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The first thing Kate saw when she woke was the empty place beside her.
The second was the light beneath the dressing-room door.
For one blissful, foolish instant, she thought Anthony had merely risen early to dress. Then came the unmistakable scratch of a pen across paper—quick, impatient strokes, followed by the rustle of one sheet being placed atop another.
Kate lay perfectly still.
Outside, the countryside was only just beginning to wake. Pale light pressed against the curtains. Somewhere beyond the windows, a bird called once, then again, and received an answer from the trees surrounding the house. There were no carriage wheels in the road, no footmen crossing the hall, no Gregory thundering down a staircase, no Hyacinth arguing with anyone unfortunate enough to meet her before breakfast.
It was precisely the sort of silence they had come here to enjoy.
Anthony had put it to excellent use by opening a ledger.
Kate pushed back the coverlet.
They had been at Aubrey Hall’s smaller western estate—an old hunting property Anthony rarely visited—for four days. It was large enough to possess every comfort expected of a viscount and small enough that the household staff consisted largely of people who knew Anthony only as the owner whose name appeared upon their wages.
That had been important to him.
He had not said so.
Anthony seldom said anything when the admission might reveal that he was capable of embarrassment. He had merely rejected Aubrey Hall because half his family would arrive within a day, rejected Bridgerton House because his mother might send a servant to enquire whether they were eating properly, rejected Kent because the steward there had known him since boyhood, and finally selected this place with such stern practicality that Kate had nearly laughed in his face.
The nearest village was five miles distant. The grounds were bordered by woodland on three sides. No one called without invitation. The housekeeper was respectful, competent, and entirely uninterested in the private habits of her master and mistress.
It ought to have been perfect.
Edmund was with Violet, where he was reportedly being carried from room to room like a visiting prince. Daphne had sent a note claiming that their son had discovered the astonishing power of pointing at an object and having three Bridgertons immediately fetch it. Colin had bought him a wooden horse. Eloise had objected to everyone speaking to him in nonsense syllables and then had been discovered doing precisely that when she believed herself unobserved. Hyacinth had declared herself his favourite relation, though Edmund had not yet mastered the word mama.
Kate missed him with an ache beneath her ribs.
She also knew that their son was delighted, safe, and surrounded by enough people to prevent Violet from ever allowing his feet to touch the floor.
They had come away because Anthony had not slept properly in months.
He had come away and brought four cases of estate papers with him.
Kate crossed the bedchamber barefoot and opened the dressing-room door.
Anthony sat at a small writing table near the window. He had not dressed. His shirt hung open at the throat, his sleeves were rolled above his forearms, and his hair had plainly met his hands several times since he had abandoned their bed. A candle burned beside him, though the growing daylight had already made it unnecessary.
There were six letters upon the table.
A ledger lay open beneath his hand.
Kate leaned against the doorframe.
“Good morning.”
The pen stopped.
Anthony did not turn at once.
That was answer enough.
“Good morning,” he said, with the careful neutrality of a man who knew himself to be caught and had decided that dignity might yet be salvaged through tone alone.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing of consequence.”
Kate looked at the ledger.
Anthony looked at the ledger.
“I had not realised,” she said, “that nothing of consequence now requires columns.”
“It was already upon the desk.”
“It was in your travelling case.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
Kate folded her arms.
He set down the pen, though he did so with the slow reluctance of a man surrendering a loaded pistol.
“I could not sleep.”
“You could not sleep because you spent half the night worrying about a tenant whose roof was repaired three weeks ago.”
“The final account has not been received.”
“Then I am relieved you rose before dawn. God only knows what might have happened had the roof remained properly repaired without your personal supervision for another six hours.”
Anthony exhaled through his nose.
His annoyance should not have pleased her.
It did.
His irritation had more life in it than the grey exhaustion he had worn through much of the past season. She had watched him sit at the head of his own dining table and look as though he were calculating the cost of every candle. She had watched him wake when Edmund stirred, even when the nurse was already attending to him. She had watched him answer correspondence while eating, read tenants’ reports in the carriage, and excuse himself from bed because he had suddenly remembered an appointment that would not occur for another fortnight.
He was exhausted.
Worse, he was accustomed to it.
Anthony reached for the ledger.
Kate placed her hand over it first.
His gaze rose to hers.
She said, “We spoke of this.”
A faint flush appeared beneath his cheekbones.
There it was.
They had spoken of it two evenings before, after Kate had found him dictating instructions to the steward while supposedly taking a walk with her. She had been angry. Anthony had been defensive. The argument had begun with neglected holidays and ended somewhere entirely different, with Kate asking him whether he was capable of allowing another person to decide anything for him.
Anthony had said, with considerable offence, that he allowed her to decide things every day.
Kate had asked him to name three.
He had named the colour of the morning room curtains, the placement of a rose garden, and whether they ought to serve fish at a dinner that had occurred eleven months earlier.
She had stared at him until he admitted those examples had perhaps not proved his case.
Then she had told him what she wanted.
Not merely that he stop working. Not that he attempt to rest while keeping one eye upon the door and the other upon the clock.
She wanted him to give the day to her.
Entirely.
She would decide when he rose, what he wore, where they went, what they ate. He would not tend to correspondence. He would not instruct the household. He would not anticipate what she might require and rush to provide it. He would ask before acting. He would answer her honestly.
He had gone silent for so long that she had heard the mantel clock mark the quarter-hour.
Kate had thought he might refuse.
Instead, Anthony had asked, very quietly, “For how long?”
“From waking until dinner.”
“And if I find I dislike it?”
“It ends.”
“Immediately?”
“Immediately.”
They had chosen a word that neither would mistake for ordinary conversation.
Saffron.
If he spoke it, she would stop. No questions. No disappointment. No teasing afterward.
If he could not speak, three sharp taps against her skin would mean the same.
Anthony had insisted the latter was unnecessary.
Kate had insisted it was not his decision.
That, she suspected, was the precise moment he had understood what he had agreed to.
Now, in the dressing room, he regarded her hand upon the ledger.
“I remember our conversation,” he said.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
His eyes shifted briefly towards the bedchamber beyond her.
It was a tiny movement, but Kate understood it.
He could still retreat. She had not begun. The morning had hardly begun. He could tell her that the idea seemed absurd by daylight, that he was tired, that he had changed his mind.
She would return to bed with him. She would not mock him for it.
Kate’s voice softened.
“Anthony.”
He looked at her.
“We need not do this.”
“I know.”
“I shall be cross about the ledger regardless.”
“I had assumed as much.”
“But you may refuse me.”
Something tightened in his expression.
Not anger.
He looked almost wounded by the suggestion, though she could not imagine why.
Then his eyes dropped to her hand again, still spread across the page.
“I do not wish to refuse you.”
Kate waited.
Anthony was not permitted to hide inside careful wording today. Not if they continued.
“That is not the same as wishing to proceed.”
His mouth pressed into a line.
For a moment, the only sound was the low sputter of the unnecessary candle.
Then Anthony pushed his chair back and stood.
Even rumpled and half-dressed, he had the remarkable ability to fill a room. He was not the tallest man Kate had ever met, nor the broadest, though one would have been unwise to tell him so. His authority came from something more stubborn than height. It lived in the set of his shoulders, in the directness of his gaze, in his expectation that the world would arrange itself according to his judgment.
Now he stood before his wife with his hands loose at his sides and uncertainty visible in every rigid inch of him.
“Yes,” he said.
Kate did not move.
“Yes, what?”
His eyes narrowed.
It was not rebellion. Not quite.
She could almost see him understanding that she meant to begin before he had prepared himself.
“Yes,” he repeated, more deliberately. “I wish to proceed.”
“Of your own choosing?”
“Yes.”
“Say the word.”
His throat moved.
“Saffron.”
“And if you cannot speak?”
“Three taps.”
“What shall happen if you use either?”
“You will stop.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
“No anger. No wounded pride. No pretending afterward that you merely wished to test whether I remembered.”
A flicker of offended dignity crossed his face.
“I would not—”
“You would.”
Anthony considered objecting.
Kate raised one eyebrow.
He surrendered the point with poor grace.
“I shall not pretend.”
“Good.”
She lifted her hand from the ledger.
Anthony’s gaze followed it.
“Close it,” she said.
His fingers curled once at his side.
Then he obeyed.
Kate felt something warm and dangerous unfurl low in her stomach.
It was not the closing of the ledger itself. Anthony had set aside work for her before, though usually after an argument and with the air of a martyr being led to the block.
This was different.
He had agreed that, for one day, her word would be sufficient.
“Put the letters in the drawer.”
He gathered them into a neat pile, aligning the edges without being told. He opened the drawer.
“All of them, Anthony.”
His hand stopped over the topmost letter.
“It concerns the western tenancy.”
“Then I am certain it will remain concerned until tomorrow.”
He looked at her.
Kate did not look away.
After a moment, he put the letter in with the others and closed the drawer.
“Lock it.”
He did.
“Bring me the key.”
That earned her a sharper look.
Kate held out her hand.
The key was very small. It should not have seemed significant.
Anthony crossed the room and placed it upon her palm.
His fingers brushed hers.
Kate closed her hand around it.
“Thank you.”
He remained standing before her.
She could see the questions gathering behind his eyes. What came next? What did she expect? Was he meant to remain there? Dress? Return to bed? Ring for breakfast?
The uncertainty already bothered him.
Excellent.
Not because she wished him distressed. She would not have tolerated that. But Anthony’s mind was forever racing ahead, filling every empty space with duty. He could not simply inhabit a moment. He had to seize it, organise it, and wring every useful consequence from it.
Today she intended to give him nowhere to run but the present.
“Take off your shoes,” she said.
He glanced down as if surprised to discover he wore slippers.
“Here?”
Kate nearly smiled.
“No, Anthony. In the village square.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
He slipped them off.
“Come back to bed.”
He followed her into the bedchamber.
Kate climbed onto the mattress and settled against the pillows. Anthony stopped beside the bed.
She waited.
He waited.
She saw the moment he nearly asked what she wanted and stopped himself, perhaps thinking he ought to know.
“You may ask,” she said.
The line between his brows deepened. “Where would you like me?”
“Beside me.”
He began to climb onto the bed.
Kate touched two fingers to his wrist.
He froze.
“What have you forgotten?”
His face coloured.
It was astonishing how quickly it happened. Anthony could withstand a room full of hostile gentlemen without blinking, yet the slightest private correction from his wife sent warmth climbing above his collar.
He looked at her hand upon him.
Then at her face.
“May I join you?”
“You may.”
Only then did he lie down.
His body remained tense beside hers, one arm folded beneath his head. Kate turned onto her side and regarded him.
He regarded the canopy.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Truthfully.”
His jaw shifted.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I do not know what you expect of me.”
“At present, I expect you to lie still.”
“That is all?”
“That is proving quite ambitious enough.”
Anthony looked at her.
She held his gaze, refusing to rescue him from the silence.
After a moment, he turned his eyes back towards the canopy.
Kate watched his chest rise and fall.
It was too quick.
She placed her palm over his sternum.
His breath caught.
“Slower,” she said.
“I am breathing.”
“Badly.”
“I was unaware there was an improper method.”
“You have made an art of it.”
His chest expanded beneath her hand. He released the breath carefully.
“Again.”
He obeyed.
She kept her hand there, feeling the beat of his heart. It was faster than it ought to have been for a man lying in his own bed at dawn.
The first several breaths were measured because she had ordered them. The next came more naturally. Gradually, the rigid line of his shoulders eased against the mattress.
Kate traced her thumb once across the open edge of his shirt.
Anthony’s eyes closed.
“There you are,” she murmured.
His lashes lifted again at once.
Kate saw wariness there. Embarrassment. Something hungrier that made her stomach tighten.
She had imagined this, though not precisely. She had imagined commanding him and watching him struggle not to argue. She had imagined the satisfaction of making the Viscount Bridgerton ask before touching her. She had imagined his offended expression, his flushed cheeks, his eventual surrender.
She had not imagined how vulnerable he would look merely waiting.
It affected her more than she was prepared to admit.
“Do you wish to stop?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Kate’s thumb stilled.
“No?” she repeated.
Anthony turned his head towards her.
“No.”
His voice was lower now.
“Good.”
She withdrew her hand and settled back against the pillows.
Anthony’s gaze followed her movement before returning to the canopy.
“Go to sleep,” she said.
He stared at her.
“What?”
“You rose before dawn. You are tired. Sleep.”
“It is morning.”
“A profound observation.”
“We ought to rise.”
“Why?”
“Breakfast.”
“We shall eat it later.”
“The staff—”
“Have been instructed not to disturb us.”
His head turned sharply.
“You instructed them?”
“Yesterday.”
“You were very certain I would agree.”
“I was certain you needed the opportunity.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No. I would have spent the morning bullying you into a proper holiday instead.”
He gave her a suspicious look. “And what do you call this?”
Kate leaned closer.
“Better organised bullying.”
His laugh escaped before he could prevent it.
It was quiet and brief, but genuine.
Kate felt absurdly victorious.
“Close your eyes.”
Anthony did not.
She waited.
At last, with visible reluctance, he obeyed.
“Do not open them until I tell you.”
“Kate—”
“Is that the word?”
His eyes remained closed.
“No.”
“Then hush.”
The corner of his mouth tightened.
Kate watched him fight the urge to speak. She could almost hear the thoughts marching through his mind. The hour. The breakfast tray. The ledger key in her closed fist. Whether it would rain. Whether the horse he had ridden yesterday required checking. Whether Violet had written regarding Edmund.
His fingers twitched against the coverlet.
Kate laid her hand over them.
“Nothing requires you,” she said quietly.
His face altered.
Only a little.
Enough.
Anthony swallowed.
“Edmund—”
“Is with your mother.”
“I know.”
“She has raised eight children.”
“Seven besides me.”
“She managed you, which was plainly the greater trial.”
His lips moved.
Kate continued before he could answer.
“Our son is safe. He is happy. He is being spoiled beyond salvation. Your siblings are likely teaching him words we shall regret. There is nothing for you to do.”
Anthony’s hand turned beneath hers.
For an instant, she thought he meant to take hold of her.
He stopped himself.
His eyes remained shut.
“May I hold your hand?”
The question was so quiet that Kate nearly missed it.
Warmth moved through her, deeper than triumph.
“You may.”
His fingers closed around hers.
He did not grip. Anthony always held her as if afraid she might be taken from him, one hand firm at her waist or around her wrist. Now his touch was cautious, almost tentative, because she had made him ask and because she had granted it.
Kate let him keep her hand.
Within ten minutes, his breathing deepened.
Within twenty, Anthony Bridgerton was asleep after sunrise for perhaps the first time in his adult life.
Kate lay beside him, awake and smiling at the canopy.
This, she thought, might be the most powerful she had ever felt.
They woke again well past nine.
Anthony opened his eyes abruptly, as though someone had called his name.
Kate had remained beside him longer than she intended, lulled back to sleep by the steady warmth of his body. Now sunlight filled the room, laying broad golden bars across the carpet.
Anthony looked towards the clock.
His expression became one of immediate alarm.
Kate caught his chin before he could sit up.
“No.”
“We have slept half the morning.”
“Yes.”
“The breakfast room—”
“Remains where it was.”
He stared at her, appalled.
Kate stroked her thumb along the edge of his jaw.
“What are you thinking?”
“That this is absurd.”
“Try again.”
His eyes narrowed.
She could feel the instinct to challenge her rising. The arguments were ready. Time wasted. Habits disrupted. People inconvenienced.
Beneath them was something else.
Kate waited for it.
Anthony’s gaze shifted away from hers.
“That I slept.”
“Yes.”
“I did not intend to.”
“I know.”
“I cannot remember the last time I slept so late.”
“I can. It was the morning after our wedding.”
His face warmed.
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Anthony’s eyes returned to hers, and the look he gave her was so pointed that Kate laughed.
She released his chin and sat up.
“You may rise.”
He started to throw back the coverlet.
Kate cleared her throat.
He stopped.
The look he turned upon her would have terrified a steward.
It delighted his wife.
“May I rise?” he asked.
“You may.”
Anthony got out of bed.
His movements were sharper now, embarrassment turning every ordinary action into a small declaration of independence. Kate allowed him to cross to the washstand before she spoke.
“Stop.”
He stopped.
“Come here.”
He turned.
His shirt was creased from sleep. His hair had fallen across his forehead. He looked younger without his coat, waistcoat, and carefully arranged cravat—less like the head of the Bridgerton family and more like the man who had once fallen into the mud because Kate had startled his horse.
She pointed to the chair before the dressing table.
“Sit.”
His eyes flicked towards it.
Then he sat.
Kate rose and moved behind him.
Anthony watched her in the mirror.
She reached for his hairbrush.
Suspicion appeared at once.
“What are you doing?”
Kate rested the brush against his shoulder.
“Was that how you were instructed to speak?”
His lips parted.
Closed.
He regarded her through the mirror, face carefully blank.
“May I ask what you intend?”
“You may.”
“What do you intend?”
“I shall brush your hair.”
The blankness vanished.
“You shall not.”
Kate raised an eyebrow.
Anthony’s gaze sharpened.
Neither of them moved.
Then he saw it.
The choice remained his. The word remained available. She would stop if he asked properly or ended the game entirely.
But he had not been invited to command her.
His nostrils flared.
Kate waited.
Anthony looked away first.
“You may,” he said stiffly.
“I am aware.”
She drew the brush carefully through his hair.
It was not long enough to require brushing, not truly. His valet would usually smooth it into order with a comb and pomade. Kate had no intention of arranging him for London. She merely wanted the intimacy of it.
Anthony sat very still.
She watched his reflection.
His eyes followed each movement of her hand. His shoulders remained squared, but the severity began to leave his face as the brush passed over his scalp again and again.
Kate set it down and ran her fingers through his hair instead.
Anthony’s eyelids lowered.
She did it again.
His head tilted, only slightly, into her touch.
Kate smiled.
“Do you like that?”
His eyes opened.
He immediately straightened.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
His jaw flexed.
“Yes, I like it.”
“Very much?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Kate gathered a fistful of his hair—not painfully, but firmly enough to draw his head back until his eyes met hers in the mirror.
His breath changed.
“Then you shall not pretend otherwise.”
The flush upon his face deepened.
Kate released him and continued smoothing his hair with her fingers as though nothing had happened.
Anthony sat in silence.
“Shall I dress?” he asked after a moment.
“You may wash first.”
He rose.
Kate selected his clothing while he did so.
That had not been part of her original plan. She had thought she might simply forbid his usual dark coat and severe cravat, perhaps leave him in shirtsleeves throughout the morning.
Then she saw a soft linen shirt among his things, one he usually wore beneath his riding coat, and a pair of buckskin breeches that required no thought, no rank, no formal arrangement. She chose no waistcoat. No coat. No neckcloth.
When Anthony emerged from behind the screen, towelling his face, he looked at the garments laid upon the bed.
“No.”
Kate sat upon the edge of the mattress.
“No?”
“I am not walking through my own house half-dressed.”
“You shall not be walking through the house. We are taking breakfast here.”
“There are servants.”
“None will enter without my permission.”
“What if there is an emergency?”
“Then I suspect your lack of a waistcoat will be the least remarkable aspect of the occasion.”
Anthony stared at the shirt.
Kate could see the discomfort in him. Not modesty, precisely. He had undressed before valets since adolescence and had been seen in far less by his wife.
But his clothes were his armour.
The viscount wore dark wool, immaculate linen, polished boots. He buttoned himself into authority every morning.
Kate had selected softness.
“No cravat?” he asked.
“No.”
“Not even a neckcloth?”
“No.”
He looked almost scandalised.
Kate patted the bed beside her.
“Come.”
Anthony did not move.
She softened her voice.
“You may stop.”
His eyes snapped to hers.
“I know.”
“Do you dislike this?”
He looked down at the clothing again.
“No.”
“Then what troubles you?”
His answer did not come quickly.
At last he said, “I feel ridiculous.”
Kate considered him.
“Because you are not dressed as the viscount?”
“I am the viscount regardless of my clothing.”
“Of course.”
His eyes narrowed at the mildness of her tone.
Kate reached for the linen shirt and held it out.
“Today you are also my husband, in a private bedchamber, at an estate where no one shall see you unless I permit it.”
He looked at the shirt.
“May I wear a waistcoat?”
“No.”
Something sparked in his expression.
Not anger.
The refusal affected him.
Kate saw it and felt that dangerous warmth return.
Anthony took the shirt from her.
“Thank you,” she said.
His eyes lifted sharply, as though gratitude were somehow worse than command.
He dressed.
Kate watched without disguising the fact.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Anthony’s movements became increasingly deliberate beneath her gaze. He drew on the shirt, fastened the breeches, then reached automatically for his stockings before stopping.
His hand hovered over them.
He looked at Kate.
She said nothing.
“May I put them on?”
“You may.”
He did.
“Boots?” he asked.
“Slippers.”
He sighed, but selected them.
When he was dressed, Kate stood and approached him.
The open throat of the shirt revealed the strong line of his neck. Without a waistcoat, the linen fell loosely over his torso, softening nothing so much as drawing attention to everything he ordinarily contained beneath layers of propriety.
Kate placed both palms against his chest.
Anthony looked down at her.
“You are very handsome.”
He rolled his eyes.
Kate curled her fingers into the linen.
“What was that?”
“I said nothing.”
“You made a face.”
“I possess a face. It cannot always be helped.”
She almost laughed.
Instead, she slid one hand upward and caught his chin.
Anthony went still.
“When I pay you a compliment, you will accept it.”
His eyes darkened.
“I do not require—”
Kate tightened her grip slightly.
“That was not what I said.”
For a moment, his pride rose between them like a wall.
Then he lowered his gaze.
“Thank you.”
“Look at me.”
Slowly, he did.
“Again.”
“Thank you.”
“For?”
The colour returned to his face.
“For saying I am handsome.”
Kate smiled.
“You are welcome.”
She kissed him once, slowly, and drew away before he could follow.
Anthony did follow.
Only an inch.
He stopped himself with visible effort.
Kate’s pulse quickened.
“Did you want something?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
She waited.
“May I kiss you?”
“You may.”
His hand came to her waist.
Kate caught his wrist.
“I gave you leave to kiss me.”
The tendons in his forearm tightened beneath her fingers.
“Not to touch me.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Anthony lowered his hand.
Then he bent and kissed her.
Without his hands, he could not draw her closer or angle her body to suit himself. He had to wait for Kate to decide how much she would give him.
She gave him enough to make his breathing rough.
Then she stepped back.
His eyes opened slowly.
“Thank you,” she said.
Anthony looked as if he had forgotten how to reply.
A knock sounded beyond the outer door.
He turned towards it at once.
Kate caught his hand.
“Stay.”
His body remained angled towards the sound.
“Your breakfast, my lady,” called a maid.
Kate had arranged that the servants should address only her today whenever possible. It had felt unnecessarily theatrical when she gave the instruction.
Now, watching Anthony hear it, she was glad she had.
“You may leave it,” Kate called.
“Yes, my lady.”
Footsteps retreated.
Anthony looked towards the door.
Kate stroked her thumb across his knuckles.
“What are you thinking?”
“That the coffee will grow cold.”
“Liar.”
His mouth tightened.
Kate waited.
He glanced at her.
“That she addressed you.”
“She did.”
“And not me.”
“Yes.”
“I noticed.”
“I noticed you noticing.”
Anthony’s ears coloured.
Kate brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.
“Does it trouble you?”
“No.”
“Does it please you?”
His gaze sharpened.
“I did not say that.”
“You did not answer.”
Anthony looked towards the door again. Not as an escape. As though the maid’s absence had left something behind in the room.
“I do not know,” he said at last.
Kate accepted that.
Honesty was more important than certainty.
“Come,” she said.
She led him to the small sitting room adjoining their chamber. A tray had been placed upon the table: coffee, chocolate, tea, eggs, cold ham, bread, preserves, strawberries, and a covered dish that proved to contain kidneys.
Anthony instinctively reached for the coffee pot.
Kate sat.
He stopped with his fingers an inch from the handle.
She looked at him.
His jaw set.
“May I pour your coffee?”
“No.”
The answer startled him.
Kate saw it plainly.
“Sit.”
He sat opposite her.
Kate poured coffee for them both.
Anthony watched.
She added milk to his without asking. Two years of marriage had taught her exactly how he preferred it, though she suspected he believed no one knew because he seldom permitted anyone to serve him.
She pushed the cup towards him.
He reached for it.
Kate rested one finger on the saucer.
His hand stopped.
“Ask.”
The look he gave her was almost murderous.
Kate took a strawberry.
Anthony glanced at the cup.
Then at her.
“May I have my coffee?”
“You may.”
She released the saucer.
He lifted the cup and drank.
The first swallow was nearly defiant. The second was slower.
Kate prepared a plate for him.
“I can serve myself.”
She continued placing eggs upon it.
“I did not ask whether you could.”
“I am not an invalid.”
“No. You are a man who has spent every breakfast for the past month reading correspondence instead of tasting his food.”
“I tasted it.”
“Name what you ate yesterday morning.”
Anthony opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Kate added ham.
“That is excessive.”
“You have lost weight.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I assure you—”
Kate looked up.
His protest died.
She set the plate before him.
“Eat.”
Anthony’s eyes dropped to it.
He picked up his fork.
Kate served herself and began to eat.
For a while there was only the quiet clink of cutlery. Sunlight warmed the table. The coffee steamed between them. Anthony finished half his eggs before he appeared to remember that he was supposed to resent being fed.
Kate hid her smile behind her cup.
He caught her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are smirking.”
“I am enjoying my breakfast.”
“At my expense.”
“Your expense is improving my appetite.”
Anthony muttered something beneath his breath.
Kate set down her cup.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, my lady.”
The title was delivered with immaculate sarcasm.
It still sent a bolt of heat through her.
Kate leaned back in her chair.
“Say it again.”
His eyes flickered.
“My lady.”
“Without insolence.”
“That may prove beyond my abilities.”
“Try.”
Anthony’s fork rested motionless above his plate.
He could have laughed it away. He could have refused on the grounds of absurdity. He could have used the word and ended all of it.
Instead, he placed the fork down.
His shoulders shifted, subtly settling.
“My lady,” he said.
No mockery.
Kate’s heartbeat stumbled.
She had wanted this for her own pleasure. She would not pretend otherwise. Who, having been married to Anthony Bridgerton, would not occasionally dream of seating him before them and making him listen?
But the pleasure of it was not merely in his obedience.
It was in the trust required to offer it.
Kate held his gaze.
“Finish your breakfast.”
“Yes, my lady.”
This time, the title was easier.
That frightened her a little.
It thrilled her far more.
After breakfast, Anthony attempted to clear the plates.
Kate stopped him.
He attempted to ring for the tray.
She stopped him again.
He stared at the bell pull as if it had betrayed him.
“Must I ask permission to summon a maid?”
“You need not summon anyone.”
“The dishes cannot remain all day.”
“They can remain until someone comes for them.”
“When will that be?”
“When I decide.”
Anthony looked pained.
Kate rose.
“Walk with me.”
He brightened at the prospect of movement, though he attempted to disguise it.
“May I fetch my coat?”
“No.”
“It is not warm enough.”
“You may bring a shawl for me.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You refuse me a coat but require a shawl?”
“I am in command. I need not be sensible.”
“That explains a great deal.”
Kate looked at him.
Anthony’s expression became innocent.
It was not convincing.
“Bring the blue one,” she said.
He fetched it.
At the top of the staircase, Anthony automatically offered her his arm.
Kate looked at it.
He began to lower it.
“No,” she said. “You may offer.”
His face tightened.
“May I escort you downstairs?”
“You may.”
She placed her hand upon his arm.
They crossed the house without meeting a servant. Kate had chosen their route deliberately, taking a side staircase and leaving through the morning room directly into the garden.
The air was cool but bright. Dew still clung to the grass. The estate was less manicured than Aubrey Hall, its gardens spilling towards the woodland in loose beds of lavender, rosemary, and late roses.
Anthony scanned the horizon.
Kate felt his arm tense beneath her hand.
“What is it?”
“Clouds in the east.”
“Do you expect an invasion?”
“Rain.”
“Then we may get wet.”
“The path near the lower field floods.”
“We are not going to the lower field.”
“You had not said where we were going.”
“And yet you are still alive.”
Anthony’s gaze moved over the garden again.
Kate removed her hand from his arm.
He looked at her.
“Hands behind your back.”
The command was quiet.
His expression changed.
They were outdoors. Alone, but not enclosed. A gardener might be somewhere beyond the hedges. A groom could cross the distant stable yard.
No one knew Anthony well here.
That had been the point.
Still, Kate saw the conflict in him.
His authority did not rely upon witnesses, but he guarded it most fiercely when one might appear.
“You may refuse,” she reminded him.
He looked towards the house.
Then back at Kate.
Slowly, Anthony placed his hands behind his back.
The posture altered him.
Not because it made him smaller. Nothing could make Anthony appear small.
But it removed his readiness. He could not reach for her, point out a route, check his watch, or seize the world by its lapels.
Kate stepped closer.
“Walk beside me.”
They followed the gravel path.
Anthony kept his hands behind him.
For the first several minutes, his gaze moved constantly. House. Hedges. Sky. Stable roof. Garden gate.
Kate said nothing.
Eventually, his attention returned to her.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“That is not a destination.”
“It is today.”
They passed beneath an arch of climbing roses. Petals had fallen across the path, pale against the gravel.
Kate stopped.
Anthony stopped at once.
She bent to examine one of the blossoms.
Behind her, he shifted his weight.
Kate did not look up.
“Impatient?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
She straightened.
Anthony stood with his hands still clasped behind him, sunlight in his hair, irritation and uncertainty warring across his handsome face.
“What do you want to do?” Kate asked.
His eyes narrowed.
“You are deciding.”
“I asked what you want. I did not say we would do it.”
“That is diabolical.”
“Answer.”
Anthony looked towards the trees.
“Ride.”
“You may not.”
His gaze snapped back to hers.
“Why ask?”
“Because I wanted the truth.”
“You cannot demand honesty and punish it.”
“I have not punished anything. You wished to ride. I heard you. Today, we shall not ride.”
“Why?”
“Because you turn everything into a contest, including a quiet ride with your wife.”
“I do not.”
“You raced me to the hill yesterday.”
“You began it.”
“I was riding faster because you had spent twenty minutes discussing drainage with the steward.”
“It was relevant to the estate.”
Kate stepped close enough that his next protest had nowhere to go except directly into her face.
“No work.”
Anthony’s mouth shut.
“Not even in your thoughts.”
“That is impossible.”
“Then whenever I catch you, you will tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“That you were working.”
His expression suggested that she had proposed treason.
“I shall do no such thing.”
Kate looked at him steadily.
The word existed.
The choice existed.
Anthony’s breathing changed.
“Very well,” he said.
“Very well, what?”
His eyes dropped.
“Very well, my lady.”
Kate touched his cheek.
“Good.”
The praise affected him more than the command.
She felt it.
His head turned fractionally into her palm before he caught himself.
Kate’s heart squeezed.
“You like that,” she said.
He looked offended.
“Do not tell me what I like.”
“Then tell me yourself.”
Anthony’s gaze held hers.
His hands remained behind his back.
That mattered. He could not seize her waist and turn the moment into a kiss. He could not distract either of them with physical certainty.
He had to answer.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I like when you say that.”
“When I say what?”
His eyes closed briefly.
Kate waited.
“When you tell me I have done well.”
The words were strained, almost resentful.
She wondered how many times in his life Anthony had been praised without accomplishment attached to it.
A properly managed estate. An advantageous match for a sister. A duty completed. A catastrophe prevented.
Perhaps he did not know how to receive approval merely for listening.
Kate stroked her thumb beneath his eye.
“You are doing very well.”
His eyes opened.
The nakedness in them nearly undid her.
He looked away first.
Kate lowered her hand.
“Come.”
They walked deeper into the garden.
After a time, Anthony stopped scanning the grounds.
After longer, his hands ceased clenching behind his back.
He began to notice things.
A red squirrel crossing the wall. The smell of rosemary beneath the sun. A pair of swallows wheeling above the lawn.
He said nothing about the clouds.
Kate chose a bench beneath an old cedar.
“Sit.”
Anthony sat.
Kate remained standing before him.
His gaze rose to hers.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like the shawl?”
“No.”
“Would you like me beside you?”
His eyes softened.
“Yes.”
Kate sat at the opposite end of the bench.
Anthony looked at the empty space between them.
She folded her hands in her lap.
He stared straight ahead.
Kate waited.
A full minute passed.
Then another.
Anthony shifted.
She pretended not to notice.
At last he said, “May I sit nearer?”
“You may.”
He moved immediately.
Not all the way. Only enough that their thighs touched through their clothing.
Kate looked down at the contact.
Anthony went still.
She rested her head against his shoulder.
His breath left him.
“Hands,” she said softly.
He brought them from behind his back.
“May I touch you?”
“Yes.”
One arm settled around her.
It was not the crushing, protective hold he usually favoured. He placed it carefully, almost reverently, because she had chosen the moment and granted it.
Kate closed her eyes.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
There was nothing to manage.
Nothing to fix.
Anthony’s thumb moved slowly over her upper arm.
A breeze stirred the cedar branches above them.
“Kate?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask a question?”
“You may.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
She opened her eyes.
Anthony was looking straight ahead, as if the answer were of only scholarly interest.
“Very much.”
His thumb stopped.
Kate lifted her head from his shoulder.
“Does that trouble you?”
“No.”
“Truthfully.”
A smile tugged at his mouth.
“No. It pleases me.”
“Why?”
He glanced at her.
“You asked one question.”
“I have changed my mind.”
“That is apparently the privilege of command.”
“You are learning.”
Anthony’s smile faded into something more thoughtful.
“Because you want it,” he said.
Kate waited.
“And because I can give it to you.”
There it was. Anthony’s eternal refuge.
Usefulness.
Kate removed his arm from around her.
His face altered at once.
“Stand.”
He obeyed, confused.
Kate remained seated.
“Come before me.”
He did.
“Closer.”
Anthony stepped between her knees.
Kate looked up at him.
Even without his coat and cravat, he appeared formidable. His body blocked the sun. His expression had regained some of its guardedness.
Kate placed her hands upon his hips.
“You are not doing this for me.”
His brows drew together.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not entirely.”
“You said you were enjoying it.”
“I am.”
“Then—”
Kate tightened her hold.
“But you will not make it another service.”
His face went still.
“You will not tell yourself that you endure this because your wife desires it. You will not turn obedience into a duty you perform beautifully and then present to me as proof of devotion.”
“That is not what I am doing.”
“It is exactly what you are doing.”
Anthony pulled in a breath.
Kate kept her eyes on his.
“You want this.”
He looked away.
“Anthony.”
His jaw hardened.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, he did.
“You want me to decide.”
Silence.
“You want me to stop you from working.”
His throat moved.
“You want to ask before you touch me.”
A flush spread across his face.
“You want to be told when you have done well.”
“Kate.”
“Is any of that untrue?”
He could not answer.
Kate’s hands softened at his hips.
“You need not be ashamed.”
“I am not ashamed.”
“You are scarlet.”
“It is warm.”
“We are beneath a cedar tree in shirtsleeves.”
His mouth twitched despite himself, then flattened.
Kate spoke more gently.
“This cannot give you rest if you insist upon pretending it is another thing you do for others.”
Anthony looked down at her.
His eyes were dark and unhappy.
“I do not know what you want me to say.”
“The truth.”
“I have told you the truth.”
“You have told me half of it.”
His hands curled at his sides.
Kate waited.
She would wait all day.
At last, Anthony said, “I do not know how to want it.”
The confession was so quiet that the garden seemed to lean in around them.
Kate’s fingers tightened upon him.
“What do you mean?”
His gaze shifted beyond her, towards nothing.
“I know how to agree. I know how to permit it. I know how to give you what you ask.”
“Anthony—”
“But to say I want—”
He stopped.
Kate stood.
They were nearly eye to eye when she was upright, though he still possessed enough height to look down upon her. She touched his face with both hands.
“Listen to me.”
His gaze returned to hers.
“You are not selfish for wanting relief.”
His expression tightened.
“You are not weak because you wish someone else to bear the next decision.”
“I do not—”
“You do.”
His eyes flashed.
Kate did not release him.
“And I am strong enough to hear it.”
That stilled him.
She saw the moment the words struck somewhere beneath pride.
Anthony’s lips parted.
No answer came.
Kate brushed her thumbs along his cheekbones.
“You chose me,” she said. “You may choose to trust me.”
His eyes closed.
For a moment, he leaned into her hands with all the weight he had refused to give her.
Then he opened them again.
“I want it,” he said.
Kate’s breath caught.
“Say it properly.”
A flicker of irritation returned, but it did not harden him. It gave him something to brace against.
“I want you to decide.”
“All day?”
“Yes.”
“You want to obey me?”
The colour in his cheeks deepened.
“Yes.”
“Even when it embarrasses you?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Yes.”
Kate stepped back.
Anthony’s hands lifted slightly, as though to follow her, then fell.
She sat again.
“Kneel.”
The word entered the space between them and changed it.
Anthony did not move.
Kate felt her own pulse in her throat.
They had not discussed kneeling specifically.
They had discussed authority, requests, obedience. She had told him there might be instructions he found embarrassing. He had agreed that anything could be refused without ending the entire day, provided he said so plainly.
Still, she would not push him blindly.
“You may say no,” she reminded him.
Anthony looked down at the grass before her feet.
Then at the open garden.
No one was visible.
His breathing had become shallow again.
Kate waited.
He placed one knee upon the grass.
Then the other.
The sight of it struck her with such force that she nearly forgot to breathe herself.
Anthony Bridgerton knelt between her knees, back straight, face flushed, his hands resting tensely upon his thighs.
He looked furious.
He looked beautiful.
He looked relieved.
Kate reached out and slid her fingers into his hair.
His eyes closed at once.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Anthony’s face tightened.
Kate gently drew his head towards her until his forehead rested against her knee.
His whole body remained rigid.
“Breathe.”
He did.
“Again.”
The second breath shook.
Kate stroked his hair.
“You are doing very well.”
His shoulders dropped.
Not far.
Enough.
Kate kept touching him, slow passes from his brow to the back of his head. The posture was intimate enough to feel indecent, though they remained entirely clothed beneath the morning sun. She understood now why he had insisted upon an unfamiliar estate.
Anthony could not have done this at Aubrey Hall.
Not where the walls held Edmund’s memory. Not where his siblings might open a door or call his name. Not where servants remembered him as the boy who became a viscount overnight.
Here, for one day, no one required Lord Bridgerton.
Kate touched the back of his neck.
“Do you wish to rise?”
A pause.
“No.”
The answer vibrated against her skirts.
Her chest ached.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want more?”
His fingers clenched on his thighs.
Kate felt the struggle in him.
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
Anthony went still.
She had expected this to be difficult.
She had not expected it to seem impossible.
“Your hand,” he said at last.
“It is already in your hair.”
“Do not stop.”
Kate’s eyes burned unexpectedly.
“I shall not.”
She did not.
They remained in the garden until the sun climbed higher.
When Kate finally permitted him to rise, there was grass upon the knees of his breeches.
Anthony looked down at it in horror.
Kate brushed one knee with her fingertips.
He caught her wrist.
The movement was instinctive.
Both froze.
Anthony released her at once.
“Forgive me.”
Kate straightened.
“Why?”
“I touched you without permission.”
“Yes.”
His gaze searched her face.
Kate saw apprehension there now—not fear of punishment, but fear he had spoiled something.
She took his hand.
“You forgot.”
“I did.”
“And you corrected yourself.”
His shoulders eased slightly.
“Must I be punished?”
The question was cautious.
Something in Kate went very still.
They had discussed this as well, in the abstract. Kate had told him she would not strike or hurt him. She had no desire to make his submission an ordeal of pain. Consequences, she had said, might mean repeating a request properly, surrendering a privilege, or enduring a little more embarrassment than he would prefer.
Anthony had listened with a fascination he had attempted unsuccessfully to hide.
Now Kate considered him.
“Would you like to be?”
His eyes darkened.
“That was not my question.”
“It is mine.”
He glanced towards the house.
Kate waited.
“Yes,” he said.
The honesty pleased her.
“Then you will carry my shawl back to the house.”
His brows rose.
“That is hardly a punishment.”
“You have not heard all of it.”
Suspicion returned.
Kate removed the shawl from the bench and draped it over his folded hands.
“You will walk three paces behind me.”
Anthony stared at her.
“Kate.”
“Is that the word?”
“No.”
“Do you refuse?”
He looked down at the shawl.
His face was red again.
“No.”
“Good.”
Kate turned towards the house.
She did not look back for the first several steps.
She did not need to.
She could hear him behind her.
Three paces.
Exactly.
The gravel crunched beneath his slippers. Birds called from the hedges. The house stood ahead, its windows bright in the midday sun.
Kate’s entire body felt intensely awake.
At the rose arch, she glanced over her shoulder.
Anthony followed carrying her blue shawl across his hands, linen shirt loose at his throat, grass staining both knees. His expression was composed enough for Parliament.
His eyes were not.
Kate nearly stumbled.
“Eyes ahead,” she said.
His jaw tightened.
He obeyed.
At the garden door, Kate stopped.
Anthony stopped behind her.
“Come here.”
He stepped closer.
She took the shawl from him and arranged it around her shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
Kate touched the grass stain upon his knee.
“You may change later.”
“Later?”
“Yes.”
He looked down at himself.
“What if someone sees?”
“Then they will believe you knelt in the garden.”
His eyes lifted to hers.
Kate smiled sweetly.
“I cannot imagine why that would trouble you.”
His expression promised revenge in another life, on another day, when he had not voluntarily surrendered the right to take it.
Kate opened the door.
The corridor was empty.
Anthony released a breath.
She heard it.
“Were you worried?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Yes.”
Kate slipped her hand into his.
“You still followed.”
He looked down at their joined hands.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His fingers closed around hers.
Luncheon was served in their sitting room.
Kate made Anthony wait upon the chaise while she inspected the tray.
He tried to ask whether she required assistance.
She refused.
He tried to advise her that the covered dish was likely hot.
She ignored him.
When she brought him a plate, he accepted it without argument.
Progress.
“May I have wine?” he asked.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because I wish you clearheaded.”
“I am perfectly clearheaded after one glass.”
“I did not ask for an advertisement of your tolerance.”
“May I have water?”
“You may.”
Kate poured it and placed the glass in his hand.
Anthony drank.
She took the chair across from him and watched him eat.
He endured this for nearly five minutes before setting down his fork.
“Must you stare?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it pleases me.”
Anthony looked at his plate.
“Continue.”
His ears reddened.
He picked up the fork.
Kate let the silence stretch.
It no longer seemed to agitate him as it had in the morning. His movements had slowed. He tasted the food. He drank when he was thirsty instead of forgetting the glass beside him.
His gaze still wandered occasionally towards the desk.
Whenever it did, Kate said, “Work.”
At first he denied it.
By the third time, he sighed.
“I was working.”
“Thank you.”
By the fifth, he admitted it before she spoke.
“I am thinking of the tenancy.”
“And what will you do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“When?”
“Until tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because you have decided it.”
Kate smiled.
Anthony looked deeply annoyed by how much he liked her approval.
After luncheon, she made him lie upon the chaise with his head in her lap.
He asked first.
She made him repeat the request because he had mumbled it.
Then she read aloud from a novel she had brought, one Anthony had previously dismissed as sentimental nonsense despite having asked her six separate questions about the plot.
His eyes closed while she read.
Kate played with his hair between pages.
At some point, he turned his face inward against her skirts.
The movement was shy enough to make her heart hurt.
She lowered the book.
“Anthony?”
“Yes?”
“Look at me.”
He did, though reluctantly.
“Are you still with me?”
Understanding moved through his expression.
“Yes.”
“What is the word?”
“Saffron.”
“And your hand?”
He lifted it and tapped three times against her knee.
Kate caught his fingers and kissed them.
“Do you wish to continue?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need?”
His gaze moved over her face.
“Nothing.”
Kate waited.
He closed his eyes.
“Your hand.”
She returned it to his hair.
Anthony breathed out.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Kate resumed reading.
By the end of the chapter, he was asleep again.
This time she did not feel triumphant.
She felt protective in a way that went beyond the familiar, fierce love she had for him.
Anthony had fallen asleep while under her command because he trusted that she would remain awake. He trusted that she would hear the knock, notice the fire, remember the hour, and decide what came next.
He had finally stopped standing guard.
Kate bent over him and pressed her lips to his forehead.
He did not wake.
Rain came in the afternoon.
Anthony woke to the sound of it against the windows and immediately looked towards the clock.
Kate closed the book.
“No.”
“I did nothing.”
“You looked calculating.”
“I looked at the time.”
“To calculate it.”
“It is nearly four.”
“Yes.”
“We have done nothing all day.”
Kate stared down at him.
Anthony, still lying with his head in her lap, appeared to realise the weakness of his position.
“We have rested,” she said.
“We slept.”
“Twice.”
“That is not an accomplishment.”
“No.”
He frowned.
Kate traced the line between his brows.
“That is why it matters.”
His expression softened.
She understood his resistance. Anthony believed rest must be earned through exhaustion, usefulness, or illness. A man might sleep late after saving the family from ruin. He might take a holiday after securing everyone else’s happiness. He might accept care if wounded badly enough to make refusal impossible.
But to rest because he wanted it?
To be cared for before he collapsed?
That struck him as indulgence.
Kate wanted to wring that belief out of him with her hands.
“Sit up,” she said.
He obeyed.
“Stand.”
He stood.
Kate rose and moved towards the bedchamber.
Anthony followed without being told.
She stopped in the centre of the room.
“Take off your shirt.”
His steps faltered.
Kate turned.
He stared at her.
Rain darkened the windows. The bedchamber had become dim, lit by the fire and two lamps the servants had left earlier.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I said so.”
His throat moved.
Kate watched him assess the command.
They had been intimate countless times. She knew every line of his body, every scar, every expression he made when pleasure overcame dignity.
This was different because she had not begun undressing him herself. She had instructed him to expose himself while she remained fully clothed.
It was not the nakedness.
It was the obedience.
Anthony reached for the hem of his shirt.
He stopped.
“May I ask what you intend?”
“You may.”
“What do you intend?”
“To bathe you.”
His hands fell.
“Absolutely not.”
Kate waited.
Anthony paced two steps away, then remembered himself and stopped.
“I am not a child.”
“I am aware.”
“I can bathe myself.”
“I am aware.”
“There is no reason for you to—”
“I want to.”
That silenced him.
Kate approached.
“The bath is prepared in the dressing room. The servants have gone. The door is locked.”
His gaze shifted towards it.
“I shall not do anything you dislike.”
“I know.”
“You may end this.”
“I know.”
“You may refuse only this.”
Anthony looked at her.
Rain ran down the windowpanes.
At last, he gripped the hem of the shirt and drew it over his head.
Kate took it from him.
“Breeches.”
His eyes closed briefly.
Then he obeyed.
The bath was not large enough for luxury, but the copper tub stood before a bright fire and steamed in the warm room. Kate had instructed that it be filled during luncheon, with kettles left near the hearth to restore the heat.
Anthony stopped beside it.
He was beautiful and mortified.
Kate set a folded towel upon the chair.
“Get in.”
He did.
Water rose around his body as he lowered himself into the tub. His knees bent awkwardly due to the size of it. He crossed one arm over the rim and looked at Kate with grave suspicion.
She rolled up her sleeves.
“What are you doing?”
Kate dipped a cloth into the water.
Anthony’s expression became alarmed.
“Kathani.”
The name struck differently from his usual Kate.
A plea, though he would never call it one.
She touched his shoulder.
“Do you trust me?”
His eyes held hers.
“Yes.”
“Then let me.”
She washed him slowly.
Nothing about it was lewd, though intimacy filled every breath. She passed the cloth over his shoulders, his arms, the back of his neck. She poured warm water through his hair and worked soap between her palms.
Anthony remained rigid at first.
He watched her face constantly, searching for amusement or pity.
Kate offered neither.
She treated his body as something precious.
When she massaged the soap into his hair, his eyes closed.
“There,” she murmured.
His head tilted back into her hands.
Kate worked her fingers against his scalp until the tension left his mouth. She rinsed him carefully, shielding his eyes from the water.
Anthony said nothing for several minutes.
Then, so quietly she nearly did not hear, “May I touch you?”
Kate looked at him.
His hand rested upon the edge of the tub.
“Yes.”
He placed it against her wrist.
No more than that.
His thumb stroked the inside of it while she continued washing him.
Kate’s throat tightened.
“Are you ashamed?” she asked.
His eyes opened.
“Of this?”
“Yes.”
Anthony thought for a long moment.
“A little.”
“Why?”
“I ought not need it.”
“That was not the question.”
He looked at their joined hands.
“Because I want it.”
The answer was better this time.
Not easy.
Better.
Kate bent and kissed his damp temple.
“I want it too.”
His fingers tightened around her wrist.
“You said so.”
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“Entirely?”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“No.”
Kate pinched his shoulder.
He laughed.
The sound filled the dressing room, warm and startled.
She had not realised how much she missed it.
“Out,” she said.
Anthony began to stand.
Kate pressed a hand against his shoulder.
“What?”
His smile disappeared into embarrassment.
“May I get out?”
“You may.”
She wrapped him in the towel herself.
Anthony allowed it.
That felt more intimate than the bath.
She dried his hair, his shoulders, his arms. When she knelt to dry his legs, he caught her beneath the elbows and pulled her upright.
Kate stared at him.
He released her at once.
“Forgive me.”
“You keep forgetting.”
“You keep kneeling before me.”
“Does that trouble you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are my wife.”
“And?”
“And you should not be at my feet.”
Kate looked down at his bare feet upon the rug.
Then back at him.
“You have spent part of the day at mine.”
His face coloured.
“That is different.”
“How?”
“I agreed to it.”
“So did I.”
He frowned.
Kate placed both hands upon his chest.
“Command does not make me lesser than you. Service does not make you lesser than me.”
Anthony’s gaze lowered.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then allow me to choose when I kneel.”
His eyes returned to hers.
Something shifted in them. Understanding, perhaps. Or relief that she did not view his submission as an inversion of worth.
Kate picked up the towel again.
“Hands at your sides.”
He obeyed.
She finished drying him.
Then she dressed him in a clean shirt and soft trousers, fastening the buttons herself while he stood still.
When she was done, Anthony looked down at himself.
“No stockings?”
“No.”
“No shoes?”
“No.”
“I shall freeze.”
“You are beside the fire.”
“I might require walking.”
“You will not.”
Anthony glanced towards the bed.
Kate followed his gaze.
Then she smiled.
His expression became wary.
“Kneel upon the rug.”
He did.
More easily this time.
That moved through her like heat.
Kate sat in the armchair before the fire.
Anthony knelt between her knees.
His damp hair curled slightly at the ends. The loose white shirt made him appear almost indecently soft. The rain and fire enclosed them in a private world.
Kate rested her fingertips beneath his chin.
“What do you want?”
He closed his eyes.
“No. Look at me.”
He did.
“What do you want?”
Anthony’s hands rested upon his thighs.
“To touch you.”
“Where?”
His gaze moved to her waist.
“To hold you.”
“Ask.”
“May I hold you?”
“Not yet.”
Painful disappointment crossed his face before he concealed it.
Kate felt her own pulse quicken.
“Hands behind your back.”
He obeyed.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
Anthony made a low sound against her mouth, immediately straining closer. His hands remained clasped behind him.
Kate deepened the kiss, one hand in his hair, the other at his jaw. She could feel the effort it cost him not to touch.
When she drew away, his breathing was ragged.
“Again,” he whispered.
Kate stroked his lower lip with her thumb.
“Again, what?”
His eyes darkened.
“Please.”
“Ask properly.”
He shut his eyes.
Kate waited.
“May I have another kiss?”
“Yes.”
She gave it to him.
This one was slower.
Anthony stayed where she had placed him, accepting rather than taking. Kate felt him tremble once when her fingers tightened in his hair.
She drew back before either of them lost the shape of what they were doing.
Anthony followed for half an inch.
Stopped.
His eyes opened.
“Good,” Kate whispered.
His face changed.
The praise went through him visibly.
Kate’s heart pounded.
“May I hold you now?” he asked.
“No.”
His jaw clenched.
“You may rest your head upon my lap.”
The conflict was immediate.
Kate could see desire and pride strike one another inside him.
He wanted her arms around him. She had offered something more exposing: not the mutuality of an embrace but the unmistakable posture of being comforted.
Anthony looked at her skirts.
Then, slowly, leaned forward.
He rested his cheek against her thigh.
Kate released a breath she had not known she held.
His hands remained behind his back.
She touched his hair.
“There you are.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
Kate stroked from his temple to the back of his neck.
The fire cracked.
Rain whispered against glass.
For several minutes, he remained rigid through the spine, every muscle protesting vulnerability even as he sought it.
Then his weight shifted.
He leaned into her.
Fully.
Kate’s eyes burned.
She continued touching him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That I should be embarrassed.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to stop?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to rise?”
“No.”
“Do you want my hands upon you?”
“Yes.”
“Very much?”
His breath left him in a shaky rush.
“Yes.”
Kate bent over him, her lips near his ear.
“Then you shall have them.”
She placed one hand in his hair and the other upon his shoulder.
Anthony shuddered.
It was not dramatic. He did not collapse or weep. Anthony’s surrender arrived by degrees: the loosening of his jaw, the uncurling of his fingers, the slow lowering of his shoulders.
Kate felt each one.
He was not becoming less himself.
He was becoming safe enough to stop performing himself.
After some time, he moved his hands from behind his back.
Kate looked down.
Anthony froze.
“May I?” he asked.
She saw what he wanted.
Her waist was within reach. He wanted to put his arms around her, to anchor himself.
Kate touched his cheek.
“You may.”
His arms came around her at once.
He held her tightly, face pressed against her lap.
Kate’s fingers moved through his hair.
Anthony breathed.
Once.
Twice.
Then his body shook.
Kate went still.
“Anthony?”
“I am well.”
The answer was too fast.
She shifted forward.
“Look at me.”
He did not.
“Anthony.”
His arms tightened.
Kate understood.
She did not command him again.
Instead, she bent over him and held him as best she could from the chair, one arm around his shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head.
He was not crying.
Not quite.
His breath hitched once against her skirts.
Then again.
Kate’s chest cracked open.
“You are safe,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“You have done nothing wrong.”
“I know.”
“You need not get up.”
His fingers clenched in the fabric at her waist.
“I know.”
“You need not know what happens next.”
That was the one.
Anthony’s breath broke.
Kate closed her eyes.
She held him through it.
There were no great sobs. No theatrical collapse. Only a man who had spent years containing every fear, desire, and weakness allowing his wife to feel the moment that containment failed.
His face remained hidden.
Kate did not ask him to show it.
Not now.
She stroked his hair and spoke quietly.
“I have you.”
His grip tightened.
“I have the house. I have the hour. I have every decision until you ask for them back.”
Anthony nodded against her.
“You may rest.”
Another nod.
“You may want this.”
His breath shuddered.
Kate kissed the top of his head.
“And you are still my Anthony.”
He raised his face then.
His eyes were wet, his expression furious with the fact of it.
Kate did not smile.
She touched beneath one eye with her thumb.
“May I?” she asked.
The question startled him.
“You are in command.”
“That does not make your body mine without asking.”
His gaze searched hers.
Then he nodded.
Kate wiped the dampness from his face.
Anthony looked ashamed.
She caught his chin gently.
“No.”
His brows drew together.
“No what?”
“You will not hide from me now.”
“I am not hiding.”
“You are attempting to rebuild the walls while still on your knees.”
His mouth tightened.
Kate kissed his forehead.
“Stay.”
Anthony’s eyes closed.
“Yes, my lady.”
The title was barely audible.
It was the most sincere thing she had ever heard.
By evening, the rain had stopped.
The sky beyond the windows burned gold and rose, the wet grounds shining beneath the last light. Kate had allowed Anthony to rise, though she had not returned his authority.
He sat upon the edge of the bed while she dressed for dinner.
Not formally. She chose a simple gown of deep blue and left her hair partly loose.
Anthony watched her.
He no longer seemed tormented by idleness.
He still watched the clock once.
When Kate noticed, he said without prompting, “I was wondering whether the steward might send the account before morning.”
“And?”
“I shall not look.”
“Good.”
His eyes lowered.
Kate crossed to him.
“Stand.”
He stood.
She adjusted the open collar of his shirt.
“You have been very good today.”
Colour rose in his face.
He did not dismiss the compliment.
“Thank you.”
Kate smiled.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Tired?”
“A little.”
“Do you wish to continue until dinner?”
Anthony looked at her.
The question carried more weight than it should have. The day had been bounded from the beginning. Waking until dinner. After that, his choices returned without condition.
He could end it now and lose nothing.
“Yes,” he said.
Kate touched his cheek.
“Why?”
His gaze held hers.
“Because I am not ready to take it back.”
Her heart stumbled.
“What?”
“The day.”
His voice was quiet, but it did not shake.
“I am not ready to decide again.”
Kate took his hand.
“You need not.”
Relief moved across his face so openly that she almost kissed him at once.
Instead, she led him towards the sitting room.
The dinner tray had arrived. Cold meats, cheese, fruit, bread, soup kept warm beneath a silver cover. A bottle of wine stood unopened.
Anthony looked at it.
Kate poured them each a glass.
His brows rose.
“I thought you wanted me clearheaded.”
“I do. You are.”
She handed him the wine.
He accepted it.
“Thank you.”
Kate sat upon the chaise and patted the space beside her.
Anthony sat.
She prepared a plate for him, though this time she allowed him to hold it himself. They ate with their shoulders touching while the last daylight faded.
No papers.
No callers.
No infant cries, though Kate missed Edmund so fiercely in that moment that she could almost feel his warm weight against her chest.
As though reading her thoughts, Anthony said, “I miss him.”
Kate looked at him.
He stared into his wine.
“So do I.”
“Do you suppose he is asleep?”
“With your family? Certainly not.”
Anthony smiled.
“Hyacinth will have taught him to demand supper twice.”
“Your mother will insist he is too young to be spoiled.”
“My mother believes no Bridgerton is ever too old to be spoiled.”
“She is correct.”
He glanced at Kate.
Something tender passed between them.
Edmund was safe.
They were allowed to be husband and wife instead of father and mother for a day.
Kate set aside her plate.
“Come here.”
Anthony placed his down at once.
He turned towards her.
Kate shook her head.
“Lower.”
Understanding dawned.
His face warmed.
Then he slid from the chaise and knelt upon the carpet before her.
No hesitation.
Kate’s breath caught.
Anthony looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are staring.”
“I am enjoying myself.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
Kate spread her knees slightly.
“Come closer.”
He moved between them.
She rested both hands upon his shoulders.
“What do you want?”
His eyes did not leave hers this time.
“You.”
The answer was immediate.
Kate’s pulse leapt.
“That is rather broad.”
“Your hands.”
She slid them into his hair.
“Anything else?”
“Your mouth.”
She smiled.
“Ask.”
“May I kiss you?”
“You may.”
He rose enough to reach her.
Kate let him kiss her.
This time, when his hands came to her waist, she did not stop him.
He held her as though he had been waiting all day to do so.
Perhaps he had.
The kiss remained slow, though nothing about it was mild. Anthony’s restraint had been stretched through hours of asking, waiting, and accepting. Kate felt it in the careful pressure of his hands and the tremor of his breath when she drew him closer.
She broke the kiss.
Anthony remained near, forehead against hers.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
“You already are.”
“May I touch you as I wish?”
Kate considered him.
“No.”
His eyes opened.
“But you may ask for what you want.”
He made a frustrated sound.
Kate smiled against his mouth.
“Use your words, my lord.”
His fingers tightened at her waist.
“That is cruel.”
“I have been informed I am diabolical.”
“By a very wise man.”
“An exhausted man with grass upon his breeches.”
“He has since changed.”
“He remains exhausted.”
Anthony’s expression softened.
“Yes.”
Kate touched his face.
“What do you want?”
He answered this time.
The requests were quiet, precise, and increasingly difficult for him to voice. Her hand at his neck. Her mouth against his temple. Permission to sit beside her again. Permission to draw her onto his lap.
Kate granted some.
Denied others.
Each refusal made his eyes darken. Each permission loosened something in him.
He did not sulk.
He did not seize.
He waited.
And when she finally allowed him to hold her fully, Anthony wrapped both arms around her and buried his face against her neck.
Kate stayed there until the candles burned lower.
At length, the clock upon the mantel began to strike eight.
Anthony went still.
Dinner.
The agreed end.
Kate felt the change in him before the final chime faded.
His arms remained around her, but his mind had already begun to move. The locked drawer. Tomorrow’s correspondence. The steward. The journey home. Edmund’s routine. Every responsibility waiting beyond the room.
Kate touched the back of his neck.
“Anthony.”
He raised his head.
“The day is over,” she said.
Something guarded entered his expression.
“Yes.”
“You have your choices back.”
His hands loosened at her waist.
“Yes.”
“You may open the drawer.”
He looked towards the dressing room.
Then back at her.
Kate waited.
Anthony did not move.
“Do you want the key?” she asked.
His throat worked.
“No.”
The answer was almost inaudible.
Kate’s heart squeezed.
“No?”
“Not tonight.”
She stroked her thumb along his jaw.
“What do you want?”
Anthony closed his eyes.
For a moment, she feared he would retreat into silence again.
Then he opened them.
“I want you to keep it.”
“The key?”
“The decisions.”
Kate went very still.
“For how long?”
“Until morning.”
The request cost him.
She could see that.
Not because he feared her control now, but because asking meant admitting the need had not vanished when the clock struck.
Kate took his face between her hands.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the word?”
“Saffron.”
“And the signal?”
“Three taps.”
“You may change your mind at any moment.”
“I know.”
Kate kissed him once.
“Then I shall keep them.”
Anthony’s eyes closed.
His entire body softened around her.
Kate held him.
After a moment, he whispered, “Thank you.”
She tightened her arms.
“You need not thank me for loving you.”
“I know.”
“But?”
His face pressed into the curve of her neck.
“I want to.”
Kate closed her eyes.
“Then you may.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
She smiled into his hair.
“You are welcome.”
Later, she would lead him to bed.
She would choose which side he slept upon, extinguish the candles herself, and order him not to rise if he woke before her. She would keep the key beneath her pillow, where he could see that the drawer remained closed and tomorrow’s troubles remained trapped within it.
She would let him ask for her arms.
She would give them before he finished.
And in the morning, when his authority was returned, Anthony would undoubtedly attempt to behave as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. He would straighten his shoulders. He would reach for his watch. He might even complain about the untouched correspondence.
Kate would allow him his dignity.
Mostly.
But she would know.
She would know how quickly he had obeyed when she said kneel. She would know the sound of his voice when he asked her not to stop touching him. She would know that beneath the viscount, the husband, the father, and the head of a family that had rested its full weight upon him since he was eighteen, there was simply Anthony.
A man who wanted.
A man who tired.
A man who could place the world into his wife’s hands and trust that she would not let it fall.
And Anthony would know something too.
He could lay it down.
Kate would pick it up.
Not forever.
Only for as long as he needed.