The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(102)

“You’re still awake,” she murmured, her voice scratchy and mellow with sleep.

He nodded, wondering if he was holding her too tightly. He didn’t want to let go. He never wanted to let go.

“You should sleep,” she said.

He nodded again, but he couldn’t seem to make his eyes close.

She yawned. “This is nice.”

He kissed her forehead, making an “Mmmm” sound of agreement.

She arched her neck and kissed him back, full on the lips, then settled into her pillow. “I hope we’ll be like this always,” she murmured, yawning yet again as sleep overtook her. “Always and forever.”

Anthony froze.

Always.

She couldn’t know what that word meant to him. Five years? Six? Maybe seven or eight.

Forever.

That was a word that had no meaning, something he simply couldn’t comprehend.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

The coverlet felt like a brick wall atop him, and the air grew thick.

He had to get out of there. He had to go. He had to—

He vaulted from the bed, and then, stumbling and choking, he reached for his clothes, tossed so recklessly to the floor, and started thrusting his limbs into the appropriate holes.

“Anthony?”

His head jerked up. Kate was pushing herself upright in the bed, yawning. Even in the dim light, he could see that her eyes were confused. And hurt.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He gave her one curt nod.

“Then why are you trying to put your leg into the armhole of your shirt?”

He looked down and bit off a curse he’d never before even considered uttering in front of a female. With yet another choice expletive, he balled the offending piece of linen into a wrinkled mess and threw it on the floor, pausing for barely a second before yanking his trousers on.

“Where are you going?” Kate asked anxiously.

“I have to go out,” he grunted.

“Now?”

He didn’t answer because he didn’t know how to answer.

“Anthony?” She stepped out of bed and reached for him, but a split second before her hand touched his cheek he flinched, stumbling backward until his back hit the bedpost. He saw the hurt on her face, the pain of his rejection, but he knew that if she touched him in tenderness, he’d be lost.

“Damn it all,” he bit off. “Where the hell are my shirts?”

“In your dressing room,” she said nervously. “Where they always are.”

He stalked off in search of a fresh shirt, unable to bear the sound of her voice. No matter what she said, he kept hearing always and forever.

And it was killing him.

When he emerged from his dressing room, coat and shoes on their proper places on his body, Kate was on her feet, pacing the floor and anxiously fidgeting with the wide blue sash on her dressing gown.

“I have to go,” he said tonelessly.

She didn’t make a sound, which was what he’d thought he wanted, but instead he just found himself standing there, waiting for her to speak, unable to move until she did.

“When will you be back?” she finally asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“That’s…good.”

He nodded. “I can’t be here,” he blurted out. “I have to go.”

She swallowed convulsively. “Yes,” she said, her voice achingly small, “you’ve said as much.”

And then, without a backward glance and without a clue as to where he was going, he left.

Kate walked slowly to the bed and stared at it. Somehow it seemed wrong to climb in alone, to pull the covers around her and make a little huddle of one. She thought she should cry, but no tears pricked her eyes. So finally she moved to the window, pushed aside the drapes, and stared out, surprising herself with a soft prayer for a storm.

Anthony was gone, and while she was certain he’d return in body, she was not so confident about his spirit. And she realized that she needed something—she needed the storm—to prove to herself that she could be strong, by herself and for herself.

She didn’t want to be alone, but she might not have a choice in that matter. Anthony seemed determined to maintain a distance. There were demons within him—demons she feared he would never choose to face in her presence.

But if she was destined to be alone, even with a husband at her side, then by God she’d be alone and strong.

Weakness, she thought as she let her forehead rest against the smooth, cool glass of her window, never got anyone anywhere.



Anthony had no recollection of his off-balance stumble through the house, but somehow he found himself tripping down the front steps, made slippery by the light fog that hung in the air. He crossed the street, not having a clue where he was going, only knowing that he needed to be away. But when he reached the opposite pavement, some devil within him forced his eyes upward toward his bedroom window.

He shouldn’t have seen her was his rather inane thought. She should have been in bed or the drapes should have been pulled or he should have been halfway to his club by now.

But he did see her and the dull ache in his chest grew sharper, more viciously unrelenting. His heart felt as if it had been sliced wide open—and he had the most unsettling sensation that the hand wielding the knife had been his own.