Anthony gave a final glance to Anastasia’s portrait before leaving the room, James following a few paces behind him. They parted ways then, James tending to his duties. It was odd that James had come to inform him of the ladies’ arrival. Anthony wondered if his butler had specifically suggested that James come fetch him. His butler could be unusually astute sometimes.
As Anthony descended the stairs, he thought of Bridget. He imagined her in pale green silk, her eyes shining and soft curls framing her face. Anthony would never be able to remove those gowns from her slender, perfect body. He smothered a groan of frustration, certain that he would be unable to forget the wayward thought now that he had it. Every time he saw Bridget in one of those gowns, Anthony suspected he would also be thinking about what joy he might gain from removing those beautiful fabrics.
He entered the parlor. The ladies had seated themselves on the settee and were excitedly speaking to one another, while the parlor maid prepared tea for them. Seeing him, the maid curtsied. “Your Grace, shall I prepare tea for you, also?”
“That would be lovely.”
Anthony lowered himself into the vacant chair across from the ladies, both of whom promptly turned to face him. “Did you enjoy the trip to the modiste?” he asked.
“It was wonderful!” Lady Rose declared. “Bridget chose the most beautiful blossom material for a gown.”
Blossom! Anthony’s mind readily conjured the image of Bridget in that bright, pink shade. It would suit her. The color would emphasize the rosiness of her cheeks and contrast beautifully with her green eyes.
“Were both of the gowns in blossom?” Anthony asked, feigning nonchalance.
“No,” replied Lady Rose. “The other was a lovely fawn. It will look quite splendid in the flickering candlelight.”
Anthony nodded. The thought of Bridget clad in fawn was even more alluring than his vision of her in blossom. He imagined her standing in a darkened room with only a few flickering candles. The shadows of the near-darkness would trace every curve of her body and every drape of the fabric.
“It was pleasant,” Lady Victoria said. “It reminded me of my first Season. I enjoyed going to the modiste with the other young ladies. I have always admired the clever hands of seamstresses.’
“And did you enjoy the Duchess of Norfolk’s company?” Anthony asked.
He had only spoken to Bridget’s mother on a handful of occasions, so he had no thorough impression of her character. Perhaps his aunt might find a friend in her, though. Some friends might do well to raise Lady Victoria’s spirits.
“She was quite nice,” Lady Victoria said. “I learned that we both share an interest in botany. Her Grace has compiled extensive herbariums at the Duke’s country estate, which she has invited me to examine once the Season has concluded.”
“I am pleased to hear that you enjoyed her company,” Anthony said.
“As am I.”
“Her Grace also invited us to join herself and Lady Bridget at a poetry reading tomorrow,” Lady Rose said. “We were asked to extend the invitation to you, also.”
“I would be delighted to join you. I do not believe that I have any conflicting obligations tomorrow,” Anthony said.
He was not entirely certain that was true, but any obligations that he did have could surely be moved. Attending the poetry reading would allow him to see Bridget once again.More importantly, he would be seen with her. If they were going to feign a courtship, a public gathering would be an excellent place to enjoy one another’s company.
“It has been so very long since I have attended a poetry reading,” Lady Victoria said with a sigh. “I used to love poetry so much when I was a girl.”
“Do you not still enjoy poetry?” Lady Rose asked.
“Not in the same way, my dearest,” Lady Victoria said. “I enjoyed poetry because I did not know what love was. Words moved me in a way that little else could. I enjoyed verse about lovers and beauty, sonnets to enchanting women and the like. Once I found love for myself, poetry somehow did not feel as fulfilling to me, and yet I found that I understood better than ever what drives poets to write.”
“How so?” Anthony asked.
“Because love is an emotion so great that one cannot possibly put it into words. Poetry is our attempt to do precisely that.”
Anthony thought of Anastasia. Lady Victoria was right; his love for Anastasia had been indescribable. Perhaps, it still was.
“Do you ever think…” Anthony trailed off.
He had thought much of Lady Victoria’s grief over the Season, but it had only occurred to him to ask if she thought that she might ever love again.
“Yes?” she asked.
Anthony paused. Even if Lady Victoria might have some insight into his situation, he could not bring himself to ask. He might upset her, and if he did not, his query was sure to arouse some suspicion from both her and Lady Rose. They would want to know what lady had gained his affections, and he could not admit that it was Bridget. He was not supposed to have anything buy friendly feelings toward her.
After a moment, he forced a smile. “Nothing,” he said. “It was a passing thought. Nothing more.”
