No longer gay,
Poor Laura now you’ll see;
Nor does she cry,
For reasons why,
No one shall govern me.
No, no, no.
Since she was familiar with the piece, her eyes left the page as she continued to play and regarded Campbell, his grin not as annoying as she would have thought, given the words that would follow.
A lesson learned, ye ladies fair,
From Laura’s wretched fate;
Lest you, like her, should in despair
Repent alas! Back too late.
Let me advise—
While young, be wise,
Nor coy and silly be;
I’m certain I
Would never cry,
No one shall govern me.
No, no, no
I’d gladly govern’d be.
As the last note sounded, they continued to stare at each other until Lady Preston began the applause. “That was wonderful. You two sing so well together I believe you practiced that number to entertain us.”
She dared not tell the group that was the first time they’d sung together. Instead, Bridget pulled her gaze away from Campbell and turned to the guests, her heart thudding. “Thank you. I always enjoy that song.”
…
Cam climbed into his carriage behind Bridget. Still uncomfortable with the reaction he’d had after their performance, he moved to the opposite side of the carriage. She had squirreled herself into the other corner, putting as much space between them as could be had in the same coach.
After about five minutes of silence, Cam turned toward her. “I hope you enjoyed yourself this evening.”
She continued to stare out the window. “Yes.”
“Any gentlemen catch your eye?”
Now why the devil had he asked that? He’d spent most of the night glaring at the men who’d continuously stared at her breasts. No one at the party had struck him as a good match for Bridget. Peabody, Bassinger, and Lovell had all been too interested in her body and had practically drooled every time they’d come near her. He’d already scratched off Manning, Monroe, and Webster. That left Mr. Grendell, who was in his seventh decade, and Lord Turner, who’d already buried three wives in the attempt to gain an heir.
“No.”
The tension in the vehicle snapped like lightning from a summer storm. Their song together and the way they’d stared at each other when finished had rattled him more than he cared to remember. He became more aware of the shimmer of her golden-red hair, her plump lips, ripe for kissing, and the wide expanse of pale skin above her neckline, where he wanted more than anything to place his lips.
What the devil is wrong with me? He was thinking like the other men in the room he had wanted to drag outside and beat senseless. This young woman was his ward. He was her guardian, which meant he was supposed to be protecting her from men like him.