Wichersham’s snide smile made Andrew’s hackles rise. The fellow was presuming too far.
“Bridget and I are friends of longstanding,” Wichersham purred. “It’s—”
“That’s a lie!” The words burst from Bridget, making heads near them turn. “A damnable lie!”
Wichersham snickered. “Now, my dear. Don’t worry. Surely your new husband will forgive you your past sins. And we can go on being friends.”
The emphasis on the last word carried intentional insult, so that Andrew had to swallow hard to contain the curses that rose to his lips. He turned to Bridget; her face was turning crimson. “Andrew, I didn’t! You can’t—”
He increased the pressure of his fingers over hers. “It’s all right, Bridget. No one would believe such a thing.” What he’d like to do was give the man a good facer. Stretch him right out on the floor where he belonged. Maybe draw a little blood in the process. For a moment he let himself contemplate the satisfying picture of Wichersham flat on his back, bleeding profusely. He swallowed again. He really shouldn’t make a scene, not here where everyone could see. But still, he was sorely tempted.
“Wichersham,” Wellington said, stepping out from behind Bridget. “May I speak to you a moment?”
Wichersham was plainly torn—uncertainty written large across his face. Then he evidently decided it wasn’t wise to ignore the great man, who could, after all, do a great deal for him if he chose. “I’ll speak to you later,” Wichersham said, leaning toward Bridget. He moved off, following Wellington into a nearby corner.
Bridget remained silent. Andrew could feel her body trembling against his arm, but her face was expressionless. When they were out of hearing, she said, “Andrew, when can we go home?”
He debated for a moment. Her tone was firm, but he felt her tension. Would their early departure cause more talk, talk they could ill afford? “Bridget, I don’t know—”
Why did she respond to Wichersham’s fabrications with such vehemence? Surely she didn’t think anyone would believe his lies. He knew Bridget would never give herself to the likes of Wichersham.
He patted her hand again. “It’s all right, Bridget. He’s just trying to worry you.” He gazed down into her harried eyes. “But tell me, why are you so upset?”
Her eyes clouded over. “Oh Andrew, I hate that man. He—He tried to—” Her cheeks reddened even more. “Before—at the stables—he cornered me, he wanted me to—”
“I’ll kill him!” If the words bursting from his mouth startled him, they turned Bridget pale.
“Andrew, please, don’t say such things.”
“I mean it,” he said fiercely. “If he comes near you, if he offers you any insult, any insult at all, I’ll call him out. I’ll kill him—I swear it.”
“But dueling! Andrew, you can’t! They’ll arrest you.”
“Nonsense,” he said, injecting confidence into his tone. “The King doesn’t know what’s going on. And Prinny doesn’t care.”
Bridget clung to his arm. “But I care. I don’t want you to be in danger.”
“Come,” he said, hugging her words to him. “I am in no danger now. Let us go home.”
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Bridget woke early. Andrew had been kind after the soiree, assuring her that he didn’t believe Wichersham’s base innuendoes. As though she would ever let a man like that near her! No man but Andrew had ever touched her—not like that anyway. Still, she’d been very upset, very angry, to think that Wichersham even dared to say such a thing.
She glanced at the clock and threw back the covers. Time for her morning ride. Elsie would be waiting on her corner, two of her prettiest nosegays kept back for her lady.
Bridget hurried into her breeches and boots, tucking in her shirt on the way to the door. First a short trip through the kitchen to pick up Elsie’s bread and meat, which Cook now wrapped routinely every morning. And then they would be on their way.
Andrew had gone into his room about an hour earlier, as he usually did at sunup every morning. She hadn’t yet told him about her early morning rides. She’d thought about telling him—oh, several times—but somehow she’d just never gotten round to it. Anyway, he wouldn’t mind.
She hurried down the stairs, nodded pleasantly to Cook, and hurried out to the stable, Elsie’s bread and meat wrapped in a clean linen cloth that she could slip over her wrist.
Ned would be waiting, his mount and Waterloo saddled and ready.
Sometime later Andrew met Peter at White’s. His friend was looking rather down at the mouth. Andrew frowned. Surely Peter hadn’t been betting on races—or mills—again. He’d sworn he’d learned his lesson last time.
Andrew slid into his chair. “You look in the dismals. Something wrong?”
Peter shoved aside the remains of his breakfast. “Rather.”
Andrew sighed. “Tell me what it is. I’ll do what I can to help.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid it’s yourself who needs the help.”
Andrew put a hand to his head. “It’s Bridget, isn’t it? Something more about Bridget.”
Peter nodded. “Yes, my friend.” He smiled slightly. “If you’ll recall, I did warn you she’d likely mean trouble.”
Andrew groaned. “I know. Well, tell me. What’s the story now? What are they prattling about?”
Peter finished off his muffin. “It’s all over town. Spread by the Lindens, no doubt. Everyone’s talking about your filly.”
Andrew sighed even louder. “That’s no news. What are they saying?”
“Well.” Peter smiled over the rim of his cup. “They’re saying that Bridget isn’t fit to be a lady. That all she knows is horses. That she’s more fit to be an ostler than a marchioness.”
Andrew cursed, long and fluently. “I might have know. Last night she told Lady Linden—and a bunch of other dowagers—that horses make better friends than people. Because they can’t talk.”
Peter grinned. “Actually a very acute observation. But if she said it to Lady Linden, no wonder the tale spread.”
Andrew helped himself to a muffin. “Peter, what am I going to do? She continually asks me questions.”
“Questions?” Peter looked puzzled. “Questions about what?”
“She wants to know why we do things. Why we ride in Hyde Park. Why we go to soirees. Why it’s important to be seen. Why, why, why.” He groaned again. “I tell you, Peter, she’s driving me crazy.”
“Hmmm.” Peter stared thoughtfully into his cup. “There must be a way out of this bumble broth. Bridget has a fine intellect. There’s no reason she can’t learn our ways.”
“I suppose not.” Andrew sipped his tea. “But it’s a very time-consuming business. I can’t teach her all that she needs to know and still attend to my estate duties. There must be some other way.”
“You could hire someone,” Peter suggested tentatively.
Andrew snorted. “I don’t think Bridget would take kindly to having a governess. You know her, she’s the independent sort.”
“Very independent,” Peter said with another grin. “Let me think.” He finished off the last muffin, then snapped his fingers. “I have it! A relative! You must have some female relative, some old dragon who knows it all. Fetch her in for a while and let her teach Bridget the whats and wherefores.”
“Hmmm.” Andrew thought hard. “You may be right. But who on earth can I get? All my relatives are in the country.”
“Who was that aunt you used to tell me about, your mother’s sister?”
“Aunt Sophronia!” Andrew sat up straighter, seeing a ray of hope. “That’s it! Aunt Sophie is just the one.”
“Then I suggest you send for her,” Peter said. “The sooner you stop the Lindens’ mouths—or at least give them less to say—the better.”
* * * *
Bridget came back from her ride with mixed feelings. She was glad to know that Elsie was getting at least some food in her stomach every day. But every time
Bridget looked at the nosegays—one she kept in her bedchamber and one in her sitting room—she thought of the motherless child out there in London’s cruel streets. She knew what it meant to be without a mother’s love. But at least she’d had Papa. Elsie had no one but a little sister. There must be something more, some better way to help the child.
Bridget washed and changed into a new morning gown of sea foam green, ate her breakfast, and settled down with her needlepoint. More than once as the minutes ticked by she was tempted to curse at pricked fingers or tangled yarn, but she kept her silence, determined to master the knack of this thing. If some lady could do it, she could, too.
After all, she told herself, sucking on yet another punctured finger, Andrew had been very good to her. And this at least was a lady’s activity she could do alone—without laboring under the blistering stares of those old society matrons. It was hard to understand how anyone so utterly useless, anyone who produced nothing at all in the way of work, could be convinced they knew so much. But they were convinced. And so it seemed, was the rest of the ton.
Last night those ladies, who had never been closer to a horse than a seat in a carriage, had declared that horses were “dumb beasts” and marveled at her wanting to associate with them. Dumb indeed! The horses she’d known all had had more intelligence than those ridiculous ladies.
Bridget thought with longing of the stable and its comforting atmosphere, but no, she had promised herself she would give the rest of the morning to this infernal embroidering business—and that was what she meant to do.
She was worrying another length of hopelessly tangled yarn, her tongue caught between her teeth in exasperation, when the door opened. She looked up. “Andrew! I didn’t know you were home.”
“I just came in,” he said, giving her a smile and looking so handsome her heart did a little jump. “So, what are you about there?”
She sighed. “I am trying to learn embroidery, but it’s quite fatiguing. The yarn gets all tangled. And I prick my fingers so often.”
When she extended a finger to show him, he crossed the room and pulled up a chair beside her. “Let me see,” he said, taking her hand gently in his own.
“Dear, dear.” He lifted it to his lips and put a gentle kiss on each prick. “You must be quite determined to become an excellent needlewoman.” His smile was teasing. “Else why would you undergo such torture?”
“Mrs. Purvey said all ladies embroider,” Bridget explained, letting her hand remain comfortably in his. “So I wanted to learn.” She lowered her gaze from his face, looking instead at their entwined hands. She liked the way they looked, joined like that. “I know you want me to be a lady. I want to please you.”
His fingers tightened around hers in a satisfying squeeze. “You do please me,” he said in a tone that made her lift her gaze once more to his face. “You please me very much. But you needn’t do needlework to achieve that. Only embroider if you feel so inclined.”
“Thank you, Andrew.” He was looking at her so warmly. Perhaps this was the time to tell him. “You know—”
“There are other things you can learn to do,” he went on. “Watercolors. Playing the harpsichord. Things like that. In fact, I’ve sent for someone to help you do. just that.”
“Sent?” she mumbled, her heart falling to her toes. Now what was going on?
“Yes. I’ve sent someone to fetch my Aunt Sophronia. She knows her way about the ton and she can answer all your questions.”
Bridget withdrew her hand. Oh no! He was going to bring in some withered old harridan to order her about. Or another Lady Linden. “Andrew, I really don’t need—”
His handsome face took on the stubborn look she’d come to recognize—and dread, because it meant she had no recourse but to do as he wanted. “I think you’ll like Aunt Sophronia.”
Sophronia! Bridget suppressed a shudder. She’d been right. Some fat old dragon as bad as that horrible Lady Linden. This was not the time to talk about her morning rides or to ask Andrew to do something to help Elsie. That would have to wait for later.
She swallowed hard. “When— When will she get here?”
“Soon,” Andrew said. “In a day or two, I hope. Don’t worry, my dear, you’ll soon know all the ins and outs of life in the ton.” He smiled. “You’ll be able to give the cut direct as well as the next lady.”
Bridget swallowed another sigh. She really didn’t know why she should want to be rude to anyone, except possibly the Lindens. And what was the point of that? It wasn’t very likely that any amount of rudeness would prevent Lady Linden from inserting her presence wherever she pleased, whether it was wanted or not. But it was apparent that Andrew had made up his mind. She would have to abide by his decision.
After all, she still had her horses—and her early morning ride. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—give that up.
The butler appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat.
Andrew looked up. “Yes, Purvey.”
“The Duke of Wellington, milord.”
“Show him in.”
Bridget turned eagerly. She hadn’t dared think about what he’d said for fear it wouldn’t happen, but the great man had really come. She shoved her needlework down in its basket, smoothed anxiously at her skirt, and raised a nervous hand to her hair.
Andrew laughed. “No need to primp, my dear. You look fine. Delectable as ever.”
He turned toward the door where the duke was just coming in. “Wellington, welcome. We’re glad to see you.”
“I’m glad to be here,” Wellington said, smiling at her. She hadn’t imagined it. The great man really did like her.
“I’m eager to get a look at the superb creature you call Waterloo,” he said. “By King Midnight, out of Queen Sheba, I believe you said.”
Bridget got to her feet. “Yes, Your Grace. I’m sure you’ll like him.”
It was at least an hour later when the duke made his goodbyes. He had exclaimed over Waterloo’s wonderful lines and superb confirmation so much that for a time Bridget had forgotten Andrew’s discouraging news. But when the duke left, all her doubts came back to trouble her.
As the door closed behind the duke, she turned to her husband. “Andrew, about that aunt of yours—”
“Her name is Sophronia,” Andrew said, the stubborn look sliding back over his face. “She was my mother’s favorite sister. I’m sure she can teach you the ways of the ton. Everything you need to know.”
She knew she was fighting a losing battle, but still she had to say it. “I don’t see why I must learn anything. I’m not rude. I don’t hurt anyone. Why can’t people accept me the way I am?”
Andrew sighed heavily. “Some people will, Bridget. People like Wellington. But others won’t. There are conventions to adhere to. And if you don’t conform to them, you’ll be the talk of the town.”
She shrugged. “I’m the talk of the town anyway.” She was sorry about that, but it wasn’t her fault. It was Lady Linden’s. “Why, Andrew? Do you know why Lady Linden should want to hurt me? I’ve never done a thing to her.”
But Andrew couldn’t tell her. He could only make empty excuses, excuses that even a child wouldn’t believe. And so she resigned herself to the dragon’s arrival. At least she still had her horses.
Chapter Fourteen
Bridget spent an anxious few days waiting for the old dragon to arrive. Every morning, of course, she went for her ride, taking food to Elsie and buying the two nosegays the child kept back for her. But every day Bridget’s worry grew. The child looked so peaked. There must be some way to get her off the streets, out of that horrible life.
On the afternoon of the third day, Bridget sat restlessly in her sitting room. In spite of Andrew’s words, she had not given up her attempt to finish a proper needlepoint design. She’d never been a quitter. And after all, how hard could it be to put a few stitches decently into a piece of material?
So she was sitting there, pulling out still another misshapen stitch, when Purve
y appeared in the doorway. “His Lordship’s aunt has arrived, milady.”
Bridget put down her sewing and got to her feet. “Have you sent to inform him?”
“His Lordship’s carriage is right behind hers,” Purvey said, his expression bland.
“Very well.” Bridget swallowed a sigh. “I’ll be right there.” It was really unkind of Andrew to bring someone else into the house. Bad enough that she had to face Lady Linden’s badgering. Though now, since Andrew had explained the matter to her, she had no qualms about declaring herself “not at home” when the Lindens came to call.
But she wouldn’t be able to evade Andrew’s aunt that easily. Sophronia. What kind of name was that for a woman? It sounded like—like some kind of strange disease.
Bridget reached the front hall just as the door opened. She braced herself, ready to face the dragon. Andrew came in, on his arm a beautiful lady dressed in the height of fashion. Bridget stared. Purvey had obviously made a mistake. Where was the old harridan? Why had Andrew brought this woman here?
“Bridget,” Andrew called gaily. “Come and meet Aunt Sophronia.
Bridget stared. It was hard to think of this exquisite woman as anyone’s aunt. On her small delicate fingers she wore several rings: a wedding ring, a ruby, and an enormous emerald. With her dark dark hair and pansy eyes, she looked like an actress. Or one of those other women, the ones men spent so much time with but never talked about—except to each other. Still, Andrew ought to know his own aunt. She moved toward them. “Aunt— Aunt Sophronia?”
“Please call me Aunt Sophie.” Her voice was sweet and mellow. “I understand the ton has been a little difficult for you.” She smiled. “But don’t worry. I have been through the whole thing. It’s not as difficult as it looks.”
“It’s not that it’s so difficult,” Bridget found herself saying. “It’s that it doesn’t make any sense.”
Oh dear, now she’d insulted Andrew’s aunt. But to her surprise the stranger laughed, a delightful sound, like the tinkling of many little bells.
“My dear Bridget,” she said cheerfully. “That is precisely your problem. You mustn’t expect sense. Not at all. You learn the whole thing, all by rote. And then you do it, without thinking.”
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