Page 91 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
Anthony heard the condemnation in the other man’s voice. He ought to feel guilty that he had caused Norfolk such distress, but Anthony could not muster a shred of regret. Instead, he felt as though he was lighter than air. He had received Norfolk’s blessing to marry Bridget. Now, all he needed was for her to agree.
“I need to speak to your daughter,” Anthony said. “If you will permit me to see her.”
Norfolk looked as though he had tasted something unpleasant, but he nodded curtly. “You may.”
***
Bridget was seated in the parlor beside her sister Anna. They had not yet noticed that he stood in the doorway, but Anna held aloft the blossom dress. Anthony’s throat grew tight. It would look so beautiful when Bridget wore it.
He cleared his throat. Bridget’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide with shock. “Anthony.”
“Bridget.”
“I—I promised you that I would replace the gowns,” Anthony said. “I am delighted that I can finally deliver on my promise.”
“They are exquisite,” Bridget said.
Anthony smiled. He took a step into the parlor, his blood roaring in his ears. Bridget’s face revealed little aside from her surprise at his initial appearance. It was impossible to know if his presence was welcome or not. He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair.
“I am sorry that it took so long for me to come calling,” he said. “There is much that we need to discuss.”
When last they spoke, he had told her that he did not love her. He had watched Lady Hastings shove her down the stairs, her face pale and blood pooling about her hair. But Bridget was alive. The color had returned to her face, and although there was a tiredness in the way she sat—her shoulders slumped and her eyes fatigued—Anthony saw resilience, too.
“Is there?” Bridget asked.
He felt affection for her rise within him, so powerful that it seemed impossible for him to contain it. Anthony would not leave this room until he had proven his love for her. “So many reasons,” he said. “I have asked your father for your hand in marriage.”
Bridget gaped at him. “In—in marriage?”
Anna clapped her hands together. “How delightful!” she exclaimed. “While you speak, I believe that I will sit beside the fire.”
Anna gently draped the gown over the nearby table and crossed the room in quick, dainty steps. She flung herself on the settee across the room, near enough to be a chaperone but too far away to overhear his conversation with Bridget.
Anthony sat in the vacant chair near Bridget’s elbow. She frowned. “Anthony, you do not need to marry me.”
He arched an eyebrow. She did not mean that; he was sure of it. “Why not?”
Bridget twisted her hands in the fabric of her gown. “You do not love me, so you need not marry me.”
“But I do love you,” Anthony said. “My desire to marry you comes out of love rather than honor. And I am dreadfully sorry for ever letting you believe that I did not love you.”
“You love me, and you do not love me,” Bridget said, her face softening. “I cannot endure this.”
“Let me explain,” he said.
She bit her lip and slowly nodded.
“I tried not to love you,” Anthony said. “I did not want to disrespect Anastasia’s memory. Nor did I wish to repeat my errors with Lady Hastings. I never imagined that I would ever love anyone after Anastasia’s death, so when I began to develop feelings for you, I refused to recognize them for what they were.”
“Lady Hastings warned me of that,” Bridget said. “She told me you would be unable to free yourself of the past.”
Anthony sighed. “She was right. It took me far longer than it should have. When you told me that you loved me, I panicked. I felt that I could not possibly be deserving of your love. I was certain that if I confessed my love for you, something would go terribly awry, and I cannot even tell you what exactly I felt would happen—only that it would. I was unkind to you. I did not mean to be, but nevertheless, I was. I am terribly sorry, Bridget.”
Bridget’s face softened. Her eyes searched his face with something like wonder.
He cleared his throat. “I hoped that we could be friends, for I did not see how we could be anything more. Not when I was in agony, trapped in my past, and unable—unworthy even—to accept the love you might have offered. The more my desire for you grew, the more I felt as if I was drowning.”
“You are not and have never been unworthy of my love or of me,” Bridget said quietly.
