Page 88 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
An injury? Bridget frowned. She tried to mentally recall everything that had happened, but it was like trying to swimthrough mud. For all her efforts, she found herself unmoving and exhausted.
“Lady Hastings shoved you down the steps of Lady Emily’s townhouse,” Anna said. “You have been unconscious for days now.”
“A—Anthony?” she asked.
His name came without any conscious thought, but once she had spoken, Bridget sluggishly realized that she wanted him to be at her side. He was not. Where was he? What had happened to him?
“What about him?” her father asked sternly.
“My lord,” said Bridget’s mother. “Please.”
Bridget forced down the bile that rose in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut as pain sliced through her skull. Everything returned at once—Lady Hastings shoving her down the steps, the argument behind the townhouse, Anthony saying that he did not love her—and Bridget’s eyes burned with tears. She blinked.
“Oh, dearest,” her mother murmured, stroking the back of her hand.
“She will need rest for some time,” the physician said. “I know it is tempting to speak to her and tell her everything, but she has just awakened. She needs time to recover her energy.”
“Of course,” Bridget’s mother said. “We should not be too taxing on her nerves. I apologize, Bridget.”
“Anthony?” Bridget repeated, her voice emerging as barely a whisper. “Has—has he…?”
“He is fine,” Anna said, leaning forward and pressing her weight against Bridget’s bed.
Bridget closed her eyes and drew in a shuddering breath that rattled her chest and sent a new jolt of pain searing through her skull. “Has he…has he come?” she asked.
“No,” her father replied curtly. “Thankfully.”
Thankfully?
Bridget felt as though her body were floating. Blackness threatened the edge of her vision, and her last conscious thought was of Anthony.
He does not love me. He has not even come to see me.
***
Bridget spent days drifting through sleep and wakefulness. When she managed to claw her way to consciousness, Anna or the physician or her parents were always there, coaxing her into drinking tea and eating filling soup.
Still, Anthony did not come. Bridget’s chest felt as though there were a great weight pressing upon her every time she thought of him. He did not love her. Bridget vaguely remembered that she had resolved to have one night of pure pleasure before reluctantly submitting herself to a long, loveless marriage with the Marquess of Thornton. It should not hurt that Anthony did not love her, but it did.
Of course he wouldn’t want to visit her. Why would he wish to see her ever again if he did not love her? Worse, the two of them had been caught shortly after their rendezvous in the gardens. She had marred his reputation once again.
“Bridget, are you awake?” Anna asked, as she entered the bedroom.
“Yes.”
Anna smiled and lowered herself into the chair beside Bridget’s bedside. “How are you feeling?”
Bridget forced a smile. She had lost count of how many times she had been asked that by everyone. Sometimes, she suspected that she was asked multiple times a day. “I am well,” she said.
“My poor dear,” Anna said, clasping Bridget’s hand.
“I am much improved,” Bridget said. “Truly, Anna.”
“I know, but I still worry about you.”
“You should not worry. Soon, I will even be walking again,” Bridget said. “I must be careful for some time, but I will soon be able to resume my usual activities.”
Anna nodded, looking relieved.
