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The storm was relentless, hammering against the windows of Aubrey Hall with a ferocity that seemed almost alive.
Anthony lay motionless in his bed, though sleep eluded him. The sharp crack of thunder reverberated through the walls, matching the restless pounding of his heart.
He turned onto his side, glaring at the pocket watch on his nightstand.
The hour was far too late—or too early—for anyone to be awake, yet he was trapped in this insomniac's purgatory. It was not the storm alone that tormented him. No, this tempest was of a different nature, one that wore dark eyes and a biting wit and had ensnared his every thought.
Kate.
Her name, unbidden, arrived on the heels of a jagged flash of lightning. Anthony cursed under his breath and rose from the bed, tugging on his robe. He needed solace, distraction, anything to quiet the maddening churn of his thoughts.
The library—it was the one place in the house that had always offered a reprieve.
Kate was already there.
She moved silently through the library, her slender figure cloaked in shadow as she searched the towering shelves.
The dim flicker of a single candle cast her in gold, tracing the curve of her cheek, the delicate line of her collarbone. A shawl hung loosely from her shoulders, its edges slipping with each small movement.
The room was cavernous, yet the storm seemed to press against the walls, making the air within feel tight, suffocating. She let her fingers trail along the spines of the books, her mind restless as her body.
It was not just the rain that disturbed her sleep—it was him.
His sharp eyes, the mocking curl of his mouth. The way his voice had cut through her defenses, slipping past every carefully constructed barrier.
She reached for a book at random, the title irrelevant. Anything would do, so long as it quieted the ache of his presence in her mind.
The sound of the door opening froze her.
She turned sharply, her breath catching in her throat as Anthony stepped into the room, his silhouette illuminated by the faint light from the hallway. He paused when he saw her, the door clicking shut behind him.
“Miss Sharma,” he said, his voice low and uneven.
“Lord Bridgerton,” she replied, clutching the book in her hands like a shield.
His gaze flickered to the candle on the table. “I saw the light. I thought perhaps—” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as his eyes returned to hers. “I didn’t expect to find anyone awake.”
Kate forced herself to stand tall, though the shawl slipping down her arm made her feel perilously exposed. “I could not sleep,” she admitted.
He stepped further into the room, his movements deliberate yet hesitant. “The storm?”
“Yes.” Her voice softened despite herself. “I have always found them unsettling. In India, my father would read to me during monsoons. It was the only way I could bear the noise.”
Anthony hesitated, his expression shifting.
Something unspoken passed through his eyes—a flicker of understanding, perhaps even kinship.
“This was my father’s library,” he said after a pause. “He spent countless hours here. It was his sanctuary.”
Kate tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her gaze. “Did he teach you to love books as well?”
A corner of Anthony’s mouth lifted, though it was not quite a smile. “No. He taught me to love order. Catalogs, classifications. Everything in its proper place.”
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room in stark contrast.
Kate noticed the way Anthony’s fingers flexed at his sides, as if restraining something. Her own grip on the book tightened.
“How did he die?” she asked softly.
He looked away, his profile suddenly sharp in the dim light. “A bee,” he said finally. “He was stung in the garden.”
Kate’s breath caught. The words were so simple, yet they carried a weight that seemed to settle over the entire room. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Anthony nodded, his gaze distant. “It was humbling. To see a man like him brought down by something so small.”
The rawness in his voice struck her like a physical blow. She had always thought of him as unyielding, a force of nature. To see him now, so human, so vulnerable—it disarmed her entirely.
“I know what it is to lose a father,” she said, her voice trembling. “It leaves a hole that nothing can fill. You learn to live around it, but it never truly fades.”
Her words hung in the air, fragile and intimate. Anthony turned back to her, his eyes meeting hers with a fierceness that sent a shiver down her spine.
“Miss Sharma,” he began, but his voice faltered. He took a step closer, the air between them crackling with something unnamed.
Kate’s heart thundered in her chest. “What?”
Another step. His gaze dipped briefly, his restraint unraveling with each breath. “Nothing. I should—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair.
Kate bristled, suddenly aware of how exposed she was. The fabric of her nightdress clung to her skin, translucent in the candlelight. She grabbed her shawl, clutching it to her chest as heat rushed to her cheeks.
“This is highly improper,” she said, her voice trembling with anger—or was it something else?
“I did not mean—”
“—Of course you did not mean,” she snapped. “You never mean anything, do you, my lord? You simply act, and others must suffer the consequences.”
His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. “Is that what you truly think of me?”
“It is what you have proven time and again,” she said. “You think yourself above reproach, above—”
“—And you think yourself immune to this,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “To me.”
Kate’s breath hitched. His proximity was overwhelming, his scent, his heat. “You presume too much.”
“Do I?” His voice was a low growl, his eyes searching hers. “Then tell me, Miss Sharma. Tell me you feel nothing.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She hated him for the way he unmoored her, for the way his presence filled every corner of her mind.
“Pardon me, my lord,” she said finally, her voice brittle as she turned toward the door. “I shall bid you good night.”
But as she moved past him, her shoulder brushed against his chest, and she froze. For a moment, neither of them moved, the storm outside nothing compared to the tempest between them.
Anthony closed his eyes, breathing her in, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“Kate,” he whispered, his voice rough with longing.
She stepped away, her resolve breaking with each step she took toward the door. She didn’t dare look back, afraid of what she might see—or what she might do.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Anthony stood motionless in the center of the library, his heart pounding with the force of something he could no longer deny.
Kate Sharma was not a passing storm. She was the eye of it.