Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

S leep never came to Bridget that night as her mind was awhirl with that bounder—Duke Arlington. The man who had kissed her twice and who had just stared at her with wolfish eyes, and damned if she did not feel like a doe under its stare.

The more she thought about it, the more she grew angry and inconsolable, but she did not know who she was angrier at, the man for kissing her, or at herself for accepting it.

Turning on her bed, she punched her pillow back into shape and dropped her head back down, scowling. From the moment the duke had sauntered off, her concentration had crumpled.

It had taken a lot for her to keep Lord Hansen unsuspecting, and though he hadn’t seemed aware, and they had parted that night on good terms, she still felt like the night had failed.

At least the fire was built, warming the room and imbuing it with a cozy glow, but it couldn’t battle the growing dread in her heart.

“His Grace,” she huffed. “ Scapegrace more like it.

But there was no point in spending the rest of her night wallowing in despair. It would only lead to overwrought nerves and spoil her final precious days with the Earl. Rising from her bed, she convinced herself that a visit to the library might do her a bit of good.

One hand firmly grasped a brass candlestick to her right, its delicate flame flickering in the soft breeze, while the other hand quivered slightly as she pushed open the heavy oak door of her bedchamber.

She walked down the dimly lit hallway, her footsteps echoing deeply against the wood-paneled walls, frowning at how the carpet under her feet had changed from brown to blue.

Pushing in the door, she pursed her lips—it was the library Ellie had shown her. But where were the bookshelves and the chaise near the row of bow windows for a day of reading? Instead, she saw a flickering marble fireplace and a dark Aubusson rug with a wingback facing it.

She jerked to a stop— why was there a trousered leg stretched out from it, a pair of boots near it, and a male foot flexing before the fire? A muscled forearm then fell over the armrest and the hand was holding a wineglass by the bowl.

“It is about time you came,” the man’s voice was smoky. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Who—” she stepped forward and circled the chair. “—are you?”

His face was shrouded in shadow, and the fine linen stretched across his wide shoulders, draping over his narrow hips. It was unlaced at the collar, revealing the corded column of his throat, an intriguing glimpse of his muscled chest.

“You know who I am, Bridget ,” he said, leaning forward and she jumped back. “Or have you kissed so many men you cannot remember your first?”

“You—” her hand trembled. “You’re a scoundrel!”

“I am,” he raked her over with a slow glance. “But you are a wicked, wicked girl, meant for wicked things,” he murmured.

She bristled. “I am not!”

As attractive and as tempting as the man before her was, she could not allow herself to succumb to his blatant attempts of seduction. If she allowed him to tempt her from her good sense once, she would lose the only chance of doing what she wished—finding a husband—everything would come crumbling down and it would be snatched away from her.

“It would be wise if we parted ways and I do not see or hear from you again. We have been wholly inappropriate, and I cannot risk my future with a man like you,” she quickly said with all the courage she could muster.

He reached up and pulled the lamp from her hand, set it aside, and in the next moment—he hauled her into his lap.

“Bridget,” he murmured, the pads of his fingertips grazing her cheek. “Now, you know you cannot deny this—” he cupped her face in his hand and angled his head as he pressed closer, closer, and much closer, until she could feel his breath teasing her lips. “—is what you want.”

His lips touched hers and it was tender at first, no more than a brush of mouths, his kiss softer than she had expected and remembered, then his mouth settled on hers more firmly, a hand sliding to her nape to grip the base of her head, demanding her response.

His tongue traced the line where her lips met, demanded entrance and when she parted them, he pressed his advantage, sinking his tongue into her mouth.

A tide of pleasure washed over her, and her lips clung desperately to him. The kiss grew even more potent as she sighed and leaned into him, winding her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his slightly too-long hair.

He explored her mouth as though intent on learning her, on owning her, on claiming every nook and cranny, and she allowed herself to relax into him, lost in a sensual haze. In turn, she touched her tongue to his, tasting him and letting all the new feelings wash over her.

He fixed both hands on her rear and pulled her flush on him, and resting over his groin, she felt a thick bulge against her thigh. Her cheeks bloomed with a rosy hue and his fingers brushed her lips, while his eyes were dark.

“Stop lying to yourself,” he murmured, both hands now cupping her unfettered breasts, giving them a proprietary squeeze. “Say whatever you want but you’re mine .”

She moaned as his hands molded her breasts, teasing the tight nipples beneath the fabric. “My darling, curious girl,” he coaxed, “all you have to do is admit it.”

The sharp pinch of his finger—had her snapping up in bed, gasping. Her vision swam, the fluttering curtains doubling and splitting into two and four before her eyes.

Dear God—have I had a wicked dream about that damned duke?

Stumbling from the bed, she went to the nearby washroom and dunked her hands into the basin of icy water, splashing her face and shocking herself into reality. Her hands were trembling, not from the cold, but the truth of how deeply those interactions with the duke had sunk under her skin.

In sleep, she had no control over her will, and she had let him do everything he had wanted, his hands, his mouth, his command. He had owned her breath, her body, her soul— and in her dreams, she had never felt freer.

She felt the trickle of perspiration between the valley of her breasts, and the tips of her pebbled nipples, to her mortification, as her woman’s place was throbbing and slick with dew.

Pressing a towel to her face, she dropped it and braced her hands on the basin. “I must avoid him. He is a danger to me and my future.”

This time, however, in fear of dreaming of the bounder again, she pulled a wrapper on and headed to the library—and this time, the shelves she remembered stood firm in the gloom. It made her sigh in relief as she approached a shelf.

No wicked dream this time.

“Bridget, dear,” Ellie handed her a card over their breakfast of crumpets and preserves. “This is for you.”

Wiping her hands, she took the card and smiled at the Earl’s seal—the crossed swords over a shield looked very medieval. She turned the card over and smiled at Graham’s firm hand.

“My dear Lady Bridget,” she read out. “I would be the most fortunate man alive if you would accompany me for a stroll through Hyde Park this Sunday. I love speaking with you and I am amazed by your fresh perspective on current matters that others blind themselves to. Would you deign to accompany me?”

“Lord Hansen invited me to Hyde Park,” she sat the card to the side, unwilling to sully it with a smudge. “I’m happy to hear from him.”

“So am I,” Ellie smiled, reaching for a milk boat. “I am assured he is the best lord around who has the kind demeanor to overlook your circumstances and see you as who you are.”

Returning to her tea, Bridget nodded. “I am starting to sense that too.”

“However, last night,” Ellie added. “There were moments when you were severely distracted. What happened to shift your attention?”

Taking a sip to delay her response, Bridget wondered if her friend would accept the usual excuse, I am uncomfortable around the other members of the ton . She swallowed, “I thought I’d seen a lord who had once professed his desire to court me,” she lied, “I was nervous.”

“Oh,” Ellie blinked. “Was it him?”

“After an hour of trying to see if it was him, I realized it wasn’t,” Bridget said. “But by then, I’d begun to worry if Lord Hansen had noticed my inattention and I feared I’d lost him.”

She tapped the card, “Well, this says differently.”

“Thank goodness,” Bridget replied. “I must get back to the shop today, Ellie. Would your driver be so kind as to take me home?”

“Of course,” her friend nodded. “He is at your disposal whenever you need.”

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling. “So, what do you plan for the rest of the day?”

His side was hurting like the Devil had rammed his blistering fork into it and twisted, but William could only grin and bear it. He sipped his drink, the one for a week, as Tollerman counted the pound notes.

“One thousand and seventy pounds to the letter,” the viscount dropped the last note. “Your debt is cleared, Your Grace.”

“Thank god for that,” he mumbled into the whiskey. “Now, I have four more to go.”

Shifting the money to the side, Tollerman reached for his glass as well. “Should I ask where you came into such a windfall in such a short time or is it better for my sanity not to know?”

“The latter,” William replied while forcing his face to stay stoic as his bruised rib smarted.

Brows lowering, the older man asked, “Arlington, I am worried. Are you doing well?”

“What do you define as doing well ?” William drawled dryly.

“Are you resting, eating well, or are you slaving over ledgers at night, robbing Peter to pay Paul?” Tollerman asked. “When you pay off your debts, are you going to start over again?”

“If you mean recklessly gambling and drinking myself into a wheelbarrow, no,” William replied. “Those days are behind me, but I sense you are begging to know if I will choose a lady, pay the pied piper, and get leg-shackled like every other lord in London.”

"I am.”

A flash of wide blue eyes, an innocent face, plush lips, and a soft kiss ran through his mind. Bridget Wycliff was the lady he now knew was the one he had kissed that night in the alley and the angel at the masquerade.

I want her again.

“The answer to that is no. I am an unrepentant bachelor, and I will stay that way.”

“What of the dukedom?”

“What of it?” William shrugged. “It will survive, or it won’t.”

Sighing, the viscount sagged into his seat, his fingers fiddling with a corner of a ledger. “That is the most pitiful thing I have ever heard. Do you not believe in love, or companionship? That you, of all people, can have the best of the best?”

Companionship in bed, yes.

Looking into the glass, William wished the amber liquid would turn into an oracle and tell him what he needed to say. He didn’t think the other man would understand—or accept—when William told him, he was not too keen on the being a Duke part.

Everyone, ladies most prominently, saw the ducal title as prestige, but he felt it was purgatory. He had been born into the life, but it was not one he genuinely wanted.

He got to his feet and sat the cup down, “You wouldn’t believe the truth if I told you. Take care of yourself, Tollerman. I have another engagement I need to address.”

“Have I complimented you on your dress, my lady?” Lord Hansen said as they avoided another couple on the path.

Hyde Park at a fashionable hour felt like a circus instead of a promenade—all vied to see and be seen. They were strolling along Rotten Row, the most fashionable stretch of Hyde Park, and at this time of the afternoon, all the way to seven, members of the ton crammed the tree-lined path.

“One time or three,” Bridget smiled up at him from under her ribboned leghorn hat. “But I will pretend that I have heard it for the first time. Thank you, my lord.”

Lords descended from a cluster of gleaming carriages, helping glamourous ladies out to walk on foot whilst other bachelors paraded on horseback.

Under the mild sunlight, Hansen cut a dashing figure in his dark cut-away coat, crisp silver-gray waistcoat hugging his trim torso, his dark buff breeches perfectly fitted to his sinewy legs. A gem winked in pristine maize-silk cravat. The sun glinted off the rich auburn hair curling over his ears whilst his boots reflected a mirror’s shine.

Knowing she had won his attention and hopefully affection, she ought to have been prancing with joy to be at his side. Instead, that troubling dream kept interrupting what ought to have been a prime opportunity to advance her acquaintance with the viscount.

She should not give a fiddle about Brookhaven, or Arlington, or whatever he went by; all she knew was that it was best to avoid him.

Think how smug he would be if he knew you were thinking about him.

“Have you ever been to Rotten Row?” she asked.

His brow quirked. “My dear, we are on Rotten Row.”

Laughing, she reworded her question. “I was trying to be subtle, but I am asking if you ever participated in latching phaetons to swift-footed stallions to make the dust surge sky-high.”

“Racing in the middle of midnight with bets thrown into a bag by wild young men who are completely bored with regular life?” Hansen teased. “Surely not . And they were not dappled grays, dear, they were chestnut beasts higher than my head.”

Giggling, she lifted her skirts to avoid a clump of dirt, before adding, “Surely not. You have no vices; such things are for men with no ambition or responsibilities.”

“If you have any more questions about my alleged vices, I shall direct you to my solicitor,” Hansen laughed. “But I promise you, my dear, my madcap days are behind me. As a matter of fact, a near miss with another phaeton has spurred my need to travel and consider my purpose in life. Do not judge me for being daring.”

“I would never judge you,” she said, shaking her head. “Daring is one thing, being a scapegrace is another—” Then, noting her faux-pas, rushed to add, “I am not calling you one, at all, I am—oh dear,” she sucked in a breath.

To her mortification, he chuckled, “I know what you meant, and no, I am not a scapegrace, but I know some who are. Speak of the Devil, one heads our way now.”

Her head snapped around and her heart fell to her feet—the deuced duke was heading her way. Had her thoughts summoned him? Was she cursed to always run into the man?

Her hands balled inside her butter-smooth gloves, and her cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. Why did the man affect her so? It made no sense. Even if she found him the teensiest bit attractive, it was no excuse for her actions. She had acted like a trollop with him.

Her heart thudded as she recalled the sensations he had elicited in her, not only when he touched her but even in her dreams; so strong... and intense.

His ink-black jacket and tan breeches were exquisitely tailored, molding to his long, virile lines. Above the bronze waistcoat, his cravat held a perfect knot, but what drew her eye—and everyone else’s—were the two enormous Bloodhounds trotting at his side.

She forced a smile.