Page 50 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
“Oh,” Lady Victoria said. “Perhaps it will return to you.”
“Perhaps.”
Anthony gratefully accepted the tea that was placed before him and sipped it, enjoying the delicate blend of sweetness and mint. It was an appropriate distraction.
“I have never heard Lord Elmonde’s poetry,” Lady Rose said. “Have you, Your Grace?”
Anthony shook his head. “Elmonde wrote extensively during his time at Cambridge, and I heard discussion of his works. I have never read it myself, but everyone that has ever spoken of his verse has enjoyed it.”
“I have heard that Lord Elmonde sometimes favors rather salacious subjects,” Lady Rose said mischievously.
Lady Victoria gasped. “Rose!”
“I am only repeating what I have heard,” Lady Rose said. “Evidently, there is a poem about Tristan and Isolde, which is quite sensational.”
“I doubt that the poem he reads before the ton will be that sensational,” Anthony said. “I am sure that he will observe the appropriate amount of decorum.”
One would hope, anyway. Anthony forced down the lump that rose in his throat. Being so near Bridget would be difficult enough without having his less-than-gentlemanly thoughts accompanied by a salacious poem.
Chapter 23
The poetry reading was held in Lord Elmonde’s lavish library. Bridget had found her gaze wandering over the shelves, trying to read the titles of the volumes, which surely numbered in the thousands. She had never seen such a large library in her entire life. Anna sat to her right, and ordinarily, Bridget would have delighted in her sister’s conversation. However, Anna’s attention was thoroughly consumed by the handsome Mr. Russell, who sat beside her.
Bridget’s attention was admittedly also otherwise occupied, for she had seen Rose and Anthony enter the library, accompanied by Lady Victoria. Even as Lord Elmonde—a young man with dark hair and mischievous green eyes—stood before them and read his poem, Bridget found it difficult not to let her gaze drift to Anthony.
Is he also looking at me?
She kept looking at him because they were pretending to have romantic intentions toward one another. Bridget’s face warmed, and she forced her eyes forward. Lord Elmonde’s poem was about two star-crossed lovers, who met only during the dark of night.
“And he caressed her thighs, as pale as moonlight,” Lord Elmonde read.
He had a good voice for reading poems, deep and dark and full of passion. Bridget shivered and pressed her own thighs together. The scene Lord Elmonde painted was of the lovers intertwined with one another on a carpet of soft grass. Bridget imagined herself in the heroine’s place, exposed to the night with a light breeze drifting over her and grass swaying against her thighs.
Bridget’s mind readily supplied Anthony’s face as that of the poem’s hero, who traced his hands along the heroine’s body and placed gentle kisses on her breasts, neck, and lips. A lump rose in her throat, and her heart thundered against her ribs. She felt certain that everyone surely noticed how her body reacted to the images that Lord Elmonde crafted with mere words. Bridget dared glance at Anthony. His eyes met hers.
Bridget shivered and forced her attention back to Lord Elmonde. She was so lost in her fantasies that she scarcely noticed when the poem concluded. Bridget hastened to join the applause of the impressed lords and ladies.
“What a marvelous piece!” Anna exclaimed.
“Indeed,” Mr. Russell said. “I found myself quite moved by every word.”
Bridget nodded and said nothing. She did not trust her voice to remain steady, and she was almost certain that Mr. Russell had found the poem appropriately romantic, as a gentleman ought. Bridget became aware of the dampness between her legs, and she took a steadying breath. If there were any more poetry readings offered by Lord Elmonde, she would have to respectfully decline the invitations.
Her body was hot with desire. Everything inside her felt tight, and she trembled a little as she rose from her chair. Around her, guests discussed their impressions of the poem, but Bridget scarcely heard a word of it. She felt out of place and out of time, her body filled with a strange and new frustration to which she could find no easy solution.
“Shall we explore some of Lord Elmonde’s volumes?” Mr. Russell asked.
Anna laughed. Bridget turned toward her sister in time to see Anna place her hand on Mr. Russell’s arm. The pair quickly crossed the room and went to one of the shelves of books, chuckling and whispering as they went. Bridget looked away. She felt as though she were watching a private moment. In all likelihood, Anna and Mr. Russell were going to slip away and share a gentle kiss.
A throat cleared. “Bridget.”
Bridget’s toes curled in her slippers. “Anthony,” she said, lifting her eyes to his.
He stood a respectable distance away, but near enough to touch if she only tried. Bridget’s fingers itched to reach forward and grasp his strong arms or to wrap her arms around his neck. They could share another kiss. It would be a simple enough matter to sneak behind a bookshelf unnoticed.
“I am pleased to see you here,” Anthony said.
“As I am you.”
