Returned from her too-short visit with Virgil, Bridget moved through the halls of Vail’s townhouse. Basket in hand, she turned at the end of the corridor and came to an abrupt stop.
His brother, Mr. Winterly, stood with his ears all but pressed to Vail’s office door. Perplexed, she opened her mouth to greet him. “Good—”
“Shh.” He whipped his head toward her and raised a finger in warning.
Well, then. Whatever held Vail’s brother outside that paneled door like a naughty child didn’t pertain to her, at all. The baron’s business was his own. Oh, blast, her curiosity had always been her Achilles heel. Setting her basket down against the wall, she joined him at the doorway.
Mr. Winterly cast her a quick glance.
“What is it?” she mouthed.
Another bellow split the doorway. Even with only partial hearing, she’d have to be deaf as a post to fail and detect that.
“A business meeting,” Edward muttered.
She stared perplexedly at the door. What manner of meeting was this?
The young man-of-affairs leaned closer. “The Earl of Marlborough is inside. He’s—”
Bridget stifled a gasp behind her fingers.
“You’ve heard of him, then.” There was a glimmer of approval there.
“I have,” she whispered in return. Even tucked away in her corner of Leeds, she knew of the Earl of Marlborough. Mr. Lowell had brought her a handful of volumes to assess which had come from the earl’s collection.
The same frustrated worry she’d spied earlier returned to Edward’s gaze. He placed his mouth close to her ear and she angled her head giving him access to her right one. “Vail’s vying for the rights to Marlborough’s collection.” All of it? “He’s selling his works,” he confirmed.
Noted among scholars everywhere for its greatness, it hardly made sense.
“Why?” she blurted and then promptly closed her lips.
The muffled shouts swallowed her quiet interruption. What were they arguing over in there? She damned her reduced hearing.
“According to the gossip, he’s ill. The line will pass to a hated nephew, and he’d see his daughters cared for.”
Envy—a wicked, dark emotion pulled at her heart for those nameless, unknown women whose father would part with his beloved tomes so he might protect his kin. On the heel of that was shame for her own self-absorption in light of the earl’s sickness.
“…Bastard Baron is the perfect title for you,” the earl bellowed those words distinctly reaching Bridget’s ear. “I’d, however, argue you’re a son of…” The remainder of that inventive insult singed her cheeks.
Well. This was the revered collector, regarded for his literary knowledge of all texts—ancient and new ones, alike. Through their heated argument, Bridget strained to detect a hint of Vail’s replies or retorts…and yet, he remained stoically silent, allowing the outraged earl to fill his office with insults. “He’s never going to grant him ownership of his collections,” she murmured.
“No.” She started, having failed to realize she’d spoken aloud. “Though…” Mr. Winterly looked to the door, and spoke in hushed tones, that even with her good ear, she strained to detect. “I suspect he never did. Vail knew that, and he’s too much pride to let a person enter his household and make a fool of him.”
Tendrils of dread snaked through her. Vail was a kind man, generous to those who were fortunate enough to call him family. Yet, by the fortunes he’d made and the people he dealt with, he was ruthless. She searched Edward for evidence that he knew of or hinted at her own duplicity but he had his effortful attention trained on the doorway. Lord Marlborough’s thunderous bellowing reached a crescendo.
“…And I will be goddamned if I ever let you, of all sellers, near a damned book. Not even a child’s primer…”
Reaching past Edward, she knocked once. Mr. Winterly hissed. “What are you…”
Without bothering for permission, she entered. The gaunt, bespectacled gentleman pacing before Vail’s rectangular table didn’t even break stride. For a moment, she stared in reverent awe at the famed owner of some of the greatest works. It was rumored that one of his country estates had been converted solely into a place where he stored his first edition, signed books.
If looks could kill, Vail would have smote her where she stood.
“My lord,” she greeted. Mayhap, the sound of her voice snapped the earl from his tirade.
“Wh-who is this?” the other man demanded, indignantly. Despite his concave frame and frail appearance, he moved with a surprising alacrity placing himself between Bridget and his prized volumes resting on that table.
Vail stood quickly and came around his desk. He glowered at Bridget. “My housekeeper was just leaving.” Logic said leave and let Vail to his failed transaction. The need to intervene—even when he neither wanted, nor realized he needed assistance—stayed her.
“Your housekeeper interrupting a business meeting? I’ve my doubts about the manner of seller you, in fact, are,” the earl shot back.
Both men took a step toward one another and Bridget swiftly moved between them. With the air of civility stripped away and tensions high, how vastly different these meetings between the sellers were than the kindly visits paid her by Mr. Lowell “I came to inquire as to whether you required refreshments,” she said hurriedly, glancing frantically about.
Vail stared pointedly at her empty hands.
“Refreshments with Chilton?” his guest spat, planting his hands on his hips. “I’d sooner take tea or coffee with—”
“Robinson Crusoe,” she murmured, drifting over to the earl.
The gentleman stopped mid-sentence. “I was going to say the Devil…” The heated fury receded from the earl’s tones.
“It is a magnificent work. Is it not?” she asked, raising her gaze briefly to his.
Through his round, wire-rimmed spectacles, he met her stare with wide-eyed shock. “You’re familiar with it?” he asked, the question emerged grudgingly.
“Indeed,” she replied, moving closer to the table. She leaned down to assess the watermarks upon those pages. Once, she’d been tasked with evaluating the authenticity of a second-generation copy. “Some dismiss DeFoe’s Crusoe as a work of literary fiction and undeserving of the same respect shown more antiquated texts.”
The earl folded his arms at his narrow chest. “And what is your opinion, Miss…?”
“Mrs. Hamlet,” she supplied. Her skin pricked with the intensity of Vail’s eyes, following her every movement. Since she’d entered his household, he had been far more generous than any other nobleman would have with how she’d inserted herself inside the collections. By the palpable fury emanating from his frame, there were certain boundaries he was unwilling to cede. Her commandeering a meeting with a powerful peer and business associate appeared to be the line against which he drew liberties permitted. She warred with herself. Inevitably, the lure to discuss those texts proved greater. “The narrative is simple,” she finally said. The gentleman stitched his white eyebrows together in a single, disapproving line. “But that narrative does not preclude it from greatness. Even at the time,” she gesticulated wildly to the books as she spoke. “DeFoe’s style was unfamiliar but people recognized the significance of his voice and that work.” She laughed. “After all, there is a reason that it went through four editions when it was not even a year old in print.”
The gentleman eyed her suspiciously for a long moment and then he smiled. That upturn of his lips erased his earlier outrage, transforming him into an affable fellow. “Precisely.” He jerked his head at Vail. “Tried to tell this one, to no avail.” He drifted closer. “This is a first edition, you know.” He spoke with the same pride Bridget had in talking of Virgil’s first steps and words to the villagers in their parish.
“Is it?” Bridget arched her neck in a bid to see the front cover.
“Mrs. Hamlet,” Vail said, a warning in those four syllables.
“Do you have experience with antiquated texts?” The earl countered, ignoring Vail’s menacing form, hovering beyond their shoulders.
“I evaluated books and manuscripts for…” In her ease in speaking about the familiar and safe topic of her experience, she’d nearly forgotten the lies she’d given Vail about her background. “For my late husband,” she finished somberly.
The earl withdrew a pair of white gloves and extended them toward her. She stole a sideways peek at Vail. Only where earlier there’d been a barely concealed outrage for her interference, now his face was a carefully set mask, carved of stone. Accepting the articles from his visitor, Bridget drew them on. With meticulous care, she lifted up the first copy and searched the front of the book as she’d been longing to since Lord Marlborough had shifted, revealing DeFoe’s work laid out behind him. She scraped her gaze over that title page, noting the word mark, the age of the parchment. “It is a—”
“First edition,” the earl supplied for her. “Yes.” A muscle leapt at the corner of his eye. “And Chilton tried to rob—”
“Some believe DeFoe was inspired by Ibn Tufail’s Hayy ibn Yaqdhan,” she neatly interjected, in a bid to diffuse that resurgence of Lord Marlborough’s indignation.
The earl caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I’d read he was influenced by Robert—”
“Knox’s abduction by the King of Ceylon.” This time she finished for him. Bridget carefully tugged the too large gloves off and returned them. “I daresay it would be interesting to have the texts side by side to study.”
“I’ve all of them,” he whispered sounding years younger for his enthusiasm. “First editions.”
She gasped and looked up. “Truly?”
For all the gentleman’s earlier rancor, a silly, affable grin teased the corners of his mouth. “You’re certain this one’s a housekeeper, Chilton?” he called over jovially to the still silent baron.
Bridget faced Vail and braced for the evidence of his fury. The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips and a proud glimmer lit his eyes. Her heart did a funny flip.
“I noted her skill from the onset and relieved her of most of those responsibilities.”
The earl snorted and stuffed his gloves back inside his jacket. “Then you’re as much a damned fool as I took you for at the start of this meeting, for having her cut your mutton and cook your pastries is a waste of her real talents.”
“Oh, I removed those tasks within her third day here.”
Lord Marlborough chuckled. “Then, mayhap you’re not as stupid as I’d taken you for, Chilton.” Turning back to Bridget, the earl dismissed Vail once more. “And what do you think of The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe?”
His was a test. She heard it in the challenge underscoring that question, as much as she picked it up in the glimmer in his rheumy eyes. Bridget carefully weighed her words. “DeFoe’s work…there was nothing like it prior,” she finally said. “It set the literary world upon its ear and earned places on everyone’s shelves for not only its uniqueness but because the brilliance of that simple prose.” Bridget gestured to the follow-up edition that had been met with nowhere near the accolades as the first. “Inevitably, all readers cannot help but compare a title to its predecessor, and it’s hardly fair to the book or the author. So, if you look at it against DeFoe’s first masterpiece, it cannot ever help but fall short.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I, however, was always one who appreciated each title for its own worth and greatness.” Bridget winked.
“Clever girl.” The earl’s eyes twinkled. “Nor did it escape my notice that you didn’t put a price upon the volume.” He laughed and she joined in until he dissolved into a paroxysm of coughing.
White lines strained the corners of his eyes, and he quickly yanked out a kerchief, covering his mouth. As he drew it back, she caught the bright flash of crimson and a wave of pity filled her. He stuffed the stained article back inside his jacket. When he looked to Vail, his earlier apathy was firmly back in place. “It is unfortunate your employer doesn’t have the same appreciation for literature.”
Vail rolled his shoulders. Except where earlier he’d baited his guest, now he remained somberly silent.
Bridget cleared her throat. “May I be so bold?”
“Bolder than bursting into a formal meeting?” Vail asked from the corner of his mouth.
Did she imagine the shared smile between the two combative gentlemen? “You’re not wrong. His Lordship does not appreciate DeFoe’s work.” At her side, Vail stiffened. He gave her a quelling look. She ignored it and continued, directing her words at his guest. “But I’ve found in the short time I’ve been in his employ that though he might not appreciate that work, it doesn’t mean he does not respect, admire, and even love other literary pieces.”
“Humph,” the earl said under his breath, however, without his earlier rancor.
“It’s true. He might not like DeFoe but he’s an ardent admirer of—”
“Mrs. Hamlet,” Vail said tightly.
She continued. “Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy.”
“Chilton?” the earl asked, eying the other nobleman opposite him.
Bridget nodded. “Oh, yes and—”
“That will be all, Mrs. Hamlet,” Vail said tersely and she fell silent. She clasped her hands before her. She’d overstepped.
“If you’ll excuse me?” she said quietly, dropping a curtsy. She had the door’s handle in her grip when Lord Marlborough stayed her.
“Mrs. Hamlet?” he boomed.
She slowly wheeled back.
“A pleasure. It was an absolute pleasure.” He favored her with a wink.
Avoiding Vail’s piercing gaze, she returned the earl’s smile…and left.
Following his meeting with Lord Marlborough, Vail couldn’t determine whether he should sack Bridget Hamlet for bursting in and commandeering the appointment, kiss her…or thank her. He was dangerously close to two of the possibilities, ones that had nothing to do with packing the lady up and sending her on her way.
Striding through the halls, he called for his brother, Gavin.
The younger man came skidding around the corner so quickly, he crashed into the wall. He caught himself against the plaster. “Your L-Lordship,” he called out, panting as he sprinted over. His trembling lower lip hinted at a man on the verge of tears. “I forgot to see him out,” he blurted, and then covered his face with his hands.
Vail slapped him on the back. “It’s quite fine. No harm has ever come to a gentleman who saw himself out.” Whether people talked about the unconventional way Vail ran his household mattered as much as their opinion of him as a Ravenscourt bastard.
“B-but I knew he was leaving and then, after the yelling started, I ran for Edward.” Gavin wrung his hands together. “And then it was just so much fighting, I didn’t remain.”
Through those worried ramblings, Vail gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. “The fighting ended.” A credit to an impertinent housekeeper who’d interrupted his official meeting with Marlborough. “I’m looking for Bridge…Mrs. Hamlet,” he amended.
“She was with Edward in the Inventory Room.”
With Edward. His literature-loving, affable brother who also happened to be smitten with the young woman? “Sh-should he not be?” Gavin whispered.
No, he should not be. Given that Edward was to be meeting shortly with one of Vail’s contacts at King Street, it certainly didn’t merit that he was now closeted away with the same woman who’d charmed the un-charmable Lord Marlborough. Smoothing the involuntary frown, he shook his head. “No, that is fine. I—” As was his custom, Gavin spun on his heel and himself marked the end of the discussion. Wheeling back, he readjusted his path.
It hardly mattered whether Bridget was with his brother. Why…aside from Huntly, there was no one he trusted more than Edward. He’d proven himself skilled with keeping Vail’s vast collections catalogued. In addition to his bookkeeping, the younger man had an urbane charm that had served Vail’s business well. Why did those skills suddenly grate? As he came upon the Inventory Room, the sounds of their voices drifted to the hallway. Lively words flew back and forth.
“The volumes in one of Lord Chilton’s Collection Rooms are rare not because of their value but because of who owned the titles,” Edward was explaining.
“I always found that aspect of book collecting peculiar.” Vail stood outside the room, transfixed by the quiet insistence of the young woman’s voice. How many ladies whom he’d known before had any opinion on the art of collecting, either way? “It matters far more what’s contained on those pages than whose hands they’ve been in.”
Edward snorted. “You find it peculiar? Or obnoxious? Because I…”
At the intimate path their discourse followed, Vail entered.
The couple seated at the mahogany table, heads bent close, remained absorbed in their discussion. Edward said something that earned a husky laugh, and the sound of that wrapped around him. A bolt of lust went through him. So, this was the siren’s song written of in those sailor’s tales. Tempting. Enthralling. It had the power to keep a man frozen and batter him against the jagged rocks. It—
Edward’s answering chuckle effectively doused his ardor. And then, even with the distance between them, he detected the subtle dip of his brother’s gaze to Bridget’s generous bodice. For all his earlier silent thoughts of the contrary, Vail cared…he cared very much. An answering growl rumbled in his chest.
From over Bridget’s shoulder, Edward shifted his gaze. He scrambled to his feet and retreated several steps. “Vail.”
Bridget instantly hopped up and faced him squarely. All laughter died from her lips and eyes. A charged intensity passed between them. He damned the lady’s earlier ease with his damned brother, when she’d greet him with a stoic silence.
Edward cleared his throat. “I was just—”
“Meeting on King Street?” For all his attempts at dry humor, the completed question emerged clipped and impatient. Edward blushed. Not allowing him a reply, Vail looked again to Bridget. “I would speak to Mrs. Hamlet alone.”
“Vail,” Edward began, casting a concerned glance between them. “It is my understanding…” Leveling him with a glare, Vail managed to kill that defense. Edward’s mouth tensed and, for a moment, he believed his younger brother intended to battle him right there. But then, with a curt bow, he stalked past Vail and took his leave.
The rapid rise and fall of Edward’s footsteps faded, so that the only lingering sound was that of the inordinately loud long-case clock.
Never taking his gaze from Bridget, he reached behind him and drew the door closed. She followed his every movement with a proper wariness radiating from her eyes as he wandered over to where she stood.
His spirited housekeeper folded her hands primly before her. “W-Was your meeting successful, my lord?” That faint tremble was the only outward sign of the lady’s unease.
“Oh, it would depend on which person you’re inquiring after: me or Marlborough?”
Bridget wrinkled her pert nose. “Well, you, of course.” A slight admonishment underscored her retort. She spoke so simply, so matter-of-factly as though there could be no doubt where her loyalties lay, that a peculiar, but not unwelcome warmth filled his chest. The spirited young lady sighed. “Very well. I should not have interfered.”
“No,” he murmured, continuing his advance. Only where she’d once retreated, now she remained proudly rooted to the floor; shoulders and head tilted back in a beautifully bold defiance.
“It was certainly not my place and I understand why you might,” she stuck a finger up. “Be angry.”
He stopped before her. The enticing floral scent that clung to her skin wafted about them. “And is that what you think?” he asked in hushed tones. Vail placed his mouth close to her temple. “That I am angry?”
Positioned as they were, his ears missed nothing: Bridget’s audible swallow, the faint sound of her top teeth striking her bottom ones. “I-I suspect that is a l-logical reaction.”
The evidence of her tangible nervousness grated on his nerves. Did she believe he’d harm her or turn her out for her earlier boldness? But then, how many lords would have done that very thing? He caught an errant curl that had, somewhere between Vail’s meeting with Marlborough and his trek through the household, managed to escape its constraints. Gathering that silken lock, he tucked it back behind her ear. “And you are nothing if not logical, are you?”
His tempting housekeeper darted the tip of her tongue out. That pink flesh trailed a path over the seam of her lips. “I’ve been known to be referred to as such, Vail.” Vail. For her reservations and unease, she still took ownership of his name and he reveled in that connection.
“And how else have others come to view you, Mrs. Hamlet?” he murmured, walking a small circle about her, studying her contemplatively. Wanting to know about the people who’d been in her life. Who was her family? Did she have any? Or was she now a widow with only herself in the world? The idea stuck painfully in his chest.
Bridget captured her chin in her right hand and tapped her index finger in a distracted beat against her cheek. She’d the look of a student considering the correct answer to a tutor’s exam. “Practical,” she said with a nod. “I’ve also been referred to as bookish.” She opened her mouth to again speak, and then brightened. “Am I to take it to mean you’ve forgotten my whole interruption with Lord Marlborough?”
His lips twitched and he fought back that grin. “You should not take it to mean that.”
Her expression fell. With her slumped shoulders and slight pout, she was so damned endearing. Had she been any other woman, he’d have accused her of artifice. Where Bridget Hamlet was concerned, there could never be anything but raw honesty. The lady wasn’t capable of anything but. Then nodding, she flared her nostrils. “Very well, my lord. Let us cease dancing around the true matter between us. Yes, I did interrupt your meeting, however…” She raised that same finger. “…I should point out that you were handling it rather atrociously before my arrival.”
Yes, he had been. And where he was not too proud to admit so, it was wholly more enjoyable taking in the lady’s passion as she spoke. “Is that what you believe?” he asked, instead. Had anyone else challenged the way he conducted himself in his business dealings, he’d have sent them to the Devil.
She snorted. “It is what I know.”
Goodness she was magnificent in her directness. Even Adrina, whom he’d considered himself in love with, had flirted with her eyes and left him guessing what she truly wanted, felt, or thought at a given moment in any day. “Very well.” He lifted his chin. “Let us hear your opinion on my meeting with the earl.”
“Taking a strong-arm approach with Lord Marlborough would never see you with the first right to view or purchase a single volume in his collection.”
“And you presume to know the best way simply by listening at a keyhole?” His question was intended without recrimination. The men Vail dealt with were ones who fought boldly for supremacy and control.
“I’ve been told you are ruthless,” she said, ignoring his question. Was that a deliberate evasion? An insult?
Except, he was ruthless. Where matters of his business and caring after his siblings were concerned, he didn’t make apologies and certainty didn’t make himself beholden to Societal rules of propriety. “Is that what you think?” Feigning nonchalance, he dropped his right hip onto the edge of the table, even as her answer mattered more than it should.
“I believe you care for your siblings,” she put forth, unerringly accurate in that. “I trust that a man who hangs portraits of men, women, and children he’s known but a few years speaks to someone who loves deeply.” He shifted, disquieted by the ease with which she spoke of his emotions. “And do you know what else?”
Vail fought to draw forth a glib reply; one that would undercut the somberness of her pronouncements—but came up…empty. “What is that, Bridget?” he asked, strangely wanting her to complete that statement, to know precisely what she thought. When to Polite Society he was nothing more than the Bastard Baron; with his vast wealth and peculiar penchant for his business, she saw beyond it.
“You are not unlike Lord Marlborough.”
That startled a laugh from him and his shoulders shook under the force of his hilarity. Nearly thirty years or so separated them and the other man lived, breathed, and slept his literary love.
Bridget pursed her mouth.
He instantly masked his features. “You were serious.”
“Deadly.” As she spoke, her gaze took on a distant quality and, though she was looking at him, her gaze penetrated through him. “He’s not someone who wants wealth just to assuage his own greed. He’s not been driven to collect over the years so he might have the largest and greatest library in England.” Which the gentleman did and the fact that this woman knew as much spoke to an even greater skill in Vail’s world. “He is merely a man who loves two things: literature and family. You and Marlborough both care for your kin.” Bridget shook her head. “He’s not selling his books so he might grow his fortune for greed but to see his daughters are cared for when he’s gone.”
A sad glimmer reflected in her eyes. And he wanted to know the reason for it. He wanted to ask question he had no right to. In her short time here, she’d gleaned much about his relationship with his brothers and sisters…and yet this woman before him still remained a mystery.
Bridget collected his hand in hers and gave a light squeeze. “You needn’t treat all your clients the same. What strategies might work in acquiring the works from one man might be wholly unsuitable with another.”
He started. The advice she gave flew in the face of every strategy he’d undertaken. He’d gone from a modest business to one of the most powerful fortunes in the kingdom.
She drew in a slow, shuddery breath. “I understand you might be angry at me for—”
Vail cupped his hand around her neck and gently brought his mouth down to hers. She instantly melted against him; her yielding lips pliant and eager as she returned his kiss. The last woman he’d shared any parts of himself with had ultimately betrayed him. Adrina had been so single-minded in her lust for Societal rank that she’d erroneously believed he, as a duke’s bastard, could afford her that power. When he’d gone to war, she’d wed a titled gentleman. As such, he’d simply accepted as fact that all women were of similar grasping natures. Until Bridget Hamlet.
She parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue inside the moist cavern to duel with hers. A fire burned in his blood for this woman and he’d already accepted that in hungering for her as he did, it marked him very much Ravenscourt’s son. But in this, Vail could not rouse sufficient—any—regret.
Reluctantly, he drew back and a little groan spilled past her full lips. He laid his cheek along the top of her head. “Marlborough has agreed to let me evaluate his collection and present him with first offer on his tomes.”
Bridget looked at him through dazed eyes. And then she widened them. “Oh, Vail. That is wonderful.”
“Under one condition,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand behind her ear. “I’m not allowed anywhere near his titles unless I bring along the delightful Mrs. Hamlet.” Given her open love and regard for antiquated texts, he expected that familiar eager glimmer whenever she came upon a book.
She opened and closed her mouth several times like a trout tossed ashore. “What?”
He grinned. “You’ll accompany me.” In part because the earl had ordered him to not bother darkening his door unless she was there. In larger part, because she belonged there. In the short time she’d been in his employ, she’d demonstrated not only a remarkable skill with precious books but also an appreciation. As such, no one deserved to be there more than she did. She met that news with an intractable silence. “You’ll join me for my meeting at the Earl of Marlborough’s townhouse,” he finally said, clarifying when she still said nothing. He braced for the familiar glimmer of excitement always revealed in her expressive eyes.
Bridget gave her head a negating shake. “No.”
He frowned. That was it? No? And yet, though he’d believe he proffered a gift in the opportunity for her to see Marlborough’s collection, neither had it been a request, either. “No,” he repeated, slowly, cautiously. This woman who loved literature and lost herself in evaluating valuable texts would decline?
Then in a wholly dismissive move, she returned to the table and devoted her attentions to gathering her leather journals and pens. “I cannot go there,” she said tightly. Bridget filled her arms with those books and tools. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” She dipped a curtsy and made to step around him.
Vail instantly slid into her path. “I’ve known you a short while,” he began.
“A week,” she needlessly supplied.
He started. That was all the time that had passed? Yet, he’d already shared more of himself with her than he had since Adrina.
Bridget took another step around him, startling him from his surprise.
He placed himself between her and the door. He could point out that his hadn’t been a request. Remind her that she was in his employ and that appointment was part of her recently acquired responsibilities. Only, he didn’t want her joining him through coercion and force. For then, he’d be just like many of his mother’s former lovers who’d ordered her about. “Why?” he asked softly. “Why would you not wish to join me?”
Bridget hugged her journals close to her chest in a forlorn little embrace. Her eyes, usually windows into her thoughts and usual excitement and joy, were an opaque mirror that revealed nothing.
His stomach muscles clenched reflexively as he, at last, understood. She was a servant in his employ and he’d now taken her in his arms two times too many. Oh, my God. I am my father. “I see.” On wooden legs, he stepped away from her.
Bridget tipped her head at a charming little angle. “What is it you think you see, my lord?” That question emerged reluctant.
There it was again. An additional reminder that he’d crossed an unforgiveable line with a woman on his staff.
He spoke in hushed tones, shame making his neck turn hot. “I’ve continued to force my attentions upon you. As such, I understand your reservations in accompanying me, anywhere.” However, I need you to. It only reinforced the self-serving blood that flowed in his illegitimate veins.