The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(105)

Or was it even better if she didn’t love him at all?

Anthony just didn’t know the answer. And he needed more time. And he couldn’t think with her standing there before him, those pain-filled eyes raking his face. And—

“Go,” he choked out. “Just go.”

“No,” she said with a quiet determination that made him love her all the more. “Not until you tell me what is bothering you.”

He strode out from behind his desk and took her arm. “I can’t be with you right now,” he said hoarsely, his eyes avoiding hers. “Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or the next day.”

“Anthony—”

“I need time to think.”

“About what?” she cried out.

“Don’t make this any harder than—” “How could it possibly get any harder?” she demanded.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“I just need a few days,” he said, feeling like an echo. Just a few days to think. To figure out what he was going to do, how he was going to live his life.

But she twisted around until she was facing him, and then her hand was on his cheek, touching him with a tenderness that made his heart ache. “Anthony,” she whispered, “please…”

He couldn’t form a word, couldn’t make a sound.

Her hand slipped to the back of his head, and then she was drawing him closer…closer…and he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her so damned badly, wanted to feel her body pressed against his, to taste the faint salt of her skin. He wanted to smell her, to touch her, to hear the rasp of her breath in his ear.

Her lips touched his, soft and seeking, and her tongue tickled the corner of her mouth. It would be so easy to lose himself in her, to sink down to the carpet and…

“No!” The word was ripped from his throat, and by God, he’d had no idea it was there until it burst forth.

“No,” he said again, pushing her away. “Not now.”

“But—”

He didn’t deserve her. Not right now. Not yet. Not until he understood how he was meant to live out the rest of his life. And if it meant he had to deny himself the one thing that might bring him salvation, so be it.

“Go,” he ordered, his voice sounding a bit more harsh than he’d intended. “Go now. I’ll see you later.”

And this time, she did go.

She went, without looking back.

And Anthony, who’d only just learned what it was to love, learned what it was to die inside.



By the following morning, Anthony was drunk. By afternoon, he was hungover.

His head was pounding, his ears were ringing, and his brothers, who had been surprised to discover him in such a state at their club, were talking far too loudly.

Anthony put his hands over his ears and groaned. Everyone was talking far too loudly.

“Kate boot you out of the house?” Colin asked, grabbing a walnut from a large pewter dish in the middle their table and splitting it open with a viciously loud crack.

Anthony lifted his head just far enough to glare at him.

Benedict watched his brother with raised brows and the vaguest hint of a smirk. “She definitely booted him out,” he said to Colin. “Hand me one of those walnuts, will you?”

Colin tossed one across the table. “Do you want the crackers as well?”

Benedict shook his head and grinned as he held up a fat, leather-bound book. “Much more satisfying to smash them.”

“Don’t,” Anthony bit out, his hand shooting out to grab the book, “even think about it.”

“Ears a bit sensitive this afternoon, are they?”

If Anthony had had a pistol, he would have shot them both, hang the noise.

“If I might offer you a piece of advice?” Colin said, munching on his walnut.

“You might not,” Anthony replied. He looked up. Colin was chewing with his mouth open. As this had been strictly forbidden while growing up in their household, Anthony could only deduce that Colin was displaying such poor manners only to make more noise. “Close your damned mouth,” he muttered.

Colin swallowed, smacked his lips, and took a sip of his tea to wash it all down. “Whatever you did, apologize for it. I know you, and I’m getting to know Kate, and knowing what I know—”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Anthony grumbled.

“I think,” Benedict said, leaning back in his chair, “that he’s telling you you’re an ass.”

“Just so!” Colin exclaimed.

Anthony just shook his head wearily. “It’s more complicated than you think.”

“It always is,” Benedict said, with sincerity so false it almost managed to sound sincere.

“When you two idiots find women gullible enough to actually marry you,” Anthony snapped, “then you may presume to offer me advice. But until then…shut up.”

Colin looked at Benedict. “Think he’s angry?”

Benedict quirked a brow. “That or drunk.”

Colin shook his head. “No, not drunk. Not anymore, at least. He’s clearly hungover.”

“Which would explain,” Benedict said with a philosophical nod, “why he’s so angry.”