Page 39 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
She smiled and accepted a cup of tea. “Do you have any of your paintings still? I should like to see them.”
Anthony laughed. “No, you would not. I was not a particularly gifted artist, and I am quite embarrassed by them, truth be told.”
“You do not have to be the best at everything, Anthony,” Bridget said. “I am sure that your paintings are perfectly acceptable.”
“You say that because you have not seen them,” he countered. “For good reason.”
“Besides, I am no artist,” Bridget continued. “That is Anna. If you wish, do not let her see the paintings, but you have no reason to deny me the sight of them.”
Bridget glanced further down the table. Anthony assumed she anticipated a witty retort from her sister, but none was forthcoming. It seemed Lady Anna was too engrossed in Mr. Russell to notice she was being spoken of just a few seats away.
Anthony took a sip of tea. He had sometimes come into the gardens and painted with Anastasia. She had been far more talented than he had been, even though she was too modest to admit it. Anthony remembered trying to capture her beauty, of painting the delicate lines of her face and throat. He had never been able to shade her hair properly; he always painted it a muddy brown color, rather than the dark auburn that it was.
“Why did you stop painting?” Bridget asked.
He knew it was impossible for her to know the direction that his thoughts had gone, but her question still cut to the heartof him. “I suppose I simply lost interest in it,” he said. “Besides, I had other matters to occupy my attention.”
“I imagine so,” Bridget said. Her expression said that she suspected there was more to his explanation, but she did not press him on it.
“And you? When do I get to see your paintings?” Anthony asked. “If you show me your work, I may consider sharing mine.”
“May,” Bridget said, “meaning that you will not show me, and yet I will be unable to claim that you went against your word. Very clever, Anthony.”
He grinned.
“Bridget does not paint,” Lady Rose said. “She is an accomplished musician, however. Her talent in playing the pianoforte is unparalleled.”
“It is not,” Bridget said. “There are many who are far more talented than I.”
“Name them,” Lady Rose said smugly.
“I cannot possibly,” Bridget replied, “but I am quite sure they exist. You know as well as I that there are many talentedyoung ladies in the ton. I am sure that many are more gifted at playing the pianoforte.”
“But you cannot name them,” Anthony said. “I see.”
“That does not mean those ladies do not exist,” Bridget said. “I can play the instrument well, but I would not say that I am better than anyone else.”
“It would be immodest to imply that you were,” Anthony said, “so instead, you merely say that you are not the best and refuse to offer any names which might prove the contrary.”
Bridget gawked at him for a moment, looking at a loss for words. Anthony smirked over his teacup.
“That is untrue,” she said. “But you shall be certain that I will never play a single note for you now.”
“Will you not? That will make for a rather dull courtship,” he said. “What else shall you do to show me that you have all the feminine graces required to be the future Duchess of Hamilton?”
“I will play the pianoforte for all your acquaintances and relatives. They will deliver you tales of my excellence, but your own ears shall never hear my melodies.”
“Brilliant,” he said, raising his teacup in a small toast. “I could not have conceived of a better plan myself.”
Bridget shook her head, but her green eyes shined with amusement.
“His Grace has a pianoforte in the drawing room,” Lady Rose said conspiratorially. “You could enact your plan now.”
“That seems cruel,” Bridget said. “At his own garden party?”
“Lady Victoria’s garden party,” Anthony replied. “She is the one who planned it.”
His aunt’s expression brightened. The garden party was the first event that she had planned since returning to the ton, and it was going splendidly.
