Beguiling Bridget (16 page)

“Now see here!” Ambrose roared. “I didn’t know it was dead until after I gave it to her.”

“That makes it so much better.” Anthony closed his eyes while his brother and Wilde continued to bicker. They were both right. Perhaps he
should
allow the lady to shoot him — anything would feel better than the pain he was experiencing at present.

Bridget. She deserved the prince, the white horse, and the pretty words. She deserved it all, and he had kissed her instead.

Well, no more. He was going to do this right, even if it killed him, which to be truthful was a very real possibility.

“Right then.” He pulled himself to his feet and strode purposefully toward the door.

“Where are you going?”Ambrose asked.

“To storm the castle,” Anthony muttered and walked out into the afternoon air.

****

“Ahem.” Francis cleared his throat once more, causing Bridget to startle and jab her finger with the embroidery needle.

Her sharp intake of breath brought an almost apologetic glance from the somber servant. Involuntarily, she pressed the injured finger to her lips for a moment.

“Pardon me, miss. The Countess of Hawthorne to see you. Shall I show her to the salon?”

“Yes, thank you, Francis. I’ll be with her presently.” She laid her needlepoint on the table, stood, and smoothed the skirt of her afternoon dress. There was nothing she could do about her puffy, tear-stained eyes now, so she pinched her cheeks lightly and took a deep breath.

She made her way to the salon and pushed the doors open as she pasted her best fake smile on her face.

“Countess Hawthorne, what a rare pleasure!” The sentiment was forced and felt unnatural in Bridget’s current emotional state, but she had no intention of making her personal trials the burden of a relative stranger.

“Lady Bridget.” The sad smile behind the countess’s deep blue eyes betrayed her intimate knowledge of Bridget’s misfortune.

“Oh.” Bridget stopped short of her perfunctory pleasantries. “I think I know why you’re here.” It seemed futile to continue with the expected social graces when she had no desire to perpetuate the acquaintance.

“I don’t think you do.”

“Please, Lady Hawthorne… I have no desire to re-live my humiliation for a third time today. Twice was quite suf—”

“Humiliation?” the countess interjected. “If that is the crux of it… I had thought it was somewhat deeper than mere humiliation. Lord Maddox didn’t ask me to come, if that is what concerns you. I’m here of my own volition. My own culpability.”

“I fail to see how Anth—Viscount Maddox’s shortcomings are your fault, my lady.”

“I didn’t appear at your doorstep to talk about his shortcomings, though we both know he has many, like any other man in love without a clue of how to proceed when jealous rage takes over.”

Bridget exhaled and took a seat. Lady Hawthorne joined her and laid a hand over Bridget’s. “He loves you.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” The countess tilted her head. “I believe the problem is not that you doubt his love. You are allowing fear to cloud your judgment. I know something of fear. Love is frightening. It means entrusting your fragile heart to the one person with whom you are the most vulnerable.” She nodded toward the portrait still on the easel behind Bridget. “That portrait. It is the very essence of what love is. Your very soul in the viscount’s hands.”

Her gaze returned to meet Bridget’s. “Anthony spoke before logic became clear, and now he is trying to right a wrong. And who knows better than you and I what disastrous sentiments spill from that man’s lips when he isn’t thinking clearly?” Her eyes hinted at a smile. “A more stubborn man I have never met. He will not stop until he has your heart, and I promise you, Lady Bridget, there is no man more worthy.”

“I wish I could share your certainty.”

“You don’t have to be certain—just willing to take the risk.”

Chapter Seventeen

Beguiled

Anthony had always prided himself on being calculated and smooth with the gentler sex. Bridget brought out the exact opposite of what he had been all his life, and he found himself at sixes and sevens. But it was of no consequence now. He was going to prove his love to her, but if she was to reject him for the third time—well, it was possible — he would retire to the country. Perhaps buy a few hounds and hunt foxes until he became a bitter old man who yelled at small children.

The music was loud and didn’t help his nerves one bit, but again, in his desperation, he didn’t care. The moment he was announced, he quickly moved down the stairs. The Beckinghorn Ball was always well attended, but he wasn’t there to socialize with every person in the crowd. The large ballroom with its flickering candlelight and lively dancing was stifling, but he pressed through the crush until he caught a glimpse of red hair.

This time he waited until she turned around, to be certain it was Bridget — his Bridget.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her sad blue eyes as she spoke with Lady Hawthorne. The two seemed deep in conversation. They were also on the opposite end of the dance floor, which posed a problem.

Unless…

White horses, white horses
, Anthony chanted to himself as he blazed a path straight through the heart of the dance floor, interrupting the flow of the dancers, who stopped to determine what he was at, whispering in his wake. The tumult on the floor distracted the musicians, who ceased playing to stare after him as he strode with purpose toward his goal.

“Lady Bridget.” He cleared his throat and waited for her to face him. Her eyes welled with unshed tears. His arms ached with the desire to pull her to him, to comfort her, to take away the pain he himself had inflicted.

“I love you.” The words were bold, loud, and rang through the silent room. He didn’t care. She would know his heart if it killed him.

Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand to stop her. “No. Let me speak.” He dropped to his knees in front of her, in plain sight of God and everyone. “I do not deserve you. I count myself lucky each time you grant me one of your smiles, as if you are giving me a priceless gift. Yet I feel guilty for taking something so beautiful. I feel selfish when I’m with you. I want you all to myself. The thought of any other man being on the receiving end of your smile drives me mad. I would kill any one of them given half the chance.

“I know I misjudged you… I could not have been more wrong. But you have also misjudged me. I am not like most men. Even though popular opinion would claim I too freely flirt my way through the
ton
. The truth is, no woman has ever possessed my heart… until now. And whether you reject me or not — and I pray you don’t — my heart is yours to keep, for I would rather die than have any other woman hold it.”

A tear slipped down Bridget’s cheek.

“I cannot promise I won’t be a fool. I cannot promise that I won’t be a devil to live with. But I will promise to honor and cherish you, to love you even when you pelt me with strawberries. To care for you and protect you, though we both know you’re the better fencer… and I swear, to my utter ruin, I will teach you how to shoot. Even if it is the death of me. Forgive my blind stupidity, my love… and marry me.”

“For heaven’s sake, say you’ll marry him before he says something horrifying,” Lady Hawthorne whispered to Bridget with a teasing twinkle in her eyes.

All the room was silent. Bridget stared at Anthony, concealing her thoughts behind her blank expression as his heart pounded out of his chest.

“You will teach me to shoot?” Bridget finally asked, her voice hoarse.

“I promise.”

“I…” Bridget’s tears flowed freely now. “I love you.”

Anthony wanted to kiss her… here in front of everyone, but he would not, for the act would ruin her before the whole of the
ton
. Instead, he merely smiled and brought her hand to his lips, but Bridget, her bright blue eyes suddenly alive with passion, launched herself into his arms, crushing her body against his, scandalously kissing him directly on the mouth.

“Now you shall have to marry me,” she whispered against his lips.

“Whatever shall I do?” Anthony’s voice was husky, giving away his desire to ravish the woman he loved so dearly.

Epilogue

“Where did Wilde make off to? It’s almost time for the dancing to begin!” Anthony glanced around the room.

“He was just here,” Ambrose chimed in. Cordelia and Bridget joined in the search; all four gazes roamed the room looking for their lost friend.

“Ah, er, ahem.” Anthony coughed. “I believe I’ve found him.”

“What the devil!” Ambrose exclaimed.

Bridget squinted. “I don’t see him. Oh, goodness.”

“Heavens, does he realize he looks quite…” Cordelia waved her hand in the air as if searching for the correct word.

“Mad? Scary? A trifle like a hunter stalking his prey?” Anthony finished.

For some odd reason, Wilde was hiding behind a large potted plant, his eyes fixated on Lady Gemma with such fervor the world could crumble around him and still he wouldn’t blink.

Anthony tilted his head to the side for a better angle and laughed when he noticed all three of his companions stood frozen in the exact same pose.

“Does it help?” Bridget whispered with her head tilted.

“No,” Anthony muttered. “No matter the angle, still looks like an idiot to me.”

“Agreed,” the others said in unison.

A booming voice interrupted their spying. “Where is he? I’ll tear him limb from limb!”

Anthony turned to see the Marquess of Van Burge cutting a trail through the sea of people.

“Sir Wilde! Where is the blighter?” Lord Van Burge paused directly in front of Anthony. Without hesitation, all four of them extended an arm to point in the direction of the potted plants.

“My thanks.” He nodded and went in pursuit.

“He’ll probably kill him,” Ambrose reflected. “And to think I thought the winter would be boring.”

“Say, I feel a bet coming on.” Anthony smiled. Ambrose met his gaze and matched his with a devious grin of his own.

Cordelia cleared her throat. “How about a wager of sorts?”

Bridget laughed. “I give him four weeks.”

“—To obtain the object of his affection,” Ambrose added, wrapping his arm around Cordelia.

“—And win her love,” Anthony agreed, offering his arm to Bridget.

“After all…” Bridget hooked her arm in his and winked. “Anything can happen in four weeks.”

About the Authors

Leah Sanders
is the middle child in a family of seven children. As a true middle child she went from high school in Alaska to college in Florida, where she earned a Bachelor's degree in secondary education from Southeastern University. She also holds a Master's degree in educational technology from Boise State University.

She makes her home in Idaho with her husband and three children. By day she teaches English in a middle school. But after the kids are in bed, she will most likely be typing away on her laptop while sitting in her favorite spot on the couch.

Rachel Van Dyken
loves to read almost as much as she loves to write. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and her dog Sir Winston Churchill. Although she loves to write contemporary romance, her heart will always be with historical and regency romances. Glittering balls and dangerous rakes hold her captivated like chocolate and Starbucks. You can follow Rachel on her blog, Twitter, or Facebook.

Also by Rachel and Leah:

PROLOGUE

April 1935

David Graham stood over his wife’s grave while the minister prayed. Her favorite spring lilies adorned her casket, and she would be laid to rest under the shade of a beautiful maple, just like the tree he had proposed under at that picnic over twenty years ago.

Their lives had revolved around her frail health for years now. David had been consumed every day with concern for Emily. Nothing else mattered in his life. He had worked, yes. Because he had had to in order to keep them afloat. The factory was mindless work though, so it had been easy to continue doing his job without allowing it to consume him.

Emily had been sick for so long, it was almost a relief for her suffering to finally come to an end. Almost. But all the prayers they had offered, begging for her healing, for her life, had been to no avail, and his faith had suffered a slow and agonizing defeat.

The casket descended inch by inch into the ground, and his pain increased exponentially, the ache encompassing him as she slipped further from his reach. Unable to watch, David’s gaze moved past the disappearing box to his son’s grieving face on the other side of the pit. The loss was tangible in the boy’s gray eyes. His grief reflected in the dark cloud that hung there. Eleven was too soon to lose a mother.

And for David, far too soon to lose a wife. The love of his life.

Strange that the sun would shine on such a day. How could the universe not be mourning Emily along with David? But it wasn’t. In fact, it seemed happy. Like
God
was happy.