When she didn’t respond to his attempted apology, Stephen continued, “I had an important case to deal with and could not come to see you.”
Bridget huffed. “You mean you didn’t have time for social calls. I think that was the essence of the note which your friend sent. Sorry, if I cannot quote its contents verbatim, but I destroyed it.”
Blast. I should have asked Gus what he put in the note.
Stephen had been too busy helping Lisandro at the time to actually pen the letter himself. He had assumed it would have made mention of him undertaking a perilous task. Something that Bridget would hopefully understand.
“I am sorry if Gus didn’t put things as eloquently as I had hoped. I couldn’t come to see you, and I am sorry. We only arrived back in London from Portsmouth a short while ago, and I came straight here,” he replied.
She shook her head. “The fact that you couldn’t be bothered taking the time to pen the note yourself speaks volumes for what you really think of me. I shouldn’t, of course, be surprised. I’ve seen the way you treat Toby. People are not a priority in your life, Stephen. And that includes those who should be able to expect emotional commitment on your part.”
This was going from bad to worse.
“I said I was sorry.” Even as the words rolled off his tongue, a sinking sensation settled in his gut. Bridget wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing his apology.
She pointed to the door. “Please leave.”
“What?”
“I thought you and I had the beginnings of something. A spark. The past three weeks have shown me the folly of my hopes. You are not the first man to make me feel a fool over love, but in your case, I don’t have to wait until you die to move on with my life. Get out, Stephen, or else I shall have the servants toss you into the street.”
Anger born of humiliation flared within him. “This is the exact reason why I don’t get involved with women. You are too emotional, always wanting more than a man is prepared to give.”
Bridget crossed the floor and opened the door. “This is your last chance to leave in a dignified manner, Sir Stephen.”
He stepped toward the exit, stopping when he reached her side. His jaw was set hard as he glared down at her. A better man would not seek to intimidate a woman in such a way, but with his blood pounding behind his ears, Stephen wasn’t capable of clear thought. “You will come crawling back to me. And whenyouare ready to say you were wrong, I might consider hearing your apology.”
The door was slammed hard and loud behind him as he stomped off in the direction of the stairs. “You’ll be begging me to see you again—I know you will,” he grumbled.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Four weeks later
Bridget lifted her head from where it hung over the chamber pot then thought the better of it. On her hands and knees in the middle of her bedroom, she cast up what had to be the last of the contents of her stomach.
She had no idea what was causing her to feel so wretched, but this was the fourth morning in a row where she had found herself on the floor within the first few minutes of rising. The previous day’s bout of violent vomiting had seen her go back to bed and spend the rest of the day under the blankets fast asleep.
This morning, however, she had a modiste’s appointment with one of London’s most in-demand dressmakers. She couldn’t afford to miss it. If she did, it would be weeks before she could secure another booking.
When the last of the heaving finally subsided, she sat back on her haunches. Sweat dampened her brow.
“At least it seems to pass later in the day,” she muttered.
As soon as she returned home from her dress fitting, she would send for her personal physician. A tonic to settle her stomach was no doubt all that she required.
Her current state couldn’t possibly be due to anything other than her having eaten bad food.
“This is ridiculous. Are you certain you didn’t cut the bust a size too small?” said Bridget.
The seamstress frowned. “Lady Dyson, I have been making your gowns since you were a girl of eighteen. Your measurements have never changed.”
Bridget was standing on a raised dais in the salon of her modiste later that morning, being fitted for her new aqua and white floral gown. A gown which appeared destined not to cover her breasts properly.
“Exactly, which means that one of your girls must have accidentally cut the bust line to the wrong size,” Bridget replied.
She ignored thetskand indignant huff from the dressmaker.
People make mistakes. I am not seeking to blame anyone; I just want the gown to fit.
