Page 10 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
Anna waved a dismissive hand. “No one listens to wallflowers,” she said. “I doubt that anyone will care to overhear us.”
“Suppose that our father hears you,” Bridget said. “He will insist on covering everything that might inspire a wicked thought with a smattering of paint, so as not to inspire wicked thoughts.”
There was one particular artist who had done that—made an entire career out of painting over nudity in artwork. Bridget could not remember the artist’s name, but she remembered howvexed Anna had been at the notion of covering any work of art with hastily painted trousers.
Anna shook her head. “You are being ridiculous.”
“Only as ridiculous as you,” Bridget shot back.
“His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton! The Dowager Duchess of Hamilton, and Lady Rose!” the butler announced.
The room quieted, and heads turned toward the duke. Bridget’s heart raced as she beheld his handsome figure. Although they were on opposite sides of the ballroom, Bridget swore that his eyes locked with hers. She drew in a sharp breath at the intensity of his gaze, feeling as if he were undressing her with his eyes—and that thought led to an even more salacious one.
She imagined him actually undressing her. In her mind, she felt the warmth and weight of his palms as they curled over her shoulders and traced paths down her arms. She imagined him gingerly and slowly removing her gloves and pressing his lips to her bare knuckles. A lump rose in Bridget’s throat. Next, he would remove her gown and gaze at her just like that—with such heated intensity that Bridget might believe as though she were the only lady in the world worth noticing.
“Oh, I can see that you are not affected by his presence at all,” Anna said, her light voice shattering Bridget’s fantasy into amillion pieces. “That must be why you are gazing at His Grace in such a scandalous way!”
Heat rushed to Bridget’s face. “I am not!” she exclaimed.
“But you are!” Anna laughed. “You accuse me of being brazen, and then you try to seduce His Grace from across the ballroom!”
Face hot, Bridget averted her gaze. “I doubt even the most seductive woman in the world could win His Grace’s affections across such a distance.”
“You seem to be trying.”
Bridget shook her head. “You are imagining things. Besides, I doubt His Grace even remembers me. If he does, it is doubtlessly only as Rose’s friend.”
Anna clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You should find out. Perhaps His Grace might be your love match. Our father would be happy to see you wed a duke, especially one with such a fortune.”
“He would be,” Bridget conceded.
Of course, such a marriage would never happen. Once the Duke of Hamilton realized Bridget had no dowry, he wouldlose any interest in wedding her. Most men would. Anna did not know that, though. As far as she knew, both she and Bridget were free to wed whosoever they desired.
“And he must be a good man,” Anna said. “Otherwise, Rose would have warned you away from him.”
“She and His Grace do not often speak,” Bridget said, “but he seemed… kind when we met. His servant ruined my gown, and the duke agreed to procure another one for me.”
“Hmm,” Anna said, eyes narrowing. “That sounds like a perfect excuse for presenting yourself to His Grace. Perhaps you ought to solicit his opinion. Men like to be asked their thoughts, always.”
“Even on lady’s gowns?” Bridget asked. “I doubt that.”
Anna grinned. “You might be surprised, dear sister.”
Bridget shook her head. A throat cleared, and she turned her head. Her heart sank, and a tightness curled inside her chest.
It was the Marquess of Thornton. He smiled at her through thin lips. Bridget tried not to notice how old he was, but it was impossible to miss the heavy wrinkles and his thinning white hair. His eyes were a warm shade of golden-brown, which might have been a lovely color if he were not looking at her with such clear appreciation.
She swallowed, her own throat suddenly thick. “My lord.”
Bridget curtsied. Her heart thundered. Was this to be it, then? Would this be the moment when he asked for her hand?
“Might I have this dance?” he asked.
She longed to refuse the offered hand, but she knew that she could not. As much as she might wish otherwise, this would be her eventual fate. Bridget must bear it with grace. Otherwise, her family would become destitute, and she would condemn poor Anna also to a loveless marriage. If Bridget agreed to this arrangement, she could at least spare her sister.
“I would be delighted,” she said.
Her stomach churned at Lord Thornton’s victorious smirk. A shiver of repulsion traced the path of her spine as he led her to the ring of sweeping dancers. Perhaps, if she pretended that she was dancing with His Grace, she would be able to endure the evening.
