His Rebellious Lass

by Callie Hutton

  “No, indeed. You need a caretaker.” He ran his fingers through his hair. He would be a laughingstock if he brought Lady Bridget with him dressed this way. Then he had an idea. She hoped he would leave her here. That was most likely her plan from the start. Well, two could play at this game.

  “Very well. If you wish to present yourself this way to your peers, then so be it.” He extended his arm and she hesitated, her face a picture of surprise. Then she narrowed her eyes and stiffened her back. She tugged the shawl closer to her body and took his arm.

  “Lead the way, my lord.”

  She tripped over her own feet three times before they reached the carriage. He had no desire to look at her footwear, but he was sure it was some sort of clunky slipper. Wearing unnecessary spectacles probably made maneuvering worse. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d borrowed his brother-in-law’s shoes and stuffed rags into them.

  He glared at her the entire ride to Lord Benson’s house. Lady Bridget stared out the window, never meeting his eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was regretting her decision to wear the outfit. Lord, she could at least take off the mobcap and spectacles.

  It took all his control to not whip those items off her himself, but he was determined to see it through. If she could brave the crowd dressed like that, he could as well.

  After the short ride, the carriage drew up to their host’s home. A footman opened the door, and Cam turned to her. “Do you wish to return home and change your attire?” He softened his expression. “I know what you’re trying to do, Bridget, but I doubt very much if you really want to meet new people looking like this.”

  She stared at him for a few moments, then her jaw tightened as she whipped the mobcap off her head and removed the spectacles. “I’m ready.”

  Afraid if he made a comment, or even breathed a noticeable sigh of relief, that she would put the horrible articles back on again, he merely stepped out and turned to assist her. He glanced down when she lifted her skirt and was greeted with huge, ugly shoes that surely she’d borrowed from someone.

  …

  Bridget handed her shawl to the man at the door and raised her chin. Without the spectacles, shawl, and mobcap she looked almost normal. Cursed man. She’d been certain he would not allow her to attend dressed as she was and would leave her behind. But he’d called her bluff.

  Now that the worst part of her outfit was gone, she wished for better shoes. She’d swiped the ones she wore from Mrs. Dressel and stuffed the tips with handkerchiefs. It did make her walk strangely, but the effect was not as great as the rest of her outfit had been.

  She grinned, thinking how the group would have reacted had she indeed shown up with cap, spectacles, and shawl. Well, she must think of other ways to prevent Lord Campbell from dragging her to these events, or do something to keep away the men to whom he wanted her to marry. Thankfully, the days of a man forcing a woman to marry had ended, but he could certainly make her life miserable until she conceded. Which she would not do.

  A few of the guests gave her questioning looks, but Lord Campbell smoothly passed it off as her still being in mourning. They made their way around the room, with her guardian making introductions.

  How she hated these events, which was precisely why she’d convinced Papa that he needed her at the estate in Scotland, not waltzing through the ballrooms of London. Since the last few years of his life he’d not felt well, and his condition had deteriorated monthly, he hadn’t had the energy to dissuade her.

  She eyed a footman holding a tray of drinks, but truth be known, she would love a Scotch; the hairdo she’d forced Fiona into giving her was causing a headache.

  “Would you care for a sherry? Or perhaps champagne?” Lord Campbell leaned in, startling her for a moment as his spicy scent surrounded her. Bergamot, leather, and something completely male. Her heart sped up at his nearness and the warmth coming from his body. Whatever is the matter with me?

  “Ah, I would much rather have a Scotch.” She backed up a bit, giving herself room to breathe.

  “I don’t believe our host has your favorite beverage available.” He smirked at her, the first time since his sister’s house that he wasn’t scowling at her. When his face was relaxed and he had that rakish smile and teasing green eyes, he truly was a handsome man. She’d already noticed women glancing in his direction, and a few who were throwing him obvious invitations.

  “Then I’m afraid champagne it is.”

  “My lord, may I beg an introduction to your lovely companion.” A gentleman stood at her elbow, eyeing the area below her chin, which was futile, considering her bosom was covered up to her neck.

  Lord Campbell stiffened, then said, “Lady Bridget MacDuff, may I present to you The Earl of Chadwick.” He added, “Lady Bridget is my ward.” Although Lord Campbell was polite, she got the impression this was not one of the gentlemen whom he wanted her to marry. His demeanor was rigid, and a bit of coldness had crept into his voice. Lord Chadwick, however, did not seem to notice. Or care.

  But she did, and it was time for the next step in her campaign to annoy her guardian.

  She held out her hand and smiled brightly. “My lord, what a pleasure to meet you.”

  Chadwick’s eyes lit up, and he moved in closer. Bridget had to grind her teeth to keep from moving back. The man was obnoxious, but if it would irritate Campbell, she would put up with him.

  The earl leered at her. Actually leered. “And certainly a pleasure to meet you, my lady. Where has Campbell been hiding you?” He bent in closer until they were toe-to-toe, but unlike Campbell, this man’s scent repulsed her.

  She batted her eyelashes. “I haven’t been hiding at all.” She turned to her guardian and gave him a sweet smile. “Have I, my lord?”

  She wanted to burst into laughter. It appeared she was not the only one grinding her teeth. His lordship’s lips were tightened into a thin line, and his flashing green eyes narrowed. He bent toward Chadwick and lowered his voice. “Back up, Chadwick. You’re taking away all the lady’s breathing room.”

  “Surely you don’t plan on keeping this lovely woman to yourself? You did say she was your ward? Not well done, Campbell.” Chadwick had backed up, but something about his manner told her he didn’t care too much for Campbell’s insinuation.

  “I will be happy to get that champagne for you.” Campbell grabbed her elbow and practically dragged her to the nearest footman holding a tray of drinks. He took a glass and handed it to her. “Stay away from Chadwick.”

  Her eyes grew wide. As wide as they could with her hair pulling them so tight. “But my lord guardian, I thought you wanted me to find the ‘perfect match.’” She took a sip of the drink, wrinkling her nose at the bubbles. “Is that not the reason you have dragged me to this dinner? To find a gentleman to woo me? Dance with me at balls, take me for rides in Hyde Park?”

  Campbell moved her along, toward the French doors. “The only ride Lord Chadwick has in mind is…” He ran his finger around the inside of his cravat. “Never mind. Just stay away from him.”

  Dinner was announced, and they made their way into the dining room, Bridget on Campbell’s arm. She was relieved to see Lord Chadwick seated across the table from her and a few places down. He might stare at her, but she could ignore him. She really did not want to encourage him, since she’d done so only to annoy Campbell. No doubt Chadwick was one of those rakes who would take what he wanted from a woman and run as fast as possible if there were consequences.

  “Good evening, Lady Bridget.” The man to her right appeared to be a couple of decades older than her. His hairline was receding, and his nose was a bit too large for his face, but he had a wonderful smile and something about him that put a person at ease.

  “I apologize. I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. But I know who you are, with Lord Campbell on the same committee
with me in Parliament. He mentioned to me that you are his ward and he was bringing you here this evening. I am Lord Hyatt.”

  “It is nice to meet you, my lord.” She leaned sideways when the footman reached over to pour wine into her glass. “What committee are you and Lord Campbell on?”

  “We are introducing a bill to increase the budget for veterans and their families.”

  Bridget took a sip of wine. “How wonderful. I think that is a very good idea.”

  “Yes. Lord Campbell was the instigator of the bill.” The man beamed as if he’d made up the bill himself.

  She glanced across the table to where Campbell sat a few seats up. He was watching her intently. Now what? Did she have a smudge on her face? Had she drizzled wine onto her gown? Honestly, the man watched her like a predator ready to strike. She smiled in his direction and lifted her glass to him.

  To her amazement, he lifted his glass also and smiled back.

  Funny sensations fluttered in her stomach, and a flush rose to her cheeks. Confused, she returned her attention to Lord Hyatt.

  As Hyatt spoke, she snuck another glance at Lord Campbell as he bent toward the woman next to him to hear her comment. In the candlelight, his aristocratic features were more prominent, the masculine angles of his face giving him the appearance of an ancient warrior. A ginger-colored curl fell onto his forehead, and he shoved it back with his fingers.

  “Lady Bridget?”

  She turned toward Lord Hyatt, realizing she had not been listening to him. She shook her head. The last thing she should be doing was admiring her nemesis.

  Chapter Four

  Cam chastised himself for responding to Lady Bridget’s saucy toast. Why am I even watching her? He had no problem with her dinner partner. Hyatt was certainly a respectable chap and one of the men he’d hoped would be interested in Bridget.

  “Your ward is a beautiful woman, my lord. ’Tis unfortunate she has such a poor taste in clothing.” Lady Priscilla, the dinner partner to his right, widened her eyes with innocence, but he knew her to be one of the most vicious-tongued young ladies of the ton.

  “She is in mourning for her father.” And trying valiantly to resist my attempts to marry her off.

  “I shall be happy to refer her to my modiste. She is a marvel, and I’m sure she can outfit her with more fashionable attire.”

  Cam again glanced at Bridget, who was now conversing with Lord Stevenson. He was married, but also a man who paid no attention to his marriage vows. Not that such conduct was unusual in the ton, but Cam personally did not approve of it in a married man.

  Lady Priscilla continued to chatter on as his thoughts drifted to the subject he rarely considered. Marriage.

  Not for him.

  His father had been a cold, calculating, abusive man. Nothing Cam did had ever pleased him, and over the years he had received punishments to which Cam would not subject even an animal. Beatings for forgetting to do a chore, missed meals for playing when he was supposed to be studying Latin, and the worst, when Father had thrown the new puppy into the river. Thankfully, a village child had fished the dog out and kept him. Though Cam hadn’t learned that until much later, after he’d cried himself to sleep for days.

  Another time, Cam had been left overnight in the dark, damp basement when he’d mentioned his fear of dark places. No amount of tears or begging had swayed his father to open the door. He’d been eight years, and Mother, who had protected him from his father for as long as he could remember, had died by then while giving birth to Maryann.

  No. He would never marry and bring children into the world who would have him for a father. Whatever warmth and ability to love he’d possessed at one time had been destroyed by the late marquess. He also enjoyed the idea of the old bastard turning in his grave when the Campbell title he revered so much went back to the Crown for lack of an heir.

  A son’s revenge.

  “My lord, I believe you have been woolgathering.” Lady Priscilla pouted in a way she probably thought adorable but he found annoying. That was another thing about Bridget he admired. No coyness about her. She was open and honest. If she disliked anything he said, she let him know it.

  “I apologize, my lady. Yes. I was indeed woolgathering. I’m afraid the bill I am sponsoring in Parliament took my thoughts away from you.”

  She tapped him on the arm with her fan and batted her eyes. “You are forgiven.” Then she began an entirely new harangue on how happy she was that the war with Boney was over, so now fashions from Paris would be much easier to obtain.

  His gaze slid to Bridget again as she cut a piece of lamb and placed it into her mouth. Her appetite was hardy, very different from the young ladies he’d spent time with. He chuckled at the attempt she’d made with her severe hairstyle. The curls were no more obedient than the girl herself, since a few loose tendrils had escaped to outline her delicate face.

  Her creamy skin glowed in the candlelight, and her plush lips took dainty sips of wine as she listened to Stevenson. Although she’d not wanted to accompany him this evening, she certainly fit in, even with her unusual gown. His lips tightened when Lord Stevenson bent to whisper in Bridget’s ear. Cam tamped down the desire to leap across the table and pummel the man.

  Bridget pulled back, and although he couldn’t hear her, it was apparent from her expression that she’d given him a tongue-lashing. Instead of looking chastened, the man actually grinned. As soon as dinner was over, he would have a conversation with Stevenson.

  Returning his thoughts to the outfit Bridget had presented herself in when he’d arrived to pick her up, he had to grin. She did have a bit of spunk, which was precisely why he’d have to be careful with whom he pushed in her direction. He didn’t want a man who would kill her spirit—just subdue it a tad.

  Once again, he experienced a strange sensation at the idea of an unknown man taking Bridget in hand. And taking her to his bed. He shook his head. Complete nonsense. That was what husbands did, a role he never intended to play.

  “If the ladies will join me, we will have tea in the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoy their port.” Lady Benson stood, and all the ladies followed suit, trailing her from the room.

  Another tap on his arm from Lady Priscilla’s fan. “I will see you inside, my lord. I hope we can finish our conversation over tea.”

  He was tempted to ask her to what conversation she referred, seeing as how she’d done all the talking except for when she’d prompted, “Do you agree, my lord?”

  She smiled and strolled off, her swaying gait that of a woman who assumed she was being watched.

  Campbell watched Bridget instead.

  “I say, Campbell, when did you become guardian to that lovely young lady?” Mr. Jerome Fisher addressed him from the other end of the table.

  “Just recently.” He had no intention of commenting further on the matter.

  “I would like to call on her. Where is she residing?”

  Why does that annoy me? Fisher was the third son of the Earl of Creassy. A respectable family, although recent rumors had it that Fisher had been caught crawling out of Lady Temple’s bedchamber window minutes before her husband had shot his pistol in that direction.

  If he had so little regard for marriage vows, he was not a good match, and not one to encourage to call on Bridget, but good manners prohibited Cam from refusing to answer.

  “She is staying with my sister Lady Dunmore.” He would have to check his sister’s calling hours and make sure he was in attendance during those times. Who knew what cads besides Fisher and Chadwick might call on Bridget.

  This business of being a guardian was harrowing. Somehow, it had not seemed so trying when he’d escorted Constance and Maryann during their Seasons. Truthfully, though, they had been more decorous than Bridget and had actually taken his advice on who and who not to encourage. Bridget was not a young lady who took advice fro
m anyone, least of all a guardian for whom she had no use.

  After about a half hour of conversation, the men rose and joined the ladies in the drawing room. Cam skirted the room, avoiding Lady Priscilla, and sat next to Mrs. Marshall, an older lady who was seated in the perfect spot for him to keep his eye on Bridget without seeming to.

  “Your ward is lovely, my lord. From Scotland, she says?”

  “Yes. Right across the border from my estate, actually.” Cam took a cup of tea from a footman.

  “I don’t hear a Scottish accent,” Mrs. Marshall said as she studied Bridget, which made him turn toward his ward.

  Bridget was conversing with Lady Stanhope and Mrs. Barton. From the intensity of Bridget’s stance, and the way the ladies had their lips pursed and were shaking their heads, he was almost sure she was speaking of her project to house abused women.

  Not that he disagreed with her. Having suffered cruelty himself, he understood how helpless a woman in that situation would feel. Almost as helpless as a child. Despite the nobility of her endeavor, it was simply not a project with which a gently reared young lady involved herself.

  Bridget might have felt his eyes on her, because she turned and looked directly at him. Her glowing eyes and brief nod of satisfaction toward him confirmed his thoughts. She was campaigning for her venture. She would be great in Parliament.

  Or as the wife of a member of Parliament.

  …

  The next afternoon, Bridget settled into a seat near the fireplace at Lord and Lady Dunmore’s drawing room. She and Constance awaited visitors, today being one of the two days each week Constance held calling hours. Bridget was well prepared for the ladies and gentlemen to arrive. She slipped the spectacles on and opened the heavy tome The Orangutan and His Exceptional Life.

  It had taken her several trips to the lending library and two different bookstores before she came upon what she considered the most boring book a person could discuss at a social gathering.