Beguiling Bridget (Waltzing with the Wallflower #2)(5)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

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.