Beguiling Bridget (2 page)

Either she was unmoved by his wink or she was blind. He smiled rakishly and noted the girl squeezing her eyes as if to inspect him. Blind it is. Pity.

“Ah, this is Lady Bridget. This is her first season, but I’m sure a man of your experience can tell these things. After all… you aren’t known to go after the young ones. No.” She patted his arm, allowing her jeweled hand to rest across his muscled forearm. “You enjoy a little spice and maturity. Do you not, my lord?”

Anthony imagined the look he gave her was similar to that of the looks foxes have when being hunted. Sweat moistened his brow, his fingers itched in his gloves, and he couldn’t peel his eyes away from the lady’s hand anymore than he could think of a way out of this predicament without obliging the elderly woman.

“My lord?” A sultry voice piped up to his right. Ah yes, the blind girl. Surely she could sense his distress even if she could not see it. “I wonder if you might get me some lemonade?”

Of course she wanted lemonade! Poor thing probably couldn’t manage on her own. “I’d be delighted.” He offered an apology to the dowager, handed her a glass of champagne, and gently took the other lady’s hand.

“My thanks,” he breathed. “I wasn’t sure if you could sense my desperate need of rescue.” He threw back the contents of his own flute and grimaced.

She gave him a peculiar look, making him think she could see straight through him. What a silly notion! She was blind, after all.

Was it possible that when a person was blind he or she would also have trouble hearing? He cleared his throat and tried again. “How are you enjoying this fine evening, my lady? Allow me to compliment your gown. All others fade away when gazing upon such a beauty.” He winked, more out of habit than anything, though he realized with irony that such a skilled wink was wasted on someone who couldn’t appreciate it.

As they reached the lemonade table, he took a glass and placed it in her hand, careful to press it into fingers until she gripped it tightly. Seeming amused, she offered a curious smile and blinked several times before asking, “Are you foxed?”

Anthony laughed and shook his head. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

Her eyes darted from right to left several times before she answered. “You’re acting like a complete fool! I wasn’t saving you, by the way. I was saving myself. I want nothing more than to be free of that lady. Her only goal in mind is to match me up with the first bachelor to come my way.”

“So, is she jotting down names then?” Anthony asked. “I do hope mine is on the top of that list.”

“Oh, you’re most assuredly on a list. Don’t believe for a second it’s mine though. I had half a mind to leave you with her just to see how such a rake could survive with an elderly woman. Pleasure her or flee? T’would be quite interesting, don’t you think?”

“Apologies, my lady, but if you cannot see, how are you able to enjoy the entertainments you seem so wrapped up in?” Anthony winced at his own insensitivity, but better he come out with it now than later.

“Whatever do you mean?” Lady Bridget asked.

“Your eyes…” Anthony motioned in front of her face.

“What about them?”

Anthony felt himself flushing. “Devil take it! Why do women make things so difficult? Your eyes, they cannot see!”

“They cannot?” she repeated.

“Because you’re blind.” Anthony thought his statement quite helpful. He patted her hand as if to give her comfort.

Lady Bridget bit her lip and tilted her head. “Blind? How did you know?”

Anthony put down his lemonade — nasty stuff to begin with — and turned his devastating smile on her yet again. “I smiled.”

“And that makes me blind?” Lady Bridget stepped closer to him, close enough for him to smell lilacs on her milky skin. Blast, how he wanted to reach out and touch her.

“Of course it does. You had no reaction whatsoever.”

“Of all the hair-brained, egotistical notions!” Lady Bridget rolled her eyes and sipped her lemonade, casting a glance back over her shoulder toward the corner from whence she had come.

Anthony knew it couldn’t be true, but she seemed bored with him if her stifled yawn and wandering gaze was any indication. If he was to win this bet, and so maintain bragging rights with his insufferable twin brother and their social circle, he had to hold her interest. He took another step toward her to regain her attention, reaching for her glass and fully intending to ask her to dance.

The step proved hazardous, however, and he felt his foot slip forward on something, causing his body to pitch backward and his arms and legs to flail in the air. The last thing Anthony remembered was a sharp pain slicing into the back of his head as he caught the edge of the refreshment table. Then darkness overtook him.

Chapter Two

A Worthy Opponent

Blind? Surely the man couldn’t be serious. Granted, he was remarkably handsome with his soft wavy brown hair and his sage green eyes trimmed with a hint of gold. If she had a propensity for such things, Bridget supposed she could easily find herself lost in his gaze.

But she did not have the propensity.

And the man was an absolute cad.

Bridget could tell by that look in his eyes, the same haughty look she had seen in a hundred men these past few weeks, that he believed she would be an easy conquest. And she had every intention of dispelling his misconception of her the moment he asked her to dance.

But as he reached for her glass, the man lost his footing and fell, flailing to the ground. Bridget stifled a shocked laugh.
Pride goeth before a destruction
, she thought and slipped away to allow enough room for others to see to the viscount’s injury.

****

The haze dissipated slowly as if he were returning from some sort of dream filled with a dashing redhead. On second thought, it was a nightmare, for his eyes made out the fuzzy image of Wilde crouched above him. The man's lips were moving, but whatever words issuing forth from him made no sense. Slowly Anthony's other senses came into focus, and confusion set in. What had happened?

“Say something, man!” Wilde was shouting in his face.

“Your breath… is reminiscent of a fire breathing dragon, Wilde. Please direct it elsewhere,” Anthony whispered in a husky voice.

Wilde rocked back on his heels, his face reddened with irritation. Behind him Ambrose laughed.

“I'd say he's recovered,” his brother announced.

Anthony sat up slowly. His head throbbed, so he reached a tremulous hand to the lump now protruding from the back of his skull. It was dry. No blood. At least he hadn’t spilled his innards in front of the lady. Nothing makes a woman more likely to swoon than a man projecting blood on her person.

The events leading to his present state began to swirl back through his mind. Lady Bridget. To where had she disappeared? Were they not just in conversation? Wasn’t she concerned for his welfare? Devil take it! A woman should know her place! She should help a man when he… had a tumble.

He cast a pensive glance around the room to search for her, but there were too many people crowding about him.

The music started up again, dispersing the concerned spectators.

Ambrose offered his hand. “Can you stand, brother?” A mischievous grin taunted Anthony from his twin's face.

“I believe so. What the devil happened?” He allowed his brother to assist him. Beside him, Wilde chuckled with a hand covering his mouth.

“You slipped on a strawberry.” He pointed to the mashed offending fruit. “Fortunately, it appears the fiend got the worst of it.”

“I hate blasted strawberries, of course that would be the culprit.”Anthony made a move to kick the fruit but stopped his childish notion when his brother piped up.

“I dare say you made quite the impression on the young lady,” Ambrose added, gesturing back to the corner where she sat once again. “She made short work of excusing herself from your company. Naturally, she waited until after you were unconscious, which I find most gracious. Pray tell, did you find yourself out of your depth?”

“Four weeks, Ambrose. This is only the first night.” Anthony seethed beneath the surface. A glimmer of doubt turned his stomach. He hoped this incident was not indicative of how the next four weeks would play out.

“I do hope your form improves, for your sake — and hers,” Ambrose said.

So do I. Oh, so do I
, Anthony thought and rubbed the sensitive lump on the back of his head once more, finally resting his gaze on the lady in question. This could prove more difficult than he originally anticipated.

Dare he make another move to speak to the girl? Her back was now facing him. Surely she was concerned! Anthony was unable to comprehend a woman who would not only watch a man fall, but also not wait to see that he was uninjured. Usually women tripped him on purpose in hopes that he would fall into their arms and be forced into marriage! It was the one reason he vigilantly looked to his feet when walking down darkened hallways. Fortunately for him, women took it as a sign of humility. Truly, it worked out perfectly.

He squinted in her direction, willing her to turn around. But after a horrifying three minutes he relented and glanced back toward the opposite side of the room, assuming Wilde and Ambrose would have returned to their usual posts. Instead he came face to face with both men. Smiles plastered on their irritating lips and arms crossed. Anthony had the sudden urge to shoot them both for their mockery.

“Move aside,” Anthony grumbled, pushing past them. He let out a string of expletives when he noticed they were following him.

“Oh, Anthony, darling!” Lady Burnside hollered at him.

Cursing again, he turned to his side. “Ah, my lady, how does the evening fare?”

She moved close enough for him to decipher that she had consumed her fair share of roasted pig and sherry and whispered, “It could be better, if you gain my meaning.”

Saints alive, the woman was strong. Her grip tightened on his forearm. Truly, he wished to be anywhere but here. Why was it that every elderly lady in the room, especially the married ones, propositioned him?

Every Season.

And every Season, Anthony rejected the poor women and prayed for temporary blindness to conveniently strike him every time a lady as notorious as Lady Burnside walked in the room. Oh, she was an attractive lady, but the dresses she wore were indecent. And when one doesn’t necessarily fit into said dresses, well… it should be said that Anthony had trouble imagining how he could escape a tryst with the woman without being smothered. That thought alone kept him awake at night.

“My lady, it seems I’ve taken ill,” Anthony apologized.

“Ill?” Wilde said from behind him.

“Yes,” Anthony confirmed. “I took a slight fall.”

Ambrose coughed wildly behind him.

“And,” Anthony continued. “I need to nurse my—”

“Pride?” Ambrose offered.

“As well as other parts of his anatomy,” Wilde chimed in cheerfully.

Lady Burnside grinned. “Nurse, you say? Oh dear me. In that case, you have happened in the right direction, my lord! You are in luck, for I can nurse you back to health!”

“How gracious,” Wilde said.

“Yes.” Ambrose coughed again. “You are a saint among sinners, my lady.”

“I do try,” she agreed. “Now how shall I help?”

Anthony hated lying — hated being mocked by his brother, and thought to himself that it couldn’t get any worse — and then…

“Aunt?” Lady Bridget approached.

Anthony inwardly cursed. He must have done something horribly offensive for God to allow him to be embarrassed twice within the same hour in front of the same beautiful girl he was supposed to be impressing.

“Ah, Bridget, my girl! I cannot attend to you just now. I have been given the task of nursing Viscount Maddox back to health! Did you know the poor gentleman was injured?”

Bridget tilted her head and offered a sly smile. “No, Aunt. Perhaps I was stricken with a momentary blindness. For although I heard a scuffle, I was unable to ascertain what unfortunate accident transpired. Whatever happened, my lord?”

Anthony glared. “Son of a—”

“Saint!” Wilde blurted. “You are such a saint, my lady, for helping Lord Maddox, but I believe the best medicine will be for us to see him home for a much needed respite.”

“Are you sure?” Lady Burnside seemed disappointed. Anthony, however, couldn’t decipher between his own aggravation with the Lady Bridget’s lack of interest and his pure fear of her aunt’s advances.

“Positive.” Ambrose winked. “Ladies, it has been a pleasure.” With a curt bow, Ambrose motioned for Anthony to follow. He had no choice but to bow to both women and pray his face wouldn’t give way to the frustration he felt at Bridget’s comment. The little minx had done it on purpose!

“Oh, Viscount Maddox?” Bridget called out as he turned to leave.

Perhaps she did care. She was only jesting; he really should give her a chance, after all—

“Be sure to sleep on your side.”

Anthony’s nostrils flared and he took a step back in her direction. “Now see here—”

“Good night to you, ladies.” Wilde pushed Anthony in front of him, making it impossible to give the girl a good set down.

****

Bridget could feel the smug grin creasing her lips as she stared after the gentlemen’s retreat. The man would be nursing more than a bruised head this evening. She’d made sure of that.

After doing her best to avoid attention from the gentlemen at the party, the last thing she needed was the Benson twins turning her into their own personal Pygmalion project. She hoped her interaction with Lord Maddox had gone unnoticed by the rest of the bachelors in attendance.

She had promised her aunt she would participate in a Season, but she had no intention of participating in the marriage mart. There were far too many other worthy aspirations in life. Yes, even for a woman. Art, literature, politics, writing. Bridget longed for the liberty to follow her own desired pursuits.

Most men expected women to sit at home and work on their needlework, or perhaps play the piano, or God forbid, visit other women who love nothing more than to gossip. She’d watched her mother’s light slowly fade as a child. Her parents had once seemed so happy, and then suddenly they weren’t. Memories of her mother reading to her and then hiding the same books she was reading replayed in Bridget’s mind, how her parents would fight when her father was again disappointed that her mother had been a bad hostess, or not ordered enough wine for the parties they had.