His Rebellious Lass (Scottish Hearts)

by Hutton, Callie

  “And why would a young lady who has obviously been raised with more than sufficient money need a great deal of blunt? Are you in debt to the gambling houses?” Although he’d meant to be witty, hopefully that was not the case. He didn’t need that sort of trouble with the lass.

  She placed her spoon next to her plate, her hands in her lap, and stared him straight in the eye. “I wish to open a house for women who are suffering at the hands of their husbands.”

  Had she said she wished to start a brothel he would not have been more surprised. “A house for women? Living by themselves? Without the protection of a man?”

  Lady Bridget laughed. “My lord, I said these women are being abused at the hands of men.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think that would work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because a man can fetch her and bring her back home. Whether you like it or not, a wife is a husband’s property.”

  Her face flushed a bright red, and he was surprised to not see steam coming from her ears. In the short time he’d known her, Lady Bridget had managed to touch something inside him buried long ago. He hated to acknowledge that her fire and passion, along with the quickly squelched vulnerability he’d witnessed, and the warmth he’d noticed between her and the staff, appealed to him in a way that threatened to disturb his well-ordered world.

  Perhaps that was the reason he was in such a hurry to marry her off. He didn’t need distractions from a woman. Especially a woman who was not easily dismissed from one’s mind.

  “And that, my lord, is precisely why I do not wish to marry.”

  “Never marry? Not even if you found your own true love?” What the devil was he doing asking her such ridiculous questions? He barely knew the chit, had no desire to be responsible for her, yet he found himself truly interested in this woman who had invaded his life. She was a mixture of vulnerability and fortitude, which he loathed to admit he found intriguing.

  She rolled her eyes. Another unladylike trait that strangely appealed to him after years of young girls who were so very conscious of their appeal to potential husbands that they were never truly themselves.

  “True love? Surely you jest, my lord.” She leaned forward. “Do you believe in true love?”

  He hesitated long enough for her to smirk at him. “Yes. Yes, I do. For others.”

  She burst out laughing, her eyes sparkling and her very kissable lips in a bright smile. “Ah, so marriage and true love are for the, what, weaklings?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She shook her head and took another sip of soup. “You don’t have to say anything to get your point across.”

  …

  Three days later, as the sun was just making an appearance on the horizon, Cam assisted Lady Bridget into the travel carriage. Their luggage, along with Markham and Fiona, had left earlier to meet them at the Cock and Bull Inn, where they would stop for the night. The companion, Mrs. Dressel, traveled with Cam and his ward.

  He reached under his seat and pulled out a blanket, which he then handed to Lady Bridget. “Here, you might want to sleep a bit more.”

  She nodded and took the blanket. He could not say things were pleasant between them, but they had at least stopped quarreling. She had not been happy when the will had arrived by special messenger and he’d informed her there did not seem a way to cancel the guardianship.

  He thought he’d been quite obliging, however, when he’d told her he would have his own solicitor go over the document when they arrived in London. He’d been met with a very unladylike snort.

  Other than meals, they hadn’t spent any time together. He’d been busy visiting a couple of tenants and meeting with the man he’d hired to add a bathing room to the Manor.

  “How long will it take us to arrive in London?” Lady Bridget asked.

  “Five days if the roads are good and the weather holds up.” He drummed his fingers on his thighs, already restless. He did not travel well, and as soon as the sun was fully up, he would ride Nettles for a while.

  Within minutes, Lady Bridget and Mrs. Dressel were sound asleep. Lady Bridget was curled onto her side, facing him, the blanket wrapped around her all the way up to her chin, leaving only her bonnet-covered head exposed.

  He studied her as the light grew stronger. She was a beautiful woman, and he would have no problem finding someone to take her off his hands. His chest tightened when he thought of this unknown man. He assured himself he’d felt the same when he’d considered beaus for his sisters.

  Except he was as honest with himself as he was with others. He’d already acknowledged the strange appeal Lady Bridget held for him, and any thoughts he had about her being led to another man’s bed were anything but brotherly.

  Once they had full light, he tapped on the ceiling of the carriage, signaling for the driver to stop. He preferred to ride his horse, breathing in the fresh air. He’d always suffered a bit of melancholy when he left his estate and headed back to Town, but London was where his life was, and where he would, with any luck, find a proper husband for his ward, and thus resume his normal, happy existence.

  Why did the thought of returning to his normal, happy life not bring the same feeling of satisfaction it had in the past? He snorted. No mystery there. With Bedford, Templeton, and Hawk all married, life was quite different now. He shook his head. He didn’t think his friends were wrong to submit to the parson’s noose, but it wasn’t for him.

  Even if he found the right woman. Especially if he found the right woman. There was no right woman, he reminded himself.

  …

  Bridget’s eyelids fluttered open and she frowned, wondering why her bed was moving. Then she remembered the carriage ride from Lord Campbell’s manor home to London. She glanced across the carriage to where he’d sat when she’d fallen asleep. Empty.

  “Lord Campbell is riding his horse,” Mrs. Dressel said.

  “Oh, I wish I had a horse to ride.” She sat up and stretched. “I’m not terribly fond of traveling in carriages.”

  “At least you don’t get sick, as I do.” Her poor companion did look a bit green.

  Almost as if he heard them, Lord Campbell rode his horse to the window and bent down. “We are stopping for luncheon.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the carriage began to slow down. It rocked quite a bit as it entered the coaching inn’s front yard. Bridget folded the blanket and picked up her reticule. “Is my bonnet all askew?”

  Mrs. Dressel adjusted it and turned as the door to the carriage opened. The driver took her companion’s hand, and Lord Campbell stepped up and held out his hand. Bridget accepted his grip, and her eyes flew wide open at the near crackle that sizzled between them. She looked at him as he frowned, seemingly as confused as she was. This was not the first time she’d touched him, having taken his arm into dinner each evening, so the jolt was troubling.

  What was also troubling was the almost itchy feeling she’d experienced when he studied her with those intensely green eyes, like he wanted to look right into her soul. No man had ever held an appeal for her, so it was unlikely Lord Campbell, of all people, would be the one to cause those unwanted feelings. Most likely she needed to change her bath soap.

  As soon as she was on solid ground, she removed her hand.

  “Take my arm, Lady Bridget. The ground is bumpy.”

  With reluctance, she did as he bid, relieved when she felt nothing. It must have been her imagination.

  The common room of the inn was filled with locals who appeared to be drinking their luncheon. The crowd was loud and boisterous. Lord Campbell led them to the private dining room at the rear of the inn.

  A fire burned brightly, and the table was set with three places. When Bridget viewed him with raised brows, he said, “Markham arrives ahead and leaves instructions at the inns we will visit along our journey so they are ready for us.”

  She smirked at him. “The privilege of rank.”

  After they were
settled and the meal had been served, Bridget studied him. “I have this feeling you intend to find me a husband as soon as we reach London.”

  “Not as soon as. I might wait a day or two.” His green eyes twinkled with mirth, but she did not think it funny.

  “This project is near and dear to my heart. Papa was in favor of it and would have funded it, had he lived.”

  “So you say. The man’s dead, so he cannot dispute it.”

  Losing her temper would not gain her favor, so like a good little girl, she tamped down her anger. “May I at least elaborate on why I wish to open a house for women?”

  Lord Campbell wiped his mouth with his serviette, then tossed it alongside his plate. He leaned back in the chair, his thumbs inserted into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Go on.”

  “There are many women—everywhere, I am sure—but definitely in London, who suffer at the hands of their husbands. Or other men who are not their husbands but who have control over them.”

  The image of Minerva—Lady Davenport—the last time Bridget had seen her alive, with bruises over her entire body, two swollen eyes, and a split lip jumped to the front of her mind. Yes, she had been a schoolmate and married well, according to Society. Except Lord Davenport had kept secret what he’d done to her when the ton wasn’t looking.

  “I was very close to one schoolmate who suffered.”

  He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Was she badly injured?”

  She looked him in the face. “She died.”

  He sucked in air through his teeth and leaned back. “How did she die?”

  Bridget swallowed a few times to bring herself under control. “She accidentally fell down a flight of stairs. Two days after taking a horrific beating.”

  Lord Campbell shook his head. “I don’t care who the man was, if he committed such an atrocity, he should be hanged.”

  “He was—is—a peer. His wife’s death was ruled an accident, and the coroner ignored the bruises all over her body.”

  “Davenport.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

  So Lord Campbell was familiar with Minerva’s husband. “You know him?”

  “I do. And a more vile individual does not exist. I’ve heard stories about him, and he is not an honorable man.”

  Bridget let out a breath. At least she didn’t have to fight him on this issue.

  “However, as I mentioned before, like it or no, under the law, a woman belongs to her husband, giving him the right to demand she return to his home if she leaves.”

  “Not if he can’t find her,” she said. “If necessary, I will hire a very strapping footman to monitor the door.”

  “Even if you purchase this house—that husbands can’t find—do you intend to support it indefinitely?”

  She shook her head. “Most of the women I expect to make use of the facility are earning their own money. When they obtain shelter, they could continue working to support themselves.”

  Lord Campbell ran his fingers through his hair. “While this is all quite noble, and I commend you for your desire to help those in need, the fact still remains that your father’s will does not allow you to obtain the money until your twenty-third birthday.”

  She leaned on her elbow, smiled up at him, and twirled a lock of hair that had fallen from her bonnet. “I am hoping you can find a way around that.” She hated using feminine wiles and depending on a man to do what she desperately wanted. But that was the way of the world. One day, that would change, she was sure of it. But until then, she had to use what was available to her.

  He leaned forward, a slight smile on his face. “It won’t work, you know.”

  “What?” Drat! One would think the rake in Lord Campbell would easily succumb to a bit of feminine manipulation.

  “Trying to break the will. As I promised, I will visit with my solicitor when we arrive in London.” He stood and held out his hand to assist her up. “I still think the best answer to your dilemma is to marry well and have your husband direct the funds to wherever he deems appropriate.”

  So much for attempting to win over the blackguard by being honest and pleasant. He may not have realized it, but he’d just declared war.

  A war she fully intended to win.

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks after they arrived in London, Cam and Bridget attended a dinner party at Lord and Lady Benson’s house. This was to be their first appearance with her as his ward.

  With Bridget firmly ensconced in his sister Constance’s house, he’d seen very little of the chit. He’d left her much to herself while he met with his solicitor—unable to protest the will, he’d discovered—his man of business, Mr. Dunston, and the committees working on the veterans’ issues.

  He had received a scathing note from his sister chastising him for ignoring Lady Bridget, which he’d ignored. However, with his most pressing issues finally taken care of, he could now spend some time escorting her to events.

  He’d sent around the guest list to have Bridget review it, and she’d returned a curt note reminding him that, as she’d not had a London Season she did not know anyone on the list. At one and twenty she should have had a couple of Seasons already, but he’d not questioned her after she’d told him she’d managed to avoid that torture.

  He left his house and climbed into his carriage to travel the short distance to Constance’s house. Settling back on the comfortable seat, he went over the guest list in his head. At least the guests who mattered to him. Lord Banfield, Lord Hyatt, and Mr. Pemberton were all potential husbands for Lady Bridget.

  The men were of good, solid families who did not imbibe too much nor gamble extensively. Banfield and Pemberton were a bit on the older side, but perhaps that was what she needed. She seemed somewhat strong-willed and opinionated.

  He strolled up the stairs and dropped the knocker on the front door. As always, he smiled at the whimsical knocker of a red owl. Fenton, Dunmore’s butler, answered the door within seconds. “Good evening, my lord. Lady Dunmore is in the library if you wish to join her. I will advise Lady Bridget of your arrival.”

  He nodded and made his way to the library.

  “There you are.” Constance stood as he entered the room and came toward him with her arms extended. When she got close enough, she swatted him on the arm. “You could have come for Bridget before now. The poor girl knows no one. She tells me all the women she knew from school are settled in the country with husbands and children.”

  Cam bent and placed a kiss on his sister’s cheek. “That is precisely what I want for Lady Bridget. A besotted husband to give her children to care for so she stops planning things that no gently bred young lady should concern herself with.”

  They sat facing each other on the settee. “If you are referring to her idea of providing a safe place for women who have reason to fear their husbands, I agree with her. It is a very worthy cause, and I told her after she got it started, I would be more than happy to help.”

  Cam groaned. “And what does his lordship say about that?”

  “My husband is quite open to new ideas, I’ll have you know.”

  “That tells me you haven’t mentioned it to him.” He grinned at the blush that rose to her cheeks.

  Before she could respond, the library door opened and Lady Bridget stepped through. At least he thought it was her. His jaw dropped at the very ugly black dress that resembled a sack, not showing any of her curves, the bodice going all the way up to her throat. The sleeves were long enough to touch her fingers, leaving her looking like a sad waif in a poorly fitting, borrowed gown. Her hair was pulled back so severely it almost pained him to look at her.

  She wore a knitted shawl over her dress, a white lace mobcap, and spectacles. If he weren’t so angry, he would have laughed, which was precisely what Constance was attempting to keep from doing.

  “Did you know about this?” He waved toward Lady Bridget as he turned to glare at his sister.

  She covered her mouth with her fingertips an
d shook her head. Her eyes teared from trying to hold in her laughter.

  “This is not funny.” He strode up to Lady Bridget. “Go change.”

  The spectacles slipped down her nose, and she stared up at him over the frames. “You forget I am in mourning.”

  “There is more acceptable dinner party attire that would be appropriate for a woman in mourning. Go change. I will wait for you.”

  She tilted her chin up and smiled. The chit was actually enjoying this. “No.”

  He leaned in, almost bringing them nose-to-nose, annoyed when all he could think of was how deuced appealing she was, even dressed in such an outfit, with the defiant look on her face and her snapping blue eyes. “Woman, either you go upstairs and put on something appropriate, or I will do it for you.”

  Constance sucked in a breath and drew herself up. “You will certainly not do that in my house.”

  He swung around. “We are attending a dinner party. There will be well-known and well-respected members of the ton and Parliament in attendance. I will not permit her to arrive looking like someone’s grandmother.”

  “Actually”—Constance tapped her chin—“if I remember correctly, Grandmama was far more fashionable.”

  He growled and turned back to Lady Bridget. “I know exactly what you are trying to do, but it will not work. We are going to attend social events where, hopefully, you will meet a man who will take you in hand.”

  Lady Bridget pushed the spectacles back up her nose. “I do not need anyone to take me in hand. And I do not need a husband!”

  “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.