Chapter Three
Two weeks after they arrived in London, Cam and Bridget attended a dinner party at Lord and Lady Benson’s house. This was to be their first appearance with her as his ward.
With Bridget firmly ensconced in his sister Constance’s house, he’d seen very little of the chit. He’d left her much to herself while he met with his solicitor—unable to protest the will, he’d discovered—his man of business, Mr. Dunston, and the committees working on the veterans’ issues.
He had received a scathing note from his sister chastising him for ignoring Lady Bridget, which he’d ignored. However, with his most pressing issues finally taken care of, he could now spend some time escorting her to events.
He’d sent around the guest list to have Bridget review it, and she’d returned a curt note reminding him that, as she’d not had a London Season she did not know anyone on the list. At one and twenty she should have had a couple of Seasons already, but he’d not questioned her after she’d told him she’d managed to avoid that torture.
He left his house and climbed into his carriage to travel the short distance to Constance’s house. Settling back on the comfortable seat, he went over the guest list in his head. At least the guests who mattered to him. Lord Banfield, Lord Hyatt, and Mr. Pemberton were all potential husbands for Lady Bridget.
The men were of good, solid families who did not imbibe too much nor gamble extensively. Banfield and Pemberton were a bit on the older side, but perhaps that was what she needed. She seemed somewhat strong-willed and opinionated.
He strolled up the stairs and dropped the knocker on the front door. As always, he smiled at the whimsical knocker of a red owl. Fenton, Dunmore’s butler, answered the door within seconds. “Good evening, my lord. Lady Dunmore is in the library if you wish to join her. I will advise Lady Bridget of your arrival.”
He nodded and made his way to the library.
“There you are.” Constance stood as he entered the room and came toward him with her arms extended. When she got close enough, she swatted him on the arm. “You could have come for Bridget before now. The poor girl knows no one. She tells me all the women she knew from school are settled in the country with husbands and children.”
Cam bent and placed a kiss on his sister’s cheek. “That is precisely what I want for Lady Bridget. A besotted husband to give her children to care for so she stops planning things that no gently bred young lady should concern herself with.”
They sat facing each other on the settee. “If you are referring to her idea of providing a safe place for women who have reason to fear their husbands, I agree with her. It is a very worthy cause, and I told her after she got it started, I would be more than happy to help.”
Cam groaned. “And what does his lordship say about that?”
“My husband is quite open to new ideas, I’ll have you know.”
“That tells me you haven’t mentioned it to him.” He grinned at the blush that rose to her cheeks.
Before she could respond, the library door opened and Lady Bridget stepped through. At least he thought it was her. His jaw dropped at the very ugl
y black dress that resembled a sack, not showing any of her curves, the bodice going all the way up to her throat. The sleeves were long enough to touch her fingers, leaving her looking like a sad waif in a poorly fitting, borrowed gown. Her hair was pulled back so severely it almost pained him to look at her.
She wore a knitted shawl over her dress, a white lace mobcap, and spectacles. If he weren’t so angry, he would have laughed, which was precisely what Constance was attempting to keep from doing.
“Did you know about this?” He waved toward Lady Bridget as he turned to glare at his sister.
She covered her mouth with her fingertips and shook her head. Her eyes teared from trying to hold in her laughter.
“This is not funny.” He strode up to Lady Bridget. “Go change.”
The spectacles slipped down her nose, and she stared up at him over the frames. “You forget I am in mourning.”
“There is more acceptable dinner party attire that would be appropriate for a woman in mourning. Go change. I will wait for you.”
She tilted her chin up and smiled. The chit was actually enjoying this. “No.”
He leaned in, almost bringing them nose-to-nose, annoyed when all he could think of was how deuced appealing she was, even dressed in such an outfit, with the defiant look on her face and her snapping blue eyes. “Woman, either you go upstairs and put on something appropriate, or I will do it for you.”
Constance sucked in a breath and drew herself up. “You will certainly not do that in my house.”
He swung around. “We are attending a dinner party. There will be well-known and well-respected members of the ton and Parliament in attendance. I will not permit her to arrive looking like someone’s grandmother.”
“Actually”—Constance tapped her chin—“if I remember correctly, Grandmama was far more fashionable.”
He growled and turned back to Lady Bridget. “I know exactly what you are trying to do, but it will not work. We are going to attend social events where, hopefully, you will meet a man who will take you in hand.”
Lady Bridget pushed the spectacles back up her nose. “I do not need anyone to take me in hand. And I do not need a husband!”