The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(34)

Here he was, pouring a glass of the finest whiskey for Maria Rosso, one of the few women of his acquaintance who knew how to appreciate both a fine whiskey and the devilish intoxication that followed, and all he could smell was the damned scent of Kate Sheffield. He knew she was in the house—and he was half ready to kill his mother for that—but this was ridiculous.

“Is everything all right?” Maria called out.

“Perfect,” Anthony said, his voice sounding tight to his ears. He began to hum, something he’d always done to relax himself.

He turned and started to take a step forward. Maria was waiting for him, after all.

But there was that damned scent again. Lilies. He could swear it was lilies. And soap. The lilies were intriguing, but the soap made sense. A practical sort of woman like Kate Sheffield would scrub herself clean with soap.

His foot hesitated in midair, and his step forward proved to be a small one instead of his usual long stride. He couldn’t quite escape the smell, and he kept turning, his nose instinctively twisting his eyes toward where he knew there couldn’t be lilies, and yet the scent was, impossibly, there.

And then he saw her.

Under his desk.

It was impossible.

Surely this was a nightmare. Surely if he closed his eyes and opened them again, she’d be gone.

He blinked. She was still there.

Kate Sheffield, the most maddening, irritating, diabolical woman in all England, was crouching like a frog under his desk.

It was a wonder he didn’t drop the whiskey.

Their eyes met, and he saw hers widen with panic and fright. Good, he thought savagely. She should be frightened. He was going to tan her bloody hide until her hide was bloody well bloody.

What the hell was she doing here? Wasn’t dousing him with the filthy water of The Serpentine enough for her bloodthirsty spirit? Wasn’t she satisfied with her attempts to stymie his courtship of her sister? Did she need to spy on him as well?

“Maria,” he said smoothly, moving forward toward the desk until he was stepping on Kate’s hand. He didn’t step hard, but he heard her squeak.

This gave him immense satisfaction.

“Maria,” he repeated, “I have suddenly remembered an urgent matter of business that must be dealt with immediately.”

“This very night?” she asked, sounding quite dubious.

“I’m afraid so. Euf!”

Maria blinked. “Did you just grunt?”

“No,” Anthony lied, trying not to choke on the word. Kate had removed her glove and wrapped her hand around his knee, digging her nails straight through his breeches and into his skin. Hard.

At least he hoped it was her nails. It could have been her teeth.

“Are you sure there is nothing amiss?” Maria inquired.

“Nothing…at”—whatever body part Kate was sinking into his leg sank a little farther—“all!” The last word came out as more of a howl, and he kicked his foot forward, connecting with something he had a sneaking suspicion was her stomach.

Normally, Anthony would die before striking a woman, but this truly seemed to be an exceptional case. In fact, he took not a little bit of pleasure in kicking her while she was down.

She was biting his leg, after all.

“Allow me to walk you to the door,” he said to Maria, shaking Kate off his ankle.

But Maria’s eyes were curious, and she took a few steps forward. “Anthony, is there an animal under your desk?”

Anthony let out a bark of laughter. “You could say that.”

Kate’s fist came down on his foot.

“Is it a dog?”

Anthony seriously considered answering in the affirmative, but even he was not that cruel. Kate obviously appreciated his uncharacteristic tact, because she let go of his leg.

Anthony took advantage of his release to quickly step out from behind the desk. “Would I be unforgivably rude,” he asked, striding to Maria’s side and taking her arm, “if I merely walked you to the door and not back to the music room?”

She laughed, a low, sultry sound that should have seduced him. “I am a grown woman, my lord. I believe I can manage the short distance.”

“Forgive me?”

She stepped through the door he held open for her. “I suspect there isn’t a woman alive who could deny you forgiveness for that smile.”

“You are a rare woman, Maria Rosso.”

She laughed again. “But not, apparently, rare enough.”

She floated out, and Anthony shut the door with a decisive click. Then, some devil on his shoulder surely prodding him, he turned the key in the lock and pocketed it.

“You,” he boomed, eliminating the distance to the desk in four long strides. “Show yourself.”

When Kate didn’t scramble out quickly enough, he reached down, clamped his hand around her upper arm, and hauled her to her feet.

“Explain yourself,” he hissed.

Kate’s legs nearly buckled as the blood rushed back to her knees, which had been bent for nearly a quarter of an hour. “It was an accident,” she said, grabbing on to the edge of the desk for support.

“Funny how those words seem to emerge from your mouth with startling frequency.”

“It’s true!” she protested. “I was sitting in the hall, and—” She gulped. He had stepped forward and was now very, very close. “I was sitting in the hall,” she said again, her voice sounding crackly and hoarse, “and I heard you coming. I was just trying to avoid you.”