Page 31 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
His father had been a clever man in many respects, but he was dreadfully gullible in some others. He would buy anything and everything if the seller insisted that it was valuable, and in his later years, Anthony’s father had devoted himself to studying medieval alchemical texts. He was the sort of person who the ton tactfully referred to as eccentric.
“He was a good man, your father,” James said.
Anthony nodded. “The best. Even his flaws were so endearing that they could scarcely be considered flaws, and he left me with everything I needed to survive in this world. That the dukedom has not already burst into flames is due to his influence. I have no doubt of that.”
It had been good that Anthony’s father had taught him so much, for Anthony had never anticipated becoming the Duke of Hamilton.
“I wonder if Catherine will grace us with her presence for the rest of the Season,” Anthony mused.
James stifled a yawn, and Anthony cast him a sympathetic look. He was not remotely tired, his thoughts still consumed with all the women in his life. It was strange how he had thought so seldom of the fairer sex following Anastasia’s death, but now, his entire world seemed consumed by thoughts of women.
“It is time to retire,” Anthony said. “I am not so cruel as to give you another sleepless night, James.”
“It is not cruelty. I am pleased to serve you, even in the late hours of the night.”
“Almost morning, now,” Anthony replied. “I am truly fortunate to have you.”
He was fortunate to have many things, Anthony thought, and among all those wonderful things, Lady Bridget’s pretty face loomed large.
Chapter 15
Bridget sat at the pianoforte, playing a cheerful melody. Across the room, Anna held a book between her hands, but Bridget wondered if her sister was even really reading it. Whenever Bridget cast her a glance, Anna seemed to be looking at the doorway of the drawing room. They were waiting for callers, and thus far, no one had come. Their mother, Lady Louise Crampton, had seated herself across the room, working on her embroidery and talking with her lady’s maid.
Bridget glanced again at her sister, so distracted by Anna’s plight that she missed a note. With a grimace, she returned her attention more fully to her music. She understood her sister’s glances toward the door. Undoubtedly, Anna was thinking of the handsome Mr. Russell, and Bridget found her own thoughts wandering just as much. She could not forget the image of the painting from the gallery, and when she thought of that painting and His Grace, everything inside her became suffused with the most pleasant warmth. It was as though she had made some new and intimate discovery about her own desires, one she did not even have the words to describe.
“Oh!” Anna exclaimed suddenly. “Mr. Russell!”
Bridget paused in her playing and looked at the doorway, where Mr. Russell had, indeed, appeared. Bridget’s mother rosefrom her seat and smiled beatifically. “Welcome to Crampton House, Mr. Russell,” she said.
He bowed. “The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace. I was hoping to call on Lady Anna.”
“Delightful,” Anna said, rising to her feet. “I am so pleased to see you, Mr. Russell.”
Mr. Russell seated himself beside Anna, maintaining a respectable distance from her. He might not be a man of the ton, but he was exceedingly well-mannered. Bridget hummed. She wondered suddenly who he knew to be invited to the ton’s events. Perhaps that was a question for the Duke of Hamilton.
She began playing lightly, providing a soft accompaniment to Anna and Mr. Russell’s conversation. Although Bridget feigned indifference, she strained to hear what they were saying above the light, twinkling notes.
“The painting across the room is lovely,” Mr. Russell said.
“Thank you. I painted it myself.”
“Of course you did. I imagine you would have to be a woman to capture the picture of feminine grace so excellently.”
Mr. Russell was trying very hard to impress Bridget’s sister. A small smirk came to Bridget’s lips. Although the attempt seemed terribly obvious to her, a single glance at Anna revealed that the comment had left her flustered. Color had already spread across Anna’s face.
“Would you like tea and biscuits, Mr. Russell?” Anna asked.
“That would be agreeable.”
Bridget wondered if Mr. Russell truly believed that he could marry Anna. The daughters of dukes did not typically marry merchants’ sons. There was something to be said about Mr. Russell’s tenacity.
Or perhaps he really likes my sister, Bridget thought.
She hoped it was an overflow of affection on Mr. Russell’s part, but thinking about Anna’s potential suitor made Bridget think of her own. His Grace agreeing to court her was a good plan—the Marquess of Thornton would not wish to offend His Grace. Even if the plan worked, though, Bridget was unsure if that would be for the best. Her father would still have his debts. Neither she nor Anna would have a dowry, which meant they would likely have difficulty in finding any match.
Perhaps it was for the best that Mr. Russell was not really one of them. He might not anticipate an extravagant dowry, or at least he might be willing to forgive not being promised one.
He and Anna were taking a turn about the room, discussing the paintings on the walls. Bridget sighed, the sound buried beneath the notes of her music. In the heat of the moment, when Rose had excitedly told Anna that His Grace had agreed to the plan, Bridget had been elated. Her body had become alight with joy and desire at the prospect of spending more time with the Duke of Hamilton. Now, she wondered if Rose’s proposed solution would solve any of Bridget’s actual problems.
