Page 80 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
Chapter 36
“What is the matter?” Bridget asked, her voice shaking.
She looked so vulnerable. After he dropped her skirts, they fell awkwardly, crumbled up and uneven. Bridget’s bodice was still pulled down, her breasts exposed. This should not have happened. He should have controlled himself.
Anthony forced his member into his trousers, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. “This should never have happened,” he said. “I am so sorry.”
“Sorry?” she whispered.
“This was a mistake.”
When he dared to look at her, Anthony found that her expression was bereft. Distressed. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“You are not supposed to love me!” he exclaimed. “How could you say something so awful?”
“Awful?” she cried.
Anthony shook his head. “This was meant to be a pretend courtship, a clever façade to convince the ton that we loved one another. It was not supposed to be real!”
Bridget’s breath hitched. “But I thought you loved me, too?”
A knot twisted in his chest at how heartbroken Bridget sounded and how much he hated himself for causing her such distress. Anastasia came to the forefront of his mind, and all the loss and guilt he felt swept over him so powerfully that his knees felt weak.
“No. Not at all.”
“But—”
“We cannot be seen together,” Anthony said. “I must go.”
“Wait!”
He turned away, straightening his jacket as he went. Anthony still smelled Bridget’s arousal and English lavender. Worse, he heard the frantic and light footfalls behind him.
“Anthony!” Bridget exclaimed. “Anthony, wait!”
He could not. Anthony kept walking, desperate to escape her. His stomach lurched, and he felt as though he might vomit. He had dishonored Bridget, just like he once had Lady Hastings. How could he have done something so irredeemably awful? How could he have made the same error once again? Anthony thought he had learned from his mistakes.
“Anthony!”
They reached the steps to the townhouse, and Anthony began to climb. No one else was outside, enjoying the quiet, but he could see the ton—laughing and dancing and drinking—just beyond the glass doors. Any lord or lady might turn at once and see the two of them.
“Anthony, please!”
He whirled around suddenly, and Bridget halted abruptly, stumbling on the steps and staring at him with wide eyes. She had tried to straighten her clothing. Her skirts fell to her ankles, and her bodice had been pulled over her breasts. But she still looked terribly disheveled. Anyone who looked at Bridget would have suspected at once that something untoward had occurred. No woman simply became that disorderly by happenstance.
“I think—I think you should compose yourself before rejoining the ton at the ball,” Anthony said. “We must not let anyone know what has happened.”
“I do not care if they know!” Bridget exclaimed.
Anthony clenched his jaw. “You do care! If anyone suspects what we have done, your reputation will be ruined! The ton will be merciless and gossip incessantly about you. You will disgraced!”
“So what?” Bridget asked. “What care do I have?”
“You should care! Do you know what happens to women who do what you just did?” He swept a wild hand toward the door. “You should not have even come after me! Anyone might look out here and see the both of us! They might expect the worst!”
“The worst?” Bridget laughed bitterly. “The worst will happen anyway!”
“What do you mean?”
