Page 85 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
Anthony sat in his studio, surrounded by portraits. A week had passed since Bridget’s fall, and he had languished ever since that terrible night. He stared at his portrait of Bridget. It was not perfect. Her right eye was slightly larger than her left, and he had painted her hair a little redder in color than it really was. Still, it was the best portrait he had ever painted, and he had spent most of his hours since Bridget’s fall working on the piece.
He stared at Bridget’s green eyes. Anthony knew the real Bridget remained unconscious, her fate still uncertain. He had not taken any guests, but Mr. Russell had kindly come to see him. Even though Anthony insisted that the man be turned away, he had nonetheless passed along the message that Bridget had yet to wake. Mr. Russell had expressed his deepest condolences.
“Your Grace.”
The familiar, feminine voice sent a jolt of dread through him.
“My lady.”
Lady Rose sighed. “It is far past time that you began calling me Rose,” she said. “Besides, Rose suits me better. I do not believe I am meant to be a lady.”
Anthony stifled a sigh. He had not requested her company, and he was even less inclined to speak with her given that the topic of conversation was something so banal. Still, she was upset, and she was his ward. He had a duty to care for her.
“You are a fine lady, Rose,” he murmured.
“Perhaps,” she said. “But is being a lady worth everything that you are forced to endure?”
Rose entered the studio and halted beside the portrait of Bridget. Anthony noticed that Rose’s eyes were red; she had been crying.
“She made being a lady worthwhile,” Rose said quietly. “She was my best and only friend. She never judged my father’s humble origins or my awkward manners. Bridget was only ever kind.”
“She still is,” Anthony said, his throat tight. “I have never seen such a remarkable woman since…”
“Since Lady Anastasia,” Rose said. “You never speak of her to me, but I have heard you mention her to others. You really loved her.”
“More than anyone.”
Even as the words left his mouth, Anthony wondered if they were still true. He had not anticipated meeting Bridget.
“Bridget’s fall was my fault,” Rose said.
“It was Lady Hastings’s fault,” Anthony said. “And my own.”
Rose shook her head. “The plan was mine.”
Anthony sighed. “You could not have anticipated that I—that I might…”
Rose whirled around and gazed at him with a sudden desperation. “That you would love her? No, I could not have known, but I hoped. When I proposed my plan to the both of you, I had this romantic notion that Bridget might grow to love you.”
Anthony stared uncomprehendingly at her.
Rose shook her head and curled her fingers into the skirts of her gown. “When you first met, I thought the two of you seemed to get along well. You were both witty and sharp with one another, and I thought that—that if Bridget fell in love with you, she could marry you. She would not have to wed Lord Thornton.”
“You… thought that I should fall in love with Bridget.”
“Yes. And you did.”
His first, instinctive thought was to deny it, but Anthony felt he could not truthfully do that.
“It was not your fault,” Anthony said. “Bringing together two people, so they love one another can surely never be wrong.”
“Even if the result was so dreadful?”
“That was not your doing. If we are casting blame upon anyone involved, yours is surely the least of everyone.”
Rose did not look as though she believed him, but she did not argue. Instead, she wandered through the studio, aimlessly looking at his other paintings. Anthony felt an instinctive urge to ask her to stop. This room had once been sacred; it had been his place and Anastasia’s. But Rose’s presence was not unwelcome.Maybe it was their shared fear of Bridget’s safety that drew them together.
“You should visit her,” Rose said, her voice distant. “Bridget would want to know that you had come to see her.”
