Lady Hastings suddenly lurched forward, pushing Bridget hard. The young woman stumbled and fell with an alarming crack! For Anthony, it felt as if the world had stopped. He froze, staring in mute horror, as Bridget toppled down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood streaming from her head. When she reached the final step, she lay there prone and bloodied.
He remembered finding Anastasia’s broken body beneath the balcony, and that old terror rose within him. Anthony ran to Bridget’s side and dropped to his knees beside her, barely aware of the whispers of the ton—when had they arrived?
Lady Hastings was shouting that she was not at fault. The Marquess of Thornton was furious and declaring that he had been insulted. Someone was asking for Bridget’s parents.
“Bridget,” Anthony breathed.
She was so pale, and the blood was a violent streak of color against her cheek. It seeped into her brown curls and over her soft shoulders and the exquisite gown.
“Bridget,” he murmured. “You have to be all right. You have to live.”
Footsteps pounded down the steps. “We have to stop the bleeding until the doctor arrives.” Mr. Russell’s voice cut through Anthony’s detached panic. “Help me, Your Grace.”
Anthony roughly removed his jacket, and Mr. Russell carefully raised Bridget’s head, which still bled heavily. Bridget’s eyes remained closed, but she moaned softly. Anthony felt a spark of hope, for she was still alive. Mr. Russell pressed the jacket against Bridget’s head, and Anthony’s stomach lurched at the sight of the blood soaking through the fabric.
“Is it bad?” he asked, barely able to force the words past his throat.
This was his fault. He had let his thoughts of Anastasia and his errors with Lady Hastings keep him from a potentially wonderful life with Bridget, and if he had not panicked and said he did not love her, that might not have argued. They might have avoided the confrontation on the stairs. Bridget might not have been pushed. Everything might have been so wonderful. He felt as though he might be crushed beneath the weight of his own guilt, and if Bridget died like Anastasia…
Anthony felt as though all the air had left his lungs. He took Bridget’s hand in his own. Footsteps announced another presence, and Anthony snapped his head up to see the Marquess of Thorton, his face red and his eyes dark with anger.
“Well,” Lord Thornton said, “you wanted her. You can have her, Your Grace. I do not want her anymore.”
“And we do not want you here!” Mr. Russell snapped. “Do you believe that now is the time for your petty grievances?”
Petty grievances…
Anthony’s gaze drifted to the steps, but Lady Hastings had fled. He furrowed his brow. For the first time, he wondered if Anastasia’s death had not been an accident but instead something much worse. He took a deep breath.
Lord Thornton retreated, presumably chastised. Anthony swallowed hard. He had to know. He had to ask Lady Hastings if she had pushed Anastasia from that balcony, for it seemed too great of a coincidence that two women in his life had met their ends in such a similar manner.
But he would wait. He squeezed Bridget’s hand. Anthony might still need answers, but those answers and his past would never again come before Lady Bridget. She was his future, whatever might happen.
Chapter 37
Bridget had not awakened since her parents brought her home from Lady Emily’s ball. It had been three days since that terrible night, and Anna had not left her sister’s bedside even once. She sat in the dark by Bridget’s side, watching as her sister’s chest rose and fell beneath the bed linens. A throat cleared.
Anna looked toward the doorway, and David stood there. Sympathy softened his face, and there was an awkward shyness in how he stood. It reminded Anna of the night they first met, when he looked so out of place among the ton. His every remark had been followed by a sheepish glance, as though he had wanted to be himself but had been unsure if himself was acceptable among such grand company.
“David,” she said.
He inclined his head slightly. “How are you, dearest? How is your sister?”
Anna sighed deeply and wrung her hands together. “I am as well as I can be, considering the circumstances. Bridget is… unchanged.”
David moved nearer to her and stood behind her. She took comfort in his presence and leaned back a little. He squeezed her shoulder and rubbed his thumb over the crook of her neck.
“Do my parents realize you are here and that we are without a chaperone?” Anna asked.
“I bribed your maid to give us a moment of privacy,” he said. “I trust you will not have her dismissed.”
Despite the dour situation, Anna smiled. There had been very little happiness in her life since Bridget was pushed down the steps. “I will not have her dismissed,” Anna said, her gaze drifting to Bridget. “I have more pressing matters than my maid accepting bribes from my betrothed.”
“After Bridget recovers—”
“If she recovers,” Anna interrupted quietly. “The surgeon and physician are both unsure that she will. The blow to her head was… was bad. She lost a great deal of blood, and it is uncertain if she will ever…”
Tears burned in Anna’s eyes. Her breath hitched when she thought of her sister never waking up and of having lost her best friend. This never should have happened. She and Bridget should have been engaged to their love matches and thinkingabout happy marriages. Bridget—so lively and thoughtful and kind—should not be lying prone on that bed if there was even an ounce of justice in the world.
