Chapter Text
Later, Anthony Bridgerton would look back at the moment he’d met Kate Sharma, and it would be clear that this was when his life had divided in two. There would always be, from that time onwards, before, and after.
But in the instant in which this happened, he did not have the benefit of clairvoyance, or even of any deep emotional insight. He had not yet learnt the art of understanding his own feelings.
And so he was cognisant only of the physical sensation, and the impression it left.
“May I introduce Miss Sharma, Lord Bridgerton?” Lady Danbury said, and he acquiesced, turning to the woman in question.
And then every inch of his body went taut.
She was tall. She was radiant. She was, perhaps, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. When she smiled, he thought, unconsciously, that he wanted the full force of that smile turned upon him always. As he bowed and she curtsied, he caught the scent of something floral and something clean – lilies, perhaps, and soap. It was unexpectedly heady; intoxicating, even. He found himself inhaling sharply.
“Miss Sharma, the pleasure is mine,” he said, straightening.
“Lord Bridgerton, it is lovely to meet you.”
The sound of his name in her voice – even just his title, as it were – sent a delightful shock up his spine. He wanted to hear her repeat it. He wanted to hear her say his given name, to drag her tongue over its syllables. He wanted to drag his tongue over the syllables of her name, and more parts of her yet.
Even as they exchanged mundane pleasantries – the weather, her Season so far, the weather again – he felt the intensity of his own regard.
Want tumbled through his veins.
He was not one for balls, nor dancing. He was not on the marriage mart, and did not intend to be for several years yet. But he could not stop himself. It was as if he had lost control of his faculties. “If you are not engaged already, Miss Sharma, might I have the next set?”
Something flickered in her eyes. He could not place the expression, and uncertainty briefly washed over him. Could it really be, even as he could feel every coil of his own muscles, that he was alone in this? It seemed almost unfathomable that a pull this intense could be one-sided. And yet she was hesitating, as if deliberating.
But finally, she proffered her dance card, and said, “I am engaged for the next few sets, but I believe I am still free for the waltz.”
PART ONE
Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there’s no way in or out. In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys. It’s loss and regret and misery and yearning that drive the story forward, along its twisted road.
MARGARET ATWOOD, THE BLIND ASSASSIN
The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time. Forget the dragon, leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness. Let's jump ahead to the moment of epiphany, in gold light, as the camera pans to where the action is, lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see the blue rings of my eyes as I say something ugly. I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way, and I don't want to be the kind that says the wrong way.
RICHARD SIKEN, LITANY IN WHICH CERTAIN THINGS ARE CROSSED OUT
Kate Sharma knew that she faced some rather significant hurdles in her object for the Season.
The largest of these hurdles was, to be frank, not her age, but her family’s utter lack of funds.
Sometimes, it felt like a grievous mistake to have returned to England after her father’s passing – for maintaining a genteel household here had depleted their funds much more rapidly than if they had stayed in India.
But Mary had been in such an acute state, at the time, and Kate, at eighteen, had been desperately worried. Mary had nearly stopped eating, and rarely even spoke; Kate had had to spoon feed her as if she were a babe. In the depths of her grief, Mary had once cried that she could not bear to stay in this country without her beloved, for everywhere she turned was another memory of Mahesh.
It had been impossible to ignore. Perhaps, Kate had thought, it would help to return to her stepmother’s homeland – even if the Sheffields were no help, perhaps there were other friends, or even distant family, to be prevailed upon?
She regretted the decision, now. Whenever she had to look at the family’s accounts, she felt the cold, bitter taste of her own inexperience and naïveté. But at eighteen, she had not had the benefit of hindsight, or even the benefit of knowledge. She had not lived in England in many years, and had known very little of England in practicality, and certainly nothing of the the managing of an English household.
So they had moved back, and then they had slowly and surely depleted their funds. Kate had tried her best. She scrimped and saved. She sold off jewellery. She sold off trinkets.
It was not enough. They still spent more money each year than they could bring in. It could barely even be termed genteel poverty; they could not afford a housekeeper nor cook any longer, only a housemaid. Kate had wanted to give up even the housemaid, but she understood the ramifications – it was their last pretence of respectability. That way lay social ruin.
Kate wished she had been firmer, years ago, when she had beseeched Mary to allow her to take up a post as a governess. They would not be in so precarious a state now. But at the same time, Edwina had been but ten, and Mary had only just resumed the barest attempt at routine. Indeed, Mary had only just resumed eating regular meals. And so Kate had not felt entirely easy about leaving Mary to be the sole carer for her sister, and the governess plan had been abandoned.
And now here they were, with only enough funds for a scant few more years, and certainly not enough for a dowry for Edwina. There was just enough for a single Season, but Edwina was barely fifteen – by the time Edwina was old enough to debut, the money would be gone. Indeed, it would barely stretch for a Season now; it was only by virtue of Lady Danbury’s charity that they could afford a Season at all.
And so, Kate, at twenty four, was to debut, even as perilously close to the shelf as she was.
This – her age – was in itself another hurdle. Indeed, the sheer volume of hurdles almost overwhelmed her at times, a litany of anxieties. She had no dowry, and no lineage. Their limited circumstances would be clear to all and sundry, for they were so short of funds that there was simply no budget to purchase newer, fashionable clothes; they would have to make over old dresses, and some of Mary’s older gowns. And the men of the Ton seemed to prefer women who were soft, in the first flush of youth, and – most difficult of all – docile, and Kate was under no illusions as to her own temperament.
But she had to try. She did not have the luxury of doing otherwise, for if she did not succeed – well, even genteel poverty would not be an option. They would be staring destitution in the face. An English governess’s wages would not stretch even remotely far enough to cover their household.
Perhaps a trade, she had once suggested gently to Mary, but Mary had balked. In any event, Kate was unsure of how one went about establishing oneself in a trade when you had no skills outside that of a gentlewoman. More than once, she had bitterly rued the strictures of England that had led them here, with so few options.
She had written to friends of the family back in India, in the hopes that perhaps she could obtain a position with one of the colonial families. For all the Ton’s protestations otherwise, for all the promise of the Great Experiment, Kate was not blind. She knew that the English gentility saw India as a dangerous, savage backwater, full of heathens; a land which they wanted to wrangle and subjugate. It incensed her, but she knew that it also represented – for her, at least – a potential financial strategy. For governesses with experience of the Ton, able to polish their daughters, and willing to travel to India – they were thin on the ground. She could perhaps ask for a premium, there. It was the best option.
But even that would not be enough for Edwina to have a Season. It would only be enough to keep them afloat, just barely.
Survival was better than nothing, but Kate wanted more for her family.
And so.
Despite these many hurdles, however, the Season had gotten off to a promising start.
She had thought herself perhaps slightly too thin and too tall for the Ton’s preferences – and she also knew that generally, there was a marked preference for fairness, despite the Ton’s protestations of their own enlightenment. But to Kate’s surprise, it had turned out that she was accounted a beauty. She had discovered this through the scandal sheets – even if they had then immediately disparaged her in the same breath: Miss Sharma’s advancing age perhaps prevents her from being a diamond of the first water, but it is undeniable that she is a handsome woman, of fine features, and a rather classical dignity. One wonders if a charming mien will be enough for a suitor to overlook her utter lack of fortune or connexions.
And – as she sometimes privately marvelled – Kate had even managed to temper her sharper impulses thus far. She was hardly demure by nature, but she was determined, and there was much to be said for determination. She developed strategies: If a potential suitor said something idiotic, she would sip her tea to prevent herself from commenting on his lack of intelligence. She would blink rapidly, as if she was fluttering her lashes, rather than mentally cataloguing his deficiencies. If appropriate, she would laugh as if they had told a great joke, when in reality she was laughing at the absurdity of the situation. And so on, and so forth.
It had worked, somehow. London was taken with her. The Danbury household was never short on calling cards, or bouquets. Kate’s dance card was always filled.
Kate, however, could not help the nagging fear about her lack of dowry. The men of the Ton were fickle, she knew. Calling cards did not, in and of themselves, translate to proposals.
February was too early in the Season to start worrying in earnest, but Kate could not help it. She had developed a habit of worrying. Years of heading their household had inculcated in her the sense that the shoe could drop at any moment. She knew some of the callers would drop off; gentlemen in the Ton were liable to flock after one another. The question was what would happen after the novelty wore off.
But worrying would not pay their bills. So she smoothed her skirts, and stepped into the Rokesbys’ ballroom, prepared for yet another night of smiling and strategising – she had work to do.
Though Viscount Bridgerton had not known of Miss Kate Sharma before their introduction, the same could not be said in reverse.
For Kate had carefully pursued Debrett’s and Burke’s before the start of the Season, as well as commandeering copies of the latest gossip rags. If she needed to make a match, then she would go into the Season fully armed and fully informed. She knew who the most eligible gentlemen of the Season were – and also, too, which gentlemen were most likely to overlook her lack of dowry.
It was impossible, then, for her to not have known of Viscount Bridgerton. He was a young, handsome Viscount, with a reputation for being, as one new gossip rag put it, a Capital R Rake. It was also well known that he was not on the marriage mart.
He had caused some stir, earlier that Season, when he had shaved off his mutton chops – the Mamas had briefly entertained the possibility that he was indeed ready to settle, for why else would he have done so? But their hopes had been sorely dashed. He paid no particular court to any woman that Season, though many aspirational mothers tried to foist their daughters upon him. He still attended balls only infrequently. He appeared to flee if any debutante so much as looked at him. It was clear to all that the Viscount was still committed to bachelorhood.
Kate had duly noted Lord Bridgerton’s name, and filed him away under Not Eligible. There would be no salvation to be found in that quarter.
And so, when Lady Danbury had begun the introduction, Kate had been quite determined – not precisely to dislike him, but certainly to pay him no great heed. There was no world in which Lord Bridgerton was a realistic prospect. He did not even warrant consideration.
And then he turned to her.
The feeling struck with vehement force. It was sudden, visceral, and decidedly unwelcome. She felt the flush of it, all over.
She could not have accounted for the precise cause, for he was handsome, certainly, but many men were handsome. Indeed, some of her own frequent callers were equally as handsome. His looks alone could not explain the way her breaths shallowed, the heat of her blood.
But Kate was hardly a sheltered, naïve adolescent. Though she could not trace back what had prompted it, she knew exactly what this feeling was – a rather unfortunate, unvarnished desire.
It was an intensity of attraction she had yet to experience all Season. But of all the men to have engendered it! She could not have picked a worse candidate. She could not set her cap at this man – he was not looking to marry, and even if he were, a wealthy, handsome Viscount was hardly likely to marry a penniless, nearly-spinster debutante.
The prospect was so laughable as to not even be worth dreaming of. It was not of this reality.
And yet.
Her body clearly did not listen to reason. She was shocked at herself, at the strength and violence of her own desire. It was as if she had been overtaken by a sudden fever. Her skin felt aflame; indeed, her entire body felt aflame.
The ballroom was far too warm. She found herself stumbling through the usual pleasantries – desperately wanting to look away from his face, and finding herself unable to.
When he asked for a dance, she felt both hope and distress. Her only free dance was the waltz. She did not want to dance with this man, for if she reacted this violently to the sight of him – it did not bode well for a dance as borderline scandalous as the waltz.
But much to her chagrin, she could not stop her pulse from leaping with joy.
As they twirled around the dance floor, Miss Sharma’s expression left Anthony unsure.
When their hands touched, as they drew closer on the dance floor, he felt the jolt of it – and he was sure she did too. Her expression seemed, fleetingly, to echo the desire that he felt. He was convinced in that moment that he was not alone in his attraction.
Only, almost immediately, a wariness crept over her face. He felt that, too, as a pang – the way in which her the warmth in her eyes suddenly shuttered.
It stumped him.
“I am surprised, my lord, that you would have deigned to ask me to dance,” she said. “You are usually quite hasty to avoid debutantes. You have left me in an unenviable position – I believe the more ambitious matrons will be rather displeased with me.”
He blinked in surprise, at her directness. It was unexpected. It was true that Anthony did not often dance with debutantes – he had surprised even himself when he asked Miss Sharma to dance. It was also true that on the rare occasions he did, they were almost all diffident to a fault.
Miss Sharma had an edge to her; he found he rather liked it.
“You do not seem the type to be cowed by that, Miss Sharma.”
“No, but it would be preferable to not have to deal with the gossip at all. You know, do you not, that this will cause a torrent of gossip?”
“Can a man not ask a woman to dance without it causing so much consternation?”
“You know perfectly well that when that man is a single Viscount, possessed of a good fortune and in want of a wife, that it cannot.”
“The incorrect assumption there would be that I am in want of a wife.”
“Do not worry, Lord Bridgerton. I am not of the belief that you are in want of a wife. I am hardly one to run away with ridiculous fancies in the face of all evidence. But you are known to hardly dance at balls, except for with relatives. Even when you do deign to dance with a debutante, they are a friend of your family.”
“Have you been observing me, Miss Sharma?”
She scoffed. He found it rather attractive. He found, he was realising, everything about her attractive. Her boldness only heightened it.
“Not deliberately so, my lord. But it is almost impossible to be out in London without hearing talk of you. You caused quite a stir when you cut your hair, do you know?”
“It seemed like time for a change. Do you not like it?”
“I have no reference with which to compare it to. I have only been in the Ton this one Season. But I shall say that I have been assured that it is a marked improvement.”
Anthony resisted the urge to reach up to his hair. He wanted, rather ridiculously, to ask her again if she liked it – for he noticed that she had entirely sidestepped his question.
“I had not realised my hair was the topic of so many conversations.”
“You would be shocked, my lord. It was one of the biggest items of news last month.” She added, “You would think that the developments in the Peninsula would be bigger news, but the Ton appears more preoccupied with your pleasing smile.”
“You think I have a pleasing smile?” Indeed, one such smile was spreading across his face, now.
“Your comprehension surely cannot be so poor,” she said, but then she laughed.
Which felt like a victory indeed.
Kate was shocked at how quickly, with Lord Bridgerton, she had forgotten entirely her own strictures. Her facade as a demure, undemanding debutante – it had entirely fallen apart. Within only minutes of the waltz starting, she had herself tossed it to the winds.
But she could not help it. In the face of the overwhelming attraction she felt for Lord Bridgerton – a decidedly unwanted attraction – she had felt herself retreating to familiar territory. Directness felt safe. It would surely put him off, so that he would not bother her again. She was sure that the Viscount would be, in this regard, just like the other men of the Ton.
As it turned out, she was mistaken. It backfired entirely.
He seemed, if anything, to enjoy her combativeness, which she had not at all anticipated. Indeed, it seemed to spur him on to flirt with her.
And, to her dismay, she found she also enjoyed his flirting. She could not help the laughter that bubbled out out of her, or her prickling awareness of the heat radiating off him. She thought, dimly, that no wonder the waltz was still deemed mildly scandalous, for the proximity only amplified the fierce heat she herself felt.
Someone take mercy on me, she thought. She could not afford such useless desire, for a man who had, just moments before, proclaimed he was not in want of a wife.
In bed that night, Anthony’s mind was still consumed with thoughts of Miss Sharma.
He had not expected to enjoy their conversation quite so much. But the sharpness of her wit, her wry commentary on the Ton – he had rather had an exceedingly enjoyable time.
That, on top of the fervent lust that it had sparked. He did not know if owed thanks or recriminations to Countess Lieven for having introduced the waltz to England. The closeness, the mimicry of an embrace – it had left him in a state of fervour. Every time he had inhaled, he caught a lungful of that scent of hers. He feared he would now forever associate the smell of lilies with arousal.
There had been a moment when he had noticed her lips parting slightly, her pupils darkening, and he had felt it arrow straight through him. He now found himself in bed, hard and aching at the memory, the fantasies it led him to. He could not stop thinking of her mouth. Her mouth on him. His mouth on her, on every part of her. He could picture it far too clearly, how she might look, gasping beneath him.
It would not do, he knew, to lust so obviously and openly over a debutante. There would be expectations, and Anthony did not want expectations.
He had no plans to marry anytime soon. He would, eventually, if only to discharge his godforsaken duties to the viscountcy. But that would not be for years yet – and even if he were to, he certainly would not choose someone who he had such an overwhelming desire for. To marry a woman whom he was so desperately attracted to would be nothing short of folly; he knew how that story ended. He would find a wife who was pleasant, but who gave rise to no great feeling within him, and caused him no risk of despair or panic.
But, alone in bed, without anyone around to know or judge – he could indulge, just for tonight, in the fantasy. Miss Sharma need never know. Perhaps it would help purge him of what he feared was becoming, already, an obsession.
He took himself in hand, thinking of her wide, dark eyes, the ghost of desire that had briefly passed through them. The heaving of her chest as she had exhaled, when they brushed up against one another. He pictured again the moment in which her lips had parted, like the shape of a kiss, and fixed it in his mind. He would take his time, he thought, to savour the taste of her. He was sure she would be as spirited in bed as she had been in their conversation. He pictured her hips bucking against his, the wet heat of her, ragged breaths, and quickened the pace of his hand. He stroked himself to completion, the fantasy overtaking him.
He lay there sated, and yet somehow still completely unfulfilled.
Surely, he thought, this longing could not be a permanent state. He had met her but once. Surely tonight would have excised this out of his system, and he could return to a state of equilibrium once more.