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Kate Sharma woke up with the rather rare and unfamiliar sensation of complete rest coursing through her entire body. For once, she did not feel weighed down or restless. No tension gripped her shoulders. No pounding headache from overthinking her sister’s prospects or her own stubborn heart. Her body felt light, her thoughts unburdened.
It was, she realized with some surprise, the best sleep she has had since arriving in London.
She felt warm. Safe.
It was only when she shifted slightly, preparing to sit up did she realize that there was an arm wrapped around her waist. A heavy, muscled arm. One that certainly did not belong to Edwina. Or even Mary, for that matter.
Her breath hitched in her throat as she blinked rapidly, willing her vision to sharpen, willing her thoughts to get less clouded. Beneath the soft yet unfamiliar blanket that covered her, she caught a glimpse of white muslin. Her nightgown was still in place, thank the heavens. But the arm remained, draped rather possessively around her, its weight unmistakable. It was very real and of the male variety.
Good god. What had happened last night?
She dared a glance around the room and it seemed like she was still in the library. The chaise beneath her shifted slightly as she tried to move, confirming what she had already feared.
She had not returned to her bedroom last night.
Fragments of the previous evening floated back to her. Strong wind howling against the window panes, the oppressive storm outside that felt like suffocation pressing down on her chest. She remembered fleeing her bedroom with only a thin shawl for protection and a candle to guide her, seeking refuge in the library. To her, it felt like a sanctuary.
And then she remembered encountering Lord Bridgerton some time later. Just as startled as her, equally disheveled. She had expected a cutting remark or a lecture on propriety (from him, of all people). But none came.
For once, they had not bickered.
Instead, something had shifted.
Perhaps it had been the storm outside, or the late hour. Or simply exhaustion.
But the viscount had spoken of his father. Of how he had died so suddenly, with no time for even the shortest of goodbyes. He had stared into the fire as she spoke, his voice tight and Kate had felt the need to comfort him.
In turn, she had confessed her fear of storms. How they reminded her of the monsoon season in India, of the night her mother’s fever had worsened beyond saving, of the way her father had held her through the night and every subsequent night there on, reading to her.
They had sat side by side on the chaise, a respectable distance between them. But the pretenses and the masks had been dropped, momentarily, at least. There was just silence and something fragile unfolding between them. She remembered resting her against the high curve of the chaise, a touch too close to him but not too close, of course. She remembered her eyes growing heavy, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the steady heat of Lord Bridgerton.
And now, now there was an arm around her waist.
And a solid, unmistakably male chest curled right behind her.
So close, and yet not close enough.
She tried to shift again, to sit up, but his hold tightened instinctively, pulling her back to him. To make things worse, because of course they could get much worse, she was now facing him. She could feel his breath stirring against her curls, against the curve of her neck.
In sleep, the constant furrow between his eyebrows seemed to have softened. He looked peaceful. At ease.
Human. He looked human.
His eyes opened slowly, drowsy and warm with sleep. She braced herself for the inevitable reaction. Horror, perhaps? Or the sort of offended, wounded male pride that always seemed to accompany moments like this.
Instead, his lips brushed against hers. Soft, sleepy and yet so instinctive.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
“It’s too early, Kate,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep in a way that made something flutter low in her stomach. “Let’s go back to sleep.”
And then he closed his eyes again.
As if this was entirely normal. As if she belonged here, in his arms. Her heart thudded violently against her ribs.
What in god’s name had happened? And why did it feel like the most natural thing in the world?
He opened his eyes again. This time, they stayed open.
Kate held her breath as the sleepy haze cleared, as awareness slowly returned to his features. First confusion, then realization. Then, almost inevitably, alarm.
His eyes darted around the library, lingering on the fire that had long died in the hearth, the soft blanket with his initials knitted on it, their proximity.
“So,” he said slowly, as though testing the words he was about to utter, voice rough and hoarse from sleep, “this is not a dream, I take it?”
There was something half dazed in the way he said it. Almost gentle, as if he expected her to shrink, to leap away in horror. Well, he would have to be disappointed because she did not.
She should have.
Truly, she should have leapt to her feet, fixed her shawl and nightgown with as much dignity as she could muster in this situation and stormed out of the library with fire in her eyes and sharp words on her tongue.
Instead, her mouth betrayed her.
“Do you often dream about me, my lord?”
The question left her lips before she could stop it. Low, teasing and altogether inappropriate.
It was as though some other version of her—some reckless, curious, scandal seeking version—had slipped into her skin.
Because why else would she remain where she was, curled so close to him that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her own? Why wasn’t she pulling away? Why was her right hand still pressed between them, flat against the fine linen of his shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm?
And for that matter, why had Lord Bridgerton not moved either?
There was ample space for retreat. He could have pulled away, even rolled off the chaise entirely, but he hadn’t. He remained exactly where he was, his arm still on her waist, his haze locked on hers with quiet, unreadable intensity.
He did not smile at her jest but his eyes were warm and teasing.
“Only all the time, Miss Sharma,” he murmured.
The laugh that bubbled in her chest caught her by surprise, but she bit it back. This was absurdly inappropriate. Dangerous.
They were alone. Unchaperoned in each other’s arms, at his family estate. Anyone, anyone, could walk through the door at any given moment and witness the two of them in a position that was beyond compromising.
It was utterly ruinous.
And yet, she did not move. Neither did he.
The air between them thickened with something unspeakable. Kate felt her pulse beat loudly at the base of her throat. Her breath came faster? Or perhaps it was slower? She couldn’t quite tell.
Was the air around them growing heavier, or had all the oxygen been sucked out of the room entirely? She could scarcely breathe.
Still, she couldn’t look away.
His eyes held hers, steady and warm, filled with something dangerously close to fondness. There was desire too, she would not be foolish enough to think it absent. But it was something more. As though he had seen her. Not just now, but last night too. When she had spoken of her parents, of the ache that she still carried. When she had dared, for just one moment, to stop fighting him and the gravitational pull he seemed to exude.
Something had passed between them.
And it still remained.
Her fingers curled reflexively against his chest.
And still neither of them moved.
The muted sound of footsteps passing by the library jolted them both from their trance. Kate’s breath hitched, and she scrambled upright with such urgency it was as though the contact had burned her skin.
Lord Bridgerton followed, slower but no less affected, his eyes searching her face. She refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she busied herself with smoothing down the rumpled folds of her nightgown, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear, ignoring how her fingers trembled.
He sat up fully now, rubbing a hand over his jaw as though trying to ground himself.
For the first time, she saw him clearly. His sleep-mussed hair, his askew collar. And damn him, he looked unbearably handsome like this. Right now, he was not the polished, poised and infuriatingly proper viscount. Instead, he was soft and achingly vulnerable.
Was this what he would look like as a husband? As a lover?
She should not wonder. She should not care. But she did and maybe that was made her turn around to finally leave.
“Please don’t leave.”
His voice stopped her where she was.
She turned again, this time to face him.
“What reason do I have to stay here?” she asked, though even she heard the crack in her voice. “It’s nearly dawn. Someone might find us like this.”
All alone.
It was a scandal waiting to explode.
Lord Bridgerton stood too, closing the few steps that separated them. He wasn’t crowding her, not quite, but the space and air around them seemed to shrink all the same.
“Would it be the worst thing in the world?” he asked quietly, as though afraid of spooking her even more. “Being caught with me?”
“Yes.” The word snapped from her mouth like a whip.
It was a lie. Or it wasn’t. She didn’t know. She only knew that she needed to be angry—needed to cling to the fight—because softness would destroy her. If she softened, she would shatter.
“Did you forget that you are courting my sister?” she continued, and now her voice was rising, with each syllable a blow meant to push him away. “How would it appear if we were to be caught together? Can you not imagine the scandal?”
“I was courting your sister,” he said evenly.
Her eyes narrowed. “Was?”
"Well," he shifted his weight, clasping his hands behind his back, like a schoolboy reciting a lesson he hadn’t quite learned, “I had decided sometime yesterday that we would not suit. Your sister and I, that is.”
Both of her eyebrows arched so high, it was a wonder they didn’t fly off her face. “And is my sister aware of this development, my lord?”
He flushed. The tip of his ear turned red, a tell she would have found amusing under any other circumstance.
“Not yet,” he admitted. “I was waiting for a more suitable time.”
“A suitable time?” Her voice rose again, disbelieving. “A suitable time to break off your courtship with the young lady you invited, before the rest of the ton, to your family estate?”
Each word from her lips landed with precise aim, each more incredulous than the last.
The viscount had the grace to look thoroughly shamefaced. His shoulders sagged slightly, but he did not attempt to justify himself. Not that it mattered. Her heart was already bruised enough. No apology could untangle the knot of what had just happened, what had almost happened.
And still, part of her ached.
“My behavior has not been that of a gentleman,” he said finally, his voice low, his eyes meeting hers with an earnestness that nearly unmoored her. “And I must beg your pardon for that.”
Kate stood frozen, arms folded tightly across her middle, like if she loosened even a little, something might come spilling out. Tears, rage or longing? She didn’t know which.
He was waiting for a response. Of course he was. And so she gave him what little she could: a nod. It was small, stiff, barely more than a tilt of her head. But it was all she could manage.
“I’ve gone about this entire thing in a manner that frankly shames me,” he went on, his brow creased, his voice tight with sincerity. “And I can only hope that you and your sister find it in your hearts to forgive me.”
Her throat burned. She had no words. She didn’t trust herself to speak, didn’t trust the quiver in her breath or the storm of emotion crashing against her ribs. So she dug her nails into her palms, hard. Anything to ground herself. To keep from doing something foolish.
Because some traitorous, dangerous part of her wanted to comfort him. To tell him it was all right. To step closer, into the space between them, and let herself believe—for just a moment—that it could mean something.
It couldn’t.
And it mustn’t.
She bit down on her tongue and said nothing.
He looked away then, briefly, like he too was afraid of what might happen if they let the silence stretch too long. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier.
“I will speak to my mother,” he said. “We will find a way to end the courtship without damaging Miss Edwina’s reputation or prospects in any way. I give you my word, Miss Sharma.”
It was the right thing to say. Perhaps even the only thing.
But it still sent a sharp ache through her chest.
Because that was what it was, wasn’t it? An end. Not only to his courtship with Edwina, but to whatever fragile, foolish thing had been building between them.
It had always been impossible.
She knew that.
But it didn’t make the knowing any easier.
Kate shook her head once, a quick, almost imperceptible motion. As if she could shake loose the lump in her throat. As if she could dismiss the ache coiled tightly in her chest. She wanted to be graceful, to be dignified, to be unaffected.
But all she could manage was a single, broken word. “Okay.”
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
And that was it.
He nodded once, looking like he wanted to say something more. But then, perhaps sensing that words would do more harm than good, he took a step back instead. It was a small distance, no more than a pace or two. Still, it left Kate feeling oddly chilled.
“But please,” he said suddenly, his voice catching her off guard. “You must give me a chance to court you.”
She blinked, startled. His tone was unlike anything she had ever heard from him before. There was no arrogance in it, no smug confidence. Just sincerity and vulnerability.
“I know I have made mistakes,” he went on, eyes searching hers. “More than I can count. But you must know, Kate—you must know that I was afraid.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
“I was afraid of losing you,” he said. “When you were stung yesterday—I cannot remember the last time I felt that kind of fear. It was my worst nightmare come to life.”
She inhaled sharply. The bee. His panic. His hands on her chest. The way he had gasped, held her, whispered her name like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. She remembered what he told her last night in this very room. That his father had died from a bee sting. That fear had taken root in him so deeply he hadn’t even known how to name it.
“I wanted a life without love,” he said now. “I thought it would protect me. That it would be simpler and safer to live that way.”
He looked down, as though ashamed.
“But since you’ve come into my life,” he continued, lifting his gaze again, “I’ve realized that perhaps such a life wouldn’t be worth living at all.”
Kate could not speak. Her throat was tight and her chest unbearably full.
“You do not need to say anything,” he added quickly, as though afraid of scaring her off. “Not now. Not ever, if you don’t wish to. But, please give me a chance.”
She swallowed hard.
“A chance?” she asked softly. Her voice trembled, and her eyes stung. She blinked rapidly, but the tears still came.
“A chance to court you,” he said, stepping closer again. “As you deserve. As I should have done from the very start.”
She stared at him, unsure whether she was dreaming. This man—this proud, difficult, impossible man—was offering her not just an apology, but his heart. In the only way he knew how.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His eyes widened in astonishment.
And then, as though the sun had broken through every cloud in the sky, his face lit up with delight. Pure, unfiltered joy.
“So you will allow me to court you?” he asked, almost disbelieving.
“Yes,” she said with a shaky laugh, “eventually.”
“Eventually?” he repeated, his smile faltering into a pout that was entirely unbecoming for a viscount. “What does that mean?”
She raised her chin, though her lips curved into a teasing smile. “It means you still have to break off your courtship with my sister. In a respectful, careful manner. Then, and only then, you may court me. After a respectable amount of time has passed.”
He groaned. “I can wait for a week.”
“A month, at least,” she replied firmly.
“A week is already long enough,” he said dramatically. “A fortnight is the most I can stay away from you without falling to pieces.”
She rolled her eyes, but her heart was fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. “Then you’ll just have to suffer.”
“Gladly,” he said with a grin, “if it’s for you.”
And then, without thinking, without overanalyzing, without fearing, Kate did something entirely uncharacteristic. She stepped forward and threw herself into his arms. He caught her instantly, like he had been waiting his entire life to do just that. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, grounding them both.
They fit effortlessly. As if they had been made for this, for each other.
Like two pieces of a puzzle finally slotting into place. Perfectly matched, indeed.