Chapter 31
Bridget’s eyes were bright with excitement, as she seated herself in Lewis’s usual box.
The theater was awash with gentle, flickering candlelight that lent a warm glow to Bridget’s face.
This was where she was comfortable and happy.
Lewis forced his gaze away from her face, irrationally afraid that she might notice him looking too fondly at her.
It was a ridiculous fear to have, but after their argument, a strange vulnerability had gripped him.
It was as though he had bared his soul to Bridget and was waiting for her to reveal that their seeming harmony was only another scheme.
“I have never seen As You Like It performed on stage,” Bridget said, leaning forward eagerly in her seat. “But Rosalind is my favorite Shakespearean heroine.”
“Is that so?” Lewis asked.
He supposed that he should not be surprised that Bridget favored Rosalind, who was adventurous and witty. She seemed like the exact character who Bridget would probably want to be.
“Oh, yes,” Bridget said. “I will confess something else to you. When I was a girl, I was fascinated by actresses. I even told Elias that I wanted to be one because I always found them so beautiful and magical. There is a charm in being able to transform into so many different characters, to reinvent yourself over and over.”
Lewis slowly nodded. “I can understand the appeal in that. I think we all want to reinvent ourselves on occasion.”
Bridget turned her head to him and searched his face for something. Lewis could not have said what it was or if Bridget found it, but at last, she offered him a small, shy smile. “I find it difficult to believe that you would want to reinvent yourself.”
“Why is that?”
“You seem so assured in who you are and so strict with yourself.”
“I must be,” Lewis said.
“Must be or want to be?”
He considered the question. “Maybe a little of both,” he said. “Some of it has been necessary to care for my grandmother, but I suppose some of it is by choice.”
The mention of his grandmother caused an uneasy silence to fall, and Lewis mentally winced, wondering if Bridget might be thinking once more about their argument.
“Well,” she said at last. “I am glad you brought me here. If you can develop a fondness for taking me to the theater more often, maybe that will be enough.”
The comment was weakly delivered, and a small, indignant part of Lewis thought that the goal was too achievable, too simple. Nevertheless, he was not too proud to ignore the olive branch that had been offered to him.
“We can come as much as you like,” Lewis said.
Bridget nodded. “I would like that very much.”
The play began, and Bridget’s eyes snapped to the stage.
She watched the actors with rapt attention, and while she watched them, Lewis watched her.
Bridget’s face was so open that every emotion was readily apparent.
He could tell at even a fleeting glance when she was delighted or frustrated, and often, he caught sight of her lips silently repeating the lines alongside the actors.
Lewis had never been a man who enjoyed plays in silence.
He preferred to whisper to his companions, offering commentary on the show, but he remained silent.
Bridget looked like a woman caught in a beautiful enchantment, and he had no wish to break the spell that Shakespeare’s words had cast over her.
Instead, he let himself settle in the companionable silence beside her.
At last, the play came to its happy ending, and Bridget applauded enthusiastically. “A brilliant performance,” she said.
“Yes,” Lewis replied. “I hope it was everything you hoped it would be, being your favorite play and all.”
“It was,” Bridget said, sighing dreamily. “The actress captured Rosalind’s free spirit so well! And the scene with the poems nailed to the trees!”
Lewis did not realize he was smiling until his jaw began to hurt. “I have never met anyone who is as enthusiastic about the Bard as you.”
“You don’t like Shakespeare’s plays?” Bridget asked, looking aghast.
“I like them well enough,” he said, “but…”
Lewis was at a loss to explain what he meant, that there was the most infectious light in Bridget’s love for Shakespeare. It was as though she was the sun, emerging after weeks of dreary and rainy days, and Lewis wanted nothing more than to bask in her light.
She turned in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Which play is your favorite?”
“Hamlet.”
Bridget nodded. “You look like the sort of man who favors Hamlet.”
Lewis laughed. “How can you determine something like that just by looking at me?”
“It is a gift,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Shall I show you?”
He shook his head. “I do not believe you, but proceed.”
Bridget frowned and looked as though she was concentrating very hard on the crowd around them. “Do you see the gentleman wearing that poorly tailored blue jacket? With the white hair?”
Lewis nodded.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Bridget said with such conviction that Lewis laughed.
“You cannot possibly know that is his preference. Anyone can point at someone and name a Shakespeare play. Look!” He gestured to Lady Everleigh. “Macbeth.”
Bridget shook her head. “Oh no! She favors something more romantic. I would wager that Romeo and Juliet is her favorite.”
“And you know this by looking at her or because you know her?” Lewis asked, amused.
“I barely know her,” Bridget said. “She is one of Gerard’s acquaintances. I certainly do not know her well enough to determine her favorite play. Fortunately, her appearance is sufficient enough to know.”
“I see.”
Sometimes, she left him utterly adrift, but this time, it was in a rather pleasant way.
“You have no choice but to concede to my expertise,” she said proudly.
“So I do.”
“Can you believe she is here?” the whisper came from behind.
Bridget did not seem to notice, for she had leaned over the railing of the box and was telling him about what plays she had surmised everyone loved.
Lewis leaned forward, a prickling sensation creeping along his spine.
Someone had halted outside of his box, and there was no mystery about who she referenced.
“It is disgraceful,” came another whisper. “To have that strumpet around such proper company.”
“I suppose there is no accounting for taste.”
A titter of feminine laughter followed.
Lewis clenched his jaw, his muscles growing taut. Bridget glanced over her shoulder. Seeing his expression, her face fell at once into one of concern. “Are you well? You look…distraught.”
He was beyond distraught. Bridget looked so beautiful standing by the railing.
She had loved coming to the theater, and it struck him as a grave injustice that anyone would come here and diminish Bridget’s enjoyment, even in a little way.
A fury unlike any Lewis had ever experienced before rose inside him, coursing like a wildfire through his veins.
“Be careful,” a man’s voice said. “She is probably trying to seduce another man as we speak!”
Bridget stiffened, and Lewis saw the exact moment that she heard the whispers, too. “Well,” Bridget said quietly. “I suppose I should have expected nothing less.”
“No,” Lewis said through clenched teeth.
She should have expected better. She deserved better.
Lewis’s body seemed to move without conscious thought, and he ripped aside the curtain leading into his box. Lady Susan stood there in the company of two gentlemen, one of whom was laughing.
Lewis’s fist collided with the man’s face a heartbeat before he realized what he had done. Lady Susan shrieked and leaped back. The gentleman who Lewis had punched stumbled back, swearing. “What is the matter with you?”
“Do not insult my wife’s honor,” Lewis said.
The other gentleman, who had pushed himself behind Lady Susan, merely gawked at him. “It—it was only a jest, Your Grace.”
“No, it was not,” Lewis said.
He had the wild thought that he might punch that man, too.
“Lewis?” Bridget’s soft voice summoned Lewis back to the reality of the situation.
He pulled himself up as straight as he could, his knuckles aching and his heart racing. What had he done? Lewis gave a curt nod. “My duchess and I are going home. Have a pleasant evening.”
Bridget followed him, uncharacteristically quiet. Lewis felt her eyes on him, though. She was assessing him with a sharp intensity. And why wouldn’t she? He had never behaved like that before.
It was exciting and horrifying all at once. Lewis did not know if he wanted to return to the injured man and apologize or punch him again, so he forced himself to keep walking until he reached the waiting coach and settled inside.
Bridget sat across from him. The coach jolted into motion.
Lewis ran his hands through his hair and scowled at his reflection. “I—I suppose I should explain myself,” he said.
“What is there to explain? A man insulted me, and you punched him. I suppose I should thank you for defending my honor,” Bridget said. “I know how important your self-control is to you. It was selfless of you to break that for me.”
He shook his head. “There was nothing selfless about it. I did not even think about punching him or my honor. I was thinking about you and only you.”
Their eyes met.
“Me?” Bridget asked. “Do you care so much about me that you would risk a scandal? I know that gentleman; he is a cousin of Lord Arlington, and he will be upset with you.”
“I know. But you have—you have—I do not know,” Lewis said. “I suppose you have gotten to me, and I could not endure those vicious remarks about you. Not while you enjoyed yourself so much today.”
When he tried to explain it all, Lewis felt ridiculous. He imagined that the image he presented to the ton at the theater was even more absurd. The comments had not even been that terrible. Certainly, Bridget had heard worse.
“Well, I thought it was rather romantic,” Bridget said after a heartbeat, “even if you should not have done it. Sir Gawain himself could not have thrown a better punch.”
Lewis doubted he came even close to being Sir Gawain, who was undoubtedly one of Bridget’s admired romantic heroes.
“Sir Gawain would have used his sword,” Lewis said.
“Details,” Bridget said, waving dismissively. “I am certain the good knight would have punched someone if it was warranted.”
Lewis tilted his head, considering her fair face through the inconsistent light of the streetlamps. “I suppose I can see how that scene might be misconstrued as romantic.”
“I find that romance and societal rules do not always match,” Bridget said. “That is most unfortunate.”
“Yes, it is.”
“But,” Bridget continued. “What happens next? After the valiant knight has defended his lady’s honor and they have both ridden to his beautiful castle together, what happens?”
“I am certain that you know,” Lewis said. “I will confess that I have not read so much as you, but the texts about knights and ladies make it abundantly clear what happens next.”
“They make each other passing glad,” Bridget said. “I know, but what does that mean? The specifics?”
His eyes darted to Bridget’s chest and lower, to the place between her thighs. Was it presumptuous of him to assume that she was as aroused by him as he was by her? His body ached for her, and he wanted…
He wanted to make her happy, like she had been in the theater watching Shakespeare’s play.
Lewis’s eyes darted to her full lips. “Perhaps I should show you what it means.”
With every word, his control threatened to snap. He had never needed anyone as badly as he needed her, and Lewis was prepared to do anything to please her.
Bridget audibly gasped. “You do not mean…”
“Why not?” he asked. “No time like the present. Bridget, please.”