Kate considered his question for some time. His voice had held a hoarse urgency that told her there was something critical about her reply. Why, she couldn’t imagine, but something about her childhood clearly rang a chord within his heart.
“Yes,” she finally answered, “but not in the way you would think. You can’t really miss her, because you didn’t know her, but there’s still a hole in your life—a big empty spot, and you know who was supposed to fit there, but you can’t remember her, and you don’t know what she was like, and so you don’t know how she would have filled that hole.” Her lips curved into a sad sort of smile. “Does this make any sense?”
“You have to live each hour as if it’s your last,” she said, “and each day as if you were immortal.”
THE VISCOUNT WHO LOVED ME
THERE IS nothing like a spot of competition to bring out the worst in a man—or the best in a woman.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS
4 MAY 1814
* * *
When Anthony kissed her, she felt as if she were losing her mind. And when he kissed her twice, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted it back!
* * *
Kate stared at him intently, watching his dark eyes in the flickering candlelight, and catching her breath at the flash of pain she saw in the brief second before he looked away. And she knew—with every fiber of her being—that he wasn’t speaking of intangibles. He was talking about his own fears, something very specific that haunted him every minute of every day.
Something she knew she did not have the right to ask him about. But she wished—oh, how she wished—that when he was ready to face his fears, she could be the one to help him.
* * *
Was it possible to fall in love with the same man over and over again, every single day?
ON THE WAY TO THE WEDDING
Gregory turned to Kate. “You have no arguments with this?”
“Oh, I have many arguments,” she answered, craning her neck as she examined the ballroom for any last minute disasters. “I always have arguments.”
“It’s true,” Anthony said. “But she knows when she cannot win.”
Kate turned to Gregory even though her words were quite clearly directed at her husband. “What I know is how to choose my battles.”
“Pay her no mind,” Anthony said. “That is just her way of admitting defeat.”
“And yet he continues,” Kate said to no one in particular, “even though he knows that I always win in the end.”
KATE, ACCORDING TO HER FAMILY . . .
. . . you do have the right of it, dearest Kate. Men are so easy to manage. I cannot imagine ever losing an argument with one.
FROM ELOISE BRIDGERTON, TO HER SISTER-IN-LAW VISCOUNTESS BRIDGERTON, UPON REFUSING HER FIFTH OFFER OF MARRIAGE
To Sir Phillip, With Love
“When you agree to be mother to a child you haven’t borne, your responsibility is twice as great. You must work even harder to ensure that child’s happiness and welfare.”
MARY, The Viscount Who Loved Me
“Were you tempted by the barmaid?” Eloise asked.
Anthony was aghast. “Of course not! Kate would slit my throat.”
“I’m not talking about what Kate would do to you if you strayed, although I’m of the opinion that she would not start at your throat—”
To Sir Phillip, With Love
“I knew you were worthy of the mallet of death.”
COLIN, The Viscount Who Loved Me
3
Benedict
Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, second eldest of the Bridgerton brood, is quite the accomplished artist. This Author was aware that Mr. Bridgerton dabbled in sketching with charcoals, as he mentioned such in passing at the Hastings House Ball last year. He was characteristically understated in this disclosure; the second Bridgerton brother is not known to draw attention to himself.
But painting? Lo and beyond, this is not the drab watercolors as ladies of the ton are dutifully schooled in, but landscapes rich and lush in oils. And while This Author has not seen these paintings, a rumor has been circulating that his talent may be enough to earn some wall space in the National Gallery.
Mr. Bridgerton, married just over a year ago to the former Miss Sophia Beckett, a distant relation to the Earl of Penwood, is an infrequent guest in London during the season. He and his wife are said to prefer the country and reside in a small but well-appointed cottage just outside of Rosemeade. This Author imagines there is a well-lit artist’s studio there, with French doors opening to all that is pastoral and bucolic. But as This Author has never been invited, she can only speculate.
That said, This Author’s speculations are usually uncannily accurate.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 1818
AN OFFER FROM A GENTLEMAN
Benedict was a Bridgerton, and while there was no family to which he’d rather belong, he sometimes wished he were considered a little less a Bridgerton and a little more himself.
* * *
He’d turned and seen her, and he’d known she was the reason he was there that night; the reason he lived in England; hell, the very reason he’d been born.
* * *
She was out there somewhere. He’d long since resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t likely to find her, and he hadn’t searched actively for over a year, but . . .
He just couldn’t stop from looking. It had become, in a very strange way, a part of who he was. His name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and a sketching crayon, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.
* * *
MORE THAN one masquerade attendee has reported to This Author that Benedict Bridgerton was seen in the company of an unknown lady dressed in a silver gown.
Try as she might, This Author has been completely unable to discern the mystery lady’s identity. And if This Author cannot uncover the truth, you may be assured that her identity is a well-kept secret indeed.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS
7 JUNE 1815
It seemed an unwritten rule that all ladies of the ton must keep their callers waiting for at least fifteen minutes, twenty if they were feeling particularly peevish.
A bloody stupid rule, Benedict thought. Why the rest of the world didn’t value punctuality as he did, he would never know.
* * *
Now, as he stood in the pond, the water lapping at his midriff, just above his navel, he was struck once again by that odd sense of somehow being more alive than he’d been just seconds earlier. It was a good feeling, an exciting, breathless rush of emotion.
It was like before. When he’d met her.
Something was about to happen, or maybe someone was near.
His life was about to change.
And he was, he realized with a wry twist of his lips, naked as the day he was born.
* * *
“I think I have to kiss you,” Benedict said, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe his own words. “It’s rather like breathing. One doesn’t have much choice in the matter.”