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Anthony had watched her sail away until she was nothing but a spot on the horizon. Until his heart had shredded itself again and again and again on the broken pieces of the person he used to be that still resided in his chest
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“Very well, Mrs…?”
She’d trailed off, waiting for her to fill in the space with her name. smith. She’d practiced that on the ship as well. Mrs Smith. Chosen for how nondescript it was, how many people in England bore that name, impossible to trace. She would be Mrs. Smith, and in a few months, when it would be feasible that she could pass off one of the letters Mary would send her as news from her husband: She would be a widow. But when she had opened her mouth, a different name came out. “Mrs Bridgerton. I’m Mrs. Bridgerton.”OR
The runaway Kate AU I wrote on Tumblr, now here by special request
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