The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(11)

“And are you thirsty,” she asked, “or were you merely being polite?”

“I am always polite,” he said with a wicked grin, “but I am thirsty as well.”

Kate took one look at that grin, lethally combined with those devastating green eyes, and nearly groaned. “You are a rake as well,” she said with a sigh.

Colin choked—on what, she did not know, but he choked nonetheless. “I beg your pardon?”

Kate’s face flushed as she realized with horror that she’d spoken aloud. “No, it is I who should beg your pardon. Please forgive me. That was unforgivably rude.”

“No, no,” he said quickly, looking terribly interested and not a little bit amused, “do continue.”

Kate swallowed. There was really no way to get out of it now. “I was merely—” She cleared her throat. “If I might be frank…”

He nodded, his sly grin telling her that he could not imagine her being anything but frank.

Kate cleared her throat yet again. Really, this was getting ridiculous. She was starting to sound as if she’d swallowed a toad. “It had occurred to me that you might be rather like your brother, that is all.”

“My brother?”

“The viscount,” she said, thinking it must be obvious.

“I have three brothers,” he explained.

“Oh.” Now she felt stupid. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said with great feeling. “Most of the time they’re a dreadful nuisance.”

Kate had to cough to cover up her small gasp of surprise.

“But at least you were not comparing me to Gregory,” he said with a dramatic sigh of relief. He shot her a cheeky, sideways look. “He’s thirteen.”

Kate caught the smile in his eyes and realized he’d been bamming her all along. This was not a man who wished his brothers off to perdition. “You’re rather devoted to your family, aren’t you?” she asked.

His eyes, which had been laughing throughout the conversation, turned dead serious without even a blink. “Utterly.”

“As am I,” Kate said pointedly.

“And that means?”

“It means,” she said, knowing she should hold her tongue but speaking anyway, “that I will not allow anyone to break my sister’s heart.”

Colin remained silent for a moment, slowly turning his head to watch his brother and Edwina, who were just then finishing up their dance. “I see,” he murmured.

“Do you?”

“Oh, indeed.” They arrived at the lemonade table, and he reached out and took two glasses, handing one to her. She’d already had three glasses of lemonade that evening, a fact of which she was sure Mary had been aware before she’d insisted Kate have some more. But it was hot in the ballroom—it was always hot in ballrooms—and she was thirsty again.

Colin took a leisurely sip, watching her over the rim of his glass, then said, “My brother has it in his mind to settle down this year.”

Two could play at this game, Kate thought. She took a sip of her lemonade—slowly—before speaking. “Is that so?”

“I would certainly be in a position to know.”

“He is reputed to be quite a rake.”

Colin looked at her assessingly. “That is true.”

“It is difficult to imagine so notorious a rogue settling down with one woman and finding happiness in marriage.”

“You seem to have given such a scenario a great deal of thought, Miss Sheffield.”

She leveled a frank stare directly at his face. “Your brother is not the first man of questionable character to court my sister, Mr. Bridgerton. And I assure you, I do not take my sister’s happiness lightly.”

“Surely any girl would find happiness in marriage to a wealthy and titled gentleman. Isn’t that what a season in London is all about?”

“Perhaps,” Kate allowed, “but I’m afraid that line of thinking does not address the true problem at hand.”

“Which is?”

“Which is that a husband can break a heart with far greater intensity than a mere suitor.” She smiled—a small, knowing sort of smile—then added, “Don’t you think?”

“Having never been married, I am certainly not in a position to speculate.”

“Shame, shame, Mr. Bridgerton. That was the worst sort of evasion.”

“Was it? I rather thought it might be the best. I am clearly losing my touch.”

“That, I fear, will never be a worry.” Kate finished the rest of her lemonade. It was a small glass; Lady Hartside, their hostess, was notoriously stingy.

“You are far too generous,” he said.

She smiled, a real smile this time. “I am rarely accused of that, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He laughed. Right out loud in the middle of the ballroom. Kate realized with discomfort that they were suddenly the object of numerous curious stares.

“You,” he said, still sounding most heartily amused, “must meet my brother.”

“The viscount?” she asked with disbelief.

“Well, you might enjoy Gregory’s company as well,” he allowed, “but as I said, he is only thirteen and likely to put a frog on your chair.”