Page 27 of A Virgin for the Beastly Duke

“Are you not sleeping well, my dear?”

“The rumors in the castle are responsible for the duchess’s mood, my lady,” Sarah said.

“Oh! Such horrid tales from the servants!” Belinda took her hand. “I shall ask Mrs. Piper to give them a stern word. And do not worry, we shall have the duke in love with you soon.”

“Love?” Bridget echoed.

“Why, yes.”

“But—“

“Where is your sense of ambition, Child? Even the Duke of Alderham can fall in love.” Belinda gave her shoulder a pat before showing her a card. “We have been invited to a ball by the Earl and Countess of Dilworth. They live ten miles away and are hosting a house party.”

Bridget suddenly felt nervous, for how was she to convince Harry to attend a ball? And not attending would certainly be in bad spirit and encourage further gossip from theton.

“I do not have a good dress to wear,” Belinda said anxiously, and Bridget remembered Harry’s faded coats. “I fear this is the first invitation we have received in years. We grew accustomed to being ignored by society and neglected our fashion.”

“We should visit the modiste in Daventon, then,” Bridget suggested, and Belinda looked horrified, her hand going up to her chest.

“Return to Daventon? Have you read anything about the French Revolution?”

Bridget smiled. “Worry not, Belinda. We do not have a revolution on our hands. Mayhap it would be better to have the modiste come to Grayfield.”

“Yes, that would certainly make me feel better. I am sure the duke would not want you to return to Daventon after the horrors you faced the last time.”

They could not hide in Grayfield indefinitely, and she dearly hoped Harry found a way to placate them.

Harry rolled the paintbrush between his fingers as he stared into the fireplace, guilt burning in his chest. When he had woken from his nightmare and seen Bridget in his bedchamber, fear had gripped him.

He knew what happened when someone neared him while he thrashed. He had once blackened Belinda’s eye when she had tried to calm him from his sleep. Although he was relieved that he had not hurt his wife, the fact that she had seen him in a vulnerable state tightened his chest; and he had run from her like a coward, sleeping in his study.

She must think many things of him now, and all of them unfortunate thoughts. If he could return to that night, he would have locked the door to keep her away from the horrors she had seen.

Turning, he placed the brush in his pocket and walked out of his study to find her. He poked his head into the first drawing room he found and saw Belinda reading.

“Good day, Aunty,” he greeted. “Do you know where I might find my wife?”

His aunt adjusted her pince-nez before responding. “I believe she is in the garden painting.”

His brow rose at that. What could she be painting in a dead garden? He gave her a slow nod before venturing out to find her.

Leaving her the night before was not the only cause of his guilt. It had all begun when he had rejected her proposal to host a ball for the tenants. He did not want to make her unhappy; she brightened his home and was fond of Cato, who was very dear to him.

Harry exited the castle through one of the doors on the side, the east-facing one that led to the garden, then walked through the overgrowth to seek her.

She was sitting before the only life in the garden with a small easel in front of her. Cato was sniffing something in a box, and she laughed, the sound beautiful and warm. The dog was the first to acknowledge his presence, and when he barked, Bridget turned to face him too.

Her smile faltered, and he hoped to God she was not pitying him. Her anger and disapprobation he could live with but not pity. When he was close enough to read her expression, he was relieved to find no pity. There was quite a bit of curiosity in the amber depths of her eyes, however.

Harry bowed and held his hand out with a smile. She raised both of her hands, which were stained with paint, and said, “I do not wish to see your lips colored green.”

“That would be so if I kissed your fingers,” he said, his words immediately stirring his need. He reached for one of her hands and placed a kiss on her clean knuckles. Then he stroked Cato’s head before rising.

“How very charming,” she jested, picking up her paintbrush and dipping it in orange oil paint.

Harry took a step back to study her painting. It was of the marigolds, and she had brought the garden to life with butterflies and bees fluttering about, and in a corner was a sketch of Cato that was to be painted.

“You have a great talent, Bridget,” he said, admiring the painting.

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