The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(37)

Kate suddenly felt as if a cannonball were lodged in her throat. “But you can’t possibly want to marry her after you—after I—”

He took a few steps toward her, his movements slow and sleek like a cat. “After you kissed me?”

“I didn’t—” But the words burned the back of her throat, because they were so obviously a lie. She had not initiated the kiss, but she had, in the end, participated in it.

“Oh, come now, Miss Sheffield,” he said, standing up straight and crossing his arms. “Let’s not go down that road. We don’t like each other, that much is true, but I do respect you in an odd, perverted sort of way, and I know you’re not a liar.”

She said nothing. Really, what could she say? How did one respond to a statement that contained the words “respect” and “perverted”?

“You kissed me back,” he said with a small, satisfied smile. “Not with any great enthusiasm, I’ll admit, but that would be just a matter of time.”

She shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. “How can you talk of such things not even a minute after declaring your intention to court my sister?”

“This does put a bit of a crimp in my plans, that is true,” he commented, his voice light and thoughtful, as if he were considering the purchase of a new horse, or perhaps deciding which neckcloth to wear.

Maybe it was his casual posture, maybe it was the way he stroked his chin as if pretending to give the matter some thought. But something ignited a fuse inside of Kate, and without even thinking, she launched forward, all the furies of the world collecting in her soul as she threw herself against him, pounding his chest with her fists. “You will never marry her!” she cried out. “Never! Do you hear me?”

He raised one arm to ward off a blow to his face. “I’d have to be deaf not to.” Then he expertly captured her wrists, holding her arms immobile while her body heaved and shook with rage.

“I won’t let you make her unhappy. I won’t let you ruin her life,” she said, the words choking in her throat. “She is everything that is good and honorable and pure. And she deserves better than you.”

Anthony watched her closely, his eyes trained on her face, somehow rendered beautiful by the force of her anger. Her cheeks were high with color, her eyes shone with tears she was fighting hard to keep off her face, and he was beginning to feel like he might be the worst sort of cad.

“Why, Miss Sheffield,” he said softly, “I do believe you truly love your sister.”

“Of course I love her!” she burst out. “Why do you think I have gone to such efforts to keep her away from you? Did you think I did it for amusement? Because I can assure you, my lord, I can think of many things more amusing than being held captive in your study.”

Abruptly, he let go of her wrists.

“I should think,” she said with a sniffle, rubbing her reddened, abused flesh, “that my love for Edwina would be the one thing about me you could understand with perfect clarity. You, who are supposedly so devoted to your own family.”

Anthony said nothing, just watched her, and wondered if perhaps there was a great deal more to this woman than he’d originally estimated.

“If you were Edwina’s brother,” Kate said with deadly accuracy, “would you allow her to marry a man like you?”

He did not speak for a very long moment, long enough so that the silence rang awkwardly in his own ears. Finally he said, “That is beside the point.”

To her credit, she did not smile. She did not crow, nor did she taunt. When she spoke, her words were quiet and true. “I believe I have my answer.” Then she turned on her heel and began to walk away.

“My sister,” he said, loudly enough to halt her progress toward the door, “married the Duke of Hastings. Are you familiar with his reputation?”

She paused, but she did not turn around. “He is reputed to be quite devoted to his wife.”

Anthony chuckled. “Then you are not familiar with his reputation. At least not as it was before he married.”

Kate turned slowly around. “If you are attempting to convince me that reformed rakes make the best husbands, you will meet with no success. It was in this very room, not fifteen minutes ago, that you told Miss Rosso that you saw no reason to give up a mistress for a wife.”

“I believe I said that was the case only if one does not love one’s wife.”

A funny little sound emerged from her nose—not quite a snort, but more than a breath, and it was abundantly clear, in that moment at least, that she had no respect for him. With a sharp amusement in her eyes, she asked, “And do you love my sister, Lord Bridgerton?”

“Of course not,” he replied. “And I would never insult your intelligence by saying otherwise. But,” he said loudly, warding off the interruption he knew was sure to come, “I have known your sister but a week. I have no reason to believe that I would not come to love her were we to spend many years in holy matrimony.”

She crossed her arms. “Why is it that I cannot believe a word out of your mouth?”

He shrugged. “I’m sure I do not know.” But he did know. The very reason he’d selected Edwina for his wife was that he knew he’d never come to love her. He liked her, he respected her, and he was confident that she’d make an excellent mother to his heirs, but he’d never love her. The spark simply was not there.