But as he stood there, watching Kate howl in protest （not, he thought, the most flattering of reactions, but he supposed she was allowed her pride as well）， a strange sense of satisfaction washed over him.
He wanted her.
He wanted her desperately.
He wouldn’t, in a million years, have allowed himself to choose her as a wife. She was far, far too dangerous to his peace of mind.
But fate had intervened, and now that it looked like he had to marry her…well, there didn’t seem much use in putting up a big fuss. There were worse fates than finding oneself married to an intelligent, entertaining woman whom one happened to lust after around the clock.
All he had to do was make certain he didn’t actually fall in love with her. Which shouldn’t prove impossible, right? The Lord knew she drove him crazy half the time with her incessant arguing. He could have a pleasant marriage with Kate. He’d enjoy her friendship and enjoy her body and keep it at that. It didn’t have to go any deeper.
And he couldn’t have asked for a better woman to serve as mother to his sons after he was gone. That was certainly worth a great deal.
“This will work,” he said with great authority. “You’ll see.”
She looked doubtful, but she nodded. Of course, there was little else she could do. She’d just been caught by the biggest gossip in London with a man’s mouth on her chest. If he hadn’t offered to marry her, she’d have been ruined forever.
And if she’d refused to marry him…well, then she’d be branded a fallen woman and an idiot.
Anthony suddenly stood. “Mother!” he barked, leaving Kate on the bench as he strode over to her. “My fiancée and I desire a bit of privacy here in the garden.”
“Of course,” Lady Bridgerton murmured.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Mrs. Featherington asked.
Anthony leaned forward, placed his mouth very close to his mother’s ear, and whispered, “If you do not remove her from my presence within the next ten seconds, I shall murder her on the spot.”
Lady Bridgerton choked on a laugh, nodded, and managed to say, “Of course.”
In under a minute, Anthony and Kate were alone in the garden.
He turned to face her; she’d stood and taken a few steps toward him. “I think,” he murmured, slipping his arm through hers, “that we ought to consider moving out of sight of the house.”
His steps were long and purposeful, and she stumbled to keep up with him until she found her stride. “My lord,” she asked, hurrying along, “do you think this is wise?”
“You sound like Mrs. Featherington,” he pointed out, not breaking his pace, even for a second.
“Heaven forbid,” Kate muttered, “but the question still stands.”
“Yes, I do think it’s very wise,” he replied, pulling her into a gazebo. Its walls were partially open to the air, but it was surrounded by lilac bushes and afforded them considerable privacy.
“But—”
He smiled. Slowly. “Did you know you argue too much?”
“You brought me here to tell me that?”
“No,” he drawled, “I brought you here to do this.”
And then, before she had a chance to utter a word, before she even had a chance to draw breath, his mouth swooped down and captured hers in a hungry, searing kiss. His lips were voracious, taking everything she had to give and then demanding even more. The fire that glowed within her burned and crackled even hotter than what he’d stoked that night in his study, hotter by a tenfold.
She was melting. Dear God, she was melting, and she wanted so much more.
“You shouldn’t do this to me,” he whispered against her mouth. “You shouldn’t. Everything about you is absolutely wrong. And yet…”
Kate gasped as his hands stole around to her backside and pressed her harshly against his arousal.
“Do you see?” he said raggedly, his lips moving along her cheek. “Do you feel?” He chuckled hoarsely, an odd mocking sound. “Do you even understand?” He squeezed mercilessly, then nibbled the tender skin of her ear. “Of course you don’t.”
Kate felt herself sliding into him. Her skin was starting to burn, and her traitorous arms stole up and around his neck. He was stoking a fire in her, something she could not even begin to control. She’d been possessed by some primitive urge, something hot and molten which needed nothing so much as the touch of his skin against hers.
She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. She shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t desire this man who was marrying her for all the wrong reasons.