The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(29)

The study’s windows looked out over Grosvenor Square, however, and so he had been amusing himself watching the carriages arrive and the guests alight. When Kate Sheffield had stepped down, she’d looked up at the facade of Bridgerton House, tipping her face up in much the same manner she’d done while enjoying the warmth of the sun in Hyde Park. The light from the sconces on either side of the front door had filtered onto her skin, bathing her with a flickering glow.

And Anthony’s breath was sucked right out of him.

His glass tumbler landed on the wide windowsill with a heavy thunk. This was getting ridiculous. He wasn’t self-delusional enough to mistake the tightening of his muscles as anything other than desire.

Bloody hell. He didn’t even like the woman. She was too bossy, too opinionated, too quick to jump to conclusions. She wasn’t even beautiful—at least not compared to quite a few of the ladies flitting about London for the season, her sister most especially included.

Kate’s face was a touch too long, her chin a hair too pointed, her eyes a shade too big. Everything about her was too some thing. Even her mouth, which vexed him to no end with its endless stream of insults and opinions, was too full. It was a rare event when she actually had it closed and was treating him to a moment of blessed silence, but if he happened to look at her in that split second (for surely she could not be silent for much longer than that) all he saw were her lips, full and pouty, and—provided that she kept them shut and didn’t actually speak—eminently kissable.

Kissable?

Anthony shuddered. The thought of kissing Kate Sheffield was terrifying. In fact, the mere fact that he’d even thought of it ought to be enough to have him locked up in an asylum.

And yet…

Anthony collapsed in a chair.

And yet he’d dreamed about her.

It had happened after the fiasco at The Serpentine. He’d been so furious with her he could barely speak. It was a wonder he’d managed to say anything at all to Edwina during the short ride back to her house. Polite conversation was all he’d been able to get out—mindless words so familiar they tripped from his tongue as if by rote.

A blessing indeed, since his mind most definitely had not been where it should be: on Edwina, his future wife.

Oh, she hadn’t agreed to marry him. He hadn’t even asked. But she fit his requirements for a wife in every possible way; he’d already decided that she would be the one to whom he would finally propose marriage. She was beautiful, intelligent, and even-tempered. Attractive without making his blood rush. They would spend enjoyable years together, but he’d never fall in love with her.

She was exactly what he needed.

And yet…

Anthony reached for his drink and downed the rest of its contents in one gasping gulp.

And yet he’d dreamed about her sister.

He tried not to remember. He tried not to remember the details of the dream—the heat and the sweat of it—but he’d only had this one drink this evening, certainly not enough to impair his memory. And although he’d had no intention of having more than this one drink, the concept of sliding into mindless oblivion was starting to sound appealing.

Anything would be appealing if it meant he wouldn’t remember.

But he didn’t feel like drinking. He’d not overimbibed in years. It seemed such the young man’s game, not at all attractive as one neared thirty. Besides, even if he did decide to seek temporary amnesia in a bottle, it wouldn’t come fast enough to make the memory of her go away.

Memory? Ha. It wasn’t even a real memory. Just a dream, he reminded himself. Just a dream.

He’d fallen asleep quickly upon returning home that evening. He’d stripped naked and soaked in a hot bath for nearly an hour, trying to remove the chill from his bones. He hadn’t been completely submerged in The Serpentine as had Edwina, but his legs had been soaked, as had one of his sleeves, and Newton’s strategic shake had guaranteed that not one inch of his body remained warm during the windy ride home in the borrowed curricle.

After his bath he’d crawled into bed, not particularly caring that it was still light outside, and would be for a good hour yet. He was exhausted, and he’d had every intention of falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, not to be awakened until the first streaks of dawn touched the morning.

But sometime in the night, his body had grown restless and hungry. And his treacherous mind had filled with the most awful of images. He’d watched it as if floating near the ceiling, and yet he felt everything—his body, naked, moving over a lithe female form; his hands stroking and squeezing warm flesh. The delectable tangle of arms and legs, the musky scent of two bodies in love—it had all been there, hot and vivid in his mind.

And then he’d shifted. Just the tiniest bit, perhaps to kiss the faceless woman’s ear. Except as he moved to the side, she was no longer faceless. First appeared a thick lock of dark brown hair, softly curling and tickling at his shoulder. Then he moved even farther…

And he saw her.

Kate Sheffield.

He’d awakened in an instant, sitting bolt upright in bed and shaking from the horror of it. It had been the most vivid erotic dream he’d ever experienced.

And his worst nightmare.

He’d felt frantically around the sheets with one of his hands, terrified that he’d find the proof of his passion. God help him if he’d actually ejaculated while dreaming of quite the most awful woman of his acquaintance.