“But did she eat it?” Bridget asked anxiously. “I wanted her to have it.”
“She broke it in ‘alf,” Ned said, using his hands to mimic the action. “And when I asked ‘er why, she said she was keeping ‘alf fer ‘er little sister what’s working the next corner.” He looked a little anxious. “So, knowing ‘ow worrid ye was, why, I took it to ‘er sister. That’s what took me so long.”
“Good! That’s good. Did you find out about their parents?” Bridget asked impatiently. “Where do they live?”
Ned frowned and looked down. “Gone, yer Ladyship. Dead and gone.”
“Oh no! Then who—”
“The bigger one, name of Elsie, she told me after their folks died the neighbors took ‘em in. They all sells the flowers, but the old man, ‘e drinks the money right up.”
Bridget straightened. “We’ll take some meat and some bread to her every day. We’ll see to it.”
Ned’s usual smile returned. “She’ll be that happy,” he said. He looked awkwardly down at his feet. “I—I best get to work.”
Bridget nodded. “Yes, Ned, and thank you again for doing this for me.”
“Tweren’t nothing,” Ned said soberly. “Me ma—bless ‘er kind soul—she always said ‘twas good to be ‘elping folks. And she were right.”
Chapter Twelve
Lord and Lady Conyngham’s mansion blazed with light. In front of its great door, carriage after carriage paused to disgorge richly appareled occupants. When they finally reached the entrance, Andrew helped Bridget descend from the carriage and took her arm to lead her to the great stairs.
Bridget looked around with an exclamation of dismay. “Andrew, why didn’t you tell me it would be like this? All these people!”
He shrugged. Sometimes her naiveté was amusing. But sometimes it was not. This was just another soiree—nothing special, nothing special at all. “There are always a lot of people attending something like this. But you needn’t worry. They’re just people!”
That wasn’t entirely correct. He had believed it once, when he was young and carefree—that gossip meant nothing to him. And actually then it hadn’t. But after Tom’s death, after the title fell on his shoulders, Andrew had realized what damage wagging tongues could actually do. His mother had suffered a great deal from the venomous attacks of those who thought themselves her betters, but she had been shy, delicate, a tender flower, without Bridget’s practical approach to life, without her ability to fight back.
And there was another thing that made Bridget different from the ladies of the ton. She had quite a lot of zest for life. He couldn’t imagine the lively, vibrant Bridget ever complaining about ennui like so many ladies of his acquaintance. But then, her existence wasn’t encompassed by drawing rooms and sitting rooms, by petty call-making and ridiculous small talk, by the effort to become the belle of the ball. He could not imagine Bridget spending hours on her appearance. She would find that kind of thing a bothersome waste of time.
But in spite of the ease—and speed—with which she’d dressed this evening, Bridget was looking her most beautiful. Her gown of deep green sarcenet was gathered under the bosom with narrow ribbons of white velvet. From there the gown flowed straight to the floor where it met her matching satin slippers. The gown’s long narrow sleeves were also trimmed with narrow white velvet, its square neck edged with it. Her lovely auburn hair, which had been curled into tight ringlets and piled on the top of her head, was tied with more white ribbon.
Among the cream of London’s bejeweled and richly clad ladies, Bridget stood out. She was a diamond of the first water, his Bridget.
At the top of the stairs, he drew her arm through his and led her toward the receiving line. Ever the proper hostess, Lady Conyngham smiled beatifically. “Lady Haverly, we’ve heard so much about you. So pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Thank you,” Bridget said, ignoring the first comment. “It was kind of you to invite us.”
Lady Conyngham looked startled. Andrew stiffened. Exactly what rumor had Lady Conyngham heard? Had she expected Bridget to arrive with straw in her hair? Or wearing her leather breeches? He swallowed a smile. Now that would give them something to talk about! Bridget prancing through the drawing room in breeches and boots!
He finished his greeting and led Bridget away through the throng.
“How do they hear each other?” Bridget asked. “I mean there’s so terribly much noise. It gives me the headache already.”
Andrew sighed heavily. Would the ton and its ways never be understandable to her? He was getting quite tired of explaining all the niceties of life. “Remember when I told you about riding in Hyde Park? About how people of the ton go there more to be seen than to ride?”
She nodded, her forehead furrowing in a little frown that said clearly that she was trying hard to understand this bewildering new world.
“Well, a soiree’s rather like that,” he explained. “You really don’t come to one to talk or even to eat the food. You come to be seen.”
Bridget shook her head, setting her bright curls bouncing. “Andrew, I don’t understand why. What is so terribly important about being seen?”
Andrew sighed again. When she put it that way—as though they were all just being childish—he didn’t know how to answer her. He was aware that in a way what he told her didn’t make much sense. Being married to her, answering her continual questions, had already made him see things in a new and sometimes startling way. The truth was until now he had done what he was supposed to do—and never bothered to question why. They all did.
He led Bridget through the crowd toward the laden table of food. He would get her a glass of punch and something to eat. Bridget had a healthy appetite—she could always appreciate food, even these delicacies that were unfamiliar to her palate.
Then, as soon as he judged they’d stayed long enough to serve politeness, he could suggest they go home. He didn’t think she’d mind that. She was not a person who enjoyed having a great many people around her. Horses now, that would be different. The more horses the better pleased Bridget would be.
As they got closer, he saw that the crowd around the refreshment table was dense. Rather than take her into that crush, he found her a place against the wall, out of the way. “Here,” he said, smiling down at her. “You’d best wait here while I get you something to eat and drink.”
She shrugged her pale shoulders. “Certainly, Andrew. Whatever you say.”
From the look of near exasperation on her face, she was determined to make the best of a bad thing. He supposed they must seem strange, the ways of people who didn’t have to work, people that Bridget no doubt felt were useless. But he couldn’t help that. Even if she were right in her disdain for the rich who lived on the labor of the poor, he was not the one responsible for the situation. He hadn’t chosen to be wealthy; he’d been born into it. And he certainly hadn’t chosen to become a marquess.
In fact, he’d fought against it, causing his poor mother unnecessary pain. Thinking of that, he frowned. The tragedy of Tom’s death had been so hard on her—and then to have a son who refused to take up the mantle of authority, who didn’t want to assume his rightful place . . . Thank goodness he’d finally been convinced to do what she wanted, to accept the title. So at least her last days had been peaceful ones—or as peaceful as they could be since her favorite’s death had broken her tender heart.
He filled a plate with delicacies for Bridget. Strange, that in a few short days the girl had become so important to him. He’d liked her before, of course, when she’d been just a girl in a stable who liked to talk horses. Then she’d been amusing, easy to talk to. And not at all like a woman.
No, that wasn’t entirely the truth. He’d always been aware of Bridget as a woman; he’d just tried to ignore it. To treat her like a man. To talk to her like a man. He talked to her now the same way he had then, but it was different, he was different. Because now she was his wife. Already he could hardly remember what hi
s life had been like without her.
Holding the plate high, he started back toward her, wending his way through the multitude. Sidestepping a bull-necked colonel in a too-tight uniform, he almost tipped the glass of punch he was carrying down the décolletage of an elderly lady in bright blue satin with a bejeweled, ostrich-plumed turban perched atop her purple-tinted hair.
“Excuse me.” He offered the dowager his best smile and received a half grimace and cold stare in return. So much for the dashing smile for which he’d once been known throughout the city of London. The unfamiliar duties of the title had kept him away from the ladies too long. He must be losing his touch.
He resumed his progress toward his wife. Bridget had remained where he left her, but she was no longer alone. Lady Linden, in a gown of flaming red silk, pressed close to her. From the look of revulsion on Bridget’s face—too close.
He glanced around but he didn’t see the stickish Linden daughter. She was probably off inventorying the contents of the Conynghams’ mansion. But several other ladies were also clustered around Bridget, listening, he supposed, to Lady Linden’s latest tattle.
Evading several people and threading his way around some more, he lost sight of Bridget for a moment. He emerged some five feet from the group to see her waving an enthusiastic hand in time to her words.
“Horses are wonderful creatures,” she was saying, her tone defensive. “Actually, they make much better friends than people.”
“My dear girl.” He recognized Lady Linden’s falsely sweet tones. “Don’t be ridiculous. Horses can’t talk. They are dumb beasts.”
“Exactly,” Bridget said, with fine irony. “Perhaps that is why I prefer them.”
A snort from Lady Linden presaged a spate of indignant words ready to pour from her pursed red mouth. But Andrew inserted his body between her bulk and that of another lady and said, “Bridget, my dear, I’ve brought you those refreshments.”
Bridget sent him a look of gratitude which he felt was for much more than food. “Thank you, Andrew. This looks delicious.”
He took her elbow. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Linden. There’s someone I want Bridget to meet.”
Lady Linden faltered, her fat face screwing up in consternation at the thought of her prey being taken away. “But I—”
He didn’t wait to hear any more, but expertly maneuvered Bridget out through the crowd, as far from the old gossipmonger as he could get.
“Thank you again,” Bridget said around a mouthful of ham. “That woman drives me mad. Why, I almost feel sorry for that horrible daughter of hers. Can you imagine that!”
He smiled. “I don’t blame you. I don’t quite know how she got so much power. But the elite seem to thrive on her gossip. She has entree to every drawing room in London, even the finest.”
“They don’t have enough to do,” Bridget said firmly, her even white teeth crunching down on a crispy cracker. “If they had something to do, if they had to work for their food, they’d be too busy to lounge about tearing people’s lives and reputations to shreds.” She nodded, choosing another delicacy from the plate. “That’s it, Andrew,” she went on with conviction, “people like Lady Linden must be made to work.”
That idea—about as feasible as her earlier suggestion that the lady in question be shrunk and put on display—almost sent him off into whoops of laughter. Bridget saw things in such simple terms—the practical approach of a woman used to the rough, straightforward life of the stables.
Bridget was a doer. She always would be. And she had short shrift for the lazy dilettantish life of society.
But it wasn’t that simple. The verbal muck that Lady Linden threw couldn’t be cleaned away, shoveled into a dung pile like the horse manure that Bridget was used to dealing with. Lady Linden’s filth stuck in the mind, tainting every thought.
“Who did you want me to meet?” Bridget asked, wiping her mouth daintily with a napkin and then sipping at the punch.
“Ah—” Actually, he hadn’t had anyone in mind. He’d only wanted to get his wife away from the huge gossip-monger and her slimy tales. He looked quickly around. Over there. “I want you to meet Wellington.”
Bridget’s face registered shock. “You mean you want me to meet the Duke of Wellington?”
“Yes. The Duke of Wellington.”
“But—But,” she protested, “I don’t know anything about talking to a duke. What should I say?”
Andrew chuckled. “Bridget, my dear. You just read me a panegyric on the lazy ways of the rich and now you’re nervous about talking to a mere duke?”
She flashed him a look of disdain. “Don’t rag on me, Andrew. Whatever her title, Lady Linden is just an old gossip. She’s no better than any village fishwife. But Wellington—” Her eyes shone. “He’s a great man. He beat Napoleon at Waterloo.”
Andrew smiled. He would never understand his wife. “Come then, and meet the great man.”
When she made no more protests, he set her empty plate aside and led her through the assembly.
Wellington saw them coming. “Andrew! Good to see you!” He smiled at them. “And this is your new wife. I heard you’d married.”
“Yes, Your Grace. My wife, Bridget.”
Wellington reached for Bridget’s gloved hand and raised it gallantly to his lips. She stared at it for a moment, as though doubting that he had actually touched her. Then she murmured, “Your Grace.”
“I’m pleased to meet such a lovely lady,” Wellington said graciously. “Andrew, you’ve chosen well.”
“I think so,” Andrew replied, amused. This shy Bridget was one he’d seldom encountered.
Wellington turned back to her. “I hear that you have a marvelous stallion. Named for our victory at Waterloo, isn’t he?”
“Yes, your Grace. My father and I raised him. My father’s Victor Durabian. He has a stable outside London. Waterloo’s a chestnut. By King Midnight, out of Queen Sheba. Excellent pedigree. And he’s the fastest horse I’ve ever seen. He’s got the most beautiful—”
Andrew turned to stare at her. The shy anxious Bridget of a moment ago had been transformed. Of course, he thought, Wellington had sensed her edginess and moved to dispel it. He was a great man.
“Perhaps I could see him,” Wellington interjected when Bridget stopped for breath. “Also I’d like to know your theory about training horses.”
“It’s easy,” Bridget said, stepping closer and laying an urgent hand on the great man’s arm. “You just become friends with them. That’s all it takes. Even the highest-mettled bloods.” She leaned closer still. “Horses are incredibly loyal animals, you know. They’ll do anything for you.”
He laughed. “But how do you make them your friend?”
“You get acquainted—by blowing your breath into their nostrils. That’s the way horses do it. And it works for people, too.”
She glanced down, saw where her hand lay on his sleeve, and pulled it back like she’d been burned.
Wellington chuckled. “It’s all right, my dear. You’ve made an old man feel young again. Thank you.”
Bridget blushed, the pink traveling from her throat up to her cheeks. “Your Grace, I—”
“There’s no need to apologize,” Wellington said with a smile. “I love horses, too. Perhaps I’ll come round this week to see this wonder.” He turned to Andrew again. “If that’s agreeable with you.”
“Of course.” Bridget’s advent into society couldn’t have a better champion than the national hero of the struggle against Napoleon. “We’d be honored to have you.”
Taking Bridget’s arm again, Andrew turned away—and came face to face with Wichersham. The man was dressed like a tulip of the turf, but he looked almost ridiculous.
Andrew sensed rather than felt Bridget’s sudden tension. Apparently she didn’t like Wichersham any more than he did.
“Haverly!” the man said, his tone brisk. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“Indeed,” Andrew replied dryly. “I
can’t imagine that we have anything to talk about.”
He started to move away, Bridget clinging to his arm, but Wichersham moved, too, purposely putting himself in their way. Andrew felt his anger rising. He looked the man over. Wichersham was short with a big gut. His protruding eyes and raspy voice made many people uncomfortable in his presence. But it was not the man’s looks, ugly as they might be, that made Andrew wish to get away from him. It was the knowledge that Wichersham had deliberately bought up Durabian’s IOUs with the intent of ruining the man. That made being civil quite difficult. But he must do it. He gritted his teeth and kept silent; Wichersham was a worm, the lowest of the low. But he couldn’t do anything about it—at least not right then.
Andrew pulled in a deep breath. Better steady himself, better be careful. He didn’t want Bridget to suspect that Wichersham was the one who’d meant to send her father to debtor’s prison. It wouldn’t serve any good purpose to give her that information—and knowing her temper, it might do quite a lot of harm.
He straightened and gave Wichersham a quelling look. “Stand aside. We wish to get through.”
But Wichersham ignored his request, smiling, a slight curving of thin-pressed lips that imparted a sinister look to his blotchy face. Then he turned his bulging eyes on Bridget. Andrew felt her stiffen, but she didn’t let the scoundrel intimidate her. She met his gaze squarely.
“You’re looking well, Bridget,” Wichersham said unctuously. When he reached out for her free hand, Andrew quickly drew it back, covering it with his own. This slime wasn’t going to touch her, not even her glove. Not while her husband was anywhere near.
Wichersham looked from Bridget’s face to Andrew’s, his expression disparaging. Then he shook his head. “Very well, Haverly. But you’d better tell your—wife—to be kind to me.”
“Kind?” Andrew repeated, letting his voice reflect his incredulity if not his anger. “Why should Lady Haverly pay any attention to you at all?”
His Lordship's Filly Page 9