Beguiling Bridget (3 page)

Bridget wanted none of it. To have a man dictate her life, her happiness, was not only unfair but ridiculous. She would rather die a spinster. At least as a spinster she could pursue writing. Her true passion. Perhaps
Pride and Prejudice
was to blame; after all, the women in that book had strong opinions of their own. What would it be like to write such a tale? She sighed longingly.

Feeling as though she was being watched, Bridget whipped around and noticed the heat of her aunt’s glare falling heavy on her. She waited for the inevitable derision. Aunt Latissia had promised Bridget’s grandmother she would see to a proper Season. And that meant proposals. Proposals enough to have an option for an acceptable match. Never mind that Aunt Latissia would be championing her own cause along with her. The woman’s shameless advances on the young men of the
ton
were mortifying to say the least.

“Bridget,” her aunt began. “Did you have words with Lord Maddox earlier? He seemed anxious to get away from you. What did you do?”

Fighting an overwhelming urge to roll her eyes and suggest the root of his anxiety could be her aunt’s salivating over him like a dog in heat, Bridget inhaled slowly and pretended to consider the question.

“I can’t think of a single thing that could have caused such a reaction, Aunt. We had such a pleasant conversation, and he helped me to some lemonade.”

“You’re up to something, girl. Your grandmother made me promise to find you a husband. And after all she did for you after your mother’s death — taking you in and caring for you — the least you can do is oblige the old woman by encouraging the gentlemen to seek your hand. Gratefulness is a Fruit of the Spirit. You’ll do well to practice it.”

“Yes, Aunt.” Bridget lowered her head in feigned repentance, hoping it would prompt a dismissal and the end of the lecture. Though the argument was riddled with theological inaccuracy, to make that point would simply prolong the interaction.

“Now run along and dance with someone.”

Bridget glanced back to her aunt to find the woman had already spotted her next quarry and was licking her lips and pinching her cheeks. With a shallow curtsy, Bridget made a quick escape back to the corner near the plants.

One dance. That was all she had to do to fulfill her aunt’s instructions. It should be someone harmless. She glanced around the room for a suitable partner.

Sir Bryan. Yes, he would do.

The Lady Cristina, his intended, had left town for a few days for her grandfather’s funeral, and Sir Bryan had been moping about all evening as if at sixes and sevens. A perfect partner.

With one flash of her fan, she caught his attention and waved him over. No one would notice if she danced with him. Yes, he would do quite nicely.

Chapter Three

Parry and Riposte

“Truly you can’t fault Anthony for his glaring stupidity. After all, he cannot help being born with such a handicap. Think how it must affect him,” Wilde said.

Ambrose lifted his snifter of brandy. “Agreed.”

“Born with stupidity?” Anthony raged. He had been sitting in the corner stewing since daybreak over that wretched strawberry while Ambrose and Wilde pretended to be helpful.

“One can hardly fault the strawberry,” Ambrose argued further. “I’m wholly convinced the blame rests with Mother. If she would have merely eaten more strawberries, Anthony wouldn’t find the fruit so offensive, and that same fruit wouldn’t have skittered about his boots seeking revenge.”

“Fruit doesn’t seek revenge, you idiot.” Anthony felt the need to defend himself.

They ignored him.

“Has he ever tried a strawberry?” Wilde sounded genuinely curious.

“Anthony refuses to try things more than once. Says it’s a waste of his time. Isn’t that so, brother?”

“Yes, but—”

Wilde shook his head. “Does that same sensibility apply to wooing young ladies? Sounds silly to me. Perseverance is a virtue, my friend. It would be a considerable error in Anthony’s judgment to follow that creed. For he already tried to beguile the girl once, and look where it got him.”

They shot sympathetic looks his way. He half expected the men to bow their heads in reverence.

“‘Tis merely a bruised—”

“Ego?” Wilde offered.

“Bum?” Ambrose suggested.

“I’m going home,” Anthony announced, gritting his teeth against the pain in his backside as he rose from his seat and hobbled to the study door. “And if I find any sort of strawberry, or heaven forbid, Lady Burnside in my room when I get there, there will be the devil to pay, I assure you.”

“Couldn’t really fight her off in his present condition though.” Ambrose elbowed Wilde.

“Yes,” Wilde agreed. “Wouldn’t be fair for us to do such a thing in his weakened state.”

“Good afternoon!”

It had been one whole day, and Anthony still walked with a limp. It hurt to stretch, to breathe — basically, it hurt to exist. Not that he wanted to let on to any of his acquaintances that he was suffering so.

It was all Lady Bridget’s fault. The only comfort he found was in imagining what would have happened had he avoided that cursed strawberry.

Lush red lips would have firmly pressed against his in a hot fervor of exotic bliss. Unfortunately, when he thought of her lush red lips, his mind immediately conjured up the image of a lush red strawberry, making his backside throb with pain once more.

How was he to impress the girl? He couldn’t dance without wanting to cry out. No telling how many women would flock if they knew he was injured. He’d be married by the week’s end. The women of the
ton
seemed to sense weakness and attack with a fervor like none other. Anthony often imagined men as defenseless zebras and the women as preying lions. And at this point in his life, he was most definitely the vulnerable baby zebra. He wouldn’t stand a chance. Being devoured was not on the top of his list for the day, nor was sitting and listening to Wilde and Ambrose laugh at his expense.

The soreness in his back made walking home look much more comfortable than riding in a jostling curricle, so he rounded the corner of the block and embarked for home, taking slow stiff strides.

As he limped, Anthony considered his strategies. He had only four weeks. And what seemed like ample time yesterday as he admired the lady from a distance, now after their introduction appeared as a wildfire fast on his heels. How is it that out of the entire flock of fresh debutantes, Ambrose had selected the only lady who would despise him simply by virtue of his confidence? The only one who would put up a fight?

He pushed the thoughts of doubt from his mind. After all, he was Anthony Benson, Viscount Maddox. His prowess with the ladies was the stuff of legends, and a challenge like this one would only serve to sharpen his skills.

If there were some way he could determine which social events Lady Bridget would be attending for the next four weeks without raising suspicion, he could tailor his own appearances to mimic hers, and so create a variety of
coincidental
meetings. If nothing else, the mere familiarity of seeing him everywhere might begin to wear down her defenses. And certainly, the regular exposure to his charms alone would do her in.

Yes. Anthony was feeling better already — a slight swagger returned to his gait. He inhaled deeply of the sweet afternoon air and glanced about the street to see who was about.

A young lady walking a small dog, followed closely by her lady’s maid, who carried the parasol, caught his eye. It was the lady who had been haunting his thoughts. Anthony was sure of it. How fortuitous! His plans need not wait until later.

He stepped into the street without thinking and narrowly missed being rundown by a speeding hack. His heart leapt into his throat, forcing him to jump backward to the cobblestone walkway. Naturally, the sudden jolt caused him to lose his footing, and he skittered to the ground, landing firmly on his already damaged backside.

The heat of humiliation rose to his face. With haste he stood again and brushed the street dust from his breeches. It wouldn’t do to have the lady witness him in distress again so soon. A quick glance in her direction assured him she hadn’t noticed his misfortune, so he attempted again to cross, this time waiting for the traffic to pass before venturing into the street. Pain and indignation shot through him with each step.

He decided on a rear attack and came first upon the lady’s maid, who startled when he reached to take the parasol from her. Anthony gestured with a finger to his lips for her to keep the secret, and the servant girl cast a shy smile in his direction and nodded, falling back a few paces but not before winking an invitation in his direction. At least he still had his touch. Or so he thought, until he reached Bridget’s side and she began speaking.

“You are quite accident prone, are you not, my lord?”

“Whatever do you mean?” He lied through his teeth and ventured a glance at his breeches for any hint of dust remnants.

The girl refused to look in his direction. “You took another tumble, did you not? Or were you merely playing a game with the carriages, living dangerously as the great Viscount Maddox is known for doing?”

Ignoring her stab at his reputation, he let out a whistle. “My, my, so you do pay attention to my reputation as well as other things. Tell me, do you also know my favorite color and choice of horseflesh?”

Lady Bridget froze and gave him a glare so horrendously pointed that he was sure he would go up in flames.

“Are you always this prideful?”

For a lack of a better answer, he nodded, gracing her with the full force of his smile. “Tell me,” he said, gaining strength from her obvious fidgeting. “Have you always been afraid of a man’s attention, or is this fear only bestowed upon those as lucky as myself?”

“A man’s attention?” she repeated with a laugh. “Do tell me when we come upon a man, for I would like to see what a real one looks like up close. Good day, my lord.”

Mouth agape, Anthony stared as she did a quick curtsy and walked by him. He grabbed the maid’s arm as she hurried to catch up to her mistress. “Is she going out tonight?”

The maid’s complexion took on a rosy hue. “Yes, my lord. To the Brampton dinner party,” she answered in a whisper.

He winked and handed her the parasol, allowing her to be on her way. No chance the girl would reject him twice in one day. Surely she could not be so heartless!

Chapter Four

Rejection is Such Sweet Sorrow

Not even her afternoon walk was sacred anymore. Lord Maddox was an exasperating man — so brazen and petulant in his vanity. Bridget exhaled sharply and shook her head to knock loose the thoughts of the infuriating rogue. She didn’t wish to think of him at all. Because unfortunately when she thought of him, it was either grand irritation that plagued her mind, or the undeniable fact that he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And for some reason, he wanted her attention. Fighting the urge to smile at the thought, she focused once again on her walk, on clearing her head, and perhaps yes, plotting her next book. Perhaps the main character would slip on a strawberry.

She snorted with disdain. Everything she had heard of the viscount had only served to form an ill opinion of him, regardless of how high in regard the whole of the
ton
held him and his brother. Between the two of them, Lord Maddox was the least respectable. He was known to entertain occasional dalliances with the widows and charm his way through the
ton
with that blasted smile on his face. All he needed to do was flash a devastating grin in the general direction of the female population and swoons surely followed.

Well, she was not going to be another one of his conquests. In fact, she found the notion so repulsive that when her heart fluttered in his presence and her breath grew ragged, she attributed it to a sickness brought on by his masculine scent.

Impossible that her body reacted to him that strongly, she refused to acknowledge it. The man had no shame. And she had better things to occupy her thoughts. Again she concentrated on her newest work. A novel. And again, his face flashed in her mind. He would be the perfect Mr. Darcy. His strong form and rakish smile.

Still, it was pleasing to see him humbled twice in two days. A mischievous smirk curled her lips at the memory of Lord Maddox knocked squarely on his rear. And on a public street. Yes, that image was sure to bring her hours of good humor for the weeks to come as she endured the rest of the wretched London Season. Her walk suddenly took a turn for the better, for every time she thought of the handsome viscount, she remembered his accidents and immediately lost the attraction she held for him. At least, that’s what she told herself to believe when her thoughts turned dangerous.

****

Already Bridget was relieved her aunt had taken ill that afternoon. Since she was unable to accompany her to the dinner party, Bridget had come with her dear friend Gemma Reynolds. The freedom from her aunt’s heavy-handed scrutiny of Bridget’s every move, as well as the lack of formal dancing, gave Bridget liberty to avoid hiding in corners from unwelcome attempts at forcing her to participate.

She sat chatting with Gemma and her brother, waiting for the entertainments to begin. Gemma was slated to play the pianoforte later this evening after dinner, a talent that escaped Bridget, but she did enjoy listening to her friend’s mastery of the instrument.

Bridget had known Gemma for years. Many times they had been mistaken for sisters, because their hair was the same brilliant shade of crimson — though Bridget had often wished she could trade her wild insubordinate curls for a satin smooth mane like Gemma’s.

Ever since her mother’s death and Bridget had come to live with her father’s family in London — though the man himself had abandoned both Bridget and her mother when she was but a child — Gemma and Bridget had been in constant company and loved one another like sisters. But Gemma’s aspirations were toward marriage nowadays, so her subjects of choice in conversation held little interest for Bridget.