He watched with interest as she steeled her shoulders and clenched her jaw. She looked as if she were preparing for a hideous task. Then, in one big rush of a sentence, she said, “I just wanted you to know that I have withdrawn my objections to your suit of Edwina.”
His chest suddenly felt a bit hollow. “I…see,” he said, not because he did see, just because he had to say something.
“I admit to a strong prejudice against you,” she continued quickly, “but I have come to know you since my arrival at Aubrey Hall, and in all conscience, I could not allow you to go on thinking that I would stand in your way. It would—it would not be right of me.”
Anthony just stared at her, completely at a loss. There was, he realized dimly, something a bit deflating about her willingness to marry him off to her sister, since he’d spent the better part of the last two days fighting the urge to kiss her rather senseless.
On the other hand, wasn’t this what he wanted? Edwina would make the perfect wife.
Kate would not.
Edwina fit all the criteria he’d laid out when he’d finally decided it was time to wed.
Kate did not.
And he certainly couldn’t dally with Kate if he meant to marry Edwina.
She was giving him what he wanted—exactly, he reminded himself, what he wanted; with her sister’s blessing, Edwina would marry him next week if he so desired.
Then why the devil did he want to grab her by the shoulders and shake and shake and shake until she took back every bloody little annoying word?
It was that spark. That damnable spark that never seemed to dim between them. That awful prickle of awareness that burned every time she entered a room, or took a breath, or pointed a toe. That sinking feeling that he could, if he let himself, love her.
Which was the one thing he feared most.
Perhaps the only thing he feared at all.
It was ironic, but death was the one thing he wasn’t afraid of. Death wasn’t frightening to a man alone. The great beyond held no terror when one had managed to avoid attachments here on earth.
Love was truly a spectacular, sacred thing. Anthony knew that. He’d seen it every day of his childhood, every time his parents had shared a glance or touched hands.
But love was the enemy of the dying man. It was the only thing that could make the rest of his years intolerable—to taste bliss and know that it would all be snatched away. And that was probably why, when Anthony finally reacted to her words, he didn’t yank her to him and kiss her until she was gasping, and he didn’t press his lips to her ear and burn his breath against her skin, making sure she understood that he was on fire for her, and not her sister.
Never her sister.
Instead, he just looked at her impassively, his eyes far, far steadier than his heart, and said, “I am much relieved,” all the while having the strangest feeling that he wasn’t really there, but rather watching the entire scene—nothing more than a farce, really—from outside of his body, all the while wondering what the hell was going on.
She smiled weakly and said, “I thought you might feel that way.”
“Kate, I—”
She’d never know what he meant to say. In all truth, he wasn’t even sure what he intended to say. He hadn’t even realized that he was going to speak until her name passed over his lips.
But his words would remain forever unspoken, because at that moment, he heard it.
A low buzz. A whine, really. It was the sort of sound most people found mildly annoying.
Nothing, to Anthony, could have been more terrifying.
“Don’t move,” he whispered, his voice harsh with fear.
Kate’s eyes narrowed, and of course she moved, trying to twist about. “What are you talking about? What is wrong?”
“Just don’t move,” he repeated.
Her eyes slid to the left, then her chin followed by a quarter of an inch or so. “Oh, it’s just a bee!” Her face broke out in a relieved grin, and she lifted her hand to swat it away. “For goodness’ sake, Anthony, don’t do that again. You had me scared for a moment.”
Anthony’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist with painful force. “I said don’t move,” he hissed.
“Anthony,” she said, laughing, “it’s a bee.”
He held her immobile, his grasp hard and painful, his eyes never leaving the loathsome creature, watching as it buzzed purposefully around her head. He was paralyzed by fear, and fury, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t come into contact with bees in the eleven years since his father’s death. One couldn’t reside in England, after all, and expect to avoid them altogether.