Authors: The Cad
“You know,” he said thoughtfully in that low purr of a voice, “I do believe that if I just kissed you once, it would settle the matter…. Oh, sorry. You think I was asking you again, do you? I wasn’t, I promise. But did I mention that the offer still stands? If you change your mind, you can always let me know.”
“That was asking.” she said in a shaken voice, dragging her gaze from his.
“All of this is asking, if you want to be precise,” he answered softly, “but all I promised was not to ask you again in so many words. No, not fair. But I am a rake, you know. So. What happened to Jeremy?” he asked in more normal tones.
“He fell in Spain, at Badajoz,” she said sadly. “He was army-mad, so his father bought him a commission. He asked me to marry him when he was home on leave. I said no, and how I’ve regretted it since! Only I think he offered just because he hadn’t seen me in years and was a little shocked to find me not married yet—and living with mad Cousin Mary in the bargain.”
“Ah! Now there’s something I hadn’t known about.”
Bridget was grateful for the change in subject. She turned to him again, feeling safer because she’d saved up such a hoard of amusing stories from those unhappy years. Because he shared a sense of the ridiculous with her and would appreciate—
Better not to think of what he’d appreciate, my girl
, she told herself, and quickly began to tell him about mad Cousin Mary.
He did laugh. And then told her about his mad cousin Martin and his collection of cheeses. She laughed until she saw him cock his head to one side, watching her. Then she stilled, embarrassed. It had been a long time since she’d laughed from the heart.
“I wish you hadn’t stopped,” he said. “Your laughter sounds like tumbling water, refreshing to hear. There’s nothing stifled about it—it reflects your hidden spirit, I think. Still, I wonder if I should be laughing. I may become mad Cousin Ewen someday, after all. Oh,” he said, watching her expression, “you didn’t know my given name? How remiss of me. We never were properly introduced, were we?”
He arose in one smooth motion, stood before Bridget, and made her an old-fashioned, sweeping bow, one hand to his heart.
“Ewen Kenton Philip Sinclair at your command. Viscount Sinclair, Baron Paige, and lord of all he surveys—except for one lovely, stubborn young woman, that is to say.”
She stood and curtsied low. “Miss Bridget Cooke, my lord. Mistress only of her own self, and proud of it.”
“Unkind,” he said, smiling at her. He took her hand as she rose from her curtsy, and kept holding it. His hand was warm and dry and big enough to swallow up hers,
and his thumb slowly stroked the back of her hand as he held it. Her eyes flew to his, shocked. They were alone. If he tried, she certainly wouldn’t fight, she thought in a flurry. After all, such a struggle would be undignified. How near he was, how intent his gaze…
He slowly released her hand. “How you tempt me,” he murmured, still staring at her lips. “But I gave my word.”
She sat again, shaken. “I wonder when they’ll be back,” she said nervously, for something to say.
“Wonder no more,” he said, sitting beside her again, this time a little closer. He drew a watch from his pocket. “Not long now, actually. Just long enough for me to tell you something about myself. Because I want you to know me.”
“I know what you want,” she muttered.
“Do you?” he asked in amusement.
“Well, I’m not deaf. You asked me already. And if you wanted me to know you in any other way but the biblical,” she said, greatly daring now that she knew the boat was coming back soon, “you would have gone about it differently. This has been a strange afternoon, my lord, an interlude I won’t forget. But of course I know what you want. They say you came to London in search of a wife. You came to me in search of a mistress. There’s no mystery there.”
“I don’t think you know what I was in search of—maybe because I didn’t either,” he said slowly. “So. You refuse to be my mistress. Noted. What would you say if I said I was interested in you for a wife?” he asked abruptly.
“I’d say you were a liar, and there’s the truth!”
“If you were a man, I’d make you fight to defend
those words,” he said, eyes glittering, suddenly so serious she was taken aback. Then he sat back, smiling, his tone intimate again. “But you aren’t, or we wouldn’t be here, would we? And as for me fighting you, there is that scar—you got it from your fencing master at Old Heidelberg, you said? In that case, I think I’d be better off to let the insult pass.”
It took a moment, for she had never had a man joke about her scar to her face before. And then she began to laugh with him. and only stopped when he did, abruptly.
“Oh, too bad,” he said, cocking his head, listening to a far-off sound. “They’re calling.”
She heard the distant shouting, too.
“Too soon, but not too late to make plans,” he said briskly. “Now then, Miss Cooke, when shall we two meet again?”
She sobered. “I thought you weren’t going to ask that again!”
“Elevate your mind, my dear,” he said, grinning. “I only meant I’d like to see you again. But how?”
“If a gentleman was interested in me in any respectable fashion, he’d come to call on me at my home,” she said. “But how silly of me—you know that.”
“Do I? Have you really given some thought to the consequences of my doing just that? I don’t think so. You’re cousin to sweet Cecily, and yet you’re treated like a lackey. You think you’d be pleased if I called on you properly? Think about it again.
“I’m a very careful man, Bridget. I was married once and know too well that marriage is a serious business. It’s a lifetime tie no one can put asunder, at least seldom legally. You’re charming and lovely and very unique. But I’m not a
boy anymore. I can’t—and won’t—declare myself to any woman after only meeting with her a few times. I can’t and won’t raise her or her family’s expectations by calling on her too often, either. A man must walk a fine line in such matters. A nobleman must walk an even narrower one.”
She looked at him in confusion. He sighed. “I have to tell you that if I call on you as you say I should, I might decide to go no further than that. I might decide we do not suit. A man is entitled to decide that, you know; it happens every day. But your situation is not an everyday one. You’d have to live with the consequences. You don’t understand? Then just imagine what your aunt and cousin would say. No, it’s far better to arrange to meet me in secret and keep it hidden from them until we do come to some decisions, you and I. You could meet me at a tearoom, the park, or even a bookseller’s, if you’re so inclined. Anywhere but where you suggest, I’d think.”
She frowned. “I’
d
think not, my lord. You want to know what I think? I think you’re a rake, but I know you talk in circles. I also know what’s right and proper, for I can’t afford not to. We will
not
meet again.”
He shrugged. “As you wish.”
“But thank you for behaving honorably this afternoon,” she said. “I was at your mercy. I am grateful that you had some for me.”
“F
ar
too many novels,” he said, “but what can you expect from a bookseller’s granddaughter?”
He rose, offering her his hand. She ignored it and stood by herself. He smiled sadly. “Over here!” he called into the distance, and led her from the gazebo.
Bridget almost laughed at the sight of her aunt and Cecily goggling at them from the swan boat as she and the Viscount came out of the trees and walked to the shore.
“All is well?” Aunt Harriet demanded, her eyes darting from the Viscount to Bridget, as though looking for evidence of some wild sexual excess still clinging to them.
Bridget blushed at her thought. Aunt Harriet’s lips tightened.
“How else should it be?” the Viscount asked. “But Cecily! Why did you venture across the lake again? I’d hoped you’d stay onshore, where it was calm and safe.”
Cecily tittered. “It never rained, my lord.”
“So we were parted for nothing!” he said in chagrin, and got into the boat, ignoring Bridget entirely. At his gestured command, the boatman helped her in.
He chatted with Cecily and Aunt Harriet Bridget sat in the boat watching him, marveling at his duplicity. He was two men, both vile, she decided as he tenderly escorted Cecily from the swan boat without so much as a backward glance at her.
He ignored her on the ride back, too. He didn’t even look at her as she stood by the wall in the salon when he said good-bye to Cecily and Aunt Harriet. Bridget couldn’t leave until she was dismissed. Hurt gave way to anger, and then she felt sorry for herself. She bitterly regretted even being civil to him, wanting to hurt him as he had hurt her, wishing she could dismiss him from her mind as easily as he had dismissed her.
“Bridget,” her aunt said, snapping her out of her thoughts of revenge, “the Viscount wishes to have a private word with you.”
She was astonished. She looked up to see him bow over Cecily’s hand, then walk out into the hall. He stopped at the front door and waited there, looking bored.
“Go, go,” Aunt Harriet hissed, prodding Bridget. “He can’t leave his horses waiting.”
Bridget wanted to say no. She wanted to go up to him and snap her fingers in his face. She wanted to weep. But her cousin was staring at her, her aunt was frowning, and she hadn’t the luxury to do anything she wanted.
Cecily shot Bridget a dark look. “Why does he want a few words with her?” Cecily whispered fiercely to her mother.
“He wants to assure her he won’t tell anyone they were alone, unchaperoned, on the island today,” her mother said. “I told him it didn’t matter. He said he ought to calm her anxieties anyway. He’s a gentleman through and through,” she told her daughter with a smug smile, “a stunning catch for you. You see? In spite of his reputation, he’s everything that’s proper.”
Bridget walked into the hall. She stopped in front of him but lowered her eyes, refusing to look at him. She’d hear him out and then leave him with a nod, walking away with her head high, whatever he said. She had some dignity left. Her aunt and cousin weren’t near enough to hear, so she wouldn’t have to answer him, whatever he had to say.
“Bridget,” he said, his deep voice low and soft and slow. “Ah, Bridget. I’m sorry, but in spite of my better judgment, I’ve decided we really must meet again.”
Her eyes flew to his. “But—why?” she asked, all thoughts of revenge swept away because of the regret in his voice, all hurt swept away by the look in his eyes.
“Because I burn for you,” he said.
He gave her a crooked smile and bowed. And as she stared, he clapped on his high beaver hat and walked out the door.
“W
hat is the matter with you?” Cecily demanded when Bridget startled, dropping the book she held. “I’m patient as can be, Bridget, but I don’t want a companion who acts like she’s going to be shot every time someone comes to the door.”
Bridget picked up her book. “What
do
you want in a companion, Cousin?” she asked as calmly as she could, to divert Cecily’s attention.
It was true she’d been on pins and needles since the Viscount had left with that strange promise to return. But it had been three days now and there’d been no sign of him. He’d been joking, he’d forgotten, or some other woman had come along to put out the fire he’d said was burning. Somehow Bridget found that idea as insulting and alarming as what he’d said. She was confused, wishing she could
forget the whole thing. But every time someone came to the door, she remembered.
And every time someone did come, it was only another note or invitation for Cecily that was being delivered, or some young man come to court Cecily.
You’re being a fool, my girl—worse, a fool who’s been duped and acting even more foolish
. Bridget told herself bitterly. She waited for Cecily’s answer but kept an ear half cocked to the front door. There was no further sound. It must have only been someone delivering another note or a card.
“What do I want in a companion?” Cecily asked thoughtfully. “A very good question. I’m glad you finally asked it.”
Bridget bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to divert Cecily that much.
“I don’t need a companion,” Cecily said, and nodded with satisfaction when Bridget’s head shot up. “I have one because Mama insists, but you and I both know you’re not necessary. I’m not being cruel, just honest. I mean, why should I need one? I’m not going to do anything to stain my reputation, you can count on that. I want to marry well. I’ll leave stupid flirtations to other girls, thank you. They’re a waste of time. You’re here as window dressing, we both know it. So what do I need in a companion? Nothing. What do I want? Someone who doesn’t annoy me, I suppose. That’s all.”
“Do I annoy you, Cecily?” Bridget asked, too shocked to be angry or hurt yet.
They were in the salon overlooking the street. Cecily sat by the window, holding an embroidery loop in her little white hands. The sunlight angled in so it struck gold in her curls, and she tilted her head so it didn’t cast harsh light on her face—or any at all on her
embroidery, for that matter. But she wasn’t sewing; she was posing in case a gentleman caller arrived. She looked over at her cousin, drawing the moment out.
“Yes, you do annoy me,” Cecily finally said. “I’m glad you asked that. too. I didn’t like the way you acted around Ewen, if you want to know the truth.”
S
o it’s
E
wen now
? Bridget thought. The devil was free with his name, wasn’t he? Giving it to a lady he was courting as well as the companion he was trying to trifle with.
She hated herself for the twinge of jealousy she’d felt. Of course he’d ask his chosen lady to speak his given name.
“I wasn’t aware that I acted any way at all around Viscount Sinclair, Cousin,” she told Cecily quietly, “and I’ll wager he wasn’t, either, because I’m nothing but wall covering to him when you’re around. And since I don’t see him when you aren’t with him. I don’t see what the problem is.”
“The problem is that he does look at you,” Cecily said. “Mama says it’s only human—when someone stares at you, you can’t help but look back at the person, wondering why.”
“I do not stare at him,” Bridget said, feeling her face getting warm, because of course she did, and she hated to lie.
“But I think it’s also because he’s a rake,” Cecily went on as though Bridget hadn’t spoken. “He can’t help but wonder how available you are when you’re so obviously fascinated by him. You’ve no money, no family to speak of, except for us, of course, and you’re terribly scarred. That makes marriage impossible for you. But I wonder if he thinks you’d be willing to settle for less. Are you?” Cecily asked, watching her closely.
Bridget put her book aside and stood. She smoothed down her skirt so Cecily couldn’t see how her hands were shaking—also giving her something to do so she wouldn’t pick up the book and throw it at her. She’d leave, of course. Mad Cousin Mary likely needed a nurse now, and cranky old Cousin Elizabeth was doing all her complaining to the angels, but maybe Cousin Sylvia needed her again or knew some other relative who did.
“I am not going to answer that question,” Bridget said in a tight voice. “I find it beyond insulting. But since I am a lady, as you are not, I won’t insult you in turn. I think that’s why you need a companion, Cousin, and I urge you to find another after I leave—which I’ll do, now. You think it’s charming to act like a child, and maybe in London it is. I don’t know, for as you say, I’m not a fashionable creature. But I know manners and breeding never go out of fashion, and if you’re looking for a good marriage, you’d do well to remember that. Of course, I suppose there are dozens of wealthy men who won’t care. I wish you luck.”
But Bridget suspected the Viscount would care. It wasn’t much in the way of retaliation, but it was all she could say, and because it was the last thing she would do in this house, she felt a little better for it.
Cecily was silent for a moment. Bridget suspected that she too knew the Viscount would care. And she knew Cecily considered Sinclair the most elegant man she’d ever met. And maybe the richest.
“Bridget!” she cried, leaping up from her seat. “Oh, where are you going? You thought I meant to insult you? Never! I just wondered—and, well, you know what a goose I can be. We girls talk about the most intimate things, and I felt so close to you. I just forgot my tongue.
But see?” she asked gaily. “That means I think of you as just another of my friends.”
That was such an awful lie, in every meaning of the word—being monstrously untrue
and
ridiculous, too—that Bridget couldn’t say a thing.
“Don’t be so prickly, Cousin,” Cecily said. “Forget what I said.” But, being Cecily, she couldn’t help adding, “Just think: I’ve become so popular, I can try to find you a fellow of your own—some acquaintance of one of my beaux—if you stay on. And Mama would never forgive me if you left like this. Oh, do forget this silliness, won’t you?”
Bridget would rather not. But she was a realist. There was nowhere for her to go, after all. She was passed through the family by word of mouth. When Aunt Harriet had no more use for her, another place would be found for her. That was how things had gone since she’d been taken in by her father’s family. In fact, she’d never met them all. She’d have to wait for Cecily’s wedding for that. Her father’s relatives lived far apart and were cold at heart, at least toward each other. They only assembled when they had to, at funerals and weddings.
Bridget sat, picked up her book, and nodded. She still didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Well, that’s much better!” Cecily said, arranging herself by the window again.
They both sat silently, pretending to read and stitch. Bridget wished she could just get up and go out for a walk. But she was Cecily’s companion, which meant that if Cecily chose to pass a glowing day indoors, so must she. She didn’t even have a half day to herself on Sundays, as a servant would, Bridget thought sadly. If Cecily were old and infirm, Bridget might have more time to herself…but then, she mused, gazing into the
distance, watching dust spinning in the sunbeams, there’d be no excursions, no dances, no concerts, no Ewen.
She sat up straight and looked around guiltily. Cecily’s head turned to her, but fortunately this time there were voices in the front hall.
“Of course. Certainly. At three, then,” they heard Aunt Harriet say, and the door closed again.
A moment later Aunt Harriet stood poised dramatically in the doorway. She looked pregnant with news. Her bosom swelled and a huge smile appeared on her face as she looked at her daughter.
“He will be here at three.” she said with suppressed excitement. “His messenger said something about a drive in the park. Just you—he’s got an open carriage and you don’t need me or your cousin for propriety. Now, to dress!”
S
o are wars announced in
S
hakespeare’s plays
, Bridget thought sourly as she saw Cecily’s eyes widen. B
ut this is a kind of war, after all
. Aunt Harriet didn’t have to say who “he” was. The fact that three o’clock was three hours away didn’t matter. Of course Cecily would try on dresses for three hours. What she wore as she rode off to war was of prime importance. The battle for the title of Viscountess Sinclair had begun in earnest.
Ordinarily a few hours’ notice wouldn’t have been enough for Aunt Harriet. A lady didn’t move on the spur of the moment. Had it been anyone else, she would have turned down the invitation with polite regrets and, if she wanted him to call again, a light reminder that notice was needed. But Sinclair was Sinclair, and Bridget thought he could have called from his carriage waiting at curbside and they’d have bundled Cecily out
to meet him without blinking. At least now they had hours to prepare.
And Bridget had hours to feel sorry for herself—and scold herself for it. H
e never was more than a dream, and a bad one at that
. H
e wouldn’t have offered you what he’s offering her, and there’s an end of it
, she kept telling herself. But getting herself to accept it wasn’t so easy.
She’d been alone for seven years now. She hadn’t had an admirer in all those years, or if she had, she’d managed to ignore them. What was it about Ewen that enthralled her?
Could it be his face, his form? There must have been more attractive men, though she couldn’t think of any. Was it his wit or his laughter, or just the sound of that deep voice purring and the way it wound itself around her heart, forcing it to pick up its beat in his company? She’d never felt that before. It terrified her—even more so when she realized how much she enjoyed that strange terror.
Oh, she’d be glad to go off into the wilds of the countryside with some infirm relative now—in fact, she yearned to go, she told herself. Her brief glimpse of London had been wonderful, but who needed such distress? If she stayed, mightn’t there be other such men here?
N
o
, she thought sadly,
never
, and felt even worse, because she must be deranged to feel bad about missing such misery.
She wished she could leave right now. But she’d have to stay for the wedding; it surely was part of her duties. How else could she meet the rest of the family, anyway? After that, she could go away with one of them if they needed her.
So she was very pale and quiet when Cecily was finally ready for her ride with Ewen Sinclair.
Cecily was, of course, magnificent. She was a symphony in white and yellow. Her day dress was white with yellow stripes and a yellow overskirt, and on her yellow curls she wore a pert straw hat with a cunning yellow plume that curled down to caress her cheek on one side. Very dashing, simply adorable. She looked like a smug, happy, plump little canary, Bridget thought enviously, unconsciously fingering the ribbon at the waist of her own plain green dress.
“A pity your father isn’t here in case the Viscount wants a word with him,” Aunt Harriet sighed as she gazed at her daughter. “But perhaps I’m being a wee bit premature.”
And very imaginative
, Bridget thought, considering that Cyrus Brixton was almost never home in the afternoon. He was seldom home in the evening, either. Whether he spent his days at his club and his nights there, too, or spent all his time with his mistress, no one knew or cared. He was as profoundly bored with his stay in London as his wife and daughter seemed to be with him.
Bridget had heard the servants say he came to life only in the countryside, where he could spend both days and nights drinking or riding. She wasn’t sure which, because they always stopped talking when she entered the room. She was one of the family, even if she wasn’t treated as such, and she had the servants’ pity and distrust because of it.
Cecily sat in the front salon, her mother pacing by the window. Bridget sank into her own world of regret. As the hall clock chimed three bells they heard the door knocker sound.
“Wait, wait,” Aunt Harriet cautioned Cecily. “Patience, my dear. Let him come in, let him ask for you, and then wait a moment before you appear.”
Like landing a fish
. Bridget thought gloomily.
The butler came to the salon in some dismay. “Madam,” he told Aunt Harriet, “the Viscount Sinclair is here, and ready to take the young miss up in his carriage.”
“I’m ready!” Cecily caroled, leaping to her feet.
“Ah, but no, it’s Miss Bridget he’s askin’ after,” the butler said, so perturbed that his perfect accent slipped.
No one said anything for a long moment.
“You’ve got it wrong,” Aunt Harriet said.
“I asked him twice, I did,” the butler protested, “and so he said twice, madam.”
Aunt Harriet closed her eyes and frowned. “I can’t believe it! That can’t be right!”
“Oh, knowing what a rake he is, it could be! What did his message say, exactly?” Cecily asked, pacing furiously.
Her mother’s brow furrowed in thought. “The messenger said, ‘The Viscount wishes to take the young miss for a ride at three.’ The villain! He never said which! Well, I won’t have it!”
Cecily stopped and cast a murderous glance at Bridget. “But if you say he
can’t
, he’ll tell everyone, and we’ll look like monsters. It will look as though we beat her or starve her or make her sweep ashes or some such,” she said wildly, “like in the fairy tales.”
“We can say we don’t want her compromised, that we are looking after her,” her mother said.
Cecily stamped her little foot. “We can say it, but I know what those cats will say—they’ll say I was jealous! As if I could be! She’s old and disfigured, that’s why he’s asking. He knows she’ll say yes to
whatever
he asks!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother argued. “He can buy the most beautiful females in all London. Why should he want her?”