Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

H er eyes shot sparks at him, while her smile was as sweet as an angel, but he pretended not to notice. “Lord Hansen and Lady Brianna.”

“ Bridget ,” Hansen corrected him coolly.

“My apologies,” William said blithely. “What were the chances of crossing paths here?”

“Well, it is a Sunday and the touted fashionable hour, so I would assume the chances are high,” Hansen replied, his tone dry. “However, I have never seen you here before. Another miracle, is it not?”

“Divine intervention,” William said.

When one of his dogs nosed at Bridget’s hand, his tongue shot out, she eeped and nearly flew into Hansen’s arms—something he did not want.

“Atlas, Perses—down.” At their master’s sharp command, the dogs obeyed; their rumps hit the ground. “I am sorry for that. They are usually friendly boys. Did he bite you?”

“N-no,” she said.

“Humor me,” he grasped her hand and examined her soft gray glove. The moment he swept his thumb over the lines of her palm, she snatched her hand away as if his touch scorched her.

“No damage, Your Grace,” she said, chin notched up, cheeks coloring defiantly. “Thank you for your concern.”

Hansen was getting cross and William knew it was time to move on… for now. “No damage,” he pulled away. “Enjoy your evening. Boys, come.”

Bypassing them, he headed off, while keeping an eye on the two. Bridget looked to Hansen and said something to which he nodded, and they headed off to another part of the park, less trafficked by the rest of the ton, with a maid strolling behind them.

Of course, he would find them again, by taking the opposite way.

The gall of the man! What a conceited nodcock!

“I apologize on behalf of Duke Arlington,” Graham’s lips pressed tight. “He is unschooled in ways of propriety.”

“Is he?” Bridget asked quietly as they strolled down the lesser traveled eastern end. “Or is it that he knows and flouts them?”

“Your guess would probably be more accurate,” the lord replied.

“His kind paint all the lords in London with a broad brush. Rakehells like him make everyone think a decent lord is a ruiner of ladies and the women are on guard when a lord comes to court her.

“In the back of her mind she thinks he is a scapegrace or a fortune hunter and it makes decent men have to strive twice as hard to prove themselves worthy,” he said stiffly.

“He is not aware, but I was in his year at Oxford and the rumors about him, how indolent he was, his devil-may-care outlook and his reckless bed-hopping with women hither and yon reviled me.”

“It would disgust anyone,” she said.

They rounded a corner that was near a medium-deep part of the lake when a shout had her head jerking. A hound—the Duke’s hound—was pummeling down the walk like a shot from a gun and was barreling right into Bridget.

Hansen twisted so the force would take him but panicked, she released his arm, felt his boot snag on something and her balance shifted. Her arms swung wildly in the air, the ground vanished beneath her—and the last thing she saw before she hit the water was Hansen’s hand flinging out to her.

Freezing water rushed over her head and burned her lungs as she fell, submerging her entire upper body in the pond, her screams lost in an icy abyss.

Seeing Bridget tip into the water made ice thread through his veins. That was not supposed to happen.

Without direct thought, he shucked his jacket off and dove head first into the water, and after three strokes, fixed his arms around Bridget, and pushing his boots off the bottom, swam them to the surface.

The moment she broke through the surface, she gasped in a lungful of air and spluttered, water trickling from her nose as her chest heaved. She was shivering too, and the moment he got them back on the trail, Hansen had his jacket off and was ready to wrap her into it just as her boots hit the pebbled ground.

William kept her in his arms. “Go get your carriage.”

“What?” he snapped. “No.”

“So, do you want to parade her, wet and shivering, before all the members of the ton?” William growled. “Do you want to mortify her?”

“You should have controlled your hounds,” Hansen grounded out.

“M-my l-l-lord,” Bridget shivered, as she hung onto William’s neck, “Please, p-please get the carriage.”

“Give her to me,” Hansen ordered.

“And leave me to fetch your carriage for you?” William asked. “That does not make a lick of sense. Do you want to dally and force her to contract consumption, or do you not find it prudent to carry her home so a physician can attend to her.”

Hansen’s face was a blustering thundercloud as he spun on his heel and headed to the other side of the park. William sighed and plucked his jacket before wrapping it around her and looking down at the girl shivering in his arms. “I am sorry. I never intended this.”

Her clumped lashes swept up. “Meaning y-you i-i-intended something else?”

“This way,” Hansen called as he strode to them. “The carriage is just beyond this pass. Hurry, we won’t have the solitude for long.”

Holding her tight to his chest, he took the trail through the tree cover until they reached the far side of the pond where they could continue a straight path and reach the drive—and in that instant, an entire group of ladies and two men rounded the corner.

Devil and Damnation!

The hush that fell over them knifed under William’s skin, but he paid them no mind as he sat her in the carriage. “I’ll have my physician sent for you.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Hansen rebuffed him.

“No, you will not,” William said, his tone steeled with authority, eyes narrowed in defiance. “This is my responsibility. My dogs were at fault here.” Turning to her, he added. “Dr. Falderal will be with you by sundown, Lady Bridget.”

“Y-you got my name r-right,” she muttered as he exited and closed the door.

As he stepped away, his hand dropped onto Atlas’ head while Guilt wrenched his gut—if it was not already so knotted, he might have felt the other feeling burgeoning under his breastbone.

Sucking in a breath, he ignored the gossiping group and headed to his carriage. His driver’s brows shot up and the two footmen exchanged glances as he let the dogs leap into the carriage before him. “Just another day in the torrid life of Duke Arlington, my good men. Just another day.”

“He did what!” Eleanor gaped as Bridget came from her warm bath. “That rapscallion !”

“It was not his fault,” Bridget defended as her borrowed maid curled her dried hair in cloth strips. “Well, it was his dogs, but he did not push me into the river. Besides, he jumped in to fetch me from it. That should count for something, shouldn’t it? And he sent his personal physician to assess me.”

“I don’t think that matters,” Josephine said quietly. “This is the second interaction you have had with him, is it not?”

She frowned. “Yes, but why does that matter?” He does not know it was me at the masquerade. Her eyes flickered between her two friends. “Do you think there is some sort of master plot afoot? It was a coincidence, you two. If anything, he might have been more inclined to annoy Grah— Lord Hansen . His Lordship told me he actively reviled His Grace when they attended Oxford.”

Shifting to put her book to the side, Ellie asked, “You truly think this was a coincidence?”

“An unhappy one, but yes,” Bridget sighed. “I cannot fathom what the gossip and rumors will be by tomorrow.”

“Hmph,” Eleanor snorted. “If he had any decency, he would rubbish any rumors and keep your reputation spotless. Lord Hansen, without a doubt, would make sure that everyone knew there was no impropriety. Even more, you had your chaperone with you. No one would dare call your character into question.”

“Pardon me, my ladies,” the maid said. “I am finished. Is there anything else I may do for you?”

“Yes, would you please place the medicine Dr. Falderal left for me on the end table of my room? Thank you,” Bridget said kindly as the young girl curtsied and hurried off.

“Regardless, tomorrow we shall see the outcome,” Ellie replied. “And if the devil duke does not defend you, we shall have words.”

Giggling at her friend's righteous anger, Bridget said, “I would love to see you go toe-to-toe with a duke.”

“My shoes have heels on them, dear,” Ellie smirked. “Toe-to-toe is not accurate; he will be at a disadvantage.”

An hour later, when Bridget retired to her rooms, she went to the chair where Duke Arlington’s jacket was thrown over the back of it. The dark jacket, made from the best cloth, was dry now, and, without clear reason, she lifted it to her face.

Even faded, his subtle, expensive cologne drifted into her nostrils, but as tantalizing as it was, his scent sparked her irritation—why did he have to smell like the very essence of virility?

She remembered hitting the water and sinking by a pounding heartbeat. Then—hard arms closed over her and suddenly, she was reversing direction. The veil of murky darkness shattered, exposing her to harsh brightness and cold air.

She blinked up into a halo of light. Was she dead? Was this heaven?

“Do not let go,” a deep voice commanded her. “I will not let you go.”

Dropping the jacket back in place, she left for her bed and slipped between the sheets. Her eyes grew hot and gritty. She did not know why the man affected her so profoundly.

She had not known the duke for long and yet… she dreamed of him almost every night and thought about him during the day, but not for the best reasons. She could not deny the intense attraction she felt toward him; his raw masculinity was irresistible, but he was the very opposite of the man she should yearn for.

Hansen was just as entitled, just as handsome, and certainly just as smart—so why did she feel the pull toward the duke?

Maybe it’s because he was my first kiss.

He is a wicked man—but he saved my life.

He kissed me with such passion and tenderness—but for a rake like him, he probably kissed women like that all the time.

Turning on her belly, she pressed her face into the down-filled pillow and refrained from screaming in frustration. What had been his reasoning for kissing her the second time? It was not as if she had managed to give him a distraction in a dark alley for him to escape two cutthroats, no, what had happened at the masquerade was a mystery.

Was it for him to establish his dominance—and her showcase her inexperience—when it came to sexual matters? If so, he’d succeeded spectacularly.

Her lips pressed together. Fool me once.

“Keep your thoughts on Hansen,” she repeated to herself. “He is the only reasonable match for you.”

She drifted off with those words circulating through her mind, but then woke in the misty hours of the morning, and while her head was convinced, her heart was still at war. Even worse, when she washed and headed to breakfast, her steps slowed at knowing the gossip columns would have her name splashed all over them.

Ellie was in the breakfast room when she entered and her friend smiled. “Have you girded your loins?”

“Is it that bad?” she asked while making her tea. After sitting, she reached for that morning’s issue of the Times and turned to the scandal pages.

“ Wet Dukes and Drenched Debutantes ,” Bridget kept her voice calm, as befitted a lady. “ The readers of this newspaper will be familiar with the name William Hartwell, the Duke of Arlington, or as many know him, the Devil Duke, the Beast of Brookhaven, or the Rakehell of London, but none of us knows the young Lady Bridget Wycliff.

The lady is an anomaly which makes us question how she came into contact with the most profligate rake in Town. Witnesses recount seeing the Duke carrying the drenched and disheveled lady— drenched himself, by-the-by— to Lord Hansen’s carriage .

She put no intonation onto the words, “ Because of the remote location, so removed from the grand walk, was it an assignation that was interrupted and the only escape was to jump into the pond? Is the lady trapped between two lovers? We do not speculate about what would cause the duke to be carrying the lady, but many ladies have mentioned feeling drenched in the duke’s presence—a frolic in the water is still a strange way to go about it.”

Bridget felt there was an innuendo somewhere in there but had no idea where to identify it and what the innuendo meant.

She folded the newspaper and put it aside before reaching for her cup. That horrible columnist. Her stomach felt upside down and uneasy. This would certainly draw her unwanted attention and—she feared—sour Lord Hansen’s attention.

“I think I will stay away from London for the next few days,” Bridget sighed.

“Actually, I think the opposite might be best,” Ellie replied. “Avoiding the issue makes you look guilty, but if you have nothing to hide, why keep hidden?”

Bridget bit her lips and wondered if her friend was right.

A commotion right outside William’s bedchamber had the groggy duke stirring and Atlas growling from his place at the foot of the bed. The affable dog only had one grouse, which had William huffing.

Good god, couldn’t he have a moment to relive his dream? The feel of the lady’s skin under his, the taste of her lips, and her breathy moans in his ears—it was only when he woke he knew, that lady was Bridget.

“Please, Sir,” Oliver’s dulcet tone came through the door. “Will you please let me wake His Grace—”

“I will wake my ne’er-do-well nephew myself,” came the stiff, clipped tones of his venerable Uncle Ambrose Hartwell, the Earl of Cranshaw.

Sitting up, William sighed, “Just let him in, Lane, and find me some coffee.”

The door pushed in, and the lord walked inside. At two-and-fifty, the Earl still cut a dashing figure. tall, well-built, his hair was rusty red, the clipped waves gleaming around his handsome, chiseled features. In contrast, his sharp copper-hazel eyes were the only feature he and William had in common.

“This place is as dark as Hades,” Ambrose muttered, then succinctly flung the dark drapes apart, making William wince. “How do you live in such murk?”

“Good morning to you too, Uncle,” he muttered, rubbing his face.

“Are you drunk, boy?”

“No,” William grew irate. “And I am the furthest thing from a boy.”

“When you decide to make a man’s decisions, manage your money, stay away from getting soured every night, and stop hopping from one bed to another, it would tell me you have matured,” Ambrose’s tone was flat. “Did you have a woman in here?”

“If I had company in here, do you think I would have allowed you in?” William slid his feet from under the covers and reached for his robe. “What do you need, Uncle, and could we please talk in the breakfast room?”

Instead of replying, Ambrose pulled a folded newspaper from his inner pocket. “Do you care to explain why you were seen, soaking wet, carrying a lady out of the Serpentine River?”

“God help me,” William mumbled while rubbing his eyes.

“It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?” Ambrose said dryly as William led them from his bedroom to the quaint breakfast room a story down.

Thankfully, the sidebar was already stocked with a hot kettle and a tin Biggin Pots, filled with coffee. William poured his, then sunk to a seat and unfolded the paper. The headline on the scandal page made him splutter. White Knight or Devil Duke?

It did not take him long to realize all of London was abuzz with the incident between him, Lady Bridget, and that toff Hansen. Dropping the paper, he said, “This was a series of unfortunate events. My dog startled her, she was in the worst possible place she could be and tumbled over into the river. It was only right that I went to fish her out of it.”

“Have you thought about clarifying the story so the masses do not think there was anything unsavory about the incident?” Ambrose asked, eyes narrowing. “The lady deserves her innocence.”

“I never touched her,” William said, his terseness growing. “Why does everyone think I am some profligate ruiner—”

“You are one.”

“I was one,” William stressed. “I am sticking to the terms of our agreement, to stay on the straight and narrow road of redemption.”

“Then do the honorable thing and make sure she is not drawn into your web of shadow and shame,” Ambrose tapped the newspaper. “Get your writing materials—now.”

“Can it wait?” William hated feeling like a puppet while his uncle pulled his strings until he could get his hands on his inheritance. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew the answer.

Flatly, Ambrose said, “No. And after you write the letter, find the lady and apologize, preferably with others around.”

His fists clenched. That would put a hammer in the declaration of her innocence. All he had to do was find her, clear her name so she could run off with Hansen. It was the best thing to do, it was the most decent thing to do, but knowing it would end up with her and Hansen firmly hand-in-hand, made his heart rebel.

What do you want?

And is it with her that you want it with?