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Spring on the Continent is a soft delicate thing. Some days they rise at dawn to go traipsing through the Italian countryside, climbing the sheer cliffs or riding through the sunsoaked vines. Some days they roll from their bed and Anthony chases her down to the sand and into the glittering waves, their clothes clinging scandalously to their bodies with barely a breath separating them. But every day Kate wakes entwined in Anthony, their love gathered around them like a fat sleepy thing.
They keep a small staff only, preferring the time alone, stretched out on the sand, in the water, or on their vastly comfortable bed. Their relative solitude means that it is easy for her to reach for Anthony, or for him to bend her over the nearest surface and slide, gasping, into her.
She does not think about his family back in London, and knows from the way he slumps against her, spent, that he does not either. They go the first couple of weeks without writing, until three letters from Greg and Hyacinth arrive at once. A watercolour of Newton is enclosed, and she laughs and puts it in a place of honour on her dressing table. They sit down together that night and write a long letter to the family, telling them about their travels and promising to bring presents home. But the moments that they share - hand in hand in front of some ancient statue, wandering through the portrait galleries, wrecks and ruins, or the moments when they’re so close that she could almost be the air he breathes - those moments they keep to themselves. Anthony receives a brief note from Benedict detailing some estate business, but he barely glances at it before casting it aside, intent on pulling her back in his arms. She has never felt so adored before.
***
He is stretched out and snoring next to her one evening, legs between hers. It is a hot sticky night, storm clouds gathering in the air and she cannot sleep. Somewhere in the distance lightning flashes through the open window. The curtains billow. She curls her body instinctively into a ball, putting away from Anthony, waiting for the crash.
Next to her, he groans unhappily as her skin pulls away from him, but she disentangles herself. Her skin is tingling and there is a funny pit in her stomach, a fear that she had forgotten. Pulling her dressing gown around her, she moves slowly to the window to pull it shut but freezes as the thunder booms. Despite the nights she’s now spent safe in Anthony’s arms there’s still something about it that echoes through her heart and calls up old ghosts of her family.
The rain starts now, all angry pounding in her head. She almost sinks beneath it, a scared girl once more, but his hand slips into hers, stabilising her.
“Kate,” he breathes. His chest is solid behind her and she buckles gratefully into his embrace. “I didn’t know the storms were still bothering you.”
She had confessed her fear to him when the monsoon rains had threatened to drown her in ghosts and memories during their first honeymoon in India. She’d forgotten the rage and strength of those storms, had thought she’d put it all behind her. He’d held her then, like he held her now. Like something precious, not fragile.
“Sometimes I forget that my parents are dead and my sister and stepmother are on the other side of the world. It feels quite alone.” she says. “And sometimes I remember.”
His eyes are oh-so-soft as he pulls her tighter to his chest. Lays the sweetest kiss on her head. “Bridgertons don’t know what it’s like to be alone,” he says. “You’re my family now. We’ll make a family together.”
The words echo with her later when the storm clouds are gone, and sun dappling her stomach. He wakes her with his tongue between her legs and then pressing deep into her, like a secret she’ll never shake.
***
A family , she thinks a week later, as they walk the streets together.
A child, she thinks as she arranges flowers, plays the flute, makes a cup of tea.
A child with Anthony’s brown eyes, his dimples, and smile. They have just barely made it out of the bedroom to catch the last afternoon rays of this warm golden day. He is writing a letter to Daphne, and she is watching him over the book that she is pretending to read.
“Wife?” he says, not looking up. Those dimples are spreading slowly across his face.
“Husband.”
“You are watching me.”
“But of course,” she says, matter-of-fact, though a blush paints her cheeks. “I am merely observing what manner of man I have decided to tie my life to. If I have made the right decision, you see.”
He puts his letter down slowly, meets her gaze. Her breath catches in her throat. “And do you think,” he says, “that you have made the right decision?”
She pretends to consider. A baby. “Well,” she pauses. “I suppose Mr Dorset did have a fine head of hair. And he promised to take me to India.”
He is upon her before she knows he has left his seat. Her book goes flying as he presses her back into the settee. “Wretch,” he says, into her neck. “I have taken you to India already, and you are very fond of my hair, as you very well know.”
He grasps at the neckline of her dress, ripping it down. As he lowers his mouth to her peaked breasts, she’s almost certain she hears him groan mine . Her hands grip his hair, neck thrown back as he licks her and, well, he certainly is right about his hair.
***
“Do you want an heir?” she asks him later when they are naked and sprawled around each other on the carpet.
He chokes, but she can feel his manhood pressing into her with sudden interest. “I thought we were in agreement about what we have been doing for the past months.”
She laughs. “Yes, I do find the … method enjoyable indeed.” It’s not entirely uncomfortable, the silence that falls, but she does not know how to fill it. He waits. “I worry sometimes,” she says carefully. “That I am not a debutante, that is to say, I am older -“
“Kate,” he interrupts. His voice is low, husky. “I would like a child very much. But I want a child not because it will be my heir - I have heirs aplenty in my brothers - but because it will be your child.”
She looks up to meet his gaze, her eyes suddenly stupidly full of tears. “I hope we will be so blessed,” he continues. “But if we are not, it does not signify, because I will have you and that is the most important thing to me.” There is some darkness lingering beneath the shadow of his mouth that she does not quite understand and so she reaches up for him now, lips meeting sweetly. He sweeps his tongue across her mouth and she bites down on his lip gently. She pulls back, hand on his chin, to see if the shadow has gone. “I love you, Kathani Bridgerton,” he says, all boyish earnestness. She smiles into his mouth, and feels his grin.
“But now I must punish you for making me speak of my brothers while you are so very naked and alluring.”
He turns her onto his knee and she squeals, a most indecorous sound.
***
They cannot stay abroad forever, but they are not ready to return to the stifling heat of London yet, so they make their deliriously happy way back to Aubrey Hall. From the sounds of it, the season is well under way. Francesca writes to her of young John Stirling and there is a quiet complacency in her description of him that Kate recognises as happiness.
She is sick on the ship home. Sea travel does not agree with her so neither of them pay it much mind. Anthony frets as he did before, but she urges him to spend some time above deck so that he can feel the salt air on his face and watch the dolphins frolic in the ship’s wake. He will only go for short periods of time, but she finds that she welcomes the solitude if only to think. Sea travel does not agree with her that is for sure, only - well. It is only that she was occasionally sick during their last few weeks of travel too. She’d hidden it from Anthony well enough, slipping back up to the chamberpot directly after breakfast with the excuse of needing to see to her toilette. He’d been distracted by a few more letters from his brothers that he’d been pouring over at time and she had slipped out so discretely she had not noticed him watch her go.
And it is only that she’d missed her courses since they had started travelling again. She’d initially put it down to the stress of the travel, and then had simply forgotten. She lets her hands trace over her belly. It is flat still, of course, but she rests her hand there low, and imagines a seed taking root.
***
Anthony is quiet sometimes, she has learned. This is surprising to her, because he fills up a room so well with his voice, his presence - that sometimes it is strange to watch him retreat into himself so thoroughly. She has learned to recognise the signs too. A bee buzzing by a flower will set it off. The sound of his pocket watch ticking in the silence, just a little too loud. The day of his birth drawing ever closer.
She finds him at his father’s grave one misty morning, when it feels like they are the only people alive. He is sitting in the grass when she approaches through fog, and his smile still feels like coming home. “You slipped from the bed so early,” she says lightly. “I missed you.”
She settles down next to him in the grass, leans her head on his shoulder. His arm comes up around her, and they stare at the headstone together. He has left a bunch of tulips from the hothouse there.
“What was he like?” she asks.
His arm tightens around her. “He was a wonderful father,” he says softly. “I have never known a better man. He always said the right thing, did the right thing. I was never like that - I never knew the right thing to do. I nearly betrothed Daphne to Berbrooke even though she was madly in love with Hastings. My mother nearly died birthing Hyacinth, and they told me to choose which one to save, but I couldn’t - couldn’t make that decision. He would have chosen right for all of them. He loved them so very much, you see.”
She remembers that shadow under his mouth when they’d spoken of heirs, understands it as fear .“He loved you very much,” she says.
The wildness recedes from his eyes. “He did,” he agrees. “For a time I thought that I would die as he did - young. It’s impossible for me to ever live up to him, you see. And outliving him would be, well, outdoing him. Which would be impossible.” He laughs, a self-deprecating little laugh. “Irrational, I know.”
“Irrational,” she echoes. Their hands lace together. She squeezes tight.
“I never wanted love,” he continues. “Because my mother fell apart when he died, and I could never do that to anyone.” He turns to face her. “But I love you Kate. I love you so much that I know I am going to live, because I cannot imagine not being in a world where you are living.”
She does not know what to say. She does not think there is anything to say, so she kisses him. He clings to her and his cheeks are damp when she pulls back to kiss them too. “I love you,” she says. “He would be so proud of you. I’m so proud of you, and so glad that I live in this world where you’re mine.”
***
Eloise writes to her, asking to come to Aubrey Hall early. She is sick of the season, she says, and Kate believes her. There is a thread of loneliness that runs through her words. We will come for you, she writes back. Anthony and I plan to return to London next week for a short period, and we can all return home together.
Home. Home is this beautiful place and her beautiful husband who is somewhere ensconced in his study, entirely too far away from her. I am very much looking forward to seeing you again. She signs her correspondence and hands it to a maid to take for the post.
Her courses still have not come. It is not that she is hesitant to tell him - it is that she is so easily distracted these days. There is something in the way he walks, his breeches clinging so delightfully, or some new soap he is using, because every time he draws near, she cannot think, cannot focus on anything but the feel of his skin on hers. He is doing this on purpose, she is sure, except, she is not entirely sure what this purpose is.
She will tell him now, she tells herself, as her feet carry her towards his study. He will make a wonderful father, for he is one to Hyacinth and Gregory already.
His face brightens when she bursts into the room, slightly out of breath. “You are done with your correspondence?”
“Yes,” she replies, standing at the door of his study, feeling foolish, all of a sudden.
“Thank goodness,” he says. “I wanted to find you but I thought perhaps you were busy.”
She laughs. “I thought you were busy.” She comes around the side of his desk, settles herself in his lap. His gaze drops to her bosom, and his fingers quickly find the buttons at her bodice. She unconsciously grinds herself against him. They both groan. She can feel her breath catching, heart racing. His hands on her. His hardness beneath her. The feel of his stubble on her fingers.
She straddles him, shifting herself against him. “Is that pleasant, my lord?”
“Tolerable,” he chokes.
“Merely tolerable?” She slides off his lap, sinks to her knees. “Perhaps I might do more to tempt you.”
***
They are leaving Aubrey Hall. The wisteria is in full bloom, and Anthony is solicitous as he fusses with the blanket, tucking it around her. Kate leans back in the cushioned seats, content to watch him. “It has been a wonderful month with you,” she says. “It has been wonderful to have you all to myself again.”
He smiles and kisses her on the cheek. “I love you,” he says, rapping on the carriage so that it starts trundling towards the gate. Kate smiles back. His hand is in hers, as it always is these days. Her heart is full.
“I think I might be with child,” she says without preamble.
“Kate!” His eyes widen. There is shock on his face, yes, but joy there too. “You are certain?”
“As certain as one can be, I suppose.” Her voice is nonchalant but she watches him so closely, scrutinising to make sure that shadow of fear does not appear.
It does not.
He pulls her to him, kisses her so deeply, one hand on her stomach, feeling for the small swell there. It still takes her breath away, even after all this time. “How -“
“I should hope you know how by now,” she teases. They are both grinning like fools.
“ Kate, ” he breathes. I love you is written in his eyes, his caresses, and on her heart, but he says it anyway, like there will be no other truth for him.
Sometimes there really is nothing else to say, she thinks, and says it right back.