“So…” Will said, with not an inch of panic sounding in his voice, this time. “Did you mean it, what you said during lunch?”
“What did I say?” Bridget asked absently, trying to line up the shot with the spot where she would prefer the ball to finish. Aim would be important, too. Just making it back to the court would not serve her if she was still four shots away from the hoop. She swung the mallet back with all her strength.
“You said you wouldn’t marry anyone in the family,” Will replied.
The mallet jerked as it hit the ball and the ball shot off at a wild angle, moving like a train at full speed.
Jasper cried out as he threw himself out of his chair and out of the way of the rocketing ball, as everyone laughed. Lilly bent over her mallet, holding on to it for support, as she gave into her merriment.
The ball smashed into the supports of Jasper’s chair and changed directions. Now it headed for the back end of the court and the starting stake. It rolled past the stake, still moving fast. She had hit it with all her strength, after all. It came to a stop in the far back corner of the court.
Bridget turned to confront Will. “You did that deliberately!” Her turn whipped the folds of her skirt out of Will’s hand.
Will’s eyes narrowed with amusement as he considered her. His mouth curled up at the corners. “I did not,” he said, his voice low. “Did I strike a nerve, Bree?”
Bridget let the mallet fall and put her hands on her waist, indignation building in her.
Will’s smile broadened. “I did,” he concluded. Humor danced in his eyes. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
Bridget drew back all the hot words she wanted to pour all over him. To speak at all, to do anything but laugh at him, would confirm he had prodded a sensitivity in her. Only, she didn’t have a sensitivity…did she?
Everyone was still chuckling and recovering from her wild shot, yet they were within hearing distance, too.
“Is there, perhaps, someone in the family who hasn’t asked you to marry them, forcing you to make the declaration to cover your humiliation?” Will suggested.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Oh, will you put down that silly chair?”
Will dropped the chair to the gravel and sat in it, right where it was. He put his hands behind his head and looked up at her, completely relaxed. “Then I shouldn’t worry that I might have snubbed you and not noticed?”
“Even if I did descend to marrying someone inside the family,” Bridget shot back instantly, “you are the last man in it I would consider. You are a crude, womanizing drunk who smokes too much and takes nothing seriously, ever. Besides, you’re much too old for me.”
More laughter sounded. Jack’s was the loudest of anyone’s, for he was Will’s best friend and knew him far better than anyone.
Will nodded, his good humor not shifting by an inch. “How right you are, Miss Bridget. Now, in return for my bravely holding your skirt, would you mind finding Travers and asking him to bring out the big brandy decanter?” He closed his eyes. “There’s a good girl.”
Bridget worked her jaw, searching hard for something scathing to say that would wipe that smugness from his face.
Instead, she dumped the mallet in his lap and walked away, aware that her nose was in the air and that her boots crunched in the gravel rather harder than they should.
It didn’t help that Will’s laughter, rich with genuine amusement, followed her across the gravel.
* * * * *
The Great Family Gathering, Innesford, Cornwall. October 1864. One year later.
While rain hammered on the big windows, everyone crowded around the two big fireplaces at either end of the great room. The inclement weather did not seem to be dampening the spirit of the day. The first day of the annual gathering was always a rowdy and energetic one, full of greetings and questions about one’s year. Even though everyone kept abreast of everyone else’s affairs during the year via letters and visits, it was still a nice ritual to ask each other what the past year had brought.
Bridget sat on the big square hassock, her feet sitting together on the floor with automatic preciseness and her back straight. Her tartan ruffled dress was new, and the dull gleam of the sateen pleased her, as did the unexpected mix of colors, which included blues and greens and a soft pink that played well with her brown hair.
Will stepped out from the tight pack of men at the far fireplace where the brandy decanter was. Jack was there with Peter, who had just returned from America, as well as Cian and Ben. All the troublemakers together, Bridget thought to herself as Will crossed the room.
Will was wearing a long afternoon jacket of dark brown gabardine that suited his golden features, instead of the usual black. It was a fine jacket, cut with the most modern lines, yet he seemed to care little for the fashion of the garment, for he sat on the arm of the sofa closest to Bridget, crushing the hem beneath him. He leaned closer to her with a smile playing at his mouth.
“So…no announcement of your engagement to a lord none of us have heard of, Bree?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I said I would marry outside the family. I did not say I would marry the first man who came along.”
“Ah…then you are properly considering each and every offer. Good.”
Bridget pressed her lips together. In fact, she had been made no offer at all during this, her second season. Not a single proposal, not even a most cavalier and insincere suggestion of marriage, had come her way. Not that she would ever tell a soul that awful fact. Not even Mairin would learn of it. “Why do you care how thoroughly I vet my proposals, Will?” she said, instead. “Are you considering such a drastic act yourself?”
He laughed. “Hardly. Who would have me, anyway?” He said it carelessly as if the idea of wholesale rejection did not bother him.
“I would suggest you find a sweet, innocent debutante who has no idea who you are and marry her before she does find out, if you intend to go that route.”
“Ah, but you declared I was too old for innocent misses, last year,” he pointed out.
“Oh yes, there is that,” Bridget agreed quickly.
“Not that I am all that old,” he added.
Bridget frowned. “Just how old are you?” she asked curiously.
“Well, really, Bree!” He laughed again.
“It’s just that you and Jack and Ben have always been far older than all of us. Bigger and older and more inclined to mischief,” she added.
“That is how I acquired my wrinkles,” Will told her, the humor back in his eyes. He pointed to the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes.
“You got those from squinting into the sun,” she said primly. “Instead of wearing a hat like a sensible man would.”
“Probably,” he said shortly, crossing his arms. “Do you have any contenders sniffing after you, Bridget?”
Her heart gave a little flutter. “If I did, I would not give you their names. I don’t want you frightening them off, you and Jack.”
“As if we would!”
“You would, and you have. You talk a good line, Will, only I saw you scare that baron, whatever-his-name-was, away from bothering Mairin at the Sweetpea Ball.”
His smile didn’t shift, though the humor in his eyes faded. “I know your ambitions to marry outside the family. I wouldn’t be cad enough to disrupt your opportunities. That would hardly be fair.”
“Fair?”
“We are all entitled to find whatever happiness we can in our allotted life.”
The skewed note in his voice made Bridget ask gently: “Is that why you won’t settle down, Will? Because you want happiness?”
“It isn’t so much to ask, is it?” His voice was soft.
Bridget considered the question seriously. “I suppose it is a fair expectation, although I rather doubt you’ll find much happiness at the bottom of the brandy decanter, either.”
Even his smile evaporated. “You have your sister’s directness,
don’t you?”
“Lilly? I’m sorry if I offended you, Will. As you pried into my marital state, I thought that…” She trailed off.
He got to his feet. “You’re quite right. A direct question deserves one in return. Neither of us care enough about each other to speak anything but the truth.” He glanced toward the other end of the room. “The brandy calls,” he said dryly and gave her a small bow.
Bridget sighed, as he strode back toward Jack and the others. Well, at least she would not have to put up with his close examination of her affairs any more this year. That might be a blessing in disguise.
* * * * *
The Great Family Gathering, Innesford, Cornwall. October 1866. Two years later.
As Will strode across the gravel toward where she stood beside the carriage, Bridget pulled off her glove and held out her hand. “No, I am not engaged. Yes, I am playing the field. Yes, I am being highly selective. No, I will not tell you their names.”
Will laughed and hugged her. “It is good to see you, too, little Bree.” He swayed out of the way as the footmen hauled her trunk off the shelf and across the gravel to the front door, their faces red.
Bridget raised her brow. “I am of an age where no one but you would dream of calling me ‘little’, Will.”
He rested his hand on the top of his head, which was bare as usual, then swung it out over her own. The feathers in her hat barely brushed his palm. “You are most definitely little, Miss Bridget.”
She was secretly pleased by the descriptor. “So…another year…” She sighed.
Will’s amusement faded. He studied her with unusual seriousness. “Do you have prospects, Bree?” he asked, his voice gentle.
Bridget’s middle fluttered. She had just lived through her fourth season, with not a single proposal or even a sideways glance from suitable gentlemen. While no one was cruel enough to say anything, the murmuring behind hands and the whispered comments had followed her everywhere.
She breathed hard, as her eyes burned, threatening to well up with tears. The ultimate humiliation would be to cry in front of Will, of all people. “No,” she whispered. “I do not.”
Will didn’t laugh at her, which he would have normally done. Instead, he nodded, as if she was merely confirming what he already knew. Perhaps he did. London society was a claustrophobic crucible during the Season. Everyone knew everyone else’s business.
“You are still playing the game, I see,” she added, desperately trying to change the subject. She had only just arrived at Innesford five minutes ago. It would not do to put on a display of hysteria the moment she got here. There were already far too many people in her life measuring her with critical gazes. “I think I saw a different lady upon your arm every time I saw you, this year.”
Will pushed his hands into his pockets, straining the lines of his coat. “Are you still so determined to marry outside the family, Bree? By now, those of us not yet married must seem more appealing to you.”
Bridget made herself laugh up at him. “Are you putting yourself on that list, Will?”
“God, no,” he said quickly. Sincerely. “Can you imagine how miserable we would make each other?”
“Most likely,” she agreed.
“Besides, I’m a drunk, womanizing old man, remember?”
She tried to smile in response. How had she ever thought him to be old? Or had she grown up enough to see he wasn’t all that old? Cian had let Will’s age slip, two years ago, during a quiet family dinner. Will had turned twenty-seven this year, which was wasn’t even close to middle-aged. There were peers in their forties and fifties combing through the debutantes each year and no one said they were too old to marry the youngest maids.
Bridget swallowed. “Will, if you don’t mind, could we—just for this year—would you mind not asking me any more about marriage?”
“Of course,” Will said instantly. “Not a single word more.” He gave her a short bow and turned on his heel and left.
She shivered, as if the sun had slipped behind a cloud and the true chill of the day could be felt.
Chapter Two
The Great Family Gathering, Innesford, Cornwall. October 1868. Two years later.
Will realized he had got to his feet and was heading for the other end of the long table, before making a conscious decision to do so.
He gripped the back of the empty chair beside Bridget. Mairin had left before dessert was served.
“May I?” he asked, tugging at the chair.
“Of course.” Bridget held the satin of her gown out of the way as he pulled the chair out and sat. Everyone else at this end of the table was engrossed in their own conversations, so he could safety turn his back on them and face Bridget properly. “You didn’t come to last year’s gather,” he pointed out.
Her small smile stayed in place. “I think you might be the only person who noticed.”
“Did you stay away because of me?” he asked. His jaw dropped in surprise. Why on earth had he blurted that out? Yes, he had wondered why she stayed away. However, on the dozens of occasions they had seen each other in ballrooms and parlors during the season, he had not been interested enough in the answer to separate himself from whatever woman he was keeping company with to cross the room and ask her.
Bridget lifted one dark brow. Her pert nose lifted, too. Her eyes, which were as dark as her hair, speared him. “That is your first question, Will? Whatever happened to ‘why aren’t you married yet?’”
He winced. “I’ve become predictable. That’s not good.”
Her smile grew. “You have always been completely predictable, Will. How many hearts did you break, this year? How many barrels of brandy did you empty?”
“I enjoyed myself immensely, too,” Will shot back.
“So did I,” Bridget replied firmly.
Will hesitated. “You did?” he asked, surprised. Enjoyment had been missing in Bridget’s life for many years now. He had watched her pull away from the family and draw in upon herself a little more with each passing year she remained unmarried. Two years ago, she had been upon the brink of despair.
Now, she professed that her season had been enjoyable.
Bridget’s brow lifted. “I did, and I will forgive you for looking surprised by that, Will. I didn’t expect it myself.”
“Who is he?” he demanded, as his gut tightened. “Is he a good man?” he added, awkwardly, aware that his voice had risen.
“He is,” Bridget told him. “A duke,” she added, her smile burning a little warmer.
Will smoothed the linen cloth in front of him, removing a minute wrinkle, working at it. “Then I am pleased,” he said, his voice rough. He forced himself to ask, “How long before an announcement will be made?”
“I hope, shortly after Christmas.” Her smile became incandescent.
“You are spending Christmas with his family,” Will breathed, putting it together. “Formally meeting the family…that is a good sign.” Perversely, the tension in his chest grew. What was wrong with him? This was good news. The best news, especially for Bridget.
“Thank you, Will,” she murmured. Then she leaned closer to him. He caught a hint of her scent. Something other than the flowery bouquets most women liked to splash behind their ears and on their wrists. It was subtle and it was pleasant. Mature, sophisticated. “I see you are still defying your parents, too, Will. Unwed at thirty and no heir to mollify them…they must be beside themselves by now.”
Will’s gut tightened and his heart thudded. “I’m too selfish to settle down,” he said shortly. “No one would have me, if I cared to ask.”
“Not that you care to ask, in the first place,” she finished.
“Do you love him, Bree?” Will asked softly.
“Why do you ask that?”
Will clenched his hand into a fist under the table. What on earth was bothering him so much? Why did he care if she loved the bastard? “I…think you deserve no less than a true love match,” he said stiffly.
“Liar,” she chided him. “We’re both selfish, Will. You always have been, and I have learned to be, in the six years since I came out. Society has a way of souring one’s outlook on life.” She grimaced. “I will marry the Duke and give him a son, then I will relax and be happy. Finally.”
The bitterness in her reply did not lessen the tension in his body. Will got to his feet, unable to sit any longer. “I will be the first to congratulate you once you do,” he assured her, “as I am aware of how difficult it is to be happy, these days.”
He stalked back to his place at the table where the brandy and cigars waited. He wished he’d never left it.
* * * * *
Marblethorpe Manor, Sussex. Early December 1868. A few weeks later.
Will wondered if it was ever too early for larks. Despite dawn being barely a smidge upon the horizon, the cheerful warble of the larks trilled from the old oaks surrounding the gray stone house. They were the only creatures making any sound. Otherwise, the night—the morning—was still and silent and abysmally cold. Steam rose with his every breath and the end of his nose ached with it.
Will crept into the house and sighed as warmth bathed him. He considered removing his boots, for Marblethorpe did not have the slate tiles in the front hall the way Innesford did. The warm wood and rugs would preserve his feet if he moved about in stockings and he would avoid waking anyone that way.
He moved through the magnificent front hall to the smaller family rooms in the west wing of the house. It was too early to find any of the staff—they wouldn’t be up yet. He could help himself to the basket of biscuits kept on the sideboard in the dining room. He was starving and breakfast was hours away yet.
His father sat at the table in the dining room, at the end where he would have a perfect view of anyone passing the big doorway.
Dismayed, Will paused there.
Vaughn looked up from the spread of newspapers before him. On the top corner of a broadsheet, a cup and saucer sat. “You’d better come in and sit down,” he said. “You look as though you need to.”
Scandalous Scions Two Page 42
