Two days later, Kate was still furious. It didn’t help that the afternoon following the musicale, a large bouquet of flowers had arrived for Edwina, the card reading, “With my wishes for a speedy recovery. Last night was dull indeed without your shining presence.—Bridgerton.”
Mary had ooohed and aahed over the note—so poetic, she’d sighed, so lovely, so obviously the words of a man truly smitten. But Kate had known the truth. The note was more of an insult toward her than it was a compliment toward Edwina.
Dull indeed, she fumed, eyeing that note—enshrined now on a table in the sitting room—and wondering how she might make it look an accident if it somehow found itself torn into pieces. She might not know very much about matters of the heart and the affairs of men and women, but she’d bet her life that whatever the viscount had been feeling that night in the study, it had not been boredom.
He hadn’t, however, come to call. Kate couldn’t imagine why, since taking Edwina out for a drive would be an even bigger slap in the face than the note had been. In her most fanciful moments, she liked to flatter herself that he hadn’t stopped by because he was afraid to face her, but she knew that was patently untrue.
That man wasn’t afraid of anyone. Least of all, a plain, aging spinster he’d probably kissed out of a mix of curiosity, anger, and pity.
Kate crossed over to a window and gazed out over Milner Street; not the most picturesque view in London, but at least it stopped her from staring at the note. It was the pity that truly ate at her. She prayed that whatever had gone into that kiss, the curiosity and the anger had outweighed the pity.
She didn’t think she could bear it if he pitied her.
But Kate didn’t have very long to obsess over the kiss and what it might and might not have meant, because that afternoon—the afternoon after the flowers—arrived an invitation far more unsettling than anything Lord Bridgerton might have issued himself. The Sheffields’ presence, it seemed, was desired at a country house party being rather spontaneously hosted in one week’s time by Lady Bridgerton.
The mother of the devil himself.
And there was no way that Kate could possibly get out of going. Nothing short of an earthquake combined with a hurricane combined with a tornado—none of which were likely to occur in Great Britain, although Kate was still holding out hope for the hurricane, as long as there was no thunder or lightning involved—would prevent Mary from showing up on the Bridgertons’ bucolic doorstep with Edwina in tow. And Mary certainly wasn’t going to allow Kate to remain alone in London, left to her own devices. Not to mention that there was no way Kate was going to allow Edwina to go without her.
The viscount had no scruples. He’d probably kiss Edwina just as he’d kissed Kate, and Kate couldn’t imagine that Edwina would have the fortitude to resist such an advance. She’d probably think it beyond romantic and fall in love with him on the spot.
Even Kate had had difficulty keeping her head when his lips had been on hers. For one blissful moment, she’d forgotten everything. She’d known nothing but an exquisite sensation of being cherished and wanted—no, needed—and it had been heady stuff, indeed.
Almost enough to make a lady forget that the man doing the kissing was a worthless cad.
Almost…but not quite.
Chapter 8
As any regular reader of this column knows, there are two sects in London who shall forever remain in the utmost opposition: Ambitious Mamas and Determined Bachelors.
The Ambitious Mama has daughters of marriageable age. The Determined Bachelor does not want a wife. The crux of the conflict should be obvious to those with half a brain, or, in other words, approximately fifty percent of This Author’s readership.
This Author has not yet seen a guest list for Lady Bridgerton’s country house party, but informed sources indicate that nearly every eligible young lady of marriageable age will be gathering in Kent next week.
This surprises no one. Lady Bridgerton has never made a secret of her desire to see her sons favorably married. This sentiment has made her a favorite among the Ambitious Mama set, who despairingly view the Bridgerton brothers as the worst sort of Determined Bachelors.
If one is to trust the betting books, then at least one of the Bridgerton brothers shall be witness to wedding bells before the year is through.
As much as it pains This Author to agree with the betting books （they are written by men, and thus inherently flawed）， This Author must concur in the prediction.
Lady Bridgerton will soon have her daughter-in-law. But who she will be—and to which brother she shall find herself married—ah, Gentle Reader, that is still anyone’s guess.