Page 24 of Redemption for the Baron

“Ah.” Blackwood raised an elegant eyebrow. “The lady reveals her intellect and independent spirit.”

Bridget tilted her head, her smile deepening. “Alas, it didnae go weel,” she said, her Scottish burr thickening as she relaxed into her words. “Ye’d ha’ thought I’d challenged him to a duel! Mony a man, whether here or there, cannae handle a lass who wields words sharper than a saber.”

For a heartbeat, the room was silent before erupting into hearty laughter.

Lord Davenport chuckled, shaking his head. “A duel of wits, indeed! I daresay the poor professor didn’t stand a chance.”

Lady Worthington pressed a gloved hand to her chest, eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, Lady Bridget, you are a delight! I can only imagine his astonishment.”

The admiration around the table was undeniable. Bridget had won the moment, but when she glanced toward Grenville,he was the only one who wasn’t laughing. His expression remained contemplative rather than amused, his gaze lingering on her. It wasn’t disapproving, but discerning, as if he were assessing what lay beneath the clever words.

He sees me. The thought flickered through Bridget’s mind, unbidden and unsettling.

As the laughter subsided, Blackwood caught her eye and he raised his glass. “You must have been a formidable opponent. Perhaps the professor learned a valuable lesson that day.”

She inclined her head with a playful smile. “One can only hope, Lord Blackwood. Education should be a two-way street, after all.”

Marjory, her eyes dancing with delight, chimed in. “Well said, Bridget. Now, shall we continue?”

When it was Captain Grenville’s turn, he drew his card and read aloud, “Recite a favorite poem or verse that holds personal meaning.”

“Very well.” Grenville paused thoughtfully, placing the card down on the table with deliberate care. The dancing shadows caused by the soft candlelight accentuated the sharp lines of his face. His fingers drummed on the table, and for a few heartbeats, he seemed to withdraw into himself.

Finally, he lifted his gaze slowly, settling it not on the guests but somewhere distant. His eyes reflected a quiet intensity, a hint of melancholy flickering beneath the surface. He sat with his hands clasped lightly before him as though grounding himself, took a breath, and began. He recited Blake’s verse with deliberate intensity.

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand,

And a Heaven in a Wild flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.”

When he finished, silence clung to the air like a held breath. Grenville exhaled, his gaze shifting, as if returning from somewhere distant. “William Blake’s words remind me that even the smallest moments hold infinite meaning.”

Bridget’s fingers curled around her glass. Unexpected. Unsettling. His voice carried a quiet reverence that made her question, just for a moment, whether he was truly the man she had judged him to be.

For an instant, his gaze found hers. Something passed between them, something graver than she cared to name. Recognition? Understanding? Whatever it was, it unsettled her. Then, as if aware of the moment’s significance, he looked away, his expression unreadable. There was, perhaps, the faintest hint of color touching his cheeks, though whether from the warmth of the wine or something more, it was impossible to tell.

It was Blackwood’s turn. He drew the truth card. “Have you ever kept a secret that could alter someone’s perception of you?”

He paused, brushing his fingers over the card before he lifted his gaze. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “But don’t we all have our own secrets to keep?”

As the game continued, Lady Worthington chose a dare card to share a piece of advice she had once been given. With a twinkle in her eye, she proclaimed, “Never underestimate the art of listening. A well-timed ear gathers the best gossip.”

An uproar of laughter filled the room, lightening the mood of the room.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, anticipation of the following day’s equestrian chase, playful jabs about Marjory’s penchant for card games, and the odd humor of the gathering, the focus gradually drifted back to the broader group.

Marjory’s announcement that the ladies would soon join her on the terrace temporarily dispersed the lingering tension.Stepping outside, Blackwood remarked quietly as Bridget and he moved to a quieter corner, “You handle him well.”

Bridget’s lips tightened in a half-smile. “I’m not handling anything, just enduring.”

Blackwood chuckled softly. “Perhaps tomorrow’s chase will offer a welcome distraction.”

Her reply was gentle, almost wistful, “One can only hope.” Yet, even amid the light chatter and clinking glasses, Bridget’s thoughts repeatedly returned to that intense moment during Grenville’s recitation, the openness in his eyes, the vulnerability that betrayed a hidden side of him. She wondered, against her better judgment, if that glimpse might hint at something more than mere English arrogance.

Outside, on the terrace beneath the stars, Bridget leaned against the cool stone balustrade. The night air carried the sweet scents of roses and night-blooming jasmine, mingling with the distant strains of laughter drifting through the open door.

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