Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Anthony entered Lady Emily's ball, accompanied by his ward and aunt. Mother and daughter were both clad in pale blue, but Anthony scarcely noticed the actions of Lady Rose and her mother. As they were introduced, Anthony searched for Lady Bridget among all the elegantly dressed lords and ladies. He could not forget how she had looked when they met one another in the park. Something had distressed her terribly.

He needed to speak to her, so he could assuage her worries. Anthony's heart ached when he thought of Lady Bridget. She should have an easy life that was free of anything unpleasant. At last, he found her. Bridget's green eyes locked with his, unimpeded by the long distance between them.

"Enjoy the ball," he said.

Lady Rose said something in reply, but Anthony scarcely heard her. He walked along the edge of the room, too aware of the sound of his blood warring in his ears. Bridget watched his path with wide eyes. The young lady stood beside her father and the Marquess of Thornton.

Anthony curled his hands into fists, and his shoulders grew tense. It seemed the despicable Lord Thornton had returned. Perhaps he meant to claim Bridget's hand. If so, the man was about to be met with an unexpected obstacle, for Anthony had no intention of seeing Bridget married to that man.

It was time for him to act like he had never acted before. Pretending to be Bridget's devoted suitor would not even be very difficult. He had not adored a woman as much as she since Anastasia had died.

Anthony took a deep breath. He halted just a few feet away from her, taking in the sight of Bridget in her pale blue gown. The fabric emphasized her pale breasts and skimmed past her waist and hips, hinting at the beautiful form beneath. His fingers ached to remove the gown from her. He imagined Bridget, entirely naked, and stretched over a settee. Anthony envisioned himself painting her delicate form, his brush making long, smooth strokes as he crafted her perfect shape.

"Good evening, my lady," he said, bowing.

She curtsied. "Good evening, Your Grace."

Anthony sensed that the Duke of Norfolk and the Marquess of Thornton had halted their conversation and were watching him carefully. Let them talk. He hoped Lord Thornton was respectfully withdrawing his proposal at that very moment.

"You look lovely," he said.

Bridget smiled and gazed at him from beneath her eyelashes. "You are too kind, Your Grace."

"It is not kindness to state what any man would see," he replied. "I should like the honor of sharing a dance with you, if you would find that amenable, my lady."

Bridget extended her hand, and Anthony escorted her to the dance floor. The song had just ended. Couples parted, finding new companions for the next dance.

"Are you well, Bridget?" Anthony asked.

There was a heat in her eyes that he had seldom seen before, and the intensity of it took his breath away. Sometimes, Anastasia had gazed at him that way. It was a look that stirred desire in a man, and he longed to pull Bridget to some private alcove or room, where they might engage in an activity that was more pleasurable than a dance.

"I am better now that you are here," she said. "You have consumed my thoughts since our meeting in the park."

"As you have mine."

The first notes of a waltz lilted into the air. Anthony placed a hand on Bridget's hip and took her other hand in his own. Waltzes were intimate dances, requiring much closeness and touching. At times, a gentleman's legs might brush a lady's skirts.

She smelled of English lavender and roses, so sweet and delicate that Anthony wanted to place kisses against her neck and let the scent of her consume him. He felt his pulse jump, but he danced, feigning nonchalance. As he spun with Bridget, his eyes snapped to the Marquess of Thornton. The man watched with a scowl spread across his reddened face, and Anthony grinned in triumph.

"It seems as though the Marquess of Thornton does not approve of us dancing together."

"He does not seem like a man who approves of much," Bridget said. "I shudder to think of what it will be like to be his wife."

"You will not be his wife."

"No?"

Anthony shook his head. They continued dancing, and with every touch, Anthony's desire grew. His anger did, too. The Marquess of Thornton did not care what Bridget desired; if he did, he would not insist on marriage to a woman who disliked him. In Anthony's mind, that made his an entirely unsuitable match for her. Bridget deserved someone who cared about her wants and needs, someone who saw her as something far more than the means to produce an heir.

"That is why we are playing this courtship," Anthony said. "Is it not? I do not imagine anyone not believing we are madly in love. Why even I—"

He realized too late what he had nearly said: even I am beginning to feel as though I am really in love with you.

"Why, even you….?" she questioned.

He swallowed hard and smiled at her. Anthony tried to look debonair and dashing but was unsure if he succeeded. Being near Bridget made him feel unbalanced and awkward, like a man who needed desperately to impress someone. It was a feeling that was entirely unbefitting of a duke, much less one from a long and illustrious lineage.

"Even I am beginning to think that I am genuinely fond of you," Anthony said, choosing his words with the utmost care. "I had not anticipated that we might become true friends during this performance."

Bridget's face pinkened. "Nor had I, Anthony. You have been so wonderful."

They pressed their bodies together as closely as they could while still remaining within the boundaries of propriety. Bridget's petticoats and his jacket felt like an entire sea between them. Anthony's breath shuddered. Bridget was so warm and soft, and he imagined himself slowly and gingerly removing one of those delicate gloves from her hand. He ached to touch her, to feel her bare skin against his own.

"As have you. How does this end?" he asked, his voice rough to his own ears.

"What?"

"Us."

Bridget's own breath seemed to catch in her throat. Anthony heard an audible hitch, and he did not think it was from the exertion of dancing.

"I will admit that I am having some difficulty in figuring that out," she said. "I have many thoughts and feelings about it, some of which are entirely inappropriate for a lady to share."

"Indeed?"

"Lady Hastings warned me about you," she continued.

Anthony hissed between his teeth. "I can explain."

"I am certain that you can, but there is no need."

Her response caught him unaware. He could not imagine that she believed him so readily. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know you. I am certain that you would never harm a lady, and I know you must have surely fought for her happiness. She insisted that you did not, but I cannot believe that."

Anthony nodded. They danced while he gathered his thoughts. "I thought I loved her," he said. "We engaged in certain acts of conjugal felicity. When her father learned, he insisted that she marry Lord Hastings."

"She told me that much, though suggested the story was that of some other woman."

"I protested the decision," Anthony said. "I spoke with her father and offered to wed her instead, but he would not hear of it. He cared more for punishing his daughter than he did her happiness or even her future."

"How awful…"

Bridget's face softened. Anthony wondered if she recognized the similarities to her own situation.

"That will not happen to you," he said. "You will live a long and happy life, married to a husband who loves you."

"You say that as if it is the easiest thing in the world," she murmured.

"I know it is not, but it should be."

He sensed that the dance was coming to an end, and he grasped Bridget just a little more tightly. She parted her lips slightly, and her eyes widened in surprise. Anthony could lean forward and kiss her so easily. She was right there, so tantalizingly within reach.

"We should probably talk about what transpired in the gardens," he said.

"I enjoyed it," Bridget replied, as a dust of pink spread over her cheeks. "Indeed, I have thought so often of that wondrous sensation I felt. My body has ached to feel it again."

"And I have ached for you," he murmured. "I have longed to touch you there again and again."

Bridget's breath hitched. "Would you?"

He gazed at her, his manhood throbbing with the thought of burying himself deep inside her. Anthony traced circles over the back of her hand and wished that Bridget did not wear those thin gloves.

"There are risks. Having spoken to Lady Hastings, I am sure you realize that."

"I do, but some risks are worth taking. Are they not?"

In the question, Anthony felt the weight of all the unspoken things said between them. He was unsure what he and Bridget were. They could no longer claim to be just acquaintances. Nor could they insist that they were only feigning affection for and attraction toward one another.

What Anthony felt for Bridget was strong. It was so powerful that he found himself thinking of Anastasia and struggling—longing—to reconcile his feelings toward Bridget with his grief over his lost love.

"That is true," he said. "The difficult part is in knowing when something is worth the risk."

"I disagree. I think you must only listen to your heart."

"And if the heart leads you astray?" he asked, his breath quickening.

The music stopped. For a heartbeat, they stood still together and gazed into one another's eyes. His heart ached to be with Bridget, to soothe all her worries and ensure she had everything that she would ever need in her life. He wanted to be the man who spared her from having to worry the aged Marquess of Thornton, and he wanted to let his body press against hers.

Anthony imagined long nights, laughing and sneaking through the darkness. He thought about his large bed and its fine linens. He thought of the settee in the parlor and the rug on the floor of his study, positioned just between the fireplace and the large windows that overlooked the gardens behind the townhouse.

"I trust my heart," Bridget said softly. "What of you?"

"I trust mine, too."

Her lips were the color of coral and as soft as rose petals. If Anthony leaned down just a little, their lips would meet. Fire surged inside him, longing for Bridget mixed with the exertion of the dance and the sheer relief that she trusted him, believed in him.

"I would touch you again," he said, his voice low, "anywhere you like. All you need do is ask me, Bridget."

Realizing that he still held her hand and touched her waist, Anthony lowered his hands. He ached with longing to grasp her again.

Bridget gazed at him, her expression hot with desire. "Meet me in the gazebo," she murmured. "I will wait for you."

Anthony grinned. Bridget averted her gaze, her expression shy, and stepped lightly away from the dance floor, becoming lost in the crowd.