“Hm.”
His hand drifted lower, lingering between her shoulders. Through the thin material of her gown, Bridget felt the heat of his palm. If she took a small step forward, she imagined that she would feel the warmth off his whole body, and the thought made her feel dazed, as if she was Queen Titania waking up from Oberon’s enchantment, confused by her present state.
“Have I made my position clear to you, my lady?” he asked.
“Abundantly.”
He withdrew his hand. “Then, I shall take my leave. I look forward to seeing you at dinner.”
His Grace bowed and worse, had the gall to look utterly shameless and unruffled. Bridget felt wretched standing before him, her face flushed and her chest heaving. She slumped against the stairs, watching as he finally left.
The door closed behind him with a note of finality, and Bridget let herself breathe. The scent of his cologne—the warm and herbal Bay Rum—still lingered in the air. A low groan tore fromher throat. She did not know the source of the sound, but she felt it all the way down in her ribcage.
“Bridget.”
It was Dorothy.
“Sister,” Bridget said, her gaze fixed on the ground.
Was she imagining that she wasdampbetween her thighs? How very strange. Her body seemed to be somehow more alive than it usually was, and she had no ready explanation for why it should be.
Except for him. Was it possible that he had unlocked some fury previously unknown to her?
A strangely pleasant fury.
“I am sorry that this day has gone so wretchedly,” Dorothy said gently.
“We all are.”
Except for His Grace, who believed he was going to train her to be a proper wife. Bridget supposed that meant he wanted her to have no emotions either.
“He is despicable,” Bridget added.
Dorothy’s gaze snapped to the door. “I would not say that he is despicable,” she said, “but he is certainly different from you.”
“And significantly older.”
“I believe he is six-and-twenty,” Dorothy said. “Not as old as you might assume. He acts older than many young men, but I believe that is a recent change in him.”
“Is it?”
Dorothy nodded. “He used to be more conventional, like most young men.”
Bridget frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“A little rakish,” Dorothy said. “Or so I heard. It is not as though I am particularly knowledgeable about the man’s true character, but I know of his reputation.”
Bridget sighed. She knew better than to admit that she might prefer a man who was a little rakish. At least, there would be something interesting about him, then.
“I pity the poor soul who is forced to marry him,” Bridget said.
She dearly hoped it was not herself.
“Well…” Dorothy trailed off, furrowing her brow.
“I had hoped for a reassurance that I would not be forced to marry him,” Bridget said tartly.
“And if I had one to offer, I would.”
