Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

T his is the last chance to prove myself to Graham before I tell him the truth of my life.

“Have you ever been to Vauxhall, my dear?” Lord Hansen asked as the carriage trundled over the bridge.

“No,” Bridget clenched the fan in her hand. “It is not a place for proper young ladies, unchaperoned, and certainly not at night. I have heard stories that do not sit well with me.”

“Well, we are properly supervised,” Graham nodded while drumming his fingers on the windowsill. “Speaking of stories, I commended Duke Arlington for sending his recount of the incident to the Times. It certainly did much to clear you of any lingering suspicion, not that there was any to begin with.”

Remembering the letter that the newspaper had printed three days ago, Bridget agreed. “That was kind of him, but I… frankly, I had not expected it from him.”

“Neither had I, but he may have a kernel of decency that was buried deep inside,” Gregory rubbed her hand. “But thank goodness for that. I had hoped the clarification I had sent them would have sealed the issue away, but these days, rumors and scandals are the meat Londoners vie for.”

Bridget gave him a soft smile, unwilling to accept that Hansen’s touch was warm and comforting… but did not have a fraction of the heat that a mere brush of Arlington’s fingers made her feel.

He is the best choice. He is sensible. He is a good man.

“And thank you for including the maid’s recount as well in your letter to the press,” Bridget replied. “It meant the world to me.”

“I am happy you were not ill,” Hansen nodded. “Otherwise, seeing the Cascade would not be a happy occasion. Moreover, I doubt your lovely gown would survive another submerging.”

Her eyes dropped to the soft peach silk dress—a gift from Ellie—that gathered under the bosom, but parted to reveal a simple silk under-skirt, and fell in a soft, graceful column. To accompany the dress, her maid had coaxed her hair into curls and piled them high, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face.

She laughed quietly, “I don’t think so either.”

“Do you like fireworks, my lady?” he asked.

“I adore them,” she gasped. “Aren’t they set off late though?”

“They are, but no fear,” Graham quickly added. “We’ll wait in the Rotunda, or pass the time at the Supper Boxes. I have rented one by the way—” he checked his pocket watch, “—it is three in the afternoon, we shan’t be too long waiting.”

“May I ask about your family, my lord?” she asked.

“ Graham , please,” he began. “My family is truncated, my father passed when I was at Eton at the age of nine, and my uncle stepped in to manage the earldom until I came into my majority and took over. I have an elder sister who is happily married, and I have two twin nephews who are absolute gremlins, though I love them to death.”

“You adore children then,” she smiled.

“When they are not being an absolute terror, of course. And you, my lady? Are children a part of your ambitions?”

“With a happy marriage, yes,” Bridget sighed. “My lord, I… I fear I should tell you before we get any further. My… my family’s situation is not a happy one. My father passed away three years ago, and my brother, who had returned from the Peninsular War, sadly gambled away the little fortune we had inherited—” she swallowed, hating to admit the last part, “—including my dowry.”

Her words sounded like a death knell. How well would an eligible lord, with many fortunate ladies nipping at his heels, take it to know the lady he was courting was penniless?

She wanted to curl into a ball and die of embarrassment. Heat burned behind her eyes. A finger tipped her chin up and with her heart firmly lodged in her throat, she felt confused by his smile.

“You needn’t be afraid to tell me such a thing,” he replied. “I do not need a lady’s dowry, my dear. Matter of fact, I am not swayed by it either. A fortune hunter might be, but not I. See, there are some women who have money yet no personality. I prefer personality to riches.”

She swallowed. This could not be true.

“You—you don’t mind?” Bridget whispered.

“Not at all,” Graham replied, retracting his hand. “You are a sweet, bright, beautiful lady. What is not to admire?”

Could he be any more perfect?

She blushed but kept her head up. “That’s so very kind of you to say, my—Graham. I appreciate your gentle sentiments.”

“And I promise you, if we do wed, I will make sure Duke Arlington stays ten leagues away from you,” he laughed. “That man is nothing but trouble.”

I know it.

The carriage halted and Graham descended first, assisted her out, and soon they were on the Grande Walk heading to the Cascade, an artificial waterfall made with tin sheets and fog from ice.

Attuned to him, Bridget wrapped her shawl around her arms and took his arm as they strolled. Her head kept swinging from left to right, eagerly taking in all the sights; the triumphal arches along the South Walk and an excellent replica of Grecian ruins, the Rotunda , a grand two-story structure, constructed of glowing white marble.

Hundreds of globe lamps glowed from the edges of the dome-shaped roof, and the colored paper lamps dangled from tree limbs, the light twinkling like rainbow fireflies while the gas lamps on the walk were pale yellow.

“This is delightful,” she breathed. “I truly have done myself a disservice by not visiting even once. I must correct that when I have the chance.”

“With proper chaperones, I expect,” Graham added teasingly.

“Of course,” she finished. “I would not dare do anything else.”

“Shall we,” he led her to the platform where the production was to begin, and happily, she leaned her temple onto his shoulder.

“Whoever designed that display has a keen mind,” Bridget said while seated in a supper box and cutting into her savory meat pie, a trademark Vauxhall delicacy, then added, “I admire such minds.”

“And to think its debut was sixty-five years ago,” Graham mused while sipping his drink. “Certainly ingenious.”

Picking up her wineglass, Bridget took a bracing sip of the arrack punch. “Have you ever created something you are proud of?”

“Goodness no,” he laughed. “I have not one creative bone in my body. I starkly remember the masters at Eton urging me to not try to draw anything, for the one time I tried to sketch a tree, they assured me it was a splinter of wood with gorgon hair roots.

“You, however, seem to be creative.” Graham nodded. “Have you created something unique?”

“Hmm. I once wrote a pianoforte piece inspired by Master Bach’s fugue in C-minor,” Bridget said modestly.

“That’s brilliant,” his brows shot up. “I would love to hear it one day.”

“I’d love to show you,” she replied brightly.

Wiping his mouth, Graham said, “I think it is time for the fireworks. Will you come with me?”

“Yes, please,” she smiled.

As they left the supper boxes and headed to the place for the fireworks, and as she tilted her head to the sky—something, or rather, someone , snagged her reticule.

Gasping, she turned to see a boy, clad in breeches, the tails of his jacket flapping in the wind as he darted from her.

“Give that back!” She grasped her skirt and ran after him in panic. The boy darted through bushes, and she followed.

Twigs from the thick canopies of giant elms and dense foliage of bushes tugged at her hair but she couldn’t stop. The sounds of the gay crowd faded into the distance, as she rushed, barely hearing Graham’s shouts behind her.

Devil and blast, he should not have come.

When the spies told William about Hansen taking Bridget to Vauxhall, he had debated on what to do, as while he knew he was intrigued by the lady, he still did not have a solid reason for what he wanted from her.

In the back of his mind, he knew the girl was not the sort to have a romp in the bed without a care— no . She was a proper virgin and would never compromise her integrity to please his passing whims.

Virginity held no special appeal for him—he preferred bed partners with experience—but the thought of being the first man to show her what carnal pleasure was, was a strong temptation.

Having not seen the lady or the lord, he’d almost indulged with a lady friend inside a private hedge in the Lovers Walk. Alas, it had been put to an end rather abruptly by himself, for he could not get his mind off his golden-haired beauty. Now, unsatiated and disheveled, he stumbled out of the bushes—only to have a child run right into him.

He grabbed the lad. “Whoa there, boy. Where is the rush?”

The boy squirmed, and that was when William spotted the pearl-studded reticule dangling from his hand. “Curious artifact you have there lad. Is the new fashion for boys to wear women’s purses or did you snatch it from some hapless young lady?”

“Where are you, you thieving—”

Lady Bridget, the aforementioned hapless lady, came stumbling inside the cove, and William groaned inside his throat. This was not good—was it? Was he cursed to keep meeting her like this?

“You,” she gasped.

“Good day, my lady,” he stated wryly. “We do have to stop meeting like this.”

Her glorious gaze narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a private tête-à-tête ,” William replied off-handedly. “Did this urchin steal your purse?”

“Yes,” she snagged it from the boy’s hand. “And how was it that he happened to run into you? You set this up, didn’t you?”

His lips quirked. “I did not, but thank you for such an idea.”

Huffing, she turned and left the cove, then stepped on the broad part of the South Walk, while William followed after hefting the lad under his arm. “What do you want me to do with this boy?”

“Lady Bridget,” Hansen strode to her, his face blustering with anger at seeing William. Or was it his rumpled clothes, disheveled appearance, cravat askew and hair raked through with needy fingers? He did not know—nor did he care.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes flinging towards Bridget. “What happened?”

“A pickpocket,” she replied. “A brazen one. But I have my reticule, thanks in part to His Grace.”

Hansen’s face was stony. “I find this to be a bit too coincidental.”

“I thought so too, but it appears he is here on alternate business,” Bridget defended, then turned and curtsied. “Thank you, Your Grace, you can let the boy go now.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, ignoring the balking passersby.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said tightly. “I have my reticule now. No harm done.”

Shrugging, William let the lad go, who took off like a bat from the depths of hell. He fixed his jacket and undid his cravat, finding it a bother. “I am sorry to disrupt your night, so please excuse me. Enjoy the fireworks, or whatever is left of them, that is. I suppose the display is done now.”

He turned and headed off, only for Bridget to ask, “How did you know that?”

Pivoting, he responded, “My lady, it is after ten in the night. Unless you were here for an assignation, the only conclusion is that you are here for the nighttime show.” With a half bow, he spun and walked off.

Against the velvety night sky, the moonlight gleaming on his skewed locks, Duke Arlington looked more like Lancelot than King Arthur. Rugged, dashing, and mysterious.

“That cur,” Graham muttered. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Swallowing, she nodded, “I am. I must apologize for ruining our night though. It was rude and unladylike of me to run off like that.”

“No worries,” he said, pulling her in. This close, she could see the emotion running through his eyes. “Are you sure?”

She gave him the most reassuring smile she could, and Graham dipped his head, “May I kiss you?”

Before she could respond, his lips touched hers: the kiss was refined, smooth, skilled. It was pleasant… and as exciting as tepid tea. Instantly, her heart sank. This was not what she had envisioned for their first kiss.

Where was the passion? The excitement? Why did her heart pound beneath her breastbone at the mere thought of the wicked duke, yet a kiss from the proper lord made her gut twist in disappointment?

His lips ticked down. “Not experienced in kissing, are we? Not to fear, we will be correcting that soon enough.”

“I—” She didn’t know what to say. “I do not have a history of courting.”

“Never fear,” he said in a strange tone. It sounded smug, almost. “We’ll correct that in good time.”

That wasn’t nice, was it?

He took her hand and she walked off with him, but she could not stop looking over her shoulder to look into the shrouded lane where Duke Arlington had disappeared into.

“Oh goodness no,” Bridget heard Ellie groan as she entered the breakfast room the following morning.

Concerned, Bridget approached her friend, “What is the matter?”

Gesturing to the newspaper, Ellie huffed, “These scandalmongers! They will not let you live in peace.”

Frightened, Bridget took the paper up and spun it to the scandal sheets, heart in her throat. “ Readers of this newspaper will be familiar with the names Duke Arlington and Lady Bridget Wycliff who were spotted soaked from head to toe a few days ago.

Now, other news has reached us, and multiple witnesses can attest to this—the Devil and the lady emerged, disheveled, from the dense brush of an undoubtedly lover’s nook, in Vauxhall.

No passerby could give details of something untoward that might have happened between the two, and while we do not speculate about why this occurrence happened so closely to the other one, one can only assume something more. A romance? Lovers trapped together, that’s always interesting .”

Her legs went weak, and Bridget dropped into the nearest chair like a bag of potatoes. “Of course these witnesses would not mention the pickpocket boy, or Lord Hansen, who had found me moments later, because they only want to spur gossip,” she groaned. “Good heavens! Now half of London is assured something untoward had happened between me and the duke.”

“Did… did something untoward happen?” Ellie asked.

“No!” Bridget refused vehemently, while hating that she was lying to her friend. “No such thing. What happened—what keeps happening seems to be only a string of unfortunate events. I have my heart set on Lord Hansen.”

“Good,” Ellie nodded decisively. “That is best. I have luncheon with Lady Herringer later today. Would you like to come along?”

“No, but thank you,” Bridget smiled softly. “I think I will rest today before I go home with Aunt.”

Fixing her tea, Ellie smiled. “Sure, dear, but remember, we have Lady Darlington’s ball next week. And I am almost certain Hansen will ask you for your hand in marriage then too.”

Looking down, Bridget felt her heart start to hammer… but not in anticipation… but anxiety.