A Wounded Duke’s Passion (Preview)

Chapter One

As the last note of the pianoforte lingered in the air, Bridget pursed her lips together, thinking. There was still something missing in the piece she was composing, but she couldn’t determine what it was. It simply didn’t have the depth that it should have.

“It is an excellent piece.” 

Bridget looked over her shoulder at Anna, her younger sister and nearly her mirror image. Both sisters had brown hair and green eyes, which they had inherited from their father. They also had their mother’s delicate facial features and slight figure. Anna held her sketchbook in hand, and, considering the odd angle at which she sat on the settee, Bridget suspected that the nearby vase of flowers had caught her sister’s attention. 

“Your latest piece is also excellent.”

Anna’s latest painting was of the two of them, dressed in white gowns, lounging in a garden. Their mother, Lady Louise Crampton, had declared that the painting was a masterpiece and had insisted on it being displayed in the drawing room. 

“It is adequate,” Anna said.

“More than adequate!”

Bridget rose from where she sat and strode to the painting. With her fingertips, she traced the details of the flowers and the gowns. Everything was so carefully and lovingly done that it made Bridget’s heart swell with pride for her sister’s accomplishments. “It is beautiful. I have seen nothing that rivals your talents.”

Anna’s face pinkened, and she scoffed. “You praise me much too highly. I will concede that it is good, and it ought to be given how often I have painted over the years. It would be most shameful if I had developed no talent for artistry. However, it is not as good as you say.”

Bridget hummed and turned her back to the painting. “You know our mother would not have insisted on hanging it in the drawing room if that were true,” she said. “She has wonderful taste in aesthetics.”

Anna shook her head with that familiar look of conceding because she knew victory was impossible. Bridget grinned victoriously; she was not an especially gifted rhetorician, but she was determined. 

“Enjoy your sketching,” she said. “I have an engagement with Rose this afternoon.”

“I shall inform you if any suitors come searching for you,” Anna said.

Bridget doubted that they would. The Season had scarcely begun, but Bridget had seldom received calls in the previous Seasons. As a young lady of twenty years, she was not unmarriageable, but she had already noticed her lack of suitors with heavy dread. There were only a few Seasons left before she would be put on the shelf.

However, she did not wish to burden her sister with such thoughts, so Bridget forced an easy smile for her sake. “Thank you.”

She stepped lightly from the drawing room, past the morning room and her father’s study. A low, masculine voice drifted from behind the closed door, and Bridget paused. She had been unaware of her father having any visitors. 

“You know what my price is.” The voice belonged to the Marquess of Thornton. “I have told you how you might emerge unscathed, if you will only agree.”

Escape from what?

The Marquess of Thornton was a familiar presence in Crampton House. He and Bridget’s father, the Duke of Crampton, had known one another since their days at Eton. After that, they attended Oxford together, and now they were business partners and friends. Although Bridget had always thought there was something cold about the marquess, she was cordial to him out of respect for both his position and his long friendship with her father.

“The price you ask is far too high,” Bridget’s father said. “I cannot ask that of Bridget.”

She drew in a sharp breath, her pulse quickening. She ought not listen to her father’s private conversation, but how could she not? He had just uttered her name in the company of his business partner and friend.

“It is her lot in life,” said Lord Thornton. “Is it not, Your Grace? A young lady must be wed, and we know that you cannot afford a dowry for her. I do not imagine that you will find a better offer than mine.”

Bridget put a hand over her mouth to muffle the gasp that emerged without warning. Her father could not have gambled away her dowry! Lord Thornton must have misunderstood something, and surely Bridget’s father would soon correct him. But a long silence followed, broken only by the sound of Bridget’s racing heart and her quickened breath.

“I ask no more of her than any other man,” Lord Thornton continued. “I want an heir. Any other suitor would expect the same of Lady Bridget.”

“I have always promised Bridget that she might find a love match,” her father said. “I must keep that promise to her. She wants so desperately to marry for love, Thornton.”

“Noble,” replied the marquess, “but you do not have the means to ensure that she can marry for love. Surely, I am a better alternative to condemning her to a life of spinsterdom or worse—a governess! You cannot possibly expect Lady Bridget to suffer such indignations.”

Warmth rushed to Bridget’s face. Her mouth gaped, followed by a sharp jolt of repulsion. She did not think herself an uncharitable woman, but the thought of bearing an heir to Lord Thornton, a man old enough to be her own father, made her stomach lurch. 

“And you will pay all my debts,” her father said, his voice barely carrying past the closed door, “in return for Bridget’s hand?”

Bridget felt ice claw at her spine. Was she to be treated like—like a mare or a piece of livestock, then? Was she to be sold to this man, merely because she could bear an heir? How long had her father known that she would have no dowry? How long ago had he gambled it away, along with her future?

The corridor, usually so airy and open, seemed suddenly too small and constricting. She lifted the skirts of her gown and hurried into her bedroom. Elizabeth, her lady’s maid, was carefully arranging Bridget’s walking gown for her promenade with Rose. The slight, fair-haired maid curtsied at her entrance. 

“My lady.”

“Elizabeth,” Bridget said.

The maid cast her a puzzled look, doubtlessly noting Bridget’s dour mood. She was too polite to comment on it, however. 

Bridget sighed. “We should make haste if I hope to meet Rose at the agreed-upon time.”
That was untrue, but Bridget could not bear being in the house any longer, having heard what she just had.

***

“I can scarcely believe it!” exclaimed Rose, her blue eyes wide and her face scandalized. “How can your father even consider such a proposal?”

Bridget had taken a coach to the park to meet Rose, and the journey had given her ample time to think through the conversation several times over. As loath as Bridget was to admit it, the Marquess of Thornton made a reasonable argument. She would have to wed eventually. 

However, her father had always promised her a love match. Surely, it was not too much for her to expect him to honor his word? Of course, there was the matter of the debt and her spent dowry, but if Bridget let herself think too much on those, she felt as if she might drown beneath the injustice of her situation.

“He is desperate,” Bridget said, sighing. “There is no other explanation.”

“But your dowry!” exclaimed Rose, her hands twisting anxiously at her lilac skirts.

“Oh, Bridget! What shall you do?”

“I know not,” Bridget replied. “What do you think I ought to do?”

The two ladies walked in silence for a long moment, Elizabeth and Francesca, Rose’s lady’s maid, following at a respectable distance to serve as chaperones. After several moments, Rose sighed forlornly. 

“I do not know. If I were in your situation, I would feel so helpless. What choice do you have?”

“I suppose I could refuse,” Bridget said, “but if I truly do have no dowry, the marquess is right. Father will receive no better offer for me.”

“It is horrid,” Rose said. “Perhaps you have some relation who may be able to help you?”

Bridget suspected Rose was thinking about her own guardian, the wealthy and aloof Duke of Hamilton. After the death of her father, Rose had become the Duke’s ward; her mother Lady Victoria still lived, but she had not yet emerged from grieving. To the horror of the ton, Lady Victoria had chosen not to wed an aristocrat. Instead, she had married a baron’s fourth son, a solicitor, and had vanished from the ton until her husband’s death. She emerged to give Rose her first Season before vanishing again. 

Bridget did not think that Rose and the duke were very close; they were only distantly related and, prior to the death of Rose’s father, had rarely seen one another. There was no denying the Duke of Hamilton’s wealth or the dowry that he had for Rose. 

Bridget looked at her friend’s fine gown, a bolt of anxiety curling in her chest. Did her own father dig them deeper into debt each day by purchasing all those fine things that the ton expected? How much damage had Bridget’s own wardrobe for the Season already caused?

“I doubt it,” Bridget said, answering Rose’s query. “Our family is small anyway, and if there were such a relation, I am certain that my father would have considered that before Lord Thornton’s proposal.”

“It has not been settled yet,” Rose said. “Your father has not even spoken of it to you. Perhaps he will decide not to do as the marquess suggests.”

Bridget wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Perhaps.”

Her father hadn’t sounded as though he intended to launch a very spirited defense, though. Bridget tried to think about what good might come from the arrangement. If she wed the Marquess of Thornton, her father’s debts would be forgiven, and Bridget would likely be able to secure a dowry for her sister. At least one of them could find a love match.

“Or maybe the marquess will decide that he does not wish to wed you,” Rose said optimistically. “He could marry any lady in the ton and receive an heir. There is no particular reason for it to be you.”

“I suspect he wants a young lady,” Bridget said, heat rising to her face. “I realize I may sound disreputable in saying so, but I dread the thought of marrying a man I do not love. Of being intimate with a man I do not love.”

Many ladies of the ton might have blanched at such a candid mention of marital intimacy, but not Rose. Her friend only gave Bridget a pitying look. “I am terribly sorry. It sounds dreadful.”

“I wish my father would realize that,” Bridget replied, “but I am sure that he cares little for how I feel.”

“I am sure there are many lords whose daughters would willingly marry such a man,” Rose said. “He does not need to bargain to wed an unwilling lady.”

Bridget shook her head. “No, but if the Marquess of Thornton retracts his offer, that will not remedy my father’s financial situation. I will still have no dowry and no marriage prospects.”

Rose bit her lip and looked askance at her.

“I do not know how to help him either,” Bridget said, her voice softening. “It is not as if I am a man and can embark on some new business venture, and I do not know enough about gambling to make a fortune that way.”

“But the title is still worth something,” Rose insisted. “Even if your father does not have money, someone will surely find the daughter of a duke worth pursuing. And surely, you will love one of those suitors.”

Bridget frowned. “Thus far, there have been too few suitors.”

She could not quite say why, either. It was not as though Bridget was unattractive or unintelligent. She seldom spent balls languishing as a wallflower and was frequently invited to festivities. It was only that, while the lords of the ton seemed to find her company enjoyable, they did not wish to marry her. Bridget wondered if rumors about her diminished dowry had spread or if her own expectations for a husband were too extravagant.

As she and Rose reached the park entrance, having completed the circuit, a carriage hurried down the street. Bridget realized too late that they stood beside a dip in the road, filled with mud and water. The carriage thundered through it, mud flying through the air and soaking the hem of her gown. She gasped, in a mingling of surprise and outrage.

The carriage halted just a few paces ahead, and the smartly dressed footman hurried to open the door. Bridget’s face was so hot that she felt as if she had ducked her head into a furnace. At least the footman had the grace to look embarrassed on her behalf.

The door opened and a gentleman stepped from the carriage. He was a tall man, his well-muscled frame apparent and complemented by his perfectly tailored jacket. His hair was dark blond, and his eyes green like Bridget’s own. Their gazes met, and Bridget had the strangest sensation that he could strip her bare with the heat of his gaze alone. 

She shivered, a strange and primal awareness awakening within her. Bridget could not have said what that awareness was or what it meant, but the moment of insight was gone in the next, placed with utter mortification and indignation over her ruined dress.

“Oh! Your Grace!” Rose exclaimed, gesturing toward Bridget. “Look at what your driver did!”

Your Grace? Bridget inhaled sharply. At last, she was meeting the infamous Duke of Hamilton—and she looked utterly wretched.

Chapter Two

Anthony Langley, the Duke of Hamilton, did indeed look at what his driver had done. Beside his ward, Lady Rose, stood the most charming creature he had ever seen in his life. The young lady was tall and slender and clad in what must have been an elegant blossom gown before his driver had covered it in mud and water. 

“Is it what have I done ?” Anthony asked, looking at Lady Rose. “Or who have I done it to?”

Lady Rose tipped her chin up in that familiarly imperious way that she had. “This is my friend, Lady Bridget.”

“The Duke of Norfolk’s daughter,” Anthony mused.

Lady Rose spoke often of Lady Bridget, but Anthony hadn’t realized how beautiful the lady was.

“Yes,” Lady Rose said. “Bridget, this is my guardian, the Duke of Hamilton.”

Lady Bridget curtsied. “A pleasure, Your Grace.”

“I suspect that is not entirely true,” he said, his gaze fixed on the sodden hem of the lady’s dress. “I am told that it is poor manners to greet a lady by covering her in mud.”

“I am sure that a laundress can remove the stains,” Lady Bridget said.

“I am less certain,” he replied. 

“We shall see.”

Her eyes were not the soft, spring-green color of his own; Lady Bridget’s eyes were instead green and gold, like some precious gemstone. He took her hand in his own, never once dropping his gaze from her lovely face. 

“I shall buy you another gown, equally as lovely, just in case the laundress does not succeed. Please, accept my sincerest apology for the staining of your gown. I am certain that it was entirely accidental on the part of my driver.”

He placed a gentle, formal kiss against her knuckles. Her silk glove was soft against his lips, and he fancied that Lady Bridget uttered a small gasp in response to the gesture. Heat curled inside Anthony’s chest. Even though Lady Bridget wore silk gloves, he could have sworn her pulse quickened with his touch. He had a dangerous thought of removing her gloves and stroking her delicate wrist, tracing a path all the way up to her shoulder. She was so soft and slight.

It took all the strength of Anthony’s will not to let his gaze sweep over the rest of Lady Bridget’s body. Even the fleeting glimpse that he had allowed himself as he descended from the carriage spoke of delightful curves.

“You are most generous, Your Grace,” Lady Bridget said.

He reluctantly relinquished her hand. “I endeavor to be, my lady.”

“We shall have to visit the modiste soon,” Lady Rose interrupted cheerfully.

Lady Bridget’s gaze snapped to her friend, and Anthony smothered a surge of frustration. Perhaps it was for the best that Lady Rose had distracted him, though. He had not felt such attraction for a young lady since Anastasia. 

Those were the sorts of feelings that were best left pondered in the dead of night in his study, preferably with a decanter of brandy. Certainly, they were not the thoughts he ought to explore in the daylight and in the company of two young ladies.

“Indeed,” Anthony said. “But it is time that we depart, Lady Rose.”

Lady Rose embraced her friend, and Anthony noted how rosy Lady Bridget’s cheeks were. She blushed like a flower opening to the sun, a delicate wash of pink spreading across her milk-white skin. As Lady Rose climbed into the carriage, Anthony could not resist giving Lady Bridget a final, lingering smile.

“Until next time, my lady.”

Then he entered the carriage and seated himself across from Lady Rose and her lady’s maid, Francesca. 

The carriage set off. Anthony hoped that no more gowns ended up being casualties of John’s driving. It really was not the man’s fault, though. Anthony had not taken residence in London in some time. It was forgivable that his driver might have forgotten how uneven some of the roads were.

“You must purchase her another dress quickly,” Lady Rose said. “With the coming Season, it will be difficult to find a modiste who is available if you do not make haste. Bridget must look exceptionally beautiful this Season.”

Anthony arched an eyebrow. Exceptionally beautiful? Lady Bridget was already exceptionally beautiful, even stained in mud with fury reddening her face.

“And why is this Season so special?” Anthony asked, feigning disinterest. “Has Lady Bridget decided to find a husband this year?”

Lady Rose glanced at Francesca, as if she suspected that her lady’s maid might reveal some secret. “She has resolved to find a love match,” Lady Rose said, “and I intend to ensure that happens this Season!”

“A love match, and you intend to ensure that it happens in a matter of months?” Anthony mused. “That is a lofty aim. It is my understanding that love seldom follows such a predictable course.”

He felt a sharp pang of loss in his chest when he said that. Anthony looked askance, carefully schooling his features into a mask of cold indifference. If Lady Rose noticed any distress, she would ask why he was so upset, and if he refused to provide a satisfactory answer, she would persist. People always did, especially in the ton. They expected to have every secret and could be utterly callous in their pursuit for knowledge.

Anastasia was his ghost and his alone. She was not something that needed to be unraveled or unburied by someone else.

“It will for Bridget,” Lady Rose said firmly.

Anthony remembered how he had trembled when he kissed her hand and the way her body had responded—her pulse jumping and her face reddening. She seemed receptive to a man, and certain parts of his long-neglected anatomy twitched at the memory of her. 

“And why are you so certain?” he asked.

“Because she must!” Lady Rose exclaimed. “Yes, Bridget will find her love match this Season, and everything will be wonderful.”

Anthony stared at his dreamy-eyed ward, unsure what to make of such a wild declaration. 

“And does Lady Bridget know that you have resolved to find her a love match this Season?” he asked. “You speak as if she does not.”

Lady Rose bit her lip and fidgeted with her skirts. “Well, she does not know yet, but that is because I have only just thought about this plan. I will tell her soon, and I believe she will think the idea is wonderful.”

“How do you intend on making this plan work?” Anthony asked, more confused by the moment.

It had been some time since he had enjoyed the company of the fairer sex, and both Lady Rose and her friend were at least a decade younger than he was. Perhaps he simply did not know how young ladies behaved anymore, but this plan seemed strange to him. Besides, it was not as if Lady Bridget was anywhere near spinsterdom; she had a few Seasons left, at least, until marriage would be a necessity.

“Details,” Lady Rose said, waving a dismissive hand.

Anthony knew that gesture meant that she did not have an answer. He was unsurprised to discover that Lady Rose did not have a real plan conceptualized. Love was not something that one could plan for; it was illogical and unpredictable, often refusing to follow neat and expected patterns. Somehow, that made it even stranger that Lady Rose had just taken it upon herself to find Lady Bridget’s love match that Season.

“Is there any particular reason your friend cannot find her own love match?” Anthony asked.

“Of course she can,” Lady Rose said, “but Bridget is… selfless. She always thinks of others before herself, so she may need some help in finding a suitable match.”

“I see.”

He did not really. Anthony wondered if he was becoming old. Having a young ward thrust upon him had certainly made him feel as though he had aged a few decades in the past year. Lady Rose was the sole reason he had returned to London. 

As her guardian, it was Anthony’s duty to ensure she received a proper Season and invitations to all the lavish balls. He would be expected to help her find acceptable suitors and to ensure that her reputation remained intact. He remembered too well another young lady, many years before. Her guardian had been careless in his duty, and that young lady had found herself ensnared in an unhappy marriage.

Anthony still felt the faint throb of guilt for his role in that young lady’s loveless life, and he could not let Lady Rose emerge from her second Season with a ruined reputation. It all sounded terribly tiresome, but an honorable man would bear such a burden with grace. If he was not honorable, he was conscientious, so he had returned from his self-imposed solitude in the country.

“You should purchase her a gown better than the one you ruined,” Lady Rose continued, her expression brightening. “It is only fair.”

“Fair would be purchasing a gown of the same price and quality.”

Lady Rose shook her head. “No, but that was Bridget’s favorite gown! It will be just like a fairy tale when she enters the first ball of the Season. Like Cinderella!”

Anthony stared at her for a long moment. He was beginning to suspect there was something Lady Rose was not telling him. Perhaps this seemingly absurd plan was not merely the product of a young romantic mind but instead something else entirely. He could not imagine what that might be, though.

“Well,” Anthony said, “you and Lady Bridget may decide on the gown. Make your arrangements with the modiste and purchase her whatever you wish. I cannot have the lady perceiving me as uncharitable, after all.”

“No, of course not!” Lady Rose looked rather pleased with herself, as though she had just emerged victorious from some game that only she knew how to play. “I will be certain that she does not think that.”

Anthony let out a low breath of air. Being around Lady Rose’s tireless energy exhausted him sometimes. He felt the usual longing for the silence of his study. “I trust that you have already made arrangements for your own wardrobe this Season?” he asked. “If not, I can enlist your mother’s aid.”

Lady Rose looked askance, and Anthony’s face softened in sympathy. His aunt, Lady Rose’s mother, had always been a strong and passionate woman, but her husband’s death had broken something deep within her. Some days, Lady Victoria was fine, if a little melancholic. Other days, she was inconsolable. Her grief was sharp and unpredictable.

“No,” Lady Rose said. “There is no need to bother my mother with something so trivial. I am capable of procuring my own wardrobe.”

She said that, but they both knew Lady Rose had little experience in procuring her own wardrobe. Her first Season had been a hasty affair, nearly an afterthought. Lady Rose was not as polished as the other ladies, and her only friend was Lady Bridget. She was a lawyer’s daughter and had been raised like one with little thought given to her aristocratic blood. 

Anthony cleared his throat. “I know it has been difficult for you. You have handled everything most admirably.”

Lady Rose hummed. “I do not recall having a choice save for to bear it gracefully.”

“That is the way of the ton,” Anthony said. “I do understand some of it, just… just so you know.”

He was terrible at comforting people, especially women. Anthony suddenly worried that Lady Rose might cry, and he would not have the faintest idea what to do then. Still, it felt right to persist and reassure her that he did understand grief, at least.

“I know what it is like to live and pretend that all is well when you are grieving,” he continued. “I know how terrible it is, and I am sorry you must bear that weight at such a young age.”

“I know you do.”

He frowned.

Lady Rose sighed. “Mother told me about… about Lady Anastasia.”

“Ah.”

“I am dreadfully sorry,” Lady Rose said.
 
“As am I,” Anthony replied. 

A heavy silence fell between them, broken at last by Lady Rose’s audible swallow. “Does the grief ever lessen?”

“Not in my experience,” Anthony said, “but you learn to bear it better. I suppose we must be grateful for small mercies.”

Lady Rose nodded and turned her head toward the window. The cheerful and romantic young woman from earlier was gone, in her place a soft and pensive creature. Anthony glanced at her a moment longer. He did not understand young women, but he understood the need to distraction in the face of loss. If Lady Rose wanted to devote herself to some bizarre quest to find Lady Bridget a love match, who was he to discourage her?
 
Chapter Three

Bridget had never kept any secret from her sister, but the overheard conversation felt like something she simply could not share with Anna or anyone else. She lay awake in bed, thinking through all the possible solutions. Bridget could tell her father that she knew of his conversation with the Marquess of Thornton, but she was not sure how that would improve her situation. She had no means of repaying her father’s debts.
 
She could speak to her mother, but Bridget suspected she would not receive the answer she wanted. Her practical mother would be, firstly, horrified. She would quickly see reason, though, and insist that marriage was—albeit somewhat disagreeable—a practical solution to their plight. Besides, it was not as if Bridget had an army of potential suitors willing to fight for her hand. She roughly rubbed her face and groaned.

“Are you well, my lady?” Elizabeth’s soft voice came from the shadows.

Bridget furrowed her brow and shifted onto her forearms, squinting at the darkness.

“Why are you still awake? The hour is late.”

“I could not sleep. Hearing your distress, I thought to see if you were well.”

Heat rushed to Bridget’s face. She wondered if she was the reason that Elizabeth was unable to rest. The lady’s maid slept in a chamber that was connected to Bridget’s own, and Elizabeth slept lightly. Sound of Bridget’s restlessness might travel quite easily through the walls. 

“I am,” Bridget said. “I was only thinking about… well, about what I discussed with Rose. About the marquess.”

“Indeed?”

Bridget sat upright and drew her knees up to her chest. “I do not wish to marry him. He is so old, and I have never liked him. I know it is unkind to say.”

She thought of the wedding night, too. Bridget was a virgin, as expected of a young lady, but that did not mean she was ignorant about what a man and woman were meant to do after their nuptials. The Marquess of Thornton expected an heir, too. If Bridget did not conceive one on their wedding night, she would be forced to endure many more amorous encounters with the man, and the thought made her stomach lurch. 

“It is not unkind,” Elizabeth replied gently. “You cannot help how you feel, only how you express those feelings.”

“Like complaining to my lady’s maid?” Bridget asked dryly.

“Sometimes, sharing one’s concerns can achieve a certain clarity,” Elizabeth replied. “Do you wish to share them? I can brew you some tea, perhaps.”

“No, I could not bother you with that,” Bridget said. “In truth, I… I do not even wish to share. Or maybe I do. It is difficult to say.”

“Indeed!”

“I am upset because I can find no solution, save for what the marquess proposes,” Bridget clarified.

Her thoughts went unbidden to the Duke of Hamilton. She shivered with delight, her toes curling into the bed when she thought of his intense gaze on her. He had been so handsome that she had almost forgotten her ruined dress, and when he spoke in that low timbre, Bridget had heard music. His voice was like the softest roll of thunder in a spring storm. 

He would never wish to wed her, obviously, but she had felt attraction toward him, at least. That was far more feeling than the Marquess of Thornton had ever inspired in her. Besides, Rose had spoken of His Grace; he was distant, but not unkind. Bridget had not the faintest idea how the marquess behaved when he was at his estate and away from the prying eyes of the ton.

“Perhaps marriage to him would not be too dreadful,” Elizabeth said. “He is honest about what he wants. That is more than can be said of some men.”

His honesty was not especially appealing when she knew it would necessitate sharing his bed night after night. Once, the thought of such intimacy had filled Bridget with anticipation and delight. She had imagined that she would marry a man she loved and fall into his arms at night, delighting in their romantic entanglements.

Now, that fantasy seemed like nothing more than the silly dream of a girl who had awakened to a crushing reality.

“I suppose that is true,” Bridget said reluctantly. “I am still not particularly fond of being sold like a brood-mare. Besides, the marquess has married before, and that marriage did not produce any heirs. Who is to say that I will?”

Elizabeth remained silent.

Bridget grimaced. If she could not bear Lord Thornton a son, how many times would he insist on trying to conceive? Could he even give her the pleasure she desired from such encounters? Bridget knew some physicians believed that a woman’s pleasure was necessary to achieve pregnancy, but she could not fathom deriving any pleasure from sharing the bed of a man who was older than her own father.

“I am sure that all will be well, my lady,” Elizabeth said at last.

Bridget knew her lady’s maid said that only to comfort her. What else could she do? What could either of them do?

She fell back onto her bed, thinking about Rose’s handsome guardian. She did not wish to wed a man whom she did not love, but marrying someone like him—who was handsome and nearer to her own age—seemed like a much better prospect than the Marquess of Thornton.

“Many ladies wed men who are much older than them,” Bridget said.

“Indeed, they do,” Elizabeth agreed.

“And surely, some of them are happy couples who delight in one another’s company.”

“I am sure, my lady.”

Bridget tried to imagine that. She felt like a good daughter would hope for that. If she were better, she would confront her father about the overheard conversation and express her desire to fulfill his wishes by wedding the Marquess of Thornton. She would act as though she were delighted at her union, and she would hope that she and Lord Thornton might become friends. 

But Bridget was not that better woman. She was a young lady with desires that did not involve marrying that man.

“Have you any desire to wed?” Bridget asked.

Elizabeth hummed. “I have thought of it on occasion,” she replied, “but I do not wish to marry soon. I enjoy being your lady’s maid too much to relinquish the position for marriage.”

“You can marry for love,” Bridget said, trying not to sound bitter. “You can marry any man you desire.”

“Well, that does not mean that any man would agree,” Elizabeth said, “but I could ask any man that I like. That is certainly true.”

Bridget frowned and tried to imagine a life like Elizabeth’s. The potential disgrace of becoming a governess still echoed in her ears. Would that disgrace be bearable if it meant that she could, someday, marry the man she desired? Bridget swallowed hard, her mind set adrift with the most salacious fantasies of being a governess and attracting the attentions of a stern and handsome lord. She imagined heated glances and fleeting touches, the scandalous wedding, and the night where they consummated and she reached that height of bliss she had only ever heard of achieving.

“Someday, I hope that you can wed a man who truly loves you,” Bridget said. “You deserve to be happy.”

“You do, also,” Elizabeth replied. “It may be too bold of me to say, my lady, but you deserve happiness. Surely, if there is any justice in the world, you will find it. I cannot imagine someone as kind as you being doomed to a dreadful marriage.”

Bridget forced a smile. “Thank you, Elizabeth. You are very thoughtful. I believe that I wish to sleep now. I am to attend the Duke of Hamilton’s ball tomorrow, and I do not wish to arrive looking as though I have experienced an entirely restless night.”

“Of course, my lady,” Elizabeth said, “but fear not. I shall ensure that you look as lovely as always.”

“I know.”

Bridget turned onto her side and stared at the curtained window of her bedchamber. She heard Elizabeth’s light steps as she also returned to bed. Despite her lady’s maid’s kind words, Bridget could not make herself believe them. The situation was utterly hopeless, and someday soon, her father would inform her of his intentions to wed her to the Marquess of Thornton. All Bridget could do was enjoy her freedom while she had it. 
She imagined the marquess’s hands on her the night of her wedding. Would he be gentle and speak to her as if he truly saw her as a young lady, or would he be quick and cold about the whole affair? There was no indication that he believed she had any value besides her ability to produce an heir for him.

Bridget squeezed her eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. If she married Lord Thornton, her father’s debts would be paid. Anna might even have the chance to marry for love. Bridget tried to decide if she was noble enough to sacrifice her own happiness for her sister’s potential love match. 

She ought to be. Bridget felt as though she ought to be many things, though. She contemplated those questions until the early hours of the morning, when she heard Elizabeth waking.

“Good morning, my lady,” Elizabeth said. “Did you manage to find sleep, after all?”

Bridget laughed. “I did,” she lied. “Thank you.”

It was fortunate that Elizabeth was such an efficient lady’s maid, uncommonly skilled with cosmetics and hairstyling. If Bridget could not be happy, she could at least ensure that she looked acceptable at the ball that evening. 

Chapter Four

Anthony rubbed his eyes, staring morosely at the ledgers spread over his desk. He felt as though he were drowning beneath the mound of papers. The numbers on all the papers had begun to blur together in his mind. 

Although his predecessor had died three years ago, those years had been so chaotic that Anthony had yet to really immerse himself in the affairs of the dukedom. The previous Duke of Hamilton, Anthony’s uncle Frederick, had been what the ton politely called an eccentric, and his papers reflected the appropriateness of such a term. His ledgers were in complete disarray and often seemed written as if they were intended only for his uncle’s eyes.

His uncle’s death had been sudden, and it had taken Anthony some time to adjust to his new role. The previous Duke of Hamilton had been a young man, and his wife, Catherine, had been in good health. Everyone had anticipated an heir would soon arrive. None had, however. Then Lady Rose’s father had died, and the young woman had become his ward. 
Anthony would have been content to let Lady Victoria manage his cousin’s Seasons, but it quickly became apparent that Lady Victoria was a woman with delicate nerves and one who had not been involved in the ton’s affairs for decades. She was ill-equipped to see a young woman’s prospects on the marriage mart.

There was a light knock on the door of his study. “Come in!” Anthony called.

Kitty, the maid, opened the door and curtsied. “Lady Victoria has arrived for you.”

“Escort her to me.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

After she left, Anthony ran his hands through his hair and sighed. He supposed that he should have expected his aunt’s arrival. The Dowager Duchess of Hamilton had wanted to host a ball, and Anthony had seen the wisdom in the decision. A ball would be a good opportunity to show the ton that he was an effective and prosperous duke, which would mean better suitors for Lady Rose. Even better, Her Grace had suggested that she do all the planning, which meant Anthony would not have to devote any time to preparing for the festivities. Of course, she would have told Lady Victoria; they were family by marriage.

Anthony took a steadying breath. He sympathized with her grief. Truly, he did. It was only that he had never been a man who was good at comforting others. Tears made him anxious and uneasy, and with women especially, he always felt as though he would say something wrong and worsen their distress. 

The door to his study opened again, and Kitty curtsied. Behind her, he saw his aunt. Once, Lady Victoria had been a great beauty, and she held her age well. At five-and-forty years, she was as tall and slender as the stem of a daffodil. Her eyes were blue and her hair gold, just like her daughter’s. If one looked at the lady for only a moment, they would think her lovely, indeed. It was only upon closer inspection that one noticed the dark shadows that lingered beneath her eyes and the thinness of her face, neither of which had been present when her husband still lived. She still wore black.

Anthony stood. “My dear aunt,” he said. “I had not realized that you would be visiting.”

“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying. “It was a rather impulsive decision of mine. I knew you would forgive me for it.”

She laughed a little at the jest and smiled at him. Anthony gestured towards the seat across from him. 

“You are quite right, my lady. I am delighted to see you, and I do forgive you.” That was not entirely true; the past few years had caused Anthony to develop a particular aversion to unexpected events. “We have much to discuss. Kitty, will you fetch tea and biscuits? I am sure Lady Victoria would delight in some refreshments.”

Kitty curtsied and departed. Anthony led Lady Victoria to the chair and waited until she was seated before returning to his own place behind his desk. “Lady Rose will be delighted to see you,” he said. “She had just mentioned that she was preparing her wardrobe for the Season.”

“Preparing it now?” Lady Victoria asked. “Why, that should have happened months ago.”
Anthony chuckled anxiously. “She has a few gowns for the Season’s earliest events,” he clarified. “She could do with a few more, though.”

“That is good,” Lady Victoria said. “No matter! I shall help her procure what she needs, and I have no doubt that we will find her a husband this Season.”

Anthony nodded. He hoped they did. If Lady Rose married, she would no longer be his ward. It was not as though he disliked his cousin. She was pretty and kind enough. He had no daughters of his own, though. Nor did he have a wife. Anthony had not the faintest idea what he ought to do to prepare a young lady for her Season. 

Lady Victoria could be helpful in that regard, but he could not really depend on her. She had already made a habit of fleeing unexpectedly, something that always won his sympathy but that also made Anthony hesitant to assign her the task of ensuring Lady Rose’s success that Season. The dowager duchess was seldom better in that regard; she enjoyed being a widow and had a tendency to disappear to Scotland or Wales in flights of fancy. 

At the moment, though, it seemed Anthony had the cheerful version of Lady Victoria, the one who was determined to see her daughter successfully wed to a gentleman.

“Her Grace extended an invitation to the ball for me,” Lady Victoria said. “Why, I can scarcely remember the last time I attended a ball!”

“I imagine it has been some time,” Anthony replied, treading carefully. He did not want to say anything that might remind Lady Victoria of her deceased husband. 

“I assume you intend on accompanying Rose as her chaperone?” Lady Victoria asked. “It would be beneficial, I think, if you were to attend the ball with her.”

Anthony nodded. “I did intend on acting as her chaperone, yes.”

He had not thought much about his duty to ensure that Lady Rose found a husband at the ball, though. Anthony had not considered the occasion much beyond it being yet another duty that he was expected to fulfill. His thoughts drifted to Lady Rose’s friend, the beautiful Lady Bridget.

Perhaps she would be at the ball. Anthony felt a tightness between his legs when he thought of the young lady with her flushed face and the mud staining the hem of her gown. She would look even more exquisite if she were in attendance at the ball. Anthony had always had an appreciation for women in all their finery, for the way that the candlelight of ballrooms traced the delicate lines of their bodies.

“I am pleased to hear it,” Lady Victoria said, dragging Anthony’s thoughts way from Lady Bridget. “I am uncertain if I will attend yet, but I have brought a fine gown with me just in case.”

“Of course,” Anthony said.

“Well, I see your attention is otherwise occupied,” Lady Victoria said, her face softening. “My William spent many evenings just like this, surrounded by papers and books. He liked his solitude during such times.”

Anthony smiled politely. Lady Victoria stood and set her shoulders, just as Kitty entered with the tea and biscuits. Anthony offered the maid an apologetic glance. 
“Lady Victoria, perhaps, you wish to speak with your daughter? I believe that she is usually practicing the pianoforte at this time.”

“Indeed!” Lady Victoria’s expression brightened. “I wish to see which gown she is considering for the ball.”

“Kitty, take the tea to the drawing room for Lady Victoria and Lady Rose,” Anthony said.

“At once, Your Grace.”

Lady Victoria clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, this will be simply wonderful!”

Anthony managed to keep smiling until his aunt was well out of sight. Only then did he let his expression relax. His muscles remained tense, and the cause of them was readily identifiable: Lady Bridget. He raked his hands through his hair and shifted in his seat, adjusting his trousers. How embarrassing to be affected so! He was not a young man any longer, and he had far more important matters to think about than Lady Bridget.
When he thought of placing his hands on her waist, gathering handfuls of her sodden skirts, and pulling the gown away—bearing her body to the eyes of London—it nearly undid him. Anthony groaned. He had best be careful around Lady Bridget. Anthony had had no desire to wed after Anastasia’s passing, but that did not mean he was as adept at resisting the desires of the flesh. 

Very careful, indeed, he thought.

The last thing he wanted to do was dishonor a young lady, especially the dearest friend of his new ward.