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Victory.
Sweet, glorious victory.
It is his victory, he is sure of it. After all, he is the one speaking with the diamond, while she is left alone. On the fringes. Looking on with such...disdain.
And she is looking on. Looking right at him. Unceasingly. And the longer she looks, the more devastating the intensity of her eyes, until it starts to feel like they are burning his skin, branding a mark upon him. Though it is not disdain in that unrelenting gaze, not anymore.
It has shifted.
Suddenly everything has shifted, and it is something else entirely. Something that he is sure is mirrored by his own eyes in that moment. Something that makes his skin tingle, the hairs on the back of his neck stand to fierce attention, makes every nerve and vein and fibre of his being scream for his attention all at once, until he can barely make out the sounds of the room, nor remember how to breath, how to stand, how to be. And through all those clamouring, violent, visceral reactions that demand his attention, it only her eyes that win it.
The victory forgotten.
It is only her.
When she finally breaks from his eyes, he looks away quickly, just to catch his breath, only to find her sister smiling sweetly back up at him. Miss Edwina has not broken her own one-sided conversation, even as his own walls have been crumbling perilously around him, and she is still chatting happily to him now.
Distantly, he acknowledges that she is rather a sweet young thing, Miss Edwina. Pretty, certainly. Gentle, curious, kind, perfect in every way he had imagined a wife should be. And yet. And yet, his eyes swing inevitably back to her sister.
Though, now she’s moving. Fast. A blur of midnight blue silk and sequins, pushing clumsily through the crowds until – thud - she ricochets off a passing servant, who is left reeling in her wake. Then all eyes in the room mirror his own, and focus in on Miss Sharma.
And it should be another victory, should it not, that he is still stood proud and calm, sipping lemonade with her sister when Miss Sharma is left looking foolish. Forced to run away and hide in her shame. That was a greater victory than he had even hoped for, was it not?
So why did it feel so hollow.
Why is all he can think about that tiny flare of sadness he’d seen cross her eyes just before she turned away from him?
He thinks he says something to Miss Edwina. He is sure he registers his mouth opening, and Miss Edwina’s eyes widening slightly in response, though he does not pause for long enough to take in the exchange. His feet are moving. And he is following them.
Miss Sharma is quick. Out the door and already out of sight by the time he reaches the corridor.
What is he doing? He is wasting an opportunity to win the diamond without the disproving glare of her sister. Yet instead he’s running through the empty, echoing corridors of Danbury House like some madman seeking the exact person he should be running in the opposite direction of.
Though he supposes he does not need to answer that question, because it no longer matters. She is gone. He has missed his chance to ensure a final victory, whatever he was expecting that to be.
Pausing just beside the ornate French doors that lead out to the gardens, he takes a deep breath before he begins to retrace his steps to the soiree. Not for the first time this evening, he wonders perhaps if he is losing his mind. Traipsing around Mayfair to accost his brother about poetry and then bribing his way into a society gathering that he was not even invited to. Those are barely the actions of a sane man.
But then he recognises it. And everything else falls away. It is faint, almost imperceptible. But it is there, he is sure of it. Sweet and floral and enticing.
It makes him step forward, chasing the empty air, wondering if perhaps it is just the night jasmine that blooms in the darkness beyond the windows. Though he knows he is not mistaken, it is so distinctive, already ingrained in him and bound tightly to memories he has long decided to forget. Before he can rationally convince himself otherwise, he is pushing against the cool glass of the doors and stepping out into the crisp evening air.
The gardens are still. Silent. It is a beautifully clear night, and the moonlight bathes everything with a lucid light that creates an enchanting sense of calm. The moon hangs low in the sky, painting all it touches with glimmers of silver that dance delicately on each surface, each leaf, each petal.
The lightest tremor in the air tells him there is someone else out here, and he follows the disturbance, determined now. His first footfall crunching on the gravel sounds deafening in its intrusion on the silence, and so he lightly tiptoes upon the grass beside the path, lest he give himself away
A soft, melodic murmur of a voice turns his head. The words are indistinguishable, and the tone so soft and gentle that he almost does not recognise the voice. Only he does. Of course he does.
A few more quick steps and the voice is louder, clearer. “...I have failed her. Failed him. Failed them all...”
He cannot see her, not from his position, but he knows she is just beyond the edge of the path. A small rose arch rises above the tangle of bushes that separates them, and he wagers that she is sat beneath it on one of the many stone benches dotted about the garden that he remembers from his childhood escapades here with Simon.
He should not be listening. He should stay hidden. He should go back inside. Though he knows he will not, he cannot ignore it, his need to see her. To make sure that she is alright.
Spotting a part of the hedge line that dips a little lower just a few feet away, he quietly jumps a few long strides to reach it.
“…why him? Of all the gentlemen, why must it be the viscount.” at the mention of his title, Anthony freezes. The knowledge that she is out here, on her own, thinking about him, stirs something hot and greedy in his chest.
Assuming she is on her own.
His minds whirs tirelessly then. Who could she be speaking with? Not her mother or sister, he had left them behind in the soiree not moments ago.
He hates that his next thought imagines that it may be another gentleman. He couldn’t help but notice that others had hovered, tried to catch her attention, their eyes lingering far too long on her as her skin had glimmered in the candlelight earlier. Her disinterest somehow making her even more alluring. Perhaps one had succeeded. He hates the lick of jealousy that curls in his stomach at the thought. That some unworthy suitor would lure her out here to steal her honour. He would not allow it.
His next step will allow him to see her, and he takes a steady breath as he prepares for the sight that may greet him.
She is alone. Haloed by the arch above, she sits serenely with her hands clasped in her lap as she looks out to the darkness beyond.
If he were an artist like Benedict, he muses, he would want to capture her in this exact moment. Though her face is mostly turned from him, it is as if the moonlight has been perfectly cast to illuminate her. It catches upon the sharp contours of her cheek, her jaw, her collarbone and his eyes greedily capture each detail.
“… his smile is somewhat pleasing. And I suppose he is charming…” she continues her private discourse and Anthony hesitates, knowing he should not be here, but also knowing there is no way in hell he will leave now. Not when he has a chance to hear what she really thinks of him. “Is he a good man? I do not know. I thought he was that first morning, but now…now I am not so sure.”
Perhaps he should have left.
Those simple words fall heavily on him. Does she not think him a good man? Is he a good man? And as he is want to do, whenever he questions himself, the image of his father appears looming before him. Would he think Anthony were a good man? With all that has passed today, the last few weeks. Years even, would he abide by Anthony’s choices, would he be proud? He shifts uncomfortably at the thought, and as he does so a foot slips from the grass onto the gravel, the crunch shattering the silence.
“Is there someone there.” Her voice is sharp now, more recognisable as the tone she usually bestows upon him. He glances around him quickly for escape, but he is totally exposed, there is nowhere to hide, she would only need to stand up to see him clearly.
She stands up.
“Lord Bridgerton.” It’s panicked, her voice. Not incredulous that he is spying, nor irritated by his behaviour from earlier, but panicked. Afraid, perhaps, at what he may have overheard.
To secure his victory all he would need to do is make it clear he has heard everything. But he is frozen, because her eyes are on his now. It makes him lose all impetus. Lose any ability to form coherent thought. To make rational decisions. He just lets it wash over him, that impossible paradox of chaos and calm that always seems to accompany her gaze.
“Miss Sharma.” He inwardly rolls his eyes at himself, is that all he can muster?
“What are you…why are you here?”
“I... I just...I came for some fresh air and I...” he stops. She has pulled the shawl that drapes across her forearms more tightly around her, shielding herself from the chill of the evening, or perhaps from his unwelcome arrival. He swallows dryly. “And I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Oh.” She is taken aback by the earnestness in his tone. By the way he does not drop his eyes from hers, even when it is long passed a polite time to do so.
And in her surprise, she has turned to face him so at last he sees her fully. Her eyes are downcast now as she plays with the fringes of her shawl distractedly, but her cheeks glisten and sparkle in the moonlight and it draws his eyes. He realises, with a shudder in his chest, that they are wet with tears.
Instinctively, he takes a step closer to her, rounding the final part of the hedge that separates them and the sounds of her sharp intake of breath cuts across the space between them.
“You left rather suddenly.” He continues, as she shifts from one foot to the other, but does not retreat, and so he braves another step closer. “I did not wish for you to be alone.”
As he watches her press the heel of her hand against her cheeks to wipe away the evidence, he clenches his jaw tightly, enough that it hurts. His teeth grind together, throbbing under the pressure, the muscles aching, but he needs to feel the pain, needs to not forget that he is the cause of the sadness that clouds her now.
But he knows he will not forget. The sight of her tears, tears he has caused, is carved indelibly into his bones and all he wants is to never see them again.
He must make it right.
He is determined now to correct his mistake, to make her smile again, even if it is that smug one she wears so well at his expense. It is as if it is his only purpose in life.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he fumbles for a moment before letting his handkerchief hang like a white flag between them. A quiet few moments pass with Kate staring nervously at his offering, before she takes a small step forward and quickly snatches it from his grasp. Dabbing her eyes delicately, she then proceeds to take a deep inhale before inelegantly blowing her nose so loudly it echoes amongst the silent trees.
He tries but fails to hide his chuckle, as something like affections blooms in his chest at her ability to be so…her. In contrast, she just narrows her eyes at him.
When she thrusts the handkerchief back toward him, he waves his hands to object dramatically.
“Keep it.” He tries to catch her eye, and though she evades him he still sees it. The slightest curl of her lips. It’s an opportunity, and he’ll take it.
“He is alright, in case you were wondering.” he says as lightly as he can, watching her eyebrows knot in confusion as he clasps his hands behind his back, trying to appear the prideful viscount he knows she will want to vex. “The servant you near knocked to the floor on your departure. He’ll need a week of bedrest to get over the shock, the poor chap, but I hear he will live.”
And she just stares at him, for a what feels like forever.
“That was meant to be a joke.” Unclasping his hands, he scratches a finger behind his ear, scrunching up his nose a little in embarrassment.
“Yes, I was rather worried it was.” she says flatly. Then it happens. She smiles. It's weak and slow but it’s there, and it allows his heart to finally find its regular beat again. “I thought poetry was a poor choice as your talent, my Lord, but it seems a vast improvement on your comedic skills.”
“Well, I briefly considered showing off my horsemanship, but I knew that would not impress you either.” She smiles archly at that, and the ache in his chest starts to loosen as she comes back to him.
“It is not I that you should be trying to impress, surely.”
“Right.” He has got caught up, forgotten the bigger victory. Looking down quickly, he twists a toe in the gravel as a tense silence fills the space between them once more.
“I will at least hand it to Lady Danbury that it was refreshing to see the gentleman forced to display their talents for once. Rather than one having to impress with one’s embroidery skills.”
“You embroider?” He cannot help but smile at the thought of this intimidatingly intelligent and amusingly impatient creature before him sitting quietly and stitching daisies.
“Yes, I embroider.” she says defensively, but there is only a little bite to it. “You assume because I do not perform for the male gaze that I am not accomplished?”
“I did not say that.” He knows the smug curl of his smile will rile her again. And he is right.
“You did not need to. Why must you assume so much about me before you even know me.” Her eyes sparkle angrily in the moonlight, and he is relieved to see it, the Miss Sharma he knows is emerging, the one that does not let the sadness creep in. He sees her. Sees himself. So he knows then that if he only dare quirk his eyebrow at her just so, it will cement her return. He quirks, she returns.
“I embroider.” She continues boldly now. “I also cross-stich, sew and arrange flowers when I am forced to. I paint, I draw, I sketch. I speak seven languages fluently. How many do you speak, my Lord?”
“A mere four.” He is openly smiling now, and he can sense that she does not know how to take it, as her eyes dance unsure across his face. For a tiny moment her shoulders drop, and she smiles too until she remember she should not, so she lifts her chin and continues in earnest.
“I play the flute, harp and passably the pianoforte, as well as the sitar and the maruli. I am familiar with all your English dances, the cotillion, the quadrille, the waltz and could complete each with my eyes closed, assuming I had a competent partner. I read poetry, plays, music and palms, as well as household ledgers. The latter of course being the most valuable skill, and yet no man would think to ask such a-”
“Palms?”
“Pardon me.” Apparently her tirade had some way to go, and she is a little taken aback by his interruption.
“You read palms?” he asks again, unable to keep the curiosity from his gaze.
“Yes, palmistry was once a past time of mine. Palmistry is the reading of one’s future from the lines of their-”
“Yes, I am familiar with the concept.” He snaps back. For a brief moment, he regrets resurrecting the aggravating woman now smirking at him. “It is just rather unusual. Is that something young ladies learn in India.”
“Not so much. Well, not at all, it was just that...” Pausing, she tilts her head, as if weighing him up and deciding if she wants to continue. It somehow feels like a small victory when she does. “My father told me that it was something my mother had been interested in. It’s seems it was somewhat of a tradition in her family, long ago, and she had been learning the art when she…when we lost her. I learned it as a way to be closer with her, with a part of my family I never knew.”
She softens as she speaks, her tone calming and light now. He finds he has no words to offer, so he just smiles gently back at her.
“Let me guess, you think it foolish.” She tugs the shawl around her tightly again.
“Well, yes of course, it’s in total codswallop.” He says with a teasing enough smile that even she hums a small laugh, and the sound makes his next words come out a little strained. “I suppose you also read tea leaves?”
“Truthfully, my Lord, I thought the same at first. I felt a little foolish learning it but the more I studied the more…I think there is something in it.”
“Very well.” He clears his throat and holds out his hand, palm facing upwards. “Convince me.”
“Do not be ridiculous, my Lord. I would not dare to-”
“Please.” He says quickly, and she lets her eyes rest on his, holding them lightly, weighing him up once more as he holds his breath. His heartbeat counting down each moment he waits for her.
“Very well. Though you must not tell Lady Danbury of this, she would lock me in my room for a week.”
“Of that I am certain, she is quite the-“ He loses the last word, as his attention is stolen by the slow and bewitching way she has begun to remove her long white gloves. Pulling lightly at each finger in turn, before carefully rolling the delicate silk down her forearms. Revealing inch after inch of her lustrous skin that glows in the moonlight. Her long, elegant fingers smooth out the gloves before placing them on the bench behind her.
Turning back to him, completely unaware of the spell she is casting, she gently cradles his hand in one of hers. Her skin is hot to the touch, searing, blinding as it meets his and he takes a sharp intake of breath. The thumb of her other hand gently pushes his fingers flat, exposing his palm to her fully.
“It is too dark, I cannot-“ a little forcibly she tugs his hand towards her as she spins them both around, angling his palm downwards so that she can find the moonlight. Her head is tilted down, focussed now on her task, so it leaves him alone to marvel at just how close she has pulled them together. That he is teetering on his toes just so as not to fall fully into her.
Her hair, scraped severely into a fashionable twist, passes just beneath his nose and that floral scent is so strong that he find himself swaying a little against its intensity. His head fills with thoughts he has tried to starve off, images he has not let himself see, hopes he has not allowed himself to dream.
“That’s better.” She says contentedly, so he forces himself to stand steady. To stand proud. And he almost manages it, until she begins to trace her index finger across his palm.
It is a whisper of a touch, barely a touch at all, and yet it lights a spark. A small, but dangerous spark.
“Interesting.”
“What?” He snaps up from his thoughts.
“I thought this was all codswallop?” She looks up at him them, eyes dancing beneath her heavy lashes, a smug smile spreading across her lips, and he realises she could be practicing the dark arts on him at this very moment, and he wouldn’t stop her.
“You have an air palm,” she is saying, and his eyes drop down to watch her fingers marking a square shape just above his hand. “which tells me you are intellectually curious. Intelligent yet easily distracted. Overly anxious about things that you cannot control, and meticulous about those you can.”
He opens his mouth to protest at her worryingly accurate summary, but she continues before he has a chance.
“Surprising.” She hums a little sound then, twisting her hand so that her thumb and index finger sit either side of his palm, and then she pinches them together lightly, just below his thumb, the pressure stoking that little fire that she started in his belly. “This here is the mount of Luna. Yours is very prominent, and that means you are compassionate, almost fiercely so.” She is quiet for a moment then, contemplative, unsure almost. “You are driven by your empathy for others above all else. Protective of those you love to fault.” Then, almost under her breath she adds, “A good man.”
“And that surprises you?” Her eyes flick up to find his again, a slight furrow forming on her brow, but she does not say anything, just studies his face quietly, before lowering her head once more.
“This is your head line.” Again, her index finger trails achingly slowly across his hand, the fire rumbling now in the pit of his stomach. “It reveals the lessons we will learn, the things that will shape us. You see how yours breaks here? It tells me that there is an important shift that you will experience, a monumental change in your beliefs that will alter your life’s course.”
“Like finding the right wife.” He says it teasingly, but she does not look up, missing his smile as she focuses wholly on the task at hand.
“No, it is more than that. Your values, your connection to everything that you stand for. Your expectations of what your life will be.” She looks up then, seriously. “It is your heart line that will show us your future in love.”
“Ah.” He holds her eyes a moment more, and there is something about the way she lets him, how when her eyes do slowly lower, he is sure that they hover for the briefest time on his lips, that makes the embers roar into an engulfing flame.
“This is your heart line.” She angels his hand slightly so he can see it. Her voice shifts, edged with intrigue. “It is incredibly deep. Remarkably so. And you see here how it almost crosses with your head line, as if it interplays with that change of your beliefs. Most unusual. But the depth, that shows that you will greatly treasure your chosen partner. You will have a long and significant love in your life. And it will be a long life, your life line shows us that here, see? It starts from your index finger all the way to here. And it does not fracture at all, so you have a long and content life ahead of you."
“A long life?” He doesn’t mean it to sound so bitter, and even the laugh he tries afterwards comes out pitiful. Codswallop, just as he thought. “Are we done?”
As he tries to pull his hand away, her soft caress turns into a vice like grip, and she tugs his hand back to her. “You asked for this.”
“Very well.” he laments, relaxing his hand into hers once more. She closes his fingers against his palm, before twisting his hand so that she is able to run a finger lightly down its edge, murmuring lightly to herself as she counts the wrinkles there.
“Three children.” She says, before she narrows her eyes and corrects herself. “No, four.”
Her smile is impossibly bright as she looks up at him then, her face full of humour and light. Just as he had wanted, and yet now it is he who cannot find his smile. He knows the look he returns is too serious, too stern, as he carries the weight of all he fears upon his shoulders. Her promises of a beautiful life that he will never lead crushing him until he can barely breathe. The tenderness that finds its way into her eyes seems to only increase the devastating pressure on his chest.
Everything seems to fall still then.
Dropping her face back to his hands, she turns them once more, running her fingers across his knuckles gently, almost reverently.
The air shifts as she does so and the thing between them seems to grow taut. Like that little thread of connection that had wrapped around them on their first meeting had returned, stitching itself between them when neither had noticed. And now it was being pulled tightly, forcing them closer together. It feels precarious though, like if he tugs away sharply now he could break it, keep them safely apart, to stop himself from falling. Yet instead, he steps closer.
The gardens are deathly still and quiet. No sound except the slow, steady beat of his heart. It is not possible that he can hear hers, he knows that, and yet still it feels like there is an echo to his. Each beat matched and softened by hers.
Her eyes are hovering at his throat, not daring to look up. He wills it. Wills it with every part of him and slowly, surely, they trail upwards. Her head tilting a little as she moves, her eyes hovering a moment more at his lips, and then they are so close to finding his. So close. Another breath, another heartbeat, and they will meet.
An owl hoots in the darkness and breaks the spell. Her eyes dart back down quickly, as he huffs a sigh, but she does not let go of his hand.
Tapping her finger against his knuckle, it is as if everything has changed. Her touch no less soft, and yet entirely different. The unbearable tension replaced with a lightness as she skips a finger along each knuckle in turn.
“This freckle here tells me that you are not a man of poetry.” She trails her finger across the back of his hand, her tone teasing now. “This one tells me you are terrible at choosing gifts.”
“Alright, alright.” He chuckles lightly as she smiles smugly back up at him then. Pulling his hand back, he cradles it to his chest a moment. Their little game over now.
“Well, Miss Sharma, I feel thoroughly dissected, and you seem once again to have found your innate talent of mocking me, so I suppose I have completed my task.”
“Your task?”
“To make you smile again.” He says it lightly, hoping to earn another smile from her but quite the opposite, his words suck all the air from the night sky.
“I thought you said you just wanted some air.” The shawl is wrapped tightly again, unsure if she needs to be on guard.
“Even I am not so cruel a man that I can see a woman near tears and not wish to help.” he says earnestly, and his offer of a small half smile helps her loosen the tight grip she’d made around herself. “I meant no harm.”
“I see. So you were just trying to distract me?” she says it softly, without an edge this time. “Distraction seems to be quite the talent of yours, my Lord. What is next on your roster, juggling? Acrobatics? A flute rendition perhaps?”
“I think you would be very impressed with my flute playing, Miss Sharma.”
“I think you vastly overestimate your talents, my Lord.” He responded with another quirk of his brow, and they share a laugh then, easy smiles and a gentle look at lasts just a beat too long.
“So are you ready?” he asks softly.
“Ready?” It’s almost a whisper, as she carries on holding his gaze. Her eyes so dark and inviting in the moonlight that he almost does not want to let her go. Though he knows he must. They have been lucky to have evaded attention for so long, and he is not sure how much longer he can keep her to himself.
“To return to the house?” he adds.
“Indeed. My sister will no doubt be wondering where you are.” Her sister, he reminds himself, the diamond. His diamond. His victory. Miss Sharma holds out his handkerchief one more time. “Are you sure you do not want this back.”
“Certainly not.” he says quickly with a heavy frown that makes her giggle, the sound tucking itself neatly into his chest. He is quiet a moment more, wanting to prolong this strange evening a little longer. He swallows heavily before he continues. “I will prove it to you, Miss Sharma. That what you read on my palm is true, that I can be a good man. That I am a good man.” He can see her mind flittering through her memories, until she grasps that he is mirroring her private words from before. Her cheeks colour instantly.
“A good man.” She nods lightly, regarding him softly for just one more moment, before the lightest shake of her head as she tilts her chin up almost haughtily. “Yes. For Edwina. That is all I ask of you, that you are a good man for her.”
“For Edwina.” He repeats, his voice quiet as it drifts away in the cool night air. “Shall we?”
As he holds out his arm, waiting for her to take it, he ponders once more on his victory. It seems distant now, irrelevant. And as her hand curls around his sleeve, and he leads them back indoors, he wonders perhaps if there will be any victors in this game they are playing. This game he has started, where he does not know the rules, nor the players, nor the stakes. This game that he does not know how to stop