Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

“ I t shall be fine, Bridget,” Eleanor repeated for what felt like the tenth time. “Lord Hansen will be utterly charmed by your demeanor and brilliance, smitten by your appearance in your lovely gown, and if I were you, I would not be surprised if I had a marriage proposal by tonight.”

“You overestimate my charm, Ellie,” Bridget said.

It was a sennight after the masquerade and her first meeting with Lord Hansen. They were on the way to Almacks for a sing-along and she forced herself not to fiddle with her gloves.

Her peach dress trimmed with new pink ribbon and lace, and a matching pink underskirt, was another relic of the days she had graced many ballrooms and assemblies.

The streets of London were packed with carriages and pedestrians, and by the time they arrived at the assembly house, she was afraid they were terribly late.

To her relief, the moment they stepped onto the main floor, people were mingling with drinks in hand, casually in a chatter. Relief washed through her like a river breaking its banks.

Lord Hansen was not there and her heart sank with disappointment at this discovery— he’s not here yet, do not lose hope — when she saw another familiar face, and this one far less welcome. In the midst of the crowd of gentlemen of worthy townsfolk stood the one man she had hoped never to run into again.

The Devil.

The Beast of Brookhaven.

The man who had seduced her with a look and a kiss.

Even while he was chatting with other lords, and not noticing her at all, she wanted to sink below the floorboards. Granted, when that kiss had happened, she had kept her mask on while she had removed his; he would not know her, while she did know him.

“Bridget, dear?” Ellie asked. “Are you ill? Your face is suddenly flushed.”

Her head snapped from the Duke to her friend while battling the heat surging to her face. “Oh, yes, yes. I am just… there is quite a bit of heat in here, isn’t there?”

Ellie frowned. “It is as chilly as winter. Are you sure you are all right?”

“I am,” she reassured her friend as much as she reminded herself to ignore the lout. “I am excited about tonight. I hope I can make a more profound impact with Lord Hansen.”

“As far as I have seen, you are doing an impeccable job of it,” Ellie fluttered her fan. “Your authenticity is your biggest selling point, Bridget. Keep being your true self and he will…”

Bridget found her attention split into thirds; one mind was focused on the timing for the program, the second worried about Lord Hansen, and the last… she could not stop stealing glances at the Duke of Debauchery if she tried.

What right did he have to be so handsome and charming, sophisticated and… He wiped a thumb over his lips, swiping a rouge droplet of champagne away, and her core fluttered, as she pressed her thighs together against a sudden lick of heat.

“He’s here,” Ellie said, her voice awash with admiration. “He is so handsome! No wonder he is one of this season’s most sought-after bachelors.”

Rising to her feet, Bridget risked a peek over at the object of her attention, who was now surrounded by a bevy of debutantes. His charcoal dinner-jacket and plum waistcoat, like all his garments, fit flawlessly on his lean, muscular frame.

Lord Hansen is a solid choice, he is a sensible one, not like His Grace.

Scapegrace is more like it.

The Earl broke away from the gaggle of admirers before he headed over to her and bowed. “I apologize for making you wait,” he kissed the back of her hand. “I think you have seen that I am like a hunted man.”

“The room does take on a different air when you enter it,” she replied after a sweeping curtsey.

“I should be saying that to you,” Lord Hansen smiled as he gestured to their seats. “May we?”

“Yes, please,” she replied, then turned and said, “May I introduce Lady Eleanor Pembroke, daughter of Marquess Pearson and my dearest friend.”

“Would this happen to be the lady you were to report to the night of the masquerade?” Lord Hansen bowed. “I am delighted to meet you.”

“As am I, your lordship,” Ellie replied as a tinkling bell rang through the room. “I think the program is about to begin.”

Before the program began, Bridget spotted a few heated glares spearing her way and swallowed; clearly, no one liked this nobody newcomer possessing the Earl’s attention and time.

Notch your head up, pay them no mind , she reminded herself. He is here with you, not them.

At the hour intermission, Lord Hansen genially offered his arm and they lingered at the refreshment table. She could barely taste the rich champagne for the thunder in her ears. “I hope you have not canceled any important meetings or outings for this night.”

“Not to worry,” he said, one hand stuck in a pocket of his trousers. “I would have sent notice if I had previous plans. Your friend there, are you staying with her for the season, then? I noticed the invitation came from her estate.”

“Ah, yes, I am,” Bridget lied. “Otherwise, I would have to travel far to be here. We met in finishing school, my lord, and she was one of the few who understood my need to be around books instead of people.”

“Let me guess, you loved the Bard’s romantic tales,” Hansen teased.

“I did,” she admitted, “But I loved A Tale of a Thousand and One Night more.”

“You are a romantic,” he guessed. “You wish for a Schahriar to your Scheherazade.”

“At times,” she replied honestly, her chin notched up. “But there comes a time when practicality is more prudent than such lofty dreams. One can have their heads in the clouds but one must make sure their feet are firmly on the ground as well.”

“Those are the most prudent words I have ever heard a lady of the ton say,” Graham muttered, his brows lowering. “You are a breath of fresh air in a room of cloying perfume.”

She expelled a breath. “I am an open book, aren’t I?”

“It is part of your charm, my dear.”

While sipping, she noticed how the ladies in particular slid appreciative glances at her companion. “My lord, may I ask you a deeply personal question? Be free to not answer if you do not feel comfortable.”

“Unless you ask me the contents of my coffers, I don’t think anything you ask would be out of order. Ask away.”

“You are three-and-thirty, are you not?” she swallowed over her pulsing nerves. “Surely you should have found a wife by now? How is it that you have avoided marriage for so long?”

“I was traveling for a while,” he said, gesturing with his glass. “America, the West Indies, the Far East too. Most lords stayed here, gambling, racing, sowing their wild oats, and such things, but I had wanderlust, my lady. I decided to pursue a more academic and educational life.

“When I returned, I involved myself in the arts, in theater, in music, and donating to orphanages and sponsoring promising young men to Oxford,” he said. “It was only after I decided it was time to marry. I courted a few but I found most of them were just as you described earlier, with their heads in the clouds.”

Setting the glass to the side, Bridget excused herself. “I have to visit the retiring room for a moment, my lord. Shall we reconvene this conversation when I return?”

“Absolutely, for I have the same question for you,” he smiled.

Turning, she headed off to the room and inside the water closet. Just as she entered, she heard a husky male voice slide through the slots. “He will never be your Sultan.”

Startled, she almost dropped the ceramic bourdaloue.

Who was that?

Sauntering up to Lord Hansen, William greeted him. “Well, if it is not the saints of the arts himself. I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.”

“But I am,” Hansen grinned. “You avoid these things like the plague. How are you here? I pity the poor lady who is going to be under your sights.”

William sipped his champagne. “Can a gentleman not simply enjoy the arts? Enjoy a change of scenery and some eclectic company for once?”

“A gentleman can,” Hansen replied. “But your reputation precedes you, Your Grace, or was your title as London’s most feckless rake a misunderstanding?”

“No, that one was accurate,” he shrugged.

“Has no lady ever found the strength to change you?” Hansen asked. “Surely, shuffling beds like cards is tedious business.”

“The reformation of rakes is the stuff of fiction, of those pretty words the Bard made us believe, the stuff of operas and ballads and songs.” William threw back the rest of his drink.

“In real life, a woman, no matter how virtuous she is, can no more change a man’s heart than a leopard can rearrange its spots. Speaking of ladies, were you not speaking to one a while ago, a petite little thing?”

“ Lady Bridget Wycliff ,” Hansen said, unsuspecting. “She is a lovely lady, Your Grace, please refrain from terming her as a little thing . We are courting, if you must know.”

“So, you are joining the marriage mart,” William said indolently, pivoting on his feet to look over the room. “It seems most of the men here are leg-shackled or are in the way to be. I do wish you well on your upcoming nuptials.”

“You can tell her yourself,” Hansen said, waving a hand. “She is coming this way now.”

Just as I had bargained.

Clad in a dressing gown of peach satin, her dark hair pinned atop her head, Bridget looked as radiant as Aphrodite. Her eyes widened a fraction before the expression was wiped off her face and replaced with genial calm.

“My Lords,” she curtsied.

“Actually, Lady Bridget, this is His Grace, William Hartwell, Duke of Arlington,” Hansen said, dropping a hand to her waist. “Or as others call him, the Beast of Brookhaven .”

Her eyelashes fluttered up and his chest took a wallop at the wonder-struck expression in her eyes, from the passion shining there... and the innocence. But then, her eyes narrowed warily while her voice remained as sweet as honey.

“Oh, my sincerest apologies, Your Grace,” she said, dipping her head, “I am not well-versed on the crème-de-la-crème of London.”

This time, William feigned curiosity and inclined his head while staring at her intently, eyes shifting all over her face. She shifted uncomfortably in the long, drawn silence. “Have I met you before?”

She notched her head up. “No, Your Grace, I do not believe we have ever crossed paths before.”

“Are you sure?” He decided to play with her a little. “Please turn your head for me?”

Bridget balked. “Why, Your Grace?”

“I want to see if you have pierced ears,” he asked.

“I do not, Your Grace,” she said stiffly.

“Humor me,” William posted on his most charming smile, one that had women swooning and shedding their clothes.

Her jaw stiffened obstinately, and her eyes flashed with defiance, but he knew she would never disobey a Duke; her name would be struck black. Her lips pressed tight, but she angled her head and moved the tendrils of hair from her temples, showing her unmarred lobes.

“My apologies,” he said. “But thank you for humoring me. Well, Hansen, my felicitations on your upcoming… engagements. Please, excuse me.”

Turning away, he felt her eyes land on the back of his neck and just to rile her, pivoted, met her eyes, held her gaze, and after a moment, wickedly winked. She went bright red.

He snagged another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The night was a success, he could leave. The hook was dangling, the bait was already set, and soon she would come nibbling. Until then, he had training to do.