“No,” he said. “Because fear is what prevents us from behaving foolishly. Fear of consequences.”
“Is your plan to make me the perfect duchess, then?” she asked. “You would like me to be afraid of things? You sound like a villain.”
“No. My plan is to make you the perfect bride for me.”
Bridget frowned. “Are they not the same thing?”
“Not at all.”
Then, what did he mean? Predictably, he did not offer any explanation or any clue as to what he might mean. Bridget dug her nails into the banister and glared at him, forcing every scrap of anger that she could into her eyes.
“I do not see why you should need a specific wife. Aside from your boundless pomposity, you are just like any other man.”
His Grace’s lips curved into a small smirk. “Once you are my wife, you will learn precisely what I mean.”
“I will not be your wife,” she said. “You will realize that you have made a terrible error in asking for me, and you will withdraw the proposal.”
“I will not.”
“Then, I suppose all you will have to look forward to in life will be a wife who perfectly detests you,” Bridget said. “That is the depth of my feelings for you.”
“I doubt it. You are still young, and you will take well to my instructions.”
“I shall not!”
“You will be utterly devoted to me,” he said, his expression darkening. “You will be proper and perfect. No more scandals or tempers or fanciful dreams.”
“That will never happen,” Bridget said.
He approached her, something feline in his movements. A fitting comparison, Bridget thought, for her own heart fluttered in her chest like a bird trapped in the claws of some great beast. Still, she did not flee. She clung to the banister all the more strongly, refusing to let herself be cowed by this man.
“Are you a prophet?” he asked. “Can you see the future?”
“No,” she said. “But I know who I am. Clearly, you do not.”
His Grace raised a hand and slowly reached for her. Bridget’s muscles tensed. She had ample time to move away from him or at least yell for rescue. Instead, she remained still, as his hand settled at the back of her neck. His thumb rubbed the hair at her nape, and Bridget’s breath hitched. He pressed his palm against the back of her neck and pushed until she lost her balance and stumbled forward, her body pressing against his own.
“I disagree. I do know who you are.”
“You would argue.” Her voice quivered more than she liked. “Men do not like to be informed that they are wrong.”
He chuckled. “You are denying yourself, lying to yourself. You enjoy my company.”
“I do not!”
“If you do not, why are you trembling so much?” he asked softly. “You are so filled with desire for me that you cannot even remain still.”
Her eyes widened. Suddenly, Bridget’s throat was dry. He could not be right. It was impossible for her to enjoy the liberties he was taking, and yet?—
She had a sinking suspicion that the desperate heat between her thighs and the warmth of her face had something to do with pleasure and the want of it. What if he wasright?
“That is impossible,” she rasped. “You cannot know my wants better than I do.”
“Indeed, I can. But you are not to be blamed. What could a girl like you possibly know about the pleasures of marriage?”
According to Lady Susan, Bridget knew a great deal. But in truth, there had only been a few quiet words exchanged in a dark room.Wasthere more? Bridget had not read about there being more in all her books. A man and woman fell in love, and they married. That was the perfect ending, the happily ever after. What more was there to be said, except that the couple would live happily together as they had during their courtship?
“You are showing me no pleasure,” she said. “You are only showing me that you are a man who does not know how to behave himself. I can scarcely believe that you were so upset about your clothes whenthisis the manner of man that you truly are.”
