This time, William feigned curiosity and inclined his head while staring at her intently, eyes shifting all over her face. She shifted uncomfortably in the long, drawn silence. “Have I met you before?”
She notched her head up. “No, Your Grace, I do not believe we have ever crossed paths before.”
“Are you sure?” He decided to play with her a little. “Please turn your head for me?”
Bridget balked. “Why, Your Grace?”
“I want to see if you have pierced ears,” he asked.
“I do not, Your Grace,” she said stiffly.
“Humor me,” William posted on his most charming smile, one that had women swooning and shedding their clothes.
Her jaw stiffened obstinately, and her eyes flashed with defiance, but he knew she would never disobey a Duke; her name would be struck black. Her lips pressed tight, but she angled her head and moved the tendrils of hair from her temples, showing her unmarred lobes.
“My apologies,” he said. “But thank you for humoring me. Well, Hansen, my felicitations on your upcoming… engagements. Please, excuse me.”
Turning away, he felt her eyes land on the back of his neck and just to rile her, pivoted, met her eyes, held her gaze, and after a moment, wickedly winked. She went bright red.
He snagged another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The night was a success, he could leave. The hook was dangling, the bait was already set, and soon she would come nibbling. Until then, he had training to do.
CHAPTER 10
Sleep never came to Bridget that night as her mind was awhirl with that bounder—Duke Arlington. The man who had kissed her twice and who had just stared at her with wolfish eyes, and damned if she did not feel like a doe under its stare.
The more she thought about it, the more she grew angry and inconsolable, but she did not know who she was angrier at, the man for kissing her, or at herself for accepting it.
Turning on her bed, she punched her pillow back into shape and dropped her head back down, scowling. From the moment the duke had sauntered off, her concentration had crumpled.
It had taken a lot for her to keep Lord Hansen unsuspecting, and though he hadn’t seemed aware, and they had parted that night on good terms, she still felt like the night had failed.
At least the fire was built, warming the room and imbuing it with a cozy glow, but it couldn’t battle the growing dread in her heart.
“His Grace,” she huffed. “Scapegracemore like it.
But there was no point in spending the rest of her night wallowing in despair. It would only lead to overwrought nerves and spoil her final precious days with the Earl. Rising from her bed, she convinced herself that a visit to the library might do her a bit of good.
One hand firmly grasped a brass candlestick to her right, its delicate flame flickering in the soft breeze, while the other hand quivered slightly as she pushed open the heavy oak door of her bedchamber.
She walked down the dimly lit hallway, her footsteps echoing deeply against the wood-paneled walls, frowning at how the carpet under her feet had changed from brown to blue.
Pushing in the door, she pursed her lips—it was the library Ellie had shown her. But where were the bookshelves and the chaise near the row of bow windows for a day of reading? Instead, she saw a flickering marble fireplace and a dark Aubusson rug with a wingback facing it.
She jerked to a stop— why was there a trousered leg stretched out from it, a pair of boots near it, and a male foot flexing before the fire? A muscled forearm then fell over the armrest and the hand was holding a wineglass by the bowl.
“It is about time you came,” the man’s voice was smoky. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Who—” she stepped forward and circled the chair. “—are you?”
His face was shrouded in shadow, and the fine linen stretched across his wide shoulders, draping over his narrow hips. It was unlaced at the collar, revealing the corded column of his throat, an intriguing glimpse of his muscled chest.
“You know who I am,Bridget,” he said, leaning forward and she jumped back. “Or have you kissed so many men you cannot remember your first?”
“You—” her hand trembled. “You’re a scoundrel!”
“I am,” he raked her over with a slow glance. “But you are a wicked, wicked girl, meant for wicked things,” he murmured.
She bristled. “I am not!”
