“Is there venom?”
“There must be,” he muttered. “There has to be. Something is killing you.”
Her mouth fell open. “Something is killing me? Are you mad? Nothing is killing me. It’s a bee sting.”
But he ignored her, too focused on his self-appointed task of treating her wound.
“Anthony,” she said in a placating voice, trying to reason with him. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been stung by bees at least a half dozen times, and I—”
“He’d been stung before, too,” he interrupted.
Something about his voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Who?” she whispered.
He pressed more firmly against the raised hive, dabbing the handkerchief against the clear liquid that oozed out. “My father,” he said flatly, “and it killed him.”
She couldn’t quite believe it. “A bee?”
“Yes, a bee,” he snapped. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“Anthony, a little bee cannot kill a man.”
He actually paused in his ministrations for a brief second to glance up at her. His eyes were hard, haunted. “I assure you that it can,” he bit off.
Kate couldn’t quite believe that his words were true, but she also didn’t think he was lying, and so she held still for a moment, recognizing that he needed to treat her bee sting far more than she needed to scoot away from his attentions.
“It’s still swollen,” he muttered, pressing harder with the handkerchief. “I don’t think I got it all out.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said gently, her ire with him turning into an almost maternal concern. His brow was wrinkled with concentration, and his movements still carried an air of frantic energy. He was petrified, she realized, scared that she would drop dead right there on the garden bench, felled by a tiny little bee.
It seemed unfathomable, and yet it was true.
He shook his head. “It’s not good enough,” he said hoarsely. “I have to get it all out.”
“Anthony, I—What are you doing?”
He’d tipped her chin back and his head was closing the distance between them, almost as if he meant to kiss her.
“I’m going to have to suck the venom out,” he said grimly. “Just hold still.”
“Anthony!” she shrieked. “You can’t—” She gasped, completely unable to finish her sentence once she felt his lips settling on her skin, applying a gentle, yet inexorable pressure, pulling her into his mouth. Kate didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him toward her.
But in the end she just froze. Because when she lifted her head and looked over his shoulder, she saw a group of three women staring at them with equal expressions of shock.
Mary.
Lady Bridgerton.
And Mrs. Featherington, arguably the ton’s biggest gossip.
And Kate knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her life would never be the same.
Chapter 14
And indeed, if a scandal does erupt at Lady Bridgerton’s party, those of us who remain in London may be assured that any and all titillating news shall reach our tender ears with all possible haste. With so many notorious gossips in attendance, we are all but guaranteed a full and detailed report.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 MAY 1814
For a split second, everyone remained frozen as if in a tableau. Kate stared at the three matrons in shock. They stared back at her in utter horror.
And Anthony kept trying to suck the venom from Kate’s bee sting, completely oblivious to the fact that they had an audience.
Of the quintet, Kate found her voice—and her strength—first, shoving with all her might against Anthony’s shoulder as she let out an impassioned cry of, “Stop!”
Caught off guard, he proved surprisingly easy to dislodge, and he landed on his bum on the ground, his eyes still burning with determination to save her from what he perceived as her deathly fate.
“Anthony?” Lady Bridgerton gasped, her voice quavering on her son’s name, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
He twisted around. “Mother?”
“Anthony, what were you doing?”
“She was stung by a bee,” he said grimly.
“I’m fine,” Kate insisted, then yanked up her dress. “I told him I was fine, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
Lady Bridgerton’s eyes misted over with understanding. “I see,” she said in a small, sad voice, and Anthony knew that she did see. She was, perhaps, the only person who could see.
“Kate,” Mary finally said, choking on her words, “he had his lips on your…on your—”
“On her breast,” Mrs. Featherington said helpfully, folding her arms over her ample bosom. A disapproving frown crossed her face, but it was clear that she was enjoying herself immensely.
“He did not!” Kate exclaimed, struggling to her feet, which wasn’t the easiest task, since Anthony had landed on one of them when she’d shoved him off the bench. “I was stung right here!” With a frantic finger, she pointed at the round red welt that was still rising on the thin skin covering her collarbone.
The three older ladies stared at her bee sting, their skin assuming identical blushes of faint crimson.
“It’s not anywhere near my
breast!” Kate protested, too horrified by the direction of the conversation to remember to feel embarrassed at her rather anatomical language.
“It isn’t far,” Mrs. Featherington pointed out.
“Will someone shut her up?” Anthony snapped.
“Well!” Mrs. Featherington huffed. “I never!”
“No,” Anthony replied. “You always.”
“What does he mean by that?” Mrs. Featherington demanded, poking Lady Bridgerton in the arm. When the viscountess did not respond, she turned to Mary and repeated the question.
But Mary had eyes only for her daughter. “Kate,” she ordered, “come here this instant.”
Dutifully, Kate moved to Mary’s side.
“Well?” Mrs. Featherington asked. “What are we going to do?”
Four sets of eyes turned on her in disbelief.
“ ‘We’?” Kate questioned faintly.
“I fail to see how you have any say in the matter,” Anthony bit off.
Mrs. Featherington just let out a loud, disdainful, and rather nasal sniff. “You have to marry the chit,” she announced.
“What?” The word was ripped from Kate’s throat. “You must be mad.”
“I must be the only sensible one in the garden is what I must be,” Mrs. Featherington said officiously. “Lud, girl, he had his mouth on your bubbies, and we all saw it.”
“He did not!” Kate moaned. “I was stung by a bee. A bee!”
“Portia,” Lady Bridgerton interjected, “I hardly think there is need for such graphic language.”
“There’s little use for delicacy now,” Mrs. Featherington replied. “It’s going to make a tidy piece of gossip no matter how you describe it. The ton’s most fervent bachelor, brought down by a bee. I must say, my lord, it’s not how I imagined it.”
“There is not going to be any gossip,” Anthony growled, advancing on her with a menacing air, “because no one is going to say a word. I will not see Miss Sheffield’s reputation besmirched in any way.”
Mrs. Featherington’s eyes bugged out with disbelief. “You think you can keep something like this quiet?”
“I’m not going to say anything, and I rather doubt that Miss Sheffield will, either,” he said, planting his hands on his hips as he glared down at her. It was the sort of stare that brought grown men to their knees, but Mrs. Featherington was either impervious or simply stupid, so he continued with, “Which leaves our respective mothers, who would seem to have a vested interest in protecting our reputations. Which then leaves you, Mrs. Featherington, as the only member of our cozy little group who might prove herself a gossipy, loudmouthed fishwife over this.”