Chapter 5
The Duke of Wheelton offered no response to her challenge.
His face did not even flicker with emotion—not amusement, not eagerness, nor even dismay.
A wall would have offered as much of a response as he.
Bridget inhaled deeply. There was a vindictive part of her that was determined to make this man react, so she could see the cracks in his stony facade.
But persuading him to withdraw his proposal took precedence over any personal satisfaction that she might have gleaned from discomforting him.
“You do not wish to marry me,” Bridget began. “And because I was already ruined before you encountered me, no one would think poorly of you if you were to walk away now and leave me behind.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed.”
His Grace shook his head. “I will not withdraw the proposal. I am a man of my word, and I always have been.”
“So?”
“So, I have no intention on going back on my word now,” he said. “I have never taken back any of my words before.”
Bridget raised an eyebrow. “Impossible.”
“How so?”
“Because everyone lies or says things that they regret,” Bridget said. “You say that you have never taken any words back as if it is a good thing, but what I hear is a man who is unable to admit when he is wrong.”
“How presumptuous, my lady.”
Is that really all he has to say?
Bridget crossed her arms. Maybe her plan to vex the man did have some merit. It was clear that he would not be reasoned with, but maybe she could be so troublesome that he would realize she was entirely unsuitable as his future wife.
“If you are to marry me, you will have to become accustomed to a presumptuous wife,” she said. “I will make no allowances for you.”
“You will not have to.”
“Well, clearly—”
He moved forward, as swiftly as a snake and grasped her chin.
Bridget’s breath shuddered in her chest, and her thoughts all came to a crashing halt.
Her heart hammered so loudly against her ribs that its echo reverberated inside her own skull.
His Grace loomed over her, and a shiver traced the path of her spine.
He was so strong and massive that he could do anything to her, and she would be powerless to stop him. The thought should have been terrifying, but instead, it sent a little thrill of delight through her.
“You will not be this difficult when you are my wife,” he said in his low, rumbling voice.
Bridget found herself speechless. All her witty retorts fell apart like torn cloth inside her mind, and although he was frustrating, that same strange heat began to build between her legs. She pressed her thighs together in a confused attempt to quell the sensation but to no avail.
“I will teach you how to properly behave,” His Grace continued. “You have been allowed too much freedom, and it is clear that you have not grown into a respectable woman. You are too ruled by your passions, and if someone does not intervene, you will be consumed by them.”
Bridget jerked her head back, and he dropped his hand. She took a step away, stumbling over the hem of her gown. “How dare you touch me?” she hissed.
“What? Are you afraid that you will be ruined for a third time?”
Bridget reached behind her, seizing onto the banister and holding it as if it was the only source of stability in the world. “No, I fear nothing.”
He laughed humorlessly. “That explains much about your behavior. There are certain things that a proper duchess should fear.”
“Ridiculous!”
“No,” he said. “Because fear is what prevents us from behaving foolishly. Fear of consequences.”
“Is your plan to make me the perfect duchess, then?” she asked. “You would like me to be afraid of things? You sound like a villain.”
“No. My plan is to make you the perfect bride for me.”
Bridget frowned. “Are they not the same thing?”
“Not at all.”
Then, what did he mean? Predictably, he did not offer any explanation or any clue as to what he might mean. Bridget dug her nails into the banister and glared at him, forcing every scrap of anger that she could into her eyes.
“I do not see why you should need a specific wife. Aside from your boundless pomposity, you are just like any other man.”
His Grace’s lips curved into a small smirk. “Once you are my wife, you will learn precisely what I mean.”
“I will not be your wife,” she said. “You will realize that you have made a terrible error in asking for me, and you will withdraw the proposal.”
“I will not.”
“Then, I suppose all you will have to look forward to in life will be a wife who perfectly detests you,” Bridget said. “That is the depth of my feelings for you.”
“I doubt it. You are still young, and you will take well to my instructions.”
“I shall not!”
“You will be utterly devoted to me,” he said, his expression darkening. “You will be proper and perfect. No more scandals or tempers or fanciful dreams.”
“That will never happen,” Bridget said.
He approached her, something feline in his movements.
A fitting comparison, Bridget thought, for her own heart fluttered in her chest like a bird trapped in the claws of some great beast. Still, she did not flee.
She clung to the banister all the more strongly, refusing to let herself be cowed by this man.
“Are you a prophet?” he asked. “Can you see the future?”
“No,” she said. “But I know who I am. Clearly, you do not.”
His Grace raised a hand and slowly reached for her.
Bridget’s muscles tensed. She had ample time to move away from him or at least yell for rescue.
Instead, she remained still, as his hand settled at the back of her neck.
His thumb rubbed the hair at her nape, and Bridget’s breath hitched.
He pressed his palm against the back of her neck and pushed until she lost her balance and stumbled forward, her body pressing against his own.
“I disagree. I do know who you are.”
“You would argue.” Her voice quivered more than she liked. “Men do not like to be informed that they are wrong.”
He chuckled. “You are denying yourself, lying to yourself. You enjoy my company.”
“I do not!”
“If you do not, why are you trembling so much?” he asked softly. “You are so filled with desire for me that you cannot even remain still.”
Her eyes widened. Suddenly, Bridget’s throat was dry. He could not be right. It was impossible for her to enjoy the liberties he was taking, and yet—
She had a sinking suspicion that the desperate heat between her thighs and the warmth of her face had something to do with pleasure and the want of it. What if he was right?
“That is impossible,” she rasped. “You cannot know my wants better than I do.”
“Indeed, I can. But you are not to be blamed. What could a girl like you possibly know about the pleasures of marriage?”
According to Lady Susan, Bridget knew a great deal.
But in truth, there had only been a few quiet words exchanged in a dark room.
Was there more? Bridget had not read about there being more in all her books.
A man and woman fell in love, and they married.
That was the perfect ending, the happily ever after.
What more was there to be said, except that the couple would live happily together as they had during their courtship?
“You are showing me no pleasure,” she said. “You are only showing me that you are a man who does not know how to behave himself. I can scarcely believe that you were so upset about your clothes when this is the manner of man that you truly are.”
“Hm.”
His hand drifted lower, lingering between her shoulders.
Through the thin material of her gown, Bridget felt the heat of his palm.
If she took a small step forward, she imagined that she would feel the warmth off his whole body, and the thought made her feel dazed, as if she was Queen Titania waking up from Oberon’s enchantment, confused by her present state.
“Have I made my position clear to you, my lady?” he asked.
“Abundantly.”
He withdrew his hand. “Then, I shall take my leave. I look forward to seeing you at dinner.”
His Grace bowed and worse, had the gall to look utterly shameless and unruffled. Bridget felt wretched standing before him, her face flushed and her chest heaving. She slumped against the stairs, watching as he finally left.
The door closed behind him with a note of finality, and Bridget let herself breathe. The scent of his cologne—the warm and herbal Bay Rum—still lingered in the air. A low groan tore from her throat. She did not know the source of the sound, but she felt it all the way down in her ribcage.
“Bridget.”
It was Dorothy.
“Sister,” Bridget said, her gaze fixed on the ground.
Was she imagining that she was damp between her thighs? How very strange. Her body seemed to be somehow more alive than it usually was, and she had no ready explanation for why it should be.
Except for him. Was it possible that he had unlocked some fury previously unknown to her?
A strangely pleasant fury.
“I am sorry that this day has gone so wretchedly,” Dorothy said gently.
“We all are.”
Except for His Grace, who believed he was going to train her to be a proper wife. Bridget supposed that meant he wanted her to have no emotions either.
“He is despicable,” Bridget added.
Dorothy’s gaze snapped to the door. “I would not say that he is despicable,” she said, “but he is certainly different from you.”
“And significantly older.”
“I believe he is six-and-twenty,” Dorothy said. “Not as old as you might assume. He acts older than many young men, but I believe that is a recent change in him.”
“Is it?”
Dorothy nodded. “He used to be more conventional, like most young men.”
Bridget frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“A little rakish,” Dorothy said. “Or so I heard. It is not as though I am particularly knowledgeable about the man’s true character, but I know of his reputation.”
Bridget sighed. She knew better than to admit that she might prefer a man who was a little rakish. At least, there would be something interesting about him, then.
“I pity the poor soul who is forced to marry him,” Bridget said.
She dearly hoped it was not herself.
“Well…” Dorothy trailed off, furrowing her brow.
“I had hoped for a reassurance that I would not be forced to marry him,” Bridget said tartly.
“And if I had one to offer, I would.”
Dorothy’s soft, sad face confirmed Bridget’s worst suspicions, which was that her sister also likely anticipated Elias’s eventual agreement.
“It is unfair,” Bridget said softly.
“I know.”
And the tears that Bridget had been holding back for the better part of the day sprang into her eyes.
“Oh, dearest,” Dorothy murmured, folding her sister into a warm embrace.
Bridget sobbed into her sister’s shoulder, dampening Dorothy’s gown with tears.
Dorothy’s hand, warm and light, rubbed soothing circles over Bridget’s back.
“I know it feels like the end of the world, Bridget, but I promise it is not. It is early, but you may wish to retire. I find that most matters do not seem so terrible after a good rest.”
“Assuming I can even find rest,” Bridget murmured against her sister’s shoulder.
“It is worth trying.”
It was. Maybe if Bridget was very lucky, she would fall into a deep sleep, only to be awakened by true love’s kiss.