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“Aunty, hi,” Kate said into the phone.
“Hello, darling,” Agatha’s voice crackled warmly over the line. “Boarding go alright?”
“Yes, I’m just getting on now at London Bridge.”
True to her word, Kate stepped from the platform and into the interior of the train car, bound for Kent. Canterbury, to be precise.
“Call me when you’re close, will you? I’ll have Marcus come collect you from the station.”
“Aggie, it’s fine,” Kate protested weakly, shoving her carryon into an empty compartment. “Really, I thought I’d just call a taxi.”
“Why on earth do you think I would let you waste your money on a taxi to visit me? Besides, have you considered that I might value a break from my brother?” Agatha clicked her tongue. “Please don’t deprive me of that, Miss Sharma.”
Kate laughed, easily swayed by the woman’s insistence. In a battle of wills between the two, Aggie Danbury was always sure to win. Though Kate’s stubbornness was one of her favourite features - her seven-year-old goddaughter’s staunch distaste for English tea becoming a point of bonding when they first met - she knew when to let the elder woman win.
“Very well then, Lady Danbury.”
Aggie scoffed at the honorific. “I thought I forbade you from calling me that.”
“Payback for the formality of Miss Sharma, I’m afraid.”
“Stop speaking rubbish to me and find your seat already, Kathani,” she sighed.
Kate smiled. She could easily imagine the fond exasperation on the elder woman’s face.
“Love you, too,” she replied.
As she ended the call, Kate’s eyes darted about in search of her seat.
Due to the unfortunate circumstance of booking a last-minute ticket on a train bound for the countryside a mere three days before Christmas, Kate’s options for seating were slim. She was ultimately stuck with an aisle seat facing backward, every other seat occupied by more well-prepared passengers. Attentive passengers, she noted, sliding into her seat and shrugging off her coat. All of them were fixated on the world outside the window, slowly being blanketed with pristine snow.
All but one. Her seatmate.
Opposite from her was a man absolutely transfixed by his phone, entirely disinterested by the view. He was in a front-facing seat adjacent to the window - the sort of seat she was accustomed to. Her ideal seat.
Despite his location in her ideal seat, the man who occupied it was not entirely unideal himself. His fingers, long and thick and surprisingly well-manicured, tapped a staccato against his screen. A very nice-looking neck was bundled in a cashmere scarf, broad shoulders shrouded by an oatmeal-coloured overcoat. When he lifted his phone to his ear, she saw a hint of its plaid lining. Burberry. Naturally. He was clearly a posh man. But despite the snobbish trappings, she found him inoffensive to look at. In fact, Kate could admit she found him wildly attractive.
That was, until he began talking. On his phone. Rather loudly.
“What’s going on?” he said in lieu of proper greeting.
As she shrugged off her coat and plopped it in her very unideal seat, she fought the urge to curl her lip at the sound of his accent. A Mayfair man, then. One who offered no, Hello, how are you, my name is? Kate noted. A rude Mayfair man.
“Well, why didn’t you- I don’t want to see him the second I get here,” he groaned.
A pause.
“No, Daph, I’m telling you. Can you put Mum on?”
Another pause. Longer, this time.
“Hi, Mum. I was just telling Daph that-” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. I know. Yes, I know. But I really don’t think it’s necessary and I’d rather just get a- Mum, look a taxi is fine. Please, stop -”
Just as she was settling in, the train lurched to life, taking Kate stumbling with it. She pitched forward, foot catching on the corner of his shoe.
“Mind my boots, would you?” The man muttered the aside just loud enough for her to hear, not even sparing a glance in her direction before returning to his conversation.
She had half a mind to stamp her heel into his boot until the label on her sole was branded into the leather. Of course, the other half of her mind knew this was a sold out train. Conflict would only make his company worse. Opting against physical violence, Kate tuned out the rest of the man’s fragmented dialogue and began calculating the cost of her discomfort. It was a relatively short ride. Only an hour and thirty-three minutes of her life. An hour forty, if she accounted for the inevitable, slow shuffling of fellow commuters who took their time filing off the train.
Just this once, she supposed she could live with an obnoxious seatmate and the loss of a decent view.
But as the train lurched away from the station and began shuddering down the track, she was reminded there was another, more pressing issue with her seating arrangement. That damned motion sickness.
It was one thing to be sat backward, her body hurled in reverse as the train hurried forward. It was another to have a view that was more wall than window. With no scenery to ground her, Kate’s stomach churned. God, how she hated her body sometimes. One would think that motion sickness would have been evolutionarily eliminated by now, but no. Here she was, on the edge of an Exorcist-style expulsion because her body couldn’t fucking figure out why or how it was in motion.
Kate grit her teeth and looked again at the Mayfair man, whose attention remained on the phone cradled in his palm. She took her time to study him properly, now that he was thoroughly preoccupied with forming ceaseless, interrupted sentence fragments. While he appeared generally rude, he still appeared to have some pretence of manners. If not this “Daph,” then mildly with his mother. Like most posh pricks, he seemed the type to grunt politely enough at the right sort of tourist. To, potentially, give up his seat if propriety dictated he ought to.
An idea formed in her mind.
After living between continents for more than half her life and working with international clients at Agatha’s firm, Kate knew how to modulate her accent at will. She was quaint and folksy with visitors from Yorkshire, refined and clipped with her set of clients in Grosvenor Square. She wasn’t proud of it, but she’d even put on a lilt now and then over a glass of Glenfiddich. Whatever got a contract signed. To be clear, she was still plenty herself. She was at ease entirely in Brixton and most of London proper; comfortable within the flea markets of Shoreditch and Dalston or roaming the stalls of Portobello Road.
This was all to say: she understood where - and when - it may be advantageous to employ alterations to her accent. So while some would lean full-tilt into RP for this sort of man, she knew this particular circumstance called for the opposite. If she wanted that seat, she had to sound like a tourist.
It was a desperate measure, but with her stomach rolling as the train swayed, Kate knew that these were desperate times. The moment he ended his phone call, she cleared her throat to capture his attention.
“I ‘ave never seen ze snow before,” Kate said, cringing at her own affectation.
Why in the motherfuck did she pick French?
The accent had flown out of her without forethought. Subconsciously, flying by the seat of her pants as she was, her friend Genevieve had come to mind. The woman had built a small business on the back of a faux French accent, after all. But Kate was intending to sound vaguely Italian. Only, she’d just realised after opening her mouth now - she couldn't do an Italian accent.
She braced for him to dismiss her attempt at the dialect, but the man leaned in, fell for it all too easily.
“Really?”
For the first time, his brown eyes found her face and he blinked at her like she was a wonder. Like perhaps seeing her was the same as seeing snow.
“Really,” she nodded emphatically. “It is… how do you say… malchance?”
“Bad luck,” he supplied.
“Bad luck, yes, oui. Bad luck zat I can hardly see it from zis seat.” She made a meal of craning her neck forward to get a glimpse out the window.
The man’s brow furrowed in thought, then smoothed. “You don’t get snow in France?”
Right. Yes, of course. They do get snow in fucking France. In fact, there's light powder over the ground in Paris, according to her friend Emily’s Instagram story. Idiot.
“Ah, non. I am from the south,” she said, dialing back the accent by a few notches. “Very, very south.”
“Oh, whereabouts? I was in Cannes briefly this summer.”
“I am from Nice.”
“Ah, nice.”
“Non. Nice.”
There was really no need for her to fuck with him. And yet, she couldn’t help herself. It was most likely the French spirit taking hold.
“That wasn’t what I -” He waves a hand, his words forgotten. “I could trade with you, if you’d like?”
Well done, Mayfair man.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. Are you sure?” she asked, already gathering her coat and straightening her knees to stand.
“Of course, miss…” the man trailed off when he stood, a dumbstruck little smile on his face as their shoulders brushed amid the trading of seats. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name.”
“That’s because I didn’t share it.”
The French, unlike Italians, were conveniently rude.
Sinking into her seat, Kate took a proper look out the window. Her stomach had started to settle almost instantaneously and she blew out a slow breath in relief, allowing her eyes to drift briefly shut.
Her moment of respite was shattered by the clearing of a throat. She cracked an eye open to find her seatmate leaned forward keenly, elbows propped on his knees. Notably, the man had placed his phone in his coat pocket.
“You really don’t want to miss that view,” he told her.
“Ah, oui.” She attempted to affect a bit of wonder with wide eyes and an awed smile. It was her first snow after all. “Très belle.”
He leaned forward, gesturing to the wintry scene beyond the window: snow swirling past the pane in flurries, landing in picturesque little piles on the treetops.
“La neige est toujours si magique à cette période de l'année.”
Merde. Of course Mister bloody Mayfair spoke fucking French. Of course he sounded offensively attractive speaking it. He’d probably become fluent in boarding school, or during summers spent getting daydrunk in Bordeaux with his cohort of similarly snobbish, sexy friends.
Kate took a moment to properly curse her rudimentary grasp of the language and then graced the man with a smile.
“Oui.”
He smiled back. The expression was rather pleasing on him, softening the hard divot between his brows and exposing a tidy row of white teeth.
“Que vas-tu faire pendant les fêtes?”
God damn it, he was still going. Malchance, indeed.
“Désolée. I am practising my English. Could you…?”
“Oh, yes of course,” he replied hurriedly. “You speak it incredibly well, by the way.”
The comment, innocuous and well-intentioned though it was, set her teeth on edge.
“Merci,” she said tightly.
“Sorry.” The man tipped his head in apology, crossing a hand over his heart. “Allow me to start over. I’m Anthony.”
“Kate.” Her voice was clipped.
“Kate.” He repeated her name, a gentle smile playing over his lips as if he was charmed by her. Dear god, did he find her antagonism charming? The French really could get away with anything on account of being culturally aloof.
“Kate,” she said again, in case he needed clarification.
“So, Kate. I was only asking, what brings you to London? Or to Kent, rather?”
“My sister is going to university in London, and we have some friends in Kent, so…” she spoke in half-truths and allowed him to fill in the blanks.
“I see. Just visiting for the holidays, then?” Anthony almost looked disappointed at the idea that she might leave London and return to Nice.
“Visiting Kent, yes,” she replied, side-stepping his question. It would be just her luck to have him running into her six months from now on the Heath.
“Well. You’re going to love it.”
“Am I?”
She’d been to Agatha’s estate only once before, and only in late summer, but she knew that he was correct. She’d fallen in love with the countryside in those few days. There were endless fields of green, a stable full of mares for her to ride across the expansive grounds, and an orchard dense with apples ripe for the picking. It was, possibly, the most idyllic she had ever found England. Not that he knew that, of course.
“Oh, absolutely. If you think the snow is beautiful now, just wait until you’re really in it.” He leaned forward, knees knocking into hers as he angled his gaze toward the window, a tinge of childlike awe in his eyes. “There’s nothing like the sound of it. That perfect silence as the world falls quiet and there’s nothing but snow.”
Silence, Kate thought wryly, sounded rather nice right about now. Why had he chosen this precise moment in history to become abnormally sociable? Last she checked, he was grunting into a phone and blustering about his boots. This change of heart was terribly un-English of him.
“Although the winter is lovely,” he continued thoughtfully, “it’s a pity you aren’t able to see Kent in the summer.”
She had.
“A pity.”
“In the warmer months, everything is in bloom. It’s quite a sight to behold when the trees and plants come to life. At our home in Kent - we have a home in Kent -” Of course, he has a home in Kent. “- my mother has the most spectacular flowers. She keeps a massive garden: endless hyacinths and chrysanthemums and tulips.” He looked at her, something mildly dreamy in his gaze. “It’s beautiful. The garden, I mean.”
“Ah.” She swallowed. “Sounds like it.”
If she didn’t know better, she might have thought he was talking about her.
“Did you know, actually, that Kent is known as the ‘Garden of England’?”
She did.
“No. Really?”
“Really. It was named for its flowers.” It was not. “By Henry VII, I believe.” It was Henry VIII.
Kate fought her baser urge to issue a correction, as she was so often wont to do. The only thing holding her tongue (besides her molars physically clamping down on the muscle), was the knowledge that her flimsy subterfuge would fall apart in an instant if she fact-checked him. Unless she wanted to field questions about her French education, mum was the word.
“Fascinating.”
“Isn’t it.”
The tip of his tongue was tucked against his teeth, as if he might have more to say. Instead, Anthony shook his head and cast his eyes away from her cheek.
Silence settled upon them then. The low rumble of the train and the errant whistling gust of wind were the only sounds surrounding the pair. He leaned forward a little further to peer out the window and his leg pressed against hers just so, fortuitous and entirely accidental. The solid touch of his thigh against her knee and the gentle brush of his trousers were not unwelcome sensations, to her surprise. And the smell of him, a bite of vetiver and a little kiss of oud, wasn’t unwelcome either.
She leaned forward too, her denim-clad calf sliding casually against his. He did not pull away, though neither of them acknowledged the contact. Strange, how quickly she found herself coveting this little bit of closeness.
There was also the way he looked at her now, which she quite enjoyed too. Lingering little glances when he thought she was too absorbed by the view of the window. The manner in which he observed the scant bit of snow that he could manage from his unenviable vantage point was unexpectedly charming. This iteration of Anthony was a far cry from the man she’d encountered mere minutes ago, his face previously marked by frustration and his posture on the precipice of constipation. The harsh edge had melted from his features and his broad shoulders had bowed with ease. Comfort suited him quite nicely, Kate thought. Even better than Burberry.
“Hey, Kate?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she returned, a little breathier than anticipated.
The corner of his mouth ticked upward in a slow smile. For a second, she thought he might have understood the thoughts she had kept silent. Maybe he would make some sort of overture. Press his knee between her parted thighs just that little bit more, until the intention was too obvious to ignore. Ask her if she’s spending time with someone special for the holidays, if there’s anyone waiting for her at home in Nice. Or perhaps he could skip all the preamble and nod toward the curtained end of the car for a quick makeout.
Not that she would actually do that of course. Not usually. Though usually, she didn’t find herself on trains with inordinately attractive seatmates who happened to be making eyes at her. A seatmate who was not only shockingly affable, but effable. So if they ended up doing some over-the-pants and under-the-jumper business, so be it. Call it a Christmas miracle.
Unfortunately for her, however, it appeared he was mistaking her acute onset attraction for interest in additional fabricated factoids.
“Did you know that London is technically classified as a forest?”
“Oh,” she nodded absently, a little disappointed. At least that bit of trivia was accurate.
“Yeah, it’s got over eight million trees.”
Accurate again. Though that was of little consequence. Her focus was entirely elsewhere. Now that she had conjured the image of his lips on hers, she couldn’t stop looking at them in motion. She wanted to make him say ‘million’ again.
“Very nice,” she said, her mouth dry.
“The most common tree is the London Plane. Did you know that?”
Of course she did.
“Not at all.”
“They’re resistant to pollution. Or, rather, their bark is. Which is excellent. For London.”
“Right.”
“Because of the pollution.”
“Right.”
True, true, and true. If this conversation were her weekly pub quiz, he’d be well on his way to second place. Oh, fuck. Was she going to run into him at the next pub quiz night? She could picture it now.
“First astronaut to walk on the moon?”
“Neil Armstrong!”
“First explorer to circumnavigate the globe?”
“Juan Sebastián Elcano!”
“First counterfeit francophone on the express train to Kent?”
“Kate Sharma!”
Heaven knows she’d be far too pissed on any given quiz night to feign a French accent and recall the woodwind instrument Henry VIII practised when he wasn’t busy beheading his wives. (The recorder. As if the man couldn’t sink lower.)
“I, er, I love trees,” Anthony added unhelpfully.
Kate visibly cringed. At least he had the good sense to wince as well.
She took the opportunity to turn her head back toward the window and pray he stopped talking about trees. Shit, she’d take some chatter about shrubs. Anything to find him sexy again. Twice over now, the man had managed to put his foot in it. Honestly, he had a natural gift.
“Ah, Kate?”
“Yeah?” Her reply was far less winded this time.
“I’m going to stop talking about trees now.”
She sighed in abject relief, already finding him infinitely more attractive.
“Wonderful.”
“I also wanted to say sorry about that call earlier. And that bit about the boots. I- I feel that maybe we got off on the wrong foot. That I did, really. This time of year is already stressful and my family is…” he waved a hand erratically, suggesting some small amount of chaos. “Well, I’m thirty and my mum is still attempting to micromanage my transport from the station, if that tells you anything.”
Kate laughed in earnest at that. “Tis the season.”
From there it felt as though a dam had burst, all talk of trees left blessedly behind for a more fruitful confab. Chatter drifted from all matters of sibling rivalry (“My brother Colin is a nightmare on the pall mall field.” “Edwina is a menace at chess.”) to their preferred taste in teas (“Queen Anne’s blend from Fortnum & Mason. A splash of milk.” “Ugh. Snob. I only drink my own homemade blend of chai.” “I’m the snob?” “Undoubtedly.”) So too did their bodies drift again, legs outstretched and brushing without comment as they conversed at length. They spoke without pause for the better part of an hour, as Staplehurst and Headcorn and other strange amalgamations of nouns passed by.
Anthony was surprisingly excellent company and a clever conversationalist, Kate had to admit. If it weren’t for the circumstances of being trapped on a train, she might even consider it a date. Her only complaint was the extended use of her accent. Her embarrassment at its employment was mounting with every minute. By this point, it seemed a less humiliating option to hit her head on the wall and pretend it had knocked an English accent loose, rather than admit to her ruse outright. She didn’t have a handbook for un-Frenching herself so she could ethically French a man.
Not that she was going to do that of course.
As the train paused at Pluckley, Kate checked her watch. Thirty to forty-odd minutes left on their journey, she reckoned. Best to give Aggie a call.
“Excusez-moi,” she said, standing with her phone in hand. “I’ll be just a minute.”
___
Anthony watched Kate walk to the opposite end of the train car and released an extended exhale. He hated to watch her go - but god he was dying to put his head between his knees.
His stomach had been in revolt for an hour, churning with every violent chug of the train. But that was no matter. There was a gorgeous woman who had taken his seat by happy accident - Kate - and she had proven to be an unparalleled distraction. Distracting to the point of intellectual damage, though he squarely blamed the bulk of his stupidity on the effects of motion sickness and the emotional wringer his family had tossed him through today. At first, he had only begun speaking to his seatmate to pull focus from his nausea, but then he had been far too struck by her beauty to string together a tolerable sentence. He couldn’t stop vomiting facts at her - not all even true facts, mind - and his only saving grace was that she was too French to know better.
He could only imagine the amount of stammering he’d do if she appeared at the pub on quiz night, dark-eyed and pink-lipped, that smoky voice shouting out trivia beside him. Heaven knows he’d be far too pissed for politeness, probably managing an opening line composed of trivia that was both incorrect and crass. He shuddered at the thought, thanking a higher power that he wouldn’t have to endure that particular humiliation.
Though Anthony wasn’t in the business of ogling women on public transport - particularly after being an irritable twat - he’d pulled off the trick of doing both this afternoon. Miraculously, Kate had granted him a second chance, even though she had every right to fob him off for his initial rudeness and, later, for not shutting the fuck up about trees. It had all happened quickly: him rhapsodising about a garden (fine, good, potentially flirtatious) had snowballed into a stilted soliloquy about urban flora (not fine, not good, definitely offputting). He had sounded like Colin when he came from his trip from Cyprus, waxing poetic about oleanders.
They’d muddled through eventually though, Anthony thought with relief. Once his vertigo had abated and that fluttering feeling in his chest had settled, he and Kate found their footing. While it was terribly difficult to dislodge the thoughts of her long legs wrapped around his waist like a ribbon or his fingers woven into the silken mass of her curls, he managed it for the sake of a lively conversation. She was quick-witted, fiercely opinionated, and impressively intelligent. If this were a date (which it wasn’t, he had to remind himself), he’d say it was the best he’d had in ages.
Kate’s back was turned to him but she moved her head just then, her eyes finding his in an instant. He raised his hand in a little wave, which she returned fondly. There was that fluttering feeling again. Another feeling too, a little more southward, stirred at the sight of her: curls tossed carelessly over a shoulder, lush lips parted in a soft smile, her slim waist and the gentle swell of her breasts well-fitted in a currant-coloured turtleneck.
If this were a date (which it wasn’t, he reminded himself again), he’d have kissed her by now. Or, given the circumstances, he’d have nodded at the curtained end of the car and asked her if she could spare a moment. His mind got to wandering then, primarily about the arithmetic of cunnilingus in a moving train car. If the train is travelling at 200 kilmetres per hour, and Anthony’s tongue is moving at 100, how many times can he make Kate come?
Shit. She was still smiling at him. And now his trousers were tight. Maybe stretching his legs would do him some good. Get the blood circulating back to his brain and all. And if that exercise happened to carry him to her, well. Another happy accident. He stretched his legs slowly, waiting until Kate’s back was turned away again to straighten himself fully. The view of her arse was particularly unhelpful, but thoughts of Colin’s credit card bill during his stint in Catania (Who knew seafood could be so bloody expensive?) set his circulation to rights.
Anthony approached Kate slowly, not wishing to intrude on a private call. The closer he stepped, the more he noticed that her voice sounded markedly different. No, not her voice. Her accent.
She wasn’t fucking French at all. The woman was a bloody Brit.
What the hell?
___
“How goes the train?”
“Forward.”
“Brilliant. I’ll send Marcus out in a mo’. Just so you’re aware, I’ve been informed he will be picking you up with another person from the station. One of Simon’s mates.”
“Duly noted.” She peered through the train car, wondering who among them might be her companion. She smiled at her seatmate who offered a little wave of his fingers and stood to stretch his legs. She turned her back to speak again. “Will Simon’s fiancée be there, by the way? I’m dying to meet her.”
“Yes!” Agatha’s smile was apparent through the phone. “Lovely young lady.”
“Are they both spending the holiday with us?”
“Splitting time between my home and the Bridgertons’, I should think. The young lady’s elder brother is actually who Marcus will be nabbing with you from the train.”
“Oh?”
“Fair warning, he might be a bit, er, prickly,” Agatha said carefully. “The eldest Bridgerton is not a fan of Marcus. So don’t take it personally if he’s a tad rude. I might ask you to be a bit of a buffer in the car.”
“Ah, now I see why you invited me,” Kate teased. “I’ll be running interference while you stay at home and sip brandy. Why on earth don’t those two get along?”
Though she adored Agatha, Marcus had always been the warmest member of the Anderson clan. It was near-impossible to imagine anyone being chilly toward him.
“It’s hard to like any man who’s dating you mum, I imagine. Especially one who helped his sister hide her relationship with his best mate.” She dropped the gossip mildly, no differently than one might comment on the weather.
Kate sucked her teeth. “Yikes. Poor man.” Whoever he was, he had her immense sympathy. “What did you say his name was? The brother.”
“Anthony.”
“Anthony,” Kate repeated, struck dumb. Surely it wasn’t-
“Kate.”
She closed her eyes at the sound of his voice behind her. It was.
“Aggie, I’ve got to go.”
She ended the call before Agatha could say her goodbyes, facing Anthony in the aisle.
His face was impassive but his jaw ticked and his arms were crossed. “You speak perfect English.”
“For what it’s worth,” Kate replied, “you speak excellent French.”
___
Anthony was a far better sport about her subterfuge than she’d anticipated. Kate would grant him that. After a few minutes of interrogation, he’d more or less taken her trickery on the chin. But he was never going to let her live this decision down.
“Just so you know, I will never let this go.” This was the third time he’d told her for good measure. “Seriously. The minute I’m through that front door my entire family is hearing the story of the woman who faked an hour-long conversation in a French accent just to get a window seat.”
“I’m sorry, you really think this story makes you look good? The man who was duped by an hour-long conversation in a fake French accent and offered an ode to trees?”
Anthony deliberated her point, then shrugged. “If your only argument is mutually assured destruction, that’s fine by me. I’ve embarrassed myself far worse in front of my family. Besides, I let you keep the seat, didn’t I?”
True. He did.
“Chivalrous of you.” She kicked his calf playfully.
“Of course.” He leaned forward and shifted his leg between her knees. “I’m a gentleman.”
A pause. The air between them grew thick, heavy with potential. She wondered if he might skim his fingers against her knee next; slide them against her thigh. She knew that she would let him.
“Embarrassed yourself how?” Kate asked, aching to break the tension.
“Pardon?”
“You’ve embarrassed yourself far worse in front of your family. How? When?”
“Most recently? I challenged my sister’s fiancé to a duel.”
She checked her watch. Twenty minutes remaining.
“Spare no detail.”
___
“Not that it matters, but I’m on your side in this whole thing.”
They were off the train and out of the station now, suitcases and duffel bags in tow as they waited for Marcus to arrive. Snow had fallen in sheets in the hours before and a blanket of white covered the ground beneath their feet.
“Really?” Anthony’s head was between his knees but he straightened up to look at her properly, his world finally gaining equilibrium. Snowflakes had stuck themselves stubbornly to his dark hair and reddened cheeks.
“Really,” she affirmed. “If my sister and best mate pulled some shit like that…” Kate let out a low whistle. “You were arguably more restrained than I might’ve been.”
“Thank you. Genuinely.” He heaved a sigh. “I do regret how rash I was, and we’re past it all now, but I’ll bear that in mind when the whole saga is inevitably rehashed over a roast.”
She laughed sympathetically and opened her arms to give him a hug. “Best of luck.”
“Thanks.” He smiled softly against her shoulder, his arms winding behind her back. “I’ll need all the luck I can get.”
She drew back, drinking in his features at close range. Flurries flew around them, a glittering drift that sifted onto Anthony’s shoulders, fluttered into the fringes of his lashes and danced on the tip of his nose. It was inevitable then - with his gloved hand still warm on her back and her fingers tracing the shape of his lapel - what happened next.
“How about a kiss then?” Kate said. “For good luck.”
“Don’t you need mistletoe for that?”
“Only if you want it to be a Christmas kiss. But it doesn’t have to be just that.”
Anthony smiled at that. “Well I’d hate to be limited to one meagre holiday. Especially when you’re in Kent through New Year’s.” He drew a little closer, the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek. “I think I’ll need good luck year-round.”
Kate grinned and surged forward, kissing him emphatically. He caught Kate tightly in his arms, surprised by her swiftness and certainty, which was rather amusing given the explicit preamble. Altogether, the moment was endearing. His shock that she still wanted to kiss him, as if she might have changed her mind in the split second between her offer and her hand curving around his neck, inspired a little swell of affection in her.
Up to speed now, Anthony lifted a hand to the curve of her chin. Kate followed suit and traced her fingers along the crest of his cheek, crystalline flakes of snow thawing in the whorls of her thumb. His mouth was warm, though the tip of his nose brushed coldly against her own, and his tongue moved gently, slowly, against hers as he deepened the kiss. It was hard to recall that it was below freezing outside, what with her hand buried beneath his heavy coat and his mouth hot against her. It was hard to recall much of anything except for Anthony: the way his fingers pressed against her jaw and threaded into her hair; how his teeth tugged gently at her lower lip before his tongue traced the same path, searing the fragile skin. God, she wanted him. More than anything waiting for her in a stocking above the fireplace or tucked beneath the tree, she wanted him - this - indefinitely.
“Er, Kate?” She froze at the sound of her name which, unless he was a gifted ventriloquist, did not come from the man she was actively kissing. “Anthony? Sorry to interrupt, but -” Marcus threw a thumb toward his Audi, “- engine is still running.”
At least Marcus appeared as embarrassed as she did. Anthony, on the other hand, was still gripping her waist, his expression unsuitably smug for a man whose mouth was smudged with her lipstick as he greeted his pseudo-stepfather.
“Pleasure to see you, Lord Anderson.”
“Please, it’s Marcus.”
Anthony smiled cheerily. “Not to me.”
Settling into the backseat, Anthony hadn’t let go of Kate for a moment, determined to remain her seatmate for the foreseeable future. His hand shifted from her waist to her elbow as she buckled, finally landing on her thigh as Marcus pulled away from the station.
“Sorry I missed the memo.” Marcus glanced at the cosy pair in the rearview. “How long have you two been together?”
“It’s rather new,” Anthony answered. “But I’m marking myself eternally lucky.”
It ought to sound false, ridiculous at the minimum. But in his mouth, with him smiling at her like she was a gift, well. The words rang surprisingly true.
Kate couldn’t help but grin and cover his hand with her own, offering a quick squeeze, feeling a bit like Christmas came early.
Good luck, indeed.