Page 3 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
Rose bit her lip and looked askance at her.
“I do not know how to help him either,” Bridget said, her voice softening. “It is not as if I am a man and can embark on some new business venture, and I do not know enough about gambling to make a fortune that way.”
“But the title is still worth something,” Rose insisted. “Even if your father does not have money, someone will surely find the daughter of a duke worth pursuing. And surely, you will love one of those suitors.”
Bridget frowned. “Thus far, there have been too few suitors.”
She could not quite say why, either. It was not as though Bridget was unattractive or unintelligent. She seldom spent balls languishing as a wallflower and was frequently invited to festivities. It was only that, while the lords of the ton seemed to find her company enjoyable, they did not wish to marry her. Bridget wondered if rumors about her diminished dowry had spread or if her own expectations for a husband were too extravagant.
As she and Rose reached the park entrance, having completed the circuit, a carriage hurried down the street. Bridget realized too late that they stood beside a dip in the road, filled with mud and water. The carriage thundered through it, mud flying through the air and soaking the hem of her gown. She gasped, in a mingling of surprise and outrage.
The carriage halted just a few paces ahead, and the smartly dressed footman hurried to open the door. Bridget’s face was so hot that she felt as if she had ducked her head into a furnace. At least the footman had the grace to look embarrassed on her behalf.
The door opened and a gentleman stepped from the carriage. He was a tall man, his well-muscled frame apparent and complemented by his perfectly tailored jacket. His hair was dark blond, and his eyes green like Bridget’s own. Their gazes met, and Bridget had the strangest sensation that he could strip her bare with the heat of his gaze alone.
She shivered, a strange and primal awareness awakening within her. Bridget could not have said what that awareness was or what it meant, but the moment of insight was gone in the next, placed with utter mortification and indignation over her ruined dress.
“Oh! Your Grace!” Rose exclaimed, gesturing toward Bridget. “Look at what your driver did!”
Your Grace? Bridget inhaled sharply. At last, she was meeting the infamous Duke of Hamilton—and she looked utterly wretched.
Chapter 2
Anthony Langley, the Duke of Hamilton, did indeed look at what his driver had done. Beside his ward, Lady Rose, stood the most charming creature he had ever seen in his life. The young lady was tall and slender and clad in what must have been an elegant blossom gown before his driver had covered it in mud and water.
“Is it what have I done ?” Anthony asked, looking at Lady Rose. “Or who have I done it to?”
Lady Rose tipped her chin up in that familiarly imperious way that she had. “This is my friend, Lady Bridget.”
“The Duke of Norfolk’s daughter,” Anthony mused.
Lady Rose spoke often of Lady Bridget, but Anthony hadn’t realized how beautiful the lady was.
“Yes,” Lady Rose said. “Bridget, this is my guardian, the Duke of Hamilton.”
Lady Bridget curtsied. “A pleasure, Your Grace.”
“I suspect that is not entirely true,” he said, his gaze fixed on the sodden hem of the lady’s dress. “I am told that it is poor manners to greet a lady by covering her in mud.”
“I am sure that a laundress can remove the stains,” Lady Bridget said.
“I am less certain,” he replied.
“We shall see.”
Her eyes were not the soft, spring-green color of his own; Lady Bridget’s eyes were instead green and gold, like some precious gemstone. He took her hand in his own, never once dropping his gaze from her lovely face.
“I shall buy you another gown, equally as lovely, just in case the laundress does not succeed. Please, accept my sincerest apology for the staining of your gown. I am certain that it was entirely accidental on the part of my driver.”
He placed a gentle, formal kiss against her knuckles. Her silk glove was soft against his lips, and he fancied that Lady Bridget uttered a small gasp in response to the gesture. Heat curled inside Anthony’s chest. Even though Lady Bridget wore silk gloves, he could have sworn her pulse quickened with his touch. He had a dangerous thought of removing her gloves andstroking her delicate wrist, tracing a path all the way up to her shoulder. She was so soft and slight.
It took all the strength of Anthony’s will not to let his gaze sweep over the rest of Lady Bridget’s body. Even the fleeting glimpse that he had allowed himself as he descended from the carriage spoke of delightful curves.
“You are most generous, Your Grace,” Lady Bridget said.
He reluctantly relinquished her hand. “I endeavor to be, my lady.”
“We shall have to visit the modiste soon,” Lady Rose interrupted cheerfully.
