Chapter 15
“Adrian?”
Bridget rubbed her eyes, feeling confused and strangely lonely as she looked at the empty side of the bed. She sat up, looked around, but found no proof that Adrian had even been there aside from the still nearly full bottle of whiskey he had purchased from downstairs.
“Adrian?” she called again, louder this time.
A soft knocking came from the bedroom door, causing Bridget’s heart to leap unexpectedly. She threw the blankets off her and hurried to the door, unable to stop the smile on her lips. Yet it froze when she opened the door and found not Adrian, but Farley standing there.
“Good morning, my lady,” Farley greeted politely with a bow.
“Good morning,” she replied, her smile fading as she looked her driver up and down. Then, realizing that she was being rude, she forced her smile back into place.
“I am very happy to see that you made it out of the storm,” she added.
“Thank you, my lady,” Farley said with another slight bow of his head.
“Might I ask, though, why it is that you are outside my door?” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask where Adrian was, but she feared the inquiry would be inappropriate.
“His Grace needed to leave rather urgently,” Farley explained. “He requested that I stay by your door until you awoke, then get you home posthaste.”
He then pulled a hand from behind his back, revealing a small burlap sack as Bridget felt her heart sink.
Why did he leave like that? Without even saying goodbye?
“I took the liberty of running downstairs to have them make you a quick breakfast,” Farley said, pulling her from her thoughts. “They could not offer much, but I thought a boiled egg or two and some ham would do until I could get you home to a proper meal.”
“Thank you, Farley,” she answered quietly.
With slow movements, Bridget accepted the small sack of food, fiddling with it as she tried to fight her sudden bout of disappointment.
“Shall we take leave, my lady?” Farley asked. “His Grace insisted we must not tarry.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed, pushing her thoughts to the side. “Just allow me a moment if you please.”
She turned back into the room, only taking a few moments to grab her cloak and ensure that her mother’s brooch was secured in its pocket, and then followed Farley out of the inn.
In the carriage, the sack of food Farley had procured for her sat untouched as Bridget sank into her thoughts. She had never felt more confused. Yes, it was true that she had wanted to keep her marriage vows. And yes, she was proud of herself for not letting Adrian kiss her.
Yet now, as she rode back to London alone, she felt overwhelmed by regret. There was another truth. The one she would never dare admit aloud was that she had so badly wanted Adrian to kiss her. To touch her. To show her what it felt like to be wanted by someone she wanted in return.
She startled and stiffened at the thought.
She wanted Adrian. She had tried not to, but the yearning was all the same.
Suddenly, despite the hurt she felt, she was grateful that Adrian had left.
For if he had stayed, she doubted she would have been able to follow the principles she had so vehemently spoken of.
It was good that Adrian put distance between them, and she decided, as the carriage rolled through the open gates of her home, that she would allow that distance to grow. She did not need to see him. Did not need his help to find her husband.
Bridget was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she did not notice the other carriages in the drive and instead walked to her front door with her head down. That changed quickly, however, when Mr. Conway opened the door for her and welcomed her into a foyer of disarray.
Bridget’s eyes widened as she took in crying maids, arguing men in suits, and movers placing the surrounding paintings and baubles into crates.
“Mr. Conway?” Bridget asked, turning her head to the dear old butler. “Mr. Conway, what is going on?”
It was only then that she saw the deep pity in the man’s eyes as he looked at her.
“Oh, my lady,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I am so very, very sorry.”
Bridget furrowed her brows as her confusion deepened.
“Sorry for what, Mr. Conway?” she asked.
“Ah! Bridget! My dearest sister-in-law!”
Bridget turned away from Mr. Conway just as Victor Carter pulled her rather gruffly into a suffocating embrace.
“Victor?” she asked, trying to pull away from his hug as he pulled her in even harder. “What are you doing here? Would someone please tell me what is happening!”
Victor pulled away, her husband’s younger brother’s features so similar to his own that it was uncannily disturbing. She wrinkled her nose as he stared down at her with outright pity, and Bridget fought the sudden urge to slap him and demand that he stop stalling and explain.
“He is dead, darling Bridget,” Victor said just as Bridget was about to give in to her desire to slap him.
“What?” she whispered.
She could fathom her husband hiding out with one of his mistresses or at another brothel. Could fathom him even in another country doing such things without a care for her at all, but dead? Warren was dead?
Victor tried to pull her back into another suffocating hug, but she put her arms out and took several steps back.
“How do you know this?” she demanded. “How can you be sure that he is dead? He has been missing! I am just returning from looking for him! How do you know he—”
“Bridget, please,” Victor stated.
He reached up and pressed two fingers to her lips, the touch making her shudder in revulsion.
“He was found outside a gaming hell in Surrey earlier this morning,” Victor explained, his voice thick with anguish. “I know it was him because it was I who identified the body.”
Bridget waited until Victor slid his finger away from her lips, shivering once more in revulsion at his touch.
“Do you know what happened?” she asked, hoping her softer tone would keep Victor from feeling the need to reach to touch her lips or any part of her body again.
Her brother-in-law shook his head as he frowned deeply.
“It is hard to say,” he said with a deep sigh. “I loved my older brother deeply, but he kept such poor company, you know? I would not be surprised if it were a debtor or one of his mistresses. As you might know, he had several.”
Bridget just stood there, not sure what to think. What to say. What to feel. Her husband was dead. She should be crying, surely, or at least feel sad. Yet she felt strangely numb.
“Bridget?” Victor asked.
Just as Adrian had the night before, Victor reached up to cup her face. Only instead of feeling tremors of pleasure, she shivered with disgust and pulled away from his touch. Victor had never acted so familiar with her, and this new show of affection was most off-putting.
“What happens now?” she asked, her voice barely above her whisper.
She turned around, watching as a dozen or so men continued to pack up multiple things from her home.
She was just a woman. A wife with no heir.
Even if she wanted the things they were packing up, it was not as if she could stop them. Her husband owed many debts.
Bridget fought another shiver. Victor’s arms came around her shoulders, and he pulled her back into his chest. She jerked her head to the side as she felt the stench of his breath against her cheek.
“Do not worry, little Bridget,” Victor whispered, his pointed chin nuzzling painfully into her shoulder. “I shall take good care of you.”
Nausea welled up in Bridget’s stomach at his words, and she could not help but shake her head.
“Thank you, but there is no need,” she insisted. “I… I shall stay with a friend until my mourning period is over, and then I will see what I shall do.”
“Do not be silly,” Victor replied, his arms going tighter around her, making it hard to breathe. “You shall stay here. With me. It is exactly what my brother would want, and we should honor his wishes, should we not?”
For the first time since hearing the news, tears began to well in Bridget’s eyes. Not because her husband was dead, or because of his colossal debts, which meant she was certainly losing her possessions and possibly her home.
No. She was crying because, from beyond the grave, Warren still seemed to have total control over her life.