Chapter 14
The ball occurred three days after His Grace’s visit, and during that time, Bridget had tried to put everything she had learned about the Dowager Duchess into order.
It was difficult, for she still knew little about the woman.
Bridget’s first impulse had been to assume that the Duke of Wheelton’s answers were evasive because he was cruel to the Dowager Duchess and refused to admit his misdeeds.
But that is not the only explanation, Bridget thought morosely as Elias led her into the ballroom.
Most Dukes—most of the ton, most men—would probably be hesitant to answer questions about female relatives who were known for having delicate nerves, and Bridget had not been especially sensitive with her inquiries.
“Word of the engagement has already spread,” Elias said, cutting through Bridget’s ruminations. “I suppose that we ought to be grateful for that. You will not have to endure anyone mocking you for being unable to find suitors.”
“I am certain they will find some reason to mock me, regardless,” Bridget said, her eyes sweeping over the crowd in search of her betrothed.
She did not see him. A heaviness lifted from her shoulders. Maybe she would be allowed a little enjoyment before he arrived and insisted on her behaving properly for him.
Elias sighed and cast her a weary look. Bridget’s heart clenched in sympathy, for her brother looked suddenly much older than he ought to. “The scandal will be averted now that you are to marry,” he said. “I am certain that some of the young ladies will be appropriately congratulatory.”
Bridget spied the cluster of young ladies, all of whom she had once considered her friends. Several of them looked directly at her, their mouths hidden behind fans and gloved hands. They were spreading gossip, no doubt.
Bridget cleared her throat. She imagined that she was Samuel Richardson’s heroine Clarissa Harlowe, who had shown the most remarkable fortitude and strength of will even in the most wretched circumstances.
“You should join your friends,” Bridget said. “I do not need to hang on you all night. That is little better than being a wallflower.”
His Grace’s mocking words about how her siblings always protected and indulged her too much rang in her mind. In truth, staying with Elias might be worse than being a wallflower. At least, there was a little tragic dignity in the latter.
Elias’s expression softened. “If you need me—if the ball becomes more than you wish to endure—you need only come fetch me. I will return you home at once.”
Of course, he would.
“I do not need you,” Bridget said. “Thank you for the offer.”
She pulled herself away from him and forced her feet to move to the edge of the ballroom, trying her hardest not to hear the whispers that rose in an orchestra around her.
“I can scarcely believe that he chose to marry her!”
“The Duke of Wheelton deserves someone better than Lady Bridget!”
She rolled back her shoulders and took a glass of lemonade, hoping that if she held something, she would not fidget with her hands.
If the other ladies chose to join her, Bridget would greet them with grace and dignity.
She would not even allude to their betrayal, and she would leave the ball with everyone saying how kind and thoughtful she was, how utterly resolute.
And then, her eyes met those of Lady Susan, and Bridget inwardly groaned.
Lady Susan’s smile widened, and she began to cross the ballroom floor, cutting a path towards her.
Bridget’s fingers curled so tightly around the glass of lemonade that her knuckles ached.
The impulse to flee rose within her, but she was not—and never had been—a coward.
“Lady Bridget,” Lady Susan said.
Bridget forced a smile. “Lady Susan. I would like to say it is a pleasure, but we both know that would be a lie.”
“You are the only person in the ton who does not find my company to be a pleasure,” Lady Susan said, sighing dramatically. “Perhaps you are singularly lacking in taste.”
“Or perhaps you merely have an inflated opinion of yourself,” Bridget said. “Pride cometh before the fall, you know.”
“You would know,” Lady Susan replied. “Even now, you are too prideful for a ruined woman. Do you truly believe yourself worthy of marrying a duke?”
“Entirely,” Bridget said, waving a flippant hand. “However, I wonder if you may honestly say the same about yourself.”
“Of course, you do,” Lady Susan said snidely. “You wish to make me feel worse about myself because you know that you are undeniably lacking in the charms that come so easily to me.”
Bridget laughed. “Is that truly what you believe?
All other evidence seems to indicate that you are jealous of me.
After all, you felt the need to shove me into that lake, and you have made your distaste for me abundantly clear.
“Why do you persist in cornering me and speaking of my affairs with others when my mere existence vexes you so greatly?”
Lady Susan’s face reddened. “I only seek to protect innocent men who might be persuaded into some foolishness by you.”
“Oh, yes,” Bridget said, eyes widening in mock surprise. “I am so very threatening to the virtue of men. Please.”
“Well, you have entrapped the Duke of Wheelton,” Lady Susan continued viciously. “At least, that is what all the gossip claims.”
Bridget’s face warmed. Was that truly said the current gossip that was circulating around the room?
“If that is true,” Bridget said, her voice shaking. “I imagine it is because you are spreading the gossip. We both know that I did not entrap the Duke. He chose to marry me because of you—because you pushed me in the lake—so if you have some problem with the match, you have only yourself to blame!”
Lady Susan gasped and put a hand to her chest, as though Bridget’s entirely accurate assessment of the situation was the most scandalous rumor she had heard all morning. “You overstep, Lady Bridget!”
“As do you, my lady.” A stern, masculine voice cut through their conversation.
Bridget turned and found the Duke of Wheelton himself standing behind her, his face the picture of calm.
“Y-your Grace,” Lady Susan said, stammering as she curtsied.
“I expected better from a lady such as yourself,” His Grace said, acting as though he had not even noticed the lady’s acquiescence. “Speaking ill of my bride is also an insult to my honor and will not be tolerated.”
“I apologize, Your Grace,” Lady Susan said, eyes darting about as she searched for escape.
Bridget had never delighted in the embarrassment of others, but she could not deny a small jolt of satisfaction in seeing Lady Susan so easily brought to simpering agreement.
This woman, who had tormented her in recent days, was finally receiving her comeuppance as she was brought readily low by His Grace.
The Duke made a disgruntled sound and looked at Bridget. “Shall we dance?”
He extended his hand, and she cheerfully placed hers in his palm. “I would be delighted, Your Grace.”
There was the smallest amount of petty satisfaction as the Duke of Wheelton led Bridget to the center of the room, where everyone was dancing.
The dance began with a cheerful swell of music, like a wave crashing against the shore, and Bridget moved through the first few steps, conscious of the Duke’s hands on her body. A welcome warmth spread through her, and she could not decide if it was from his touch or from his defense of her.
“Lady Susan seemed sufficiently intimidated by you,” Bridget said.
The man’s lips twitched into a small smile. “So, she did. I suspect Lady Susan is not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner.”
Likely not. At least, Lady Susan had not shoved His Grace into a lake when he spoke so bluntly to him.
“I tried to speak to her in that way, and she seemed far less cowed,” Bridget said.
“The benefits of being a man,” the Duke said wryly. “Sometimes, the world is simply unfair.”
They twirled, and Bridget worked to hide her smile. That remark had been rather insightful of him. “It was impressive how quickly you arrived,” Bridget continued. “Have you been watching me?”
“Of course.”
“Because you need to ensure that I am not embarrassing you?”
“Not entirely that.”
Not entirely that.
As they moved through the first steps of the dance, Bridget’s mind whirled. His Grace was an odd man. How could he be so cold and commanding in one moment, yet protective in the next? There must be something else. Did he like her? Even just a little?
A romantic part of Bridget dared to wonder if the Duke of Wheelton might have wanted to protect her. Could that be part of the reason why he wished to watch her?
“Thank you,” she said.
Rather than accepting her gratitude, his expression hardened. “Do you find it troubling, my lady, that I have needed to come to your rescue twice now? Perhaps you have decided that I am Sir Lancelot with no other purpose in life than to save you from your own misdeeds.”
Bridget suspected that it was not the best moment to admit she had always found Sir Lancelot to be a wonderfully romantic hero.
“You say that as if I have done something wrong,” Bridget said.
“Did you truly expect that securing this invitation would be sufficient for the rumors to cease? I would have been the center of attention regardless of what happened or what was said.”
“You should not let their gossip vex you,” the Duke said, as they began the first steps.
“While it is true that the gossip is malicious, your own behavior is equally to blame for the attention that you receive. Lady Susan enjoys seeing you angry and distraught, and you consistently give her what she wants. You must learn to ignore their whispers.”
He spun her in his arms, and Bridget’s jaw clenched. “Is that what you do?” she asked. “If you were as adept at ignoring the whispers as you want me to be, you would not have proposed marriage to me.”
His expression darkened, and Bridget’s pulse jumped.
She became aware of his considerable strength in a way that she had not been before.
He was massive compared to her, and she had no doubt that the body beneath that well-tailored jacket and those fine trousers was lithely muscled and powerful. A lump rose in her throat.
He pulled her body against his, the force of his movements firm and commanding. Warmth shot through her like a star across the night sky, and a dull ache beat between her legs.
“Do not provoke me,” he said lowly. “If you taunt a lion too much, you will find yourself in its jaws.”
A shiver traced the path of her spine. Warnings rang like church bells in her head, and yet she found herself distracted, intoxicated, by the warmth of his body bleeding into her own.
She had not intended to provoke him, not exactly. Bridget’s aim had been only to make note of his apparent hypocrisy, but once she had, she could not very well concede defeat.
“And I suppose,” she said, never missing a step of the dance. “You care nothing for the gossip about how you are cruel to the Dowager Duchess, your only surviving relative. It must be so easy to ignore those rumors.”
His hands tightened on her, and Bridget’s breath shuddered in her chest. Those hands showed what his face did not; he was angry. She had taunted the lion, and now, he wished to devour her. What would her heroines do?
He released her abruptly before the dance even ended, and Bridget started at the suddenness of his body being away from hers. Had she vexed him too greatly? Would he announce that their engagement was broken and that she was unworthy of him?
“You,” he said, his voice pitching quiet. “You will meet me in the library.”
Without awaiting a reply, he turned on his heels and stormed away from her, leaving Bridget alone amidst the circles of cheerful, elegant dancers. Her heart thundered in her chest.
The first scandal, the one that ruined her, had occurred in a darkened library, and the memory of it loomed large inside her mind.
If she was wise, she would refuse to go, but she sensed that if she did, she might learn something.
She could not precisely put a name to what that something might be, but she sensed that it might answer why her body was so strange around him.
If she was one of Shakespeare’s heroines, like Viola, she would disguise herself and arrive in her own stead, but such trickery did not work in the real world.
Clarissa Harlowe would have fled. Richardson had written her as a good, honest woman.
The novels were filled with good, honest women who knew better than to let themselves chase men like this, who asked young ladies to meet them in dark, isolated places.
But Bridget was not a good, honest woman. She was Pandora, desperately curious and anxious to know.