Page 47 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
Bridget smiled. She tried to imagine it—her sister as a gentlewoman achieving fame with her paintings. Anna might do well for herself in that other life.
“I do think he loves you,” Bridget said. “Maybe I am wrong, but he likes you. You like him. You have common interests, and I have no doubt that he will always be your friend, at least.”
“And do you feel the same way about His Grace?” Anna asked.
Bridget chuckled. She felt vaguely as though she were caught in some clever trap that Anna had concocted, and she did not know how to escape. “We are friends,” Bridget said, “and I imagine that’s all we ever will be.”
“But what is the difference between you and Your Grace and David and me?”
“You are not pretending,” Bridget replied. “Besides, there is… I do not know what it is, but I feel as though Anthony is keeping some secret from me.”
“Oh?”
Bridget slowly nodded, furrowing her brow as she tried to explain the feeling that she had deep inside. “There are times when he seems melancholy for reasons that I know not. It is difficult to explain, Anna, because he has never really said why he is sad. Sometimes, I even wonder if I have imagined his despair.”
“How odd,” Anna said.
“Yes. I wonder if it is something to do with his being the Duke of Hamilton. My understanding is that he did not expect to become the duke,” Bridget said. “I am sure that he finds it difficult sometimes.”
Anna hummed. “His Grace has lost both his uncle and his cousin’s husband in a short amount of time.”
“I do not know that Anthony knew either of them well.”
There was much that she did not know about Anthony. Bridget swallowed hard. Obviously, she would know those things if she loved him. What she felt could not be love, then.
But she wanted to know those things about him. Bridget wanted to know why he was melancholy. She dared to imagine a softer greeting in the gardens, where they had not been interrupted by Anna and Mr. Russell. Bridget imagined Anthony with his forehead pressed against her shoulder, telling her about everything that distressed him. If he had, she would have run her hand through his hair and murmured all the comforting words that she could think of to ease his worries.
“Still, he would have taken on new responsibilities with their deaths,” Anna said. “The dukedom and guardianship over Rose.”
“Perhaps you are right. Maybe there is nothing else, save the dukedom and all that it involves,” Bridget said.
Anna hummed and turned her head, facing the ceiling. “I hope that David comes to call today.”
Bridget glanced at the empty doorway. Did she want Anthony to appear as well? She could not decide. Bridget had hoped that when she crossed paths with Anthony once again that she would have sorted through some of her thoughts about Anthony, but it was like an impossible knot. The more she triedto piece apart her thoughts, the more tangled they seemed to become.
She had not thought it was possible, but her thoughts were even more scattered than they originally had been. Bridget sighed. She was only pretending to love Anthony, just as he was pretending to care for her. That was it.
But how did she explain the private kiss? Or all the feelings the curled deep inside her when she thought of Anthony’s hands on her? Bridget shivered.
None of it made any sense at all.
Chapter 22
Anthony sat in the duchess’s chambers, staring at his favorite portrait of Anastasia. It had been painted for their engagement. Portrait painters often flattered their subjects, making them more appealing, but such adjustments were never needed for Anastasia. The painting accurately captured her delicate face, her thick hair, and her bright eyes. Even her lips had that familiar, amused lilt. She looked as though she carried some delightful secret, and if she liked you, she just might be willing to share it. A white gown gently traced over her elegant form, tracing her small, round breasts and narrowing to the blue sash at her waist.
“I love you,” Anthony said.
He swallowed hard and slumped into the nearby chair, tilting his head back to meet the portrait’s gaze. If Anthony could have anything he wanted, it would be Anastasia, whole and hale again.
Behind him, the door opened.
“Leave!” Anthony snapped.
There was a pause, as if the room itself was holding its breath. “Are you certain that you wish for me to leave, Your Grace?” James asked gently. “It might help to speak of what you are thinking.”
Anthony’s eyes burned. His throat was so tight and thick that he did not think that he would be able to speak, even if he wanted to.
“She would want you to be happy, Your Grace,” James reminded him.
