Chapter 3

TAKING A SIP OF tea with her mother, Bridget recounted the moment before and after the crash. “My first thoughts were, Oh no I killed a geriatric. After all this time and experimenting and it all comes down to this. Geriatricide. Or is it geronticide? Oh yes, Mother. It is geronticide, but why it’s geronticide when it’s geriatrics, confuses me. I digress. At least I knew I wouldn’t go down in history for defenestration, like our dear, dear cousin. Twice removed. It has taken a while for all of us to get over that one.”

Her mother, Olivia, was not so much drinking her tea so much as she was nearly spitting it out in a fit of laughter. 

“My dear girl. You have the strangest luck.”

“It’s not luck.”

“You crashed into a duke. He ruined your new pant-dress–is that what we’re calling it? And now you have to revise your damaged Glider machine.”

“Yes, well, that’s alright. Wait, we don’t know he was a duke.”

“Yes, I’m sure he was. In fact, I’m certain he is the Duke of Whitewood. He’s the one with six brothers. All of them quite dashing.” Her mother winked. Bridget choked on some tea. Had her mother actually winked? She didn’t have time to digest the thought or the tea, for her mother continued on.

“The on dit, and knowing his mother as I do I can confirm it, is that his parents were a love match, and they kept–erm–trying until they had a girl. Not your typical aristocratic family, I’ll say. But they are lovely. In fact, I believe they named their beautiful daughter Hope.” Her mother’s hand rested on her heart with a sigh. “Anyway, your description fits him to a T. Right down to the stick in his…umm…well. You know.”

The Countess of Worthington, Lady Olivia Harrington, allowed her daughter to be a free spirit, but she did not herself subscribe to the nature. 

“We shall pay him a call and see that he sets things right.”

“Mother,” the complaint was out before Bridget could stop it. “I don’t want to see him again. Especially if he’s a stuffy duke.”

“Stuffy as he may be, he has his honor.”

Bridget shot up from her seat. “No one even saw us together. You can’t force him to marry me.”

“Sit down dear, I’m not referring to such drastic measures.” She tapped her finger playfully on her chin. “Though now that you mention it…his mother and I are acquaintances. I’m sure she would understand the maternal perspective in this matter…”

Bridget groaned. 

“Don’t groan, my dear. Your father and I permit too much leeway with you as it is.”

“Yes, mother.” She lowered herself back into her chair and took a sip of tea. “But you won’t force his hand, will you?” She tilted her head at the question. “Nothing happened.” At least, nothing had happened physically. 

It had all happened in her mind though. Perhaps not all of it, seeing as how she was an innocent, she wasn’t entirely sure what all entailed. But as much as she could surmise from the books she had read and what she knew of animal behavior, that much had all played out in her head. 

First, those warm hands on her hips would have traveled northward, to just under her breasts. They would have delicately rubbed over their sides and then one hand would have reached up to her head and drew her in for a long slow kiss. 

Even as she sat taking tea, the heat spread to her core and filled her belly with more warmth than any amount of tea could ever do.   

However much she resented the haughtiness behind the eyes of the duke, she couldn’t resist being pulled in by their penetrating brownness. Brownth. It should be a word. If she were a writer perhaps she would make up words like that. But she was in the business–however unprofitable–of inventing. She had countless inventions. Why, she had so many plans and ideas for different mechanisms, it was hard to keep them all straight. 

She patted the bag on her lap and unlatched it. Sifting through a few papers, she looked for her latest invention to share with her mother. 

Sift, sift, sift. Look, look, look. Nothing. Where was it?

She shifted her glasses on her face. This was not good. It had taken her weeks to come up with that device? Could she even remember the source of her inspiration? This could be weeks, months, of lost work. Why oh why had she chosen to carry those papers with her? She had intended to seek out the new soap maker she had heard of. Knowing another female with a mind for science would be a boon to be sure. She had hoped to discuss some of her sketches, and well, now it all felt so foolish. Especially if all the papers were lost. 

“Darling, are you listening to me?”

“I’m sorry, mother,” she said sheepishly. “I was distracted.”

“So I gathered. I said, we will make a call and he will set this all to rights.”

“I don’t want to–” she interrupted herself. Her papers. They must have fallen out in the collision and been stuffed into his bag by accident. Perhaps if they went to his house, she could get her papers back. “Alright, we can go.”

“Wonderful, we shall call on them tomorrow. If I recall correctly, that’s their day for callers.” And her mother always did recall correctly, so that was the day they went. 

The next day, three women and zero dukes sat for tea. “Your Grace, it’s such a delight to see you again. Even in spite of the circumstances.”

“I’m only sorry my son couldn’t be here, Lady Harrington. He’s away again today at some medical symposium.” She waved her hand in the air, “Always learning, that one. If he’s not with one of his siblings, he can always be found reading a book. Even growing up. When the other children would go off and play, he would often take to reading.”

So he could spend all of his time reading, but she couldn’t? Steam puffed out of Bridget’s ears. How hypocritical to demean her for being a bluestocking, yet be the male equivalent himself? 

The steam was entirely puffing out of her ears, not boiling in her other parts. At least, she didn’t take notice of it. She was far too incensed. How dare he call her Blue, so as to mock her for pursuing academia and applying her knowledge. He was good and truly a blighter. 

Olivia tapped her daughter’s foot with her own. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course. I agree with you.” That was usually the safe answer when her mother tapped her one time. Two taps was for no. Thankfully she had been paying attention enough to notice that. “I’m so sorry, mother. I’m afraid I have to freshen up.”

With a graceful curtsy, she left the room in search of the duke’s study. And, perchance she was stopped, she would obviously just say that she had gotten lost on her way to freshen up.   

Bridget stealthily wandered the hallway, as stealthily as one who had never stealthed before could stealth, that is. After opening a few doors, luckily with no one behind them, she finally stumbled upon what she was sure of was his study. 

Her eyes scanned the room. She walked over to the large desk with a front cover. Ducking her head underneath, she saw nothing in the darkness. It appeared that there was no bag in the room. Although, now that she thought of it, he was at the symposium again. He had probably taken his bag with him. No matter. She would return tonight. When everyone was asleep, she would come back and find it. She needed those papers. She could not lose months, perhaps a years’ worth of work. 

Determined to come back, she moved toward the window and flipped the latch for the lock open. Hopefully no one would notice before she had a chance to return. 

She took a deep breath to seal her resolve. The room reminded her of him. She hadn’t told her mother a few trifling details or her earlier encounter, such as the faint scent of sandalwood on his lapels, or the way his dark blonde or light brown–she couldn’t decide–hair had danced across his forehead, begging to be whisked away. By her hands of course. By his hands, she meant. She shook her head. His hands on his body. Her hands on his body. Yes, that was right, wasn’t it? She couldn’t think straight being in his study knowing that he probably read here all the time. Alone at night. In just an unbuttoned shirt and–Bah!

He was a nuisance. And now that he had one of her treasured inventions, he was even more vexing. 

Her eyes caught sight of a few miniatures over the fireplace. Him and his vexing values for family. She would do nicely after never having to see him again. Starting now. 

She left the study and traipsed back to her tea. Not to even think about the duke again. Not even once. Or at least, not more than a handful of times.