Chapter 3: Tea and Treachery
The three days since the Bridgerton ball had passed for Kate in a blurred haze of shame and longing. Every brush of her own skirts against her thighs was a traitorous reminder. The scent of her lemon soap seemed to carry a phantom trace of him—bergamot and sin. She jumped at sudden noises, her nerves frayed raw, and found herself staring blankly at her embroidery, the needle hovering forgotten as the memory of his voice—Your body is mine—echoed in the silent room.
She was seated in just such a stupor in the sunlit sitting room, a book open but unread on her lap, when the butler announced a visitor.
“The Duchess of Hastings, Miss Sharma.”
Kate’s head snapped up. Daphne Bridgerton swept into the room before Kate could fully rise, a vision of composed elegance in a morning dress of dove grey. Her smile was warm, but her eyes, the same sharp Bridgerton blue as her brother’s, held a knowing glint that made Kate’s stomach clench.
“Duchess,” Kate said, managing a curtsy. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Please, call me Daphne. We are to be sisters, after all.” Daphne’s tone was light, conversational, as she settled herself on the chaise opposite Kate without waiting for an invitation. She surveyed the room with a casual air. “What a lovely, private space you have here. So quiet. One could have the most illuminating conversations without fear of interruption.”
“It is adequate,” Kate said stiffly, resuming her seat. “May I offer you tea?”
“That would be delightful.” Daphne waited while Kate rang for the tray, making idle comments about the weather and the latest modiste from Paris. She was the picture of a friendly future sister-in-law. Yet Kate felt scrutinized, dissected under that pleasant gaze.
The tea arrived. Kate poured, her hands remarkably steady. She handed Daphne a cup.
“Thank you.” Daphne took a slow sip, then smiled over the rim. “My brother has been… out of sorts lately. Agitated. More so than usual. Has your sister mentioned anything?”
The casual question was a dart aimed perfectly at Kate’s weakness. “Edwina finds Lord Bridgerton all that is amiable.”
“Does she?” Daphne set her cup down with a soft click. “Anthony has always been a man of deep passions, though he tries so hard to bury them under duty. It’s a family trait, I’m afraid. We Bridgertons feel things… intensely. Sometimes to the point of recklessness.”
Kate said nothing. She took a sip of her own tea, the hot liquid doing nothing to warm the chill settling in her bones.
“For instance,” Daphne continued, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “The night of our ball. Anthony vanished for quite some time. And you, my dear Kate… you returned to the ballroom looking decidedly… flushed. As if you’d been running. Or,” she paused, letting the word hang, “engaged in some other vigorous activity.”
The air left Kate’s lungs. She stared at Daphne, the cup rattling in its saucer before she could still it.
Daphne’s smile never wavered. “The music room has such interesting acoustics. Sounds can carry in the most unexpected ways. A gasp. A sharp breath. The… creak of a piano leg under a sudden, insistent weight.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Kate whispered, the lie ash in her mouth.
“I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you what I saw.” Daphne leaned forward, her voice a low, venomous silk. “I saw you, Kate. Pushed up against my mother’s Broadwood, your skirts around your waist, your head thrown back. I saw my brother between your legs, consumed by you. I saw the marks you left on his neck.” She tilted her head. “Did you know you bite?”
Kate’s vision swam. The sunny room seemed to darken at the edges. She gripped the arm of her chair, her knuckles white. “You will not tell Edwina.”
“Won’t I?” Daphne sat back, surveying her with detached curiosity. “My brother is set to marry an innocent, lovely girl. It would destroy her. It would ruin you. And Anthony… well, he’d survive the scandal, but he’d never forgive himself. The weight of that guilt would crush him. He’d become a shell of that passionate man you so enjoy.”
“What do you want?” The question was ripped from Kate, desperate and raw.
Daphne’s gaze traveled over Kate, slow and assessing. “You think you know him, don’t you? The brooding viscount, burdened by duty. You’ve felt his… intensity. But you’ve only seen the part he allows his lovers to see. The possessiveness. The hunger.” She stood up smoothly and walked to the door, turning the key in the lock with a soft, final click.
The sound seemed to echo in the sudden, thick silence.
Daphne turned, her expression shifting. The polite mask melted away, revealing something colder, more calculating. “I want you to understand the true cost of your… indiscretion.”
“Money?” Kate spat, anger piercing her fear. “I have none.”
“Good heavens, no.” Daphne laughed, a soft, chilling sound. She walked back toward Kate, not stopping until she stood directly before her chair. “I have all the money I could ever need. I want something else.”
Kate stared up at her, paralyzed.
Daphne reached down and, with a gentle, almost maternal touch, brushed a strand of hair from Kate’s cheek. Her fingers trailed down to Kate’s jawline, her thumb stroking the line of her lips. Kate flinched, but couldn’t pull away.
“My brother has always taken what he wants,” Daphne murmured, her eyes fixed on Kate’s mouth. “It’s a privilege of his position, his gender. He wanted you, and he took you. Against a piano, like a common tavern wench.” Her hand slid lower, tracing the high neckline of Kate’s gown. “Do you feel owned, Kate? Do you lie awake at night and ache for it?”
“Stop.” Kate’s voice was a broken thing.
“Why should he be the only one to claim you?” Daphne’s voice dropped to a whisper. Her other hand came to rest on the arm of Kate’s chair, caging her in. “He owes me a debt for my silence. And you are the currency.”
Slowly, deliberately, Daphne’s hand drifted from Kate’s collar to the hem of her skirt. Her fingers slipped underneath, sliding up the bare skin of Kate’s calf, over her knee, higher. The touch was predatory, claiming. Kate sat frozen, a statue of horror and a terrifying, unwilling arousal. The contrast between Daphne’s gentle expression and the violation of her touch was dizzying.
“You will be quiet,” Daphne instructed, her fingers reaching the sensitive skin of Kate’s inner thigh, “and you will be still. And in return, your secret remains with me. Your sister’s heart remains unbroken. Anthony’s precious honor remains… intact.” She leaned down, her lips close to Kate’s ear. “This is the price. This is what a Bridgerton’s passion truly costs. It’s never just your own. It’s a chain. And now, my dear, you’re bound to it.”
Her fingers pressed insistently higher, and Kate finally squeezed her eyes shut, a single, hot tear tracing a path down her cheek as she offered no further protest, the weight of her sacrifice—and the terrifying new chain of desire—settling upon her like a shroud.
Kate didn’t move. The chill of the sitting room’s air warred with the heat of Daphne’s invading touch. The seam of her stocking gave way to the rough pad of Daphne’s thumb on bare skin, a slow, deliberate circle that made her stomach lurch.
“Look at me.”
The command was quiet, absolute. Kate’s eyelids fluttered open. Daphne’s face was inches from her own, her expression one of clinical fascination. There was no passion in it, only a cool curiosity that was worse than any leer.
“Good.” Daphne’s fingers pressed deeper, a blunt, searching pressure. Kate’s body betrayed her with a sharp, shocking jolt of sensation. She gasped, the sound small and pathetic in the locked room.
A faint, humorless smile touched Daphne’s lips. “There it is. The same spark he found. How convenient.”
Shame boiled up, hot and nauseating. Kate turned her face away, staring at a sunbeam cutting across the Persian rug, the dust motes dancing like shattered pieces of her will.
“He thinks he’s the only one who can unravel you,” Daphne murmured, her other hand coming up to grip Kate’s chin, forcing her gaze back. Her fingers inside Kate began a slow, rhythmic stroke, utterly detached. “But he’s just a man. All noise and need. This is quieter, isn’t it? More precise.”
It was. The violation was methodical, a transaction. Kate’s breath came in short, ragged hitches. Her hips lifted, a minute, involuntary arch against the foreign hand. The groan that escaped her was one of pure anguish.
“You hate that your body understands,” Daphne whispered, watching the conflict on Kate’s face. “That it doesn’t care about your sister, or your honor. It just… responds.”
The pressure built, a treacherous coil tightening low in her belly. It was nothing like the frantic, consuming heat of the music room. This was cold fire, a clinical dismantling. Her fists were clenched in the fabric of her dress, the stitches straining.
“Do you think of him? Right now?” Daphne’s voice was a serpent in her ear.
“No,” Kate choked out.
“Liar.” The pace of Daphne’s fingers quickened, just slightly. “You’re comparing it. You’re wondering if he touches you this way. He doesn’t. He takes. He doesn’t… explore.”
Daphne’s thumb found a specific spot, a brutal, knowing pressure. Kate cried out, her back bowing off the chair. The climax that tore through her was violent and silent, a seismic shudder that left her trembling, hollowed out. There was no pleasure in it, only a devastating surrender.
Daphne withdrew her hand slowly, wiping her fingers casually on Kate’s discarded shawl draped over the chair arm. She stood, adjusting her own skirts, the picture of composure once more. Kate remained slumped, staring blankly at the ceiling, the ghost of that touch lingering like a brand.
“A starting point,” Daphne said, her voice returning to its normal, pleasant tone. She walked to the door, unlocked it with a smooth turn of the key. She paused, looking back. “We’ll continue this at Hastings House. Thursday afternoon. My husband’s study has a remarkable desk.Quite sturdy. Don’t be late.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Kate slid from the chair onto the floor, the rug coarse against her cheek. The scent of jasmine tea and her own shame filled her lungs. She thought of Anthony’s desperate whispers, the taste of his skin. She thought of Edwina’s trusting smile.
Then she thought of Daphne’s cool, evaluating eyes, and the terrifying certainty that this was not an end, but a new and binding beginning.