“I am certain I shall.”
Without another word, her husband turned to the stairs and swiftly climbed them. Bridget crossed her arms, watching her husband until he was gone from sight. Then, she pinched the bridge of her nose. Infuriating! Simply infuriating.
“It was a pleasure playing for Your Grace,” one of the musicians said.
Bridget forced a smile. “You were all lovely,” she said.
She watched idly as the musicians gathered their instruments and dutifully left the townhouse. And did she imagine that the butler appeared a little too smug as he ushered them out? Bridget sighed.
Well, her husband might have emerged victorious from this bout, but shewouldwin in the end. Lewis might claim that he was patient and that she was reckless, but Bridget knew he wanted pleasure, too. He was a man, and even Bridget—with her little experience—knew that men craved pleasure and excitement far more than women did.
Bridget was a beautiful, young woman, and her husband could not possibly be as unaffected by her as he pretended.
CHAPTER 22
It had been two days since Bridget decided to awaken Lewis to the sounds of brilliant orchestral music and the sight of dancing servants. She had been quiet since then; Lewis might even venture to say that she had beengood. He did not trust such refined behavior to last.
“Your Grace.” His valet’s voice pulled Lewis from his thoughts, which had been primarily consumed with the ledger before him.
“Yes?” Lewis asked.
His valet John had always reminded Lewis vaguely of a country mouse scurrying about. The man looked as though he would bolt or crumble at the slightest provocation.
“I thought you might wish to know that Her Grace is cooking.”
Lewis frowned, his head snapping to John in disbelief. “Cooking,” he said flatly.
“Yes.”
“That is absurd.”
But his wife was often the picture of absurdity. Lewis sighed deeply, wondering silently if he had made a terrible error in choosing Bridget to be his bride. They had not consummated the marriage yet, and he supposed that he could still send her back to her family if he so desired. An annulment would be disgraceful, though.
“Nevertheless, she is,” John said. “The cook is a little upset by the intrusion.”
Lewis snorted. “Undoubtedly.”
John still waited in the doorway, as though he expected some orders, but Lewis had not the faintest idea what the man ought to do. His wife, a duchess, wascooking. Had Elias let Bridget cook in their kitchens? Lewis had known that the Duke of Reeds had a weak will and was content to let his sisters do as they pleased, but the man would not allow his sisters to cook. That was impossible.
Lewis hoped it was impossible. With a heavy sigh, he stood and waved his valet away. “Thank you for telling me. I shall see what terror my wife has seen fit to inflict upon my staff.”
John bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Then, the man made himself scarce.
Lewis ran his hand through his hair and glanced at his ledger, wondering if this was some manner of revenge. After Bridget’s little orchestral show, he had returned to his tasks as though nothing was amiss. Maybe this new scheme was purposefully crafted to make him abandon his work.
He grimaced, his footsteps heavy as he descended the stairs and set a brisk pace to the kitchens, a place he seldom entered. At the threshold, a woman’s sparkling laughter rose in the air, and he recognized his wife’s delight at once. She reallywasin the kitchens! Lewis braced himself for the horror that might await him and slowly descended the steps.
Bridget stood proudly before a strange concoction, which Lewis suspected was meant to be a cake. It was golden brown in some places and dark in others, round, and covered in a faint layer of something that might be comprised of sugar. The only readily identifiable part of the creation was the red strawberries. Lewis’s horrified cook stood nearby, his hands twitching anxiously as though he longed to seize the cake-like object and dispose of it. A few of the other servants lingered around the edges of the room, feigning as though they were disinterested in what was about to occur.
“Well,” Lewis said at last.
Bridget’s head snapped to him. Her blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction, confirming to Lewis that this was another schemeof hers. He clenched his jaw and wondered if she might have poisoned the cake. It certainly looked like it might kill a man.
“Husband,” she said. “I have made a cake for you.”
Calling it acakewas an insult to all confectionaries.
