His Rebellious Lass (Scottish Hearts)
Page 5
She raised her chin. “I can take care of myself.”
Before he was able to remind her that he was referring to a different sort of taking care, the footman announced them, and they entered Preston’s drawing room.
About twenty other people stood in small groups around the room. A footman passed out glasses of some sort of beverage. Cam took two from the tray and handed one to Bridget. “Allow me to introduce you.”
“Well, who have we here?” Before they’d even taken two steps, Mr. Webster stepped in front of them, eying Bridget from head to toe in a manner that had Cam fisting his hand at his side. This nodcock would be the first to approach them.
Cam stiffened and turned to Bridget. “My lady, may I present to you Mr. Anthony Webster, son of Lord Everhardt. Webster, this is Lady Bridget, my ward.”
Webster’s brows rose. “Your ward? Why do you have all the luck, Campbell?” He took Bridget’s hand and bent over it, kissing the air above her glove. Fortunate for him. Had he placed his lips there he would have received a not-too-gentle reminder that Cam was watching him.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Bridget. I can’t imagine why Cam has been hiding you all this time.”
“I assure you I have not been in hiding. I have only just arrived in London.” Cam was pleased to see Bridget’s strained smile. Apparently, she’d seen through the man immediately.
“Indeed? Then perhaps you would enjoy my escort to view the sights of this wonderful city.”
“She’s busy,” Cam growled.
Webster frowned. “I haven’t mentioned a date yet.”
“No matter. Whatever date you choose I can assure you my ward will be busy. Do I make myself clear, Webster?”
Chapter Six
Bridget smiled inwardly at Campbell’s words to Mr. Webster. It was probably the first time she was grateful for his presence. Not that she couldn’t handle the repulsive man if she’d been forced to, but as she was attempting to behave like a lady and give this compromise of her guardian’s a chance, ’twas better if he dealt with Webster. Besides which, she imagined kneeing a gentleman in his groin in polite company was not well done.
Campbell gripped her elbow and moved them away from a glowering Mr. Webster. She continued to experience an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach and a pounding heart when they touched. It annoyed her to no end, because she had an uneasy inkling as to what that could mean and preferred not to give it credence.
He directed her to a small group of guests standing near the French doors. “Good evening, Lord Preston, Lady Preston.”
Preston and his wife were of mid years. She had retained whatever beauty she’d had in her youth, but Preston had apparently spent too many hours sitting at the dinner table, his waistcoat tightly stretched over his stomach. Otherwise, he was a cheerful-looking man, with a receding hairline and chocolate-brown eyes.
“May I present to you my ward, Lady Bridget MacDuff.”
Bridget gave an acceptable curtsy right before Lord Preston took her hand and bowed over it. “I am pleased you were able to join us this evening, Lady Bridget.”
“We were unaware that Cam had a ward until he sent along his note.” Lady Preston smiled warmly at her, putting her immediately at ease. An excellent hostess.
“It was all rather sudden, actually,” Bridget said.
“You must tell me all about it.” Lady Preston glanced sideways at Campbell. “Given his reputation, I cannot imagine anyone naming him guardian to a beautiful young lady.” Recognizing her faux pas, she quickly added, “Not that I think he would do anything improper—no, not at all—but I find it amusing, if nothing else. Now it is he who will have to be concerned about a young lady’s reputation. Ironic, is it not?”
Bridget studied Campbell as he spoke with Lord Preston. Truth be known, the situation was rather humorous, which probably had a great deal to do with his reluctance to serve as her guardian. If only he had turned that reluctance into a mission to sever their relationship. But apparently Papa had made sure that could not happen, even though he had known her stance on marriage. Whatever had he been thinking?
Preston waved his hands about, discussing some Parliamentary issue with Campbell, while Bridget and Lady Preston chatted about typical British subjects: the weather, the traffic in Town, the latest fashions, and who Bridget must meet, now that she was entering Society.
Campbell broke from his conversation after a while and introduced Bridget to others in the room. She seemed to catch the attention of several men, but most of them were more interested in the expanse of skin above her neckline than in speaking with her. She was tempted to remind Lord Bassinger that her face was above her neck.
They were soon summoned to the dining room, where the buffet table had been laid out with various offerings. Guests took informal seats at the table wherever they wished.
Bridget found herself between Mr. Blackmore and Lord Bassinger, who had almost tripped in his attempt to take the seat next to her. Lord Devon sat across from her, the only man she’d met that night who hadn’t studied her bosom. Newly married, she’d learned, Lord Devon and his wife were obviously a love match, based on the way they stared at each other as if no one else was in the room.
At one time Bridget would have wanted to roll her eyes at them, but for some reason she felt a twinge of something different. Similar to envy. Which was absolutely ridiculous. She knew what she wanted in life, and it was certainly not a husband. Besotted or not.
Lord Campbell sat across the table from her, about three places down. He exchanged conversation with the two ladies on either side of him, but every time Bridget looked his way, he was looking at her. The scowl on his face confused her, since she thought she was doing a fine job of socializing as he’d requested, in order for him to hold up his end of their bargain.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you will join us in the music room, we will serve tea there and enjoy the talents of our guests.” Lady Preston stood and smiled at everyone.
The group rose from the table and followed their hostess to the music room.
It was a lovely room, with warm brown wainscoting and green-and-white striped paper on the walls. Musical instruments of various types were scattered about the room. Chairs had been set up in rows for those who were not performing.
After tea had been served, Lady Preston clapped her hands. “Who will be our first performer of the evening?”
Bridget had never attended an event such as this. Apparently, a musicale in this house meant the guests entertained one another, rather than having a professional singer or one of the hostess’s young female relatives perform. An interesting concept.
“I will be happy to play the pianoforte, if Lord Campbell will turn the pages.” A young girl who had been introduced as Lady Edith, niece of the Prestons, gazed longingly at Lord Campbell.
Bridget bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the expression on Campbell’s face. She expected him to tug on his cravat at any minute. But being a well-mannered gentleman, he stood and said, “I would be delighted to assist you, my lady.”
The young lady gave a decent rendition of “The Soldier’s Widow” or “Return from Waterloo.” A rather somber number for a party, but nevertheless, the group appreciated her performance.
Several other guests rose and played various instruments.
“Lady Bridget, surely you must possess a talent for one of our instruments?” Lady Preston smiled warmly at her.
Bridget’s skill at the pianoforte, while not on par with the best musicians, would certainly not embarrass her. “I do play the pianoforte, my lady.”
“Then, please, do play for us.”
Lord Campbell stood at the same time she did. “I will turn the pages for you.” He said it so determinedly she had to assume he did not want another man standing over her, gazing at her bosom while she played.
Once she settled in her seat, she smiled brightly when she saw the music sheet for “No One Shall Govern Me.”
He broke into a grin when he saw the title. He apparently was familiar with the piece.
Bridget began to play and sang the words.
When young and thoughtless, Laura said,
No one shall win my heart;
But little dreamt the simple maid,
Of love’s delusive art.
At ball or play,
She flirt away,
And ever giddy be;
But always said,
I ne’er will wed,
No one shall govern me.
No, no, no, no, no, no,
No one shall govern me.
As she began the second verse, Campbell joined her, his strong baritone a wonderful complement to her soprano.
But time on airy pinions flew,
And Laura’s charms decay’d;
Too soon alas! The damsel grew
A pettish pert old maid.
At ball or play,
No longer gay,
Poor Laura now you’ll see;
Nor does she cry,
For reasons why,
No one shall govern me.
No, no, no.
Since she was familiar with the piece, her eyes left the page as she continued to play and regarded Campbell, his grin not as annoying as she would have thought, given the words that would follow.
A lesson learned, ye ladies fair,
From Laura’s wretched fate;
Lest you, like her, should in despair
Repent alas! Back too late.
Let me advise—
While young, be wise,
Nor coy and silly be;
I’m certain I
Would never cry,
No one shall govern me.
No, no, no
I’d gladly govern’d be.
As the last note sounded, they continued to stare at each other until Lady Preston began the applause. “That was wonderful. You two sing so well together I believe you practiced that number to entertain us.”
She dared not tell the group that was the first time they’d sung together. Instead, Bridget pulled her gaze away from Campbell and turned to the guests, her heart thudding. “Thank you. I always enjoy that song.”
…
Cam climbed into his carriage behind Bridget. Still uncomfortable with the reaction he’d had after their performance, he moved to the opposite side of the carriage. She had squirreled herself into the other corner, putting as much space between them as could be had in the same coach.
After about five minutes of silence, Cam turned toward her. “I hope you enjoyed yourself this evening.”
She continued to stare out the window. “Yes.”
“Any gentlemen catch your eye?”
Now why the devil had he asked that? He’d spent most of the night glaring at the men who’d continuously stared at her breasts. No one at the party had struck him as a good match for Bridget. Peabody, Bassinger, and Lovell had all been too interested in her body and had practically drooled every time they’d come near her. He’d already scratched off Manning, Monroe, and Webster. That left Mr. Grendell, who was in his seventh decade, and Lord Turner, who’d already buried three wives in the attempt to gain an heir.
“No.”
The tension in the vehicle snapped like lightning from a summer storm. Their song together and the way they’d stared at each other when finished had rattled him more than he cared to remember. He became more aware of the shimmer of her golden-red hair, her plump lips, ripe for kissing, and the wide expanse of pale skin above her neckline, where he wanted more than anything to place his lips.
What the devil is wrong with me? He was thinking like the other men in the room he had wanted to drag outside and beat senseless. This young woman was his ward. He was her guardian, which meant he was supposed to be protecting her from men like him.
“There were quite a few who were interested in you.”
She shrugged.
He shifted in his seat. “Might I remind you that you were the one who selected that particular piece of music to perform?”
She turned to him, her eyebrows raised. “Is that what you think is bothering me?”
“Well, I can’t think of anything else, since you had more men drooling down your chest than a horde of babies.”
“How dare you! Are you suggesting I somehow encouraged that behavior?”
“I didn’t see you doing anything to discourage it.” He chastised himself on how unfair that statement was. She had done nothing to encourage the unwanted attention, but he was lashing out because of the mixed emotions that only she was able to conjure up in him.
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Had I taken care of those men the way I wanted to, you would have been disgraced, and we would both have been asked to leave.”
“What the devil does that mean?” She was talking in circles. Lady Bridget was, by far, the most difficult woman he’d ever dealt with. If he didn’t get her married soon, he would be a candidate for Bedlam.
She waved her hand. “It means nothing.” Shifting in her seat, she glared at him. “You, on the other hand, spent the entire night watching me as if you expected me to drag one of those obnoxious men out into the garden.”
He drew himself up. “I did not.”
“Yes. You did.”
“And why did you not bring a lady’s maid or your companion with you?” he snapped.
Her jaw dropped as she stared at him. “What?”
“All proper young ladies know not to ride in a closed carriage with an unrelated man without a chaperone.”
Bridget leaned forward, her jaw tight. “You. Are. My. Chaperone.”
“Ah, but who’s to protect you from me?” That idiotic statement should bring the derision from her that he deserved. An honorable man wouldn’t even think such a thing, let along say it out loud. The woman truly had him in knots.
She threw her hands up in the air as the carriage came to a rolling stop in front of Dunmore’s residence. “I give up. You are completely deranged, and I fear for your sanity.”
She attempted to open the door herself but almost fell to the ground when the door swung open. A footman caught her by her upper arms. “My lady, are you well?”
Bridget turned back to Cam. “I am, now that this ride has come to an end.”
Cam climbed out behind her and tugged on the sleeves of his jacket. “I will escort you upstairs.”
“I can walk myself, thank you.” She spun on her heel.
Before she had taken one step, he gripped her elbow. “No. I said I would escort you.”
The footman, apparently sensing he was not needed, bowed and left them standing in front of the townhouse, playing tug of war. “Why would you want to escort such a loose woman as myself?”
“Loose woman!” His hands itched with the need to throttle her. “I said no such thing.”
She tossed her head. “You inferred it.”
“I was merely mentioning that your gown drew a great deal of interest.”
Her eyes narrowed. “My gown was no more scandalous than any other woman there.”
“Aha! I did not mention the word scandalous, so you must think so. Furthermore, I am not guardian to any other woman.”
“Unfortunately, no. You are my gaoler. I am forever grateful to have you watch my every move.”
“I do not—”
“Good evening, Cam, Bridget.” Constance stood at the doorway, a smirk on her face. “Are you coming into the house, or do you prefer to continue your tête-à-tête in front of my neighbors? Since you are so loud, am I to assume you wish to have all of London comment on your discussion?”
Cam took Bridget’s elbow, and they started up the stairs. Constance stood back as they entered the house, glancing between them, her grin growing wider. “Would you care for a brandy?”
“A brandy would be welcome,” Cam snapped.
Stubborn chit that she was, instead
of heading for her bedchamber to collapse into a bundle of tears, as most young ladies of gentle upbringing would have done, Bridget said, “I would enjoy a whisky myself.”
Cam ground his teeth as they entered the drawing room, where Dunmore sat, reading a book. “Ah, returned from your soiree.” He placed the book on a table alongside him. “Was it a pleasant evening?”
“Yes. Quite nice.” Cam released his hold on Bridget and strode to the sideboard, where he poured a whisky for Bridget and a brandy for himself. He turned to his sister and brother-in-law. “Anyone care to join us?”
“I think I would enjoy a brandy,” Dunmore said.
Constance added, “A sherry for me, if you please.”
Whether it was the drinks or the presence of other people, the atmosphere grew less tense, and Cam actually found himself joining Bridget in regaling stories of the evening. A couple of times when they both started to tell the same story, they grinned at each other, and all the tension of the carriage ride eased away.
That seemed to be the solution to the problem. He needed to put other people or distance between him and his ward. This attraction, he admitted to himself, was not proper. He was her guardian. It was his duty to arrange a suitable match for her and let her husband deal with the aid-for-abused-women project so near and dear to Bridget’s heart.
A husband who would give her children to keep her company in her old age.
Unlike him, who was more than happy to continue his easy, unencumbered life. He studied the brandy in his glass as he swirled the liquid, the words from the song replaying in his mind, leaving him wondering if they could apply to him as well.
A lesson learned, ye ladies fair,
From Laura’s wretched fate;
Lest you, like her, should in despair
Repent alas! Back too late.
Chapter Seven
“Minerva, what happened?” Bridget’s mouth hung open in shock as she closed the door to her friend’s bedchamber and studied her. The girl was resting in bed, propped up on pillows. Both of her eyes were blackened, her lip was split open, and her neck bore ugly red marks resembling fingers.