His Rebellious Lass (Scottish Hearts)

by Hutton, Callie

  He shifted in his seat and tugged on the cuffs of his jacket. “We must speak about last night, Bridget.” They were barely on the road for more than ten minutes when the first arrow flew in her direction.

  “I fail to see what there is to speak about, my lord.” She looked out the window, fascinated by the stark landscape with low clouds and bare trees.

  “Whether you agree or not, we must marry.”

  She turned to him, her eyes narrowed. “Au contraire, my lord. We do not have to marry. I do not have to do anything I do not wish to do.”

  “You are ruined.”

  Bridget huffed. “According to you and your theory on missing body parts, I was already ruined.”

  Cam ran his hand down his face. “Can we put that aside for now?”

  “I don’t see why we should. You seemed to think it was a very important matter. So important that you ended something that I thought was…” She looked out the window again. “Never mind.”

  Wonderful.

  That’s what she’d thought of what they’d done. She’d had no idea that a man and a woman joining like that would be so breathtaking. So delightful. Her body had felt things she’d never imagined it could. Feelings had rippled through her that made her want to do it again and again. And again.

  But that would not happen. Cam had accused her of something terrible and refused to believe her when she’d denied it. He didn’t trust her and had continually tried to control her. She had almost convinced herself that she loved the cad. Surely someone with her upbringing would not allow such liberties if she did not have strong feelings for the man.

  On the other hand, he apparently had no strong feelings for her or he would not have accused her of something so despicable and then refuse to believe her when she told him the truth. She brushed aside the tears that filled her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

  Marriage? To Lord Campbell?

  Never.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Two days after the awkward trip back to London, Bridget stepped out of the Dunmore coach and shook out her skirts, glancing up at the threatening clouds, wishing she’d remembered to bring along her umbrella.

  Neither of them had spoken more than was necessary on that uncomfortable trip; the air in the carriage had been thick with tension.

  She did like the man. He was charming—when he wanted to be—considerate, protective, and, as she had recently discovered, had the ability to make her feel wonderful in bed. No surprise there, given his reputation.

  On the other hand, he was arrogant, overbearing, and expected her to fall in with whatever plans he dreamed up for her. Whatever happened to their compromise? She would not thwart his campaign for her to look for a husband, and he would help with her women’s house project. Now he was ordering her to marry him.

  Truth be known, she hadn’t been looking too hard for a husband. Or, rather, she’d not met anyone she felt she could look across the breakfast table at for the rest of her life.

  Except Cam.

  She shook her head at that nonsense.

  The bell over the door sounded as she entered the dress shop on Oxford Street where she had a ten o’clock appointment for a fitting. The well-thought-of Mme. Bouchard had made all her clothing since she’d arrived in London. A tiny woman, expert with a needle, she serviced a great many of the ladies of the ton.

  The dressmaker pushed aside the curtain that separated the main room of her shop from the back area where she did most of her work. “Good morning, Lady Bridget.” She offered her a smile not quite as welcoming as she normally did.

  Bridget drew off her gloves and placed them and her reticule on the chair near the door. “Good morning, Madam. I’m here for my fitting.”

  “Oui, step into the back and I will fetch your gown.” She held open the curtain to reveal the area Bridget had never seen before. Confused as to why she wasn’t going to do her alterations in the front of the shop, behind the screen as usual, she scooped up her belongings and followed the woman.

  Mme. Bouchard had been prepared, setting up a small area in a corner of the jam-packed room with a pedestal and a mirror behind it. “Please remove your gown and we will get started.”

  This time Bridget was certain that the dressmaker was not her usual self. She seemed tense, kept glancing at the clock, offering her tight smiles. Feeling as though the woman was in a hurry, Bridget quickly removed her gown and allowed Mme. Bouchard to help her into the partially completed gown she was having made for a Christmas ball at the Dunmore country estate in a few weeks.

  Her mind drifted—as always it seemed—to Cam. No matter the growing feelings she had for him, she would not marry a man who not only was against marriage but also felt it was his duty to marry her. Just what she’d always wanted to be. Someone’s albatross. That same someone who didn’t believe her about something very important and, therefore, didn’t trust her.

  The doorbell tinkled from the front room, and Mme. Bouchard jumped. “Excuse me, my lady. I will be right back.” She hurried away, the curtain swishing behind her as she left. Pleasantries were exchanged and then the dressmaker returned to her.

  “This should not take long.” She worked so rapidly Bridget was almost dizzy by the time Mme. Bouchard whipped the gown off and practically shoved the dress she’d arrived in at her.

  Once dressed, she headed to the curtain and stepped out to see three ladies whose faces were familiar but whose names she did not remember. She offered them a smile and all three of them gasped, then turned their backs, giving her the cut direct.

  Mme. Bouchard hustled behind her, her hands fluttering as Bridget walked slowly to the door, watching the three women with their heads together.

  “Thank you, Lady Bridget. I will send along a note when the gown is finished.” With a slight nudge at her back and a firm snap of the door, she found herself outside of the store, facing her carriage.

  Well, then.

  Whatever was that about? Certainly word of what Davenport had done to her hadn’t already reached the gossipers. Angered at the women’s behavior, and even at Mme. Bouchard’s actions, which in retrospect must have been a result of knowing those women would shun her, she raised her chin and took the footman’s hand as he helped her into the carriage.

  She’d planned to stroll the street, the footman in tow, along with Mrs. Dressel, who awaited her in the carriage, again not feeling well. She chewed her lip as she contemplated if she dared to do so and perhaps run into more disapproval.

  Yes. She would not cower for these people. She’d done nothing wrong—well, nothing wrong with Davenport, anyway—and the burden of the scandal should fall on his shoulders, not hers.

  You know that’s not the way things work. Women always take the brunt of scandal.

  Nevertheless, she would not hide. Determined, she stepped into the carriage and asked the footman to have the driver take her to her favorite tea shop, Gunter’s. During the short ride, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, she chatted merrily with Mrs. Dressel, aware that her rambling edged toward hysteria.

  She took a deep breath and refused to glance around as they entered the famous tea shop and settled into a seat. With the Season well over and only a few peers still in town, the shop was not crowded. However, the eyes of the ladies at the two occupied tables widened as she entered the shop.

  Heads bent, whispers began, and sharp, disapproving glances came her way. A flush began in her middle and made its way up to her face. Confusion, anger, and a bit of shame warred for her thoughts. How dare they judge her? Oh, how she hated Society and its stupid rules.

  Mrs. Dressel—as always—studied the menu on the wall and seemed oblivious to their reception.

  Two ladies at one of the tables stood. Bridget recognized them as Lady Stanford and Lady Prentiss. “I will not sit in the same room with that harlot.” Lady Stanford pulled her skirts closer to her body and sneered as she passed Bridget. Raising her chin, she marched across the room, Lady Prentiss in her wake. The s
lamming of the door as they left echoed like a cannon blast.

  “What sort of tea would you like today?” A completely unaware Mrs. Dressel looked from the menu to Bridget.

  The other table of ladies rose in unison and left the shop, aristocratic noses in the air.

  Aw shite!

  …

  Cam left White’s so angry and so determined he walked two blocks before he remembered Nettles stabled in the mews behind the club. Turning on his heel, he stomped back, collected his horse, and threw himself into the saddle.

  Bridget was completely ruined. During the last two hours at White’s he’d spent the time dodging questions and avoiding the betting book where he knew Bridget’s name would appear. If he looked at the evidence of her ruin he would have put his fist through someone’s mouth and not stopped until one of them was unconscious.

  The worst point in the visit was when Templeton and Hawk had arrived at the club. Since they’d already heard about Bridget’s kidnapping, he knew something had to be done.

  His honor was being called into question. Either he’d been derelict in his duty by not protecting Bridget from Davenport, or he was remiss for not forcing a marriage between them, or alternatively, not marrying her himself.

  Anyone who believed women were the only ones who enjoyed gossip needed to spend time at the various men’s clubs around town. Her disgrace had spread as quickly as the Great Fire of London. The leering and gleeful expressions tossed his way at the club had raised his ire as very little had in his life.

  He had to slow down his ride to Dunmore Townhouse because poor Nettles was throwing him looks that said things he imagined a horse would say when thoroughly annoyed with its rider. He cursed the traffic that held him up, waved his fist at a few drivers, and arrived at his destination even angrier than when he’d left the club.

  Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he dropped the knocker on the front door and was greeted by Fenton. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  Cam stepped into the entrance hall. “Good day to you as well. I would like to see Lady Bridget.”

  Fenton dipped his head. “If you will retire to the library, I shall inform her of your arrival.”

  With a tight nod, Cam strode the corridor to the library. The house seemed overly quiet with Constance, Lord Dunmore, and the children off to the country. That was precisely where he wanted to be himself, at his own country estate, but until he got this matter with Bridget taken care of and finished up what was necessary to authorize the start of the renovations needed to set up the women’s safe house, he was stuck in London.

  He paced the room, slapping his gloves against his thigh. Where the devil was she?

  The thought no sooner passed through his mind than the door opened, and Bridget walked in. It was obvious she’d been crying; her nose was red, her eyelashes still showing clumps of tears. She chewed her lower lip as she came closer to him.

  He took her hand and led her to the settee near the fireplace, where it was a bit warmer. “What is the matter, sweetheart?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hmm. When a woman says ‘nothing’ to that question, it is usually something of a momentous nature.”

  She waved her hand in the air. “All is well. Would you like me to send for tea?”

  “Tea?” He grinned. “I thought whisky was your drink of choice.”

  Bridget smiled for the first time. “I do that to annoy you. I generally prefer tea before the sun goes down.”

  “Ah. Confession time. Thank you, but I do not want tea. If you wish for some, please feel free to request it.”

  She shook her head. “No. Why have you called?”

  He could have continued bantering with her, but his anger was beginning to rise again. He was quite sure her tears had something to do with her scandal. If she had left the house at all today, she would have already experienced the disapproval and condemnation of the ton. It was better to come right to the point.

  “I have come to discuss marriage.” He hopped up from his seat at the tightening of her lips. Bloody hell, hopefully the girl was not going to refuse him again.

  “How wonderful that you are getting married, my lord. Felicitations. Who is the unfortunate bride?”

  He turned to face her, his hands on his hips. “Don’t play games with me, Bridget. You know precisely who the bride is. You.”

  “I thought that conversation was over. You ‘ordered’ me to marry you, and I refused.”

  “Is that what is bothering you? That I didn’t make a proper proposal? Shall I drop to my knees now and profess my undying love for you?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she stood to face him. “Loving someone is nothing to take lightly, nor make fun of. I know you don’t love me, and…I don’t love you.” She stepped back and wrapped her arms around her middle. “I am not foolish enough to expect love in a marriage, which is one of several reasons I do not wish to marry.”

  “How do you know I don’t love you?” He was genuinely curious. He wasn’t even sure if he loved Bridget. There was certainly a very strong attraction between them. He wanted her, for certain. If he were forced to marry, she would be the perfect marchioness for him. Although she was a bit obstinate and needed a strong hand to curb—not kill—her spirit; that would make for an interesting life. No boredom with Lady Bridget.

  She was also intelligent, loving, considerate, and her kind nature would make a wonderful mother to any children they would have.

  Children. The one reason he’d been determined not to marry. That, and allowing his title to pass to the Crown to spite his father. But his father was dead. He would never know. And Cam was beginning to believe that he did not have his father’s disposition after all. Perhaps those who knew him best were right.

  On the other hand, he had never expected to marry, so he hadn’t given a great deal of thought to loving his wife. Friendship, yes. Respect, yes. Fondness, yes as well. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure he was even capable of the type of love a wife would want.

  Bridget raised her chin. “Instead of answering your question, answer one of mine. Do you love me?”

  Cam ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Why does it matter? We have to marry, because you have been disgraced and ruined.”

  “So, I am to be your penance for the rest of your life because someone did something dastardly to me.”

  “Not a penance. I don’t know where you got that idea.”

  “You.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You have been saying since the night Davenport kidnapped me that we must marry. Not that you want to marry me, or anyone else for that matter. Only that we must make up for my disgrace.”

  He reached out and touched her on the shoulder. “Not only your disgrace, Bridget, but you might be carrying my child.”

  “Do not concern yourself with that. I know enough from overhearing the girls at school that it is a rare case to conceive after only one…” She looked away from him and blushed a bright red, which he tried not to find amusing.

  He wasn’t sure he agreed with her statement, but only time would tell. As much as he had never wanted to bring a child into the world, the soft whisper at the back of his mind of a child with Bridget had teased him since they’d shared a bed.

  “In any event, marriage is necessary. I have just come from White’s, where you and your escapade are being discussed by so many it would take days and dozens of bullets to call all of them out. My honor is on the line, and I will not allow it to be called into question when I can rectify the situation.”

  She held out her hands in a pleading manner. “Don’t you see, Cam? Nothing you’ve said convinces me to marry you. You want to assuage your honor, you want to do what’s right, you want to rectify the situation. I am to be your self-flagellation.”

  He glared at her, and even though his words would probably devastate her, she left him no choice. “If you do not consent to marry me, I will withdraw my pledge to help you with the women’s
house.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bridget gasped. “What?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  Cam shifted his hands to his hips and stared at the floor. “You leave me no choice.”

  “We always have choices, my lord. What about our compromise?”

  He raised his eyes, the pain evident there. It seemed his feelings did not match his words. “You didn’t live up to your part of the compromise.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “How?”

  “Your part of the deal was to not thwart my attempts to find you a suitable husband. I have just given you an honest offer of marriage. I am young, titled, wealthy, and therefore a suitable husband. You have turned me down.”

  She spun on her heels and walked to the library window. “I don’t believe this.” She turned back to look at him, her eyes rimmed with tears. “You would actually take away my dream to coerce me into marriage?”

  “I don’t understand why you do not acknowledge that we have no choice. I will never permit you to marry the man who ruined you, and right now, with the way things look, no suitable prospect will offer marriage. You might get some offers, but they won’t be respectable, and I will have to call them out.”

  “According to you, I am a woman without virtue, anyway, so no one will have me even without the scandal.”

  “That is a separate issue.”

  That stung. He still did not believe her. Wonderful. A great way to start off a marriage. He thought she’d had a lover or two and he needed to step up as her savior to stop the scandal, even though he’d continuously said he would never marry. All the best reasons to take a wife and make a successful union. She remained silent.

  He took in a deep breath. “Then I’m afraid the women’s house is on hold until you reach your twenty-third birthday.”

  Bridget collapsed onto the chair behind Lord Dunmore’s desk. She studied her lap for a while, pleating the fabric of her skirts with stiff fingers. She could not allow any more time to pass without trying her best to help those in need. It would take months to get a house readied, and waiting for her twenty-third birthday to even begin was unacceptable. “Very well.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I will marry you.”