The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(83)

She was afraid he could see into her very soul.

“This has been a week of a great many changes in my life,” she began, wishing she knew where she was going with the statement.

“For me as well,” he interjected softly.

“Not so much for you,” she returned. “The intimacies of marriage are nothing new to you.”

One corner of his mouth quirked into a lopsided, slightly arrogant smile. “I assure you, my lady, that I have never before been married.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He did not contradict her.

“I simply would like a bit of time to prepare,” she said, primly folding her hands in her lap. But she couldn’t keep her thumbs still, and they twiddled anxiously, giving proof to the state of her nerves.

Anthony stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back, propping his left ankle rather casually on his right knee. “Very well,” he allowed.

“Really?” She straightened with surprise. She had not expected him to capitulate with such ease.

“Provided…” he continued.

She slumped. She should have known that there would be a contingency.

“…that you edify me on one point.”

She gulped. “And what would that be, my lord?”

He leaned forward, the very devil in his eyes. “How, precisely, do you plan to prepare?”

Kate glanced out the window, then swore under her breath when she realized they weren’t even to Anthony’s street. There would be no escaping his question; she was stuck in the carriage for at least another five minutes. “We-e-e-e-ll,” she stalled, “I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you don’t, either.”

Kate scowled at him. There was nothing worse than being the butt of someone else’s joke, and it seemed especially inappropriate when one happened to be a bride on her wedding day. “Now you’re having fun with me,” she accused.

“No,” he said with what could only have been called a leer, “I’d like to have fun with you. There’s quite a difference.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” she grumbled. “You know I don’t understand.”

His eyes focused on her lips as his tongue darted out to wet his own. “You would,” he murmured, “if you’d simply give in to the inevitable and forget your silly request.”

“I don’t enjoy being condescended to,” Kate said stiffly.

His eyes flashed. “And I don’t like being denied my rights,” he returned, his voice cold and his face a harsh rendition of aristocratic power.

“I’m not denying you anything,” she insisted.

“Oh, really?” His drawl lacked all humor.

“I’m just asking for a reprieve. A brief, temporary, brief”—she repeated the word, just in case his brain was too dulled by single-minded male pride to have understood her the first time—“reprieve. Surely you would not deny me such a simple request.”

“Of the two of us,” he said, his voice clipped, “I don’t think I’m the one doing the denying.”

He was right, drat the man, and she had no idea what else to say. She knew she hadn’t a leg to stand on with her spur-of-the-moment request; he had every right to toss her over his shoulder, drag her off to bed, and lock her in the room for a week if he so desired.

She was acting foolishly, a prisoner of her own insecurities—insecurities she hadn’t even known she possessed until she’d met Anthony.

All her life, she’d been the one who’d received the second glance, the second greeting, the second kiss on the hand. As the elder daughter, it should have been her due to be addressed before her younger sister, but Edwina’s beauty was so stunning, the pure and perfect blue of her eyes so startling, that people simply forgot themselves in her presence.

Introductions to Kate were usually met with an embarrassed, “Of course,” and a polite murmured greeting while their eyes slid back to Edwina’s pure and shining face.

Kate had never minded it much. If Edwina had been spoiled or bad-tempered it might have been difficult, and in all truth, most of the men she’d met were shallow and silly, and she hadn’t much cared if they only took the time to acknowledge her after her sister.

Until now.

She wanted Anthony’s eyes to light up when she entered the room. She wanted him to scan a crowd until he saw her face. She didn’t need him to love her—or at least that’s what she was telling herself—but she desperately wanted to be first in his affections, first in his desires.

And she had an awful, terrible feeling that all this meant she was falling in love.

Falling in love with one’s husband—who would have thought it could be such a disaster?

“I see you have no response,” Anthony said quietly.

The carriage rolled to a halt, thankfully sparing her from having to make a reply. But when a liveried footman rushed forward and attempted to open the door, Anthony yanked it back shut, never once taking his eyes off of her face.

“How, my lady?” he repeated.

“How…” she echoed. She’d quite forgotten what he was asking.

“How,” he said yet again, his voice hard as ice but hot as flame, “do you plan to prepare for your wedding night?”