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Despite her expectation that she would hate the place, that it would reflect his sullen mood and brooding temperament, Kate has to admit that Aubrey Hall was really rather wonderful. Welcoming, warm, loving. Inexplicably, she felt totally at home here.
Especially at this moment, earlier enough in the morning that only a few servants were awake and the whole place felt suspended in time, hidden in those few magical moments between dawn and the start the day. Everything still, as if the day was holding its breath.
On her first day there, Kate had discovered a small terrace at the very back of the East Wing that had quickly become her favourite part of the estate. It seemed nobody else ever ventured that far and Kate had only stumbled across it when she got lost trying to find the library late one afternoon. This morning, she discovered, it was the perfect sanctuary to watch the pink edged sky come to life.
As she sat there, her only company the larks singing their good mornings in the trees and the magpies searching for breakfast on the lawns, she found a calm and peace that she had not felt since she had left the shores of her homeland.
For weeks now, her mind had been a tangled mess of confusion. A dichotomy of duty and want. Here, nestled in the secluded corner of an English estate, she could almost taste the memories of a more peaceful time, a safer time, without worries and the crushing reality of a future slipping through her fingers.
With a long, steady exhale, she let her shoulders sink low and her eyes flutter closed. Silence filled the air and calm settled across her mind. But only for a moment.
“You?” She did not need to open her eyes to know who the voice belonged to. The only man capable of disturbing her peace so thoroughly. The only voice that sung both a warning and a promise at the same time.
“Good morning, Lord Bridgerton.” She opened her eyes to find him staring at her somewhat perplexed, the crease on his forehead deepening, as it seemed to do whenever he looked at her.
He was stood between the French doors, the soft blue curtain behind him catching in the light breeze that whispered across the morning. Impeccably dressed in a deep blue, velvet jacket, an intricate purple and gold waistcoat glimpsed beneath, he was every inch a proud viscount. As always, his hands were clasped tightly behind his back, shoulders set to an impossibly sharp angle. She wondered idly if the man ever relaxed
“I did not mean to disturb you, I did not expect to find anyone here at this hour.” He shuffled uncomfortably with his apology.
“It is no disturbance; this is your home. I shall leave.” She makes to stand but he quickly takes a step forward, waving a hand to encourage her to stay seated.
“You are clearly settled, do not leave on my account.” As requested, she relaxes back in her seat and they both suffer for a moment in the awkward silence that follows.
Finally, he bows gently, but as he is about to spin on his heels to leave his eyes scan across the table before her. She watches it pique his interest, sees the cogs in his mind turning. There is something incredibly attractive about it, the intensity of his eyes, the way they search and explore for reason, and she realises it is the same expression he wears when he studies her. As if trying to figure out some great mystery that he cannot quite grasp.
“What is all this?” he asks softly, his intention to leave forgotten.
“I am just preparing myself some tea.” Kate says gruffly, hoping it will elicit no further questions.
“It looks more like you are about to brew a potion.” His eyes flick up to hers then, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
“And why would I have need to brew a potion, my Lord? Is there someone you think I should be cursing? Or perhaps someone trying to bewitch me?” Her eyes hold his then, until finally she relinquishes the slightest smile. When he sees it his eyes widen and he breaks into an unexpected grin. It is so light and sweet that her fickle stomach twists at the sight of it. She continues quickly, keen to make this moment pass “It is chai tea. The tea I would have enjoyed in India of a morning. A little different from the bland breakfast varieties you have here. I ran out of some of the ingredients back in London but your cook has kindly provided with the spices I need.”
“Ah.” He says softly. It is barely a word, yet something about the softness of the tone chips away at her resolve.
“Would you…” she regrets it before she even finishes the sentence and yet she does not stop. Cannot stop. “Would you like to join me?”
His eyes hang on her then, heavy and probing, and even though she does not look up, does not let herself look at him, she feels the burning path of his gaze as it flitter across her face.
“Yes.” He says quietly. Decisively.
She nods her approval gently and then he is moving around the table, taking the empty seat beside her. Her eyes stay downcast as she pulls a spare teacup from the tray the maid had laid a few minutes earlier, and places it before him.
When she finally glances up he is still watching her, but his eyes are soft and enquiring. There is something endearing about it, something she is not used to seeing in him. She drops her eyes again immediately.
“Have you tried chai before?” She asks softly. He raises an eyebrow at her in response.
“My mother considers it most exotic to serve Scottish shortbread, I think one look at this concoction would send her to bed for a week.” A small chuckle rumbles in his chest and despite herself she giggles along too.
“Very well, my Lord.” Still smiling, Kate takes a small teaspoon from the tray and measures out a little of the spice from one of the many small bowls before her. She is about to add some to his cup when he holds a hand out.
“Wait.” Her eyes dart up to his. “Will you explain. How you make it, I mean.”
“Of course.” She swallows heavily, confused about this gentle man before her, almost unrecognisable from the stern viscount that spends all day riling her. He must be a morning person, she surmises.
“This is cinnamon.” She continues steadily, though her heart hammers a little as she realises his gaze has not strayed from her, his eyes still heavily holding hers as she speaks. “Cinnamon gives the tea its depth, it’s sweet but warm, earthy.” She hates that her hand trembles ever so slightly as she holds the spoon out to him. His lips part, almost unnoticeably, but she is so close that she sees every tiny expression, sees the tip of his tongue skirt along his teeth. When he leans forward, an elbow on his knee, his eyes still on her, he takes a deep inhale.
The viscount regrets it immediately. His eyes widen impossibly large as the air around them explodes with his wracking coughs. He was too close, inhaled too much. His face turns beetroot red, and his body convulses as he tries to clear his lungs. In the chaos, he throws his hands up to cover his mouth, managing to knock the spoon from Kate’s hand and scattering the powder across his impeccably neat trousers.
At the sight, Kate slaps a hand across her mouth quickly, but it is a futile effort to hide the giggles that erupt from her.
He looks up at her quickly when he hears her laugh, his frown deepening for a moment and his eyes darkening, until, rather inexplicably, he smiles. It only lasts a second before he is coughing once more, but between his attempts to catch his breath again he is laughing. Crying with laughter in fact, eyes streaming with tears.
“I am sorry, my Lord, I should have warned you.” Kate manages between her own giggles.
“Not at all, what an invigorating way to start the morning.” He volleys back quickly through another few coughs. And when he catches her eye again, they both descend into peals of laughter once more as he wipes the tears from his eyes. Finally, he takes a deep clear breath and sighs with the brightest smile she has ever seen. It is all teeth and dimples, and entirely disarming. “Can we try that again. I shall be more prepared this time.”
Kate tilts her head slightly as she regards him, something softening in her. “I forget I am dealing with an English gentleman, I shall go easy on you.”
“Miss Sharma going easy on me, I shall believe it when I see it.” Kate ignores when that dangerous smile plays once again at the corner of his lips. Instead, she gathers another spoon of the powder, and holds it a little further from his nose.
“Careful, my Lord.” She warns and he just smiles again.
This time he heeds her warning, but when he closes his eyes, his nostrils flaring gently, Kate finds she bites her lip a little at the sight, her stomach fluttering a little too insistently.
“Sweet, you said? Yes, and woody. It is rather lovely actually.” He grins up at her again and she returns the smile. She clears her throat, hoping it will also clear her mind.
“So, for me I like to start with one spoonful of cinnamon.” She explains as she sprinkles a little in both their cups. “Then we have cardamom. The smell of my childhood. It was my father’s favourite so I love this smell.” She puts a few seeds on to her spoon then, letting herself have a deep sniff first before putting the spoon before him too. “Here. This is black cardamom from the foothills of Bombay, where I grew up.” His eyes study her again, just a little too long and she is about to pull away when he reaches out, wrapping his long elegant fingers around her wrist. He steadies the slight tremble there as he pulls the spoon, and her hand, that little closer to him.
“I recognise this one?” He says as he inhales softly. “I think cook uses this in her biscuits sometimes.”
He does not release her hand.
“Good. It is very powerful for the digestion.” She stammers.
His fingers tighten their grip a little.
“Is that so.”
Strong and yet, soft, as his fingertips graze her pulse point.
“Yes.” It is too breathless, she knows it is, and his eyes flash darkly at the sound before he opens his hand and she pulls her arm back quickly, as if she has been scolded. “And then we add our hot water, brewed with a black tea.” Her voice is steady, thankfully, as she pours from the large china teapot in the centre of the table. “It is best to pour from a bit of height, or so Mary always says, as it aerates the water and helps strengthen the flavours.” He hums a little as he watches her. “Then just a dash of milk.”
His eyes never waver, even as she stirs the cup immediately before him, leaning over so she is pushed up on her tip toes to steady herself. So close to him now that rather than the soft spices of the tea she can smell him. Fresh from his bath. Soap, something floral but also, just, him.
When she pulls back, he clears his throat suddenly, as if coming back to himself. Perhaps as lost to this unexpected morning as she is.
He reaches forward to take the cup but she quickly rests her fingers against his wrist to stop him. “Wait.” At her touch he seems to stiffen, and she draws her hand back quickly. “Sorry, it is just if this is your first time perhaps a little sugar? It will soften it for you.”
“Do you take it with sugar?” He tilts his head slightly as he looks at her.
“No, but I-.”
“I would like to try it however you like it.”
“Very well.” She picks up her own cup, raising it ever so slightly in his direction before they both take a sip.
His eyes close as he savours it and she finds herself watching him intently then. Holding her breath.
“Delicious.” He whispers as he opens his eyes. The smile broad and bright again. “Really delicious.” He takes another long sip. “And you prepare your tea like this every morning?”
“The process of making and drinking chai is meant to be calming. For me it is almost like a mediation. It is how I start my every morning to centre myself.”
“I see.”
“What is it that you do?” She asks suddenly.
“Pardon me?”
“To relax?” She smiles then, hoping she has not broken the fragile civility they seem to have established. “Or are you always so tense?”
“I am only this tense around you, Miss Sharma. I must be on my guard when someone such as you keeps me on my toes.” He says swiftly but there is a lightness in his tone, and a sparkle in his eyes that makes her smile back at him. He laughs lightly then and looks around them, casting his eyes out across the grounds before them. “To answer your question, I come here. This spot is my favourite in the whole house actually. I’m surprised you found it, it is quite hidden away. There is something about it here though, especially at this hour, something almost magical, do you not think?”
“Yes.” she nods but finds she cannot take her eyes from him. From the wistfulness that has settled in his gaze as he looks across the scene before him. “It is so peaceful. And this view, I know it is not the grandest, but I find it the most captivating. I saw a deer just yesterday, and dozens of rabbits. They do not brave it on to the formal lawns, I do not think.”
“Quite.” He has turned back to look at her again now, so she takes her turn to look out at the view. “You like nature, Miss Sharma?”
“Very much so. I would be outdoors all the time if society allowed women such freedom.” She inhales deeply. “That smell, of fresh air and life. Is there anything better?”
“I used to always say that exact thing to my father.” He looks at her curiously. “Early in the morning, like this, he and I would go out hunting or just for walks. And I used to say that is what it smelled of. Life. The fresh dew on the grass, the soil bursting with vitality. The promise that a new day has arrived. There is nothing like it. It used to be my favourite smell.”
“Used to be?”
“Yes.” His smile falters for a second. “It is something else now.”
“That is rather enigmatic.”
“Perhaps.” He drops his eyes.
“You do not wish to tell me what it is now? How intriguing.” She is smiling playfully but now the look he returns her is serious, his eyes darkening a little. She quickly takes a sip of her tea, feeling as though she has stumbled across some secret he does not wish to share.
“Thank you for the tea, Miss Sharma. A most unexpected way to start my morning.” He stands suddenly, brushing his breeches furiously for a moment when he is reminded of the cinnamon coating them. She smiles up at him again with the memory of what just passed, but his smile is smaller now. She can feel it retreating again, back behind the veneer of the viscount.
Just as he is about to leave, he pauses, turning on his feet to face her again. He bounces on his toes as if trying to decide whether to continue.
“What is it?”
“I just…” he starts, before brushing at his breeches one more time, eyes downcast for a few moments. “Very few people surprise me.”
“And do I surprise you, my Lord?”
“Constantly.” He holds her eyes for a moment then, the seconds pass indiscriminately but still he does not look away. “Good day, Miss Sharma.” He says at last, before bowing gently and slipping back through the open doors. Leaving Kate alone with her teacup and wandering thoughts.