survived worse insults than this.”

Anthony manages a tired, grudging sort of laugh at that.

Even laughing makes the world spin, makes him feel nausea rising in the pit of his stomach.

Simon presses on. “I’m quite certain that she won’t hold it against you when she hears you are still feeling poorly. She’s been quite obsessed with your wellbeing, as it happens. She went on a long walk with Daphne yesterday and I hear they talked about you at great length.”

“They did?”

“They did. In a rare moment of discretion, Daff has decided I’m not allowed to know a thing about it. She’s worried I would gossip with you - can you imagine?”

“I should hope you would gossip with me if you knew anything.” Anthony grumbles fondly. “If you must insist on felling an old friend with a cricket ball, the least you could do is share a good bit of gossip from the lady he’s courting if you were to come by any.”

“I am sorry.” Simon repeats for, perhaps, the twelfth time. “I truly did not mean to hit you.”

“I know. I’m perfectly aware that your aim with a cricket bat is so poor that this could not possibly be deliberate.” He jokes.

More laughter. Another wave of dizziness.

“I’ll give Miss Sharma your sincere apologies for the hunt and the ball tonight.” Simon offers now.

“I’m sure to be well for the ball tonight.” Anthony protests, petulant like a child who wants permission to stay up late for a treat.

Simon doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He just raises his brows and gives him a sad, sympathetic sort of look.

Anthony sighs. There is no sense in protesting further. He cannot order his head to stop spinning.

“You will tell her I send my regards? My - I don’t know - my tender regards? Can regards be tender?”

“I’ll tell her you are devastated to miss the opportunity to hunt with her and dance with her. I think that’s rather more honest and useful than some tender regards.” Simon decides neatly.

Anthony’s not sure, really. He thinks a sudden message about tender regards might carry a lot of weight, considering he spent years eschewing all trace of tenderness before he met Kate.

But frankly, he’s too tired to argue, so he thanks his brother-in-law for his kindness and slumps back into bed.

…….

Kate feels rather foolish dressing up for the ball and having Edwina’s maid style her hair. It seems vain and wasteful now that there is to be no one present she wishes to impress. It would have seemed a bit daft anyway - she, an aging spinster, trying to catch the eye of a Viscount - but it seems even dafter now he’s sick in bed and won’t actually be present.

She grows even more foolish, though, once the ball has begun.

“You should go to the library.” The Duchess of Hastings tells her, raising a pointed brow, just as the supper set begins.

And, fool that she is, Kate does.

The way she sees it, there can be only one reason she is recommending a visit to the library in the midst of a ball - during the dance Kate was due to dance with Anthony, no less. She’s quite wise for a fool - a wisely foolish aging spinster, perhaps.

Sure enough, she arrives in the library and sees Anthony there, propped up amongst many cushions on a sofa. There is a bruise blooming over his cheek and eye, stark against his too-pale face. He’s dressed in shirtsleeves and saggy breeches and carpet slippers.

She is quite convinced he has never looked more handsome.

“You’re supposed to be in bed.” She tells him robustly. Really - how else is she supposed to greet him, after a day and a half spent fretting over his health?

“No - I’m supposed to be dancing with you. This is our set, I believe. I’m only sorry I’m in no shape to take to the dance floor. I was rather at my limit just dressing and getting Simon to help me walk here.”

She tuts, rushes over to him, hands flapping in concern. Then she arrives and realises she has no good reason for being this close to him, so she reaches for the nearest cushion and faffs with it for something to do.

Silence falls. She has no idea what to say. She used to be fluent in arguing with him, five years ago, in laughing with him despite herself and in heated, loaded stares. This week they have built upon that with companionship and warmth and pure, easy fun.

But she’s not at all sure what to say now, confronted by his fragility, in a setting which feels dangerously domestic.

At length, he breaks the taut silence.

“Will you sit with me a while?” He asks, gesturing to a place on the sofa at his side. “I know you are a lady of good character, but -”

“So good I fell in love with the man who was meant for my sister.” She says it at last, actually owns to the truth out loud after all these years.

He blinks at her. She can’t read his gaze. Is that dizziness or shock or something altogether different? Has she said too much, presumed too far?

No. She rather thinks not. He did say he would always catch her, just moments before he missed that cricket ball.

She gathers her courage. She has always been a brave sort of lady. She can stick around, now, even if what they must discuss next might be frightening or difficult.

She goes to sit by his side. He moves some cushions to make a space for her too close to him, then reaches an arm towards her, then retracts it.

This is most unlike him, she decides - she has never seen him so hesitant and reserved. He’s not always an emotionally expressive man, to be sure - especially when they first met all those years ago - but she is accustomed to him being forthright at the very least.

“Anthony?”

“I still love you.” He blurts out, sudden and far too loud in the quiet library.

She allows herself to breathe a little deeper, shuffles closer to his side.

“I’m sorry - I’m trying to be patient. I have been trying to - to woo you, I suppose. But I can’t see how I stand any chance of doing that now I’m feeble as a babe in arms and can’t even dance with you.” He tells her now, a rambling rush of words. “So - here I am, throwing caution to the wind. I beg you will tell me if there is anything I can do to convince you to stay here in England and - and give me a chance to win your hand.”

“I do believe you’re overcomplicating it.” She informs him, reaching to set right the cushion behind his head. It became a little dislodged in his passionate speech, just then, and it’s important to her that he should be as comfortable as possible.

When the cushion is straight, she gathers her courage and presses on.

“I’m still very much in love with you too.” She clarifies. “It’s funny - a week ought to be too soon to tell a thing like that, but this has been quite the most wonderful week of my life.”

“Mine, too.” He agrees, and he even reaches out and places a hand on her thigh.

Hmm. She rather likes that. It’s the sort of steady, comforting gesture she never dreamed a man as tempestuous as Anthony might be able to offer, five years ago.

But this week she has learnt he’s quite an expert in constancy and companionship, too.

“I do think we ought to be circumspect.” She tells him now, thoughtful and careful. “I ought to stay with my sister for some few months and give you a chance to - to be certain of your feelings, I suppose. Certainly we oughtn’t rush into anything when you had a nasty knock to the head only yesterday and -”

“You think I am only begging you to stay with me because I’ve had my wits addled by that cricket ball?” He asks, and he sounds rather affronted by the idea.

“It’s not that.” She argues at once. “It’s more that - that I haven’t the courage to believe this is true, not yet. I have become rather cynical about love in the last five years.”

“Hmm. Yes. Me too.” He agrees, squeezing that hand on her thigh lightly. “I am sorry I managed to make such a mess of it in the first place.”

“I am sorry for my part in it, too.”

“The fault is all mine.” He counters sharply.

“No - I should have spoken with you more honestly from the first.”

“No, I’ll not have it.”

“You’ll not have it?”

The playful argument falls away, there, overtaken by the sound of their shared laughter.

He opens an arm for her, and she curls into his side, and it’s not like coming home, not quite. She has just spent five years all alone in the country she always called home but with no true home of her own, and now here she is at her sister’s home in the arms of the man she’s loved for so long and so hopelessly and from so far away.

So - it’s not home. It’s somewhere new, and solid, and comforting. 

Somewhere which will be home one day.

“I am going to shake off this damned dizziness tomorrow, and we’re going to go out hunting - just you wait and see.” Anthony murmurs now, somewhere close to her ear.

“No - no hunting so soon after your injury.” She argues. “Perhaps a sedate walk around the terrace?”

“Very well. And then perhaps hunting the day after, and another spot of rowing the day after that.” He suggests, growing audibly more pleased with the idea by the second. “And then, in perhaps a week or a month, or whenever we have had the time to find our feet and grow confident in our happy ending - then I will ask you to marry me.”

“And I’ll say yes.”

He squeezes her a little tighter. She kicks her shoes off, curls more closely into his side, looks at his legs and those carpet slippers stretched out on a footstool before him.

For a moment she simply sits and thinks of what his sister the Duchess said yesterday. She thinks of everything she knows of this wonderful man, who is so outspoken but bursting with such insecurities.

She gathers her courage for one last stretch towards that happy ending.

“What if we married sooner?” She asks simply. “I know I said I was still feeling nervous. But I don’t see why I shouldn’t be nervous and engaged. I think - probably I am being a fool in fearing that the cricket ball has anything to do with it, frankly. You have been rather keen on my company this week long before the cricket ball made an appearance.”

“Yes. I think I have been quite blatant about my feelings for you.”

“Good. So really there is no need to put it off.” She says, as much to reassure herself as for his benefit. “We will have plenty of time to find our feet while we are engaged and I for one am loath to waste a moment more after all these years.”

“Kate?” He asks, in a concerned sort of tone.

She can see why. She’s rambling, the pitch of her voice getting higher, the pace of her words growing faster, tumbling headlong towards this one moment.

She can do this.

“I suppose what I mean to say is - will you marry me?”

All at once he’s kissing her, messy and frantic and eager, whispering a yes against her lips. She kisses him back hard, determined, reaching her hand to tangle in his hair and -

A sudden, shocked gasp. She pulls back, startled, realises she must have touched his bruised cheek.

“Sorry.” He says, at almost the exact moment she parts her lips to apologise to him.

“Why are you sorry?” She counters, fond, incredulous, exasperated.

She expects to be in quite a similar sort of mood at least once a day for all the rest of her life with this man.

“I want to get this right for you. I want you to be perfectly happy.” He tells her, all stubbornly devoted.

“I am.” She insists. When it comes to stubborn devotion, she is determined that she shall be more than a match for him.

He frowns down at her a moment, as if trying to decide whether she is lying for his sake. But at last he seems to accept the truth of it, with a nod and a frankly silly grin.

“Me too. Or rather - I will be, just as soon as I can put my breeches on without falling over and needing Simon’s help.” He offers.

She splutters out a laugh, pats him on the leg.

“There are some advantages to your current state.” She reassures him. “Those carpet slippers are rather fetching.”

Silence. She looks up, sees him noticeably flushing.

So, naturally, she presses on. Teasing this man is her favourite occupation in the world, quite frankly - and she had better start practising it in earnest now.

“Truly - I think you look rather sweet and domestic in such an informal state, and those carpet slippers are truly the icing on the cake.”

“Kate -”

“I mean it. I hope I might get a matching pair when we marry.”

“When we marry, I will happily buy you all the carpet slippers you desire.” He agrees, chuckling lightly.

“I should hope so. To be quietly at home together wearing matching carpet slippers sounds, to me at least, like the very definition of happiness.”

“Yes. I suppose I might agree with you - as long as we are quietly at home together in the evening, after a boisterous day out hunting together or playing Pall Mall or suchlike.”

“I think we can both agree on that.”

He kisses her for that. Is he to kiss her every time they reach an agreement, now, in the future? That would almost seem a shame. She wouldn’t like to have such a strong incentive get in the way of enjoying a good argument with him.

There’s something very attractive about such a kind but vexing man.

She pulls away from the kiss after a moment. A pressing question has just occurred to her, and she thinks it vital that she asks it at this very second.

“Excuse me, Anthony - a crucial point. Indeed, I should have asked this before I asked you to marry me. Will our children also have such slippers?”

He rewards her for that with a long, echoing laugh, and with his hand stroking fondly up and down her bare arm.

Hmm. A shame. Neither of those things is really an answer, not in the strictest sense of the word.

Never mind. It’s just as well they have a lifetime together ahead of them to resolve such matters.