“As do you, my lady.” A stern, masculine voice cut through their conversation.
Bridget turned and found the Duke of Wheelton himself standing behind her, his face the picture of calm.
“Y-your Grace,” Lady Susan said, stammering as she curtsied.
“I expected better from a lady such as yourself,” His Grace said, acting as though he had not even noticed the lady’s acquiescence. “Speaking ill of my bride is also an insult to my honor and will not be tolerated.”
“I apologize, Your Grace,” Lady Susan said, eyes darting about as she searched for escape.
Bridget had never delighted in the embarrassment of others, but she could not deny a small jolt of satisfaction in seeing Lady Susan so easily brought to simpering agreement. This woman, who had tormented her in recent days, was finally receiving her comeuppance as she was brought readily low by His Grace.
The Duke made a disgruntled sound and looked at Bridget. “Shall we dance?”
He extended his hand, and she cheerfully placed hers in his palm. “I would be delighted, Your Grace.”
There was the smallest amount of petty satisfaction as the Duke of Wheelton led Bridget to the center of the room, where everyone was dancing.
The dance began with a cheerful swell of music, like a wave crashing against the shore, and Bridget moved through the first few steps, conscious of the Duke’s hands on her body. A welcome warmth spread through her, and she could not decide if it was from his touch or from his defense of her.
“Lady Susan seemed sufficiently intimidated by you,” Bridget said.
The man’s lips twitched into a small smile. “So, she did. I suspect Lady Susan is not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner.”
Likely not. At least, Lady Susan had not shoved His Grace into a lake when he spoke so bluntly to him.
“I tried to speak to her in that way, and she seemed far less cowed,” Bridget said.
“The benefits of being a man,” the Duke said wryly. “Sometimes, the world is simply unfair.”
They twirled, and Bridget worked to hide her smile. That remark had been rather insightful of him. “It was impressive how quickly you arrived,” Bridget continued. “Have you been watching me?”
“Of course.”
“Because you need to ensure that I am not embarrassing you?”
“Not entirely that.”
Not entirely that.
As they moved through the first steps of the dance, Bridget’s mind whirled. His Grace was an odd man. How could he be so cold and commanding in one moment, yet protective in the next? There must be something else. Did he like her? Even just a little?
A romantic part of Bridget dared to wonder if the Duke of Wheelton might have wanted to protect her. Could that be part of the reason why he wished to watch her?
“Thank you,” she said.
Rather than accepting her gratitude, his expression hardened. “Do you find it troubling, my lady, that I have needed to come to your rescue twice now? Perhaps you have decided that I am Sir Lancelot with no other purpose in life than to save you from your own misdeeds.”
Bridget suspected that it was not the best moment to admit she had always found Sir Lancelot to be a wonderfully romantic hero. “You say that as if I have done something wrong,” Bridget said. “Did you truly expect that securing this invitation would be sufficient for the rumors to cease? I would have been the center of attention regardless of what happened or what was said.”
“You should not let their gossip vex you,” the Duke said, as they began the first steps. “While it is true that the gossip is malicious, your own behavior is equally to blame for the attention that you receive. Lady Susan enjoys seeing you angry and distraught, and you consistently give her what she wants. You must learn to ignore their whispers.”
He spun her in his arms, and Bridget’s jaw clenched. “Is that what you do?” she asked. “If you were as adept at ignoring the whispers as you want me to be, you would not have proposed marriage to me.”
His expression darkened, and Bridget’s pulse jumped. She became aware of his considerable strength in a way that she had not been before. He was massive compared to her, and she had no doubt that the body beneath that well-tailored jacket and those fine trousers was lithely muscled and powerful. A lump rose in her throat.
He pulled her body against his, the force of his movements firm and commanding. Warmth shot through her like a star across the night sky, and a dull ache beat between her legs.
“Do not provoke me,” he said lowly. “If you taunt a lion too much, you will find yourself in its jaws.”
