Honestly, if it wasn’t for his unbearable arrogance and vain utterings, she might quite enjoy the view. Adonis was a description not far off the mark.
Bridget sighed and shook her head to clear the fog. The portrait. She was supposed to be painting.
He was right. He was nothing if not distracting. And Bridget didn’t care for distractions. Not when there were so many other noble pursuits to occupy her attention.
Drat! Her novel! She had almost forgotten about it! How was that even possible?
One word. Anthony.
There was very little recourse for revenge in situations like these. And his familiarity today was well deserving of some sort of comeuppance. Bridget glanced around the room in scheming defiance until her gaze came to rest on the bowl of strawberries sitting on the table behind him.
A slow, deliberate smirk creased her lips, and she set back to work on the portrait with renewed vigor.
“What are you plotting?” Anthony crooned from his place on the settee.
“Never you mind. Just sit still and try not to spoil my masterpiece.”
When she finished, she covered the canvas with a thick cloth, veiling it from Anthony’s view.
“Aren’t you going to let me see it?” He took a step around her and made an effort to lift the cloth.
“Don’t touch!” Bridget slapped at his hand, but he dodged out of her reach.
“Hours of silent torture, and you won’t even let me have a peek?”
“No. I want to put the finishing touches on it. You will have to wait, Adonis.”
A wicked smile spread over his face as he glanced at her with an unholy gleam in his eyes. “See how naturally it rolls off the tongue? I believe we might be able to pull this off after all, dear Bridget.” He stepped toward her and brushed the stray tendril of hair from her face, catching her hand in his.
Bridget’s breath caught in her throat as he lifted her hand to his lips, holding it there much longer than proper. His gaze held hers.
When the maid cleared her throat, Bridget jolted and pulled her hand abruptly away from Anthony’s grasp.
“I forgot she was in here,” he whispered with a disappointed smirk.
“I believe it’s time for you to take your leave, my lord,” Bridget announced. She kept her voice steady though his nearness had caused her to tremble.
“Very well, my dear. I shall look forward to the unveiling of the portrait the next time I call. Good evening, sweeting,” he said with a wink, then spun on his heel and let himself out.
Chapter Eight
Beyond the Call of Duty
“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.