Bridget thought of their shared kiss and the painting of the lovers.
“You could still join us,” Mr. Russell said. “Perhaps we could paint you, Your Grace. I have seen Lady Anna’s work, and I would warrant that she can craft a portrait that equals that of any artist you have ever hired.”
“You give me praise that I do not deserve,” Anna said.
“Hardly,” Mr. Russell said.
Bridget glanced away. She felt was though she were intruding on a private moment between her sister and her handsome suitor, and it made her own feelings all the more impossible to understand. Bridget could not allow herself to be taken in by this illusion of courtship. If only Anthony had not kissed her!
If only she had not kissed him back!
Bridget bit the inside of her cheek. “You are as talented as he says, Anna.”
She tried to focus on the conversation, but it was impossible to do with Anthony standing beside her. The air between them felt charged with energy so potent and heavy that she felt it in her very bones. It was because he was an attractive man, and he had kissed her. That was all it had been.
Bridget felt as though she might drive herself to the brink of madness trying to understand why, though. Everything had happened so quickly, and when she tried to recollect the moment and decipher what her thoughts had been, she could not. She was not sure if she had even thought at all before kissing Anthony. It seemed as if things had simply happened for no reason at all.
The kiss had been unlike anything she had ever felt before, and Bridget found herself wondering if it was wrong of her to have enjoyed it so much.
Chapter 20
Anthony could think of nothing except for the kiss he had shared with Bridget. He should not have kissed her. He did not know why he had kissed her. When Bridget leaped at him and embraced him, Anthony had felt a jolt surge through him. He had wanted to pull her closer and to kiss her until they were both breathless. Anthony had hesitated for just a moment, watching Bridget’s soft face and warm green eyes. He had thought she would pull away or give voice to any of the many reasons for why they should not kiss one another.
Instead, Bridget’s eyes had parted slightly, and her cheeks had pinkened. Anthony’s mouth became dry, and he leaned forward and kissed her. When she returned his kiss, he had felt alive in ways that he had not since Anastasia’s death. More than anything, he longed to retreat to his study and think about the kiss on his own, but upon returning to the pavilion, Mr. Russell had promptly pulled Anthony into a game of cards.
At last, the garden party was at its end. Bridget gave him a long, lingering glance. Anthony felt everything unspoken hang in the air between them, but he said nothing. Then she was gone.
“I believe it was a success,” Lady Victoria said, leaning against the doorframe as the last guests left. “There are a few gentlemen who I believe will come to call for Rose.”
“Yes.”
Anthony was not thinking of Lady Rose, though. How could he after that kiss with Bridget? He had been so foolish for kissing her. They were pretending to court! They were not in love! He was not really her suitor, and he had no right to take such liberties with her.
But she had reciprocated.
Anthony could not decide if that thought was a comfort or not. He had already ruined Lady Hastings with his carelessness. He could not allow the same to happen to Bridget.
“I am tired,” Anthony said. “I intend to retire early. Enjoy the evening, Lady Victoria.”
Lady Victoria furrowed her brow. “Are you well, Your Grace?”
“I am.”
He turned on his heels and left before Lady Victoria could ask any further questions. Anthony climbed the stairs to his study. He tore the door open with more strength than necessary and locked it behind him. Once he was in the privacy of his own study, he pressed his back against the door and closed his eyes. All he could think of was Bridget and the warmth of hercurvaceous body pressed against his own. His fingers ached as he thought about how her body must feel beneath all those layers of clothing.
He crossed the floor and seated himself behind his desk. Anthony poured himself a glass of brandy and finished it in a long, single gulp. His gaze fixed on the empty chair across from him. He imagined Bridget sitting across from him. His study would be the perfect place for two lovers to engage in some minor indiscretions.
“We are not lovers,” he murmured.
Even as he told himself that, he nevertheless thought of Bridget. He imagined walking to her while she sat in the chair. Anthony would dip his head and kiss her neck and cheek. He would let his hands wander down her shoulders and her arms. Bridget would emit that same soft groan that she had when they kissed. Then he would kneel before her and spread her legs; she could brace her heels against his desk. He would lift all those skirts and her chemise and trail kisses up her stocking-clad legs until she was shaking with the strength of her desire.
Anthony imagined her hands curled and twisting in his hair and her own head tossed back, lost in the throes of her passion. He would delight in running his hands over her slender thighs. Anthony forced down the lump in his throat, and his hand shook as he poured himself another glass of brandy and drank it. The burning sensation was steadying against the storm of his thoughts.
Once he finished the second glass, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the gardens through the window. He never drank more than two glasses. Although Anthony had a fondness for spirits, he took care never to drink too indulgently. His thoughts were still clear and filled with Bridget. He sat there for a long time, thinking about Bridget.
His trousers became uncomfortably tight, and Anthony clenched his jaw. Like all men, he had needs that were best fulfilled by a charming lady, but it was not right for him to think of Bridget in such a manner. He shook his head and crossed the floor of the study. Anthony left and set a quick pace toward his bedchamber.
James waited for him. “Your Grace,” he said.
