“Nor have I.” But then, she scarcely knew him, though he was her husband.
Her gaze roamed back over his handsome face. How different he looked in repose. How vulnerable. All the starch had fled him, all the rigidity, and she could not quite stay the accompanying pang in her heart.
“You love him,” the duchess said, startling her from her reverie.
Bridget nearly swooned. She blinked. Cleared her throat. Skewered the woman with a glare. Of course she did not love the Duke of Carlisle. She did not even like the man. He was fine of face and form. He was strong. He knew how to kiss. How to bring her pleasure, much to her shame.
But he was the Duke of Carlisle.
Bridget did not love him.
She had never loved anyone other than her brother Cullen, and yes, even her sister Daisy. Reluctantly at first, it was true, but Daisy had more than proven herself to Bridget. She was loyal, trustworthy, caring. Yes, Bridget loved her family.
Not Carlisle. Never him.
She began to deny it. Opened her mouth to form the wordno.
Her mind suddenly traveled back to Harlton Hall. Their connection there had been undeniable, intense, and instant. Her attempt to meet John’s demands at the expense of Carlisle’s nephew had failed.
Yet instead of sending her directly to prison, he had taken her to his home. He had tended to her himself when she had been weak. Though he could be cruel and cutting, he was also a man who had the capacity for kindness.
Perhaps that was part of the reason why she was still here at Blayton House, ensnared in her conflicting emotions, facing a ghost from Carlisle’s past and the specter of his illness, all at once. That and the guilt which threatened to consume her whenever she thought of the fright she had caused the young Duke of Burghly. The need to do penance burned inside her, undeniable.
“You need not answer me,” the duchess interrupted her thoughts. “I can see it plainly on your face. I am sorry for my intrusion. Pray believe me when I say had I known Leo had married, I would never have… I had assumed, given the nature of the party… But it matters not. I merely wish him well, and I wanted him to know I am sorry. So very, very sorry for what I did to him. Will you convey that to him for me, please?”
Her dislike for the woman did not decrease after such an odd apology, half insinuation, half regret. One sentence more than all the others she had uttered combined struck Bridget like a blow.
I can see it plainly on your face.
She thought Bridget looked like a woman in love. A woman in love with the Duke of Carlisle.
How ridiculously, utterly foolish. He was her jailer, her enemy, the man who thought her despicable. The man who kissed with more passion than she had ever known possible in the mere fusing of two mouths together.
No, she must not think such errant thoughts now.
She found her voice at last. “I will most assuredly convey your apology to the duke, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” The duchess’s voice was brittle. So too, her expression, as if the slightest movement would fracture her. As if she took great care to keep her emotion from betraying her. “Take care of him. He is not as heartless as he would have the world believe.”
Heartless was precisely what the Duke of Carlisle was. John had warned her. His reputation preceded him, and Bridget had been the recipient of his wintry gaze and biting scorn more times than she cared to count. But then she thought once more of the man she had seen at Harlton Hall, teasing his nephew, a man who loved his brother and Mrs. Ludlow very much.
“I bid you good evening, Duchess,” she said, confused by the jumble of feelings within her.
The duchess swallowed. “Good evening, madam.” For a moment, she extended her hand, as if to trace it lovingly over Carlisle’s brow before apparently thinking better of it. Without another word, she left.
Bridget turned her full attention to Carlisle, who had begun mumbling something incoherent and thrashing about on the bed. She rang the bell pull without hesitation. Though she had no inkling of what her reception would be from the domestics, particularly those who knew she had been essentially a prisoner locked in her chamber, she had no time to spare.
The Duke of Carlisle needed her, and like it or not, she was all he had at the moment. She brushed a sweaty hank of dark hair from his forehead. He shifted again, muttering something.
“Hush now, Duke,” she whispered, “I shall see you through this.”
This time, one word emerged with perfect, concise clarity.
“Bridget.”
Her name.
“I am here,mo chroí.” The endearment left her without thought. Too late to call it back. It hovered in the air like a beam of sun, radiant. Illuminating. Warming.
