Page 6 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
“I could not sleep. Hearing your distress, I thought to see if you were well.”
Heat rushed to Bridget’s face. She wondered if she was the reason that Elizabeth was unable to rest. The lady’s maid slept in a chamber that was connected to Bridget’s own, and Elizabeth slept lightly. Sound of Bridget’s restlessness might travel quite easily through the walls.
“I am,” Bridget said. “I was only thinking about… well, about what I discussed with Rose. About the marquess.”
“Indeed?”
Bridget sat upright and drew her knees up to her chest. “I do not wish to marry him. He is so old, and I have never liked him. I know it is unkind to say.”
She thought of the wedding night, too. Bridget was a virgin, as expected of a young lady, but that did not mean she was ignorant about what a man and woman were meant to do after their nuptials. The Marquess of Thornton expected an heir, too. If Bridget did not conceive one on their wedding night, she would be forced to endure many more amorous encounters with the man, and the thought made her stomach lurch.
“It is not unkind,” Elizabeth replied gently. “You cannot help how you feel, only how you express those feelings.”
“Like complaining to my lady’s maid?” Bridget asked dryly.
“Sometimes, sharing one’s concerns can achieve a certain clarity,” Elizabeth replied. “Do you wish to share them? I can brew you some tea, perhaps.”
“No, I could not bother you with that,” Bridget said. “In truth, I… I do not even wish to share. Or maybe I do. It is difficult to say.”
“Indeed!”
“I am upset because I can find no solution, save for what the marquess proposes,” Bridget clarified.
Her thoughts went unbidden to the Duke of Hamilton. She shivered with delight, her toes curling into the bed when she thought of his intense gaze on her. He had been so handsome that she had almost forgotten her ruined dress, and when he spoke in that low timbre, Bridget had heard music. His voice was like the softest roll of thunder in a spring storm.
He would never wish to wed her, obviously, but she had felt attraction toward him, at least. That was far more feeling than the Marquess of Thornton had ever inspired in her. Besides, Rose had spoken of His Grace; he was distant, but not unkind. Bridget had not the faintest idea how the marquessbehaved when he was at his estate and away from the prying eyes of the ton.
“Perhaps marriage to him would not be too dreadful,” Elizabeth said. “He is honest about what he wants. That is more than can be said of some men.”
His honesty was not especially appealing when she knew it would necessitate sharing his bed night after night. Once, the thought of such intimacy had filled Bridget with anticipation and delight. She had imagined that she would marry a man she loved and fall into his arms at night, delighting in their romantic entanglements.
Now, that fantasy seemed like nothing more than the silly dream of a girl who had awakened to a crushing reality.
“I suppose that is true,” Bridget said reluctantly. “I am still not particularly fond of being sold like a brood-mare. Besides, the marquess has married before, and that marriage did not produce any heirs. Who is to say that I will?”
Elizabeth remained silent.
Bridget grimaced. If she could not bear Lord Thornton a son, how many times would he insist on trying to conceive? Could he even give her the pleasure she desired from such encounters? Bridget knew some physicians believed that a woman’s pleasure was necessary to achieve pregnancy, but shecould not fathom deriving any pleasure from sharing the bed of a man who was older than her own father.
“I am sure that all will be well, my lady,” Elizabeth said at last.
Bridget knew her lady’s maid said that only to comfort her. What else could she do? What could either of them do?
She fell back onto her bed, thinking about Rose’s handsome guardian. She did not wish to wed a man whom she did not love, but marrying someone like him—who was handsome and nearer to her own age—seemed like a much better prospect than the Marquess of Thornton.
“Many ladies wed men who are much older than them,” Bridget said.
“Indeed, they do,” Elizabeth agreed.
“And surely, some of them are happy couples who delight in one another’s company.”
“I am sure, my lady.”
Bridget tried to imagine that. She felt like a good daughter would hope for that. If she were better, she would confront her father about the overheard conversation and express her desireto fulfill his wishes by wedding the Marquess of Thornton. She would act as though she were delighted at her union, and she would hope that she and Lord Thornton might become friends.
But Bridget was not that better woman. She was a young lady with desires that did not involve marrying that man.
“Have you any desire to wed?” Bridget asked.
