Chapter 38

Chapter 38

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."

"I see."

The young woman looked askance at him. "She would," Rose insisted. "Please, visit her. Speak to her parents."

Anthony grimaced. He could think of little that he would dread more than speaking to Bridget's parents, but he felt also that his response was a childish one. Anthony nodded curtly. "I will consider it."

"Please do. I can see that you are busy," she continued, "so I shall take my leave. I just wanted you to know about my involvement in this. You deserve that much."

"Thank you," Anthony said.

Rose smiled and bobbed a curtsey. She left the room without another sound, her slippers silent. Anthony sighed and tilted his head, considering Bridget's portrait from a new angle. He could not speak to her parents. That was impossible. Still, Anthony felt a spark of guilt, for he knew Rose was right. He could not hide forever.

But maybe he could be allowed a few more days.

***

After another day of Bridget remaining unconscious, James entered the studio. Anthony tensed. He had made a few changes to Bridget's portrait. Her eyes were more even, and he had attempted to correct the color of her hair. Most of the time, he simply stared at the painting and longed for Bridget. It was miserable being alone with his thoughts.

"So," James said, dragging out the word.

Anthony clenched his jaw. Sharing his feelings was the one thing worse than being alone with them. "I know what you are going to say," he said.

"Do you?"

"You are going to advise me to see Bridget," he said, "just as Rose did. You are going to tell me that I need to let go of the past and move forward."

James hummed. "I see."

Anthony did not turn to look at his butler, but he could sense that the man's eyes lingered on him, expecting some response. Silence stretched between them, and Anthony raised a brush to Bridget's portrait, correcting the lighting over her right cheekbone.

When the quiet became too uncomfortable to bear, Anthony heaved a sigh and placed the brush aside. "All right," he said. "Say your piece, predictable though it may be."

"I heard that Lady Hastings claimed you did not defend her all those years ago," James said.

"She did say that."

It was a little disturbing that the news of her claims had spread so quickly. Anthony balked at the thought of inevitably having to answer them before the ton. Even if he was guilty of that particular transgression, that did not mean that the ton would believe his protestations of innocence.

"We both know that is untrue," James said. "You fought hard for her. You spoke very eloquently to her father in an attempt to ensure she would not be wed to some repulsive man."

"I failed."

"Nevertheless, you did try," James said. "And you have since claimed that you did not love Lady Hastings."

Anthony glanced at his butler, who stood formally with his hands clasped behind his back. "If you have some criticism of me, say so. There is no need to behave as though it is some great mystery which must be unfolded."

"You love Lady Bridget, and I do not understand why you will not fight for her," James said. "You cared more about the honor of a woman whom you did not love than that of one you do."

"That is untrue," Anthony said.

"Is it?"

"You know that it is," Anthony insisted.

"Perhaps you should prove it to me, Your Grace," James said. "A man is defined more by his actions than his thoughts of action."

"I do not know if that is true," Anthony said wryly.

"You are being purposefully obtuse." James paused. "Forgive me, Your Grace."

His apology was the least repentant one that Anthony had ever heard in his life. He scowled. "Why should I go?" he asked.

James's brows rose so high that they disappeared into his hair.

"I cannot wake Bridget," Anthony said. "Her parents will doubtlessly not welcome my presence. If anything, I would be a distraction to them when they are trying to care for their wounded daughter. It is for the best that I stay away."

"But how do you know?" James asked. "Have you considered that the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk may have experienced a change in heart given Lady Bridget's injury? They might welcome the chance to speak civilly about the situation."

Anthony grimaced. "Given that the Duke of Norfolk was determined to marry Bridget to the Marquess of Thornton to cover his debts, I strongly doubt that."

He could not forget how Lord Thornton, having seen Bridget unconscious and bleeding, had declared that he no longer wished to be engaged to her. What sort of monstrous man would even think of something like an engagement when a young woman was so badly injured? Anthony spitefully hoped the Marquess of Thornton never wed another woman and never received his desired heir. That would be fitting penance for a man who behaved so abominably.

"You may suspect that," James said. "However, you shall not know until you try, Your Grace."

Anthony frowned. "I hate that you are right."

James's lips twitched into a smile. "That is the curse that I must bear, regrettably."

Anthony sighed. "I will take your advice under consideration."

"You should follow my advice," James said. "It will be better for you."

"That is enough," Anthony replied. "Thank you for your thoughts."

James bowed. "Of course, Your Grace."

One thing that Anthony had always liked about James was that he understood a dismissal without having to be told outright that his presence was unwelcome. After his valet left, Anthony rose from his chair and gazed at Bridget's portrait. Her flat green eyes stared back at him. Anthony had not yet put his fears to words, but he suspected that part of the reason for his hesitation to visit Bridget was that he did not wish to see her unconscious and mangled body.

The thought of seeing Bridget so injured made something within him twist and writhe uncomfortably. He could find no concrete reason for not wanting to see her, but he nonetheless felt a strange sense of foreboding. Anthony felt as if some unknowable, terrible thing would occur if he saw Bridget lying wounded in her bed.

But Rose and James were right. It was time to take action. He needed to visit Bridget, and if that meant confronting her father, so be it.