“Bridget?” The voice was hoarse and weak.
“Merciful heavens! I will never live this down,” Anthony mumbled to himself as he followed the girl around the corner.
His eyes fell on an elderly gentleman who seemed to have one foot in the grave. “Ah, Bridget, my dear, are you ready for your fencing lesson?”
“I was wrong. It just became much worse.” Anthony began to perspire as Bridget shed her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Smooth fair skin peeked out from her white shirt, causing his nostrils flare in agitation or arousal — he wasn’t quite sure which, but he was certain the temperature in the house just spiked at least ten degrees. And where was the blasted butler with refreshments?
“And you are?” the elderly gentleman asked.
“Viscount Maddox at your service.” He bowed curtly before the man and waited.
“I’m sorry, Lord Travis. He insisted on following me.”
“How fortuitous, my dear. You shall have a sparring partner.”
“Sparring partner?” Anthony repeated and began to laugh. “Surely you jest.”
“I never jest.” The man made no move to smile or breathe, it seemed.
“Right, then.” Anthony shifted on his heels. “So I’ll just…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he silently cursed his brother and Wilde as he shook off his jacket and readied himself for battle… against a woman. The very woman he was supposed to be winning.
Truly, the odds were not in his favor.
“En garde!” Bridget yelled.
Anthony cursed again and momentarily considered running for cover. But a look of pure satisfaction danced across Bridget’s flawless face. So he pointed his rapier in her direction and swore to make her sorry she ever challenged him in the first place.
At the old man’s signal, Bridget began an intense attack, driving Anthony back several steps. It was all he could do to parry the furious blows she swung at him. What had he gotten himself into?
She was good.
But he couldn’t let her think he was impressed. Nor winded. Nor concerned he might just lose. Blast, if he wasn’t all of those things.
His opponent settled into a graceful rhythm. Her ease of movement, as though the rapier were a mere extension of her arm, was as natural as a lithe reed in the wind. Their dance continued. Anthony drew back a step before her attack, making a desperate attempt to focus on the necessary defense. But she made it nigh impossible.
A steady cadence of the clash of steel served to lull Anthony into a hypnotic state, one to which he was willing to submit when combined with the entrancing vision of his Bridget straining against the well-fitting breeches and gentleman’s silk shirt.
With a rakish lift of his brow, he thrust his rapier into the loose fitting fabric, absolutely delighted with the loud rip of her shirt. With a yell, she charged him, but he sidestepped her and thrust his rapier again, this time to the left, finishing his rather artful tear of the shirt, revealing quite a lovely white corset underneath.
“Hmm…” He winked. “I had you tagged for a more colorful girl. Red hair, certainly you would have red—”
“You rake!” Lady Bridget’s rapier came down on his. The steel clashed as she backed him up against the wall. He turned and, with a thrust, pushed her away from him and lightly tapped his rapier on her bum.
Her eyes blazed with fury.
So he obliged himself again. A very unladylike roar erupted from the woman’s throat as her rapier whistled dangerously close to his face.
Rebellious tendrils of her fiery red hair sprang out of her tight braid, framing her ivory face, now flushed with exertion from the bout. And the flame in her sapphire eyes held him captive, a grave distraction — in a true duel to the death, he would have already lost his life. In this case, the price was much dearer. But Anthony knew it was too late, for he had long since forfeited his heart.
“Point!” The old man’s announcement rang out an instant before he felt the sting of her blade, drawing Anthony abruptly from his trance.
He caught the haughty smirk gracing her lips for the briefest of moments. So she wanted to play, did she? Her obvious joy at besting him, made him want to strip her of the rest of her remaining clothes. That would teach the minx a lesson.
Again they engaged. When the lady attacked, Anthony gave way. When he aggressed, Bridget retreated, their steps as well timed as the most complicated of dances. The parry of blows and the singing of their rapiers through the air — the palindrome to which their hearts beat in rhythm.
“Lady Bridget,” he began as he fought off another of her hostile onslaughts. His breath was labored and perspiration soaked through his shirt. He wasn’t sure what was causing him more distress, the lust pounding through his blood or the fear of accidentally stabbing the woman he wanted as his for eternity.
“Point!” Lord Travis bellowed again, interrupting Anthony’s train of thought.
He was losing pitifully. He never lost. The thought of such a desperate humiliation — to lose to a girl — it was repugnant to his every male sense. If Lord Travis said point one more time in reference to the lady he was going to throw his rapier at the man.
Anthony glanced at Lady Bridget, noting the smile on her lips. A shot of adrenaline surged through him and he began his attack, forcing his opponent back while keeping his gaze locked on hers and allowing a smack of hubris to play on his own lips.
Bridget drew back, parrying his assault with a single raised eyebrow as if amused but with not so much as a hint of concern. Her casual defense disconcerted him, but he pressed forward, rearing her into a wall with every ounce of his remaining strength.
Their rapiers deadlocked, and Anthony leaned forward, using the advantage of weight to hold her there, unable to retaliate or regain her position. She pushed and fought against him, but he wouldn’t relent. He could feel the pounding of her heart against his arm, and the desperate grappling for air as her chest rose and fell with her ragged breath.
His gaze dropped to her parted lips and felt himself drawn toward them by an undeniable force. Still her eyes held no fear, but all the more a fire danced behind the deep blue crystals threatening to consume him if he came nearer.
Mere inches from her sculpted lips, his breath ragged with gasps for air, he whispered, “Do you yield?”
Her gaze bore into him as if tunneling through to his very soul, and he knew he could keep himself from her no longer, no matter their agreement.
Somewhere in the haze beyond the universe that held only the two of them, he thought perhaps he heard someone shouting instructions in Latin. Alas, he saw only the lady before him trapped in his arms, so the necessary proficiency to translate the words was far beyond his conscious reach in that moment.
He would kiss her again. As he had dreamed of doing since laying eyes on her crawling out of that blasted window. And to the French with anyone who would stop him.
As he closed the distance between his lips and hers — so close to his goal — amidst her rapid heavy breaths, she whispered hotly against his mouth, “Never.” One deft roll beneath his arm, and she was free of his grasp, masterfully slicing the air with furious steel as he struggled to regain his footing and his comprehension of the sudden turn.
It was then he had his epiphany. There in the throes of a desperate bout with an unbeatable foe.
He didn’t want to win the contest.
There was only one thing he wanted.
One prize that mattered to him.
Her next offensive maneuver drove him back to the table where the old man sat, taking his afternoon tea. The unyielding structure behind his legs took him by surprise, stealing his balance and causing him to flail wildly in futile effort to recover. Down he crashed onto the table, launching a platter of fresh fruit into the air, which pelted him like brightly plumed hailstones upon their descent.
The next thing he knew, Bridget, flushed and breathless, stood over him, her blade at his throat. With the other hand, she reached to his chest
to grasp one plump red strawberry and lifted it to her mouth. Sealing her lips about the circumference of the ripe sphere, she incited his desire for her. His heart made a valiant effort to burst from his chest — no doubt longing to leap into the arms of its true conqueror.
She broke off the seductive bite and held the remaining portion toward him with an expression of innocent inquiry. “Strawberry, my lord?”
Yes, she was trying to kill him, mocking him again. But this time he would not be put off so easily. With a slow deliberate hand he nudged her blade aside, seized the wrist of the hand offering the offending fruit, and pulled himself upright.
“I believe I will,” he replied.
Before she could offer any resistance, he slid a hand around her waist and drew her in to his arms, planting his lips on her luxuriant mouth, still moist with the sweet juice. Somehow, though Anthony had hated strawberries all his life, in that moment he was certain— he would never satisfy his craving for them.
Lady Bridget’s arms wrapped around his neck as he pulled her flush against his body. Her mouth was hot, so sweet he wanted to die. Pulling at her hips, trying to get her closer, he could feel the bones of her corset. He smiled against her lips and tugged at the remaining shirt, ripping it completely off.
She shrieked and tried to pull away, lifting her hand in threat of a solid slap. Anthony laughed and used his weight to push her against the wall. His rapier lay near his foot. He dipped his boot beneath the blade and tipped it up to his hand then held it beneath her throat. Her breathing was ragged, up and down her chest went against the steel of the blade. Boldly, his eyes caressed her body, and with one last show of passion, he leaned in and kissed her roughly on the mouth, sucking the sweetness of the strawberry directly from her flesh as his tongue traced her lips.
“I think I’ve found a new favorite fruit…” he whispered against her lips. “Do you yield?”
“Bravo! Bravo!” Lord Travis clapped in the distance. “Haven’t seen this much entertainment since the opera last year!”
With the spell broken, Anthony pushed reluctantly away from Lady Bridget. All too aware that in his lustful haze he had stripped the lady of some of her clothing as well as kissed her in front of a peer.
Lady Bridget flew from him to the desk. When she returned, she pulled a pistol and trained it directly at Anthony’s heart.
“Ah, protecting your own virtue, how very noble,” Anthony muttered all the while silently hoping the pistol wasn’t loaded.
“Touch me against my will again, and I will find a reason to shoot you.” She seethed.
Lord Travis chuckled. “My dear, if that was against your will, I’d be delighted to see the entertainments when you are fully participating. Now, be a good girl and put the gun down. It is time you return home.”
Nostrils flaring, Lady Bridget pulled back on the gun and set it on the table on her way out the door.
Chapter Twelve
Foiled Again
The look on the viscount’s face was enough to curdle her resolve. Their arrangement wasn’t working the way it was supposed to be. And the more distance she could put between them the better. For the more that he pursued her, the more she wanted him to — the more she wanted to give in to everything she swore she would never give in to. Bridget wouldn’t be her mother. She refused it with the very core of her being.
But now that she had experienced the taste of Anthony’s lips, the feel of his tongue as it tasted the sweetness of her mouth — she knew she was done for, that to put distance between them would be futile.
For her heart was already engaged.
It beat for him.
And she wanted to hate him for it.
But all she could think about as she grabbed the jacket from the nearby chair and slipped it on, was that no amount of distance would be enough to shield her heart from the rogue.
“Bridget, are you sure you don’t want a rematch?” Anthony said behind her. How the devil did he sneak up on her so fast?
Anthony’s arms came around her from behind as he fumbled with pulling the jacket closer around her body. “If you don’t mind, I’d feel much better if we hired a hack for our return, wouldn’t want anyone seeing you in your current state of—”
“Embarrassment?”
Anthony’s arms froze around her. “I was going to say in your current state of perfection. What woman would be embarrassed about the fact that she can best a man with a sword, her wit, and her intelligence, I ask? Let me just call for one, I’ll not be a minute.”
With that he left her, and with him went all of her resolve. The rake had won, for her lips yearned for his kiss almost as much as her heart yearned for his approval.
Moments later, Bridget found herself tucked inside a hackney carriage dangerously close to Lord Maddox. And for once he appeared nervous. He who was normally brimming with an aggravating confidence sat fingering the seam of his breeches, seeming at a loss for words.
A heavy blanket of silence encompassed them as the moment stretched out. The hack jerked into motion, breaking the uneasy stillness.
A flutter of nerves wreaked havoc in Bridget’s stomach when Anthony cleared his throat.
“This arrangement isn’t working,” he finally said.
“That rather seems to be your doing, my lord.”
“Anthony.”
“Anthony. Sorry,” she answered. “You seem dreadfully incapable of keeping your end of the bargain.” Of course, truth be told, she so wasn’t anxious for him to observe the terms of their agreement anymore.
His gaze never left his hands as she spoke.
“I’m losing, you know.”
Bridget scrutinized him for a moment. How could that be possible? She had acted her part at all times, pretending to be utterly besotted with him when under the eye of his brother.
Pretending. That was an amusing thought.
“Your bet? How is that possible? Other than your complete inability to keep your hands—” She stopped because his hands had suddenly captured hers. His sparkling green eyes seemed to swallow her whole.
“No, Bridget. Not the bet.” His gaze drifted to her mouth. Bridget swallowed the tight knot stuck in her throat.
“Then what is it?”
Again he looked her in the eyes. The golden corona of his emerald eyes flashed with a brilliant flame. Bridget cursed silently. Somehow she already knew what he was going to say. And her heart resonated with the truth of it. Maybe he would kiss her, for once without being angrily provoked.
For their kiss during swordplay could hardly count for a kiss — an assault was more like it, and she couldn’t blame him for allowing his pride to get in the way, after all, she was a woman, and she had nearly bested him.
That is, until he began shredding away her clothes.
Bridget waited for Anthony to do something — anything, for he was still holding her hands tightly within his. Golden green eyes stared at her lips until with a curse Anthony pushed away and ran his hands through his thick hair.
“I’m losing my mind, that’s what I’m losing. I can’t believe my inability to control myself. I mean really, I know it isn’t a shock at all to you, but I’m quite appalled. I cannot even sit in a hack with you.”
Anthony shook his head, obviously disgusted at himself, and Bridget wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh at him or slap him across the face. Couldn’t he tell she was already invested? That she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her? She was acting angry! But Anthony was notorious for bringing such feelings to surface in Bridget. Either she was wearing down, or she had just lost her reasons for keeping him so far away from herself.
Heart pounding, she leaned forward, allowing her jacket to fall slightly open in the middle, exposing her corset and chemise.
“Are you insane?” Anthony yelled hoarsely and began cursing everything under the sun including jackets before closing his eyes and reaching forward grabbing at her jacket to pull it tight against her. Only, he didn’t exactly grab the ri
ght thing.
“Devil take me…. Bridget… Blast, tell me I did not just—”
Anthony’s eyes were still closed; his hands remained in a very inappropriate place. Bridget froze, waiting to see what he would do.
****
Anthony wasn’t really sure what to do. To move his hands would be madness, to leave them there, well, would honestly have the same outcome.
What brazen notion did Bridget get into her head? And why the devil had she purposefully opened the jacket more? Especially considering he had just made such an eloquent speech regarding his inability to control his more carnal instincts.
Immobile and absolutely paralyzed, Anthony did the only thing he could think of doing, the only thing his blood demanded he do.
In one swift movement he reached behind her head and pulled her lips flush against his, once and for all breaking the promise he had previously made to her, knowing that this one selfish act could seal his fate without her forever, but not caring of the future, only the present.
And the way Bridget went so willingly into his arms.
What the…
A sigh escaped her pouted mouth as she opened up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck pulling his hard body against her softness.
Such sweet desire shot through him that he wanted to roar. Instead he settled for increasing the pressure of the dance and demanding entry into her mouth. Anthony’s tongue swirled and pushed against hers, he couldn’t help but think that any minute she was going to push against him and he would receive yet another well-deserved slap.
Oddly enough, the slap didn’t come. To be honest, he was quite alarmed when the only jolt that forced him to stop ruining the girl was the hack coming to a stop at its final destination.
Slowly, Anthony pulled back and looked into Bridget’s glazed eyes. Over what, a few weeks ago, would have been triumph in having succeeded in the bet, he felt nothing except loss. Loss of her warmth, the sweet taste of her tongue — it was all gone, and in its place, the stale London air.
Beguiling Bridget Page 9