It was horrid to be the exception, drawing eyes and stares and whispers, but, “C'est la vie,”she whispered to herself.
“Did you say something, dear?” Lady Eleanor, orEllie, as Bridget called her in private, asked, twisting her head a little.
“Not to you,” Bridget gave a soft smile. “I grow anxious when I am around other ladies, especially with the ones we used to know.”
Young lords, most dressed in warm tan breeches and bright waistcoats, were on the lawns, chatting with each other with flutes of champagne in hand, and Bridget trained her gaze away, for God forbid that one of them might mistake her simply appreciative look for something else.
“Lady Bridget,” a feminine voice called. “What an unexpected delight to see you.”
She knew that voice. The owner of that voice never liked her.
“Lady Rebecca,” Bridget forced a smile, then curtsied. “Or should I say Marchioness Savory. How do you do, my lady? May I compliment you on your gown? It is beautiful.”
The marchioness was indeed ravishing in a light blue waist-tight gown with a delightful revealing décolletage. White satin elbow-length gloves encased her slender arms, and her dark blue half-boots gleamed bright.
Lady Rebecca’s bright green eyes slid over Bridget’s form, her gaze polite. But gleeful superiority rested in the depths at seeing the soft white muslin day gown with a subtly embroidered hem and flattering neckline.
“So are you,” the lady replied, her nose tilted, her laugh trilling, gloved hand swirling her champagne. “In debutante white? I am deeply surprised. Out of all of us, you were the one we expected to have found your Prince Charming by now, ruling half a continent.”
“I decided to reprioritize,” Bridget replied calmly. “Marriage is wonderful, I know, but perhaps it is not the be-all and end-all. Well, for some.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lady Rebecca’s lips curved after sipping her drink. “Marital life is lovely. You were always the bookish sort, so I suppose you do find another happiness in facts and figures.”
“Is that Lady Bookish?” Another one of her tormentors, Lady Ophelia. approached, her deep purple gown gathered beneath her faultless bosom, while diamonds glittered at her ears and throat. On her arm was a tall, handsome blond man with the face of Narcissus. “Oh, pardon me, I mean Lady Bridget?”
Straightening her back and notching her chin up, Bridget smiled, “Lady Ophelia, pleased to see you again.”
“Not as much as I am to see you,” the countess smirked. “You disappeared from Town for what, two years?”
“Three,” Bridget replied, noticing that Lady Rebecca had made herself scarce.
“My mistake,three,” Lady Ophelia replied. “We all thought you had done like the Grimm Brothers and their Snow White, how you had wandered off into the forest and became friends with the fawns and hares.”
“I did for a while,” Bridget smiled derisively. “The monarch of the forest, a stag named Titan, sends his regards.”
The two tittered. “Oh how delightful,” Ophelia said, twisting to look at the man on her arm. “Pardon my oversight. Lady Bridget, my husband, Septimus Hargrove, the Earl of Rookerly.
“My dearest, Lady Bridget is a girl I knew from finishing school, you see. She lived in the library as much as we lived in thedorms. Alongside Lady Eleanor Pembroke and Miss Josephine,” Lady Ophelia added. “Lady Bridget’s bosom friends.”
So subtle, Ophelia, making me look perpetually girlish in your husbands’ eyes. By the end of this party, I expect to be ostracized in full. I will be a pariah by dawn.
“My lord.” She curtsied and heard Josie and Ellie echo the same beside her.
“My ladies.” The older man, with streaks of gray at his temples, bowed. “I do like to see when old friends stay together. Were the two of you…”
“Goodness, no,” Ophelia laughed, showing her perfectly white, even teeth. Her smile edged into a smirk, “We were more acquaintances than friends, dearest.”
“I concur,” Lady Rebecca reappeared, husband in tow, a tall man with blond hair, high cheekbones, squared jaw, full lips. He looked like a prince.
Unbidden, her mind flew to the dark stranger who had kissed her on those desolate streets weeks ago, the seductive power she had tasted in his lips.
Swallowing, she forced her thoughts away from that man. In any case, she did not need to marry a lord—or be entangled with one—that was a rakehell. The best choice was someone handsome,titled, with a good head on his shoulders, a profitable business or territory, and without a speck darkening his name.
“Ladies Bridget, Josephine, and Eleanor,” the marchioness smiled, “May I introduce my husband, Charles Westport, Marquess Savory.”
After exchanging introductions, Bridget was desperate to find a way out when the Marchioness asked, “My lord, do I recall you saying you had three unattached friends who might appreciate some companionship this afternoon? Maybe we could even find Lady Bridget abeau, hmm?”
Oh, how she wished for a mask to conceal her violent, mortified blush. Tilting her head up, Bridget fought for the word—but found none, because the acrid humiliation burned up her throat. Did she truly look that hopeless?
