Page 46 of A Virgin for the Beastly Duke

After his measurements had been taken, he left the morning room to find Bridget but she was not in his study when he returned.

Chapter 22

Bridget huffed and blinked at the ceiling of Harry’s four-poster bed. She had been trying to sleep for the past two hours but worry rendered her efforts futile. She wished to protect Harry as much as he wanted to protect her, but she was somewhat powerless to do anything.

Sitting up, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was the same one that Harry had knocked down the night she walked in on him having a nightmare, and it had been repaired. It was almost two in the morning, and she sighed, rubbing her weary eyes.

She pushed the covers and stood, finding her robe and donning it before slipping her feet into a pair of slippers and lighting a candle at the fireplace. She glanced at the bed she had been sleeping in for almost a week, yearning for Harry.

When he allowed himself, he gave her more pleasure than she imagined could be felt with only a kiss. She could only guess what he would make her feel if he allowed them more intimacy. Bridget sighed again and straightened with her candle, moving toward the door. He must be aware that she slept in his chambers.

She wandered down toward the library, hoping to find a book to distract her from her thoughts. She moved down the stairs, shining her light on the oil paintings she passed. When she reached one of the soldiers lined up for battle, her mind immediately recalled something she had heard that afternoon.

Two maids had been whispering near the kitchens, and she heard them on her way to meet Monsieur Paquin, to make some fine alterations to the dinner menu.

“The duke’s tower,” the maid had said. Bridget had only seen two of the four towers and they had been empty.

Harry finding her had caused her to forget about it until now. Bridget decided to visit the towers again. The first two were the same as she had seen them before. She found her way to the third tower but her path was blocked by a boulder in the archway that led to the stairs.

She peeked through the archway to see half of the stairs in rubbles. This tower was inaccessible, and she retreated, thinking of the last tower. Harry had told her that two of the towers were not safe but she no longer believed it. The fourth tower held something he did not wish for her to see.

Her conscience called for her to stop walking but she ignored it, her curiosity too great. When she reached the archway, her path was, indeed, unblocked. Cautiously, she poked her head through to see the stairs. They appeared to be intact. To be certain of their safety, she placed her foot on the first step and put some of her weight on it.

Sturdy. With a glance down the dark hallway behind her, she began her ascent up the tower.

With every step she took, her alertness sharpened. It was eerily quiet, and the light from the candle made shadows dance on the stone walls. Her heart began to beat faster and so did her steps.

Unlike the other towers, the room above had a door instead of an arch. She placed her hand on the brass handle and turned, relieved to find it open.

Do not enter, Bridget,her conscience warned. She did not heed it. Pushing open the heavy door, she stepped into the room. It was round like the others but furnished with two divans. Something tall stood at the center of the room, covered with white linen. She approached it, finding several canvases facing the wall.

She wondered if they were Harry’s paintings, stowed away and hidden. Another look at the covered feature told her it was an easel, and there was a stool in front of it with a table beside it holding paint brushes and oils. Bridget tugged at the white sheet, watching it fall to the floor to reveal a large painting.

She brought the candle close, gasping when she beheld a battlefield. Fallen soldiers littered the ground while the battle raged in the distance. She inched closer, the sound of her heartbeat growing louder when she saw a man, that eerily resembled Harry, on his knees, holding the body of a dead soldier. His head was bowed but one side of his face was bloody, the other contorted with grief.

Her hand went up to cover her mouth as her vision grew blurry. It was Harry. She could recognize him anywhere. There was too much violence and grief in the painting for her to comprehend much but she knew she had just gotten a glimpse of the horrors he had survived.

Her chest tightened and there was suddenly not enough air in her lungs. She took a step back, knocking something down. The sound started her and she quickly turned to find a candelabra. Unable to bear being in the room any longer, she turned, pulling the door behind her, and ran down the stairs, blowing out her candle as she went. The darkness did not slow her, and neither did the grief that robbed her of her breath.

Bridget did not stop until she reached the front hall. Her hands found the balustrade and she lowered herself onto the steps, sitting and staring at the massive front door, not seeing anything as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her mother had died in a carriage accident, and Bridget had seen her when she was brought back to the house. She had done everything she could to forget the sight, and she thought she had succeeded until tonight.

Harry had seen hundreds if not thousands of deaths, he had even fought death itself, yet he had carried himself through it all while a single memory had completely undone her. Her regard for him had now completely changed. She thought she could understand his fears and all that he had suffered but she could see her error now. No one who had not lived through it could ever understand. All she could do was try to give him comfort, and she did not know how to do that now.

Bridget was unsure how long she sat on the staircase but something made her move, and it pulled her toward Harry’s study. She rested her forehead against the door and wondered if he was asleep.

A pained moan from the other side had her body tensing and her stomach knotting. She opened the door and rushed in. Harry’s head was on his desk, his arms stretched out on the surface, as papers littered the floor. He must have pushed them. One of his arms swept across the desk and sent the teacup she had left for him that night to the carpeted floor. It shattered on contact.

She hurried to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder, calling his name softly. He stilled and did not move for several seconds. “Harry,” she called again, and he sat up with a growl that sounded as though it did not come from a human.

His eye was unfocused as he looked around the room. When it settled on her, he fell to his feet, the force of his movement toppling his chair. “Bridget, no,” he rasped.

She moved toward him but he stepped away. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, eyes wide in terror.

“No, Harry, you did not,” she said, surprised at the evenness of her voice.

He closed his eye, visibly relieved. “I cannot control my actions when this happens, Bridget. I left my bedchamber to protect you.”

---