Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Bridget sat at the pianoforte, playing a cheerful melody. Across the room, Anna held a book between her hands, but Bridget wondered if her sister was even really reading it. Whenever Bridget cast her a glance, Anna seemed to be looking at the doorway of the drawing room. They were waiting for callers, and thus far, no one had come. Their mother, Lady Louise Crampton, had seated herself across the room, working on her embroidery and talking with her lady's maid.

Bridget glanced again at her sister, so distracted by Anna's plight that she missed a note. With a grimace, she returned her attention more fully to her music. She understood her sister's glances toward the door. Undoubtedly, Anna was thinking of the handsome Mr. Russell, and Bridget found her own thoughts wandering just as much. She could not forget the image of the painting from the gallery, and when she thought of that painting and His Grace, everything inside her became suffused with the most pleasant warmth. It was as though she had made some new and intimate discovery about her own desires, one she did not even have the words to describe.

"Oh!" Anna exclaimed suddenly. "Mr. Russell!"

Bridget paused in her playing and looked at the doorway, where Mr. Russell had, indeed, appeared. Bridget's mother rose from her seat and smiled beatifically. "Welcome to Crampton House, Mr. Russell," she said.

He bowed. "The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace. I was hoping to call on Lady Anna."

"Delightful," Anna said, rising to her feet. "I am so pleased to see you, Mr. Russell."

Mr. Russell seated himself beside Anna, maintaining a respectable distance from her. He might not be a man of the ton, but he was exceedingly well-mannered. Bridget hummed. She wondered suddenly who he knew to be invited to the ton's events. Perhaps that was a question for the Duke of Hamilton.

She began playing lightly, providing a soft accompaniment to Anna and Mr. Russell's conversation. Although Bridget feigned indifference, she strained to hear what they were saying above the light, twinkling notes.

"The painting across the room is lovely," Mr. Russell said.

"Thank you. I painted it myself."

"Of course you did. I imagine you would have to be a woman to capture the picture of feminine grace so excellently."

Mr. Russell was trying very hard to impress Bridget's sister. A small smirk came to Bridget's lips. Although the attempt seemed terribly obvious to her, a single glance at Anna revealed that the comment had left her flustered. Color had already spread across Anna's face.

"Would you like tea and biscuits, Mr. Russell?" Anna asked.

"That would be agreeable."

Bridget wondered if Mr. Russell truly believed that he could marry Anna. The daughters of dukes did not typically marry merchants' sons. There was something to be said about Mr. Russell's tenacity.

Or perhaps he really likes my sister, Bridget thought.

She hoped it was an overflow of affection on Mr. Russell's part, but thinking about Anna's potential suitor made Bridget think of her own. His Grace agreeing to court her was a good plan—the Marquess of Thornton would not wish to offend His Grace. Even if the plan worked, though, Bridget was unsure if that would be for the best. Her father would still have his debts. Neither she nor Anna would have a dowry, which meant they would likely have difficulty in finding any match.

Perhaps it was for the best that Mr. Russell was not really one of them. He might not anticipate an extravagant dowry, or at least he might be willing to forgive not being promised one.

He and Anna were taking a turn about the room, discussing the paintings on the walls. Bridget sighed, the sound buried beneath the notes of her music. In the heat of the moment, when Rose had excitedly told Anna that His Grace had agreed to the plan, Bridget had been elated. Her body had become alight with joy and desire at the prospect of spending more time with the Duke of Hamilton. Now, she wondered if Rose's proposed solution would solve any of Bridget's actual problems.

Perhaps the best Bridget could hope for was an enjoyable Season before the Marquess of Thornton decided to become involved and assert his engagement to her.

The family's butler entered the drawing room, and Bridget's mother beckoned for him. Bridget watched as he handed her mother a sealed letter before leaving once again. As her mother opened the letter, Bridget's heart thundered with excitement. His Grace had promised an invitation to the garden party. Surely, this was it.

Bridget's suspicions were confirmed when her mother looked at her and smiled. "It seems that His Grace has invited you and your sister to a garden tea party tomorrow."

"That was kind of him," Bridget said, her face growing warm.

"Indeed," Anna said, sounding as though she were barely listening to the conversation. Her attention was fixed mostly on Mr. Russell.

Whatever happened with Bridget's future, she hoped that her sister—at least—was able to wed for love.

***

Bridget lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. All was silent, save for the soft snores of her lady's maid. Bridget wished she could slumber as easily, but her thoughts kept twisting and turning inside her head. It was as if there was a storm inside her that refused to calm.

Would Anthony announce their courtship at the garden party? Would he choose that event to make the first romantic gestures of a man deeply in love? Bridget's pulse jumped at the thought. She imagined him, surrounded by those exquisitely green gardens. Bridget would arrive, and their eyes would lock across the expanse of space.

"Lady Bridget," he would say, in that soft, rumbling tone.

Bridget shivered. He was only pretending to court her. She must not fall into the trap of believing in the illusion. His Grace was not hers and would never be. This scheme was only to help her avoid marrying a repulsive man and, perhaps, to amuse her friend Rose.

Bridget found that her heart seemed to be at odds with rational thought, however. She imagined that she responded to the Duke of Hamilton with some witty reply. He would smile at her, his piercing green eyes so intense and focused that Bridget would feel as if she was the only woman in the world. She imagined him crossing the gardens in long, bold strides and pulling her into his arms.

Bridget imagined herself gasping in surprise. She would probably say something like "Oh, Your Grace!" or "Oh, my love!"

He would pull her body against his. Bridget's breath shuddered. She thought of the painting again, and her body warmed and ached with need. When she closed her eyes, His Grace seemed to envelop all her senses. Her mind conjured the scent of his cologne and the heat of his body against hers. Bridget even managed to imagine how he might hold her—firmly but not possessively. His grasp would be strong but not overbearing.

Her core ached, and Bridget hesitantly reached between her legs. She had never indulged in this sort of thing before. Bridget was a lady, and ladies were meant to bury their desires deep. Still, it was quiet, and there was no one to witness any impropriety . She placed her hand between her legs, and even before Bridget touched herself, she felt the damp heat radiating from between her legs. At last, her fingertips touched the fine curls of hair. Bridget took a steadying breath and pressed her thumb against her maidenhood.

A wonderful ache spread through her, and Bridget bit her lip, smothering a cry. She did not know what to do next. With her breath coming in warm pants, she carefully traced a finger down, stroking herself slowly. Her toes curled, and her hips bucked against her own hand.

"Your Grace," Bridget muttered.

She imagined it was his hand instead of her own, and her body trembled. The muscles in her stomach all grew tight. Bridget swallowed hard. She drew her hand away. Her body twitched and shook, as if protesting the lack of touch. Bridget curled her fingers into the bed linens and lay there. Sweat gathered at the small of her back and behind her knees.

Bridget had the feeling that she had been on the verge of some great discovery, but it was not something she could quite put into words. Was this how lovers felt when they were intertwined, as that couple in the painting had been? She imagined it was His Grace instead, tracing his hands along her thighs and breasts.

She stifled a moan and turned onto her side. Bridget squeezed her thighs together and tried to ignore the dampness and heat. "We are only pretending," she murmured to the dark. "It is not real."

Her body did not want to listen to that. Bridget had hoped for a love match, and she still earnestly did, even if such was unlikely. However, she was still a woman and susceptible to the charms of the male sex. She had never imagined that someone so handsome might find anything attractive in her, and even if it was only a performance, she found herself wanting it to be real. Bridget wanted men like that to think that she was beautiful and worthy of love and courtship and pleasure.

She tipped her head back and clenched her teeth, smothering the groans of frustration at her own wayward thoughts and at the dull chorus of need that still washed over her body. Bridget wanted to touch herself again, but it was undoubtedly improper for a lady to do such things.

Bridget sighed and buried her face into her pillow, trying to focus instead on the soft snores of her lady's maid. If Bridget was going to pretend to court a duke, she needed to arrive at Hamilton House looking like a woman worthy of being the future Duchess of Hamilton, and that would be far more difficult if she had a sleepless night.

But her mind would not stop. When dawn arrived and cast soft flutters of color through the curtains, Bridget was still quite awake and thinking of His Grace in all his glory.