[Kate has seen Anthony Bridgerton's bared chest before -- through the clinging veil of a soaked shirt, that day by the pond, then again in the steamy haze of that gazebo, a night that still feels like a dream, every time she tries to hold it in her hands. Every instant of it seared into her very skin, memorized in a cacophony of sighs and touch and Anthony, beneath her, between her thighs, knelt there like he is no viscount, no son of a prominent, well-bred house, but instead some supplicant to the altar of Kate's hips -- she can feel it, every time she closes her eyes, and yet she cannot dwell on it for more than a moment, or she'll go mad.

This place alone makes her feel upon the edge of madness, the twisting halls, the endless woods. The thought of venturing out again has Kate's arms crossing tight over her chest, white-knuckled on the silk of the robe, aware that her braid has slipped over her shoulder, that there are countless loose curls escaping the hasty plait. She must look a mess. She must look already mad, the type of woman in a ghost story, haunting the moors, weeping and wailing for lost love.

Stupid. Focus on the solution, on the immediate -- Anthony is offering help, he has attempted to secure a carriage, he is determined and unstoppable. Kate nods, presses her lips together.] I would be very thankful for your assistance, My Lord. I will -- attempt to locate more appropriate dress for travel.

[She doesn't move. She doesn't want to. She wants to step forward, have him clutch her to his chest in that immovable, unshakeable way he has, like he needs her against him to breathe. She wants him to hold her until she forgets about everything but his scent, his voice at her ear, his hands on her, until the madness of this strange place is nothing but the background to her racing heart, to her body surrendering to her sister's once-betrothed, again and again. It's absurd. It's ridiculous. She should stop staring.

She is -- not stopping.]