Page 38 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
“What did you think of Lady Emily’s art collection?” Bridget asked.
He nearly choked on his drink. “Do you truly not know? We discussed it at length.”
“While looking at one painting,” Bridget said. “Then Rose took you away.”
“Apologies for that,” Rose said from Lady Victoria’s side. “I truly did not mean to take him from you. It is only that I saw a piece I desperately wanted.”
“Which I did, indeed, purchase,” Anthony said. “That reminds me. I owe you gowns still, my lady.”
He had thought that speaking of gowns would be a little safer, but the moment he mentioned them, Anthony knew he had erred. When he thought of Bridget’s gown, soaked with champagne and clinging to her chest in a manner that stirred a man’s loins, he found himself thinking that he was a little too attracted to that image. He needed to rein in his basic impulses.
Anthony cleared his throat and tried to imagine Bridget dressed in the most unflattering, shapeless gown that his mind could devise. “Do you have a preferred modiste? Or perhaps you would like to try the one who Lady Rose uses? I would be willing to pay an additional amount to ensure the gowns are created in a timely manner. You may be able to wear them by the end of the Season, even.”
He could not promise that, of course. Gowns were made over weeks and months. There were many fittings and alterations involved, and everything would be done to ensure that the resulting garment was as perfectly tailored to Bridget’s body as possible.
“Gowns, Hamilton?” the Duke of Norfolk asked.
He was seated farther down, along with his wife, Anna, and Mr. Russell. It seemed as though he had been listening intently to Bridget’s conversation, though.
“Indeed,” Anthony said, aware that a few other members of the ton and a handful of too-curious servants, were listening. “There was a carriage incident wherein Lady Bridget’s gown was soaked with mud, and there was another incident where a servant inadvertently spilled champagne on her. By my count, I owe her an evening gown and a walking gown of more value than the originals. It would only be gentlemanly of me, for making her endure such an inconvenience.”
“That is kind of you,” her father said, “but you—you do not need to be too extravagant.”
Anthony arched an eyebrow, adopting his best expression of wounded arrogance. “Why, I must. I could not possibly deliver subpar gowns to any lady. It is my great pleasure to purchase her whatever beautiful gown she desires.”
“I do have a favorite modiste,” Bridget said, “but I would find trying your suggested one agreeable. Lady Rose always has such good gowns, and besides, it may make the matter of payment easier.”
“Indeed, I agree!” Anthony exclaimed, doing his best to sound like an overly eager suitor. “Perhaps you should come next week?”
“I will chaperone Lady Bridget and my daughter,” Lady Victoria said, smiling. “I have not visited the modiste in some time.”
Truly, she had not. Lady Victoria had bought few pieces for the Season. Mostly, she wore older garments that had been made hastily more fashionable by a clever seamstress whom she and her husband had known. She looked just a little unkempt, too distraught at her husband’s passing to imagine a future without him and with the ton.
Anthony felt a swell of sympathy for his aunt. He could have been kinder to her. He had already been so distressed at becoming the Duke of Hamilton when his uncle died that learning his aunt’s husband was also dead, leaving his widow and a young daughter behind, he had thought of it as yet another unfortunate duty that was thrust upon him. He had understood that Lady Victoria was grieving, but he had also felt frustration at her feelings.
Sometimes, he had thought uncharitable things about the poor woman. He should have been gentler toward her. More patient.
“I shall join you, also,” the Duchess of Norfolk said, “if you believe my presence would be welcome. It has been many years since we have been able to talk with one another, and I always appreciated your wit, Lady Victoria.”
“You are quite welcome to join us,” Lady Victoria said.
Beside his wife, the Duke of Norfolk looked as though he had tasted something unpleasant. Anthony supposed he did not appreciate his wife acting against him, and now it would be impossible for the man to graciously deny Bridget the gowns she was rightfully owed.
“It is a pity that I will be unable to join you,” Anthony said, “but I shall enjoy seeing the fruits of the modiste’s labor.”
“I am sure,” Bridget replied.
Anthony tried to imagine Bridget buried under a shapeless wool garment, but instead, his gaze drifted to the ladies seated around the table, many of them wearing very thin materials. Bridget herself wore a gown of such fabric, pale yellow and fluttery. It reminded him of buttercups, and Anthony couldnot help but think about how simple it would be to remove that gown.
He would not do that, though. He could not make any more mistakes with ladies. When he did, he ruined their lives, and Bridget’s situation was too similar to Lady Hastings’.
“We seem to have wandered away from the art show,” Bridget said, “which is what I wanted to discuss. Did you enjoy it, Anthony?”
“I did. I used to paint, and it has been a long time since I indulged in anything involving fine art.”
A servant placed a tea tray before him, and Anthony reached for the delicate porcelain cup at the same time Bridget did. Their fingers just barely touched, but Anthony felt such warmth rush through him that it was like brushing against fire.
“You first, Bridget,” he said.
