Page 32 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
Perhaps the best Bridget could hope for was an enjoyable Season before the Marquess of Thornton decided to become involved and assert his engagement to her.
The family’s butler entered the drawing room, and Bridget’s mother beckoned for him. Bridget watched as he handed her mother a sealed letter before leaving once again. As her mother opened the letter, Bridget’s heart thundered with excitement. His Grace had promised an invitation to the garden party. Surely, this was it.
Bridget’s suspicions were confirmed when her mother looked at her and smiled. “It seems that His Grace has invited you and your sister to a garden tea party tomorrow.”
“That was kind of him,” Bridget said, her face growing warm.
“Indeed,” Anna said, sounding as though she were barely listening to the conversation. Her attention was fixed mostly on Mr. Russell.
Whatever happened with Bridget’s future, she hoped that her sister—at least—was able to wed for love.
***
Bridget lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. All was silent, save for the soft snores of her lady’s maid. Bridget wished she could slumber as easily, but her thoughts kept twisting and turning inside her head. It was as if there was a storm inside her that refused to calm.
Would Anthony announce their courtship at the garden party? Would he choose that event to make the first romantic gestures of a man deeply in love? Bridget’s pulse jumped at the thought. She imagined him, surrounded by those exquisitely green gardens. Bridget would arrive, and their eyes would lock across the expanse of space.
“Lady Bridget,” he would say, in that soft, rumbling tone.
Bridget shivered. He was only pretending to court her. She must not fall into the trap of believing in the illusion. His Grace was not hers and would never be. This scheme was only to help her avoid marrying a repulsive man and, perhaps, to amuse her friend Rose.
Bridget found that her heart seemed to be at odds with rational thought, however. She imagined that she responded to the Duke of Hamilton with some witty reply. He would smile at her, his piercing green eyes so intense and focused that Bridget would feel as if she was the only woman in the world. She imagined him crossing the gardens in long, bold strides and pulling her into his arms.
Bridget imagined herself gasping in surprise. She would probably say something like “Oh, Your Grace!” or “Oh, my love!”
He would pull her body against his. Bridget’s breath shuddered. She thought of the painting again, and her body warmed and ached with need. When she closed her eyes, His Grace seemed to envelop all her senses. Her mind conjured the scent of his cologne and the heat of his body against hers. Bridget even managed to imagine how he might hold her—firmly but not possessively. His grasp would be strong but not overbearing.
Her core ached, and Bridget hesitantly reached between her legs. She had never indulged in this sort of thing before. Bridget was a lady, and ladies were meant to bury their desiresdeep. Still, it was quiet, and there was no one to witness any impropriety . She placed her hand between her legs, and even before Bridget touched herself, she felt the damp heat radiating from between her legs. At last, her fingertips touched the fine curls of hair. Bridget took a steadying breath and pressed her thumb against her maidenhood.
A wonderful ache spread through her, and Bridget bit her lip, smothering a cry. She did not know what to do next. With her breath coming in warm pants, she carefully traced a finger down, stroking herself slowly. Her toes curled, and her hips bucked against her own hand.
“Your Grace,” Bridget muttered.
She imagined it was his hand instead of her own, and her body trembled. The muscles in her stomach all grew tight. Bridget swallowed hard. She drew her hand away. Her body twitched and shook, as if protesting the lack of touch. Bridget curled her fingers into the bed linens and lay there. Sweat gathered at the small of her back and behind her knees.
Bridget had the feeling that she had been on the verge of some great discovery, but it was not something she could quite put into words. Was this how lovers felt when they were intertwined, as that couple in the painting had been? She imagined it was His Grace instead, tracing his hands along her thighs and breasts.
She stifled a moan and turned onto her side. Bridget squeezed her thighs together and tried to ignore the dampness and heat. “We are only pretending,” she murmured to the dark. “It is not real.”
Her body did not want to listen to that. Bridget had hoped for a love match, and she still earnestly did, even if such was unlikely. However, she was still a woman and susceptible to the charms of the male sex. She had never imagined that someone so handsome might find anything attractive in her, and even if it was only a performance, she found herself wanting it to be real. Bridget wanted men like that to think that she was beautiful and worthy of love and courtship and pleasure.
She tipped her head back and clenched her teeth, smothering the groans of frustration at her own wayward thoughts and at the dull chorus of need that still washed over her body. Bridget wanted to touch herself again, but it was undoubtedly improper for a lady to do such things.
Bridget sighed and buried her face into her pillow, trying to focus instead on the soft snores of her lady’s maid. If Bridget was going to pretend to court a duke, she needed to arrive at Hamilton House looking like a woman worthy of being the future Duchess of Hamilton, and that would be far more difficult if she had a sleepless night.
But her mind would not stop. When dawn arrived and cast soft flutters of color through the curtains, Bridget was still quite awake and thinking of His Grace in all his glory.
Chapter 16
Anthony looked across the garden, surveying the guests as they arrived. Lady Victoria and Lady Rose were greeting the ton, which meant he was free from the trivialities of pretending he was delighted to see everyone. Of course, he was genuinely happy to see some of his guests, but many were invited because they were important or business associates. One of the worst aspects of being the Duke of Hamilton was having to make every occasion into some manner of political maneuvering.
At least he would not be forced to endure the Marquess of Thornton’s presence. The man was still away from London, which meant any confrontation between them would not happen at once. Anthony knew there was surely one coming. He did not expect that feigning a courtship with the woman who Lord Thornton wished to marry would be without complications. Perhaps he should have felt guilty about that, but he did not. The Marquess of Thornton was not a pleasant man, and Anthony found himself taking a grim kind of pleasure at the prospect of vexing the lord.
Speaking of vexing lords…
Anthony’s gaze settled on Lord and Lady Hastings, who entered the gardens together. Lord Hastings was a tall, wiry man with thinning white hair and blue eyes. Everything about himseemed shriveled and sunken in, which was expected for an old man, but for as long as Anthony could recall, Lord Hastings had looked like that.
“Your Grace,” Lord Hastings said, bowing stiffly.
