Bridget shuddered to think what her uncle might bring home to meet her. His social circle consisted mainly of men so ancient they appeared as though they could boast having seen Mr. Shakespeare’s original productions at The Globe.
It made no difference now. She would marry whomever her uncle chose, to please her grandmother. Bridget offered a polite nod accompanied by a weak smile. “Of course.”
“Ring for the maid, dear. Tea is the thing, I think, to chase your sorrows away.”
Bridget set her needlepoint aside and jingled the bell on the side table. The maid scurried in and Aunt Latissia nodded to her.
“Tea and cakes, Geneva. The Lady Bridget is having a crisis.” Then she addressed Bridget. “Would you care for some fresh fruit as well, dear? Perhaps some sweet berries? Yes, yes, I believe that’s just the thing! Geneva? Off with you now, and step lively.”
When the tea was served, Bridget studied the bowl of fresh strawberries and sighed. Her stomach churned. The last thing she wanted to do was eat… especially something that reminded her of the viscount. Her heart felt as though it had been torn out with some dull instrument. It was a pain she had hoped never to experience again.
She sipped her tea, hoping it would settle her stomach. Her eyes wandered to the corner where the finished portrait of Lord Maddox rested on the easel. It wasn’t a perfect likeness, but she had captured his eyes nicely. The hint of mischief and mirth in their depths. The smack of hubris hanging on the corner of his crooked smile.
And then there was the strawberry he held in his hand, elevated as though presenting her with a gift. A perfect, ripe ruby just for her. And she wanted to reach out and pluck it from the painting to taste of its sweetness.
Something struck her then, something she hadn’t noticed even as she had spread the paint on the canvas on that ill-fated afternoon, which seemed an age ago. Tilting her head to the side, she scrutinized the berry from another angle.
Her breath caught in her chest and she squinted to be certain.
Yes. She was truly going mad.
The strawberry was shaped as a perfect heart. Only a fluke, surely. And yet, perhaps her traitorous hands had seen where her eyes had failed. Her heart in his hands or his heart offered to her. It didn’t matter which. She could not escape the truth. She loved him.
The sound of Francis clearing his throat in the doorway startled Bridget from her private musings.
“My lady, Lord Maddox wishes to be announced.”
Bridget’s heart leapt to her throat again. The sound of her teacup clattered a silver rhythm against the saucer, betraying the tremble of her hands. She promptly set the teacup on the table and folded her hands tightly in her lap.
Aunt Latissia was caught off guard for what seemed like a mere instant. “That beast has some nerve showing his face here in our home after the scandal he has perpetrated, my dear. I have half a mind to allow him in, if only to see how far his boldness will go.”
If Bridget hadn’t still been holding her breath, she might have had the sense to protest. But her mind was hazy, and she was still busy trying to sort out what Francis had said.
With a predatory glint in her eye, Aunt Latissia ordered the butler, “Show him in, Francis. One does not leave a viscount waiting in the foyer.”
At that, Bridget finally remembered to breathe.
When Anthony strode in, he looked a far sight worse than he had that morning. Though his gait was steady and sober, his eyes were etched with dark circles and several more hours of growth shadowed his face. Bridget indulged herself in sympathy for a brief moment, wishing she could forgive him, yearning to trust him again. But she knew the longing was in vain, for her heart was not safe in his hands.
“Lord Maddox! To what do we owe the great honor of your presence this afternoon?” Aunt Latissia crooned. The sound of her voice clung like thick lard in Bridget’s throat, and she gagged back her urge to repudiate the teacake she had nibbled on only a few moments ago.
A sad smile glistened behind Anthony’s eyes as he regarded her.
“I wish to speak with Lady Bridget,” he said. His voice grated against his own throat as if too raw for use.
“I am not entirely convinced the lady wishes to hold counsel with you, my lord. She seems a trifle distressed at your presence.”
“Perhaps the lady will answer for herself,” he said, never releasing her from his glassy emerald gaze.
Bridget stared back at him in silence. Inside her warred two spirits. One demanded she guard her heart. The other begged her to risk it, promising rewards beyond her imagination. The first reminded her of her father’s abandonment, insisting that all men behaved thusly. The latter whispered she deserved release from the suffering inflicted by one man’s selfish ambitions.
In the end, confusion reigned, and Bridget felt ill equipped to handle it on her own. Her voice, however, seemed to speak independently of her will. Steady and firm without wavering, she answered, “I would speak with him privately, Aunt.”
“Privately? Bridget, I do not think—”
“Francis may stay. Will that satisfy you?” Bridget suggested. Every word out of her mouth came as a complete surprise.
Aunt Latissia’s mouth clamped shut, but she managed a curt nod before leaving the room, closing the door behind her with a huff. Francis moved to the tea table and poured two fresh cups.
“Thank you,” Anthony said, taking the seat across from Bridget. He waved away the offered tea as his eyes implored her in earnest.
“Was there something you wished to say, my lord?”
He seemed to cringe at her use of formal address, but he did not correct her.
“I know I did not adequately express myself this morning. It seems no matter what I say it comes out all wrong. So I am somewhat fearful of what might find its way out of my mouth in this conversation. But I promised myself I would stick to the advice my brother gave me, because I ignored it this morning, and all Hades broke loose.”
“A wise decision, I’m sure,” Bridget snapped. Still teetering on the edge of indecision. The sense of a lack of control in this increased her irritation. “Will you come to the point, my lord?”
“Yes, of course.” He glanced briefly at Francis before kneeling awkwardly in front of Bridget. A chill trickled down her spine, and she scooted further back in her seat to gain more space between them.
“It is entirely my fault. I’m sorry.” He slipped his hand under her fingers and lifted it to his chest.
Bridget wrestled between the urge to kick him in his unmentionables or the desire to fall sobbing into his arms.