Her stomach rumbled, but there was no time to break her fast this morning.
The maids were scurrying about the sitting room, while Aunt Latissia bellowed orders in a frenzy. The commotion was dizzying.
“Sit down, dear! Sit down!” her aunt said when she noticed Bridget enter the room. “Not there! The dowager will want that chair. Here… on the settee.” The woman’s eyes darted about the room in a fashion that spoke of madness.
Bridget couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for the woman. They had, after all, been raised under the same stringent control. It was a wonder Aunt Latissia wasn’t already relegated to the asylum! There were many times in that house Bridget would have preferred a room at Bedlam.
She took the seat indicated and straightened her skirts, hoping this would be a short visit. However, Bridget’s grandmother rarely left her home to visit anyone, so the chances she was coming for a mere social call were quite slim.
Which meant…
Grandmother was coming on her account.
Which could only mean…
It would not be a pleasant morning.
Bridget drew in a deep, slow breath to soothe her nerves. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper in her grandmother’s presence. When she was growing up, any show of displeasure on Bridget’s part was always referred to as a vulgar Irish tantrum.
Her grandmother hadn’t cared for Bridget’s Irish mother, noble blood or not, and she had made no secret of her disdain for that side of Bridget’s lineage.
“Ahem.” Francis’s customary throat clearing sent a chill down Bridget’s spine, which straightened and tensed as if on command. She folded her hands primly in her lap, crossed her ankles beneath her skirts, and looked to the doorway in utter apprehension.
“The Dowager Countess of Darlingshire,” he announced in his proper monotone, not even a hint of the same dread that flowed through Bridget’s veins at the very sound of the woman’s name. But then, nothing ever upset Francis.
Aunt Latissia seemed frozen as well, but she stood along with Bridget to welcome the dowager.
“Good morning, Mother,” Aunt Latissia gushed, the tremor in her voice was hardly noticeable as she curtsied in the most chaste fashion — she saved her scandalously low curtsies for the young gentlemen of the ton.
“Grandmother,” Bridget said as she dipped in a brief curtsy.
“Let’s dispense with the formalities, ladies. You know why I’m here,” her grandmother said as she took her seat. Her voice was barely above a whisper. She never raised her voice. It would be improper. Her expressions were effective enough on their own.
“Yes, Mother.” Aunt Latissia sat down, and Bridget followed her lead.
The elderly woman trained her icy glare on Bridget.
“What is this I hear about you refusing to show favor to any gentleman?”
Bridget glanced at her aunt, whose gaze flitted up to the chandelier. Traitorous wench.
There was no escaping a direct question.
“I have found none to my liking, Grandmother.”
The dowager clicked her tongue with contempt. “None to your liking, indeed. Let me be perfectly clear. You shall choose a gentleman. You shall acquire a proposal. And you shall be married by the end of the year… whether you like of it or not.”
There was nothing left to be said.
To answer back would mean certain dire consequences that Bridget had no desire to endure. And how was she to explain to a woman like her grandmother her reasons for not wanting to marry? It was impossible for anyone to understand the world in which Bridget had grown up. The constant pressure, the rejection, and finally the betrayal, which had caused such scars that Bridget could think of nothing worse than being married to a man who had the power to break her heart.
The dowager scowled and grunted then turned her focus on Aunt Latissia, who squirmed under the weight of her mother’s cold stare. “I entrusted you with this very simple task, Latissia. I am…” She closed her eyes momentarily for effect. “Disappointed in your incompetence. Bridget is a comely girl with a sizeable dowry. It should have been accomplished weeks ago. Your failure in this will not be tolerated. So if you have even a sliver of sense, you will set aside your own… amorous endeavors and attend to Bridget’s.”
Geneva entered in that moment with the tea service, interrupting the thick tension of the moment.
“I will not be staying for tea,” the dowager said and rose from her seat. Aunt Latissia and Bridget rose with her. “You understand my instructions. See to it.” She turned on her heel and was gone.
Bridget released the breath she had been holding and glanced at her aunt expecting a similar sigh of relief.
Instead the scowl on her aunt’s face was reminiscent of an angry wolf deprived of her latest kill.
Slowly, Bridget lowered herself back into her seat and took up a cup of tea, avoiding eye contact for as long as possible, a strategy that soon proved to be ineffective.
Aunt Latissia stepped directly in front of her and glowered down at her, leveling an index finger in Bridget’s face. “Now hear me. I shall not… endure that again. Tonight. At the ball. You shall affect a gentleman’s attention. And I shall haunt your every move until you do so.”
Chapter Six
Conceding the Bout
Self-consciously, Anthony raised his gloved hand to his cheek. The very same cheek on which Lady Bridget had indeed left a permanent impression the night previous. He saw it coming — saw the flash of anger in her eyes, the passion pulsing in her veins — as her breath grew labored, and finally the dainty gloved hand sailed through the air toward its target. He could have stopped it. After all, he had experienced such assaults from women who didn’t appreciate his charms. Though in his life, it had happened exactly twice. Nevertheless, he still knew what to expect.
He smiled to himself as he strode toward the grand house. He wouldn’t have moved for all the tea in China. It was necessary to give her the pleasure of the slap, for it meant she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about taking pleasure in the kiss they shared, and he was entirely convinced she’d enjoyed it.
With a chuckle he reached his destination. The Duke of Hasbrough was throwing his annual ball, and Anthony knew Lady Bridget would be attending. Of course, all odds were against her speaking to him again after the stolen kiss. So he waited along the wall for that glorious red hair to appear amidst the bland storm of browns and yellows.
“There you are,” he whispered to himself as he spied Lady Bridget entering the ballroom. Erring on the side of caution, he chose to take advantage of the element of surprise. Quite like a burglar, he snuck up behind her, reached for her arm, and managed to sweep her onto the dance floor before her aunt realized she was gone.