Page 17 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
“Thank you.”
Anthony left his study. He would not say that his unease had faded. As he walked toward his bedchamber, thoughts of Lady Bridget returned. She wore that same blue gown—Anastasia's favored color—and stood on the balcony before him, her beautiful and slender form framed by the starry sky. In his mind, he had not merely stood near her. He had taken her into his arms and touched her everywhere, like he had always wanted to do with Anastasia. Anthony even dared to imagine removing the sodden garment from her body and exposing her soft, round breasts to the air. He imagined her nipples hardening like tiny rosebuds in the coolness.
She would have looked at him with those wide, guileless eyes and her coral lips slightly parted. He imagined her tossing her head back, pins falling from those carefully crafted chestnut curls. Next, Anthony thought of her calling his name as he undressed her. She would press her body against his, shy and eager. Anthony’s trousers became familiarly tight, and his breath quickened. He entered his bedchamber and lowered his hand to his manhood, grunting from the small amount of pressure.
“Lady Bridget,” he murmured raggedly. “What have you done to me?”
He thought of Lady Rose’s idea for he and Lady Bridget to feign as though they were courting. It was a ridiculous plan, but it was no more absurd than the thought of Lady Bridget being wed to the Marquess of Thornton. And maybe if Anthony spent some time with Lady Bridget, he would learn to master thesenewfound desires for her. Maybe he could even rid himself of them, and then his life would be considerably less complicated.
But then, what if the exact opposite happened? What if he spent time with Lady Bridget and discovered that he bore feelings for her besides a base lust for an alluring, young woman? Anthony swallowed hard, conflicted and exhausted. Perhaps answers would be forthcoming in the morning.
Chapter 9
Bridget closed her eyes and let herself drift, trying to lose herself to the sweet notes of the pianoforte. Her thoughts kept returning to the duke and Rose’s daring plan for them to feign as though they were courting. The plan would not fix all Bridget’s problems, but it might allow her enough time to find some solution. Was the plan asking for too many risks, though?
Her heart fluttered like a bird’s wings when she thought of his green eyes and his hands moving over her shoulders and arms, gently wiping away the champagne. Bridget dared to think about what might have happened if his hands had drifted just a little further, if he had caressed her breasts or let his fingers wander just beneath her bodice to brush along her stays. If she feigned a courtship with the Duke of Hamilton, she would be expected to enjoy his company, and Bridget was unsure if she could bear being so near His Grace while having such scandalous thoughts of how he might touch her.
A wrong note lingered in the air. Bridget grimaced and opened her eyes.
“You so seldom make errors,” Anna noted.
Bridget’s sister sat across the drawing room, a canvas stretched before her. Anna’s subject was the gardens outside the window. Her painting was not so lovely yet, but Anna’s most beautiful works always began as spots of dull browns, greens, and grays.
“I suppose I was distracted,” Bridget said.
Anna smiled. “How strange. I have also found my attention wandering this afternoon.”
“To what subject?” asked Bridget.
She hoped if she persuaded Anna to speak about her own wandering thoughts, she could distract her sister from asking about her own.
Anna took a deep breath. “I made the acquaintance of a gentleman at the Hamilton ball.”
“Oh?” While Anna often expressed an interest in Bridget’s potential suitors, she seldom mentioned any for herself. Wanting to think about a male acquaintance was a new development. “Do I know him?”
“I do not believe so. His name is Mr. Russell.”
Bridget shook her head. “I have not had the pleasure.”
“He enjoys art,” Anna said, “and he expressed an interest in seeing my works.”
“Oh!”
“I noticed him watching me from across the ballroom, and I saw something in his eyes that intrigued me,” Anna said.
“Something?”
“Heat,” she said. “Passion.”
Bridget looked wryly at her sister. “I suspect this is what happens when you think so often about the anatomy of marble sculptures.”
“Not like that!” Anna protested.
Bridget suspected that it was something like that. “So what are you thinking about this young man?” she asked, amused.
“I like him,” Anna added. “I was unable to speak to him for long, but I had the impression that he was prepared to treat me as a serious artist.”
Bridget nodded in understanding. Anna had often expressed dismay that men were not prepared to treat her as a skilled artist. They thought of her as a lady with a passing, trivial interest. Even when they saw her paintings, men were inclined to find fault in them, and she had long suspected that it was because the men of the ton were unaccustomed to female artists.
