Upon getting to her, he cleared his throat, maintaining composure. “It’s surprising to see you all cleaned up for once,” he stated.
Although he was burning to let her know how ethereal she looked in that dress, his tongue failed him, and all he could come up with was that.
“Your Grace, I’ll have you know that I’m always cleaned up and presentable, despite your opinion. Especially in these settings,” Bridget said, glaring daggers at him but still trying to keep it respectful.
“Oh, are you now?” he asked with a smirk.
“My mother picked out the dress, just so you know whom to direct your insults at,” she added.
“Oh, your mother has impeccable taste, but I can’t say the same for you.”
Inwardly, Abel wondered why he couldn’t stop antagonizing her even when it wasn’t his intention. What is it about her that made him act out of character?
Then he saw the blush in her cheeks, and realization dawned on him that maybe he just wanted to get her riled up. Perhaps he enjoyed the banter with her more than he was willing to admit.
“Your Grace, I appreciate our witty battles. Unfortunately, I’m not feeling up to it tonight.”
“That’s a shame, Lady Bridget. I feel in impeccable form. It seems that now is a better time than any for one of our battles, seeing as I have you at a severe disadvantage.”
She grimaced and glanced around. There was something on her mind, but he knew enough about her to know that he wouldn’t get any information out of her.
An awkward silence started building between them. He missed the banter. He realized that he even looked forward to it.
“You know, Lady Bridget?—”
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” she said, cutting him short, “but I realize I have something to take care of. I’d be back shortly.”
She curtsied, only to bump into a servant as she turned and get red wine spilled all over her fancy dress.
Abel’s heart sank at the sight of the incident, and he was visibly upset because he really loved that dress.
The ruckus was loud enough that most of the guests turned around to watch the pair. Bridget looked absolutely devastated as she observed the ruined state of her dress.
He hated how much pain he saw on her face—pain mixed with dread and embarrassment.
Thinking quickly, he pulled her close and grinned at her. “Now, that looks even better than the original design.”
She stared at him with red eyes. “What? My dress is ruined. This is a disaster! I reek of alcohol. I… I…”
“I think you look just fine,” he said, giving her his most charming smile. And then he turned her around, putting her back to the gawking crowd.
There, that is better.
“Your Grace,” she said, shocked but amused. “Have you gone mad? This is hardly the time for one of your jests.”
“No jest. I just prefer this view better.”
He saw relief bleed into her countenance, and he felt much better. The servant was still apologizing, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Bridget ran her hand over her dress and frowned again. “I appreciate your trying to cheer me up, but this dress is well and truly ruined. And it is starting to feel sticky.” She shivered. “I don’t feel comfortable, Your Grace.”
Abel nodded. “You could go clean up and change dresses. I do think you still look resplendent.”
“I’d rather change my dress, thank you very much.”
“That is well.”
She retreated quickly into the manor, trying to hide the embarrassment she was feeling.
