Beguiling Bridget (Waltzing with the Wallflower #2)(30)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

“Sir,” the butler interrupted, “please follow me.”

Anthony knew he shouldn’t be rummaging through the house, but the sound of Wilde’s voice on the other side of the door drew him, and he continued to twist the knob. A strange pang of apprehension burned in his stomach. Wilde had no business at Bridget’s home.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

Anthony’s blood ran cold. For standing in the middle of the room was a redhead — his redhead — and she was kissing his best friend.

Wilde cursed and turned blood red.

“I’ll kill you.” Anthony seethed as he watched Wilde shield the woman in question. His pain was so deep, so life altering that his lips could not even utter her name.

“Whatever for?” Wilde yelled. “Was I not kissing her appropriately? Considering you were doing the exact same thing last night, I doubt it is you who should be pointing fingers, my friend!”

“We are not friends. Friends do not…” Anthony’s rage was hardly in check; he lifted a trembling hand to his forehead and stormed out of the room.

Anthony reached the door then yelled behind him, “Name your second, Wilde! Pistols at dawn!”

****

The sound of Anthony’s voice filtered up the stairs, causing Bridget’s heart to take up residence in her throat. She took one last glance in her looking glass, pinched her cheeks, and rushed to meet him.

Her feet were moving so fast she was certain she would lose her footing on the steps and dive headfirst down to the foyer, so she forced herself to slow down. After all, he wouldn’t leave without seeing her. No use breaking her neck on the day of their engagement.

Just as she reached the landing, she caught sight of her beloved viscount standing in the front entry with his back to her. A sudden sense of foreboding caught her off guard, and then she heard it.

“The engagement is off!” His pronouncement echoed through the house so terribly it felt as though the walls would crumble around her. And most certainly, her heart already was.

He didn’t appear to have seen her standing there, as though his statement was made to no one in particular and everyone all at once. It made not a whit of sense. Had they not been ridiculously happy mere hours before? Bridget knew she had been.

Unless…

It was all a horrible joke. An evil scheme. A rakish plot to defraud the heart of an impossible woman, to make her love him, then to turn the tables and remind her of the lesson she had long understood.

Men leave. The arrogant ones leave sooner.

Wasn’t it just her pure, dumb, Irish luck that this one ripped out her beating heart and took it with him?

Bridget stared at the closed door long after the viscount had disappeared. Her body seemed frozen in place. One hand on the banister, one foot on the stair below, and one foot on the landing.

From somewhere worlds away, she could hear the stifled cries of a woman and the soft murmurings of comfort coming from a man. But neither were for her.

With great effort she pivoted on her heels and trudged back up the stairs to her chamber, willing her own tears to stay and her heart to hold together until she reached the safety of her own room.

Chapter Fifteen

Replay

“Is he dead?” Ambrose mumbled, standing over Anthony.

“It’s possible he thought he saw a strawberry and had a fit of the vapors,” Wilde concurred. “Or perhaps he now understands what a pickle he’s gotten himself into.”

If Anthony had any strength left he would have punched Wilde in the eye or perhaps pelted him with a strawberry, the deadly fruit. Or a harder weapon, like an apple. Yes, an apple would do nicely. Instead he groaned and moved to his knees, using the table to pull himself into the chair.

“You weren’t kissing Bridget.” On one hand, he hoped Wilde had been kissing her, because then his behavior would have been acceptable, expected even. It would have been understandable that he would call off the engagement — shouting it through the manor, sending her a letter of accusation — to challenge his best friend to a duel, and when he realized he lacked the backbone to go through with it, to drink himself into such a stupor that his entire body felt like it was sinking into the ground. Men would have nodded their approval and women would have whispered sympathetically behind their fans that his poor heart had been broken. But he had been wrong. And now?

Bridget would never forgive him.

With a shake of his head, he finally ventured to look into Wilde’s eyes.

“It was Gemma I was… speaking with in the salon. The lady who holds my heart. Lady Bridget had kindly consented to aid me in my suit to woo her.” Wilde took a seat next to Anthony and glared, his fists were clenched at his sides. The muscles in his jaw twitched with fury. “Now thanks to your bungling, she won’t speak to me. The poor thing is so embarrassed. Convinced word will get out, and she’ll be ruined. She’s locked herself in her room and refuses to see any living soul other than her brother and Lady Bridget.”

Anthony moaned. He could not have possibly made a bigger mess of things.

“I’d wager he’d do anything to take yesterday back, even if it meant eating a carriage full of strawberries,” Ambrose said.

Idiot.

“I believe I have had my fill of your wagers, Ambrose.” Anthony slid his fingers through his hair in anguish. “What have I done? I must go to her. I have to find her — to tell her I was wrong. Explain things. She shall be cross, but perhaps she’ll understand.”

“Ha!” Ambrose slapped his knee. “You obviously have not seen a woman scorned before. Cross? She shall be more than cross! You’ll be lucky to escape her without losing your favorite appendage.”

“Surely cutting off his right arm would be too drastic, even for this offense,” Wilde offered.

Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Not his arm, you dolt. I spoke of his favorite appendage, though I’ll grant you, not the most useful. No doubt Anthony would argue otherwise…”

Anthony groaned again and allowed his head to fall to the wooden table with a thud.

“Up you go.” Ambrose lifted his brother to his feet and helped him stumble to the door. “Now, you must be careful not to make a bigger muddle of things.”

“Just apologize and kiss her,” Wilde offered.

“Yes,” Ambrose agreed, pushing open the door. “And if she draws a pistol, just let her shoot. You shall both feel better.”

“Let her shoot? And if she kills me?” He could hardly believe his ears. Ambrose thought this was a laughing matter!