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“I don’t see why we should. You seemed to think it was a very important matter. So important that you ended something that I thought was…” She looked out the window again. “Never mind.”
Wonderful.
That’s what she’d thought of what they’d done. She’d had no idea that a man and a woman joining like that would be so breathtaking. So delightful. Her body had felt things she’d never imagined it could. Feelings had rippled through her that made her want to do it again and again. And again.
But that would not happen. Cam had accused her of something terrible and refused to believe her when she’d denied it. He didn’t trust her and had continually tried to control her. She had almost convinced herself that she loved the cad. Surely someone with her upbringing would not allow such liberties if she did not have strong feelings for the man.
On the other hand, he apparently had no strong feelings for her or he would not have accused her of something so despicable and then refuse to believe her when she told him the truth. She brushed aside the tears that filled her eyes and slid down her cheeks.
Marriage? To Lord Campbell?
Never.
Chapter Twenty-One
Two days after the awkward trip back to London, Bridget stepped out of the Dunmore coach and shook out her skirts, glancing up at the threatening clouds, wishing she’d remembered to bring along her umbrella.
Neither of them had spoken more than was necessary on that uncomfortable trip; the air in the carriage had been thick with tension.
She did like the man. He was charming—when he wanted to be—considerate, protective, and, as she had recently discovered, had the ability to make her feel wonderful in bed. No surprise there, given his reputation.
On the other hand, he was arrogant, overbearing, and expected her to fall in with whatever plans he dreamed up for her. Whatever happened to their compromise? She would not thwart his campaign for her to look for a husband, and he would help with her women’s house project. Now he was ordering her to marry him.
Truth be known, she hadn’t been looking too hard for a husband. Or, rather, she’d not met anyone she felt she could look across the breakfast table at for the rest of her life.
Except Cam.
She shook her head at that nonsense.
The bell over the door sounded as she entered the dress shop on Oxford Street where she had a ten o’clock appointment for a fitting. The well-thought-of Mme. Bouchard had made all her clothing since she’d arrived in London. A tiny woman, expert
with a needle, she serviced a great many of the ladies of the ton.
The dressmaker pushed aside the curtain that separated the main room of her shop from the back area where she did most of her work. “Good morning, Lady Bridget.” She offered her a smile not quite as welcoming as she normally did.
Bridget drew off her gloves and placed them and her reticule on the chair near the door. “Good morning, Madam. I’m here for my fitting.”
“Oui, step into the back and I will fetch your gown.” She held open the curtain to reveal the area Bridget had never seen before. Confused as to why she wasn’t going to do her alterations in the front of the shop, behind the screen as usual, she scooped up her belongings and followed the woman.
Mme. Bouchard had been prepared, setting up a small area in a corner of the jam-packed room with a pedestal and a mirror behind it. “Please remove your gown and we will get started.”
This time Bridget was certain that the dressmaker was not her usual self. She seemed tense, kept glancing at the clock, offering her tight smiles. Feeling as though the woman was in a hurry, Bridget quickly removed her gown and allowed Mme. Bouchard to help her into the partially completed gown she was having made for a Christmas ball at the Dunmore country estate in a few weeks.
Her mind drifted—as always it seemed—to Cam. No matter the growing feelings she had for him, she would not marry a man who not only was against marriage but also felt it was his duty to marry her. Just what she’d always wanted to be. Someone’s albatross. That same someone who didn’t believe her about something very important and, therefore, didn’t trust her.
The doorbell tinkled from the front room, and Mme. Bouchard jumped. “Excuse me, my lady. I will be right back.” She hurried away, the curtain swishing behind her as she left. Pleasantries were exchanged and then the dressmaker returned to her.
“This should not take long.” She worked so rapidly Bridget was almost dizzy by the time Mme. Bouchard whipped the gown off and practically shoved the dress she’d arrived in at her.
Once dressed, she headed to the curtain and stepped out to see three ladies whose faces were familiar but whose names she did not remember. She offered them a smile and all three of them gasped, then turned their backs, giving her the cut direct.
Mme. Bouchard hustled behind her, her hands fluttering as Bridget walked slowly to the door, watching the three women with their heads together.
“Thank you, Lady Bridget. I will send along a note when the gown is finished.” With a slight nudge at her back and a firm snap of the door, she found herself outside of the store, facing her carriage.
Well, then.
Whatever was that about? Certainly word of what Davenport had done to her hadn’t already reached the gossipers. Angered at the women’s behavior, and even at Mme. Bouchard’s actions, which in retrospect must have been a result of knowing those women would shun her, she raised her chin and took the footman’s hand as he helped her into the carriage.
