Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Anthony could think of nothing except for the kiss he had shared with Bridget. He should not have kissed her. He did not know why he had kissed her. When Bridget leaped at him and embraced him, Anthony had felt a jolt surge through him. He had wanted to pull her closer and to kiss her until they were both breathless. Anthony had hesitated for just a moment, watching Bridget's soft face and warm green eyes. He had thought she would pull away or give voice to any of the many reasons for why they should not kiss one another.

Instead, Bridget's eyes had parted slightly, and her cheeks had pinkened. Anthony's mouth became dry, and he leaned forward and kissed her. When she returned his kiss, he had felt alive in ways that he had not since Anastasia's death. More than anything, he longed to retreat to his study and think about the kiss on his own, but upon returning to the pavilion, Mr. Russell had promptly pulled Anthony into a game of cards.

At last, the garden party was at its end. Bridget gave him a long, lingering glance. Anthony felt everything unspoken hang in the air between them, but he said nothing. Then she was gone.

"I believe it was a success," Lady Victoria said, leaning against the doorframe as the last guests left. "There are a few gentlemen who I believe will come to call for Rose."

"Yes."

Anthony was not thinking of Lady Rose, though. How could he after that kiss with Bridget? He had been so foolish for kissing her. They were pretending to court! They were not in love! He was not really her suitor, and he had no right to take such liberties with her.

But she had reciprocated.

Anthony could not decide if that thought was a comfort or not. He had already ruined Lady Hastings with his carelessness. He could not allow the same to happen to Bridget.

"I am tired," Anthony said. "I intend to retire early. Enjoy the evening, Lady Victoria."

Lady Victoria furrowed her brow. "Are you well, Your Grace?"

"I am."

He turned on his heels and left before Lady Victoria could ask any further questions. Anthony climbed the stairs to his study. He tore the door open with more strength than necessary and locked it behind him. Once he was in the privacy of his own study, he pressed his back against the door and closed his eyes. All he could think of was Bridget and the warmth of her curvaceous body pressed against his own. His fingers ached as he thought about how her body must feel beneath all those layers of clothing.

He crossed the floor and seated himself behind his desk. Anthony poured himself a glass of brandy and finished it in a long, single gulp. His gaze fixed on the empty chair across from him. He imagined Bridget sitting across from him. His study would be the perfect place for two lovers to engage in some minor indiscretions.

"We are not lovers," he murmured.

Even as he told himself that, he nevertheless thought of Bridget. He imagined walking to her while she sat in the chair. Anthony would dip his head and kiss her neck and cheek. He would let his hands wander down her shoulders and her arms. Bridget would emit that same soft groan that she had when they kissed. Then he would kneel before her and spread her legs; she could brace her heels against his desk. He would lift all those skirts and her chemise and trail kisses up her stocking-clad legs until she was shaking with the strength of her desire.

Anthony imagined her hands curled and twisting in his hair and her own head tossed back, lost in the throes of her passion. He would delight in running his hands over her slender thighs. Anthony forced down the lump in his throat, and his hand shook as he poured himself another glass of brandy and drank it. The burning sensation was steadying against the storm of his thoughts.

Once he finished the second glass, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the gardens through the window. He never drank more than two glasses. Although Anthony had a fondness for spirits, he took care never to drink too indulgently. His thoughts were still clear and filled with Bridget. He sat there for a long time, thinking about Bridget.

His trousers became uncomfortably tight, and Anthony clenched his jaw. Like all men, he had needs that were best fulfilled by a charming lady, but it was not right for him to think of Bridget in such a manner. He shook his head and crossed the floor of the study. Anthony left and set a quick pace toward his bedchamber.

James waited for him. "Your Grace," he said.

Anthony nodded curtly. "I am going to retire for the night."

"Are you well?"

Anthony laughed, drawing a concerned look. He was far from well, but although James had long been his confidant, this felt too intimate to speak of.

"Lady Victoria asked me the same question," Anthony replied, removing his jacket.

"And you have not answered it," James said.

Anthony sighed. "It is nothing," he said. "It is only that my mind is…occupied. I have much to think about."

His eyes lighted on his bed, and he imagined Bridget spread beneath him, her delicate hands curled in the fine fabric. Bridget would groan and buck her hips against him. He imagined too easily her round breasts bouncing with every thrust. It had been so long since Anthony had touched a woman.

"Of course, Your Grace," James replied.

Anthony let his valet help him undress. Then he strode to his bed and collapsed onto it. James obediently went about the room, dimming the candles and drawing the curtains over the window. Soon, the room was cast in darkness.

"Good night, Your Grace," James said.

"Good night to you, also." Anthony paused and laughed humorlessly. "I am doing better by you, James. You will be able to sleep tonight."

James chuckled. "I will do that, Your Grace, but if you need me, I will be here."

He heard James close the bedchamber door. Anthony knew the valet would settle in the antechamber, so he could hear if Anthony needed anything. He stared at the ceiling and wondered if Bridget was also thinking about the kiss they had shared. Before kissing Bridget, Anthony's last kiss had been with Anastasia. He remembered stroking her hair and whispering how much he loved her. Anthony had burned with desire for her, but he had forced himself to refrain from doing anything more than embracing and kissing her.

There had been thoughts of doing far more, though. He closed his eyes and imagined Bridget beneath him, her flushed face and bright eyes. Anthony swallowed. He felt that familiar stirring in his loins. This had not happened in so very long. He should not think about Bridget in this manner. They were not courting. They were only pretending.

He should not be lying awake at night and thinking of the young lady. Not at all. But he imagined her saying his name in that same breathless tone that she had in the garden.

"Oh, Anthony! Please!"

His thoughts readily produced how her voice would sound when it was thick with desire. He thought of himself touching and kissing every part of her and of her rolling onto her stomach, watching him through lust-filled green eyes. Her long brown hair was strewn over her shoulders and back.

"You are so beautiful," he mumbled.

He closed his eyes and pressed a hand against his stomach, wishing it were Bridget's hand instead. Anthony drifted, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. It was difficult to say if he were dreaming or only thinking, but his thoughts were all of Bridget.

She lay beside him and gazed at him with her bright green eyes, her hair brightened and warm in the flickering candlelight. Bridget traced her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, her lips parted slightly and her brow furrowed. She looked at him with an incomparable intensity, determined to memorize every aspect of his body.

"You are perfect," she murmured.

"No, you are," he said.

Bridget ducked her head and gazed at him from beneath her eyelashes. "We can both be perfect."

Anthony traced his hands along her side, tracing a path from her ribs to her slender waist and over her hips. His hands gently caressed her buttocks, and Bridget groaned, pressing her body hard against his.

"Oh, please!" she gasped.

Anthony's manhood grew hard against her stomach. Need surged through him, and his hand found that place between Bridget's thighs. His fingers brushed against her entrance, and she groaned. Anthony pressed a finger inside her, delighting in the tightness and wetness of her walls pressing against him.

"Oh!"

Her nails dug into his back, as she braced herself against him. Anthony pumped his finger in and out. Her walls pressed against him, and Bridget's body moved, matching his rhythm easily. Bridget gasped for air, and that familiar pink flush spread across her cheeks.

Her legs trembled, and Bridget tossed back her head. A sharp cry tore from her throat, and Anthony felt that same sound rumble within his own chest. His body shook as he adjusted their positions. Bridget lay beneath him, gasping for air.

"Are you ready?" he murmured.

"Yes," she whispered.

He drove himself into her and grasped her hips. Bridget groaned as he moved within her. Anthony moved in and out, quickening his pace. Bridget gasped and panted beneath him, and Anthony came inside her. He withdrew quickly and let his hand fall onto her thigh, now wet with his seed.

"Oh, marvelous," Bridget murmured. "I wanted you so badly."

And Anthony—

He woke to the light of dawn flitting past the curtains and into the room. Anthony curled his fingers into his bed linens and spread his thighs. He was too aware of the damp place between his legs and covering the linens.

Vestiges of the dream lingered in his mind. Anthony sighed and threw an arm over his eyes, wondering if he could justify remaining in bed for the entire day.

"Good morning, Your Grace," said James.

Anthony turned his head and glanced at his valet, preparing his clothes for the day. "Good morning," he said, his throat thick.

He and Bridget were only pretending to court. Anthony should not have kissed her. He most certainly should not have thought about having an amorous encounter with her.

"Did you sleep well?" James asked.

"Well enough."

Anthony looked morosely at the bed linens and sat upright. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair.

"I kissed her," he said.

James paused and frowned. "Kissed who?"

Anthony sighed and closed his eyes. "Lady Bridget."

"Ah."

"I do not know why I kissed her," Anthony said, shaking his head. "It was unwise."

"Did she react poorly?" James asked tentatively.

"No."

"That is good," James said. "I suppose."

"It is better than the alternative," Anthony replied. "Surely. But still, I should not have kissed her like I did. I do not love her. I cannot love her."

"Why not?" James asked softly.

"You know why."

"I do," James said. "I suppose."

"I must apologize to her," Anthony said. "Not today, though. I need some time to think about how to do it without making the situation worse."

James did not respond. Anthony sighed and shoved aside the bed linens. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stared self-consciously at the wet spot on his shirt.

Anthony was a gentleman and the Duke of Hamilton. He needed to control himself. For his sake and Lady Bridget's. And for Anastasia, whose memory burned inside him.