Chapter Text
What must he have done, Anthony wonders, whom must he have wronged, to encounter such a woman at the first ball of the season? It is a small consolation to his pride that Fife, Cho, and Stanley were not outside to overhear the incisive frankness of her accusations. The last thing he needs is for their encounter to be recounted for a willing audience each evening at White’s. For his folly to become a topic of peculiar entertainment.
If he remains on that terrace much longer, the music from inside the ballroom faintly audible, the smell of something sweet and floral hanging in the air, then the turn of her impertinent countenance as she declared him lacking moral character may haunt him forever. And that simply will not do.
The woman in question was no less a vision, though certainly more polished, than the morning they raced in the woods. Her recriminations repeating in his head, he decides he must have brought this upon himself. This is what happens when he for even one moment allows himself to forget duty in favour of potential happiness.
He encounters Benedict near one of the refreshment tables upon his return to the ballroom.
“Mother was looking for you,” Benedict says off-handedly.
“Do I think too highly of myself?” he asks.
“I do not believe there is a good way for me to answer that question.” Benedict sips his glass of lemonade. “Did you hear me? Mother is looking for you.”
Anthony intends to respond with a simple acknowledgment but it comes out more like a grunt. He finds himself distracted as he tries to locate a certain woman in the ballroom. Though to what end he means to find her he is not yet certain.
“Which man crossed you?” Benedict asks.
Anthony feels his petulance rising. “Not a man.” He surveys the edges and corners of the room for a hint of that haughty stare and lithe form. It shouldn’t be hard to find her seeing as a scorched path surely precedes her.
Ah. There she is. His elegant nightmare. Even better, she is moving toward his mother and Lady Danbury with another young woman close behind. Perfect. He smacks Benedict on the shoulder and directs his attention to the woman. “Her.”
His brother looks at him askance. “Do you mean to dance with her or to do her bodily harm?”
“I have not yet decided.” He pulls on Benedict’s arm. “Come with me.”
“If you mean to solicit an introduction might I suggest trying to look pleasant?” Anthony shakes his head even as he takes heed of Benedict’s words, consciously relaxing his expression.
He catches the tail end of his nemesis’ fervent declaration to Lady Danbury. “We are woefully unprepared to navigate this lion's den!” she declares. Lady Danbury who, under regular circumstances is quite adept at concealing everything, is doing a rather poor job at hiding her frustration with the young lady. Excellent. At least he is not alone in finding her exacting.
“Oh, Anthony,” his mother says, “there you are.”
“Yes. Here I am. What is this I hear of lions?” He ignores the disdainful look being aimed at the side of his face and instead concentrates his attention on Lady Danbury. “Lady Danbury, I do not mean to interrupt your evening, but I hoped my brother and I might trouble you for an introduction to your party.”
“You did?” Benedict whispers.
“You did?” his mother also asks.
“Of course you may.” Lady Danbury shakes off whatever surprise must arise from his inquiry. “Lord Bridgerton, Mr. Bridgerton, I present my guests for the season: Miss Sharma and Miss Edwina Sharma.” The eldest’s curtsy is perfunctory at best. She looks as though she’d rather spit on him than acknowledge him with civility. In contrast, Miss Edwina graces him and his brother with a soft, sweet smile.
“It is a pleasure to meet you both.” He nudges Benedict with his elbow. “Is it not?”
“Ah yes,” Benedict says. “Quite.”
“Miss Sharma.” He turns to address her — an unexpected jolt zips up the back of his neck when he finds she is already looking at him. He feels it again when she does not look away. “May I have your next dance?”
Her eyes trace the distance from his outstretched hand to his face and then back again. Early morning rides in the park and unchaperoned verbal sparring aside, he is a gentleman and she is a lady. There are rules that govern the inside of a ballroom. Surely even she will not—
“My sister and I were about to retire for the evening.” Rules she appears determined to circumvent.
“Kate.” Miss Edwina’s tone is almost pleading.
He finds this plan to be working quite well. Not only has he discovered her given and family names, he has managed to annoy her once more. “Then I consider it my good fortune to have caught you before you do.”
She directs her next comment to Lady Danbury. “Our mama is already in the carriage.”
“A problem easily remedied by a footman,” Lady Danbury answers easily.
“I would be happy to see to your mother, Miss Sharma,” his mother offers. If it means Anthony will remain on the floor entertaining young ladies, of course she would.
“My brother spoke of how eager he was to dance with your sister,” Anthony says. Miss Sharma narrows her eyes.
“I do not— ” He knocks Benedict with his elbow. “Oh, yes. I forgot. I did.”
“Surely you would not deny him the pleasure of your sister’s company, Miss Sharma.” Miss Edwina’s eyes are wide and beseeching. If he wasn’t paying such close attention, he likely would have missed the way Miss Sharma’s expression softens at the clear want and wishes of her sister. The exchange of glances between the two sisters takes only a fraction of a second with the eldest nodding in agreement.
Benedict extends a hand. “Shall we, Miss Edwina?”
“I would be delighted, Mr. Bridgerton.”
Anthony waits until his brother and Miss Edwina have taken their places to offer his hand once more. “What of us?”
“I do not know what you mean, Lord Bridgerton.”
“Will you dance, Miss Sharma?”
“Miss Sharma.” Lady Danbury’s voice is only loud enough for those in their small circle to hear. “Decorum. Yes?”
Even still she waits to accept his hand. She presses her lips together and nods, placing her hand in his.
They walk onto the floor under the weight of both his mother’s and Lady Danbury’s stares. That is not what almost causes him to stumble over his own feet, however. As he leads her to the starting point of the dance and takes his own place, he is distressed to discover the source of the floral scent from the terrace. Its origins were not, as he thought, the large floral arrangements located around the room, but rather Miss Sharma’s very skin. It is a fact that feels far too intimate for him to be in possession of.
“You did not say you would be delighted to join me on the dance floor,” he says.
His own actions up to this point are a mystery even to himself. If growing up with seven siblings has taught him anything, it is that simple misunderstandings need to be ameliorated swiftly or else they risk growing into something wholly other. Why he feels the need to apply this practice to Miss Sharma, a woman he has just met and he is uncertain he even likes, he does not fully understand.
“I would not want to introduce further falsehoods into our acquaintance, my lord.”
“You find me false.” He does not phrase it as a question. “How interesting.”
The music starts. Her already steady gaze intensifies in strength as they step towards one another and then away again. “I did not say that.”
“Will I have the opportunity to address the charges against my character?” He takes her hand and she turns elegantly under his raised arm. “Or do you intend to leave tonight’s gathering certain of your own rightness?”
The roll of her eyes is rather subtle, he will give her that. “Just because we are dancing does not mean we need to converse.”
“That shall make for a dull half an hour,” he says. They rotate around the couples nearest them and then return to one another. “Though, perhaps in your silence, I may actually be granted the chance to defend myself.”
“You do strike me as the sort of man who prefers the women in his life to remain silent.”
He clenches his jaw. “Pray, tell me. What did I say that is seemingly so indefensible?”
“I believe I heard the phrase wed, bed, bred . Did I not?”
“Words said by my acquaintance, not myself.” The hard glint in her eyes is perfectly framed by their joined hands as they step together. “Words you were not meant to hear.”
“But you did not disagree with him.”
“So I am to be held responsible for the words of my associate over my own.” He leads her to stand beside him. Their clasped hands form a small cage that brings them even closer together.
“I have already expressed why I found your particular words unacceptable. Would you like me to repeat my argument?”
“You seem like an intelligent woman. Truly the economic and transactionary nature of marriage cannot be foreign to you.”
Her grip on his hand tightens. “Of course not.”
“Then you would have me believe you do not have a list of criteria by which you measure your own suitors?”
He is loath to let go of her hand, even if the exchange of partners is brief. He wants to see if his words have unsteadied her in the slightest. If there is any part of his claims that rattle her the way hers have him. She turns under his arm once more, and their clasped hands fall to her waist.
“Do you speak to all young ladies you dance with in this manner?” she asks.
“Only those who question my honour.”
“Oh. Have there been many?”
“You are the first, Miss Sharma. Believe it or not, most other young ladies find me charming.”
The corner of her mouth ticks up into what might be mistaken for a smile. “I do so love being special.”
“You are something.”
“Your presumption is inaccurate. I did not come to England to find a husband for myself.” He follows her eyes to where Miss Edwina and Benedict are dancing. Their younger siblings laugh and pull faces as if they are old friends. “I am here for my sister.”
“My question still stands. Do you not have criteria for the man who will one day marry your sister?”
She sighs. “I have compiled a list of requirements for her future match, yes.”
“I see. And nowhere do you list his living or his income I imagine?”
She looks back to him and it’s like she’s taking the very measure of him. “There may be something of the sort, but my first requirement is that he be an honest man.”
“You contradict yourself, Miss Sharma. Is it not my honesty that you now punish me for?”
“You imply that my dislike of you is punishment.”
The changing formation on the dance floor requires him to drop Miss Sharma’s hand to exchange partners once more and it makes Anthony want to curse in frustration. He knows he did not imagine the shift in her expression; how in an instant her ire melted into something like curiosity.
Miss Sharma continues their conversation the moment she returns to his side. “I suppose in a certain light you have been very true to your word,” she says. He is distantly aware that with each step they take away from one another, only to come back together, they find themselves standing ever closer. “I do wonder, though, if there is not another kind of truth. Something like a truth of spirit.”
“I do not understand your meaning.”
“Tell me, Lord Bridgerton, is the mercenary way in which you speak about marriage a true reflection of how you feel about the practice?”
He nods. “It is.”
She smiles softly, if not a little sadly. “Then I wish you, and whichever lady is fortunate enough to win the prize of your title, well.” She curtsies right as the music ends and turns away before he can offer to escort her back to her party.
He watches Benedict return Miss Edwina to the care of Lady Danbury and the woman he presumes to be Miss Sharma’s mother. Politeness dictates he should join his family. He should exchange pleasantries and offer to fetch glasses of lemonade for their new acquaintances. At the very least he should remain at the ball long enough to ask another young lady to dance. Instead, he chooses to exit the ballroom without saying farewell to his mother. Something he is certain he will be hearing about the following day.
That final sad smile of Miss Sharma’s stays with him in the carriage on his way home. Mercenary , she said. He hits the side of the door in frustration, something hot and unwelcome burning in his stomach. He does not have time for these kinds of thoughts. Does not have time for a woman who unsettles him to this degree. He knows his own mind. He knows this is the best course of action for both himself and his family.
That does not explain, however, his continued desire to explain himself to her. Or why, as he readies himself for bed, he is tortured by the thought that somewhere Miss Sharma is thinking ill of him.
***
When the queen names Miss Edwina the diamond of the season, Anthony is not one of the many men to step forward to dance with her. Something his brother does not leave unremarked upon.
“Lord Stanley is dancing with your diamond,” Benedict says.
“Good for Lord Stanley.”
“I found Miss Edwina to be a lovely, most spirited young woman. Does she not shine bright enough for you?”
“Oh she shines,” Anthony answers, his eyes already scanning the ballroom for Miss Sharma. Despite the crowded press of people in the confined space, he locates her easily. Her face is lit up with delight at seeing her sister so honoured. She is incredibly handsome, he will not deny it, but he will do well to keep his distance from the entire family. “But the mine where she is to be found is most treacherous indeed.”
***
“Do you mean to call on anyone today, Anthony?” His mother’s tone is unguardedly hopeful. “I thought Miss Eaton looked particularly fine last night.”
“The bow in her hair was much too large. I thought she might topple over from the weight of it. ”
“What of Miss Goring?”
“What of her?”
“Anthony. Truly? No one caught your attention last night?”
He expels a prolonged sigh, punctuating his aggravation by turning the page of his newspaper.
There was one woman, of course. A woman dressed in the lightest silver with skin he knows smells of lilies. He has not stopped thinking of the precise moment when Miss Edwina was named the diamond. How the open look of warmth and pride bloomed on Miss Sharma’s face.
“Do not fret, mother. It is early in the season.”
***
Whatever confidence Anthony had in those first days of the season slowly erodes over the following weeks.
First, his time with a number of London’s most eligible ladies proves fruitless. Then, his resolve to court the diamond is thwarted by the identity of the diamond’s sister. Only to, this very week, lose a sum at the royal races. It was not a fair sum, to be sure, and normally something he would take with good humour.
Except Miss Sharma was also present at the races and based upon her exuberant cheering was more successful in her selection of a horse. If he did not know it to be impossible, he would think she deliberately chose a different horse to tease him. They did not speak at the races though that did not stop him from catching her eye from across the field. It is confusing, the way he seems able to find her in a crowd of any size, and her ability to do the same.
Still, that is not what unsettled him so. It was seeing her with Dorset, a meeting seemingly facilitated by Lady Danbury, that he cannot stop thinking about. To see them together was to see her as a person wholly other than the one he knew. No, that too was not entirely accurate. Miss Sharma was not shy in displaying her affection for her sister.
What makes that man so deserving of her smiles? Dorset, while admittedly a good man, is also just a man. Likely one with views quite similar to his own on the subject of marriage. Why does everyone else seemingly receive the best of her and all he is left with is her obstinacy and challenging nature?
He hoped that sparring with his brothers would help him shake this feeling of perturbation. Instead he feels his frustration building with each parry and jab.
Anthony lands an unintentionally sharp blow to Colin’s thigh. His brother cries out and shakes out his leg. From the bench, Benedict snickers.
“Easy please, brother,” Colin says, “I am out of practice and you are sparring like one ready for war.”
Anthony rolls his shoulders to dispel some of the tension and paces back and forth. “As your eldest brother I am simply trying to expedite your reintroduction to the customs of society.”
“My brain thanks you but my body asks for mercy.”
“You seem distracted,” Benedict says.
“Me or him?” Colin asks.
“Anthony.”
He swipes at the air with his sword. “I am not.”
“You are at least deep in thought.” Anthony advances towards Colin, and Benedict laughs even louder as Colin hastily retreats. “Apologies for suggesting you were having thoughts. It shall not happen again.”
Benedict sits with his face turned up to the sun. The picture of ease and comfort. “Is it possible you are still thinking about Miss Sharma? Could she be the source of this distress?”
“I am not distressed,” Anthony bites out. “And if I was, it would have nothing to do with Miss Sharma.” He returns to the ready position, salutes Colin, and raises his foil.
“I am sorry to have not met her,” Colin says. He returns the salute, though with decidedly less vigour.
“Do not be sorry. Be grateful.” Anthony drops his foil and turns to Benedict. “And if I was thinking of Miss Sharma—”
“Which you are not.”
“Which I am not. But if I were to think of her, it would only be because she appears determined to willfully misunderstand me.” He returns to the ready position and Colin does the same. Colin lands a beat to Anthony’s foil, punctuates it with a cheeky grin, and then does it again. Anthony pulls back and turns to Benedict once more.
“I have responsibilities. I have duties , I have obligations, and for her to question that, without—”
“To be fair, brother,” Colin says, “we question it all the time.”
“Except she does not even know me!”
“Then why does it bother you?” Colin asks.
“Haven’t you only spoken to her at the one ball?” Benedict asks.
“I cannot allow a young woman with the ear of Lady Danbury, in the season I have decided to marry, to go about with such an incomplete understanding of my character!” He shakes his head and readies himself once more. The moment Colin mirrors his stance, Anthony advances quickly, giving his brother barely enough time to retreat. He lunges, knocking Colin back several steps.
Colin recovers only to hand the sword off to Benedict. “Your turn to be Anthony’s target.”
Anthony readies himself across from Benedict, choosing to ignore the look that his brothers exchange as he swipes at the air. “ Truth of spirit ,” he says, mimicking Miss Sharma’s charge. Benedict salutes. “What I should have said,” he advances towards Benedict, “was that bending one’s definition of truth,” he knocks away the parry, “to suit one’s aims means that there is no truth,” and ferrets out Benedict’s false attack. “What I should have said was—”
“Is this still a friendly match, or do we need to find some armour?” Colin asks.
“Again. Why are you so concerned with what Miss Sharma thinks of you?” Benedict beats Anthony’s foil several times in quick succession, an act his brother knows frustrates him to no end. He knocks Benedict’s sword away which only serves to make his brother smile wide. “Is it that your talk of obligation did not charm her or that she questioned it?”
“Neither. It is that she is wrong, and she cannot bring herself to admit it.”
“What a frustrating quality to find in a person.” Benedict’s eyes drift to Colin who nods in agreement.
“Enough,” Anthony says. He goes on the attack, pushing his brother back with every step forward until Benedict stumbles and falls. He delivers the final blow, pressing his foil into Benedict’s chest.
“I think,” Benedict’s breath is heavy as he speaks. “You should do something to get out of your head.” He reaches a hand up and Anthony takes it, pulling his brother to his feet.
“Like what?”
“I plan to attend the opening of Mondrich’s new venture this evening. Join me.”
Anthony stabs his foil into the ground. “I just might.”
“What about you?” Benedict asks, turning towards Colin. “Care to join us? Regale us with stories of travel that we will inevitably tire of and soon resent you for?”
“Tempting but I have already agreed to escort mother and Eloise to Lady Danbury’s soirée.”
“Ah, yes,” Anthony nods. “I saw that invitation cross my desk.”
The parade was intended for the benefit of Miss Edwina’s suitors. Likely to be overseen by the rather thorny sister herself. It is an event he has absolutely no intention of attending himself, having already sent his regrets to the lady of the house.
“Do you mean to court Miss Edwina now, brother?” Benedict asks.
“From what I hear, if any Bridgerton might be suspected of courting her, it is you.”
“I only danced because Anthony demanded it of me, which,” Benedict points his sword in his direction, “I have wondered about.”
“I have made you dance with both Daphne and Eloise.”
“Yes, but they are my sisters.”
“Do you mean to make Miss Edwina our sister?” Colin asks.
Now he knows for certain his brothers are just trying to needle him. Imagine, turning one’s attention to—
“Miss Edwina spoke quite highly of her sister during our dance,” Benedict says. “She is, from all other accounts, an intelligent, kind-hearted, and engaging woman.”
“All except to our brother, it seems.”
Anthony scoffs. He highly doubts that. “On second thought,” he says, “I should probably attend this event as well. Give my apologies to Mondrich.”
“I am confused. Are you courting Miss Edwina now?” Benedict asks.
“Do not be silly. However, I do intend to marry this season, and if Miss Edwina’s suitors are all in attendance, then so will the most eligible ladies of the ton.”
“A most advantageous position, indeed,” Colin says.
“Exactly. And, when she sees that I can be amiable, that other young ladies in fact even enjoy my presence, perhaps then Miss Sharma will be forced to acknowledge she was wrong about me.” His plan, a rather sound one he believes, is met with silence from both his brothers.
Colin looks from Benedict to Anthony, and then back again. “Am I to understand that you plan to attend the soirée to see Miss Sharma?”
He shakes his head in frustration. “No.” Reconsiders. “Yes.” He pulls his foil out of the ground. “No. Not in the way you seem to think.” Benedict laughs. “The both of you misunderstand me!”
“Or,” Benedict says, stroking his chin in a pantomime of one deep in thought, “we understand you perfectly well.”
***
Anthony observes Miss Sharma and Eloise together, the two of them undoubtedly conspiring about the talents of the men on display at Danbury House. Those two together should be a chilling sight, but he finds it rather endearing. It is some comfort to see her enjoy someone’s company at a social gathering, even if it is not a suitor. If he has found the season challenging, Eloise has found it demoralising.
“What is it you are thinking of, dearest?”
“Ah,” he looks away from Miss Sharma and back towards his mother. Her face as always is openly curious. Expectant. “Nothing.”
“You were smiling.”
“Apologies. It will not happen again.”
“It is not a bad thing.” She takes a step closer. “In fact, it does my heart good. You seemed determined not to enjoy yourself this season. Has something changed your mind?”
“How about a pause?” Lady Danbury’s voice resounds above the noise of the room.
Now would be his moment to do as he told his brothers he would. To make good on his intentions and converse with the young ladies in attendance. Miss Goring has been making eyes at him all evening. He knows his mother was angling for him to reacquaint himself with Lady Niko, newly returned from a long visit with her sister in the country. Instead he finds himself drawn towards the edge of the room where Eloise and Miss Sharma have continued their conference. He brings with him two glasses of lemonade, though he questions the wisdom of willingly handing Miss Sharma a beverage.
Eloise spots him first. “Ah, brother, what talent do you intend to display?” she asks. “Do you mean to give a lecture on agricultural practices? Perhaps recite an ode to duty and honour.”
He hands a glass of lemonade, and pats his jacket pocket. “Alas, I am armed with neither pamphlet nor ode.”
“What a pity,” she says.
He turns to address the other lady and hands her the second glass of lemonade. “Miss Sharma.”
She blinks at him in surprise. “Lord Bridgerton.”
“Oh no,” Eloise groans, her attention directed somewhere behind him.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Apologies, Miss Sharma, but our brother has cornered my poor friend Penelope once more. I should rescue her.”
Miss Sharm’s eyes, as ever, are turned towards her sister, who sits with Lord Lumley. It is a shame that society requires young ladies to keep their hair bound and tamed because he thinks he would quite like to see Miss Sharma’s hair as it was the day they first met. He imagines she would make quite the vision, with the light from the fire and candlelight dancing off the jewels around her neck, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back.
“I know what you are thinking, Lord Bridgerton.”
He clears his throat. “I quite doubt it, Miss Sharma.”
“You think me naive.”
“I would never describe you as such.”
“I know my sister is not yet in love. What’s more, I also know it is unlikely that in such a short span of time that she will find herself as such.” She turns to look at him. “I suppose all I can wish for is that she will find a man who sees her for all that she is. She has the best and sweetest soul. I long for someone to treasure what a gift she is.”
“What of you and your soul? Do you wish to be known in such a way?”
“I believe I told you I have no intention to marry.”
“Ah, yes, but that is not what I asked.”
She looks away and he finds his eyes drawn to the long line of her throat. “What reason would I have to confide in you about my wishes?”
He sighs. “Let us reflect on our history of acquaintance, shall we, Miss Sharma? Our first meeting, though unconventional, I thought ended well. Do you not agree?
She raises her chin. “I do.”
“Did I not keep my word and remain silent as to where we first met?”
“You have.”
“I believe it was in our second meeting where you formed this ill opinion of me.”
She narrows her eyes. “Rightfully so.”
“Based on a conversation, need I remind you, that was not meant for you to hear.”
“I am confused, my lord. If a gentleman professes a certain viewpoint in one person’s company, and then holds a different view in another—”
“That is not—”
“—how does anyone know which version of the man is true?”
He shakes his head. All his convictions and clear-minded ideals seem to evaporate in her presence. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath. “I only mean to suggest, Miss Sharma, that perhaps your first impression of me is more accurate than your second.”
“And what of our third acquaintance?”
“Would that not be this very conversation? Surely I am faring better as I have yet to offend you this evening.” He smiles. “As far as I am aware.”
“You have not yet offended me, my lord. But the evening is young.”
“Then perhaps you can do me a small favour, Miss Sharma, and allow our acquaintance to begin anew.” He holds out his hand to her.
“Very well, my lord.” Even through her gloves he feels keenly every place their hands touch. She shakes his hand. “I will allow you the time to reveal your true measure as a man.”
“I am grateful.”
“And then I shall be ruthless in my assessment.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
Now that he has successfully gained, if not her friendship, at least a warming of her spirit, it does not occur to Anthony to spend time with the other ladies in attendance. A most troubling development he is saved from considering further as Lady Danbury announces that the night’s festivities are ready to continue.
“Do you need to return to your sister’s side?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “It looks as though someone has taken my place.”
“You would let that stop you?”
“Ordinarily, no, but Lady Danbury told me I was intimidating.” He tries not to laugh. “I can see you smiling.”
The second half of the evening starts with Baron Olando almost upending a candelabra in an enthusiastic demonstration of his fencing technique.
From there, Mr. Jamali’s reading from Two Gentlemen of Verona goes barely remarked on. That is until Miss Sharma leans over to whisper, “Does Mr. Jamali find Proteus to be an aspirational romantic hero?”
“I have every reason to think that Mr. Jamali’s valet was the one who selected the text.”
“Mr. Jamali is not a great reader, then? Edwina desires a man who loves to read as much as she does.”
“I would not be surprised if that was more Shakespeare than Mr. Jamali has ever read before.”
He is followed by Lord Oakley whose presentation of tricks with a deck of cards goes horribly awry. After four unsuccessful attempts the man gives up on discovering Miss Edwina’s correct card and storms off in embarrassment.
“Good lord,” Anthony says under his breath. “Which of these men with their prestigious shows of talent have you selected for your sister?”
Almost as if in answer to his question, Lumley takes to the front and begins his recitation of a poem.
“She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies,” Lumley recites.
Anthony frowns. “What is this?”
“I believe it is called a poem ,” is Miss Sharma’s cheeky answer. “Lord Byron, if I’m not mistaken.”
The expressions of almost all the young ladies in attendance unite in starry-eyed wonder at Lumley’s recitation. Even some of the mamas in attendance as chaperones appear moved by his words. When his recitation ends, he is met with a hearty cheer.
“Did you really enjoy that?” he asks.
“I understand Lord Lumley’s appeal,” Miss Sharma says. “He has a romantic soul.”
“Is it your intention to never directly answer any of my questions?” She smirks. “You surprise me. You claim to place a high value on truth and yet you appreciate poetry.”
“You categorise poetry as dishonest?”
“If a feeling is worth having surely it makes more sense to speak it plainly. That way there is no mistaking one’s intent.”
“That is one way to see it, I suppose,” she says.
Mr. Jamali clears his throat beside him, and Anthony becomes aware for the first time that not only has the evening’s entertainment ceased, but that he and Miss Sharma are blocking the refreshments table. He offers her his arm, and is gratified when she accepts it with only a small huff.
“And how do you see it?”
He leads her to a less occupied corner of the room. “My parents, that is my father and Lady Mary, were lucky enough to share one of the deepest and truest of loves I have ever witnessed. I do not remember my mother well, but I remember enough to know there was also love there.” She pauses, her eyes fixed on him. He nods, encouraging her to continue. “In those final days of my father’s, mama sat by his bedside and counted his every breath until he took his very last.” Her eyes drift towards the place where Lady Mary stands with Lady Danbury, Miss Edwina, Lumley, and a young lieutenant who he does not believe he is acquainted with. “Each morning, I would hear her whisper the same poem to wake him up. You’re back again! My love, you’ve been so long away. Until one morning, he did not come back to us.” She tightly grips her hands together and then releases them, shaking the tension from her fingers. “Sometimes poetry allows us to speak a truth that is greater than we know.”
He is made off-balance with the portrait of her life that she has painted for him. The love and loss of a mother. And then of a father. “A truth of spirit, some might say.”
“Yes. Some might say.” She shakes her head ruefully. “May I ask you a question, Lord Bridgerton?”
“Of course.”
“You are not here to court my sister?”
“Your sister is lovely, and truly a testament to you, your mother, and your father. But no, I am not.”
“You have also failed to meet the eye of any of the young ladies in the room vying for your attention. Lady Weston has walked by three times to entice you to notice the cut of her new gown.”
“Her red gown? Yes, quite lovely.”
“Lady Weston’s gown is blue.”
“Your question, Miss Sharma.”
“Why have you spent this evening by my side?”
“At first, I was determined to prove you were wrong about my character. Seeing as you continue to stand with me, I am ready to declare myself victorious: your opinion of me has improved.”
“I would not go that far.”
“Yet you willingly stand with me.”
“I find you quite confusing. And you are not nearly as charming as you would have me believe you are.”
He leans closer and is almost dizzy at the sight of her slightly flushed complexion. “Come, Miss Sharma, be honest. You find me in possession of some charm.”
She sways toward him, but only for a moment. Before he can quite recover, she turns away from him, her head held high. “Lady Weston,” she calls out to the woman as she passes by for, what must be, the fourth time that evening. “Lord Bridgerton just remarked on how becoming he finds the colour of your gown.”
“Oh thank you, my lord,” Lady Weston says. “That is so kind of you.”
“Yes, Lady Weston, Lord Bridgerton is a very charming man, indeed.” Miss Sharma appears determined to ignore his glare. “I shall let the two of you converse.”
Lady Weston takes Miss Sharma’s place and begins their conversation by nattering on about the detail of her gown. It takes every ounce of his self-control to not follow after Miss Sharma.
Particularly when she glances back over her shoulder, a rather pleased expression upon her face.
***
“Benedict, what do you think of Lord Byron?”
Benedict looks up from his dinner plate, his brow creased in confusion. “Is this a quiz?”
“A genuine inquiry.”
His brother still looks faintly suspicious as he answers. “Many in our year at Cambridge thought my poetry far superior to his.”
Anthony nods in satisfaction. “I suspected as much.”
***