Page 9 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
She wondered how it would happen. Would Lord Thornton propose discreetly? Or would he coax her into an improper number of dances until it became obvious to everyone gathered what his aim was? Bridget forced down the lump that rose in her throat as she lingered by the table of refreshments.
“You seem uneasy,” Anna said, joining her sister. “What troubles you?”
Bridget feigned a light laugh. “Whoever said that something troubles me?”
“No one,” Anna replied, “but you do not often allow yourself to become a wallflower at balls. It is unusual to see you here.”
“I am a little tired. That is all.”
“You have been rather quiet for the past couple of days,” Anna pointed out. “Something is vexing you. Why will you not tell me?”
It was not Anna’s burden to bear; that was why. Bridget also suspected her sister would likewise be furious at the injustice of the situation. She would want to confront their father about it, and Bridget could not imagine that going well. Besides, there was no solution that Bridget could find, so there was no need to burden her beloved sister with her woes.
“It is nothing,” Bridget replied.
Anna furrowed her brow. “It is something if it bothers you so.”
“I am only thinking of my prospects this Season,” Bridget said. “I am anxious to find my love match. I am every Season, of course, but I find myself particularly nervous this time.”
“Why?”
“I do not want to be a spinster, do I?” Bridget asked.
Anna laughed. “You have some years yet before you will be a spinster.”
“The years can progress quickly,” Bridget said. “And besides, I am eager to fall in love.”
Falling in love was the best she could hope for—if she were to wed Lord Thornton, she would be unable to pursue a man whom she loved. Bridget fought to maintain her carefully crafted smile, knowing her sister would perceive even the smallest crack in her armor.
“How do you propose to go about falling in love?” Anna asked. “It does not seem to me as if it is something you can force.”
“I suppose not,” Bridget mused, considering the question. “Perhaps one falls in love by speaking to as many eligible young men as one can. That would increase one’s chances of a love match, I suppose.”
“Mathematically,” Anna said, “I guess that is true, but it does occur to me that there are certain matters which a lady cannot anticipate about a husband, such as how he behaves on the wedding night.”
“That is brazen,” Bridget said, glancing to see if they might have been overheard.
Although ladies were not supposed to speak about such matters openly, Anna had never cared much for conventions.Once, Bridget’s sister had insisted that she would become an artist’s muse, a model, if she were not born too well-bred for such a pursuit.
They lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment, watching as the lords and ladies of the ton danced with one another. She still did not see Lord Thornton. Nor did she see Rose. Bridget searched the crowd next for the handsome Duke of Hamilton. A little jolt of light, anxious energy shot through her when she thought of his trim, masculine figure. She would never admit it aloud, but she enjoyed looking at him. He was absent, too.
“I wonder where our host is,” she said. “He did not greet us upon arrival, and I have not seen him tonight.”
“Would you know if you had?” Anna asked. “I could not say what His Grace even looks like.”
“We have become acquainted with one another,” Bridget said. “He arrived at the park to collect Rose during our recent promenade.”
“Is he handsome?”
“Yes.”
Anna’s expression brightened. “Handsome enough that you may fall in love with him?” she asked teasingly. “Why—isthat the cause of your strange behavior? Are you attracted to His Grace?”
“No,” Bridget replied. “Any woman would agree that he is an attractive man. There is more to love than simply the way one looks, you know.”
“Oh, I do. It is only that I have developed a fine appreciation for the masculine form,” Anna said good-naturedly. “Given how intently you have studied certain works of Classical art, I suspect that you have, too.”
Bridget had never let her gaze linger on the particular aspects of Classical art that she suspected her sister meant. “You should not speak as boldly as that.”
