"My final letters, were they read? Or were they written in vain?"
Although born in France, Juliette Villeneuve often spent her childhood summers in London. With the passing of each summer, her adoration for a certain Bridgerton boy grew. During thei...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
JULIETTE'S SLUMBER WAS DISRUPTED BY THREE SHARP KNOCKS, followed by the bedroom door opening with a creak. Slumber was a poor word, for her night was hardly a restful sleep. Throughout the hours in which the moon reigned the earth and Morpheus reigned her dreams, Juliette was subjected to nightmare after nightmare — all of them featuring Anthony. And, all of them as wretched and heartbreaking as the one that followed. Every harrowing dream ended the same — a bullet in Anthony Bridgerton's chest. Even after she awoke, the image of the blood seeping from his wound as he lay dying, as his life drained into the lush earth beneath him, was seared into the forefront of every thought.
It was a nightmare, that's all it was.
Juliette's eyes ached and were puffy, no doubt from her tears. Throughout the night, Juliette found herself crying into her pillow. The tears streaming were from the revelations at the ball the night before, as well as the haunting dreams she was cursed with. It was cruel how Anthony not only tormented her waking hours but her sleeping hours as well. He was a demon that plagued her thoughts all hours of the day and night.
Anne stepped into the bedroom. In her usual cheerful tone, she said, "Good morning, miss."
"Good morning, Anne," Juliette greeted, her voice faint.
The bright sunshine of morning invaded the once dark bedroom as Anne pulled the drapes open. Juliette groaned softly at the brightness. Such intense sunlight seemed inappropriate for Juliette's current dark mood.
"These were left by the front door this morning," Anne said from her spot at the window.
Juliette did not look away from the ceiling, having found no energy to do so. Her voice laced with exhaustion, she asked, "What is it, Anne?"
"I believe they are letters, miss," Anne stated softly. She paused for a moment, recognizing the penmanship on the letter. It may have been years since Anne last saw his penmanship, but she could never forget the looseness and dangerous curvature of his writing. "Addressed to you. From, erm, Viscount Bridgerton?"
The mere mention of his name pained her heart, bringing back intense flashbacks from the night before. Her chest tightened and her breathing stilled. Juliette harshly pressed her tongue against the top of her mouth and clenched her jaw. With her eyes squeezed shut, Juliette willed herself not to cry in front of Anne. She willed herself not to shed another tear over Anthony Bridgerton. For he did not deserve her heart, thus he did not deserve her tears.
After last night's events, she had no desire to speak with him, let alone read a pathetic letter.
With a sharp breath, Juliette loosened her facial features. Coldly, she demanded, "Kindle a flame and set them ablaze."
"Of course, miss," Anne nodded with uncertainty washing over her dainty features. However, as a new thought came to mind, Anne grinned in excitement. "Also, I must tell you that last night Lady DuBois accepted an invitation from Prince Friedrich on your behalf — you are to promenade the Queen's garden this very afternoon!" Anne paused for a moment, bringing her hands to her heart. She gushed, "Oh, how romantic!"
