Beguiling Bridget (9 page)

“Are you sure we should doing this?” Gemma whispered as Bridget stepped through the bookseller’s door. The girl could be dreadfully taxing.

“Of course, sweet Gemma,” she coaxed as she tugged at her friend’s arm. “I have been here many times with my uncle. It is quite proper, I assure you.” Lying should not come as easily as it did, but she needed Gemma’s help if she was to pull this off. After all, if she was to write a novel worthy of reading, she must read what was popular, even if it was scandalous for a woman to do so.

The doubt was apparent in Gemma’s sapphire eyes when they pushed open the door, but she allowed herself to be pulled into the dimly lit shop.

Bridget knew exactly what book she wanted, but it was in the gentleman’s section. A distraction was in order. She turned to her maid, who had followed behind them.

“Tessa, won’t you wait outside the door to direct his lordship when he comes?” The maid stared at her blankly for a moment, no doubt thinking she had gone quite mad.

Of course, it was a lie. No man was coming behind them, but the ruse might work to keep the clerk from chasing her back to the ladies’ stacks. She began there, naturally, not wanting to draw attention too soon. Browsing through the mindless romance novels on the shelves was the perfect pretense.

Beside her, Gemma relaxed visibly. Poor, sweet Gemma. She had likely never set foot inside a bookseller’s shop, let alone read through anything more stimulating than the works of Mrs. Burney.

Bridget glanced at the clerk behind her. He was scrutinizing them sharply over his spectacles, as if expecting at any moment they would lunge for the gentlemen’s shelves. Small talk would be just the thing to desensitize the bookseller to the female presence.

“Gemma, it seems as though I haven’t seen you in an age. What have you been doing with yourself lately?” Bridget began, hoping to lull the man into a false sense of security.

“I have received a number of afternoon calls of late.” Gemma’s voice was noticeably quieter than Bridget’s had been. Her eyes darted nervously around the room.

“Oh? Any gentlemen I know?” The tone in her friend’s voice drew Bridget’s undivided attention, and she noticed Gemma fidgeting with the cuff of her glove. A mannerism she recognized as one of her dear friend’s tells. Did she hold a secret tender for a young man? How had Bridget missed this?

“One in particular.” Gemma’s face colored with slight embarrassment.

Bridget was not one to enjoy such conversation usually, but her companion appeared to be concealing some news and perhaps desired Bridget to pry it out of her.

“Well, come then, Gemma. Don’t keep me in such suspense. Who is the gentleman?” she prodded, taking a step in the general direction of the men’s books.

“I’m not sure it’s proper to speak of such things in public,” Gemma whispered again, her voice hardly more than a breath as she followed Bridget’s lead.

Gemma had never behaved so tight-lipped before when it came to speaking of gentlemen. Her goal of marriage was no secret to Bridget. It made no sense now that Gemma would be suddenly shy to discuss such things. No one else was in the shop besides the two of them and the clerk.

“If you would rather discuss something else, we can return to this subject at a more proper time,” Bridget reassured her, returning her attention to the task at hand. From her vantage point at the edge of the ladies’ shelves, she could see her true objective. A fresh copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s
Vindication
was on the table directly behind the clerk.

“Do any of these strike your fancy, Gemma?”

Gemma’s eyes grew wide, and she shook her head. “Bridget, I don’t think we should be buying books in public,” she whimpered.

“Oh, Gemma! You are a precious thing!” Bridget laughed. “Where else should one buy books?” Gemma had been raised to be so uptight and proper it was a wonder she was able to walk around in public at all without swooning.

“I don’t know. It just seems so… so… scandalous.” Her wide blue eyes darted around the room in obvious concern.

“Nonsense, Gemma! I told you, my uncle has brought me here many times.”

“But, Bridget,” she murmured. “Your uncle is a man.”

Could Gemma really be so fearful of impropriety?

“Ahem.” The clerk had sidled up beside them. “Are you ladies in need of assistance today?” The very tone in which he patronized them made Bridget’s skin crawl. Seeds of indignation took root in her chest.

“I believe we’ve made our selections, sir.” Bridget grabbed two novels from the shelf and stepped around the man to the counter, slipping Wollstonecraft’s book beneath her other acquisitions with a stealthy hand.

He followed close behind, meeting her at the counter. “Will there be anything else, miss?”

“These will be all for today,” Bridget said with what she believed was her most confident smile. She hoped her tremulous hands wouldn’t betray her anxiety. He began to write a receipt for her purchases, as she worked to distract him from the titles by making small talk.

“It has been lovely weather of late, has it not?”

“Yes, lovely,” he answered, not lifting his gaze from his task. He made quick work of writing up the first two titles — mindless romance novels written for women. Bridget tried to break his concentration once more.

“I dare say—” she began, but he cut her off.

“My lady.” He lifted the coveted book and leveled his gaze at her. “I believe you have picked this up by mistake.” The clerk scrutinized her down his long pointed nose over the wire rim of his spectacles. Gemma squirmed beside her.

“I’m certain I picked it up on purpose, sir,” Bridget said. She had mastered a deadpan expression, which she used in situations just like this. If she appeared unflustered, it was usually the clerk who backed down first. So while her insides fluttered and twisted into knots, her outward countenance betrayed nothing of the inner turmoil. “I wish to purchase these three volumes.”

But he did not back down. If anything, he grew more combative.

“This particular book is not suitable for young ladies of genteel breeding.”

Lovely. He was one of
those
.

Bridget drew in a slow deliberate breath, shoring up her ire for the battle. The little pompous fool. He had no idea whom he was dealing with. But he would soon. And he would surely regret challenging her Irish temper with his repulsive male condescension.

“Listen to me, you wretched uncouth little man—” She lifted a finger to point in his face with not a care for proper etiquette. Gemma shrieked in sheer horror, taking a step backward. But it was too late. Bridget could feel the fury engulfing her.

****

From a block away, Anthony recognized Bridget’s maid standing alone outside the bookseller’s shop. Perhaps he could pretend to be strolling by and happen upon her. The gossip would spread that he was out shopping with her, and by tonight his brother would be choking on his loss.

Smiling, he quickly crossed the street and tipped his hat to the maid. As his hand reached for the door he stole a glance through the shop window.

And was just in time to see two tiny fists pump into the air and reach out for the clerk’s collar.

Anthony swore under his breath, jerked open the door, and marched over to where Bridget was on the verge of assaulting the man. The clerk covered his face with a book while she was making quick work of lunging across the counter, both hands still reaching for his shirt as if choking him would cause the problem to dissipate.

“Ah, just in time! Thank you so very much, sweeting, for grabbing these books for me. I lost track of the hour. Apologies. Will you ever forgive me?” Anthony uttered the entire speech in such a fluid voice he shocked even himself.

Bridget turned her cold stare on him mid-strangle, and for a moment he wanted to run back out the door.

“Y-y-you are quite mad, my lady!” The clerk’s face was red with fury, and his eyes wide with fright. “Do you know this lady, my lord?”

Anthony chose that moment to pull the book from the clerk’s still trembling hands. “Why of course, she’s my betrothed. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Bridget still wasn’t talking, but in her defense it seemed to be the wiser course of action since the expression on her face was evidence enough that she had not yet returned to a proper state of mind.

“And I was so eager to get my hands on a copy of…” Anthony stole a glance at the book and cursed aloud.

Bridget’s mouth curved upwards into a tiny smile. The minx!

Anthony cleared his throat. “A copy of
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
” It was quite surprising that he didn’t choke over that mouthful. Not that he had anything against women’s rights; he just wasn’t the sort to go advertising his beliefs by buying such books.

Shaking his head, he pulled out the second book, and thankful it was a gothic tale, he reached into his pocket to produce some notes for the poor man whom his redhead had come nigh unto beating within an inch of his trebly worthless life.

The clerk shook his head and barked an indignant laugh. “Well, that explains it. I couldn’t imagine such a proper young thing reading such a big book. It does nothing but fill her head with ideas, and we wouldn’t want…”

Anthony froze and slowly lifted his head to give the clerk his most intimidating stare, stopping the man mid-sentence. “No, please, finish what you were going to say. I’m quite curious what other medieval beliefs you hold.”

“N-no, it isn’t necessary, my apologies sir, I mean. Mr.—”

Anthony sneered. “Viscount Maddox at your service.” He reached across the table and shook the man’s hand.

The man paled and went equally limp in Anthony’s clutches. Not feeling the least bit guilty that the sorry excuse for a man had fainted, he dropped him to the floor and left the notes scattered about the man’s person.

“He’ll be fine, just had a good scare is all.” He winked at Bridget and noticed a shaking girl next to him.

“Devil take it, are you going to faint too?” He reached for the redheaded girl, but she shied away and shook her head all the while mumbling something about the dangers of the written word.

Bridget followed him out of the bookshop and promptly ordered her maid to see her friend, whom she called Gemma, to the carriage. Anthony was shocked to see the resemblance in the two girls’ features. Not that Gemma was by any means more beautiful than Bridget, but the ladies could easily be sisters.

“Thank you.” Bridget’s voice broke his thoughts as his eyes came back to the street where they stood.

“Oh, no thanks are necessary. I should be thanking you for such… wonderful reading. I shall stay up all night.” He joked as he held the books prisoner behind his back.

“May I have them please?”

“Will you promise not to yell or grab my shirt collar, or pull at my cravat if I don’t give you exactly what you want all the time?”

Bridget shifted nervously from one foot to another. Her beautiful face was still flushed, and Anthony cursed himself and the rules he had to abide by. Nothing would please him more than to reach out and pull the infuriating woman into a kiss.

Any woman in possession of half as much passion as she had was a woman he wanted to keep. Dangerously close to breaking the rule, he took a step back and held out the books between them.

“I cannot promise,” Bridget said taking the books and stepping closer to him. “You might someday give me cause to yell or grab your shirt collar or pull at your cravat.” Her head leaned forward ever so slightly. Anthony’s eyes were drawn to her bee stung lips as well as her rapid breathing. He knew that look.

Devil take it, he saw that look on a daily basis. She wanted him to kiss her.

He waited for her to move closer.

She did. No doubt she was testing him. Well, there was no chance in Hades he was going to give into that type of temptation. If the little minx indeed thought she could so easily break the rules, then she could burn with desire for all he cared! If he as much as grazed her lips without warning she’d be more likely to take a dagger to his favorite part of his anatomy than forgive him. It wasn’t playing fair. Perhaps it would be best for her to know what it felt like to want something so bad she could taste it, but have no means by which to satisfy that hunger.

Deciding to let her suffer, he heaved a sigh and then promptly knocked the books to the ground between them.

“Oh, apologies, I’m so very clumsy at times.”

Bridget knelt down to grab both books, the pallor of her face deepened into a bright crimson that matched her hair.

He took her hand within his and bestowed a kiss upon it. “Good day.”

Anthony tipped his hat and walked in the opposite direction, leaving a fairly seething Bridget behind.

Chapter Nine

The Best Defense

To say Bridget was angry did not begin to describe it. Abandoned. Humiliated. Rejected.

Furious.

And arrogant Lord Maddox — the impossible, infuriating beast of a man — was every whit the enigma. One moment he was swearing an oath to keep his hands to himself, the next moment he seemed to have eight of them, and every one acted as a homing pigeon bringing messages of desire straight to her core. As if that wasn’t enough, when she actually wanted him to kiss her, he left her twisting in the wind.

A fresh surge of indignation burned through her again. She climbed the stairs to her rooms, slamming the door behind her with a fury.

This ridiculous bargain was more trouble than it was worth. True, Aunt Latissia and Uncle Ernest had stopped hovering about at the social functions, but the viscount had hardly kept up his end.

In fact, the only thing for which Bridget could rely on Anthony was that he was completely unreliable. But that was just like all the men she had ever known. Why did this one disturb her so much?

A knock sounded on the door, and a downstairs maid entered with a bouquet of fresh flowers.

“Begging your pardon, milady. These arrived for you a few minutes ago.” She placed the bouquet in a crystal vase on a small table, turned to Bridget, and offered an envelope.