Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Lady Bridget's smile was so alluring, sweet with just the smallest note of coyness, that Anthony sorely wished there were some graceful way to remain in her company, rather than following the wishes of Lady Rose. He still felt that frisson of excitement from looking at that scandalous painting with her. Although he had tried to maintain his composure, he had found himself sending Lady Bridget fleeting glances, fascinated by the intensity of her green eyes.

He almost wanted the painting for himself to remind himself of their conversation, but he could hardly display such a thing in his townhouse. It would be inappropriate, and Anthony could only imagine the horrified gazes he would receive from the mothers and fathers of Lady Rose's potential suitors.

"Your Grace?"

He knew that voice but could not place it at first. Anthony turned, Lady Rose's hand still curled around the crook of his arm. Then, he knew. He inhaled sharply at the sight of the terribly familiar woman, Lady Abigail Hastings. She was tall and stately, her elegant face and blue eyes framed by a froth of shining, brown curls.

"Lady Hastings," he said.

Lady Hastings' gaze settled on Lady Rose, and although Anthony did not look at his cousin, he sensed that she was staring at him, waiting for him to offer an introduction.

He cleared his throat. "Lady Hastings, this is my ward, Lady Rose."

Lady Hastings smiled. It was a hollow gesture that did not reach her eyes, and Anthony dryly thought that, perhaps, he deserved some of her coldness. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise," Lady Rose replied.

Before he found love with Anastasia, Anthony's heart had belonged to Lady Hastings, who was then Lady Abigail. Or so he had thought. He had been young and foolish, as had she. Anthony had taken liberties with her that a respectable man would not have, but Lady Hastings had always responded so eagerly to his affections.

Their affair ended once Lady Hastings's father learned of it and insisted that his daughter marry Lord Hastings, a man who was old enough to be her grandfather. Shortly after her marriage, Anthony had met Anastasia and learned what love truly was.

"How is Lord Hastings?" Anthony asked.

The smile tightened. "He has taken ill of late," Lady Hastings said.

"That is most regrettable," Lady Rose said.

Anthony doubted that Lady Hastings was all that upset about her husband's failing health. She had not wished to marry the man at all, and years of marriage to him had bred an unparalleled disdain for Lord Hastings.

"Indeed," Lady Hastings said.

"I hope his health recovers quickly," Anthony said.

He tried to bury the spark of guilt that always threatened on the rare occasions when he encountered Lady Hastings. Although his affair with Lady Hastings had been a youthful indiscretion, an error that any young man might make, he still felt as though he carried the blame for her unhappy life.

Anthony thought of Lady Bridget, who faced her own potential marriage to a man much older than her, a man she did not desire in the least. Lady Hastings had not desired that fate, and nor did Lady Bridget. Maybe Anthony could ensure that Lady Bridget, at least, received a kinder outcome. It would not amend his earlier mistake, but it would ensure that a young woman was happy, at least.

"Are you very fond of art, Lady Hastings?" Lady Rose asked. "I had wanted to show His Grace a piece that I think we should acquire for Hamilton House."

Anthony inwardly winced. He wondered if Lady Rose noticed that Lady Hastings's civility was so forced. Likely not. Lady Rose was not one of the ton, and she would not recognize the danger that might be hiding behind Lady Hastings's polite fa?ade. Lady Hastings could be vindictive, too. It was best to keep Lady Rose far away from this woman.

"We should not delay," Anthony said. "Otherwise, someone else may acquire the piece before we do."

Lady Rose laughed. "Lady Emily promised she would accept no offers on the piece until I had shown it to you."

It seemed that his cousin also did not notice his discomfort at Lady Hastings's presence.

"Nevertheless, I do not wish to delay you," Lady Hastings said. "Enjoy your evening, Your Grace. Lady Rose, it was a pleasure."

"And you, also," Anthony said.

When Lady Hastings left, it took all the strength of Anthony's will not to sigh in relief. It was not that he disliked Lady Hastings, exactly. It was not even that her presence was a reminder of one of the worst errors of his youth. Rather, it was that Lady Hastings was bitter, and although Anthony blamed himself for her misfortune, trying to make amends would be too little and too late. He also knew the lady loathed him. It was uncharitable of him to think, but there was no purpose to engaging with her. Their conversations would always be stilted and awkward, and he doubted either of them would ever come to any semblance of agreement about anything.

"She seemed lovely," Lady Rose said innocently. "How do you know her?"

"She is an old family friend."

That was not entirely a lie.

Lady Rose hummed and nodded, seemingly content with his answer. Anthony furrowed his brow. He was certain that any lady of the ton would have noticed the displeasure that Lady Hastings exuded. Obviously, Lady Rose was not quite one of them yet, and it would take some time until she was. Still, Anthony felt a dull sense of worry that this young woman might be taken advantage of due to having such na?veté.

"Where is this piece that you are so eager for me to see?" he asked.

He did not especially want to think about his responsibilities as Lady Rose's guardian or about Lady Hastings, and art would be a good distraction. Paintings reminded him of Anastasia.

And Lady Bridget.

"This way," Lady Rose said, lightly gripping his arm. "I really do adore it. It reminds me of my father and all the long nights he would spend in his study."

He had left Lady Bridget without an escort. Was she still gazing at the painting of those two lovers in their passionate embrace, or had some other work captured her attention? Anthony remembered how the color had risen to her face when he'd asked her opinions on art. She blushed beautifully; her flushes were a single, unbroken stroke of pink across her cheeks and nose. Lady Bridget had the natural feminine beauty that some many ladies of the ton tried to imitate with cosmetics made by their clever lady's maids.

It would be an injustice to let that young woman in the bloom of her youth and with so much potential marry a monster like the Marquess of Thornton. She deserved someone who was kind and gentle, someone not prone to bouts of anger. If the man behaved in such a manner before an audience, Anthony could only imagine how he might be willing to behave when he had no one to witness his careless cruelty.

"Here it is," Lady Rose said.

The painting was of a small, sparsely furnished room. There was a desk and a chair, upon which sat a common woman. She had fallen asleep while writing a missive of some manner and cradled her head in her folded arms. The general feeling from the painting was one of soft, thoughtful reflection.

"When you said the painting reminded you of your father, I assumed that a man would be the subject."

Lady Rose laughed. "I suppose that is a reasonable conclusion to make. But no, I just remember finding my father in his study, asleep at his desk in precisely that same manner. And even the candle—see how it has burned low by her elbow?"

He did, noting that the gentle light from the candle gave the painting a warm focus, despite the shadows that covered much of the piece.

"What is it called?"

"The Woman Who Wants to Write," Lady Rose said.

That was not a particularly clever title. Anthony's lips twitched in amusement. "I understand why you like it so much. It is a well-crafted piece."

"I want to hang it in the drawing room," Lady Rose said, "if it will not vex you."

"It would not," Anthony replied. "I suppose it is far past the time for me to decorate the townhouse, anyway."

He had made few changes since inheriting the title of the Duke of Hamilton. Anthony had assumed that Catherine might wish to make some changes, but she had informed him that the townhouse was his and ought to reflect his tastes.

"Thank you!" Lady Rose exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "You are wonderful!"

Anthony shook his head. "I would not claim that at all."

Lady Rose smiled. "You should be kinder to yourself."

"I will try that."

Lady Rose looked at him with such earnest belief that Anthony felt something deep inside him soften. She was too good to be thrust into this world of ton politics.

"Your friend Lady Bridget," Anthony said, "is a good woman."

"She is," Lady Rose replied. "She is like… like a star in an otherwise dark sky. I am very fortunate to have befriended her so quickly."

"I have given some thought to her situation," Anthony said, looking around the hall. They were not alone, but none of the other guests seemed to be paying them any mind. "And I have decided to agree to your plan."

Lady Rose's face brightened. "Truly?"

"Yes. I will pretend to court your friend, so she may avoid marrying Lord Thornton."

"We must tell her at once!" Lady Rose explained. "She will be delighted!"

Anthony shook his head as Lady Rose looked about, her bright gaze doubtlessly searching for Lady Bridget. The thought of seeing Lady Bridget again sent a shiver of delight down his spine. Even better, he would be delivering excellent news to her. Anthony recalled that warm, final smile he had given her.

He doubted that he would be able to think of anything else.