Throat tight, William crossed the room to pull a glass of whisky from a shelf and poured a finger. As stoic as he could, he muttered, “That is… disappointing.” Throwing back the drink, he reveled in the burn. “Here’s to you, father.”
“You were hoping for something else,” Ambrose stated bluntly.
“Without a doubt,” William replied. “But I suppose I will have to do as stated.”
Ambrose tilted his head. “You willhaveto do as stated? Perchance, did you marry that girl simply to acquire your inheritance or because of the scandals surrounding the two of you?”
The grip William had on his glass tightened to the point his knuckles went white. “No.” His eyes narrowed, even though his conscience smarted with the lie. “I married Bridget because I love her, and I see….” He paused.I see a hurting heart that narrowly mirrors mine“…a tender soul within her, one that craves comfort instead of what the other ladies want, riches and status.”
His uncle’s brows met his hairline and he shared a look with Lodge. When he did face William, his voice was deep with astonishment and respect. “I would have never… expected that from you.”
“I may have a hard head and a jaded past,” William added calmly. “But I am not immune to emotions.”
“Another thing I had not expected to hear from you,” Ambrose replied, but he reached out and laid a hand on William’s shoulder. “You’ve grown, my boy. I am happy to see it.”
His fingers shifted to press on William’s jaw. “What happened here?”
“Your Grace,” Lane bowed. “Two ladies are here to see you, Ladies Josephine Simons and Eleanor Pembroke.”
Head snapping up from the book on her lap, she exclaimed, “They’re here! Please, send them in and some refreshments too please.”
She stood up as the two entered, Ellie in a gorgeous bronze dress and Josie in a pale-yellow dress filled with bows and ribbons.
Delighted, she embraced both and sighed. “I am so sorry,” she shook her head. “I am the worst of friends, I should have visited.”
“Nonsense,” Josie shook her head in turn, “You are a newlywed, Bridget. We suspected you would be… occupied.”
While Ellie snickered, her friend's meaning was not lost on Bridget and her face brightened. Ellie leaned in, her eyes glittering, “How was the marriage night, dear? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“A lady does not kiss and tell,” Bridget said, hoping her red face would convince the two otherwise.
“You are married to the rakehell of London,” Josie tutted. “Surely, he wouldn’t have scorned the one night of socially acceptable coupling.”
“Maybe he is addicted to the thrill of jumping out of a widow’s window,” Ellie laughed. “But enough, Josie, we’re embarrassing the poor girl. Surely, there is something else to talk about.”
The three shared a look, only to burst into peals of laughter while Lane entered the room and sat the tray of tea and sweet morsels down. Bridget thanked him, then turned to Ellie, “So, what engagements are you planning on enjoying for the rest of the season?”
Stepping into his home, William peeled his jacket away and headed to his study—and stepped in, only to pause. Surrounded by papers, Bridget had a quill clamped between her teeth, a smear of ink across her cheek, and with her hair up in a tousled knot, she pored over them.
“What on earth are you doing?” he asked, nearing.
She startled and he found he quite liked her wide doe-eyed look. Gently, he drew the quill from her teeth and rubbed the smear of ink away. The rounded curve of her cheeks reminded him of a blushing peach and felt smooth as silk.
“I am attempting to create nutritious menus for the pair of us,” she began.
“Menus,” he echoed.
“Yes,” she pulled away and focused on her papers. “I know you men believe you can survive on coffee, brandy, and the humor of other men, but I believe you, in your special circumstance, need something more.”
Pressing his backside to the table, he plucked a paper up. “Coddled eggs, grilled kidney or cold ham, cornmeal cakes, brioche bread. Tea, coffee, and hot chocolate, hm.”
“You are not in favor?”
“No, actually, I don’t remember eating this, well, not since I was a child,” he replied. “Please add veal.”
“Why, thank you.” She smiled, then handed the other paper to him. “Input?”
“Pheasant pie, roast, asparagus, hare stew, brown bread, lobster, chicken cuts and game pies, wine, brandy and for supper, cold cuts, sweet and savory pies and tarts, fruits and marzipan,” he listed off, then wrinkled his nose. “Negus? God no, I despise that thing.”
