Chapter Four
Cam chastised himself for responding to Lady Bridget’s saucy toast. Why am I even watching her? He had no problem with her dinner partner. Hyatt was certainly a respectable chap and one of the men he’d hoped would be interested in Bridget.
“Your ward is a beautiful woman, my lord. ’Tis unfortunate she has such a poor taste in clothing.” Lady Priscilla, the dinner partner to his right, widened her eyes with innocence, but he knew her to be one of the most vicious-tongued young ladies of the ton.
“She is in mourning for her father.” And trying valiantly to resist my attempts to marry her off.
“I shall be happy to refer her to my modiste. She is a marvel, and I’m sure she can outfit her with more fashionable attire.”
Cam again glanced at Bridget, who was now conversing with Lord Stevenson. He was married, but also a man who paid no attention to his marriage vows. Not that such conduct was unusual in the ton, but Cam personally did not approve of it in a married man.
Lady Priscilla continued to chatter on as his thoughts drifted to the subject he rarely considered. Marriage.
Not for him.
His father had been a cold, calculating, abusive man. Nothing Cam did had ever pleased him, and over the years he had received punishments to which Cam would not subject even an animal. Beatings for forgetting to do a chore, missed meals for playing when he was supposed to be studying Latin, and the worst, when Father had thrown the new puppy into the river. Thankfully, a village child had fished the dog out and kept him. Though Cam hadn’t learned that until much later, after he’d cried himself to sleep for days.
Another time, Cam had been left overnight in the dark, damp basement when he’d mentioned his fear of dark places. No amount of tears or begging had swayed his father to open the door. He’d been eight years, and Mother, who had protected him from his father for as long as he could remember, had died by then while giving birth to Maryann.
No. He would never marry and bring children into the world who would have him for a father. Whatever warmth and ability to love he’d possessed at one time had been destroyed by the late marquess. He also enjoyed the idea of the old bastard turning in his grave when the Campbell title he revered so much went back to the Crown for lack of an heir.
A son’s revenge.
“My lord, I believe you have been woolgathering.” Lady Priscilla pouted in a way she probably thought adorable but he found annoying. That was another thing about Bridget he admired. No coyness about her. She was open and honest. If she disliked anything he said, she let him know it.
“I apologize, my lady. Yes. I was indeed woolgathering. I’m afraid the bill I am sponsoring in Parliament took my thoughts away from you.”
She tapped him on the arm with her fan and batted her eyes. “You are forgiven.” Then she began an entirely new harangue on how happy she was that the war with Boney was over, so now fashions from Paris would be much easier to obtain.
His gaze slid to Bridget again as she cut a piece of lamb and placed it into her mouth. Her appetite was hardy, very different from the young ladies he’d spent time with. He chuckled at the attempt she’d made with her severe hairstyle. The curls were no more obedient than the girl herself, since a few loose tendrils had escaped to outline her delicate face.
Her creamy skin glowed in the candlelight, and her plush lips took dainty sips of wine as she listened to Stevenson. Although she’d not wanted to accompany him this evening, she certainly fit in, even with her unusual gown. His lips tightened when Lord Stevenson bent to whisper in Bridget’s ear. Cam tamped down the desire to leap across the table and pummel the man.
Bridget pulled back, and although he couldn’t hear her, it was apparent from her expression that she’d given him a tongue-lashing. Instead of looking chastened, the man actually grinned. As soon as dinner was over, he would have a conversation with Stevenson.
Returning his thoughts to the outfit Bridget had presented herself in when he’d arrived to pick her up, he had to grin. She did have a bit of spunk, which was precisely why he’d have to be careful with whom he pushed in her direction. He didn’t want a man who would kill her spirit—just subdue it a tad.
Once again, he experienced a strange sensation at the idea of an unknown man taking Bridget in hand. And taking her to his bed. He shook his head. Complete nonsense. That was what husbands did, a role he never intended to play.
“If the ladies will join me, we will have tea in the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoy their port.” Lady Benson stood, and all the ladies followed suit, trailing her from the room.
Another tap on his arm from Lady Priscilla’s fan. “I will see you inside, my lord. I hope we can finish our conversation over tea.”
He was tempted to ask her to what conversation she referred, seeing as how she’d done all the talking except for when she’d prompted, “Do you agree, my lord?”
She smiled and strolled off, her swaying gait that of a woman who assumed she was being watched.
Campbell watched Bridget instead.
“I say, Campbell, when did you become guardian to that lovely young lady?” Mr. Jerome Fisher addressed him from the other end of the table.
“Just recently.” He had no intention of commenting further on the matter.
“I would like to call on her. Where is she residing?”
Why does that annoy me? Fisher was the third son of the Earl of Creassy. A respectable family, although recent rumors had it that Fisher had been caught crawling out of Lady Temple’s bedchamber window minutes before her husband had shot his pistol in that direction.
If he had so little regard for marriage vows, he was not a good match, and not one to encourage to call on Bridget, but good manners prohibited Cam from refusing to answer.
“She is staying with my sister Lady Dunmore.” He would have to check his sister’s calling hours and make sure he was in attendance during those times. Who knew what cads besides Fisher and Chadwick might call on Bridget.
This business of being a guardian was harrowing. Somehow, it had not seemed so trying when he’d escorted Constance and Maryann during their Seasons. Truthfully, though, they had been more decorous than Bridget and had actually taken his advice on who and who not to encourage. Bridget was not a young lady who took advice from anyone, least of all a guardian for whom she had no use.
After about a half hour of conversation, the men rose and joined the ladies in the drawing room. Cam skirted the room, avoiding Lady Priscilla, and sat next to Mrs. Marshall, an older lady who was seated in the perfect spot for him to keep his eye on Bridget without seeming to.
“Your ward is lovely, my lord. From Scotland, she says?”
“Yes. Right across the border from my estate, actually.” Cam took a cup of tea from a footman.
“I don’t hear a Scottish accent,” Mrs. Marshall said as she studied Bridget, which made him turn toward his ward.
Bridget was conversing with Lady Stanhope and Mrs. Barton. From the intensity of Bridget’s stance, and the way the ladies had their lips pursed and were shaking their heads, he was almost sure she was speaking of her project to house abused women.
Not that he disagreed with her. Having suffered cruelty himself, he understood how helpless a woman in that situation would feel. Almost as helpless as a child. Despite the nobility of her endeavor, it was simply not a project with which a gently reared young lady involved herself.
Bridget might have felt his eyes on her, because she turned and looked directly at him. Her glowing eyes and brief nod of satisfaction toward him confirmed his thoughts. She was campaigning for her venture. She would be great in Parliament.
Or as the wife of a member of Parliament.
…
The next afternoon, Bridget settled into a seat near the fireplace at Lord and Lady Dunmore’s drawing room. She and Constance awaited visitors, today being one of the two days each week Constance held calling hours. Bridget was well prepared for the ladies and gentlemen to arrive. She slipped the spectacles on and opened the heavy tome The Orangutan and His Exceptional Life.
It had taken her several trips to the lending library and two different bookstores before she came upon what she considered the most boring book a person could discuss at a social gathering.
Her gown was not quite as bad as the one she’d worn to the dinner party, but it was still a dull, shapeless gray disaster and not at all what a young lady would wear when she expected gentlemen callers. Unless she was a woman who preferred the spinster life, instead of marriage and the accompanying total loss of one’s rights, she reminded herself.
Passing on the tight hairdo, she had Fiona pull her hair back and fasten it at the crown of her head with a ribbon so that it actually looked like a horse’s tail. It swayed when she walked, making her giggle.
“Oh, dear. I don’t think Cam is going to be thrilled to see you.” Lady Dunmore entered the drawing room, shaking her head. “I know he can be a bit overbearing at times, but there are some things that even my sister or I never attempted with him.”
“And what was that?” Bridget asked.
“Making him look like a fool. You are his ward, you know.”
Bridget raised her chin. “I am his ward, not his possession. I am one and twenty years and legally an adult. If Papa hadn’t made that ridiculous clause in his will, I would have nothing to do with Lord Campbell.”
Constance sat, picked the book up from Bridget’s lap, looked at the cover, and smiled. “Ah, but unfortunately he did make that clause, and knowing my brother as I do, he will do his duty to ensure you are well settled.”
Bridget let out a deep breath. “That is the trouble. I don’t want to be well settled.” She thumped her hand on the book. “When I reach three and twenty, I can inherit my father’s wealth and then do as I wish. I won’t have to depend on a husband to tell me what to do, where to go, and how to live. I want to travel. Not just to Italy or France, but other places: India, the Orient, maybe even America.”
“My goodness. You are ambitious.”
“My lady.” Fenton stood at the doorway. “Lady Penrose and Lady Esther have arrived.” He stepped aside so the ladies could enter.
Constance stood and embraced the older woman, then turned to Bridget. “Lady Bridget MacDuff, this is my dear friend, Lady Penrose.” She waved in the direction of the younger woman. “And her daughter, Lady Esther.”
After they exclaimed over one another and settled into their seats, Lady Penrose said, “I have heard much about you, Lady Bridget.”
There didn’t seem to be much to say to that remark. Either Lady Penrose had heard she was Lord Campbell’s much unwanted ward or that she was a woman hardly bothered with fashion. Either way, it could not have been good.
Lady Esther viewed her with wide eyes. “Is it true you wore a dressing gown to Lady Benson’s dinner party?”
For goodness’ sake, the ton gossipers were at it again. Nothing ever resembled what had actually happened. “I am sorry to put a squash to that story, but no, I did not wear a dressing gown. I doubt very much if Lord Campbell would escort me to a dinner party dressed that way.”
“My lady, Lord Calvert, Mr. Pemberton, and Lord Chadwick.” After Fenton made his announcement, he returned to the door.
The three men headed to her corner, two of them taking a seat alongside her, and Mr. Pemberton on a low bench in front of her that he dragged almost completely across the room. Before she could even welcome them, Lord Campbell stepped into the room.
He glanced around then frowned when he saw her with the three men surrounding her. Why was he frowning? She hadn’t even started her ruse yet.
“Good afternoon, my lady.” Campbell bowed to her, then glared at Calvert, Pemberton, and Chadwick.
The men nodded.
The time had come. Bridget opened the book and looked at Lord Calvert through the spectacles. At least she thought it was him. She was practically blind with Papa’s old glasses on. “My lord, have you read this exciting book?” She held it up and all four men stared at the copy.
“No, my lady, I am afraid not,” Calvert said. The other three shook their heads.
“Oh, but it is so very interesting. Here, let me read a passage for you.”
She looked up over the top of the spectacles at the four men who stared at her with expressions of shock and puzzlement.
She continued.
“When first discovered as a species in—”
Lord Campbell reached out and snatched the book from her hand. He closed it and placed it under his arm. “Lady Bridget, a word, please.” He motioned toward the door. “This way.”
She stood and excused herself, maneuvering around Mr. Pemberton, and then tripped over the edge of the bench, went sprawling toward the floor, and was scooped up by Lord Campbell before she landed on her face.
“Take those ridiculous spectacles off before you kill yourself,” he growled at her.
She smoothed her gown and, with her chin up, walked alongside him to the door, barely missing the doorframe as he pulled her away from it. He gripped her elbow and walked her down the corridor to the library.
“What are you doing?” He released his grip on her elbow and walked in circles, running his fingers through his hair. “No. Forget I asked that. I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”
With as frazzled as he was, she thought the opposite. Her plan was working quite well, since her intent was to discourage any gentleman who might be interested in her, and at the same time impress upon Lord Campbell that she would not bow to his wishes.
She looked at him over the rim of the spectacles and crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t seem to hear me, my lord. I do not want a husband, and I refuse to do whatever it is other girls do to obtain one.”
He ran his palm down his face, then studied her for a minute. She wasn’t certain she liked the look on his face. Annoyance turned to thoughtful, then turned to a tight smile and a slight nod. “Very well. Let us work out a compromise.”