Page 30 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
“And you thought it was true. You did not knowingly deceive her. No matter how hard you try to cast yourself as the villain in this matter, I will not agree with you, Your Grace.”
Anthony’s lips twitched in amusement. “Let us suppose that I order you to agree with me.”
“In that case, I will lie.”
Anthony raised his glass in a mock toast. “Truly, you are the best of valets,” he said. “But I fear you cannot persuade me. Even if I did not force her marriage to Lord Hastings, I am nonetheless responsible for the event that caused it.”
“Then why are we discussing this matter?” asked James. “If you will not be convinced otherwise, I do not imagine there is anything more to say, Your Grace.”
Anthony sighed. “I suppose you are right. I suspect that, by talking about the matter, I had hoped to put it from my mind.I am thinking of so many things these days and about so many women.”
“Ah, yes. Lady Rose’s friend.”
“I agreed to pretend to court her,” Anthony said, his spirits lifting when he thought of Lady Bridget’s lively green eyes.
He remembered the sight of her standing before that painting, and his pulse jumped. Anthony was not a man who particularly enjoyed hanging salacious art about his townhouse, but he fought the urge to purchase the painting and hang it in his bedchamber. He imagined taking Lady Bridget to the room, of watching her eyes grow wide and her coral lips part as she saw the painting. Anthony shivered in delight.
It was only a fantasy, a dream that would never come true, but he dared to imagine more. He thought of taking her to bed and ravishing her beneath that painting, of their bodies meeting in the heat of passion. That delicate flush of pink would spread over her pale skin, and she would throw her head back, curls fanning out behind her.
Anthony poured himself another glass of brandy. It was inappropriate of him to think about Lady Bridget in such a manner, especially after he had just thought of his own disgraceful behavior toward Lady Hastings.
“That sounds as if it will be entertaining,” James said.
Anthony nearly choked on his drink. “Will it?”
“Of course—how many men in the ton pretend to court a lady? And with her consent, no less?”
Right. That was what their conversation had consisted of, not Anthony’s desire to share his bed with Lady Bridget. It was all because of that absurd painting, too. He was certain that if he had not seen Lady Bridget gazing at the artwork with such sharp intensity, he would have never found himself interested in her.
“I do not know of any,” Anthony conceded, “but I do not imagine there is a good way to raise that question in conversation. For my part, I shall try dearly to act as though I love her. I am sure I can manage that.”
At least he could feign his affection until the Marquess of Thornton conceded defeat. Anthony was unsure how long that would take or if it would all happen as smoothly as they hoped. Still, it was worth a try.
“I feel like if I can help her,” Anthony continued, “that it might be a small penance of sorts. Whether or not I am to blame for Lady Hastings and her unpleasant marriage, perhaps I can spare Lady Bridget from one. That will please both her and Lady Rose.”
“Indeed.” James paused. “Is it important that you please both of them?”
“What do you mean?”
James frowned. There was a certain expression that he adopted when he wanted to say something a little too bold, and Anthony knew it well.
“You might as well voice your thoughts,” Anthony said. “It is the Season. Even if I were to take offense, I could not possibly rid myself of you. There is an impressive lack of effective valets in London.”
“I am charmed, Your Grace.”
“You should be. I do not deliver compliments lightly. Now, what did you mean?”
“I know that you have been unsure about your role as Lady Rose’s guardian,” James said. “That is all.”
Anthony nodded. “That is nothing to do with Lady Rose herself. She is a lovely young lady, and I suppose I do want her to be happy. Hopefully, I shall find her a suitable match this Season. She is a very romantic lady. I suspect she hopes some knight in shining armor will sweep her off her feet and carry her away atop a white horse.”
“I am sure some lord among the ton has armor.”
Anthony chuckled. “Do you remember the suit of armor that my father used to show to everyone?”
James grinned. “The one that was worn by Henry VIII?”
“Allegedly,” Anthony said, gesturing with his glass, “because all historical records relating to the armor’s creation were conveniently lost to time.”
