Chapter Text
He doesn’t mean to ask, the first time— but when it comes to his new sister, Anthony doesn’t particularly see what all the fuss is about. She’s tiny and wrinkled and makes even smellier messes in her clouts than Colin did.
Father and Mother seem not to notice.
“She has your eyes, love,” says Father, gazing down at Daphne. Then, voice dipping low as he tilts his head close to Mother’s: “Heaven help her future suitors.”
Mother clicks her tongue, but she’s smiling. “And what about those blonde curls, my lord? Who do you suppose she inherited those from?”
The words are out of Anthony’s mouth before he can help himself.
“What does it really look like? Color?”
His parents raise their brows in unison, then glance at each other, a familiar fondness softening their faces. Anthony prickles with jealousy, that they can see something he cannot. Even if that something is as dull as the color of his baby sister’s hair.
“Come with me,” Father finally says, gesturing for Anthony to follow. Outside, the clouds that dumped rain this morning have long since dissolved, bathing the garden in bright spring sunshine. Father stops near the flower beds, opening his palms to the sky.
“This is how your grandfather explained it to me,” he says. “The sun’s heat, the way it warms the skin— that is what yellow feels like.” He kneels, running his hand parallel to the grass. “And green feels like springtime. It feels like life.”
Anthony wrinkles his nose, unsatisfied. “Why must I wait until I’m grown? I want to see them now.”
Father barks a laugh, reaching over to muss Anthony’s hair. “I said the same thing when I was your age.”
“And— you really didn’t see them until you met Mother?”
Father’s hands come to rest on Anthony’s shoulders. “I know it’s difficult to understand now. But you’re going to meet someone special one day. Someone who sees you just as you are. And I promise it will all make sense then.”
“Someone, as in—” Anthony’s frown deepens. “A lady.”
“Indeed,” Father says with a wink, steering Anthony back towards the manor. “But all in good time, my young Lord Bridgerton. Don’t be too hasty to grow up.”
Anthony lifts his chin, just a bit, and lets his father lead him inside.
Kate loathes her soulmate.
Perhaps loath is too strong a word—Edwina would certainly say so—but Kate can’t help the way she feels. Never mind that she doesn’t even know who the gentleman is, if he exists at all. She’s sure he’s perfectly nice, this nebulous, faceless suitor she’s destined to one day stumble upon, but truth be told, it wouldn’t matter if he were a Maharaja or the future king of England himself. Kate doesn’t want him. What she wants is a choice, to find love in her own way, not by fate’s mysterious design.
“Very prudent,” is Appa’s response when she tells him as much.
Kate huffs, seeing the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m serious, Appa. Why should I wait for some invisible force of nature to decide my fate? I’m nearly thirteen, you know. I’ll be a lady soon.”
“And it will still be too soon for my liking,” Appa says, chucking her gently on the chin. “You have time, dearest. I know you have your doubts—”
“It’s not fair. I feel as if— as if something I don’t yet have has been taken from me.” Kate folds her arms around her torso, feeling her cheeks flame. She sounds like a child.
Appa gathers her hands between his. “It is normal to feel this way. Your mother had similar reservations when we met.”
Kate’s pulse skips. “Amma?”
“You are like her in more ways than one,” Appa says, his voice warm as sunshine. “I can see her spirit in you.”
“Did you—” Kate shuffles her feet, eager as always to hear stories of Amma, but not wanting to appear too eager. “Did you always know that she was your soulmate?”
“From the moment I saw her. She was, ah—” her father’s mouth twists into a wry grin. “She was not so certain about me.”
“And what about Mama?” Kate asks with a pang of sadness. “Does she— does she know she isn’t yours?”
“Whoever said she wasn’t?” Appa says, eyes twinkling.
Kate furrows her brow. “I thought Amma—”
“After your mother left us—” Appa inhales deeply, then stoops so that he’s at Kate’s eye level. “I was certain that I would never love again. But then I met your mama. Above all else, I know one thing to be true: there are no rules, dear one, not when it comes to matters of the heart. Promise me you won’t forget that.”
Kate isn’t at all certain she understands, but she finds the words anyway: “I promise, Appa.”
Perhaps, he thinks as the years pass— perhaps he does not have a soulmate. The thought nags him like a splinter beneath the skin, unnerving for reasons he can’t put words to. It’s not as though he’d be the first lord to live the rest of his days in gray; Anthony knows that his parents are the exception to the rule, a fantasy few others can touch.
Still, he cannot help the small flicker of hope within him the first time he takes a woman to bed. He imagines her skin blooming under his hands, the silvered waves of her hair spinning into colors he has no name for. Long after she has fallen asleep, he watches her, watches and waits until his eyes are sticky with exhaustion. He wakes in the cold gray of dawn, trying to breathe around the ache in his chest.
You’re going to meet someone special—
He still believes it, even as he watches Edmund stagger to the ground, lilac sprigs falling from his hand as he claws at his throat, his wet gasps filling Anthony’s ears. It isn’t until later—days, weeks, a month later, his mother drifting from room to room like an apparition—that he decides. If he ever does marry, it will be for duty and nothing more. He wants no part of this.
Soulmate or no, it’s of little consequence to him.
Little consequence, until—
The woman from this morning is standing just out of arm’s reach. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t recognize her in a formal gown instead of riding skirts, her coiled hair swept up and out of her face. Anthony is certain he would know her anywhere.
Particularly when she’s insulting him to his face— again.
“Your character is as deficient as your horsemanship,” she quips, brushing past him. "I shall bid you goodnight.”
He catches her scent, something clean and floral. Lilies. Anthony turns, stunned—
And the world bursts into color.
Edwina is dancing with the viscount.
The viscount, who does not desire a love match, who earlier this evening proclaimed, loud enough for everyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot to hear, that he viewed his future wife as little more than chattel for bearing his children.
And now her sister is dancing with him.
This cannot be happening. It’s not possible that Kate has already failed so spectacularly in securing Edwina’s future, her happiness— not when they’ve just arrived, not when the Queen herself has announced Edwina as the season’s diamond. She must make this right, immediately.
“Miss Sharma?” Lady Danbury’s discerning tone cuts through her fog of panic, and when Kate turns, she sees the older woman appraising her like a hawk. “Are you quite well?”
Kate abruptly realizes that she’s gripping her skirts rather tightly, the fabric bunched up into her fist. Slowly, she uncurls her fingers, smoothing the silk beneath her palm. “Perfectly well, Lady Danbury. I thank you for your concern.”
“Hm.” Lady Danbury regards her a moment longer, then nods curtly in Edwina’s direction. “I do believe your sister is looking for us.”
The music has indeed tapered off; Edwina is now scanning the ballroom, searching, Kate realizes with a jolt, for her, so that she can be properly introduced to—
Lady Danbury clears her throat audibly, one arm swept out in front of her as if to say, after you. Scowling, Kate squares her shoulders and begins to move through the crowd. The viscount has not yet noticed them, so Kate seizes the opportunity to study his face. Even silvered in shades of gray, she cannot deny that he is handsome. Yet there is something in his countenance that unnerves her; perhaps it is the way his creased smile does not quite reach his eyes, or the stiff manner in which he carries himself, like he’s carefully calculating each movement. A man shackled by duty, indeed. Not the man for her sister.
Kate lifts her chin, resolve rising within her like tidewater. She will find Edwina a love match, and by season’s end, neither of them will have reason to lay eyes on Lord Bridgerton again.
Miss Sharma is his soulmate.
The thought spins through Anthony’s head like a wheel on its axle, turning itself over and over between brief flashes from this evening: Her Majesty’s announcement, every eligible gentleman of the ton surging forward to greet the season’s Incomparable, Miss Edwina on the dance floor, twirling away and back again.
And her sister— her sister, Miss Sharma. What has she done to him? This strange new world he’s been thrust into is disorienting, everything so bright that he finds himself unable to tear his gaze from even the most mundane of objects. Yesterday, the books in his study were just that; now, the stacked-together spines seem to gleam in the candlelight, burgundy and blue and brown. Each word springs unbidden into his mind as he surveys the room, cataloging all he sees. The candelabra on his desk— bronze; that pile of ledgers— beige. How is it possible that he’s known this room—this house—his entire life without ever truly seeing it?
Fate certainly seems to have a cruel sense of humor, revealing his soulmate now, when he’s already decided to court another, but it’s no matter. Nothing has changed. He has borne his responsibilities dutifully, asking nothing for himself in return, all to arrive at this moment. The future of his house and his family depend on him securing a suitable match, and Miss Edwina is more than suitable. She is a lovely debutante; Anthony is certain she will make a perfect viscountess. He will not sway from this course, not for anything.
Or anyone.
The plan is simple: keep Lord Bridgerton as far from Edwina as is humanly possible.
To her credit, Kate does try— but the viscount is as persistent as he is arrogant. He is everywhere, stealing into Lady Danbury’s manor, appearing at the racing grounds as if conjured from thin air. He wheedles his way into the stands next to Edwina, dispatching Lord Lumley with a finesse Kate would find impressive, if it weren’t so utterly aggravating.
Still, she might have managed to hold him off, if it weren’t for Lady Danbury’s soirée. The viscount arrives fashionably late, Kate’s conspicuous efforts to leave his name off the invitee list notwithstanding, but she tells herself it doesn’t matter. He’ll spew a few lines of what is sure to be the most insipid poetry ever put to paper, and then Edwina will finally see. Viscount Bridgerton certainly is no match for the dashing heroes in Appa’s stories, gallant men who knew their lovers’ hearts better than their own. He will never be able to give her what she so fiercely desires. He will never give her the love she deserves.
What Kate doesn’t expect is for the viscount to not only agree with these sentiments, but to speak them into existence.
“I am not a man of poetry,” he admits, meeting Edwina’s eyes. “I could pretend to want the very same thing as you, Miss Edwina, but I’d be lying. I may not be able to offer the display of passion that you truly deserve, but I assure you that when it comes to action and duty, I shall never be found lacking. And I hope that is what will speak louder than pretty words ever can.”
The crowd thrums with approval, the ladies all but swooning in their seats. Kate can’t help but watch as the viscount moves across the room, allowing Edwina the space to approach him of her own volition. There’s a fluidity to his gait that was absent the night of the conservatory ball, as if his confession loosened something inside him.
Edwina is positively beaming, eyes wide and bright. “Perhaps you were wrong about him, Didi. Perhaps we both were.”
Kate takes hold of her sister’s hands. “You heard him, Bon. He cannot give you the love you deserve—”
“Does that make him a bad man, or an honest one? It is the mark of a true gentleman, just as Appa used to say.” Edwina lifts her chin. “Yes?”
Then she pulls away, and Kate is left grasping at empty air. Lord Bridgerton smiles as her sister approaches, and an odd feeling sweeps through Kate at the sight, like she missed a step going down the staircase. She is helpless to do anything but stare at the two of them, wondering how it all went wrong so quickly.
As if he can feel her eyes on him, the viscount lifts his gaze to hers. And even from this distance, Kate sees that his eyes are the deepest shade of—
Brown.
The word takes shape in her mind, solid and clear. Kate blinks, bemused, but the rest of the room remains striped in gray. Only the viscount’s eyes pierce through.
Oh, she thinks. Oh, no.