by james
“Is that an offer?”
Bridgett bit her lip, belatedly regretting her words, and shuddered at the underlying tone of menace in his question.
“I thought not.”
The door to his chamber opened and for a brief moment he was outlined in the light from the other room.
Bridgett caught her breath, transfixed by the sight of his naked magnificence.
He stalked through the doorway, the muscles in his legs and buttocks rippling with each stride.
Even after he closed the door, she did not look away. She wanted him. Needed him. So much so that she was tempted to get up and go to him, to beg him to show her that final pleasure. The kind that enslaved.
“How dare you?” she whispered, fighting tears of frustration. “How dare you continue to trifle with me like this?”
She rolled on her side and curled into a ball, squeezing her eyes shut. “I refuse to cry.”
She forced herself to concentrate on her anger, focusing on it, feeding it, until it overpowered every bit of tenderness and desire.
Somehow, she would find a way to make him regret his treatment of her. She would make it her mission and, in doing so, find the strength to survive.
* * * * *
An insistent knocking woke her from a sound sleep. She lifted her head, groggily taking in the fact that light poured through the draperies. Morning already. Late morning, by the looks of it. She yawned and rubbed at her eyes, wishing that whoever was pounding on her door would go away.
“Bridgett, unlock your door.”
Jumping from the bed, Bridgett quickly wrapped a quilt about her torso. The tattered remains of her nightgown lay on the floor at her feet, and she picked it up and shoved it under a pillow.
“Bridgett?” Marie sounded worried, and Bridgett hastened to the door. Only after she’d pulled on the latch did she remember.
“I can’t open it.” Her cheeks grew warm with embarrassment, and she silently cursed the Count for his actions.
“What do you mean, you can’t open it? Is it stuck?” Bridgett sighed. There was no way to hide the reality of her circumstances, and suddenly she didn’t want to.
“No, it’s not stuck, it’s locked. Your brother has decided I must be imprisoned during the night.” She stated matter-of-factly.
“Vincent locked you in your room?”
Bridgett smiled at the anger and disbelief in the other girl’s voice. “Yes. Do you have a key?”
“Of course. I’ll be right back,” Marie told her. “And just you wait until I get my hands on that brutish brother of mine. Imagine! Locking you up in your room like a convicted killer…”
Heaving a satisfied sigh, Bridgett crossed to her armoire and took out a robe.
She let the quilt fall to the floor, then slipped into the gauzy garment, cinching it tightly about her waist.
A few minutes later, Marie strode into the room, her fury evident in her scowling face.
“Now tell me what this is all about,” she insisted. “Why would Vincent lock you up?”
“He is afraid I will try to leave.” Bridgett shrugged, and attempted to appear nonchalant. “After yesterday, he says I can no longer be trusted alone.”
“We’ll just see about that.” Marie paced the room. “He left very early this morning, but he has to be back before midday. I’ll take care of this situation, don’t you worry.”
Bridgett turned her head in order to hide the grin of satisfaction on her face.
Already she had managed to find a way to thwart the Count’s plans. Not only that, but he would face his sister’s wrath.
She turned back to Marie. “Why must he return before lunchtime?”
“I suppose he didn’t bother to tell you. We’re having guests again.”
Bridgett stared at her for a moment, then smiled brightly. “Guests? How wonderful!”
The seed of an idea formed in her mind and she bit her lip, contemplating its plausibility. Vengefulness was foreign to her nature, but the opportunity to punish the Count for the abuse she’d suffered could not be passed up.
“Are you all right?” Marie stopped her pacing and placed a hand on Bridgett’s shoulder.
“I’m fine.” She smiled and turned away, afraid her friend would somehow read her thoughts. “When did you say they would arrive? I’ll need a bath sent up. And hopefully I have a dress or two still intact that will suit the occasion.”
“Well, you’re handling this much better than I would. If it were me, I would be anxious to get my hands about Vincent’s thick neck!”
Bridgett nodded. “I was angry, but it’s over now, so what is the point?”
She pushed back the guilt she felt at lying, and began to lay out her clothes.
“If you’re sure you’re all right, I’ll go order a bath for you.” Marie sounded a bit uncertain. “Will you be needing a maid?”
“Please.” Bridgett gave her a reassuring smile. “And thank you.”
As soon as the door closed behind Marie, Bridgett gave a low whoop of joy.
Revenge, as they say, would be sweet.
Chapter Twelve
Bridgett stared at her reflection in the cheval mirror. She pursed her lips and turned from side to side. The skirt of her dark sapphire gown swung lightly about her legs. Covered in a rose design made of black sequins, it glistened in the light.
"You look lovely, miss."
Arching her brows, Bridgett turned to face the young maid. "Do you think so?"
"Why yes, miss, of course. The blue brings out the color of your eyes."
Bridgett smiled politely and pulled on her gloves. Two days ago, she would have agreed with the girl. After all, the dress was made of the finest silk, and the beadwork was exquisite. It was truly a work of art, but obviously not designed with a lady in mind. The décolletage scooped daringly low and her breasts, pushed together by the tightly sewn bodice, nearly over-flowed the neckline. The gown's design did not allow for petticoats and the skirt clung to her thighs and body. She'd found it in the back of her armoire, and knew the moment she pulled it out that it was perfect. It left nothing to the imagination.
"That will be all. Please ask that I be informed when the guests have arrived." Bridgett turned back to the mirror and pulled on one of the long curls that framed her face. Her plan relied, in part, on her timing. If she went below before the others were there, the Count might force her to change.
The door clicked shut behind the maid, and Bridgett breathed a sigh. There was nothing left to do but wait.
* * * * *
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon." Vincent studied his companion's face for any sign of deceit.
"Yes, well, change of plans and all that." Jonathan Wilder took a hasty sip of his drink. "Andrews decided at the last minute to take Camilla on to his estate. I have business in London in less than ten days, so we parted ways."
"You didn't know you had this business when you left here three days ago?" There was no doubt the man was lying, but the question was, why? Vincent had a feeling he knew. Jonathan was a rogue - a charming, wealthy rogue, who seemed to make it his mission in life to conquer as many beautiful women as possible. Vincent knew this, because they ran in the same circles, courted the favors of the same women. Often, they found themselves in direct competition.
"I suppose it slipped my mind." Jonathan shrugged.
"Now, if you don't mind, I believe I will go say hello to that lovely sister of yours."
Vincent allowed him to walk away without objection, but he kept him in his sight. Unless he missed his guess, Jonathan was not interested in Marie.
He surveyed his guests. They had a full house tonight. Twenty-one people - ten couples and Sir Wilder - all of them friends or acquaintances from London. People who lived on the fringes of Society, whether by force or by design. Having never been accepted by the Ton, Vincent had cultivated his own group of peers. They served him well, alleviated the loneliness and provided a sense of community that would other
wise be missing from his remote seaside home. None of them could truly be called "friend", for they all had one thing in common. A strong sense of self-preservation. Some might call it selfishness, but Vincent understood it well enough. After all, he had lived that way himself for as long as he could remember.
A murmur of hushed, excited whispers drew him out of his thoughts and he looked up. And smiled. He couldn't help it. No doubt, he was in for a world of trouble, but by God she was breathtaking. An erotic, sensual, delightful creature that made his blood run fast and hot so that he lost all common sense.
But she was on her own. He would not go to her. He wanted to wait. To see if she dared walk into the room wearing that dress.
* * * * *
Bridgett hesitated at the door, aware that she'd become the object of much interest. There were more people here than she had expected, and suddenly her confidence waned. She was about to back out, to return to her room in defeat, when someone called her name.
"There you are. I feared I would not get a chance to see you this evening."
Jonathan Wilder approached and she automatically held out her hand. He took it and raised it to his lips, turning it at the last minute to place a lingering kiss on her gloved palm. He smiled, and she was again struck by his golden good looks. A slight tremor of awareness crept up her spine. There was no mistaking the interest that glowed in his eyes.
"Why, Sir Jonathan, I did not expect you to be here tonight. Where are your companions?" She craned her neck to look beyond him, into the library, but did not see Camilla or Walter among the other guests.
"They aren't here. I am on my way back to London, and decided to stop here for the night." He dropped his eyes, swept her up and down. "I am very happy I decided to change my plans."
Bridgett stood perfectly still, and even managed a slight smile. This was, after all, exactly the reaction for which she'd hoped. In fact, Jonathan's reappearance was a blessing. Now, she wouldn't have to search for a likely prospect among the others.
She batted her eyelashes and squeezed his hand, which still held her own. "It seems we will both benefit from your change of plans."
His brows rose, and she thought she might laugh at his comical expression. The man appeared shocked, but quickly recovered his composure.
"How so, My Lady?"
She lowered her gaze, pretending a sudden shyness. "I'm afraid I'm unused to social gatherings. I've led a rather sheltered life. With you by my side, I will feel so much more confident."
"And what of your betrothed?"
She heard the doubt in his voice, and quickly sought to appease it. "The Count and I had a slight tiff. I'm sure we shall patch up our differences, but he is still a bit sore with me tonight."
"I see." He tucked her arm in his. "Do not fear, My Lady, I shall not leave your side for an instant."
From the corner of her eye, Bridgett caught sight of the Count. He stood on the far side of the room, leaning casually against the mantel, but Bridgett was not fooled. She wondered if anyone else noticed the menacing look in his eyes, or the way his mouth turned down at the corners into a frown. He was staring at her, obviously unhappy about something.
The gown? Or her interaction with Sir Jonathan? Not that it mattered. Either way, she’d caught his attention.
She offered her companion what she hoped was a dazzling smile and allowed him to lead her farther into the room.
The double doors between the library and dining room were open, allowing plenty of room for the guests to mingle. She cast a furtive glance around the room, and was suddenly truly grateful for Jonathan's attentiveness.
The ladies were dressed in rich costumes of elaborate design.
Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires twinkled gaudily in the lamplight, from ears and throats and hands. The men were all young and handsome, and equally well dressed.
Bridgett felt out of place, like a lump of coal in a bed of precious gems. These were the beautiful people. She could see by the looks on their faces that they were confident, successful, and sure of their station in life.
"Would you like something to drink?" Jonathan released her arm and signaled for a servant before she had a chance to reply. "A glass of wine for the lady, please."
She accepted the drink, remembering to smile and lower her lashes in a false show of feminine meekness.
"Thank you, My Lord. You are most kind."
She could feel the curious stares from the other guests, hear their unspoken questions, but she focused her attention entirely on Jonathan Wilder. Moving closer, she tilted her head back to stare into his fathomless blue eyes.
He returned her smile, but only held her gaze for an instant before looking downward. Bridgett grew warm under his steady perusal of her breasts, but she held her ground.
Let him look. She'd set out to capture a man's interest, and this man was as good as any. She cast a quick, surreptitious glance at the Count. Judging from his glowering countenance, perhaps this man was better than most.
She placed her hand on Jonathan's arm and gave a soft laugh. "You are embarrassing me, My Lord."
He did not apologize for his behavior. Instead, he placed his palm over her hand and grinned. "You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. I can see why Vincent chose you for his bride."
Ignoring the sharp pain that wrenched at her heart, Bridgett batted her lashes and smiled what she hoped was an invitation for him to continue with his attentions.
"Do you truly find me beautiful?"
He stroked her hand. "Very."
She turned her head and pretended uncertainty. "But surely I am not as sophisticated as the other women with whom you…associate."
He threw his head back and laughed. "And what do you know of my habits when it comes to women?"
She turned back quickly. "Oh, I didn't mean to insult you! It's just. You are so very handsome and…"
She left the sentence hang, purposely allowing him to draw his own conclusions.
"Sophistication is highly over-rated. I find your innocence quite refreshing."
Innocence. What was it about men that caused them to only see that which they desired to believe? She gave herself a mental shake. Let him think whatever suited his purpose. Whatever he needed to tell himself, so long as it took him in the direction she desired him to go.
Lowering her voice, she took another step closer, until their bodies nearly touched. "Can I speak truthfully, My Lord?"
Once again he had to raise his head to meet her gaze. The man seemed thoroughly enthralled by her bosom, and she would have laughed if not for the seriousness of the circumstances.
"Of course, my dear. What is it?"
"Although I am engaged to My Lord Renault, I can't help but find myself..." She turned her head away, completely immersing herself in the role of a woman struggling with some awkward truth.
"Yes? What is it, darling? Whatever is bothering you, I promise your secret is safe with me."
She swallowed deeply and met his eyes. "I find myself attracted to you, My Lord, and it is quite disconcerting."
For a moment, he merely returned her stare. She could see his mind working, searching for some reasonable response. Pray, let him not be chivalrous and brush aside her confession. If he did, her plan would fall apart.
He nodded. "I see. Bridgett, will you walk with me? I'd like to make a confession of my own, but I'd like to do so in private."
"Walk with you?"
"Yes. Just out on the terrace." He gestured toward the French doors behind them. "I need some air, and there will be fewer people to overhear our conversation."
Or interrupt your attempt at seduction. She thought quickly, comparing the risks associated with allowing him to take her to a more secluded place, with the satisfaction she would win when the Count watched them make their exit.
She'd noticed several couples stroll in and out the door.
Surely she would be safe, for they would not be entirely alone.
"I kn
ow I should refuse, but I suppose it won't hurt to step outside for a moment."
The minute she finished speaking, he took her arm, nearly propelling her toward the door. Bridgett sensed his sudden urgency and barely controlled excitement, and felt a tremor of apprehension. Still, this was the moment she'd worked for, and she cast a look back over her shoulder to take in the Count's reaction.
His place near the fire was empty. She craned her neck and searched the room, hoping to see his familiar, towering form. Disappointment crashed down. The Count was gone.
* * * * *
Vincent sprawled in a chair before the fire, a bottle of sherry on the table nearby. He lifted the glass and took a large swig, barely tasting the expensive liquor as it burned its way down. Closing his eyes, he cursed himself silently for being so weak, for being unable to cope with the storm of emotions brought on by the exquisite little minx below.
Watching her with Jonathan had caused his blood to boil. The two of them had behaved like they were the only people in the room. It didn't take a great deal of intelligence to see what was going on. The last time Jonathan had ogled her breasts, Vincent had started toward them, intent on putting a stop to their blatantly sensual games. But at the last minute, he'd switched directions and left the room, seeking the solace of his own quarters.
It had been the smartest course of action. Instead of beating Jonathan to a bloody pulp, he'd chosen to drown his rage and frustration in a bottle of spirits.
His bedroom door swung open, and Thomas stepped inside. "My Lord, I beg your pardon for intruding like this, but My Lady requests your presence below."
The man looked terribly uncomfortable. "She said to tell you it's urgent."
Vincent stood and placed his empty glass on the table.
"Did she tell you what was wrong?"
Thomas shook his head. "No, My Lord, but she is very upset."
"Bloody hell." What could be so important? Most likely, one of their guests had overindulged and needed to be removed to a warm bed where they could sleep off the affects of their excess. "Can't someone else take care of it?"
