“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.