“I do apologize for my behavior,” Anthony said, reaching for his wine. “It isn’t often those words flow freely from my lips, so I beg you to record them in your mind.”
Lady Bridget laughed then coughed. “Yes, I’ll be sure to remember them the next time you offend, my lord.”
“And there will be other times, I assure you.” Anthony added. “After all, I’m a rogue and a flirt. Truly the worst sort of gentleman.”
“Finally something we agree upon.”
“Yes, and I have something else to confess. Though I ask you won’t judge me too harshly.”
Her hand stilled on the stem of her wine glass.
“I don’t mean to be so taken with you. Clearly, it’s your fault.”
She fumbled, nearly tipping the wine glass over. “My fault?”
“But of course.” He shook his head and gave her a look of pure innocence. “If you would not have flaunted that red hair, we would not now be in this predicament.”
“Flaunted my red hair?” Her eyes widened.
Anthony shrugged. “Everyone knows I prefer redheads. Surely you knew that when you glanced in my direction last evening.”
“I did nothing of the sort—”
“It is of no consequence.” He waved her off. “For if your hair hadn’t done it, your eyes surely would have.”
“Whatever is the matter with my eyes?”
“Nothing.” He swallowed and looked at her direct, knowing it was improper to be so clearly interested. “That’s the blasted problem. Nothing is wrong with you. Absolutely nothing, and I find myself perplexed as to how to gain your attention — short of injuring myself, stepping in front of moving carriages, or putting my foot in my mouth. So, I do apologize, truly.”
“I accept your apology as long as you understand I still think you a reckless rogue without a care for another soul in the world.”
Anthony let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, I’m still that, and I beg you never to forget it, my lady.” He lifted his glass in her direction as her eyes tightened into tiny slits.
****
Bridget was dumbfounded. He was being kind — still arrogant, but in an almost appealing way that made her stomach do flip flops and her heart pound against her chest even more so than before. Wanting to scream, she closed her eyes instead and focused on her breathing. What game was he playing? She hadn’t done anything except insult him.
Whatever his game was, it would be so much easier to continue to give him the cut if he remained his haughty, supercilious self. Lord Maddox was a cockscomb. It made things simple for her. And she didn’t want that to change.
By the time dinner was over, Lord Maddox was very nearly likeable. And Bridget’s hands were clenched so hard within her lap that she was convinced she was suffering from blood loss. He was impossible to ignore when he was arrogant, and even more so when he winked with that rakish air that turned her knees to jelly.
The entire company retired to the salon to enjoy the evening’s entertainments. Bridget turned to wait for Gemma, but she had already accepted Sir Wilde’s escort and was leaving Bridget behind without so much as a second look. As dejection set in from the abandonment, Bridget began to make her own way into the salon. She didn’t notice Lord Maddox waiting for her by the door until she nearly collided with him.
He lifted his elbow to her with an intoxicating smile. “May I escort you, my lady?”
She was reluctant to accept and hesitated for a moment before taking his arm. “If you think you can manage keeping us both on our feet,” she said with a hint of irony. In a display of unenthusiastic resolve, she linked her arm with his and allowed Lord Maddox to guide her into the salon.
It was not a large party, so there were still a few seats left in the room when they entered. Lord Maddox led Bridget to a wingback on the far side from the pianoforte, and stood behind her as she sat.
Gemma was the first to play. Bridget had, of course, heard her friend play many times and knew her to be a talented musician. Bridget had no such talent, so she slowly rose from her seat and moved to the back of the room in hopes that no one would notice she was one of the only ladies not vying to display her musical talents.
Basically, she was escaping.
“I do hope you’re not planning to hide here all night, my lady,” Lord Maddox commented from the side.
Had he followed her? Unfortunately, the viscount stood on the side not blocked by the potted plant, so he had an unobstructed view of her nervous habit of crinkling her dress between her fingers.
She caught his gaze resting on her hands, so she smoothed her skirts and folded her hands in front of her, turning her attention back to the pianoforte. When Gemma’s song came to an end, she stood and curtsied amidst a supply of enthusiastic applause, not the least of which was Lord Maddox’s consort, Sir Wilde. His eyes fairly glowed with admiration of the lovely Gemma’s musical gift.
“He seems well taken with her,” Lord Maddox whispered near her. Far too near for propriety, Bridget thought.
She took a small step away from him and nodded her agreement, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blush she felt staining her cheeks.
“Lady Gemma has many admirers.”
She could feel the viscount’s gaze burning into her and took another step to lengthen the distance between them.
His warmth seemed to draw nearer again, muddling her mind — distracting her from her surroundings. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? His breath rustled her hair as he leaned closer to whisper again. “Would you like to know whom I admire?”
Bridget shifted awkwardly. The room grew warmer by the moment. Then, as if Fate chose to intervene on her behalf, the next lady to entertain the group let loose a horrible screeching which tore through the room, causing both Bridget and the viscount to cringe in pain. It appeared to be enough to distract Lord Maddox from his train of thought, but the horrid sound issuing forth from the woman was an audible assault on sensitive ears.
“Is she dying?” Lord Maddox winced visibly as the voice reached towards the ceiling, taking the audience’s ears as well as sanity with her.
“Likely,” Bridget answered. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that particular note before.”
“Perhaps we should throw something at her. In order to put her out of her misery.”
“May I suggest pelting her with strawberries?” Bridget offered.
His pained smirk told her the comment hit its mark. “They are the deadliest of the small fruits.”