The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)

by Julia Quinn

And then there was Kate Sheffield. The bane of his existence. And the object of his desires.

THERE IT IS THERE IT IS THERE IT IS

Lightning tore through the night, flashing the room with a sharp burst of light, and she squeezed herself into an even tighter ball, if that was possible. It occurred to him that she was trying to shield her eyes by keeping her face to her knees. He moved closer and took one of her hands in his. Her skin was like ice, her fingers stiff from terror. It was difficult to pry her arm from around her legs, but eventually he was able to bring her hand to his mouth, and he pressed his lips against her skin, trying to warm her. “I’m here, Kate,” he repeated, not really sure what else to say. “I’m here. It will be all right.” Eventually he managed to scoot himself under the table so that he was sitting beside her on the floor, with his arm around her trembling shoulders. She seemed to relax slightly at his touch, which left him with the oddest feeling—almost a sense of pride that he had been the one to be able to help her. That, and a bone-deep feeling of relief, because it was killing him to see her in such torment. He whispered soothing words in her ear and softly caressed her shoulder, trying to comfort her with his mere presence. And slowly—very, slowly; he had no idea how many minutes he sat under that table with her—he could feel her muscles begin to unwind. Her skin lost that awful clammy feeling, and her breathing, while still rushed, no longer sounded quite so panicked. Finally, when he felt she might be ready, he touched two fingers to the underside of her chin, using the...

She moved forward, but when she reached the doorway she stopped and turned around. “Lord Bridgerton?” “Anthony,” he said. “You should call me Anthony. I believe I’ve already called you Kate.” “You did?” “When I found you.” He waved a hand. “I don’t think you heard anything I said.” “You’re probably right.” She smiled hesitantly. “Anthony.” His name sounded strange on her tongue. He leaned forward slightly, an odd, almost devilish light in his eyes. “Kate,” he said in return. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she said. “For helping me tonight. I—” She cleared her throat. “It would have been a great deal more difficult without you.” “I didn’t do anything,” he said gruffly. “No, you did everything.” And then, before she’d be tempted to stay, she hurried down the hall and up the stairs.

He knew well the singularly strange sensation of loving one’s family to distraction, and yet not feeling quite able to share one’s deepest and most intractable fears. It brought on an uncanny sense of isolation, of being remarkably alone in a loud and loving crowd.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice even and intense, “and listen well, because I’m only going to say this once. I desire you. I burn for you. I can’t sleep at night for wanting you. Even when I didn’t like you, I lusted for you. It’s the most maddening, beguiling, damnable thing, but there it is. And if I hear one more word of nonsense from your lips, I’m going to have to tie you to the bloody bed and have my way with you a hundred different ways, until you finally get it through your silly skull that you are the most beautiful and desirable woman in England, and if everyone else doesn’t see that, then they’re all bloody fools.”