“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 fro
m 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.