Page 26 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
He had left Lady Bridget without an escort. Was she still gazing at the painting of those two lovers in their passionate embrace, or had some other work captured her attention? Anthony remembered how the color had risen to her face when he’d asked her opinions on art. She blushed beautifully; her flushes were a single, unbroken stroke of pink across her cheeks and nose. Lady Bridget had the natural feminine beauty that some many ladies of the ton tried to imitate with cosmetics made by their clever lady’s maids.
It would be an injustice to let that young woman in the bloom of her youth and with so much potential marry a monster like the Marquess of Thornton. She deserved someone who was kind and gentle, someone not prone to bouts of anger. If the man behaved in such a manner before an audience, Anthony could only imagine how he might be willing to behave when he had no one to witness his careless cruelty.
“Here it is,” Lady Rose said.
The painting was of a small, sparsely furnished room. There was a desk and a chair, upon which sat a common woman. She had fallen asleep while writing a missive of some manner and cradled her head in her folded arms. The general feeling from the painting was one of soft, thoughtful reflection.
“When you said the painting reminded you of your father, I assumed that a man would be the subject.”
Lady Rose laughed. “I suppose that is a reasonable conclusion to make. But no, I just remember finding my father in his study, asleep at his desk in precisely that same manner. And even the candle—see how it has burned low by her elbow?”
He did, noting that the gentle light from the candle gave the painting a warm focus, despite the shadows that covered much of the piece.
“What is it called?”
“The Woman Who Wants to Write,” Lady Rose said.
That was not a particularly clever title. Anthony’s lips twitched in amusement. “I understand why you like it so much. It is a well-crafted piece.”
“I want to hang it in the drawing room,” Lady Rose said, “if it will not vex you.”
“It would not,” Anthony replied. “I suppose it is far past the time for me to decorate the townhouse, anyway.”
He had made few changes since inheriting the title of the Duke of Hamilton. Anthony had assumed that Catherine might wish to make some changes, but she had informed him that the townhouse was his and ought to reflect his tastes.
“Thank you!” Lady Rose exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “You are wonderful!”
Anthony shook his head. “I would not claim that at all.”
Lady Rose smiled. “You should be kinder to yourself.”
“I will try that.”
Lady Rose looked at him with such earnest belief that Anthony felt something deep inside him soften. She was too good to be thrust into this world of ton politics.
“Your friend Lady Bridget,” Anthony said, “is a good woman.”
“She is,” Lady Rose replied. “She is like… like a star in an otherwise dark sky. I am very fortunate to have befriended her so quickly.”
“I have given some thought to her situation,” Anthony said, looking around the hall. They were not alone, but none of the other guests seemed to be paying them any mind. “And I have decided to agree to your plan.”
Lady Rose’s face brightened. “Truly?”
“Yes. I will pretend to court your friend, so she may avoid marrying Lord Thornton.”
“We must tell her at once!” Lady Rose explained. “She will be delighted!”
Anthony shook his head as Lady Rose looked about, her bright gaze doubtlessly searching for Lady Bridget. The thought of seeing Lady Bridget again sent a shiver of delight down his spine. Even better, he would be delivering excellent news to her. Anthony recalled that warm, final smile he had given her.
He doubted that he would be able to think of anything else.
Chapter 13
Bridget’s heart raced, her thoughts consumed with the Duke of Hamilton. He was so terribly handsome. She kept thinking of their conversation, playing it over and over in her mind. Bridget had wandered through the rest of the exhibit and at last, had returned to the painting of the lovers joined in a tight embrace.
Had His Grace felt the same way she had? Did he experience that strange and powerful spark radiating from deep in his chest? Bridget forced down the lump that rose in her throat. She stared at the painting, her eyes tracing the curve of the woman’s breasts down to her shapely thighs. Bridget dared to imagine that it was herself arranged like that, her head thrown back and her body pressed against such a compelling specimen of manhood.
She dared to imagine it was the Duke of Hamilton whose embrace she was intertwined with. A jolt shot through her, making all her senses come alive. Her body seemed to warm at the thought. She imagined his hands on her breasts, his thumbs coaxing her nipples into small, pink rosebuds. Bridget’s breath shuddered, and between her legs, she felt an unfamiliar twinge of need and pleasure. It was not often that she thought of her maidenhood.
