Page 40 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
“When are you going to host an event at Crampton House?” Lady Rose asked. “I do not believe that His Grace has ever been to your home.”
“I do not know,” Bridget replied, glancing at her mother. “His Grace knows that he is always welcome to come to call, of course.”
It occurred to Anthony that it would be strange if he did not call upon the woman whom he was allegedly courting. “Indeed,” he said. “I plan on coming to call soon enough.”
Bridget hummed and sipped her tea. Anthony’s gaze fixed on her coral lips, and he imagined his own mouth crushing against hers, kissing her in earnest. He wondered yet again if maybe this courtship was putting him too close to the charming Lady Bridget, but it was too late to back down.
Chapter 19
While many of the guests chose to spend their time playing games, Bridget found herself taking a turn through the rose gardens. Their red blooms filled the air with soft, sweet fragrance. She halted on the pathway and closed her eyes, letting herself take in their delicate scents and the gentle notes of birdsong that drifted into the air. It was serene and perfect, away from all the loudness of the ton. She did not have to pretend when she was alone.
She enjoyed pretending a little too much. Bridget had forgotten herself when she sat beside Anthony and sipped her tea and ate biscuits. It had not even occurred to her that they were only pretending because her responses came so naturally and quickly. He was a charming man. How could any lady resist falling into a gentle, lulling rhythm with him?
Perhaps her father would call off the engagement with the Marquess of Thornton now that he thought she had a potential other suitor. A better one, with a greater rank and a larger fortune.
Footsteps pounded behind her, and Bridget turned. Anthony stood a few feet away, watching her with an amused expression. Her face grew hot beneath his intense gaze. They were alone and away from everyone else, and all those forbiddenfantasies that Bridget had thought of in the night sprang to the forefront of her mind.
“We should remain close to one another if we are to convince everyone that we are courting,” he said, stepping closer. “I do not know that they will believe us if you appear to be fleeing to the gardens in an attempt to escape me.”
Bridget clasped her hands behind her back. “I am not trying to escape you.”
“Then why are you here?”
She shrugged. “I enjoy gardens, especially yours. They are always so very beautiful. Why are you here?”
“Looking for my beloved, of course. I cannot endure being apart from you for a single second.”
Bridget’s breath hitched. He halted scarcely a foot away from her, and something within her—perhaps, the last remnants of her resolve—crumbled to pieces. She nearly flung herself at him, pulling Anthony into a tight embrace.
“Of course,” she murmured, tipping her head back to gaze at him. “I cannot imagine that any beloved of yours would ever want to be apart from you either.”
“Oh?”
“You are handsome,” she said.
Bridget slowly became aware of what a compromising position she was in. She had neither right nor reason to fling herself at him, but she found herself unwilling to move. Her senses were fixed only on him—on the strength of his shoulders beneath her fingertips and the heat of his body pressed against hers. It was nothing like her nighttime wonderings. He was so much more magnificent than any image or feeling that a tired mind could conjure.
“Anthony,” she murmured.
His breath shuddered, and he raised a hand to her face. Anthony’s knuckles gently stroked her cheekbone, and Bridget’s toes curled. She gasped, and her maidenhood twitched in response to the desires she dared not voice. They were only pretending, playing the roles of two besotted lovers, except—
Except there was no one around to see them. So, who was the performance for?
Anthony tucked a curl behind Bridget’s ear, and her heart raced madly. She opened her mouth to say something, but all words seemed to fly from her mind. Bridget knew dimly that sheought to tell him to leave. They should not be alone together. They needed a chaperone. They were just pretending.
All the protests died in her mouth.
“Bridget,” he said.
He leaned forward and tilted his head, considering her. Anthony was so close that she could feel his breath against her cheek, and his hands slowly found her waist. She swallowed hard and drew her hands down his chest, not pushing away as she ought to but instead feeling. Bridget could imagine the body beneath the shirt, waistcoat, and jacket, and she knew that he must be pleasing to the eye. So pleasing. Their eyes met, as they had so many times before, and Bridget felt suddenly hot all over.
Then, their lips met. It was a strange feeling, an indescribable sensation of softness and firmness, and a low groan tore from Bridget’s throat. She wrapped her arms around her neck and pulled herself up, going nearly onto her toes. Bridget kissed him as hard as she could, and he responded in kind. He consumed all her senses, and Bridget felt as if the world itself had stopped turning. It could have torn to pieces all about them, and Bridget did not think she would have cared.
When Anthony at last stepped away, his chest heaved for air. Bridget herself raised a hand to her bodice. Her own breaths came in quick, hot pants, and she knew her face was surely awash with color.
“Anthony,” she gasped out.
“I—”
