“I fail to see how Anth—Viscount Maddox’s shortcomings are your fault, my lady.”
“I didn’t appear at your doorstep to talk about his shortcomings, though we both know he has many, like any other man in love without a clue of how to proceed when jealous rage takes over.”
Bridget exhaled and took a seat. Lady Hawthorne joined her and laid a hand over Bridget’s. “He loves you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” The countess tilted her head. “I believe the problem is not that you doubt his love. You are allowing fear to cloud your judgment. I know something of fear. Love is frightening. It means entrusting your fragile heart to the one person with whom you are the most vulnerable.” She nodded toward the portrait still on the easel behind Bridget. “That portrait. It is the very essence of what love is. Your very soul in the viscount’s hands.”
Her gaze returned to meet Bridget’s. “Anthony spoke before logic became clear, and now he is trying to right a wrong. And who knows better than you and I what disastrous sentiments spill from that man’s lips when he isn’t thinking clearly?” Her eyes hinted at a smile. “A more stubborn man I have never met. He will not stop until he has your heart, and I promise you, Lady Bridget, there is no man more worthy.”
“I wish I could share your certainty.”
“You don’t have to be certain—just willing to take the risk.”
Chapter Seventeen
Beguiled
Anthony had always prided himself on being calculated and smooth with the gentler sex. Bridget brought out the exact opposite of what he had been all his life, and he found himself at sixes and sevens. But it was of no consequence now. He was going to prove his love to her, but if she was to reject him for the third time—well, it was possible — he would retire to the country. Perhaps buy a few hounds and hunt foxes until he became a bitter old man who yelled at small children.
The music was loud and didn’t help his nerves one bit, but again, in his desperation, he didn’t care. The moment he was announced, he quickly moved down the stairs. The Beckinghorn Ball was always well attended, but he wasn’t there to socialize with every person in the crowd. The large ballroom with its flickering candlelight and lively dancing was stifling, but he pressed through the crush until he caught a glimpse of red hair.
This time he waited until she turned around, to be certain it was Bridget — his Bridget.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her sad blue eyes as she spoke with Lady Hawthorne. The two seemed deep in conversation. They were also on the opposite end of the dance floor, which posed a problem.
Unless…
White horses, white horses, Anthony chanted to himself as he blazed a path straight through the heart of the dance floor, interrupting the flow of the dancers, who stopped to determine what he was at, whispering in his wake. The tumult on the floor distracted the musicians, who ceased playing to stare after him as he strode with purpose toward his goal.
“Lady Bridget.” He cleared his throat and waited for her to face him. Her eyes welled with unshed tears. His arms ached with the desire to pull her to him, to comfort her, to take away the pain he himself had inflicted.
“I love you.” The words were bold, loud, and rang through the silent room. He didn’t care. She would know his heart if it killed him.
Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand to stop her. “No. Let me speak.” He dropped to his knees in front of her, in plain sight of God and everyone. “I do not deserve you. I count myself lucky each time you grant me one of your smiles, as if you are giving me a priceless gift. Yet I feel guilty for taking something so beautiful. I feel selfish when I’m with you. I want you all to myself. The thought of any other man being on the receiving end of your smile drives me mad. I would kill any one of them given half the chance.
“I know I misjudged you… I could not have been more wrong. But you have also misjudged me. I am not like most men. Even though popular opinion would claim I too freely flirt my way through the ton. The truth is, no woman has ever possessed my heart… until now. And whether you reject me or not — and I pray you don’t — my heart is yours to keep, for I would rather die than have any other woman hold it.”
A tear slipped down Bridget’s cheek.
“I cannot promise I won’t be a fool. I cannot promise that I won’t be a devil to live with. But I will promise to honor and cherish you, to love you even when you pelt me with strawberries. To care for you and protect you, though we both know you’re the better fencer… and I swear, to my utter ruin, I will teach you how to shoot. Even if it is the death of me. Forgive my blind stupidity, my love… and marry me.”
“For heaven’s sake, say you’ll marry him before he says something horrifying,” Lady Hawthorne whispered to Bridget with a teasing twinkle in her eyes.
All the room was silent. Bridget stared at Anthony, concealing her thoughts behind her blank expression as his heart pounded out of his chest.
“You will teach me to shoot?” Bridget finally asked, her voice hoarse.
“I promise.”
“I…” Bridget’s tears flowed freely now. “I love you.”
Anthony wanted to kiss her… here in front of everyone, but he would not, for the act would ruin her before the whole of the ton. Instead, he merely smiled and brought her hand to his lips, but Bridget, her bright blue eyes suddenly alive with passion, launched herself into his arms, crushing her body against his, scandalously kissing him directly on the mouth.
“Now you shall have to marry me,” she whispered against his lips.
“Whatever shall I do?” Anthony’s voice was husky, giving away his desire to ravish the woman he loved so dearly.
Epilogue
“Where did Wilde make off to? It’s almost time for the dancing to begin!” Anthony glanced around the room.
“He was just here,” Ambrose chimed in. Cordelia and Bridget joined in the search; all four gazes roamed the room looking for their lost friend.
“Ah, er, ahem.” Anthony coughed. “I believe I’ve found him.”
“What the devil!” Ambrose exclaimed.
Bridget squinted. “I don’t see him. Oh, goodness.”
“Heavens, does he realize he looks quite…” Cordelia waved her hand in the air as if searching for the correct word.
“Mad? Scary? A trifle like a hunter stalking his prey?” Anthony finished.
For some odd reason, Wilde was hiding behind a large potted plant, his eyes fixated on Lady Gemma with such fervor the world could crumble around him and still he wouldn’t blink.
Anthony tilted his head to the side for a better angle and laughed when he noticed all three of his companions stood frozen in the exact same pose.
“Does it help?” Bridget whispered with her head tilted.
“No,” Anthony muttered. “No matter the angle, still looks like an idiot to me.”
“Agreed,” the others said in unison.
A booming voice interrupted their spying. “Where is he? I’ll tear him limb from limb!”
Anthony turned to see the Marquess of Van Burge cutting a trail through the sea of people.
“Sir Wilde! Where is the blighter?” Lord Van Burge paused directly in front of Anthony. Without hesitation, all four of them extended an arm to point in the direction of the potted plants.
“My thanks.” He nodded and went in pursuit.
“He’ll probably kill him,” Ambrose reflected. “And to think I thought the winter would be boring.”
“Say, I feel a bet coming on.” Anthony smiled. Ambrose met his gaze and matched his with a devious grin of his own.
Cordelia cleared her throat. “How about a wager of sorts?”
Bridget laughed. “I give him four weeks.”
“—To obtain the object of his affection,” Ambrose added, wrapping his arm around Cordelia.
“—And win her love,” Anthony agreed, offering his arm to Bridget.
“After all…” Bridget hooked her ar
m in his and winked. “Anything can happen in four weeks.”
About the Authors
Leah Sanders is the middle child in a family of seven children. As a true middle child she went from high school in Alaska to college in Florida, where she earned a Bachelor's degree in secondary education from Southeastern University. She also holds a Master's degree in educational technology from Boise State University.
She makes her home in Idaho with her husband and three children. By day she teaches English in a middle school. But after the kids are in bed, she will most likely be typing away on her laptop while sitting in her favorite spot on the couch.
Rachel Van Dyken loves to read almost as much as she loves to write. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and her dog Sir Winston Churchill. Although she loves to write contemporary romance, her heart will always be with historical and regency romances. Glittering balls and dangerous rakes hold her captivated like chocolate and Starbucks. You can follow Rachel on her blog, Twitter, or Facebook.
Also by Rachel and Leah:
PROLOGUE
April 1935
David Graham stood over his wife’s grave while the minister prayed. Her favorite spring lilies adorned her casket, and she would be laid to rest under the shade of a beautiful maple, just like the tree he had proposed under at that picnic over twenty years ago.
Their lives had revolved around her frail health for years now. David had been consumed every day with concern for Emily. Nothing else mattered in his life. He had worked, yes. Because he had had to in order to keep them afloat. The factory was mindless work though, so it had been easy to continue doing his job without allowing it to consume him.
Emily had been sick for so long, it was almost a relief for her suffering to finally come to an end. Almost. But all the prayers they had offered, begging for her healing, for her life, had been to no avail, and his faith had suffered a slow and agonizing defeat.
The casket descended inch by inch into the ground, and his pain increased exponentially, the ache encompassing him as she slipped further from his reach. Unable to watch, David’s gaze moved past the disappearing box to his son’s grieving face on the other side of the pit. The loss was tangible in the boy’s gray eyes. His grief reflected in the dark cloud that hung there. Eleven was too soon to lose a mother.
And for David, far too soon to lose a wife. The love of his life.
Strange that the sun would shine on such a day. How could the universe not be mourning Emily along with David? But it wasn’t. In fact, it seemed happy. Like God was happy.
The realization cut through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut to fight against the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. It was selfish. Selfish of God to take Emily from him and Blaine. What did God want with her? He didn’t need her. They needed her.
Even as the thought churned in his mind, he knew it was wrong – knew it wasn’t for him to question God – but the anger burned in him nonetheless. God had allowed her to get sick, just as He had allowed her to suffer so long with the debilitating illness. Then He took her, trying to make it seem like He was doing them a favor.
Life wasn’t hard enough living through these tough times, but God had to take away love as well. That’s not the kind of God David wanted to follow. The preacher said God was all-powerful; so what was He trying to prove now?
A lump of fury rose in his throat. Why was the preacher taking so long to finish his prayer? A prayer to a God who toyed with the lives and hearts of good men – who took away the mothers of young innocent boys! The anger surged, and that final amen couldn’t come soon enough.
David stole another glance at his son. Eyes glistened with sorrow – his frame so frail against the dismal gray. Blaine clenched his small hands into tight fists, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly. David concentrated on them, straining to read what lay there. What would a boy say at his mother’s grave? What could he say to bring himself comfort? David desperately wanted to know. He longed to say those magic words himself. To chant something that would bring her back to them. But nothing could fix it – not a chant, not a song, and not a prayer.
The boy would realize that soon enough.
He looked abruptly away as the preacher drew his futile prayer to a close. The casket rested on the bottom of the grave now. David took his shovelful of dirt and tossed it onto the white pine box. Blaine followed suit, his jaw firm, set in the same stubborn way as Emily would have done if she had made up her mind to do something she hated. He could almost hear her voice: Sometimes you have to do things you just don’t want to do.
The dirt landed with a spatter, emphasizing the close of this chapter of their lives. She was gone now. Nothing could change that.
David couldn’t change it, but he wished he could dull the pain… somehow.
The procession of mourners offering their condolences to the two of them seemed to drag on eternally. If he heard one more God bless you both, he was certain he would lose his temper. If this was God’s blessing, David wanted no part in it.
He quelled the urge to lash out with venom as the preacher shook his hand and offered his encouragement. He smiled and nodded and said, “Thank you, Reverend. It was a beautiful service.” All perfunctory words, because in the deepest part of his soul, David wanted to scream. He wanted to rip a hole in the cloudless sky with his voice and accuse God. It’s not right! It’s not fair! What happened to your justice? Where is your love?
But he said none of those things. Instead, he swallowed them, turned to Blaine and mumbled coldly, “Let’s go home.” And without looking back he started down the gravel path to where his Model A pickup waited.
He climbed into the cab and rested his head on the steering wheel. Exhaling slowly, he lifted his head and glanced out the passenger window.
Blaine hadn’t followed him. Instead, the boy had gravitated back to his mother’s grave and stood watching the old grave digger as he refilled the six-foot hole with rich dark earth. His small frame dropped to its knees, and even from where David sat he could see his son’s shoulders shuddering with forceful sobs; sobs caused by the same heart-shattering grief threatening to suffocate him now.
David wanted to go to him. He wanted to wrap Blaine up in his arms and hold him like he used to when he was a little boy, when things were simple. Before Emily got sick. Hold him and soothe away his tears. But he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to, his own pain paralyzed him. He slumped back against the glass and closed his eyes.
Waiting for Blaine felt like an eternity. David wanted to get home, out of the mocking cheerful weather, and lock himself in his dark room, away from the rest of the world, so he could grieve properly and maybe sleep off his indignation, if it were possible. Somehow he knew it wouldn’t be. Already he could feel the anger making itself at home in his heart, filling the gap left by the loss of his wife.
Out of desperation, David fired up the pickup and laid his fist on the horn. The familiar uh-ooga pierced through the quiet and brought Blaine back to his feet as if the weight of his grief was fighting his every effort to rise. David watched him turn and shuffle blindly toward the truck. Despair was evident in the boy’s sagging shoulders, and his head hung low. Again, David’s heart went out to his son, but he said nothing as the boy pulled the heavy door open and crawled into the cab beside him. The words weren’t there, and silence seemed the only respectful choice.
The truck jolted forward as he shifted it into gear and rumbled down the road toward home, unutterable anguish hanging in the stifling hot air between them.
The long drive home in silence left time for the memories to stream through David’s mind. He remembered the first day he drove home in the brand new Model A. He had used the inheritance from his grandfather to purchase the pickup, a gift for their fourteenth anniversary. He had sounded the horn as he pulled up in front of their little house, bringing Emily running out to find him waving at her from the shiny green cab. She had laughed and clapped her hands with joy at his
suggestion to go for a ride.
The sparkle in her green eyes and her wavy golden hair was as bright and true as the day they’d met. He had known even in that first moment that she was meant for him. Her crystal laugh and carefree love for life had drawn him immediately in and his bachelor’s resolve evaporated into thin air.
David had proposed to her on a warm fall day under a tall maple whose leaves had only begun to change. Emily had cried tears of happiness and had thrown her arms around his neck. The following spring they were married in the small country church Emily’s father had pastored her entire life. She carried a bouquet of her favorite spring lilies and her green eyes danced with the bliss they shared. He could still hear her whispering I love you into his ear as he lifted her into the rented carriage for their wedding trip.
He could still feel her warm tears on his neck when they lost their first child – a baby girl, little Naomi Grace; she had lived only two days.
He could still see her worried gaze when he brought her his conscription notice in trembling hands. “I’ll wait for you, Davey,” she had whispered at the train station and had stood waving on the platform until she was a tiny dot to him as the train rattled down the tracks toward New York and the ships that would take him to the war across the Atlantic. Those cursed Europeans and their irreconcilable conflicts had stolen two years with his beloved Emily.
He could still hear her laughter as she played with newborn Blaine. After five years of trying, he had come along to fill their hearts with joy unspeakable. How Emily had loved him.
Now here he was slumped against the door, the light gone. God, you’ve let us down, David thought, and the fury tightened in his chest again, taking a deep root there.
The truck squealed unhappily as it turned down the street toward the little house. David brought it grumbling to a stop in front of the fenced yard and killed the engine. He released a heavy sigh and looked at the forlorn house. Not a home anymore.
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