Beguiling Bridget Read online

  Ambrose was not so far off the mark. Truly, Anthony would prefer death to the knowledge that he had lost her forever.

  The carriage came to a stop. Anthony jumped out.

  Unfortunately, his boots tangled with one another, and he fell backward, flat on his bum. He cursed and rolled to his side.

  “I changed my mind.” Ambrose peered out through the door. “Just let her shoot you.”

  “Helpful.” Anthony cursed and managed to clamber to his wobbly feet. Seeing double wasn’t at all helpful as he hunted through the park for Bridget. He was glad for her definitive red hair; she would be much easier to spot that way.

  Within a few minutes he located her strolling by the river with her likewise scarlet-tressed friend. Anthony lost no time strategizing his approach and marched straight toward Bridget.

  “Bridget!” he called after her, gaining her immediate attention.

  Her eyes narrowed when she spotted him, and with a word to her companion, she spun on her heel and walked in the opposite direction.

  Anthony increased his pace until he was panting, likely sweating whiskey. “Bridget, wait! I must speak with you!’

  “Your letter said more than enough, my lord. There is nothing left to discuss.” Bridget set her chin with firm resolve. Though her eyes appeared ripe with impending tears, he knew she would never deign to let him see her cry. Not after the things he had penned in his letter.

  “It is not what it seems!” Anthony swayed on his feet and shook his head. “I thought it was you with Wilde, not Lady Gemma!”

  At his announcement, Lady Gemma fell into a fit of hysterics and began to sob. With a shriek she scurried away with her face buried in her hands.

  Perhaps he should have kept that morsel to himself.

  “Bravo, my lord,” Bridget said with a spiteful sneer. “You are able to make women weep with a mere word. Truly your skill of speech is legendary.”

  “Listen to me, woman!” Anthony blinked several times. “I love you! I thought Wilde had stolen you away! Surely you can’t fault me. The appearance of — Admit it! You have been spending an inordinate amount of time with the gentleman!”

  “I have nothing to hide.” The malice in her blue eyes seemed to slice right through him.

  This apology was not going as well as he’d hoped. Perhaps if he had taken the time to strategize… But he was desperate for her to see he was a victim of circumstance, and in that desperation, he floundered.

  “You touched his thigh! At the reading. Your hand was — so I thought — that is, when I happened upon the two of you… of them… in the salon, I thought you were—”

  “Offering my favors to your friend?” Bridget stepped closer to him, her face brilliant with the fury seething just below the surface, yet still she kept her tone even and cold. “It is a relief to know you trust me so fully, my lord. Your confidence in my character is most reassuring. Or is it that you were simply searching for any reason, any excuse, to allow you to leave?”

  She was mere inches from him now, and he could feel her wrath rising to a crescendo with each breath she took. “You believe me capable of betrayal. While you, on the other hand, did exactly what I expected you should do. I had hoped—” Her words seemed to lodge in her throat behind a lump of emotion.

  Anthony knew, even in his inebriated state, he had achieved new heights of idiocy in this encounter, and he prayed the damage was not irreparable.

  Still Bridget continued her cutting censure. “My heart didn’t believe you were cut of the same cloth as other men, but I was wrong. The first time you were faced with an obstacle, you abandoned me. Just like my father.”

  Left speechless, Anthony watched as Bridget managed a brief emphatic nod before briskly retreating once again.

  “Forgive me,” Anthony muttered under his breath and returned ever so slowly to the waiting coach, where his twin brother sat with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “You didn’t take any of my advice, did you?” Ambrose shook his head in abject disappointment.

  ****

  “I am not going to tell you I warned you, dear.” Aunt Latissia lapsed into the lecture Bridget had known was coming. “But I did say he would not make a proper match for you. Did I not?” She shuttled her needle through the embroidery in her hoop as she shook her head with disdain.

  “Yes, Aunt.” Bridget had long since spent any emotional energy she might have used to argue with the woman.

  The older woman stopped mid-stitch to scrutinize her. No doubt she was in shock at how easily Bridget had conceded. Her expression softened somewhat, and she patted Bridget’s hand with what could almost be construed as a motherly tenderness. “There, there, dear. Not to worry. All is not lost, sweet niece. I daresay your Uncle Ernest can find you a suitable husband. He knows many worthy bachelors.”

  Bridget shuddered to think what her uncle might bring home to meet her. His social circle consisted mainly of men so ancient they appeared as though they could boast having seen Mr. Shakespeare’s original productions at The Globe.

  It made no difference now. She would marry whomever her uncle chose, to please her grandmother. Bridget offered a polite nod accompanied by a weak smile. “Of course.”

  “Ring for the maid, dear. Tea is the thing, I think, to chase your sorrows away.”

  Bridget set her needlepoint aside and jingled the bell on the side table. The maid scurried in and Aunt Latissia nodded to her.

  “Tea and cakes, Geneva. The Lady Bridget is having a crisis.” Then she addressed Bridget. “Would you care for some fresh fruit as well, dear? Perhaps some sweet berries? Yes, yes, I believe that’s just the thing! Geneva? Off with you now, and step lively.”

  When the tea was served, Bridget studied the bowl of fresh strawberries and sighed. Her stomach churned. The last thing she wanted to do was eat… especially something that reminded her of the viscount. Her heart felt as though it had been torn out with some dull instrument. It was a pain she had hoped never to experience again.

  She sipped her tea, hoping it would settle her stomach. Her eyes wandered to the corner where the finished portrait of Lord Maddox rested on the easel. It wasn’t a perfect likeness, but she had captured his eyes nicely. The hint of mischief and mirth in their depths. The smack of hubris hanging on the corner of his crooked smile.

  And then there was the strawberry he held in his hand, elevated as though presenting her with a gift. A perfect, ripe ruby just for her. And she wanted to reach out and pluck it from the painting to taste of its sweetness.

  Something struck her then, something she hadn’t noticed even as she had spread the paint on the canvas on that ill-fated afternoon, which seemed an age ago. Tilting her head to the side, she scrutinized the berry from another angle.

  Her breath caught in her chest and she squinted to be certain.

  Yes. She was truly going mad.

  The strawberry was shaped as a perfect heart. Only a fluke, surely. And yet, perhaps her traitorous hands had seen where her eyes had failed. Her heart in his hands or his heart offered to her. It didn’t matter which. She could not escape the truth. She loved him.

  The sound of Francis clearing his throat in the doorway startled Bridget from her private musings.

  “My lady, Lord Maddox wishes to be announced.”

  Bridget’s heart leapt to her throat again. The sound of her teacup clattered a silver rhythm against the saucer, betraying the tremble of her hands. She promptly set the teacup on the table and folded her hands tightly in her lap.

  Aunt Latissia was caught off guard for what seemed like a mere instant. “That beast has some nerve showing his face here in our home after the scandal he has perpetrated, my dear. I have half a mind to allow him in, if only to see how far his boldness will go.”

  If Bridget hadn’t still been holding her breath, she might have had the sense to protest. But her mind was hazy, and she was still busy trying to sort out what Francis had said.

  With a predatory glint in her eye,
Aunt Latissia ordered the butler, “Show him in, Francis. One does not leave a viscount waiting in the foyer.”

  At that, Bridget finally remembered to breathe.

  When Anthony strode in, he looked a far sight worse than he had that morning. Though his gait was steady and sober, his eyes were etched with dark circles and several more hours of growth shadowed his face. Bridget indulged herself in sympathy for a brief moment, wishing she could forgive him, yearning to trust him again. But she knew the longing was in vain, for her heart was not safe in his hands.

  “Lord Maddox! To what do we owe the great honor of your presence this afternoon?” Aunt Latissia crooned. The sound of her voice clung like thick lard in Bridget’s throat, and she gagged back her urge to repudiate the teacake she had nibbled on only a few moments ago.

  A sad smile glistened behind Anthony’s eyes as he regarded her.

  “I wish to speak with Lady Bridget,” he said. His voice grated against his own throat as if too raw for use.

  “I am not entirely convinced the lady wishes to hold counsel with you, my lord. She seems a trifle distressed at your presence.”

  “Perhaps the lady will answer for herself,” he said, never releasing her from his glassy emerald gaze.

  Bridget stared back at him in silence. Inside her warred two spirits. One demanded she guard her heart. The other begged her to risk it, promising rewards beyond her imagination. The first reminded her of her father’s abandonment, insisting that all men behaved thusly. The latter whispered she deserved release from the suffering inflicted by one man’s selfish ambitions.

  In the end, confusion reigned, and Bridget felt ill equipped to handle it on her own. Her voice, however, seemed to speak independently of her will. Steady and firm without wavering, she answered, “I would speak with him privately, Aunt.”

  “Privately? Bridget, I do not think—”

  “Francis may stay. Will that satisfy you?” Bridget suggested. Every word out of her mouth came as a complete surprise.

  Aunt Latissia’s mouth clamped shut, but she managed a curt nod before leaving the room, closing the door behind her with a huff. Francis moved to the tea table and poured two fresh cups.

  “Thank you,” Anthony said, taking the seat across from Bridget. He waved away the offered tea as his eyes implored her in earnest.

  “Was there something you wished to say, my lord?”

  He seemed to cringe at her use of formal address, but he did not correct her.

  “I know I did not adequately express myself this morning. It seems no matter what I say it comes out all wrong. So I am somewhat fearful of what might find its way out of my mouth in this conversation. But I promised myself I would stick to the advice my brother gave me, because I ignored it this morning, and all Hades broke loose.”

  “A wise decision, I’m sure,” Bridget snapped. Still teetering on the edge of indecision. The sense of a lack of control in this increased her irritation. “Will you come to the point, my lord?”

  “Yes, of course.” He glanced briefly at Francis before kneeling awkwardly in front of Bridget. A chill trickled down her spine, and she scooted further back in her seat to gain more space between them.

  “It is entirely my fault. I’m sorry.” He slipped his hand under her fingers and lifted it to his chest.

  Bridget wrestled between the urge to kick him in his unmentionables or the desire to fall sobbing into his arms.

  But she didn’t have time to decide.

  Before she knew what was happening, Anthony stood, pulling her to her feet along with him, whisked her into his arms, and planted a firm kiss right on her open mouth. Memories of their stolen kisses came flooding back of their own accord. His lips were smooth and tasted of cinnamon.

  Shock hindered her from reacting. But Anthony seemed to know exactly what he was doing and took full advantage of her state of mind, deepening the kiss.

  Her good sense came rushing back, filling her with fierce indignation. She pressed both palms firmly against his chest and shoved with all her might, thrusting him away from her.

  The rakish grin he wore drove her mind into a fury, and she reared back to deliver a swing that would possess the very real possibility of knocking the rogue quite firmly into the middle of next Sunday.

  With all her might she aimed her closed fist at his perfect aristocratic cheekbone, but when he grabbed her wrist, absorbing all her power and rendering the assault useless, Bridget very nearly lost her mind with rage. With a roar, she wrenched her hand free of his grasp and stepped back, scouring the room for a weapon that would prove fatal to the arrogant sod.

  She lunged madly for the teapot, thinking to send it crashing straight through his thick skull, but Francis was too quick and rescued the teapot from her reach.

  The silver!

  Her gaze raked the table for a sharp utensil. Only spoons!

  Blast! Where were all the knives?

  Francis must have seen her eyeing the teaspoons, because he deftly removed them from her vicinity without so much as twitch in his perfectly deadpan butler expression.

  “Give me something, Francis!” she bellowed in exasperation.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the taciturn butler gracefully lifted the fruit bowl in one hand as if he were serving the royal table.

  “Strawberry, milady?”

  She could feel the wide evil grin spreading across her lips as she leveled her gaze on Anthony, who seemed to shrink into himself in terror like a frightened turtle.

  “Why thank you, Francis. I don’t mind if I do,” Bridget replied, as she wrapped her fingers around an enormous handful of brilliant red ammunition.

  Chapter Sixteen

  To the Victor Goes the Spoils

  Anthony entered Ambrose’s townhome much like a dog with its tail between its legs.

  Ambrose took one look at his brother and swore. “Well, that went well.”

  “Obviously,” Anthony muttered as a squashed strawberry fell out of his jacket and tumbled onto the floor.

  “I thought he didn’t like strawberries,” Wilde said to Ambrose. “It seems if he was so offended by said fruit he wouldn’t take to bathing in it, which is the only conclusion I can draw given his state of dress.”

  “It is by my calculations,” Anthony sat on a nearby chair and cringed when the sticky juice of the strawberry ran down his legs, “that when the lady could find no daggers, swords, or pistols, she became desperate and decided to torture me with my favorite fruit.”

  “She was successful, no doubt.” Ambrose smiled and let out a chuckle.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed her.”

  “Idiot,” Ambrose replied.

  “Dolt,” Wilde agreed.

  “What did you expect me to do? I apologized! I went down on one knee, and I had this speech, truly it was a speech that would bring even Byron to tears, and then when I saw her lips and her face I lost—”

  “—complete control of your mind, no doubt.” Wilde shook his head. “If you do not fix this Gemma will never speak to me again! Women have to stick together, after all.”

  At Anthony’s irritated look, Wilde apologized. “Well, it’s not that I’m not concerned for you and the lovely lady, and yes perhaps I’m being a mite selfish, but saints alive, Anthony! I’ve never met a man so horrid at proposals and apologies in my life! And just this last year Ambrose apologized to Lady Cordelia by giving her a dead plant!”

  “Now see here!” Ambrose roared. “I didn’t know it was dead until after I gave it to her.”

  “That makes it so much better.” Anthony closed his eyes while his brother and Wilde continued to bicker. They were both right. Perhaps he should allow the lady to shoot him — anything would feel better than the pain he was experiencing at present.

  Bridget. She deserved the prince, the white horse, and the pretty words. She deserved it all, and he had kissed her instead.

  Well, no more. He was going to do this right, even if it killed him, which to be truthful was a
very real possibility.

  “Right then.” He pulled himself to his feet and strode purposefully toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”Ambrose asked.

  “To storm the castle,” Anthony muttered and walked out into the afternoon air.

  ****

  “Ahem.” Francis cleared his throat once more, causing Bridget to startle and jab her finger with the embroidery needle.

  Her sharp intake of breath brought an almost apologetic glance from the somber servant. Involuntarily, she pressed the injured finger to her lips for a moment.

  “Pardon me, miss. The Countess of Hawthorne to see you. Shall I show her to the salon?”

  “Yes, thank you, Francis. I’ll be with her presently.” She laid her needlepoint on the table, stood, and smoothed the skirt of her afternoon dress. There was nothing she could do about her puffy, tear-stained eyes now, so she pinched her cheeks lightly and took a deep breath.

  She made her way to the salon and pushed the doors open as she pasted her best fake smile on her face.

  “Countess Hawthorne, what a rare pleasure!” The sentiment was forced and felt unnatural in Bridget’s current emotional state, but she had no intention of making her personal trials the burden of a relative stranger.

  “Lady Bridget.” The sad smile behind the countess’s deep blue eyes betrayed her intimate knowledge of Bridget’s misfortune.

  “Oh.” Bridget stopped short of her perfunctory pleasantries. “I think I know why you’re here.” It seemed futile to continue with the expected social graces when she had no desire to perpetuate the acquaintance.

  “I don’t think you do.”

  “Please, Lady Hawthorne… I have no desire to re-live my humiliation for a third time today. Twice was quite suf—”

  “Humiliation?” the countess interjected. “If that is the crux of it… I had thought it was somewhat deeper than mere humiliation. Lord Maddox didn’t ask me to come, if that is what concerns you. I’m here of my own volition. My own culpability.”