Beguiling Bridget Page 7

  Her breathing became laborious as he looked at her and grinned. “The way this lady smiles is like the sunrise. I should like you to paint that for me, though I know it will be difficult… to paint perfection.”

  “You’re a horrible flirt, Anthony.”

  Anthony closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “I’m no more a horrible flirt than you are a horrible tease.”

  “A tease?” She threw her paintbrush onto her palette and marched over to him. “How dare you say that, how dare you—”

  “Ah, You are so very fetching when you are vexed, my lady.” He motioned for her to take a seat next to him.

  Rolling her eyes, she let out an irritated huff before sitting down. “A tease?” she repeated.

  “Making you angry is the only way I have discovered that will coax to come near me. Truly, I am desperate enough to try anything to force you to speak to me. Now, let us talk of the upcoming ball.”

  “What about it?” Lady Bridget’s eyes darted to the ground, obviously irritated.

  “Well.” Anthony scooted away to give her space. “We will need to seem more familiar to those around us. I, for one, shall call you sweeting, as well as Bridget.” Her name tasted like honey on his tongue. He had to clear his throat to mask the desire he felt in that moment. “And you should call me Adonis.”

  “Surely we do not need pet names for one another—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted. “I believe we do. And you cannot appear so irritated around me either. Nobody will believe you’re infatuated, especially my brother. Your aunt is quite another story. She’s going to be looking for any excuse to separate us.”

  “I may let her.” Bridget sighed.

  Anthony glared. “If you let her near me I’ll, I’ll—” Blast. Why couldn’t he think of a good enough threat?

  “Stutter?” Bridget tilted her head and offered him a malicious smirk.

  He cursed and shook his head. “I’ll simply attach myself to your person, like a leech, and we both know how much you enjoy my company.”

  “Ah, finally comparing yourself to a similar species. Good for you.” She patted his knee then pulled back her hand as if burned. “I, um… I should get back to painting you. I mean, that is to say, I should be finishing your portrait, so if you could manage not to say anything offensive in the next hour or so, I’ll proceed.”

  “By all means.” Anthony motioned to the easel. “I’ll try not to interrupt. Though it might be difficult. I can be quite distracting.”

  “I am certain I can withstand your many charms, my lord.”

  “Anthony,” he corrected.

  “Anthony.” She blushed and returned to the easel. But not before Anthony took great pleasure in watching her hips sway as she walked back to her place.

  ****

  Bridget knew she had to spend some time with him in order to hold up her end of the bargain, but his presence in her life was more of an inconvenience. It was nice to have a live model to paint for once, but if live was the only requirement, perhaps a rabid polecat would be preferable.

  Not that Lord Maddox… er, Anthony, was entirely unpleasant to look at. In fact, he had a rather unsettling effect on her whenever he was near. His soft brown hair and golden emerald eyes drew her gaze like a moth to flame. She told herself it was only as an artist appreciating beauty. Nothing more than that.

  Honestly, if it wasn’t for his unbearable arrogance and vain utterings, she might quite enjoy the view. Adonis was a description not far off the mark.

  Bridget sighed and shook her head to clear the fog. The portrait. She was supposed to be painting.

  He was right. He was nothing if not distracting. And Bridget didn’t care for distractions. Not when there were so many other noble pursuits to occupy her attention.

  Drat! Her novel! She had almost forgotten about it! How was that even possible?

  One word. Anthony.

  There was very little recourse for revenge in situations like these. And his familiarity today was well deserving of some sort of comeuppance. Bridget glanced around the room in scheming defiance until her gaze came to rest on the bowl of strawberries sitting on the table behind him.

  A slow, deliberate smirk creased her lips, and she set back to work on the portrait with renewed vigor.

  “What are you plotting?” Anthony crooned from his place on the settee.

  “Never you mind. Just sit still and try not to spoil my masterpiece.”

  When she finished, she covered the canvas with a thick cloth, veiling it from Anthony’s view.

  “Aren’t you going to let me see it?” He took a step around her and made an effort to lift the cloth.

  “Don’t touch!” Bridget slapped at his hand, but he dodged out of her reach.

  “Hours of silent torture, and you won’t even let me have a peek?”

  “No. I want to put the finishing touches on it. You will have to wait, Adonis.”

  A wicked smile spread over his face as he glanced at her with an unholy gleam in his eyes. “See how naturally it rolls off the tongue? I believe we might be able to pull this off after all, dear Bridget.” He stepped toward her and brushed the stray tendril of hair from her face, catching her hand in his.

  Bridget’s breath caught in her throat as he lifted her hand to his lips, holding it there much longer than proper. His gaze held hers.

  When the maid cleared her throat, Bridget jolted and pulled her hand abruptly away from Anthony’s grasp.

  “I forgot she was in here,” he whispered with a disappointed smirk.

  “I believe it’s time for you to take your leave, my lord,” Bridget announced. She kept her voice steady though his nearness had caused her to tremble.

  “Very well, my dear. I shall look forward to the unveiling of the portrait the next time I call. Good evening, sweeting,” he said with a wink, then spun on his heel and let himself out.

  Chapter Eight

  Beyond the Call of Duty

  “Are you sure we should doing this?” Gemma whispered as Bridget stepped through the bookseller’s door. The girl could be dreadfully taxing.

  “Of course, sweet Gemma,” she coaxed as she tugged at her friend’s arm. “I have been here many times with my uncle. It is quite proper, I assure you.” Lying should not come as easily as it did, but she needed Gemma’s help if she was to pull this off. After all, if she was to write a novel worthy of reading, she must read what was popular, even if it was scandalous for a woman to do so.

  The doubt was apparent in Gemma’s sapphire eyes when they pushed open the door, but she allowed herself to be pulled into the dimly lit shop.

  Bridget knew exactly what book she wanted, but it was in the gentleman’s section. A distraction was in order. She turned to her maid, who had followed behind them.

  “Tessa, won’t you wait outside the door to direct his lordship when he comes?” The maid stared at her blankly for a moment, no doubt thinking she had gone quite mad.

  Of course, it was a lie. No man was coming behind them, but the ruse might work to keep the clerk from chasing her back to the ladies’ stacks. She began there, naturally, not wanting to draw attention too soon. Browsing through the mindless romance novels on the shelves was the perfect pretense.

  Beside her, Gemma relaxed visibly. Poor, sweet Gemma. She had likely never set foot inside a bookseller’s shop, let alone read through anything more stimulating than the works of Mrs. Burney.

  Bridget glanced at the clerk behind her. He was scrutinizing them sharply over his spectacles, as if expecting at any moment they would lunge for the gentlemen’s shelves. Small talk would be just the thing to desensitize the bookseller to the female presence.

  “Gemma, it seems as though I haven’t seen you in an age. What have you been doing with yourself lately?” Bridget began, hoping to lull the man into a false sense of security.

  “I have received a number of afternoon calls of late.” Gemma’s voice was noticeably quieter than Bridget’s had been. Her eyes darted nervou
sly around the room.

  “Oh? Any gentlemen I know?” The tone in her friend’s voice drew Bridget’s undivided attention, and she noticed Gemma fidgeting with the cuff of her glove. A mannerism she recognized as one of her dear friend’s tells. Did she hold a secret tender for a young man? How had Bridget missed this?

  “One in particular.” Gemma’s face colored with slight embarrassment.

  Bridget was not one to enjoy such conversation usually, but her companion appeared to be concealing some news and perhaps desired Bridget to pry it out of her.

  “Well, come then, Gemma. Don’t keep me in such suspense. Who is the gentleman?” she prodded, taking a step in the general direction of the men’s books.

  “I’m not sure it’s proper to speak of such things in public,” Gemma whispered again, her voice hardly more than a breath as she followed Bridget’s lead.

  Gemma had never behaved so tight-lipped before when it came to speaking of gentlemen. Her goal of marriage was no secret to Bridget. It made no sense now that Gemma would be suddenly shy to discuss such things. No one else was in the shop besides the two of them and the clerk.

  “If you would rather discuss something else, we can return to this subject at a more proper time,” Bridget reassured her, returning her attention to the task at hand. From her vantage point at the edge of the ladies’ shelves, she could see her true objective. A fresh copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s Vindication was on the table directly behind the clerk.

  “Do any of these strike your fancy, Gemma?”

  Gemma’s eyes grew wide, and she shook her head. “Bridget, I don’t think we should be buying books in public,” she whimpered.

  “Oh, Gemma! You are a precious thing!” Bridget laughed. “Where else should one buy books?” Gemma had been raised to be so uptight and proper it was a wonder she was able to walk around in public at all without swooning.

  “I don’t know. It just seems so… so… scandalous.” Her wide blue eyes darted around the room in obvious concern.

  “Nonsense, Gemma! I told you, my uncle has brought me here many times.”

  “But, Bridget,” she murmured. “Your uncle is a man.”

  Could Gemma really be so fearful of impropriety?

  “Ahem.” The clerk had sidled up beside them. “Are you ladies in need of assistance today?” The very tone in which he patronized them made Bridget’s skin crawl. Seeds of indignation took root in her chest.

  “I believe we’ve made our selections, sir.” Bridget grabbed two novels from the shelf and stepped around the man to the counter, slipping Wollstonecraft’s book beneath her other acquisitions with a stealthy hand.

  He followed close behind, meeting her at the counter. “Will there be anything else, miss?”

  “These will be all for today,” Bridget said with what she believed was her most confident smile. She hoped her tremulous hands wouldn’t betray her anxiety. He began to write a receipt for her purchases, as she worked to distract him from the titles by making small talk.

  “It has been lovely weather of late, has it not?”

  “Yes, lovely,” he answered, not lifting his gaze from his task. He made quick work of writing up the first two titles — mindless romance novels written for women. Bridget tried to break his concentration once more.

  “I dare say—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “My lady.” He lifted the coveted book and leveled his gaze at her. “I believe you have picked this up by mistake.” The clerk scrutinized her down his long pointed nose over the wire rim of his spectacles. Gemma squirmed beside her.

  “I’m certain I picked it up on purpose, sir,” Bridget said. She had mastered a deadpan expression, which she used in situations just like this. If she appeared unflustered, it was usually the clerk who backed down first. So while her insides fluttered and twisted into knots, her outward countenance betrayed nothing of the inner turmoil. “I wish to purchase these three volumes.”

  But he did not back down. If anything, he grew more combative.

  “This particular book is not suitable for young ladies of genteel breeding.”

  Lovely. He was one of those.

  Bridget drew in a slow deliberate breath, shoring up her ire for the battle. The little pompous fool. He had no idea whom he was dealing with. But he would soon. And he would surely regret challenging her Irish temper with his repulsive male condescension.

  “Listen to me, you wretched uncouth little man—” She lifted a finger to point in his face with not a care for proper etiquette. Gemma shrieked in sheer horror, taking a step backward. But it was too late. Bridget could feel the fury engulfing her.

  ****

  From a block away, Anthony recognized Bridget’s maid standing alone outside the bookseller’s shop. Perhaps he could pretend to be strolling by and happen upon her. The gossip would spread that he was out shopping with her, and by tonight his brother would be choking on his loss.

  Smiling, he quickly crossed the street and tipped his hat to the maid. As his hand reached for the door he stole a glance through the shop window.

  And was just in time to see two tiny fists pump into the air and reach out for the clerk’s collar.

  Anthony swore under his breath, jerked open the door, and marched over to where Bridget was on the verge of assaulting the man. The clerk covered his face with a book while she was making quick work of lunging across the counter, both hands still reaching for his shirt as if choking him would cause the problem to dissipate.

  “Ah, just in time! Thank you so very much, sweeting, for grabbing these books for me. I lost track of the hour. Apologies. Will you ever forgive me?” Anthony uttered the entire speech in such a fluid voice he shocked even himself.

  Bridget turned her cold stare on him mid-strangle, and for a moment he wanted to run back out the door.

  “Y-y-you are quite mad, my lady!” The clerk’s face was red with fury, and his eyes wide with fright. “Do you know this lady, my lord?”

  Anthony chose that moment to pull the book from the clerk’s still trembling hands. “Why of course, she’s my betrothed. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  Bridget still wasn’t talking, but in her defense it seemed to be the wiser course of action since the expression on her face was evidence enough that she had not yet returned to a proper state of mind.

  “And I was so eager to get my hands on a copy of…” Anthony stole a glance at the book and cursed aloud.

  Bridget’s mouth curved upwards into a tiny smile. The minx!

  Anthony cleared his throat. “A copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.” It was quite surprising that he didn’t choke over that mouthful. Not that he had anything against women’s rights; he just wasn’t the sort to go advertising his beliefs by buying such books.

  Shaking his head, he pulled out the second book, and thankful it was a gothic tale, he reached into his pocket to produce some notes for the poor man whom his redhead had come nigh unto beating within an inch of his trebly worthless life.

  The clerk shook his head and barked an indignant laugh. “Well, that explains it. I couldn’t imagine such a proper young thing reading such a big book. It does nothing but fill her head with ideas, and we wouldn’t want…”

  Anthony froze and slowly lifted his head to give the clerk his most intimidating stare, stopping the man mid-sentence. “No, please, finish what you were going to say. I’m quite curious what other medieval beliefs you hold.”

  “N-no, it isn’t necessary, my apologies sir, I mean. Mr.—”

  Anthony sneered. “Viscount Maddox at your service.” He reached across the table and shook the man’s hand.

  The man paled and went equally limp in Anthony’s clutches. Not feeling the least bit guilty that the sorry excuse for a man had fainted, he dropped him to the floor and left the notes scattered about the man’s person.

  “He’ll be fine, just had a good scare is all.” He winked at Bridget and noticed a shaking girl next to him.

  “Devil t
ake it, are you going to faint too?” He reached for the redheaded girl, but she shied away and shook her head all the while mumbling something about the dangers of the written word.

  Bridget followed him out of the bookshop and promptly ordered her maid to see her friend, whom she called Gemma, to the carriage. Anthony was shocked to see the resemblance in the two girls’ features. Not that Gemma was by any means more beautiful than Bridget, but the ladies could easily be sisters.

  “Thank you.” Bridget’s voice broke his thoughts as his eyes came back to the street where they stood.

  “Oh, no thanks are necessary. I should be thanking you for such… wonderful reading. I shall stay up all night.” He joked as he held the books prisoner behind his back.

  “May I have them please?”

  “Will you promise not to yell or grab my shirt collar, or pull at my cravat if I don’t give you exactly what you want all the time?”

  Bridget shifted nervously from one foot to another. Her beautiful face was still flushed, and Anthony cursed himself and the rules he had to abide by. Nothing would please him more than to reach out and pull the infuriating woman into a kiss.

  Any woman in possession of half as much passion as she had was a woman he wanted to keep. Dangerously close to breaking the rule, he took a step back and held out the books between them.

  “I cannot promise,” Bridget said taking the books and stepping closer to him. “You might someday give me cause to yell or grab your shirt collar or pull at your cravat.” Her head leaned forward ever so slightly. Anthony’s eyes were drawn to her bee stung lips as well as her rapid breathing. He knew that look.

  Devil take it, he saw that look on a daily basis. She wanted him to kiss her.

  He waited for her to move closer.

  She did. No doubt she was testing him. Well, there was no chance in Hades he was going to give into that type of temptation. If the little minx indeed thought she could so easily break the rules, then she could burn with desire for all he cared! If he as much as grazed her lips without warning she’d be more likely to take a dagger to his favorite part of his anatomy than forgive him. It wasn’t playing fair. Perhaps it would be best for her to know what it felt like to want something so bad she could taste it, but have no means by which to satisfy that hunger.