Page 35 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
“I know.”
Mr. Russell did not sound entirely convinced, and Anthony could not blame him. The ton could be petty. He thought of Lady Hastings, forced to marry a man she detested as penance for the mistakes of her youth.
He thought of Lady Bridget.
“For what little it may be worth,” Anthony said, “I would place my bets on you.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I hope you do not lose your wager.”
“Time will tell,” Anthony said.
For what else could he offer?
Chapter 17
Bridget thought only of His Grace and that delicious fantasy that she had conjured up the night before. Her body ached, and she felt a strange energy jolt through her. It was as if she were standing on the coast minutes before a raging storm was to begin, and she could feel all the lightning and water gathering in the air. Her every sense seemed heightened to remind her of him.
When she saw her mother wear her favorite emerald necklace, she thought of the Duke of Hamilton’s eyes. The sight of any painting brought for memories of that moment at the art show. As her father emerged from his bedchamber, accompanied by a cloud of sharp citrus cologne, a deep longing for the Duke of Hamilton’s Bay Rum rose inside her. His Grace seemed to be everywhere, even when he was not physically beside her.
At present, Bridget was tucked away inside a carriage with her parents and Anna. The conversation had turned to suitors, but Bridget had scarcely followed a word of it, consumed as she was with thoughts of His Grace. At last, they arrived at Hamilton House. Bridget clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
“Ah, here we are,” her mother said.
They descended from the carriage and crossed the familiar entryway. Rose and her mother Lady Victoria greeted them at once.
“I am so glad you could all join us today,” Rose said, her eyes bright with mischief. “Bridget, a certain gentleman has already been asking after your whereabouts.”
“Oh?” Bridget asked. It took her a moment to realize who Rose must mean.
“Indeed,” Rose said. “His Grace seems to be quite taken with you.”
“His Grace?” Bridget’s father asked.
Duke and duchess exchanged a look, and Bridget noted the delighted surprise that painted her mother’s face.
“Well, I should not keep the Duke of Hamilton waiting for me,” she said.
She made a show of searching the crowd for him, not truly expecting to see him so quickly. But there he was—just a few feet away with a cluster of gentlemen. There suddenly did not seem to be enough air in the world to fill Bridget’s lungs. The sunlight caught in His Grace’s brown-blond hair, lighting every strand, and the green of the gardens made his fine blue jacketseem all the more lovely. He cut a trim, handsome figure, as always, and Bridget ached to approach him and have him sweep her into his arms.
He turned his head toward her and their eyes met, even across the expanse of space. Bridget’s fantasy the night before had remembered the sharpness of his eyes quite well. Her pulse jumped.
“There he is,” she said, trying not to sound too breathless.
Rose squeezed Bridget’s arm. “You should go to him. We can talk later, and look—he is speaking to Mr. Russell. He asked after you, Anna.”
“He came to call yesterday,” said the Duchess of Norfolk.
“He did?”
It seemed that the duchess had neglected to mention that, for Bridget’s father looked at them all with obvious surprise.
“It was a lovely visit,” Anna said, linking her arm with Bridget’s own. “Shall we, then?”
Bridget grinned. “We shall.”
They went up the path together, drawing the attention of the gentlemen soon enough. His Grace smiled. “Bridget,” he said.
Bridget? The intimate address sent a bolt of lightning through her, so powerful that she felt as if her knees might collapse beneath her. Of course he would address her like that, though. They were meant to be courting, and he intended to show that they were comfortable with one another.
