Beguiling Bridget

by Rachel Van Dyken

  In nothing short than miraculous timing, Bridget was scurrying down the stairs to the sitting room as quickly as propriety would allow. She was well aware that her grandmother would expect nothing less, and she had no intention of letting the woman down.

  Her stomach rumbled, but there was no time to break her fast this morning.

  The maids were scurrying about the sitting room, while Aunt Latissia bellowed orders in a frenzy. The commotion was dizzying.

  “Sit down, dear! Sit down!” her aunt said when she noticed Bridget enter the room. “Not there! The dowager will want that chair. Here… on the settee.” The woman’s eyes darted about the room in a fashion that spoke of madness.

  Bridget couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for the woman. They had, after all, been raised under the same stringent control. It was a wonder Aunt Latissia wasn’t already relegated to the asylum! There were many times in that house Bridget would have preferred a room at Bedlam.

  She took the seat indicated and straightened her skirts, hoping this would be a short visit. However, Bridget’s grandmother rarely left her home to visit anyone, so the chances she was coming for a mere social call were quite slim.

  Which meant…

  Grandmother was coming on her account.

  Which could only mean…

  It would not be a pleasant morning.

  Bridget drew in a deep, slow breath to soothe her nerves. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper in her grandmother’s presence. When she was growing up, any show of displeasure on Bridget’s part was always referred to as a vulgar Irish tantrum.

  Her grandmother hadn’t cared for Bridget’s Irish mother, noble blood or not, and she had made no secret of her disdain for that side of Bridget’s lineage.

  “Ahem.” Francis’s customary throat clearing sent a chill down Bridget’s spine, which straightened and tensed as if on command. She folded her hands primly in her lap, crossed her ankles beneath her skirts, and looked to the doorway in utter apprehension.

  “The Dowager Countess of Darlingshire,” he announced in his proper monotone, not even a hint of the same dread that flowed through Bridget’s veins at the very sound of the woman’s name. But then, nothing ever upset Francis.

  Aunt Latissia seemed frozen as well, but she stood along with Bridget to welcome the dowager.

  “Good morning, Mother,” Aunt Latissia gushed, the tremor in her voice was hardly noticeable as she curtsied in the most chaste fashion — she saved her scandalously low curtsies for the young gentlemen of the ton.

  “Grandmother,” Bridget said as she dipped in a brief curtsy.

  “Let’s dispense with the formalities, ladies. You know why I’m here,” her grandmother said as she took her seat. Her voice was barely above a whisper. She never raised her voice. It would be improper. Her expressions were effective enough on their own.

  “Yes, Mother.” Aunt Latissia sat down, and Bridget followed her lead.

  The elderly woman trained her icy glare on Bridget.

  “What is this I hear about you refusing to show favor to any gentleman?”

  Bridget glanced at her aunt, whose gaze flitted up to the chandelier. Traitorous wench.

  There was no escaping a direct question.

  “I have found none to my liking, Grandmother.”

  The dowager clicked her tongue with contempt. “None to your liking, indeed. Let me be perfectly clear. You shall choose a gentleman. You shall acquire a proposal. And you shall be married by the end of the year… whether you like of it or not.”

  There was nothing left to be said.

  To answer back would mean certain dire consequences that Bridget had no desire to endure. And how was she to explain to a woman like her grandmother her reasons for not wanting to marry? It was impossible for anyone to understand the world in which Bridget had grown up. The constant pressure, the rejection, and finally the betrayal, which had caused such scars that Bridget could think of nothing worse than being married to a man who had the power to break her heart.

  The dowager scowled and grunted then turned her focus on Aunt Latissia, who squirmed under the weight of her mother’s cold stare. “I entrusted you with this very simple task, Latissia. I am…” She closed her eyes momentarily for effect. “Disappointed in your incompetence. Bridget is a comely girl with a sizeable dowry. It should have been accomplished weeks ago. Your failure in this will not be tolerated. So if you have even a sliver of sense, you will set aside your own… amorous endeavors and attend to Bridget’s.”

  Geneva entered in that moment with the tea service, interrupting the thick tension of the moment.

  “I will not be staying for tea,” the dowager said and rose from her seat. Aunt Latissia and Bridget rose with her. “You understand my instructions. See to it.” She turned on her heel and was gone.

  Bridget released the breath she had been holding and glanced at her aunt expecting a similar sigh of relief.

  Instead the scowl on her aunt’s face was reminiscent of an angry wolf deprived of her latest kill.

  Slowly, Bridget lowered herself back into her seat and took up a cup of tea, avoiding eye contact for as long as possible, a strategy that soon proved to be ineffective.

  Aunt Latissia stepped directly in front of her and glowered down at her, leveling an index finger in Bridget’s face. “Now hear me. I shall not… endure that again. Tonight. At the ball. You shall affect a gentleman’s attention. And I shall haunt your every move until you do so.”

  Chapter Six

  Conceding the Bout

  Self-consciously, Anthony raised his gloved hand to his cheek. The very same cheek on which Lady Bridget had indeed left a permanent impression the night previous. He saw it coming — saw the flash of anger in her eyes, the passion pulsing in her veins — as her breath grew labored, and finally the dainty gloved hand sailed through the air toward its target. He could have stopped it. After all, he had experienced such assaults from women who didn’t appreciate his charms. Though in his life, it had happened exactly twice. Nevertheless, he still knew what to expect.

  He smiled to himself as he strode toward the grand house. He wouldn’t have moved for all the tea in China. It was necessary to give her the pleasure of the slap, for it meant she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about taking pleasure in the kiss they shared, and he was entirely convinced she’d enjoyed it.

  With a chuckle he reached his destination. The Duke of Hasbrough was throwing his annual ball, and Anthony knew Lady Bridget would be attending. Of course, all odds were against her speaking to him again after the stolen kiss. So he waited along the wall for that glorious red hair to appear amidst the bland storm of browns and yellows.

  “There you are,” he whispered to himself as he spied Lady Bridget entering the ballroom. Erring on the side of caution, he chose to take advantage of the element of surprise. Quite like a burglar, he snuck up behind her, reached for her arm, and managed to sweep her onto the dance floor before her aunt realized she was gone.

  “I don’t believe you’re on my card, my lord,” Lady Bridget said through her teeth. Another advantage — she wouldn’t make a scene. She didn’t want the attention.

  “I’m claiming this dance, and all the rest of them, unless you give me a minute of your time. I have a proposition for you.”

  His words were met with an exaggerated eye roll. “Do you really wish to proposition me, at the ball? Truly? Do you wish to be turned down in front of everyone, or perhaps even slapped?”

  With great strength Anthony refrained from laughing aloud. “It seems to me that your definition of proposition and mine are clearly different. You make it sound as though I’m trying to get you into my bed.”

  Lady Bridget flushed. “Well, I—”

  “And dare I say your cheeks have turned a rosy pink?” Anthony set her to a twirl and pulled her indecently close.

  “I wasn’t referring to your lewd lifestyle, my lord, and I am not blushing! I—” Lady Bridget’s chest rose and fell rapidly in eithe
r irritation or passion; he wasn’t certain which — not that there was a terrible difference between the two where this woman was concerned.

  “Sadly, my proposition has nothing to do with mistresses or beds, though I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to the idea if you were intent on offering yourself like a lamb to the slaughter.”

  Lady Bridget’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak, but Anthony interrupted her.

  “It has been said one night in my bed is better than hundreds with other men. Surely you know my reputation is to first seek to please the woman. To caress her body with my eyes, using my hands in so many ways as to heighten her passion…” He lifted his gloved hand and briefly touched her neck. “But sadly, as you say, you are not propositioning me, I was propositioning you — and for something entirely boring, I assure you.”

  Lady Bridget’s eyes darted around, taking in everything and everyone but him. Clearly, she was uncomfortable, and he silently cursed himself for coming on so strong.

  “I need your help.” He said help very quietly, for he despised the vile word.

  “Kelp?” Lady Bridget glanced at him. “Is your stomach ailing you, my lord?”

  “Devil take it, I said help!” He all but yelled, inviting stares from several women nearby who appeared more than inclined to offer aid.

  “What could the great Viscount Maddox possibly need with my help?”

  He hated how beautiful his name sounded on her lips — despised that his blood was near boiling with desire for her. And the feel of her body beneath his gloves was the most pleasurable of pain. The dance was drawing to an end, but he needed more time.

  “Trust me. I mean to talk with you about this, but the dance is ending.”

  She tried to protest, which just made him hold her hand all the tighter. He led her down the hall to the first room on the left, first checking for any sort of company and then closing the doors silently behind them.

  “If you come near to touch me, my lord. I swear to you, I’ll scream.” Lady Bridget was standing behind the nearest chair, apparently needing a barrier between them.

  “If I touch you without your consent, I promise you that you may scream and impale me with my own knife.” He slipped it out of his boot and slid it across the floor to her.

  She picked it up and clenched it in her hand. Her eyebrow lifted in suspicion. “Well? What is so urgent that you feel the need to drag me into a private room against my will?”

  Anthony took a deep breath. He had already decided to tell her all. “I never lose bets.”

  “Is that why you’ve brought me here? To tell me you never lose? Truly, my lord, your arrogance is astounding.”

  “Hear me out.” He grew flustered as Bridget tilted her head and put her hands on her hips. The same hips he held just moments ago. He turned around, needing to gain his wits lest he find himself impaled on the business end of his own knife. “My brother and Wilde have issued me a challenge.” She didn’t change her expression, but her impatience was evident in the tapping of her fingers on her hips. “They have given me four weeks to win a certain woman’s affection. Four weeks, or I will lose.”

  Lady Bridget laughed. “Four weeks? To woo a woman? I was right, only a man with an ungodly amount of pride would take such a challenge.”

  “If it was any other woman I would have already been crowned victorious.” Anthony fired back. “It just so happens they have chosen the most obstinate woman in the ton.”

  “My lord, I have no experience in wooing women. What makes you think I would be of any assistance? Do you wish for me to help you make her jealous? If that is what you need, surely any number of the debutantes in the other room would be more likely candidates.” Her gaze traveled around the room as if in boredom. “I suppose it’s only natural you would choose a woman with no interest in you for the task.”

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind, my lady.” She was scrutinizing the floral pattern on the upholstered chair before her. “In fact, I have already determined I will undoubtedly lose this challenge.” Her gaze returned to his face almost in triumph over his failure.

  “If that is the case, why have this conversation? Why try to enlist my aid?” Her victorious smirk drove home the realization that this was truly his only option left.

  “Lady Bridget,” he answered with a heavy sigh. “You are the object of my challenge.” A hint of surprise flashed briefly in her clear blue eyes, and her expression softened. “I concede the bet. Your disdain for me is insurmountable.” Lady Bridget appeared as though she would speak, but Anthony cut her off quickly with a wave of his hand. “I know how you abhor my ego, but I do wish to save some dignity if possible. If it helps at all, my brother’s arrogance is far more intolerable than my own. To lose to him would ensure a lifetime of humiliation. And while I am certain, given your inclination toward pleasure at my demise, you would thoroughly enjoy the entertainments, my own fragile confidence would be unable to withstand the torture. I would die an unhappy, alone, and bitter bachelor in the country. Do you truly want that on your conscience, my lady?”

  The silence hung heavy at the end of his proposition. The lady’s expression was unreadable. Anthony had naught to do but wait for her to present her terms.

  “Answer me this, for I’m terribly curious. When would you have won my favor, do you think, my lord? Would it have been the day you assumed I was blind?” She toyed with the knife in her hands and stepped around the chair, moving closer to him. “Or perhaps after you slipped on an innocent strawberry?” She was drawing nearer, and with every step Anthony grew warmer. “Or maybe after you fell on the street? Would it have been then, my lord?” She stopped directly in front of him and grinned the wide grin of the victor.

  “Those were flukes.” Anthony cursed. “They haven’t happened before, I assure you! It’s all your fault anyway, you have me…”

  “I have you what?” Lady Bridget breathed the air directly in front of him. He couldn’t inhale without her scent invading his senses.

  “You have me… somewhat flustered.”

  “I’m sure that was very hard to admit.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “Yes, well, just so you’re aware, I have half a mind to ravish you right here just to prove to myself that I still can.”

  Lady Bridget’s eyes widened for a second, then she turned her face away from him. “So my choice is to leave you to your own devices, or offer my aid, is that it?”

  Anthony swore. What the devil was he doing? What was she doing to him? “If you help me convince my brother and Wilde that you are, in fact, smitten with me, I’ll convince your aunt that we’re courting, thereby making it possible for you to escape this Season free of the pressures from your family.”

  He knew he had her by the irritated look on her face. A look he recognized as the one women only wore when they realized a man was right. She was caught — gloriously caught — for he had found her Achilles’ heel, and he meant to use it to his fullest advantage, in whatever way possible.

  “Think of it this way…” He began to pace, slowly circling her, deep in thought. He stopped when he stood behind her and moved to gently rest his hands on her shoulders. “If you fall in love with me, and I cry off at the end of the Season, your aunt will be more than understanding in your need to nurse your broken heart. And I am a difficult man to get over… Why, it may take you months — perhaps even years.”

  A laugh escaped Lady Bridget’s throat, though she tried to stifle it with her hand. “Yes, and my poor soul would be so fearful of seeing the great Viscount Maddox at the Season’s events, I would surely take to my bed with a broken heart.”

  “It would be expected,” Anthony agreed, his hands sliding down her arms.

  “After all, you are highly sought after.”

  “Many a tender-hearted girl would be sick with melancholy…”

  She set her shoulders with apparent resolve, and he knew she had made a decision. Slowly, he turned her to face him. Her scent again
invaded his senses, causing his body to tense with want. He would do well to remember she wasn’t his to possess. He knew she was weakening, that she saw the obvious advantage to his plan, but he wished to hear her say it aloud.

  “What do you say?” His eyes locked with hers.

  “I agree, but you must promise to keep your hands off me, my lord. It cannot be said that you ruined me, do you understand?” She brushed his hands off her arms without emotion.

  “Perfectly,” he swore, allowing his arms to fall to his sides in surrender.

  Rolling her eyes, a smile broke out on her face. “It’s kind of you to so readily agree, but I am serious. No kissing, no caressing, no—”

  Anthony clapped his hand over her mouth. If she continued to speak thus she would find herself good and ruined. “Fine.” He thought his heart might explode. “I will agree to your terms, only please don’t say anything else. Such words do not help my current state of interest with your body, my lady.” He swallowed the knot in his throat. Then allowed mischief to play in his expression. “Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

  She glared. The cold steel of the knife blade rested at his chest, serving as a subtle reminder.

  “So, is that a no?”

  The room shifted. It seemed the lady suddenly realized what a compromising position she was in. The air in the room grew heavy, as did her eyes, and her gaze shot to the knife in her hand; her long eyelashes fluttered down to rest across her cheekbones in embarrassment. But not before an ever-so-brief moment of focus spent on his lips.

  Not truly fearing the blade she held to him, he reached for her head and coaxed it toward his, planting a passionate kiss on her lips.

  The knife dropped to the floor.

  Anthony wrapped his hands around her waist, lifting her in the air to pull her closer still.

  The haze descended upon his mind in a dense fog of desire. The promise he had just made seemed only a dream, quickly dissolving in the heat of his need for her.