Chapter Two

Marry her! The chit had to be a featherbrain. On the other hand, if he married her off—to someone else—she would no longer be his unwanted and unexpected ward. He’d done a good job finding the men who had turned into husbands for his sisters.

“Are you saying you will not marry me—just to be sure, please know I am not asking—because there is another gentleman who has captured your heart?” He tried to keep the hopefulness out of his voice.

“No. Like you, I don’t wish to marry at all. Ever. No husband. I intend to be a very happy spinster.” She narrowed her eyes. “All I have to do is break the will or wait until I reach three and twenty years.”

“I thought all young ladies wanted a husband.”

Lady Bridget sniffed. “Spoken like a true rake who has probably been beating off would-be wives and their persistent mamas for years.”

“Why are you so angry?” Why he asked that, he had no idea, since he didn’t know the chit, didn’t want to know her, and in most cases, never wondered how or why a woman felt the way she did. His lovers and mistresses had been for one purpose only.

In one way, Lady Bridget was correct. For years, he’d been fending off the women—and their mamas—who had attempted to make it appear as if he’d compromised them. He shuddered at the memory of all the times he’d been in the direct line of their determined glares.

To his horror, Lady Bridget’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked several times to deny them, but one lone tear tracked down her cheek. “I’m not. Angry, that is.” She took a shuddering breath. “I am normally a happy, pleasant person. But when I learned what my father—whom I absolutely adored—had done to me with his will, I felt as though all the trust he’d placed in me over the years had been false.”

Thankfully, Croft, one of the footmen, entered the room at that precise moment to announce dinner. To her credit, Lady Bridget swiped at her cheek and offered a smile. “Thank you, Croft.”

“You know his name?” Cam extended his arm to her to head into the dining room.

“Yes. I’ve been here for a week now.” She glanced at him, but this time without the scowl. “Awaiting your arrival.”

Another bit of information about his ward. She was not all angst and ill-humor. She had a soft side and was the sort of lady who learned the names of staff members. Not that he cared, of course. He planned to marry her off as quickly as possible, so he would not have the duty of guarding her from hordes of men when they arrived in London. Her auburn hair and crystal-blue eyes would stand out at any ton event. And after her fortune was known, every man in London with a bundle of vowels would line up.

He certainly understood her irritation at being treated like a child under her father’s will. But with her inheritance tied up until she turned three and twenty, and with her home already passed on to the heir, she was virtually homeless and possessed no money to call her own. The only solution was a husband.

“Did you travel with a maid, a companion?” He pulled out a chair for her and took the one at the head of the table, to her right.

“Yes. My lady’s maid, Fiona, and my companion, Mrs. Dressel, arrived with me.”

He nodded his approval as the footman poured wine into their glasses. At least he did not have to trouble himself with hiring women to travel with them. Her reputation would remain intact, and she should be able to attract a good match.

He would have to send a messenger to each of his sisters to see which one of them was willing to offer a spot to Lady Bridget, since she could not live with him. Maryann and Constance would also have a list of coming events suitable for Lady Bridget, since, like him, both their husbands were involved in Parliament and preferred to stay in London.

Although the Season was well over, there would still be the smaller Autumn Season with numerous affairs in Town and house parties in the country where Lady Bridget could mix with acceptable gentlemen. Although she was in mourning, smaller events would not be considered improper. He began to feel better about it all. A quick marriage for his ward, and then back to his unencumbered life. He took a sip of Cook’s renowned white soup.

“Just so we are clear, my lord. I wish to reiterate that I have no intention of marrying. I have a use for the money I will gain on my twenty-third birthday. However, I need access to the funds now to complete my plans.” Lady Bridget calmly sipped her soup and regarded him with the most innocent-looking blue eyes he’d ever seen. He was not fooled. Behind those eyes was an intelligent, determined woman.

“And why would a young lady who has obviously been raised with more than sufficient money need a great deal of blunt? Are you in debt to the gambling houses?” Although he’d meant to be witty, hopefully that was not the case. He didn’t need that sort of trouble with the lass.

She placed her spoon next to her plate, her hands in her lap, and stared him straight in the eye. “I wish to open a house for women who are suffering at the hands of their husbands.”

Had she said she wished to start a brothel he would not have been more surprised. “A house for women? Living by themselves? Without the protection of a man?”

Lady Bridget laughed. “My lord, I said these women are being abused at the hands of men.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think that would work.”

“Why not?”

“Because a man can fetch her and bring her back home. Whether you like it or not, a wife is a husband’s property.”

Her face flushed a bright red, and he was surprised to not see steam coming from her ears. In the short time he’d known her, Lady Bridget had managed to touch something inside him buried long ago. He hated to acknowledge that her fire and passion, along with the quickly squelched vulnerability he’d witnessed, and the warmth he’d noticed between her and the staff, appealed to him in a way that threatened to disturb his well-ordered world.

Perhaps that was the reason he was in such a hurry to marry her off. He didn’t need distractions from a woman. Especially a woman who was not easily dismissed from one’s mind.

“And that, my lord, is precisely why I do not wish to marry.”

“Never marry? Not even if you found your own true love?” What the devil was he doing asking her such ridiculous questions? He barely knew the chit, had no desire to be responsible for her, yet he found himself truly interested in this woman who had invaded his life. She was a mixture of vulnerability and fortitude, which he loathed to admit he found intriguing.

She rolled her eyes. Another unladylike trait that strangely appealed to him after years of young girls who were so very conscious of their appeal to potential husbands that they were never truly themselves.

“True love? Surely you jest, my lord.” She leaned forward. “Do you believe in true love?”

He hesitated long enough for her to smirk at him. “Yes. Yes, I do. For others.”

She burst out laughing, her eyes sparkling and her very kissable lips in a bright smile. “Ah, so marriage and true love are for the, what, weaklings?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She shook her head and took another sip of soup. “You don’t have to say anything to get your point across.”

…

Three days later, as the sun was just making an appearance on the horizon, Cam assisted Lady Bridget into the travel carriage. Their luggage, along with Markham and Fiona, had left earlier to meet them at the Cock and Bull Inn, where they would stop for the night. The companion, Mrs. Dressel, traveled with Cam and his ward.

He reached under his seat and pulled out a blanket, which he then handed to Lady Bridget. “Here, you might want to sleep a bit more.”

She nodded and took the blanket. He could not say things were pleasant between them, but they had at least stopped quarreling. She had not been happy when the will had arrived by special messenger and he’d informed her there did not seem a way to cancel the guardianship.

He thought he’d been quite obliging, however, when he’d told her he would have his own solicitor go over the document when they arrived in London. He’d been met with a very unladylike snort.

Other than meals, they hadn’t spent any time together. He’d been busy visiting a couple of tenants and meeting with the man he’d hired to add a bathing room to the Manor.

“How long will it take us to arrive in London?” Lady Bridget asked.

“Five days if the roads are good and the weather holds up.” He drummed his fingers on his thighs, already restless. He did not travel well, and as soon as the sun was fully up, he would ride Nettles for a while.

Within minutes, Lady Bridget and Mrs. Dressel were sound asleep. Lady Bridget was curled onto her side, facing him, the blanket wrapped around her all the way up to her chin, leaving only her bonnet-covered head exposed.

He studied her as the light grew stronger. She was a beautiful woman, and he would have no problem finding someone to take her off his hands. His chest tightened when he thought of this unknown man. He assured himself he’d felt the same when he’d considered beaus for his sisters.

Except he was as honest with himself as he was with others. He’d already acknowledged the strange appeal Lady Bridget held for him, and any thoughts he had about her being led to another man’s bed were anything but brotherly.

Once they had full light, he tapped on the ceiling of the carriage, signaling for the driver to stop. He preferred to ride his horse, breathing in the fresh air. He’d always suffered a bit of melancholy when he left his estate and headed back to Town, but London was where his life was, and where he would, with any luck, find a proper husband for his ward, and thus resume his normal, happy existence.

Why did the thought of returning to his normal, happy life not bring the same feeling of satisfaction it had in the past? He snorted. No mystery there. With Bedford, Templeton, and Hawk all married, life was quite different now. He shook his head. He didn’t think his friends were wrong to submit to the parson’s noose, but it wasn’t for him.

Even if he found the right woman. Especially if he found the right woman. There was no right woman, he reminded himself.

…

Bridget’s eyelids fluttered open and she frowned, wondering why her bed was moving. Then she remembered the carriage ride from Lord Campbell’s manor home to London. She glanced across the carriage to where he’d sat when she’d fallen asleep. Empty.

“Lord Campbell is riding his horse,” Mrs. Dressel said.

“Oh, I wish I had a horse to ride.” She sat up and stretched. “I’m not terribly fond of traveling in carriages.”

“At least you don’t get sick, as I do.” Her poor companion did look a bit green.

Almost as if he heard them, Lord Campbell rode his horse to the window and bent down. “We are stopping for luncheon.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the carriage began to slow down. It rocked quite a bit as it entered the coaching inn’s front yard. Bridget folded the blanket and picked up her reticule. “Is my bonnet all askew?”

Mrs. Dressel adjusted it and turned as the door to the carriage opened. The driver took her companion’s hand, and Lord Campbell stepped up and held out his hand. Bridget accepted his grip, and her eyes flew wide open at the near crackle that sizzled between them. She looked at him as he frowned, seemingly as confused as she was. This was not the first time she’d touched him, having taken his arm into dinner each evening, so the jolt was troubling.

What was also troubling was the almost itchy feeling she’d experienced when he studied her with those intensely green eyes, like he wanted to look right into her soul. No man had ever held an appeal for her, so it was unlikely Lord Campbell, of all people, would be the one to cause those unwanted feelings. Most likely she needed to change her bath soap.

As soon as she was on solid ground, she removed her hand.

“Take my arm, Lady Bridget. The ground is bumpy.”

With reluctance, she did as he bid, relieved when she felt nothing. It must have been her imagination.

The common room of the inn was filled with locals who appeared to be drinking their luncheon. The crowd was loud and boisterous. Lord Campbell led them to the private dining room at the rear of the inn.

A fire burned brightly, and the table was set with three places. When Bridget viewed him with raised brows, he said, “Markham arrives ahead and leaves instructions at the inns we will visit along our journey so they are ready for us.”

She smirked at him. “The privilege of rank.”

After they were settled and the meal had been served, Bridget studied him. “I have this feeling you intend to find me a husband as soon as we reach London.”

“Not as soon as. I might wait a day or two.” His green eyes twinkled with mirth, but she did not think it funny.

“This project is near and dear to my heart. Papa was in favor of it and would have funded it, had he lived.”

“So you say. The man’s dead, so he cannot dispute it.”

Losing her temper would not gain her favor, so like a good little girl, she tamped down her anger. “May I at least elaborate on why I wish to open a house for women?”

Lord Campbell wiped his mouth with his serviette, then tossed it alongside his plate. He leaned back in the chair, his thumbs inserted into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Go on.”

“There are many women—everywhere, I am sure—but definitely in London, who suffer at the hands of their husbands. Or other men who are not their husbands but who have control over them.”

The image of Minerva—Lady Davenport—the last time Bridget had seen her alive, with bruises over her entire body, two swollen eyes, and a split lip jumped to the front of her mind. Yes, she had been a schoolmate and married well, according to Society. Except Lord Davenport had kept secret what he’d done to her when the ton wasn’t looking.

“I was very close to one schoolmate who suffered.”

He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Was she badly injured?”

She looked him in the face. “She died.”

He sucked in air through his teeth and leaned back. “How did she die?”

Bridget swallowed a few times to bring herself under control. “She accidentally fell down a flight of stairs. Two days after taking a horrific beating.”

Lord Campbell shook his head. “I don’t care who the man was, if he committed such an atrocity, he should be hanged.”

“He was—is—a peer. His wife’s death was ruled an accident, and the coroner ignored the bruises all over her body.”

“Davenport.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

So Lord Campbell was familiar with Minerva’s husband. “You know him?”

“I do. And a more vile individual does not exist. I’ve heard stories about him, and he is not an honorable man.”

Bridget let out a breath. At least she didn’t have to fight him on this issue.

“However, as I mentioned before, like it or no, under the law, a woman belongs to her husband, giving him the right to demand she return to his home if she leaves.”

“Not if he can’t find her,” she said. “If necessary, I will hire a very strapping footman to monitor the door.”

“Even if you purchase this house—that husbands can’t find—do you intend to support it indefinitely?”

She shook her head. “Most of the women I expect to make use of the facility are earning their own money. When they obtain shelter, they could continue working to support themselves.”

Lord Campbell ran his fingers through his hair. “While this is all quite noble, and I commend you for your desire to help those in need, the fact still remains that your father’s will does not allow you to obtain the money until your twenty-third birthday.”

She leaned on her elbow, smiled up at him, and twirled a lock of hair that had fallen from her bonnet. “I am hoping you can find a way around that.” She hated using feminine wiles and depending on a man to do what she desperately wanted. But that was the way of the world. One day, that would change, she was sure of it. But until then, she had to use what was available to her.

He leaned forward, a slight smile on his face. “It won’t work, you know.”

“What?” Drat! One would think the rake in Lord Campbell would easily succumb to a bit of feminine manipulation.

“Trying to break the will. As I promised, I will visit with my solicitor when we arrive in London.” He stood and held out his hand to assist her up. “I still think the best answer to your dilemma is to marry well and have your husband direct the funds to wherever he deems appropriate.”

So much for attempting to win over the blackguard by being honest and pleasant. He may not have realized it, but he’d just declared war.

A war she fully intended to win.