Page 66 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
Bridget turned away, stealthily crossing the garden. She knew Anthony watched her, and the thought of his eyes being focused solely on her filled Bridget with excitement. Lady Hastings hadn’t even given her the name of the alleged lady.
There were reasons for keeping the lady’s name a secret. Bridget knew that. However, she only had Lady Hastings’s account of what had transpired between Anthony and this mysterious lady. Surely that was not enough information for Bridget to make an informed decision about how to approach her growing love for Anthony.
She must learn more before making a decision, and until she knew more, Bridget would continue as she had before. She would work to make Anthony love her, as she did him.
Bridget entered the manor, pausing by a mirror. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were bright. There was nothing discernibly different about her appearance, yet she felt as though she surely looked changed, as if anyone who saw her would realize instinctively that she had done something inappropriate in the garden.
“Bridget! There you are!” Rose’s cheerful voice lilted in the air.
Bridget smiled and turned to face her friend. “You played beautifully.”
Rose arched an eyebrow. ‘Did you hear me play? I saw you leave.”
“Apologies,” Bridget said with a genuine flood of guilt. “I was feeling ill, so I went to sit in the parlor for a moment. You know I become so anxious when performing before a crowd.”
“I know,” Rose said, her expression softening. “I was surprised that you agreed.”
Bridget smiled wryly. “My mother refused to accept anything except my enthusiastic agreement.”
“You did well,” Rose said. “You looked quite confident and played wonderfully. His Grace could scarcely look away from you. I saw him exchange a few words with my mother and Lady Hastings, but I suspect they were discussing your performance, for the duke kept returning his eyes to you.”
Bridget felt that familiar, dreaded heat return to her face. Anthony had done far more that evening than watch her performance. She ached to tell Rose about what had happened in the garden, but she knew she could not. Her amorous congress with Anthony would have to remain a secret.
“What are you doing here?” she asked instead.
“Searching for you,” Rose said, cheerfully linking her arm with Bridget’s. “I wanted to be the first person to congratulate you on your wonderful performance.”
“You are too kind to me,” Bridget replied.
“Nonsense.”
This was good. If Bridget reappeared in the ballroom with Rose, the ton would be less likely to gossip about her disappearance. Then Anthony would arrive on his own, ensuring no one would suspect them of having left together.
Bridget smiled. As much as she longed to tell Rose about what had transpired in the garden, another part of her was delighted to have a secret. It made her feel like the heroine in a romance, doing something daring and forbidden. In the afterglow of her passionate moment with Anthony, everything in the world seemed possible, and Lady Hastings and her warning felt very far away.
Chapter 30
The next day, Anthony paced across the floor in the studio, his thoughts consumed by Bridget. Her mostly finished portrait graced the studio, placed in a spot of honor beside the completed painting of Anastasia. In his opinion, the painting was not nearly as good as one that Anastasia herself would have painted, but it was recognizably her. It was his best work by far.
After the recital, he had made some adjustments to Bridget’s portrait, choosing to depict her as seated at the pianoforte. He had finished her hair and face, and one eye closely resembled the actual thing. The other was a mass of shapeless color, but Anthony felt that the overall image would be serviceable once it was complete.
He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the image, his heart racing as he remembered the feeling of his fingers inside Bridget. She had felt so warm and tight, her inner walls pulsing against him. Anthony groaned. Every time he remembered her clamped around his fingers, her heaving breasts, reddened face, and breathless moans, his muscles grew taut. He had ached to sheath himself inside her, but Anthony could not penetrate the young lady in the gardens. That would be a step too far, and he could not frighten her away.
He had shown her pleasure, which she had accepted eagerly. Anthony had been as gentlemanly as he could have been while giving the lady pleasure, and he felt the sharp sting of regret that he had not taken some pleasure himself.
Anthony adjusted himself and sat before Bridget’s portrait. His gaze fixed on her full breasts, which he had painted with such care and attention that he found himself becoming aroused at just the sight of them. How artists managed to paint entirely nude women and maintain their composure, he had not the faintest notion.
A light knock sounded. “Enter!” Anthony called.
The door opened and closed. “You asked for me, Your Grace?”
“So I did,” Anthony replied.
“Is something the matter?”
“Why would you assume that something is awry?” Anthony asked, gesturing for James to sit across from him.
The man pulled a chair over and lowered himself into it. “It is rare that you ask for me outside of my usual duties, especially when you are in this room.”
