Page 72 of The Duke of Scandal

“Would you like me to show you to your…chambers to prepare for dinner, Miss Turner?” Lady Belinda asked.

“Yes, please,” she replied, rising. She glanced at her father, and he gave her an encouraging nod. With a slow breath, she followed Lady Belinda out of the room.

She was led to a large bedchamber where her lady’s maid was already unpacking her baggage. Bridget proceeded to formally introduce herself to Lady Belinda, her eyes assessing the room. A four-poster bed occupied the center with deep purple drapes that matched the ones that covered the windows, drawn, as well. The lavender wallpaper was starting to peel, and the carpet, although not as hard as the one in the drawing room, was a little frayed on the edges.

“I am glad you brought your lady’s maid. I could not find anyone suitable for such a task,” Lady Belinda commented. “I hope you do not mind the state of the castle,” she added with an apologetic smile.

The castle hid its elegance beneath worn furnishings, and Bridget wished she had seen it in its prime. Nevertheless, she intended to improve it once she was married. After all, this was her home now.

“I do not, my lady. Do you live here?”

“Yes. I have lived with Har…the duke for almost four years.”

“Then I will be honored if you will help me bring it back to life,” Bridget said, appreciating the woman’s efforts to make her feel welcome and comfortable.

Lady Belinda’s blue eyes lit up. “That would be splendid!” She clapped her hands together. “You may call me Belinda. We are, after all, going to be family tomorrow.”

The reminder that she was getting married the following day gave Bridget a nervous flutter. She forced herself to smile, however. “Then you must call me Bridget.”

“I am sure we will be good friends, Bridget. I should go and prepare for dinner.” With that, she left the room.

Bridget flopped onto the mattress and stared at the cherubs on the ceiling of her four-poster bed, anxious about meeting the duke at dinner.

She was saved again when the duke sent word that he had been delayed and would not be joining them for dinner. Andrew was displeased, while her father seemed unperturbed. Belinda was a good hostess and ensured they had as pleasant an evening as possible.

“Did you meet him?” Sarah asked when she entered her bedchamber to help her undress.

Bridget shook her head. “He was unable to attend. I am quite relieved we did not meet,” she admitted.

“Why? Do you think he looks as horrible as they say?”

“His appearance matters not to me.” She sat before a vanity table and Sarah began to remove the pins holding up her coiffure. “But I do feel very nervous about meeting the owner of such a large and dark place.”

“Yes, I noticed every curtain is drawn.” Sarah supplied with a slight frown.

A few hours later, Bridget found herself twisting and turning, unable to slumber. Thunder clapped, and rain pelted her windows, but that was not the reason she was unable to sleep. There was a shadow in this castle that disquieted her. She might have been relieved at not meeting the duke, but the mystery about him was the very reason for her discomposure.

She rose from her bed and donned her robe, then lit a candle. Belinda had told her about the library, and she thought her time would be better spent reading than trying to sleep tonight. Slowly, she wandered through the castle, committing every turn she took to memory lest she got lost.

At the bottom of the stairs that led to the front hall, she thought she saw a hooded figure. Lightning flashed at that instant, confirming what she had seen, the dark and foreboding frame of a man that froze her blood. When thunder roared, she turned and ran back to her room, the wind of her movement blowing out her candle.

Breathe, Bridget,she repeated to herself for, at least, the twentieth time that morning.

“Shall we?” came Mortimer’s gentle question as he offered his arm to her in the front hall. The duke and the others were waiting in the drawing room for her.

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and allowed him to walk her into the room to the sight of a powerfully built man. He stood before a shorter stature man that appeared to be the vicar, and his back was to the door. Bridget was certain he was the same man she had seen the night before.

He must think me very foolish for running away as I did, the thought, wincing inwardly.

The duke did not turn when her father handed her to the vicar, nor give a smile to appease her, and yet, his mere presence made her tremble more. At the vicar’s request, he finally turned to face her, and she could not prevent a gasp from escaping her lips.

One of his eyes was covered with a black eyepatch, while the other was so blue it would make one stare in wonder. His lips were perfectly formed, and she thought a lady might swoon if he smiled at her. The corners of the mouth that had her entranced immediately turned down, and she realized that she had been staring. Looking away, she curtsied.

He bowed, his demeanor unwelcoming. “I am Harry Westwood, the Duke of Alderham,” he introduced, and she noticed that his hair was long and a lustrous shade of chestnut, which was tied at his nape.

“And I am Bridget Turner.” She did not have a title with which to introduce herself but she was proud of her simple names.

The duke did not say anything after that. He simply turned to the vicar and said, “You may begin.”

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