[2] The Queen Mother of Württemberg | A. Bridgerton

Chapter 13

Echoes of the Past

A jilted groom.

A broken hearted bride-to-be.

A Royal Wedding in shambles.

Sensational? Quite.

But true?

This author may traffic in chatter and speculation, dear reader, but misinformation?

Never.

Explanations of why Miss Edwina absconded from the altar may be greater in number than anyone could possibly fathom. But we must not forget, it was Her Majesty the Queen who placed the young miss on that special stage so that she could make her grand exit.

Allow this author to hope, for Her Majesty's sake, as well as both the Sharmas and the Bridgertons, that an official explanation emerges swiftly, lest the ton are run away by their tawdry imaginings.

Bridgerton House, London

The house was still. Shadows from the faint moonlight danced across the walls of Anthony Bridgerton's room as he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His bed, grand and inviting, had never felt so empty. Sleep eluded him, chased away by the thoughts that swirled relentlessly in his mind—thoughts of her. His Charlotte. The Queen Mother of Württemberg.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face as if it would erase the memory of her lips on his. But it didn't. Instead, it only intensified the sensation, making it all the more vivid. His fingers brushed lightly over his lips, the ghost of her kiss lingering there like a brand. That moment in the church, when he had surrendered to desire, replayed in his mind like a tormenting dream.

He had kissed her. Not just kissed her, but claimed her in a way he never had with anyone else. The memory of her soft lips, the way they moved with his in perfect harmony, made his chest ache. He had held her, felt the warmth of her body pressed against his, her heartbeat wild and matching his own. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Anthony sat up abruptly, raking his fingers through his hair. He couldn't keep thinking this way. She wasn't his. She couldn't be. And yet, his mind betrayed him, whispering again and again that she was meant to be his.

As the first rays of dawn began to creep through the curtains, Anthony forced himself out of bed. His movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as he splashed cold water onto his face, hoping to rid himself of the heat that still clung to him. It didn't work.

He dressed with precision, his shirt crisp, his cravat tied flawlessly, his waistcoat snug against his frame. The mirror reflected a man who appeared every bit the composed Viscount, but inside, he was anything but. His hands lingered as he adjusted his cuffs, his mind drifting once more to her—her smile, her laugh, the way she had looked at him as though he was more than just a duty or a title.

Anthony drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. It didn't matter what he felt. What mattered was facing his family, maintaining the façade of control they expected of him. He couldn't let them see the storm raging inside.

As he walked through the halls, the morning light flooded the Bridgerton household, its warmth mocking the cold turmoil in his chest. With each step, he braced himself, preparing to meet his siblings, to face the day, and to pretend that Charlotte wasn't still the center of his thoughts, her name etched into his very soul.

"Where is your brother?" The Dowager Viscountess asked her sons when she entered in the drawing room. "He should be here by now."

"Perhaps he is still waiting at the altar for Miss Edwina," Colin joked and Benedict choked on his tea while Eloise chuckled.