But she didn’t have time to decide.
Before she knew what was happening, Anthony stood, pulling her to her feet along with him, whisked her into his arms, and planted a firm kiss right on her open mouth. Memories of their stolen kisses came flooding back of their own accord. His lips were smooth and tasted of cinnamon.
Shock hindered her from reacting. But Anthony seemed to know exactly what he was doing and took full advantage of her state of mind, deepening the kiss.
Her good sense came rushing back, filling her with fierce indignation. She pressed both palms firmly against his chest and shoved with all her might, thrusting him away from her.
The rakish grin he wore drove her mind into a fury, and she reared back to deliver a swing that would possess the very real possibility of knocking the rogue quite firmly into the middle of next Sunday.
With all her might she aimed her closed fist at his perfect aristocratic cheekbone, but when he grabbed her wrist, absorbing all her power and rendering the assault useless, Bridget very nearly lost her mind with rage. With a roar, she wrenched her hand free of his grasp and stepped back, scouring the room for a weapon that would prove fatal to the arrogant sod.
She lunged madly for the teapot, thinking to send it crashing straight through his thick skull, but Francis was too quick and rescued the teapot from her reach.
The silver!
Her gaze raked the table for a sharp utensil. Only spoons!
Blast! Where were all the knives?
Francis must have seen her eyeing the teaspoons, because he deftly removed them from her vicinity without so much as twitch in his perfectly deadpan butler expression.
“Give me something, Francis!” she bellowed in exasperation.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the taciturn butler gracefully lifted the fruit bowl in one hand as if he were serving the royal table.
“Strawberry, milady?”
She could feel the wide evil grin spreading across her lips as she leveled her gaze on Anthony, who seemed to shrink into himself in terror like a frightened turtle.
“Why thank you, Francis. I don’t mind if I do,” Bridget replied, as she wrapped her fingers around an enormous handful of brilliant red ammunition.
Chapter Sixteen
To the Victor Goes the Spoils
Anthony entered Ambrose’s townhome much like a dog with its tail between its legs.
Ambrose took one look at his brother and swore. “Well, that went well.”
“Obviously,” Anthony muttered as a squashed strawberry fell out of his jacket and tumbled onto the floor.
“I thought he didn’t like strawberries,” Wilde said to Ambrose. “It seems if he was so offended by said fruit he wouldn’t take to bathing in it, which is the only conclusion I can draw given his state of dress.”
“It is by my calculations,” Anthony sat on a nearby chair and cringed when the sticky juice of the strawberry ran down his legs, “that when the lady could find no daggers, swords, or pistols, she became desperate and decided to torture me with my favorite fruit.”
“She was successful, no doubt.” Ambrose smiled and let out a chuckle.
“I shouldn’t have kissed her.”
“Idiot,” Ambrose replied.
“Dolt,” Wilde agreed.
“What did you expect me to do? I apologized! I went down on one knee, and I had this speech, truly it was a speech that would bring even Byron to tears, and then when I saw her lips and her face I lost—”
“—complete control of your mind, no doubt.” Wilde shook his head. “If you do not fix this Gemma will never speak to me again! Women have to stick together, after all.”
At Anthony’s irritated look, Wilde apologized. “Well, it’s not that I’m not concerned for you and the lovely lady, and yes perhaps I’m being a mite selfish, but saints alive, Anthony! I’ve never met a man so horrid at proposals and apologies in my life! And just this last year Ambrose apologized to Lady Cordelia by giving her a dead plant!”
“Now see here!” Ambrose roared. “I didn’t know it was dead until after I gave it to her.”
“That makes it so much better.” Anthony closed his eyes while his brother and Wilde continued to bicker. They were both right. Perhaps he should allow the lady to shoot him — anything would feel better than the pain he was experiencing at present.
Bridget. She deserved the prince, the white horse, and the pretty words. She deserved it all, and he had kissed her instead.
Well, no more. He was going to do this right, even if it killed him, which to be truthful was a very real possibility.
“Right then.” He pulled himself to his feet and strode purposefully toward the door.
“Where are you going?”Ambrose asked.
“To storm the castle,” Anthony muttered and walked out into the afternoon air.
****
“Ahem.” Francis cleared his throat once more, causing Bridget to startle and jab her finger with the embroidery needle.
Her sharp intake of breath brought an almost apologetic glance from the somber servant. Involuntarily, she pressed the injured finger to her lips for a moment.
“Pardon me, miss. The Countess of Hawthorne to see you. Shall I show her to the salon?”
“Yes, thank you, Francis. I’ll be with her presently.” She laid her needlepoint on the table, stood, and smoothed the skirt of her afternoon dress. There was nothing she could do about her puffy, tear-stained eyes now, so she pinched her cheeks lightly and took a deep breath.
She made her way to the salon and pushed the doors open as she pasted her best fake smile on her face.
“Countess Hawthorne, what a rare pleasure!” The sentiment was forced and felt unnatural in Bridget’s current emotional state, but she had no intention of making her personal trials the burden of a relative stranger.
“Lady Bridget.” The sad smile behind the countess’s deep blue eyes betrayed her intimate knowledge of Bridget’s misfortune.
“Oh.” Bridget stopped short of her perfunctory pleasantries. “I think I know why you’re here.” It seemed futile to continue with the expected social graces when she had no desire to perpetuate the acquaintance.
“I don’t think you do.”
“Please, Lady Hawthorne… I have no desire to re-live my humiliation for a third time today. Twice was quite suf—”
“Humiliation?” the countess interjected. “If that is the crux of it… I had thought it was somewhat deeper than mere humiliation. Lord Maddox didn’t ask me to come, if that is what concerns you. I’m here of my own volition. My own culpability.”