Archive of Our Own

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easy they come, easy they go
i jump from the train, i ride off alone
i never grew up, it's getting so old
help me hold onto you

i've been the archer
i've been the prey
screaming, who could ever leave me, darling?
but who could stay?

The letter arrives during breakfast. Anthony pays it no mind; he is trying to defend his meal on two fronts, as Benedict and Colin each attempt to steal helpings from his plate, and the girls are babbling at an octave that should frankly be outlawed at this hour of the morning, and, anyway, there could not be mail for him. It is not yet time for him to have received his letter from Eton – that will be next year – so for now, his entire world is already within this room. He has no need for people or things or goings-on outside of it.  

“Oh!” his mother exclaims from the top of the table. “Oh, Edmund – Mary and Amit are returning.”

“After all this time?” his father asks, wiping at his mouth with a napkin in one hand and reaching for the letter with the other. Violet hands the page over diligently, propping her chin in her palm as she watches her husband read. Her brow is creased with something like worry, and Anthony stops paying attention to his brothers as he fixates on his parents, a newfound intrigue burrowing within him.

“It seems that Mary’s parents have taken ill and have asked them to come and take over the estate.”

“Nothing quite like a death bed to remind you what is important,” Edmund says, tone uncharacteristically sharp, and Violet sighs. She lets her hand fall to Edmund’s wrist, rubbing a soothing circle into his pulse point.

“They have had another daughter,” Violet says, smile in her voice, and Edmund visibly softens.

“Yes, I see that.”

“This is all good news, though, is it not?”

“Of course, of course. I know how fond you were of Mary. I just also – ” Edmund glances towards the children, so Anthony averts his gaze quickly, fixating on his plate while keeping his ears pricked. His father still lowers his voice, so Anthony knows he is not supposed to be hearing these next words. “You remember the scandal, when they left. And reentering society is no easier than leaving it. There are some kind, wonderful people here – but there are also vipers amongst us, and you and I know that more than most.”

“Yes,” Violet agrees. “Which is why they will need all of the support they can get.”

Anthony is brought back to his own side of the table when Colin and Benedict both reach for the last piece of bacon, which sets all three boys off squabbling, and it only takes a couple of minutes for Anthony to forget the mentions of scandal and a new family joining the Ton.

It is summer, which means they are at Aubrey Hall, and he has always loved Aubrey Hall best. This is where he first learned to ride a horse, and where he is allowed to ride for as long and as freely as his heart desires; this is where he has bested Colin in pall mall for two years in a row, now, and he intends to make it a third; this is where Daphne said his name – his name – as her first word, although it had come out a bit more like Annie since she couldn’t quite form the complicated syllables.

This year, his father has promised to teach him how to shoot, which Anthony is looking forward to the most. He loves his brothers dearly, and his sisters just as much, but their house is so loud and full, and how often, really, is he given time with just him and his father? Being a viscount seems rather stressful, Anthony has learned, and at Aubrey Hall, there is less paperwork. Less time spent bent over a desk in that back office, glass perched between loose fingers, brow furrowed in stress, his mother leaning over his father’s shoulder encouraging him to come to bed.

No, at Aubrey Hall, things are good. Serene.

Later, of course, Anthony will come to understand that this is why the Sharmas arrive back in London at this precise moment. That it is sensible and coordinated to ensure their transition is seamless.

But at twelve, he feels put-upon, as though he is being punished somehow.

“They are staying with us all summer?” he whines to his mother over breakfast, until she shoots him one of her signature glares.

“You will be polite to them, Anthony,” she chides. “They have had a long journey from their home, and they have been gone from London a long time. This will not be an easy adjustment for them. Besides,” she adds, with a knowing tone, “I hear that their eldest daughter, Kate, shares many of your interests.”

Anthony wrinkles his nose. He loves his sisters, and they are brilliant, but they do not much care for the things for which Anthony cares. “How can that be?”

“She likes horses, too. Apparently, she is quite the rider. And her father has been teaching her how to shoot, as well.”

“She already knows how to shoot?” he asks, and hates that he sounds a little awed. Jealous. Kate is only ten, from what his mother has said, and her sister Edwina is five. Anthony had wondered, a bit, how Kate might find herself given that all the other girls are so close in age, but this new information is interesting.

He is, despite himself, intrigued by this Kate Sharma.

“Father will still teach me this summer, right?” he continues, hopeful.

“Yes, of course,” Violet assures, and her tone is gentle. She reaches out to place a delicate hand against her eldest’s cheek, lips quirking into a small smile. “You will be kind to the girls, yes? Set a good example for the others?”

“Of course, Mother.”

“Thank you, Anthony.”

Anthony has seen many women in his life.

Not to say that – well, he is twelve. Half of his family are women, and with all the ladies that are employed in their household, and he has been about town, of course, although he has never been to any of the balls quite yet, but – the point is that Anthony is no stranger to seeing women. Beautiful women, even.

But at twelve years old, Anthony Bridgerton sees Kate Sharma sitting at the breakfast table in Aubrey Hall, and something in his universe shifts. Nothing cataclysmic. Nothing earth-shaking. It is so small, so indistinguishable to his child’s mind, that he does not even realize it happens.

But he sees her: hair long and dark and curling with half of it pulled back with a delicate lilac ribbon, her skin the color of warm chocolate, contrasting sharply against the pale purple of her dress. She is bringing a cup of tea to her lips, and then pursing them, as if in distaste; the expression makes Anthony smile, and he must even laugh, because Kate glances up sharply, eyes wide and worried and so, so brown. There are so many words that Anthony is sure could describe this girl in front of him, but he is failing to come up with even one, at this moment.

Instead, he says, “I’m Anthony,” and the girl smiles.

“Yes,” she responds. “I’m Kate,” she adds, almost nervous, and he grins.

He takes a seat at the table and readies his plate. “I hear you are an adept rider. And that you have learned to shoot.” He had been aiming for cordial but winds up sounding a bit like an overeager schoolboy. Kate, however, does not seem to mind; she brightens at the mentions of these hobbies, and nods excitedly, pressing her palms into the table.

“I do enjoy riding, yes. I’m not sure that I am a very good shot, to be honest, but my father has been trying to teach me. He mentioned that your father is going to teach you, as well? Perhaps we can all go together, while we are here this summer?”

“Yes,” Anthony says, and he knows he is grinning madly, that if his brothers were to walk in right now, they would be teasing him endlessly. But he isn’t quite sure he cares. “That would be good.”

That summer, Anthony learns many things about Kate Sharma.

He learns that she is, indeed, an excellent rider – even more excellent than him, a fact that she holds over his head mercilessly when she trounces him on one of their early morning rides. She is a girl of conflicting realities, who basks in the quietude of the wilderness but equally adores the boisterousness of a night of Bridgerton family charades. She is stubborn and quick-witted and well-read, willing to challenge Anthony when his siblings may not, asking questions that allow him to feel confident asking some of his own, as well.

But most of all, Anthony has learned that Kate is nearly always right.  

So, on their final night at Aubrey Hall, when they are laid out on the soft grass in their pajamas while their parents are indoors at the finest ball of the season – the words of Anthony’s mother, of course – and Kate says, “It will not be easy when we return to London,” he has no reason not to believe her.

But that still doesn’t mean he can’t push her on it, at least a little bit. “Why do you say that?”

Kate sighs. Her hair is unbound, not even by a ribbon or a bow, and he wishes she were allowed to wear it this way more often. It is beautiful like this, the rivulets falling like tiny rivers in between the tall grasses. “Aubrey Hall is perfect,” she says softly. “It is like a dream. But London… there are going to be many whispers. Even though the garden parties have probably helped, and this ball will help, it will still be – ”

Her voice breaks, and Anthony can feel it all the way in his own chest. Instinctively, he reaches out, twining their fingers together. It is so many shades of inappropriate, but it is dark and they are children and no one has to know, really.

After a few moments of silence, he asks, “Can you tell me? Why it’s – why there is such a fuss, about you returning?”

Kate sucks in a breath, and her hand tightens around his almost unthinkingly. “Mama is not… my mama. My mother died. In a – in a storm, giving birth to me.” She inhales again, and Anthony can hear the shakiness in her throat, the sob she is withholding. “Mama met Appa when he was traveling here, in London, for work, and they fell in love. But… Mama’s parents, they…”

Anthony is only twelve, but this, he understands. A merchant and a lady. A merchant with a child, and a lady with no other relatives, a lady with an estate to inherit.

“But now they want you to return,” he finishes for her, saving her the trouble.

Kate sighs again, but this time it sounds more relieved. “I suppose so. Mama seems… nervous. Like this is some kind of trick. But they are… they do not seem well. Even if they have ill intent, they will not be here long to enact it. And if… and if they change their minds, then we will simply return to India.”

That pain returns to Anthony’s sternum, and he rubs at it absently, trying to clear it. “It will not come to that,” he responds, and it sounds more ferocious than he intends it.

Kate shifts in the grass, so he turns his head to look at her. She is giving him the soft, honeyed smile that he loves, the one that she never wears in front of the others because it makes her look too delicate, and he is completely enraptured by the moment that he does not hear other footsteps in the grass, does not notice the small lantern creeping towards them, until his father’s voice calls, “Anthony? Kate?”

They startle from the ground, separating as though they have been burned, and take their scoldings without retort. But all night, he thinks of her hand in his, of her eyes reflecting the stars, of her hair spread against the grass.

When he leaves for Eton, his mother cries, and his brothers hug him for far longer than he expected, and his sisters cling to his coats, and Edwina gives him her favorite book, and then there is just Kate. She lingers by the carriage, twisting her gloves between her fingers, and if he did not know her better, he would think her unbothered by his departure. But of course, he does, and she isn’t.

“I will be home at Christmas,” he says softly, too aware of the number of eyes, too aware of the way his palms itch to reach out and fasten to her own. “You will blink and I will be back.”

“You are going to be brilliant,” she retorts, equally quiet, because naturally she is the only one – besides perhaps his own father – that can see right through him. Who knows that for all the boasting and bragging and outward excitement, he is terrified.

“So are you,” he assures. Kate huffs a laugh and drops her gaze, but only for a moment.

She had been right, of course, that the transition to London had been far from easy. Starting at Aubrey Hall had been the right call – his father’s, he would come to learn, but that was for another day, many years down the line – but that did not erase the growing pains. The Sheffields had been angry when Lady Mary had departed London, turning their tongues against their daughter and her new husband to anyone who would listen; it was hard, now, to walk back those kinds of statements, to re-shape the vision the Ton had created of the Sharma family.

But, as Edmund is fond of saying, the Ton’s memory is also brief. After a year of being unshakeable in the face of their consistent ridicule and hatred and outright disregard, the Sharmas are now established in London society; the Sheffields had both, as expected, passed quickly, and upheld their own end of the bargain in passing on the estate to Amit as an interim overseer until one of his girls are to marry.

Kate is chewing her lip, studying his face as though trying to discern something there. “You will write, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Not enough to get teased, but – ”

“I will write.”

Kate nods. Her nervousness leaks back through as her voice quickens. “Your father is waiting. You cannot show up late, that would give the wrong impression.”

Anthony offers her a grateful smile, and lets himself reach out to quickly, subtly, squeeze her fingers. She squeezes back, and then steps away, into the ready arms of her father.

Edmund is already in the carriage, so Anthony follows, trying not to flinch when the driver slams the door behind him. Through the small window, he studies the faces of his smaller siblings, of his mother, of the Sharmas. And as the carriage rolls down the street away from Mayfair, it is Kate’s eyes that he sees last.

And he does write, of course. He tells her of the books he is reading and the people he meets and of the way living in a boarding school of boys is so, so different than living in Bridgerton house and yet so, so similar.

And she writes, too. She tells him of promenades in the park and the chess matches between Benedict and Colin and of the spirited debates Edwina and Eloise have and of how their fathers are going to take her shooting next month and how she wishes she could go off to school, too.

He is home at Christmas, as promised, and he is home for summer, and they spend both at Aubrey Hall. Though he is gone for most of the year, it does not feel like much has changed at all; in the winter, they read and play games and sneak off when their parents attend the balls so he can tell her about the happenings at Eton, and in the summer, they go hunting and riding and play pall mall in the garden. Sometimes, she will start speaking and it feels like they are picking up a conversation in the middle, like he has simple left a room for a moment and she is finishing a thought.

He does not remember what his life was like before Kate. The Sharmas have become a fixture of the Bridgerton household much in the same way that Penelope Featherington has; when Anthony enters his family home, he expects to see them there, like extensions of his own family unit, like they were intended to be part of it from the very start.

The first hiccup occurs the year he turns sixteen; it is Christmas, and she physically stops when she sees him, to the point that Eloise rams into her back. Kate is apologizing profusely, distinctly not looking at Anthony, and there is a pink blush coloring her neck and her chest that Anthony is fighting hard to not be completely transfixed by. She hardly says two words to him the whole two weeks, although she still dutifully sends a letter not even a day after his return; it is not until the following summer that she seems to right herself in his presence.

They never speak of it again, and he does not understand the significance, but then –

But then he is eighteen, and she is sixteen, and it is Christmas, and she is beautiful.

Kate stands at the top of the stairs, and his siblings are rushing out to meet him at the carriage. Benedict and Colin have been at Eton while Anthony has begun his first year at Oxford, so it is an even more robust reunion than usual; his mother is first, greeting her husband with little Gregory swaddled to her chest and then Anthony, Benedict, and Colin in order, while Eloise chirps a thousand questions in Anthony’s ear about the lectures and the professors and the essays he’s written, but everything has turned to a dull roar because – it is Kate, and it has always been Kate, but he did not know. How could he not have known?

He pushes through his babbling family to get to her, and she smiles at him the way she always does, warm and a little sarcastic, and something swoops low in his abdomen. Her hair has gotten a bit longer, falling just above the tuck of her waist, with pieces pinned in an ornate crown around her head. She will be debuting soon, he realizes with a start.

She will be somebody’s wife.

“The Oxford man deigns to grace us with his presence,” Kate teases, completely unaware of the slow creep of madness that Anthony is currently facing. She quirks her head to the side, eyes studying him carefully, and he realizes a beat too late that she will be able to read something amiss in his gaze. That she will know, and he has no idea what to even tell her. “Is something the matter?”

She tucks an errant curl behind her ear, and for not the first time, Anthony itches to do it himself.

“No,” he says quickly. Far, far too quickly. “Just quite a long ride, as you can imagine. And it is frigid out here, are you not chilled?”

“I wanted to see you in. Your letters have been sparser than usual this term.”

Had they? He had not intended them to be. Anthony opens his mouth to respond, to apologize, but Kate simply laughs. “Anthony, it is okay. Who knew one term in Oxford could do your head in so rapidly? Come, let’s get you inside. I want to hear everything.”

He is going to tell her.

He has a plan, see – Christmas was not the right time. There was his family, for one matter, and hers, and he had to be sure. And so he waits, and he spends the winter writing to her and reading her letters back and letting himself actually think about what it means, when his heart quickens to see his name in her neat script. What it means, to write I miss you to her. What it means, to skip out on a party to respond to one of her notes, to ignore the more tawdry conversations the men have, because –

He thinks, in some way, he loves her. No, he is certain he loves her, the same way he is certain he loves any member of his family. And the Sharmas are family, he knows that. But this - this is different.

So he will tell her. He must.

He is saying this to his father, on the way back from their failed hunting trip, when he asks why Anthony is so distracted.

“Well, that is great news, son,” Edmund says, clapping him on the back. “You know that your mother and I are believers that all love is rooted in friendship. And you and Kate are… well, that seems to be a good match.”

“Nothing has happened yet, Father,” Anthony reminds him, but the smile that splits his lips is a bit too telling.

“Perhaps not. And she has not yet debuted, so you have time. But I am happy for you nevertheless.”

As they near the house, Anthony asks, “Do you know when they arrive?”

“Should be this afternoon, I believe.”

“That will be good. I know Mother is excited to see Lady Mary again.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Speaking of your mother… these blooms look like something she would like, do they not?”

When there is a dirt plot and a stone pillar and more black clothing than he has ever wanted to see in his life, Anthony will come up with one hundred different ways that could have allowed them to avoid this moment. Ten different paths back to the house. Thirty other conversation topics that would have ensured his father did not stop to pick flowers that day.

In all of them, Anthony pays more attention.

In all of them, Anthony does something, rather than stand there, in horror.

But of course, there is only this. And so at eighteen, on summer holiday from Oxford, Anthony stands there as his mother cradles his father’s limp corpse to her pregnant frame; he corrals his younger siblings away from the body and into the house, to the innermost corner where their mother’s screams can only be dulled; he returns to the garden and attempts to pry his mother’s fingers from the body, but instead finds himself seated across from her while her tears dry, while the sun sets, while the servants show Amit and Mary Sharma to the back garden.

“Anthony,” the older man says gently, hand resting on his shoulder. The movement should probably make Anthony flinch, but all he feels is numb. He wonders if he is actually dead, too; if this is what it is like to lose the thing, the person, you love most in the world.

Mary is speaking softly to his mother, and a haunted expression is plastered across Violet’s face. Lady Sharma is pulling Violet to her feet, easing her into the house. The servants dart forward, like ants towards a piece of bread, swiftly covering and moving the body.

Anthony feels like he is in the middle of a crime scene.

“Anthony,” Amit repeats. The younger man can hear him, but he does not feel capable of a response. He is still watching that spot of grass, still so green, so lush. Shouldn’t it be yellowed, or charred, or simply a chasm in the earth to reflect what happened here today? Shouldn’t there be some kind of physical indication that Edmund is gone, that he has been taken?

“Anthony,” someone says again, but this time the voice is tender. The hand is gone from his shoulder and now, kneeling in front of him, obscuring his view of the place his father took his final breaths, is Kate.

Without thinking, Anthony careens towards her and drops his forehead into the slope of her neck with a cry. He feels her small, soft hands lifting to rest against his back, and she is whispering something to him, but he cannot hear it over the sound of his own sobs; he fists his hand into the fabric of her dress, near her waist, because he is fairly certain she is the only thing grounding him to the world at this moment.

When he feels capable of breathing again, he pulls back, running a hand through his hair and swiping his eyes hastily. “I – I apologize – that was – that was deeply improper, and I – ”

“Anthony,” Kate chides, and she sounds so gentle he thinks it may break him again. “Propriety does not matter between you and I.” He does not have the capacity to even interrogate her about what that may mean, but then she carries on. “Besides, my father is right over there,” nodding to the stairs, where Amit is indeed perched but carefully looking away.

Anthony sighs heavily. He scrubs at his face again, trying to force the tears to remain unshed. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and that makes Kate smile.

“Of course. They… they said you would not come inside, and I… I thought perhaps…”

“No, you were… that was the correct decision.”

She pauses, studying him. He knows what she is going to say next. There are so many things that he loves about her, but her ability to read him completely, and her willingness to lay him bare, are near the top. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not yet. I – there is so much to do. And I do not…”

“I understand,” she says, and he knows that she means it. It is another one of the things he loves about her.

The sun is now setting over the horizon, painting the sky a violent shade of orange, and it gives her the appearance of being lit from within. She is wearing a beautiful blue dress, soft like the hydrangeas his mother loves, but it is dirtied around the ends now from where she has crouched to sit on the ground with him, and her hair – God, does he love her hair – is mussed on one side, from where he unceremoniously collapsed into her arms. And for all that has happened today, there is still this one moment where Anthony considers telling her. Where the words are there, on the tip of his tongue, and he wants to give them to her.

But he can’t. Because then, they will be forever tied to this, to his father’s death, and he cannot do that to her. He wants her to know that he means it, not that she was a literal shoulder upon which to cry on the worst day of his life.

And so Anthony stands, and he offers Kate a hand, and they reenter the house together.

It is Benedict who figures it out next.

“Is one of our sisters debuting without our knowledge? Have you decided to take a wife without informing the rest of our family? Why has this season already put you in such a state?” he asks in the carriage, as they head to the Danbury ball. Anthony snags the flask from his brother’s hand, ignoring the laugh as he does so.

“I’m fine,” he lies, taking a healthy swig before passing it back to his younger brother. Their mother has opted to stay home with the other children, since Hyacinth is but two, and when Anthony insisted on attending the ball – to everyone’s surprise – Benedict offered to go with him.

“The amount of this flask you have consumed since we left the house begs to differ,” he retorts, sloshing the liquor around for good measure. Pocketing the item in question, Benedict folds his arms across his chest and studies his brother curiously. Anthony clenches his jaw and pointedly avoids his gaze, but even he knows that is the tell of the guilty.

“Sharma,” Benedict says suddenly, realization coloring his tone. “Kate is debuting this season, is she not?”

“I do not see what that has to do with anything.”

“Oh, really.”

Anthony has told no one else in the two years since his father’s death. The revelation has felt, as he expected, almost cosmically linked to that moment; like uttering the words aloud someone granted death upon his father. Which, as an adult, he knows is a ludicrous thing to believe, but he is having an alarmingly difficult time ridding himself of the fear. It is lodged deep within him, like a parasite he can’t quite shake.

The love is still there, though. He also thought that if he simply ignored the feeling, if he buried it down deep with his grief and his fear and his childhood, it would drift away, like the version of him that he’d abandoned in the woods with his father that afternoon in Aubrey Hall.

But it hasn’t.

And so rather than fighting Benedict on it any further, Anthony sighs, and says, “I – I am not going to propose, or anything.”

“Well, why not?” his brother asks, and he does not sound surprised or outraged or even mocking, and Anthony has never loved his brother more than in this moment.

“She deserves an opportunity to... see what else may be out there for her.”

“You do not think she wants you.”

“I did not say that.”

“But you are thinking it.”

“Running our household is not easy,” Anthony says carefully. “And she is young, and she deserves – ”

More.

“She deserves to make an educated choice,” he settles on. Benedict does not look impressed.

“Do you think it is an educated choice if you do not provide yourself as one of her options?” his brother points out, not unfairly.

In lieu of response, Anthony holds his hand out for the flask.

“And now Daphne is dancing with – ”

“This is really not helping.”

“Nonsense. This is absolutely helping. You are facing your fears.”

“I fear you stepping on my foot one more time.”

“You are an atrocious liar, Lord Bridgerton. My dancing is perfect.”

Kate is right, of course, but she always is. There is also something about her calling him Lord Bridgerton that does something evil to his brain, but she can never know that piece of information.

After a brief pause, and with something almost like regret in her tone, Kate adds, “You really should dance with some of the eligible ladies, Lord Bridgerton.”

“You are an eligible lady,” he retorts immediately, and as he expected, she colors profusely beneath his gaze. It warms him to his toes.

This is their second dance of the evening, which, he will admit, is perhaps a bit telling. At any rate, he has no desire to dance with anyone else; much as Colin always dances at least once with Penelope Featherington, he, too, finds a way to get Kate onto the dance floor at every ball. She is his favorite partner.

She is his favorite in everything, he has come to admit.

To many, many people now – but not to her. Not quite yet.

“I am not an appropriate eligible lady,” she corrects, before continuing, “And, besides, at two-and-twenty, and my fourth round on the marriage mart, I am not certain that I am deemed eligible any longer.”

“That is nonsense,” he argues, brow furrowing in irritation. “Any of these men would be lucky to marry you.”

“You are kind.”

“I am serious.”

“Not even if you tried.”

“I am, Kate,” he insists, tone turning earnest, and she nearly stumbles. His hands tighten around her own, ensuring they continue to move about the room as if nothing has happened, but he notices the way her gaze flits about his face, the shiftiness of her eyes.

Because of this, he can also see the precise moment she closes off her expression, putting up a visible wall between them.

“You are kind,” she repeats. “However, the men of the Ton do not agree with you. Not that I can blame them.”

“How can you say that?” Anthony is fighting to keep his voice even, to remember they are on the dance floor, that this is a ball, that his sister is attempting to live up to her new status as the Queen’s Diamond.

“I am not one of you, Anthony,” Kate finally snaps, though her tone is hushed. “My father is a merchant, even if he has been allowed into this society. My mother was a seamstress. We lived in a small village, before I moved here. I was raised to one day become a governess, not to become a lady of high society. And though the Ton may have been willing to accept us as a family, they don’t have to accept me,” and there, finally, her voice breaks, and the sound seems to pierce his very heart.

Kate draws in a tense breath, clenching her eyes shut for only a moment before her steely demeanor returns. “I am not a desirable match. I have long made my peace with that, even before I debuted. My job,” she says, a sardonic smile curling her lips, and Anthony notes how it sits so unevenly on her face, “is simply to be as good as possible, as perfect as possible, so that I do not mess anything up for Edwina before her debut next year. She has so much ahead of her. She could – she can do so much. I cannot stand in her way.”

The song concludes, and Anthony hesitantly drops Kate’s hands, watching her tense bow. “And what of you?” he asks.

Finally, finally, the wall cracks slightly, and her brow dents. Kate bites her lip. “I shall return to India,” she admits.

Anthony feels as if he is twelve years old again, in the midst of the tall grasses of Aubrey Hall, feeling powerless and hopeless and completely at the whims of the universe. Back then, he did not understand why he had felt so off-kilter at the idea of Kate leaving; now, he knows, and he cannot allow it, cannot bear it –

Clarity dawns within Anthony’s mind all at once, and glancing around the room, he grasps Kate’s arm and tugs her into the courtyard, away from prying eyes. This will come to be another one of those moments he will replay, over and over and over; about which he will ask himself, what if I, why did I, how could I – but in this moment, for this one glorious second, Anthony is so very sure.

The moon is full and the stars are gleaming and he looks at Kate with nothing but hope and certainty as he says, “Marry me.”

Kate stares at him, her chest heaving, eyes wide and darting across his face in confusion and fear and shock. Her hair is in an elaborate updo, with a small, braided crown, and he misses when she was allowed to wear it long and free around her shoulders; he imagines tugging the pins loose, one-by-one, and threading his hands through her curls, and running his thumb along her jaw, and –

“Anthony, did you not hear me? That is not – I am not an appropriate match – ”

“I do not care for that – ”

“But you should – ”

“And be sensible, Kate! This is the answer, is it not? Marry me. I do not care about your status, and you know my family, and we – we would be happy, wouldn’t we? We could – ”

Some kind of realization seems to crest over Kate’s face, and that blank expression returns in an instant. “I certainly do not need your pity, Lord Bridgerton.”

All at once, horror settles deep in Anthony’s body. “No. No, Kate, I did not – ”

“I may be a spinster very soon – ”

“Kate – ”

“But it is still deeply inappropriate for us to be out here without a chaperone – ”

“Kate, please, I – ”

“I shall find my mother. Good evening, Lord Bridgerton.”

The slam of the door rattles around Anthony’s brain long, long after they return home.

When Daphne and Simon get married, she attends and stands at the back and does not speak to him. He tries to catch her eye at the reception, but she disappears before he gets the chance. She still attends the balls dutifully, dancing with whomever may ask, smiling and laughing and being her usual charming self; and yet, if she so much as senses Anthony’s presence nearing her, she will evaporate, a carriage will be conjured, she will be gone.

It has been weeks, but it feels like years. He does not think they have gone this long without speaking even when he was at Eton or Oxford, and she is just down the street.

He knows how easy it would be for him to simply say, I’m sorry. I did not mean it.

But of course, he did. Or, at least, part of it – the actual action itself. He misconstrued the intent, but the impact – that was true.

His mother knows. She has known for a long time, he thinks. It has been the reason she has not pushed him about the marriage mart; that she has not even pushed him about Kate herself, until very recently. But their fight provides his mother a perfect opportunity, he realizes one morning, only a few weeks before the end of the season, when he finds them alone at the breakfast table.

She is eyeing him in the way he has come to know means she intends to talk, and so, sighing, he folds the paper across his lap and turns his attention towards her.

“Say what you wish to say, Mother.”

“It has been quite awhile,” she begins, carefully, “since you have gone to call to the Sharmas’.”

“The social season is a busy one for us all. And with the wedding on our end, and preparing for Eloise to debut next season, I have been tied up.”

“And it has nothing to do with… with whatever may have occurred at the Crawford Ball?”

Anthony clenches his jaw and takes a deliberate sip of tea. He wants to be honest with his mother, because it is not her fault that this has happened, and given the closeness of the families – particularly after Edmund’s death – it would do no good for Anthony to ruin it so swiftly. So carelessly.

I do not need your pity.

“I was not… I made a mistake, with Miss Sharma.”

“Oh, Anthony – ”

“Mother, not that, no – I just… I erred. Gravely. And I am uncertain how to make it right.”

Violet is quiet for a moment as she considers her response. In moments like this, he is reminded so much of his siblings; of Colin and Benedict and Daphne, who think before they speak, who are soft at their core in a way he is not. He hopes that he is like his father, but there was also a softness to him, too, that Anthony had once hoped to emulate but that he fears has been lost to time, to grief, to a youth that was stolen from him.

His impulsivity seems to have taken its place. His anger. He wonders what his father would say about that, too.

“When the Sharmas first returned to London, I remember noticing how alike you and Kate were,” his mother says finally, her lips quirking into a small, almost accidental smile. “Sometimes, watching the two of you together, it was like… like mirror images. You would finish each other’s sentences without noticing, or she would hand you the book you needed before you could ask. It was remarkable, really.”

His mother looks back up at him, placing her hand atop his. “What I mean to say is that – you and Kate have an understanding that is so unique, and so special. I do not think there is anything that you could say wrong, so long as you tried to say it.”

Anthony has to swallow twice before he can make his voice work properly. “Sometimes I – sometimes I think that… understanding means we have the power to hurt each other more deeply than other people. Even if we do not intend to do so.”

Violet nods. “I can imagine that can be true. But does it not also mean you may be the only one who knows how to mend it?”

Anthony moves to say something else, to thank her for her wisdom, to make good on her advice – but he is not given the chance. The footman nervously enters the space, expression wary, and there is something in the lines of his face that make Anthony know what he is about to say before he even says it.

“My lord,” he starts, “There has been news. From the Sharma residence. Mr. Sharma, he has... Miss – Miss Sharma has requested you by name.”

“Oh, God,” his mother whispers, but Anthony hardly hears her.

“Ready the carriage,” he snaps to the footman as he races out the door.

When the Sharmas’ footman grants him entrance, he feels a bizarre sense of déjà vu. Their home – normally warm and bright and full of music and spiced aromas – is notably cold and dark, and there is a distinct wailing coming from an upper corner of the house that he can only attribute to Lady Mary.

He does not need to ask where Kate will be, and no one instructs him. On another day, he would be furious that a strange man would be allowed such reign in the Sharma home, but then again – is he such a strange man? And what is propriety, when it comes to he and Kate, as she said herself?

Her father’s library is on the first floor, buried in the very back. The door is closed, and he does not knock as he enters, but rather slips in before the door can even properly click once. Kate is seated at a desk in the corner, surrounded by mounds of papers and quills, with a lamp burning nearby; although it is but ten o’clock in the morning, she has the shades drawn, and the room feels so separate from the rest of the world. Like a sanctuary, burrowed far away from reality.

He understands.

When she raises her eyes to meet his, he feels like he has been transported back in time, to six years ago, to another library in another house. He remembers Kate, carefully peeling his fingers away from the piling paperwork, shoving cups of tea into his shaking fingers, taking half of the accounts from him and checking over his numbers as his brain went numb. And as he looks at her now, he wishes that he did not have to repay this favor; that he could spare her from this, shield her from it.

But, of course, he cannot.

And so, they will weather it together.

With brisk, measured steps, he walks towards her, choosing one of the smaller chairs and placing it directly beside her own, waiting for her to decide how to react to his presence, even though she is the one who requested it. She is simply watching him with glazed eyes, her lip quivering just slightly, the quill abandoned on the desk. Her hair is bound in a long, messy braid, tossed over one shoulder, but loose tendrils have fallen around her face. Although she is looking up, she seems to be fixated on a spot over his shoulder as she fiddles anxiously with her sleeve, and he can see the tension in her muscles as she attempts to hold herself together.

This is improper, he knows. But who is taking care of her, right now? And was it not Kate who sat with him in his own library, and carded her hand through his hair during the earliest hours of morning after his mother had nearly died giving birth to his youngest sister? Was it not Kate who had allowed him to sleep in her lap as she pored over the books, and when he’d awoken, simply pointed at the new numbers and said, “There you go”?

So, Anthony reaches forward, and tucks the hair behind her ear, allowing his thumb to stroke against the curve of her jaw for just a second. He reaches down and tenderly peels her fingers away from her sleeve, covering them with his own. And he waits – for her to scream at him, for her to cry, for –

“I am sorry,” she murmurs.

It is so absurd that Anthony laughs out loud, which at least causes her face to startle out of its blank expression.

“You are sorry? It is me who should be sorry. For so, so many things.”

“I should not have reacted – ”

“You had every right,” he insists, tone fierce, and it is only then that she actually looks at him. The tears have not fully fallen, but rather have collected along her lower lashes like dew, and it is so very improper, but he grazes his thumb against them to cast them away. She closes her lids at the movement, briefly, and he lets himself linger there until she returns his gaze.

Kate is watching him with her brow furrowed, and she is so, so close, and if he just leaned three inches forward, he could finally taste her. He would know, without a shadow of a doubt, what it is like to kiss Kate Sharma.

“I cannot... I have too much to - think about, and - ”

“I know. I understand. What – what do you need?”

“The books, they… he was organized, but the Sheffields were not, always, and I – I helped you, obviously, but – and then Edwina’s debut, and, oh, God, her dowry and – ”

“We will take care of it.”

“Anthony – ”

He shakes his head, putting his palms on either side of her face. “It is done. Let us get some tea, yes? And then you can show me the books.”

A ghost of a smile hangs around Kate’s lips, and he waits for her to nod before he calls for a servant to send tea and biscuits for themselves and another to call for his mother and Eloise to care for Lady Mary and Edwina. He settles on Kate’s right, allowing her to lean heavily into his side as he sifts through the files, tidying as he goes, speaking just to fill the silence. 

“And you are not courting her?” Daphne asks again as they meander towards the next stop on the pall mall field. She follows Anthony’s eyes towards Kate, whose head is thrown back in a laugh at something Benedict has said, and Daphne gives her brother a look that is supremely unimpressed. Anthony is happy for her in her marriage, but becoming a duchess has only increased her willingness to back-talk him, which is mildly irritating.

“I am not courting her,” he repeats, and he does not feel as though he is lying.

It has been a stressful several months, since Amit’s passing; they have been preparing for Edwina and Eloise’s debuts, and ensuring the Sharma estate can remain intact until Edwina’s marriage, since Kate is unwilling to broach her own marriage conversation again, and Anthony is too afraid to do so himself.

And, besides – they make a good team, he and Kate. If this is all he gets of her, these snippets of a life, it will be enough, he thinks.

So, no, he is not courting her. He is not courting anyone.

Daphne is still watching him with a raised eyebrow, both hands on her mallet, and when she sighs, she sounds world-weary, as though she is carrying the weight of a thousand universes. “You both deserve to be happy, Anthony,” she says softly, and it is not what he expected her to say at all. “And you both know, perhaps better than anyone, that life is fickle, and it is short, and it will not wait for you. You ought to tell her how you feel.”

With a final, pointed glance in Kate’s direction, who is now cheering loudly at her victorious shot – she has knocked Colin’s ball clear off the field – Daphne makes her way over to the rest of the group, leaving Anthony to consider her statement.

He shakes his head once, pausing for only a moment longer before following his sister. When he sidles up beside Kate, she leans towards him almost on instinct, eyebrows creased in concern. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course. Just a fun sisterly chat.”

“Ah, your favorite kind.”

“Mm. Being a duchess suits her.”

“Much as being a viscount suits you.”

“Your mockery is endlessly endearing, Miss Sharma. Shall we?”

“After you, my lord.”

And he does think about it, because of course, his sister is right. He surrounds himself with far too many women who are. He thinks about it throughout the rest of pall mall, which Kate wins without even really trying, and throughout the evening, and even through the early morning ride he and Kate take the next morning. One could say he is distracted, that morning, when they wind up in the gardens.

That could be why he does not hear a buzzing. Why he does not see a small insect, flitting about Kate’s head.

Much, much later, Anthony will come up with one hundred different ways that could have allowed them to avoid this moment.

In all of them, Anthony pays more attention.

In all of them, Anthony does something, rather than stand there, in horror.

But, of course. There is only this.

And so he does not notice the buzzing. He does not notice the flying. In fact, he is thinking, on that particular morning, as the sunrise burnishes the sky into a soft golden hue, as the mist sets Kate’s braid into a curling mess, as their breaths mingle in front of them on their walk – he is thinking that perhaps Daphne is right. He is thinking that this might be the right moment, without anyone else around; how lovely it would be, to be able to dance with her as many times as he would like, at the ball tonight, and –

And then he sees it. One breath too soon, or a breath too late, depending on how one might look at it.

“Do not,” he murmurs, and he does not know if he is speaking to her, or the bee, or the universe, but all he knows is that it would be too cruel, for the world to take her from him. Not now, not ever.

“Do not,” he repeats, and Kate is watching him, confused.

“Anthony,” she says, gently, and then she, too, sees the bee, and she stills. He did not realize they were so close, but he can feel her breath against his chin, notices the way it stutters out of her lips. “Anthony, it is – ”

But then the bee bites, and she flinches, and his entire world stops moving. His eyes rove over her body rapidly, waiting for that moment where she goes limp, where she chokes on nothing, where –

“Anthony,” Kate repeats, and she takes his hand, pressing it gently to the skin of her chest, where the bee had bitten. “I am unharmed.”

His eyes dart from his own hand on her skin to her face and back, and she looks at him encouragingly, tenderly, and he wants, more desperately than he has wanted her in his entire life. He is so grateful to whatever power in the world that has decided that, yes, she gets to stay. He gets to keep her. Here, now, forever.

Anthony lets out a long, ragged breath, closing his eyes for only a moment, and Kate squeezes his hand once before letting it drop. She clears her throat, glancing around, and he knows that they have long accepted that propriety is not a matter between them, but perhaps they should still be more careful. They are lucky, he thinks, that it is only dawn, that they are shrouded in the gardens, that they are on their family’s lands.

“I must go check on my mother and Edwina,” she says, softly, taking a step back from him. There is something in her eyes that Anthony can’t read, and his gaze catches on it, latches onto it. “I will – I will see you at the ball tonight, yes?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

She nods, once, and then, almost as if she is having to restrain herself to do so, Kate hurries back to the house, her palm pressed against her chest.

Anthony has never been one for these kinds of events, but even less so when it seems more and more evident that Kate is avoiding him. She is clinging to the walls, pointedly ignoring his gazes, finding herself in conversations with individuals that he is not certain she could even name, all so she does not have to look at him.

After less than an hour, Edwina sidles up beside him, a glass of lemonade daintily held between her fingers, smile serene. He nearly spits out his own drink when she says, “And what is it that you did to my sister?”

“I beg your pardon?”

The younger girl turns to him, gaze unbothered but eyes fierce. For all of their differences, there are some moments where she is so like Kate it startles him. “Anthony, you may be the man of this household, but do not lie to me.”

He sighs, heavily, and wonders if there will ever be a moment where the women in his life do not feel as though they have complete and utter control over him. “There was… there was a moment, earlier. In the garden. I was… distressed, by the – ”

“The bee.”

“Yes.”

“Because of your father.”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“That is it? Hm?”

Something like embarrassment colors Edwina’s features, and she turns to face the dance floor again. “Well, I do not know. I would have thought… I am simply confused, Anthony. I had thought… I am surprised that you and Kate…”

Anthony softens. “I asked her, once. I did not – I did not do it well, mind you,” he adds teasingly, “and was not quite as clear with my intentions as I should have been. I fear that your sister is even more stubborn than I, and she may not soon forget that transgression.”

“She loves you. She would forgive you for anything.”

The words do not surprise Anthony; he knows that Kate loves him, much as he has always known he has loved her. But there is a difference, of course. There is a distinction that he would like for Kate to make, that he has already made for himself. “Well, we will simply have to see.”

Edwina is quiet for a moment, and Anthony can tell that she is watching Kate across the hall, the practiced way she converses with the partygoers. “Are you going to ask her again?”

Anthony considers the younger girl beside him for a moment, who is so much wiser than he has ever been, even for their difference in years. “Do you think I should?”

She faces him again, eyes hopeful and wide, and there, she looks every minute of her eighteen years. It is a version of Kate that Anthony imagines may have existed if she did not have the burden of her family on her shoulders, and for one painful moment, he longs for it on her behalf. But then Edwina smiles, and squeezes his hand, and says, “Yes. Yes, I do think you should,” and he cannot be angry at Edwina for anything.

His eyes gravitate back to Kate’s and he finds she is already looking at him. He angles his head, beckoning her outside, and with a small sigh, she nods. He ducks out of the ballroom and into the courtyard, the same one where they have spent many nights like these, hiding from suitors and parents and the world at large.

The moment the doors close behind her, he is aware of just how quiet it is. Kate is standing a distance away, fiddling with her gloves nervously, and he takes a step towards her. “You are avoiding me.”

“I am not.”

“Are we going to play that game tonight, then?”

“We are not playing a game, Anthony.”

“Good. I am being serious.”

“Then be it.”

“I did not intend for you to think,” he continues, all in one breath, “that I asked you to marry me out of pity.”

Kate’s eyes snap to his, and she lets her arms drop to her sides. She is wearing blue again, the same pale color she was on that summer night all those years ago, and somehow it is the thing that gives him the courage to continue. “I did not ask you to marry me out of pity,” he repeats. “I had been trying to… to think of how to ask for quite some time, in fact. I had… I had wanted to tell you how I felt my first year at Oxford, but then – ”

“Your father.”

“My father,” he agrees. “And then, I wanted you to – I did not want you to feel you had no other options. That you had been… forced into anything.”

“You thought marrying a viscount was going to be a consolation prize?” she asks, a smile playing around her lips, and he takes another step forward.

“I wanted you to be certain. The way that I am certain.”

“And what is it,” Kate asks, voice so impossibly quiet, eyes dropping to his lips, “that you feel you are so certain about?”

“Well,” he replies, unable to keep the grin from his face, “you, Kate. That I love you. That I – I have always loved you. I do not think I have been capable of anything else.”

They are standing so very close, and he is reminded of just hours earlier, in the garden, the bee between them; of the library in her family home, tears clinging to her lashes; of a hundred other days in a hundred other spots, just he and her, just like this. How much has changed, since he was twelve and she was ten and they snuck out of the house to lay in the grass.

But how much, he thinks, reaching forward to enfold her hand within his own, has stayed the same.

“I do not have a dowry,” she blurts, and it is so absurd that Anthony laughs out loud.

“I am paying your sister’s dowry,” he reminds her, tugging her closer to him, “I do not believe I care much for yours.”

“What if I am a terrible viscountess?”

“You have practically been viscountess for the last several years. Kate,” he chides, growing impatient, “do you love me?”

Kate sounds distracted when she responds. “What? Yes, of course I love you. But – ”

Anthony is not interested in anything further she may have to say. He closes the remaining distance between them, one hand gripping her waist and the other planting itself on the nape of her neck, his thumb caressing just below her jaw as he presses their lips together hungrily. She gasps into his mouth, raising a gloved palm to his cheek, and he truly could not give less of a damn about the impropriety of it all in this moment, because she loves him. She loves him, and she is going to marry him, and the rest of it does not really matter anymore.

As if she can read his mind – which, he is not sure that she cannot – Kate pulls back, letting her forehead rest against his, and whispers, “I love you, you absolute fool.”

Anthony laughs, and laughs, and he allows himself to kiss her just once more, for impropriety’s sake, and he thinks, yes. Yes, she does.

who could stay?
who could stay?
who could stay?
you could stay
you could stay
you

***