The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons 2)

Kate and Edwina nodded and murmured promises to that effect as Mary gathered her embroidery and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Edwina turned to Kate and asked, “Have you decided what you’re going to wear tonight?”

“The green gauze, I think. I should wear white, I know, but I fear it does not suit me.”

“If you don’t wear white,” Edwina said loyally, “then neither shall I. I shall wear my blue muslin.”

Kate nodded her approval as she glanced back at the newspaper in her hand, trying to balance Newton, who had flipped over onto his back and was angling to have his belly rubbed. “Just last week Mr. Berbrooke said you are an angel in blue. On account of it matching your eyes so well.”

Edwina blinked in surprise. “Mr. Berbrooke said that? To you?”

Kate looked back up. “Of course. All of your beaux try to pass on their compliments through me.”

“They do? Whyever?”

Kate smiled slowly and indulgently. “Well, now, Edwina, it might have something to do with the time you announced to the entire audience at the Smythe-Smith musicale that you could never marry without your sister’s approval.”

Edwina’s cheeks turned just the slightest bit pink. “It wasn’t the entire audience,” she mumbled.

“It might as well have been. The news traveled faster than fire on rooftops. I wasn’t even in the room at the time and it only took two minutes for me to hear about it.”

Edwina crossed her arms and let out a “Hmmph” that made her sound rather like her older sister. “Well, it’s true, and I don’t care who knows it. I know I’m expected to make a grand and brilliant match, but I don’t have to marry someone who will ill treat me. Anyone with the fortitude to actually impress you would have to be up to snuff.”

“Am I so difficult to impress, then?”

The two sisters looked at each other, then answered in unison, “Yes.”

But as Kate laughed along with Edwina, a niggling sense of guilt rose within her. All three Sheffields knew that it would be Edwina who would snag a nobleman or marry into a fortune. It would be Edwina who would ensure that her family would not have to live out their lives in genteel poverty. Edwina was a beauty, while Kate was…

Kate was Kate.

Kate didn’t mind. Edwina’s beauty was simply a fact of life. There were certain truths Kate had long since come to accept. Kate would never learn to waltz without trying to take the lead; she’d always be afraid of electrical storms, no matter how often she told herself she was being silly; and no matter what she wore, no matter how she dressed her hair or pinched her cheeks, she’d never be as pretty as Edwina.

Besides, Kate wasn’t certain that she’d like all the attention Edwina received. Nor, she was coming to realize, would she relish the responsibility of having to marry well to provide for her mother and sister.

“Edwina,” Kate said softly, her eyes growing serious, “you don’t have to marry anyone you don’t like. You know that.”

Edwina nodded, suddenly looking as if she might cry.

“If you decide there isn’t a single gentleman in London who is good enough for you, then so be it. We shall simply go back to Somerset and enjoy our own company. There’s no one I like better, anyway.”

“Nor I,” Edwina whispered.

“And if you do find a man who sweeps you off your feet, then Mary and I shall be delighted. You should not worry about leaving us, either. We shall get on fine with each other for company.”

“You might find someone to marry as well,” Edwina pointed out.

Kate felt her lips twist into a small smile. “I might,” she allowed, knowing that it probably wasn’t true. She didn’t want to remain a spinster her entire life, but she doubted she would find a husband here in London. “Perhaps one of your lovesick suitors will turn to me once he realizes you are unattainable,” she teased.

Edwina swatted her with a pillow. “Don’t be silly.”

“But I’m not!” Kate protested. And she wasn’t. Quite frankly, this seemed to her the most likely avenue by which she might actually find a husband in town.

“Do you know what sort of man I’d like to marry?” Edwina asked, her eyes turning dreamy.

Kate shook her head.

“A scholar.”

“A scholar?”

“A scholar,” Edwina said firmly.

Kate cleared her throat. “I’m not certain you’ll find many of those in town for the season.”

“I know.” Edwina let out a little sigh. “But the truth is—and you know this even if I am not supposed to let on in public—I’m really rather bookish. I’d much rather spend my day in a library than gadding about in Hyde Park. I think I should enjoy life with a man who enjoyed scholarly pursuits as well.”

“Right. Hmmm…” Kate’s mind worked frantically. Edwina wasn’t likely to find a scholar back in Somerset, either. “You know, Edwina, it might be difficult to find you a true scholar outside the university towns. You might have to settle for a man who likes to read and learn as you do.”

“That would be all right,” Edwina said happily. “I’d be quite content with an amateur scholar.”

Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Surely they could find someone in London who liked to read.

“And do you know what?” Edwina added. “You truly cannot tell a book by its cover. All sorts of people are amateur scholars. Why, even that Viscount Bridgerton Lady Whistledown keeps talking about might be a scholar at heart.”

“Bite your tongue, Edwina. You are not to have anything to do with Viscount Bridgerton. Everyone knows he is the worst sort of rake. In fact, he’s the worst rake, period. In all London. In the entire country!”

“I know, I was just using him as an example. Besides, he’s not likely to choose a bride this year, anyway. Lady Whistledown said so, and you yourself said that she is almost always right.”

Kate patted her sister on the arm. “Don’t worry. We will find you a suitable husband. But not—not not not not not Viscount Bridgerton!”

At that very moment, the subject of their discussion was relaxing at White’s with two of his three younger brothers, enjoying a late afternoon drink.

Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair, regarded his scotch with a thoughtful expression as he swirled it about, and then announced, “I’m thinking about getting married.”

Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested—tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs—fell over.

Colin Bridgerton started to choke.

Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table.

It narrowly missed Anthony’s ear.

Anthony let the indignity pass without comment. He was all too aware that his sudden declaration had come as a bit of a surprise.

Well, perhaps more than a bit. “Complete,” “total,” and “utter” were words that came to mind.

Anthony knew that he did not fit the image of a man who had settling down on his mind. He’d spent the last decade as the worst sort of rake, taking pleasure where he may. For as he well knew, life was short and certainly meant to be enjoyed. Oh, he’d had a certain code of honor. He never dallied with well-bred young women. Anyone who might have any right to demand marriage was strictly off-limits.

With four younger sisters of his own, Anthony had a healthy degree of respect for the good reputations of gently bred women. He’d already nearly fought a duel for one of his sisters, all over a slight to her honor. And as for the other three…he freely admitted that he broke out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of their getting involved with a man who bore a reputation like his.

No, he certainly wasn’t about to despoil some other gentleman’s younger sister.

But as for the other sort of women—the widows and actresses who knew what they wanted and what they were getting into—he’d enjoyed their company and enjoyed it well. Since the

day he left Oxford and headed west to London, he’d not been without a mistress.

Sometimes, he thought wryly, he’d not been without two.