Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Bridget tried to resist the impulse to glance around the ballroom for the millionth time that night. She found herself looking constantly for the Marquess of Thornton and dreading the eventuality when her father would reveal his arrangement.

She wondered how it would happen. Would Lord Thornton propose discreetly? Or would he coax her into an improper number of dances until it became obvious to everyone gathered what his aim was? Bridget forced down the lump that rose in her throat as she lingered by the table of refreshments.

"You seem uneasy," Anna said, joining her sister. "What troubles you?"

Bridget feigned a light laugh. "Whoever said that something troubles me?"

"No one," Anna replied, "but you do not often allow yourself to become a wallflower at balls. It is unusual to see you here."

"I am a little tired. That is all."

"You have been rather quiet for the past couple of days," Anna pointed out. "Something is vexing you. Why will you not tell me?"

It was not Anna's burden to bear; that was why. Bridget also suspected her sister would likewise be furious at the injustice of the situation. She would want to confront their father about it, and Bridget could not imagine that going well. Besides, there was no solution that Bridget could find, so there was no need to burden her beloved sister with her woes.

"It is nothing," Bridget replied.

Anna furrowed her brow. "It is something if it bothers you so."

"I am only thinking of my prospects this Season," Bridget said. "I am anxious to find my love match. I am every Season, of course, but I find myself particularly nervous this time."

"Why?"

"I do not want to be a spinster, do I?" Bridget asked.

Anna laughed. "You have some years yet before you will be a spinster."

"The years can progress quickly," Bridget said. "And besides, I am eager to fall in love."

Falling in love was the best she could hope for—if she were to wed Lord Thornton, she would be unable to pursue a man whom she loved. Bridget fought to maintain her carefully crafted smile, knowing her sister would perceive even the smallest crack in her armor.

"How do you propose to go about falling in love?" Anna asked. "It does not seem to me as if it is something you can force."

"I suppose not," Bridget mused, considering the question. "Perhaps one falls in love by speaking to as many eligible young men as one can. That would increase one's chances of a love match, I suppose."

"Mathematically," Anna said, "I guess that is true, but it does occur to me that there are certain matters which a lady cannot anticipate about a husband, such as how he behaves on the wedding night."

"That is brazen," Bridget said, glancing to see if they might have been overheard.

Although ladies were not supposed to speak about such matters openly, Anna had never cared much for conventions. Once, Bridget's sister had insisted that she would become an artist's muse, a model, if she were not born too well-bred for such a pursuit.

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment, watching as the lords and ladies of the ton danced with one another. She still did not see Lord Thornton. Nor did she see Rose. Bridget searched the crowd next for the handsome Duke of Hamilton. A little jolt of light, anxious energy shot through her when she thought of his trim, masculine figure. She would never admit it aloud, but she enjoyed looking at him. He was absent, too.

"I wonder where our host is," she said. "He did not greet us upon arrival, and I have not seen him tonight."

"Would you know if you had?" Anna asked. "I could not say what His Grace even looks like."

"We have become acquainted with one another," Bridget said. "He arrived at the park to collect Rose during our recent promenade."

"Is he handsome?"

"Yes."

Anna's expression brightened. "Handsome enough that you may fall in love with him?" she asked teasingly. "Why—is that the cause of your strange behavior? Are you attracted to His Grace?"

"No," Bridget replied. "Any woman would agree that he is an attractive man. There is more to love than simply the way one looks, you know."

"Oh, I do. It is only that I have developed a fine appreciation for the masculine form," Anna said good-naturedly. "Given how intently you have studied certain works of Classical art, I suspect that you have, too."

Bridget had never let her gaze linger on the particular aspects of Classical art that she suspected her sister meant. "You should not speak as boldly as that."

Anna waved a dismissive hand. "No one listens to wallflowers," she said. "I doubt that anyone will care to overhear us."

"Suppose that our father hears you," Bridget said. "He will insist on covering everything that might inspire a wicked thought with a smattering of paint, so as not to inspire wicked thoughts."

There was one particular artist who had done that—made an entire career out of painting over nudity in artwork. Bridget could not remember the artist's name, but she remembered how vexed Anna had been at the notion of covering any work of art with hastily painted trousers.

Anna shook her head. "You are being ridiculous."

"Only as ridiculous as you," Bridget shot back.

"His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton! The Dowager Duchess of Hamilton, and Lady Rose!" the butler announced.

The room quieted, and heads turned toward the duke. Bridget's heart raced as she beheld his handsome figure. Although they were on opposite sides of the ballroom, Bridget swore that his eyes locked with hers. She drew in a sharp breath at the intensity of his gaze, feeling as if he were undressing her with his eyes—and that thought led to an even more salacious one.

She imagined him actually undressing her. In her mind, she felt the warmth and weight of his palms as they curled over her shoulders and traced paths down her arms. She imagined him gingerly and slowly removing her gloves and pressing his lips to her bare knuckles. A lump rose in Bridget's throat. Next, he would remove her gown and gaze at her just like that—with such heated intensity that Bridget might believe as though she were the only lady in the world worth noticing.

"Oh, I can see that you are not affected by his presence at all," Anna said, her light voice shattering Bridget's fantasy into a million pieces. "That must be why you are gazing at His Grace in such a scandalous way!"

Heat rushed to Bridget's face. "I am not!" she exclaimed.

"But you are!" Anna laughed. "You accuse me of being brazen, and then you try to seduce His Grace from across the ballroom!"

Face hot, Bridget averted her gaze. "I doubt even the most seductive woman in the world could win His Grace's affections across such a distance."

"You seem to be trying."

Bridget shook her head. "You are imagining things. Besides, I doubt His Grace even remembers me. If he does, it is doubtlessly only as Rose's friend."

Anna clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "You should find out. Perhaps His Grace might be your love match. Our father would be happy to see you wed a duke, especially one with such a fortune."

"He would be," Bridget conceded.

Of course, such a marriage would never happen. Once the Duke of Hamilton realized Bridget had no dowry, he would lose any interest in wedding her. Most men would. Anna did not know that, though. As far as she knew, both she and Bridget were free to wed whosoever they desired.

"And he must be a good man," Anna said. "Otherwise, Rose would have warned you away from him."

"She and His Grace do not often speak," Bridget said, "but he seemed… kind when we met. His servant ruined my gown, and the duke agreed to procure another one for me."

"Hmm," Anna said, eyes narrowing. "That sounds like a perfect excuse for presenting yourself to His Grace. Perhaps you ought to solicit his opinion. Men like to be asked their thoughts, always."

"Even on lady's gowns?" Bridget asked. "I doubt that."

Anna grinned. "You might be surprised, dear sister."

Bridget shook her head. A throat cleared, and she turned her head. Her heart sank, and a tightness curled inside her chest.

It was the Marquess of Thornton. He smiled at her through thin lips. Bridget tried not to notice how old he was, but it was impossible to miss the heavy wrinkles and his thinning white hair. His eyes were a warm shade of golden-brown, which might have been a lovely color if he were not looking at her with such clear appreciation.

She swallowed, her own throat suddenly thick. "My lord."

Bridget curtsied. Her heart thundered. Was this to be it, then? Would this be the moment when he asked for her hand?

"Might I have this dance?" he asked.

She longed to refuse the offered hand, but she knew that she could not. As much as she might wish otherwise, this would be her eventual fate. Bridget must bear it with grace. Otherwise, her family would become destitute, and she would condemn poor Anna also to a loveless marriage. If Bridget agreed to this arrangement, she could at least spare her sister.

"I would be delighted," she said.

Her stomach churned at Lord Thornton's victorious smirk. A shiver of repulsion traced the path of her spine as he led her to the ring of sweeping dancers. Perhaps, if she pretended that she was dancing with His Grace, she would be able to endure the evening.

Bridget thought of his sharp gaze, and a powerful warmth coursed through her. It made no sense for her thoughts to linger so strongly on that man; she had only spoken to him once, and yet the Duke of Hamilton called to her just as the sirens had to Odysseus from the old myths. She rolled back her shoulders and danced, feigning as though her partner were His Grace through every step.