The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(81)

Kate pondered how best to phrase her next question. From what she’d seen on her neighbor’s farm back in Somerset, the act of procreation didn’t look terribly enjoyable at all. But when Anthony kissed her, she felt as if she were losing her mind. And when he kissed her twice, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted it back! Her entire body tingled, and she suspected that if their recent encounters had occurred in more suitable locales, she would have let him have his way with her with nary a protest.

But then there was that awful screaming mare at the farm…. Frankly, the various pieces of the puzzle didn’t seem to reconcile.

Finally, after much clearing of her throat, she said, “It doesn’t look very pleasant.”

Mary closed her eyes again, her face taking on that same look as before—as if she were remembering something she’d rather keep tucked away in the darkest recesses of her mind. When she opened her eyes again, she said, “A woman’s enjoyment depends entirely on her husband.”

“And a man’s?”

“The act of love,” Mary said, blushing, “can and should be a pleasant experience for both man and woman. But—” She coughed and took a sip of her milk. “I would be remiss if I did not tell you that a woman does not always find pleasure in the act.”

“But a man does?”

Mary nodded.

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

Mary’s smile was wry. “I believe I just told Edwina that life wasn’t always fair.”

Kate frowned, staring down into her milk. “Well, this really doesn’t seem fair.”

“This doesn’t mean,” Mary hastened to add, “that the experience is necessarily distasteful to the woman. And I’m certain it won’t be distasteful to you. I assumed the viscount has kissed you?”

Kate nodded without looking up.

When Mary spoke, Kate could hear the smile in her voice. “I’ll assume from your blush,” Mary said, “that you enjoyed it.”

Kate nodded again, her cheeks now burning.

“If you enjoyed his kiss,” Mary said, “then I am certain you won’t be upset by his further attentions. I’m sure that he will be gentle and attentive with you.”

“Gentle” didn’t quite capture the essence of Anthony’s kisses, but Kate didn’t think that was the sort of thing one was meant to share with one’s mother. Truly, the entire conversation was embarrassing enough as it was.

“Men and women are very different,” Mary continued, as if that weren’t completely obvious, “and a man—even one who is faithful to his wife, which I’m sure the viscount will be to you—can find his pleasure with almost any woman.”

This was disturbing, and not what Kate had wanted to hear. “And a woman?” she had prompted.

“It is different for a woman. I have heard that wicked women find their pleasure like a man, in the arms of any who will satisfy, but I do not believe it. I think that a woman must care for her husband in order to enjoy the marriage bed.”

Kate was silent for a moment. “You did not love your first husband, did you?”

Mary shook her head. “It makes all the difference, sweet one. That, and a husband’s regard for his wife. But I have seen the viscount in your company. I realize that your match was sudden and unexpected, but he treats you with care and respect. You will have nothing to fear, I’m sure of it. The viscount will treat you well.”

And with that, Mary kissed Kate upon the forehead and bade her good night, picking up both empty milk mugs as she left the room. Kate sat on her bed, staring sightlessly at the wall for several minutes.

Mary was wrong. Kate was sure of it. She had much to fear.

She hated that she was not Anthony’s first choice for a wife, but she was practical, and she was pragmatic, and she knew that certain things in life simply had to be accepted as fact. But she’d been consoling herself with the memory of the desire she had felt—and she thought Anthony had felt—when she was in his arms.

Now it seemed that this desire wasn’t even necessarily for her, but rather some primitive urge that every man felt for every woman.

And Kate would never know if, when Anthony snuffed the candles and took her to bed, he closed his eyes…

And pictured another woman’s face.



The wedding, which was held in the drawing room of Bridgerton House, was a small, private affair. Well, as small as one could expect with the entire Bridgerton family in attendance, from Anthony all the way down to little eleven-year-old Hyacinth, who’d taken her role as flower girl very seriously. When her brother Gregory, aged thirteen, had tried to tip her basket of rose petals, she’d walloped him in the chin, delaying the ceremony by a good ten minutes but interjecting a much-needed note of levity and laughter.

Well, for everyone except Gregory, who’d been quite put out by the entire episode and certainly wasn’t laughing, even though he was, as Hyacinth was quick to point out to anyone who would listen (and her voice was loud enough so that one didn’t really have the option of not listening), the one who’d started it.

Kate had seen it all from her vantage point in the hall, where she’d been peeking through a crack in the door. It had made her smile, which was much appreciated, since her knees had been knocking for over an hour. She could only thank her lucky stars that Lady Bridgerton had not insisted upon a large, grand affair. Kate, who’d never thought of herself as a nervous sort of person before, would probably have passed out from fright.