Beguiling Bridget

by Rachel Van Dyken

  The step proved hazardous, however, and he felt his foot slip forward on something, causing his body to pitch backward and his arms and legs to flail in the air. The last thing Anthony remembered was a sharp pain slicing into the back of his head as he caught the edge of the refreshment table. Then darkness overtook him.

  Chapter Two

  A Worthy Opponent

  Blind? Surely the man couldn’t be serious. Granted, he was remarkably handsome with his soft wavy brown hair and his sage green eyes trimmed with a hint of gold. If she had a propensity for such things, Bridget supposed she could easily find herself lost in his gaze.

  But she did not have the propensity.

  And the man was an absolute cad.

  Bridget could tell by that look in his eyes, the same haughty look she had seen in a hundred men these past few weeks, that he believed she would be an easy conquest. And she had every intention of dispelling his misconception of her the moment he asked her to dance.

  But as he reached for her glass, the man lost his footing and fell, flailing to the ground. Bridget stifled a shocked laugh. Pride goeth before a destruction, she thought and slipped away to allow enough room for others to see to the viscount’s injury.

  ****

  The haze dissipated slowly as if he were returning from some sort of dream filled with a dashing redhead. On second thought, it was a nightmare, for his eyes made out the fuzzy image of Wilde crouched above him. The man's lips were moving, but whatever words issuing forth from him made no sense. Slowly Anthony's other senses came into focus, and confusion set in. What had happened?

  “Say something, man!” Wilde was shouting in his face.

  “Your breath… is reminiscent of a fire breathing dragon, Wilde. Please direct it elsewhere,” Anthony whispered in a husky voice.

  Wilde rocked back on his heels, his face reddened with irritation. Behind him Ambrose laughed.

  “I'd say he's recovered,” his brother announced.

  Anthony sat up slowly. His head throbbed, so he reached a tremulous hand to the lump now protruding from the back of his skull. It was dry. No blood. At least he hadn’t spilled his innards in front of the lady. Nothing makes a woman more likely to swoon than a man projecting blood on her person.

  The events leading to his present state began to swirl back through his mind. Lady Bridget. To where had she disappeared? Were they not just in conversation? Wasn’t she concerned for his welfare? Devil take it! A woman should know her place! She should help a man when he… had a tumble.

  He cast a pensive glance around the room to search for her, but there were too many people crowding about him.

  The music started up again, dispersing the concerned spectators.

  Ambrose offered his hand. “Can you stand, brother?” A mischievous grin taunted Anthony from his twin's face.

  “I believe so. What the devil happened?” He allowed his brother to assist him. Beside him, Wilde chuckled with a hand covering his mouth.

  “You slipped on a strawberry.” He pointed to the mashed offending fruit. “Fortunately, it appears the fiend got the worst of it.”

  “I hate blasted strawberries, of course that would be the culprit.”Anthony made a move to kick the fruit but stopped his childish notion when his brother piped up.

  “I dare say you made quite the impression on the young lady,” Ambrose added, gesturing back to the corner where she sat once again. “She made short work of excusing herself from your company. Naturally, she waited until after you were unconscious, which I find most gracious. Pray tell, did you find yourself out of your depth?”

  “Four weeks, Ambrose. This is only the first night.” Anthony seethed beneath the surface. A glimmer of doubt turned his stomach. He hoped this incident was not indicative of how the next four weeks would play out.

  “I do hope your form improves, for your sake — and hers,” Ambrose said.

  So do I. Oh, so do I, Anthony thought and rubbed the sensitive lump on the back of his head once more, finally resting his gaze on the lady in question. This could prove more difficult than he originally anticipated.

  Dare he make another move to speak to the girl? Her back was now facing him. Surely she was concerned! Anthony was unable to comprehend a woman who would not only watch a man fall, but also not wait to see that he was uninjured. Usually women tripped him on purpose in hopes that he would fall into their arms and be forced into marriage! It was the one reason he vigilantly looked to his feet when walking down darkened hallways. Fortunately for him, women took it as a sign of humility. Truly, it worked out perfectly.

  He squinted in her direction, willing her to turn around. But after a horrifying three minutes he relented and glanced back toward the opposite side of the room, assuming Wilde and Ambrose would have returned to their usual posts. Instead he came face to face with both men. Smiles plastered on their irritating lips and arms crossed. Anthony had the sudden urge to shoot them both for their mockery.

  “Move aside,” Anthony grumbled, pushing past them. He let out a string of expletives when he noticed they were following him.

  “Oh, Anthony, darling!” Lady Burnside hollered at him.

  Cursing again, he turned to his side. “Ah, my lady, how does the evening fare?”

  She moved close enough for him to decipher that she had consumed her fair share of roasted pig and sherry and whispered, “It could be better, if you gain my meaning.”

  Saints alive, the woman was strong. Her grip tightened on his forearm. Truly, he wished to be anywhere but here. Why was it that every elderly lady in the room, especially the married ones, propositioned him?

  Every Season.

  And every Season, Anthony rejected the poor women and prayed for temporary blindness to conveniently strike him every time a lady as notorious as Lady Burnside walked in the room. Oh, she was an attractive lady, but the dresses she wore were indecent. And when one doesn’t necessarily fit into said dresses, well… it should be said that Anthony had trouble imagining how he could escape a tryst with the woman without being smothered. That thought alone kept him awake at night.

  “My lady, it seems I’ve taken ill,” Anthony apologized.

  “Ill?” Wilde said from behind him.

  “Yes,” Anthony confirmed. “I took a slight fall.”

  Ambrose coughed wildly behind him.

  “And,” Anthony continued. “I need to nurse my—”

  “Pride?” Ambrose offered.

  “As well as other parts of his anatomy,” Wilde chimed in cheerfully.

  Lady Burnside grinned. “Nurse, you say? Oh dear me. In that case, you have happened in the right direction, my lord! You are in luck, for I can nurse you back to health!”

  “How gracious,” Wilde said.

  “Yes.” Ambrose coughed again. “You are a saint among sinners, my lady.”

  “I do try,” she agreed. “Now how shall I help?”

  Anthony hated lying — hated being mocked by his brother, and thought to himself that it couldn’t get any worse — and then…

  “Aunt?” Lady Bridget approached.

  Anthony inwardly cursed. He must have done something horribly offensive for God to allow him to be embarrassed twice within the same hour in front of the same beautiful girl he was supposed to be impressing.

  “Ah, Bridget, my girl! I cannot attend to you just now. I have been given the task of nursing Viscount Maddox back to health! Did you know the poor gentleman was injured?”

  Bridget tilted her head and offered a sly smile. “No, Aunt. Perhaps I was stricken with a momentary blindness. For although I heard a scuffle, I was unable to ascertain what unfortunate accident transpired. Whatever happened, my lord?”

  Anthony glared. “Son of a—”

  “Saint!” Wilde blurted. “You are such a saint, my lady, for helping Lord Maddox, but I believe the best medicine will be for us to see him home for a much needed respite.”

  “Are you sure?” Lady Burnside seemed disappointed. Anthony, however,
couldn’t decipher between his own aggravation with the Lady Bridget’s lack of interest and his pure fear of her aunt’s advances.

  “Positive.” Ambrose winked. “Ladies, it has been a pleasure.” With a curt bow, Ambrose motioned for Anthony to follow. He had no choice but to bow to both women and pray his face wouldn’t give way to the frustration he felt at Bridget’s comment. The little minx had done it on purpose!

  “Oh, Viscount Maddox?” Bridget called out as he turned to leave.

  Perhaps she did care. She was only jesting; he really should give her a chance, after all—

  “Be sure to sleep on your side.”

  Anthony’s nostrils flared and he took a step back in her direction. “Now see here—”

  “Good night to you, ladies.” Wilde pushed Anthony in front of him, making it impossible to give the girl a good set down.

  ****

  Bridget could feel the smug grin creasing her lips as she stared after the gentlemen’s retreat. The man would be nursing more than a bruised head this evening. She’d made sure of that.

  After doing her best to avoid attention from the gentlemen at the party, the last thing she needed was the Benson twins turning her into their own personal Pygmalion project. She hoped her interaction with Lord Maddox had gone unnoticed by the rest of the bachelors in attendance.

  She had promised her aunt she would participate in a Season, but she had no intention of participating in the marriage mart. There were far too many other worthy aspirations in life. Yes, even for a woman. Art, literature, politics, writing. Bridget longed for the liberty to follow her own desired pursuits.

  Most men expected women to sit at home and work on their needlework, or perhaps play the piano, or God forbid, visit other women who love nothing more than to gossip. She’d watched her mother’s light slowly fade as a child. Her parents had once seemed so happy, and then suddenly they weren’t. Memories of her mother reading to her and then hiding the same books she was reading replayed in Bridget’s mind, how her parents would fight when her father was again disappointed that her mother had been a bad hostess, or not ordered enough wine for the parties they had.

  Bridget wanted none of it. To have a man dictate her life, her happiness, was not only unfair but ridiculous. She would rather die a spinster. At least as a spinster she could pursue writing. Her true passion. Perhaps Pride and Prejudice was to blame; after all, the women in that book had strong opinions of their own. What would it be like to write such a tale? She sighed longingly.

  Feeling as though she was being watched, Bridget whipped around and noticed the heat of her aunt’s glare falling heavy on her. She waited for the inevitable derision. Aunt Latissia had promised Bridget’s grandmother she would see to a proper Season. And that meant proposals. Proposals enough to have an option for an acceptable match. Never mind that Aunt Latissia would be championing her own cause along with her. The woman’s shameless advances on the young men of the ton were mortifying to say the least.

  “Bridget,” her aunt began. “Did you have words with Lord Maddox earlier? He seemed anxious to get away from you. What did you do?”

  Fighting an overwhelming urge to roll her eyes and suggest the root of his anxiety could be her aunt’s salivating over him like a dog in heat, Bridget inhaled slowly and pretended to consider the question.

  “I can’t think of a single thing that could have caused such a reaction, Aunt. We had such a pleasant conversation, and he helped me to some lemonade.”

  “You’re up to something, girl. Your grandmother made me promise to find you a husband. And after all she did for you after your mother’s death — taking you in and caring for you — the least you can do is oblige the old woman by encouraging the gentlemen to seek your hand. Gratefulness is a Fruit of the Spirit. You’ll do well to practice it.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Bridget lowered her head in feigned repentance, hoping it would prompt a dismissal and the end of the lecture. Though the argument was riddled with theological inaccuracy, to make that point would simply prolong the interaction.

  “Now run along and dance with someone.”

  Bridget glanced back to her aunt to find the woman had already spotted her next quarry and was licking her lips and pinching her cheeks. With a shallow curtsy, Bridget made a quick escape back to the corner near the plants.

  One dance. That was all she had to do to fulfill her aunt’s instructions. It should be someone harmless. She glanced around the room for a suitable partner.

  Sir Bryan. Yes, he would do.

  The Lady Cristina, his intended, had left town for a few days for her grandfather’s funeral, and Sir Bryan had been moping about all evening as if at sixes and sevens. A perfect partner.

  With one flash of her fan, she caught his attention and waved him over. No one would notice if she danced with him. Yes, he would do quite nicely.

  Chapter Three

  Parry and Riposte

  “Truly you can’t fault Anthony for his glaring stupidity. After all, he cannot help being born with such a handicap. Think how it must affect him,” Wilde said.

  Ambrose lifted his snifter of brandy. “Agreed.”

  “Born with stupidity?” Anthony raged. He had been sitting in the corner stewing since daybreak over that wretched strawberry while Ambrose and Wilde pretended to be helpful.

  “One can hardly fault the strawberry,” Ambrose argued further. “I’m wholly convinced the blame rests with Mother. If she would have merely eaten more strawberries, Anthony wouldn’t find the fruit so offensive, and that same fruit wouldn’t have skittered about his boots seeking revenge.”

  “Fruit doesn’t seek revenge, you idiot.” Anthony felt the need to defend himself.

  They ignored him.

  “Has he ever tried a strawberry?” Wilde sounded genuinely curious.

  “Anthony refuses to try things more than once. Says it’s a waste of his time. Isn’t that so, brother?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Wilde shook his head. “Does that same sensibility apply to wooing young ladies? Sounds silly to me. Perseverance is a virtue, my friend. It would be a considerable error in Anthony’s judgment to follow that creed. For he already tried to beguile the girl once, and look where it got him.”

  They shot sympathetic looks his way. He half expected the men to bow their heads in reverence.

  “‘Tis merely a bruised—”

  “Ego?” Wilde offered.

  “Bum?” Ambrose suggested.

  “I’m going home,” Anthony announced, gritting his teeth against the pain in his backside as he rose from his seat and hobbled to the study door. “And if I find any sort of strawberry, or heaven forbid, Lady Burnside in my room when I get there, there will be the devil to pay, I assure you.”

  “Couldn’t really fight her off in his present condition though.” Ambrose elbowed Wilde.

  “Yes,” Wilde agreed. “Wouldn’t be fair for us to do such a thing in his weakened state.”

  “Good afternoon!”

  It had been one whole day, and Anthony still walked with a limp. It hurt to stretch, to breathe — basically, it hurt to exist. Not that he wanted to let on to any of his acquaintances that he was suffering so.

  It was all Lady Bridget’s fault. The only comfort he found was in imagining what would have happened had he avoided that cursed strawberry.

  Lush red lips would have firmly pressed against his in a hot fervor of exotic bliss. Unfortunately, when he thought of her lush red lips, his mind immediately conjured up the image of a lush red strawberry, making his backside throb with pain once more.

  How was he to impress the girl? He couldn’t dance without wanting to cry out. No telling how many women would flock if they knew he was injured. He’d be married by the week’s end. The women of the ton seemed to sense weakness and attack with a fervor like none other. Anthony often imagined men as defenseless zebras and the women as preying lions. And at this point in his life, he was most definitely the vulnerable baby zebra.
He wouldn’t stand a chance. Being devoured was not on the top of his list for the day, nor was sitting and listening to Wilde and Ambrose laugh at his expense.

  The soreness in his back made walking home look much more comfortable than riding in a jostling curricle, so he rounded the corner of the block and embarked for home, taking slow stiff strides.

  As he limped, Anthony considered his strategies. He had only four weeks. And what seemed like ample time yesterday as he admired the lady from a distance, now after their introduction appeared as a wildfire fast on his heels. How is it that out of the entire flock of fresh debutantes, Ambrose had selected the only lady who would despise him simply by virtue of his confidence? The only one who would put up a fight?

  He pushed the thoughts of doubt from his mind. After all, he was Anthony Benson, Viscount Maddox. His prowess with the ladies was the stuff of legends, and a challenge like this one would only serve to sharpen his skills.

  If there were some way he could determine which social events Lady Bridget would be attending for the next four weeks without raising suspicion, he could tailor his own appearances to mimic hers, and so create a variety of coincidental meetings. If nothing else, the mere familiarity of seeing him everywhere might begin to wear down her defenses. And certainly, the regular exposure to his charms alone would do her in.

  Yes. Anthony was feeling better already — a slight swagger returned to his gait. He inhaled deeply of the sweet afternoon air and glanced about the street to see who was about.

  A young lady walking a small dog, followed closely by her lady’s maid, who carried the parasol, caught his eye. It was the lady who had been haunting his thoughts. Anthony was sure of it. How fortuitous! His plans need not wait until later.

  He stepped into the street without thinking and narrowly missed being rundown by a speeding hack. His heart leapt into his throat, forcing him to jump backward to the cobblestone walkway. Naturally, the sudden jolt caused him to lose his footing, and he skittered to the ground, landing firmly on his already damaged backside.