Chapter 18

Chapter 18

As Anthony seated himself beside Bridget, his arm tingled from where she had touched him. He was aware that they were not alone, but still, he found it difficult not to feel as if he and Bridget were the only two people in the entire world. After Anastasia's death, he had sworn that he would never fall in love again, and it was dangerous to become attracted to this woman in particular. They were only pretending to court. None of this was real.

But he feared too much of it was. Bridget was not pretending to be friendly and witty. She was not pretending to be charming; these were things that she already was. Lady Victoria sat across from them with something like triumph in her expression. He could not quite make sense of that. Did she just want to watch them for her amusement? She and Lady Rose both knew he and Bridget were not truly lovers.

He sipped the offered lemonade and ate a few of the scones. Women were strange, he decided. Wonderful, but strange. Lady Victoria seemed to be in good spirits, though, so Anthony decided that was a good thing, no matter her motivations.

"What did you think of Lady Emily's art collection?" Bridget asked.

He nearly choked on his drink. "Do you truly not know? We discussed it at length."

"While looking at one painting," Bridget said. "Then Rose took you away."

"Apologies for that," Rose said from Lady Victoria's side. "I truly did not mean to take him from you. It is only that I saw a piece I desperately wanted."

"Which I did, indeed, purchase," Anthony said. "That reminds me. I owe you gowns still, my lady."

He had thought that speaking of gowns would be a little safer, but the moment he mentioned them, Anthony knew he had erred. When he thought of Bridget's gown, soaked with champagne and clinging to her chest in a manner that stirred a man's loins, he found himself thinking that he was a little too attracted to that image. He needed to rein in his basic impulses.

Anthony cleared his throat and tried to imagine Bridget dressed in the most unflattering, shapeless gown that his mind could devise. "Do you have a preferred modiste? Or perhaps you would like to try the one who Lady Rose uses? I would be willing to pay an additional amount to ensure the gowns are created in a timely manner. You may be able to wear them by the end of the Season, even."

He could not promise that, of course. Gowns were made over weeks and months. There were many fittings and alterations involved, and everything would be done to ensure that the resulting garment was as perfectly tailored to Bridget's body as possible.

"Gowns, Hamilton?" the Duke of Norfolk asked.

He was seated farther down, along with his wife, Anna, and Mr. Russell. It seemed as though he had been listening intently to Bridget's conversation, though.

"Indeed," Anthony said, aware that a few other members of the ton and a handful of too-curious servants, were listening. "There was a carriage incident wherein Lady Bridget's gown was soaked with mud, and there was another incident where a servant inadvertently spilled champagne on her. By my count, I owe her an evening gown and a walking gown of more value than the originals. It would only be gentlemanly of me, for making her endure such an inconvenience."

"That is kind of you," her father said, "but you—you do not need to be too extravagant."

Anthony arched an eyebrow, adopting his best expression of wounded arrogance. "Why, I must. I could not possibly deliver subpar gowns to any lady. It is my great pleasure to purchase her whatever beautiful gown she desires."

"I do have a favorite modiste," Bridget said, "but I would find trying your suggested one agreeable. Lady Rose always has such good gowns, and besides, it may make the matter of payment easier."

"Indeed, I agree!" Anthony exclaimed, doing his best to sound like an overly eager suitor. "Perhaps you should come next week?"

"I will chaperone Lady Bridget and my daughter," Lady Victoria said, smiling. "I have not visited the modiste in some time."

Truly, she had not. Lady Victoria had bought few pieces for the Season. Mostly, she wore older garments that had been made hastily more fashionable by a clever seamstress whom she and her husband had known. She looked just a little unkempt, too distraught at her husband's passing to imagine a future without him and with the ton.

Anthony felt a swell of sympathy for his aunt. He could have been kinder to her. He had already been so distressed at becoming the Duke of Hamilton when his uncle died that learning his aunt's husband was also dead, leaving his widow and a young daughter behind, he had thought of it as yet another unfortunate duty that was thrust upon him. He had understood that Lady Victoria was grieving, but he had also felt frustration at her feelings.

Sometimes, he had thought uncharitable things about the poor woman. He should have been gentler toward her. More patient.

"I shall join you, also," the Duchess of Norfolk said, "if you believe my presence would be welcome. It has been many years since we have been able to talk with one another, and I always appreciated your wit, Lady Victoria."

"You are quite welcome to join us," Lady Victoria said.

Beside his wife, the Duke of Norfolk looked as though he had tasted something unpleasant. Anthony supposed he did not appreciate his wife acting against him, and now it would be impossible for the man to graciously deny Bridget the gowns she was rightfully owed.

"It is a pity that I will be unable to join you," Anthony said, "but I shall enjoy seeing the fruits of the modiste's labor."

"I am sure," Bridget replied.

Anthony tried to imagine Bridget buried under a shapeless wool garment, but instead, his gaze drifted to the ladies seated around the table, many of them wearing very thin materials. Bridget herself wore a gown of such fabric, pale yellow and fluttery. It reminded him of buttercups, and Anthony could not help but think about how simple it would be to remove that gown.

He would not do that, though. He could not make any more mistakes with ladies. When he did, he ruined their lives, and Bridget's situation was too similar to Lady Hastings'.

"We seem to have wandered away from the art show," Bridget said, "which is what I wanted to discuss. Did you enjoy it, Anthony?"

"I did. I used to paint, and it has been a long time since I indulged in anything involving fine art."

A servant placed a tea tray before him, and Anthony reached for the delicate porcelain cup at the same time Bridget did. Their fingers just barely touched, but Anthony felt such warmth rush through him that it was like brushing against fire.

"You first, Bridget," he said.

She smiled and accepted a cup of tea. "Do you have any of your paintings still? I should like to see them."

Anthony laughed. "No, you would not. I was not a particularly gifted artist, and I am quite embarrassed by them, truth be told."

"You do not have to be the best at everything, Anthony," Bridget said. "I am sure that your paintings are perfectly acceptable."

"You say that because you have not seen them," he countered. "For good reason."

"Besides, I am no artist," Bridget continued. "That is Anna. If you wish, do not let her see the paintings, but you have no reason to deny me the sight of them."

Bridget glanced further down the table. Anthony assumed she anticipated a witty retort from her sister, but none was forthcoming. It seemed Lady Anna was too engrossed in Mr. Russell to notice she was being spoken of just a few seats away.

Anthony took a sip of tea. He had sometimes come into the gardens and painted with Anastasia. She had been far more talented than he had been, even though she was too modest to admit it. Anthony remembered trying to capture her beauty, of painting the delicate lines of her face and throat. He had never been able to shade her hair properly; he always painted it a muddy brown color, rather than the dark auburn that it was.

"Why did you stop painting?" Bridget asked.

He knew it was impossible for her to know the direction that his thoughts had gone, but her question still cut to the heart of him. "I suppose I simply lost interest in it," he said. "Besides, I had other matters to occupy my attention."

"I imagine so," Bridget said. Her expression said that she suspected there was more to his explanation, but she did not press him on it.

"And you? When do I get to see your paintings?" Anthony asked. "If you show me your work, I may consider sharing mine."

"May," Bridget said, "meaning that you will not show me, and yet I will be unable to claim that you went against your word. Very clever, Anthony."

He grinned.

"Bridget does not paint," Lady Rose said. "She is an accomplished musician, however. Her talent in playing the pianoforte is unparalleled."

"It is not," Bridget said. "There are many who are far more talented than I."

"Name them," Lady Rose said smugly.

"I cannot possibly," Bridget replied, "but I am quite sure they exist. You know as well as I that there are many talented young ladies in the ton. I am sure that many are more gifted at playing the pianoforte."

"But you cannot name them," Anthony said. "I see."

"That does not mean those ladies do not exist," Bridget said. "I can play the instrument well, but I would not say that I am better than anyone else."

"It would be immodest to imply that you were," Anthony said, "so instead, you merely say that you are not the best and refuse to offer any names which might prove the contrary."

Bridget gawked at him for a moment, looking at a loss for words. Anthony smirked over his teacup.

"That is untrue," she said. "But you shall be certain that I will never play a single note for you now."

"Will you not? That will make for a rather dull courtship," he said. "What else shall you do to show me that you have all the feminine graces required to be the future Duchess of Hamilton?"

"I will play the pianoforte for all your acquaintances and relatives. They will deliver you tales of my excellence, but your own ears shall never hear my melodies."

"Brilliant," he said, raising his teacup in a small toast. "I could not have conceived of a better plan myself."

Bridget shook her head, but her green eyes shined with amusement.

"His Grace has a pianoforte in the drawing room," Lady Rose said conspiratorially. "You could enact your plan now."

"That seems cruel," Bridget said. "At his own garden party?"

"Lady Victoria's garden party," Anthony replied. "She is the one who planned it."

His aunt's expression brightened. The garden party was the first event that she had planned since returning to the ton, and it was going splendidly.

"When are you going to host an event at Crampton House?" Lady Rose asked. "I do not believe that His Grace has ever been to your home."

"I do not know," Bridget replied, glancing at her mother. "His Grace knows that he is always welcome to come to call, of course."

It occurred to Anthony that it would be strange if he did not call upon the woman whom he was allegedly courting. "Indeed," he said. "I plan on coming to call soon enough."

Bridget hummed and sipped her tea. Anthony's gaze fixed on her coral lips, and he imagined his own mouth crushing against hers, kissing her in earnest. He wondered yet again if maybe this courtship was putting him too close to the charming Lady Bridget, but it was too late to back down.