Page 10

L ate afternoon settled over the estate, dimming the day’s sharper moments.

Bridget’s encounter with Captain Grenville and her quiet conversation with Marjory still lingered, unresolved and unsettled.

But as the manor filled with warm voices and the rustle of evening preparations, the gentle murmur of the guests offered a welcome reprieve.

Bridget stood near the tall windows draped in rich velvet, her fingers lightly resting on the stem of a crystal wine glass.

The soft murmur of conversation flowed around her like a gentle breeze.

She gazed out into the twilight, where the last traces of daylight lingered over the gardens.

Despite the gathering crowd, she felt oddly adrift, the memory of the Captain’s gaze, searching and stubborn, still prickling at the edge of her thoughts.

Marjory approached with a warm smile, accompanied by a young woman with chestnut curls and lively eyes.

“Bridget, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Arabella Gray,” She gestured to the young woman at her side. “Miss Gray, meet Lady Bridget McConnell.”

Miss Gray curtsied gracefully. “Lady Bridget, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard much about you.”

Bridget offered a warm smile. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Gray. I hope you’ve heard only favorable things.”

“Indeed,” Miss Gray replied with a light laugh. “Marjory speaks highly of your wit and spirit.”

Marjory hesitated for a heartbeat, her smile faltering before she recovered.

Whatever thought crossed her mind, she kept it to herself.

“If you will excuse me, Lady Carlisle requires my attention.” She turned back to them with a knowing smile.

“Lord Blackwood is eager to meet you. I’m sure he will seek you out shortly. ”

Before Bridget could respond, Marjory slipped away into the crowd. Miss Gray watched her depart, then turned back to Bridget with an amused expression.

“Marjory does enjoy arranging introductions,” Miss Gray remarked.

“She is ever the attentive hostess,” Bridget agreed, a hint of irony.

“I suspect she delights in orchestrating more than social niceties.” Miss Gray’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

Bridget arched an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting she has ulterior motives?”

“Not at all,” Miss Gray protested. “Only that she has an eye for potential friendships.” She paused, her gaze thoughtful. “Lord Blackwood is a notable figure, charming and well-regarded.”

“Do you know him well?” Bridget hoped Marjory wasn’t playing matchmaker.

“We have crossed paths at various gatherings,” Miss Gray replied. “He is a man of agreeable company.”

A voice interrupted, smooth and unmistakably confident. “Miss Gray, spreading your charm as ever.”

They turned to find Lord Cedric Blackwood bowing with polished ease.

Miss Gray greeted with a polite nod. “Lord Blackwood, may I introduce Lady Bridget McConnell?”

Blackwood inclined his head with a charming smile. “A pleasure, Lady Bridget. Lady Alastair mentioned your recent arrival from Scotland.”

Bridget’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. His smile was practiced. His manner was smooth, altogether too smooth. Her wariness was stirred, not by fear, but from instinct, honed by too many encounters with English charm that hid something less honorable.

Bridget studied him briefly before responding. She had met enough men like him to recognize the easy charm for what it was, a mask worn smooth with use. Still, she returned the courtesy with a slight nod. “Yes. I find Sommer-by-the-Sea possesses its own charm.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Though I confess, nothing quite compares to the rugged beauty of the Highlands.”

Bridget’s interest piqued. It was rare for an Englishman to speak of Scotland with more than a passing remark about the unpredictable weather or wild landscape. Her gaze sharpened slightly. “You are familiar with Scotland?”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his expression before he answered. “My family has ancestral ties to the region,” he explained. “Though circumstances have kept me away for some time.”

There was a careful neutrality in his words, a vagueness that pricked at Bridget’s instincts. Men who spoke fondly of Scotland usually did so with passion or nostalgia, but Blackwood’s tone carried neither.

“It’s refreshing to meet someone who shares an appreciation for my homeland,” she said warmly, though she kept her curiosity close. “Few speak of it with such awareness.”

Blackwood’s smile held, but there was the slightest pause before he replied. “One never truly forgets the land that shaped them.”

With amusement, Miss Gray gave a knowing smile and stepped back. “I shall leave you both to discuss the merits of the north. If you will excuse me.”

Bridget barely registered her departure. Alone with Lord Blackwood, her wariness sharpened. It was instinct, honed by years of watching charm wielded like a polished blade. He was articulate, refined, and just ambiguous enough to stir the caution her father warned her never to ignore.

Something about his words lingered, like a thread left dangling. She had spent her life learning to hear what was left unsaid. And Lord Blackwood, for all his elegance, was choosing his words with care.

Careful men often had something to hide.

“Miss Gray is a delightful companion,” Blackwood observed.

“Yes, she is.”

Blackwood’s gaze was thoughtful. “Tell me, Lady Bridget, what do you miss most about Scotland? Aside from your family, of course.”

She considered his question for a moment. “The vast landscapes, the sense of freedom. There is a spirit in the air that one does not find elsewhere.”

He nodded appreciatively. “Very true. The heather-covered hills and the mist over the lochs hold a certain magic.”

Bridget smiled softly. “You speak as one who knows them well.”

“I have spent sufficient time there to understand their allure,” he replied.

“Do you plan to return soon?” she asked.

He gave a slight shrug. “Duty often dictates one’s movements. But I hope to revisit when the opportunity allows.”

Before Bridget could respond, the butler’s voice carried across the room. “Lord Barrington and Captain Thomas Grenville.”

Her gaze swept toward the entrance at Mr. Simmon’s announcement.

Of course it was him , the infuriating Englishman who had not only pulled her carriage from the mud but also managed to wedge himself stubbornly into her thoughts.

Tall and composed, he surveyed the room with the ease of a man accustomed to command.

Lord Barrington stood next to him, poised yet undeniably imposing. Candlelight played upon his sharp features, casting shadows that accentuated the strong line of his jaw.

Her eyes met the captain’s, and for a fleeting moment, something unspoken crackled between them, a flicker of annoyance, she assured herself.

“You appear most displeased, Lady Bridget,” Blackwood observed, his gaze shifting between her and Grenville. “I take it you know him?”

“Our paths have crossed,” Bridget replied tersely. She resisted the urge to fidget with her skirts, instead lifting her chin ever so slightly.

“A man of distinguished service,” Blackwood remarked. “Though perhaps a tad stern.”

“Is that what you English call arrogance?” she muttered, not bothering to mask the disdain in her voice.

Blackwood arched an amused brow. “Such conviction, Lady Bridget.”

She exhaled, her fingers tightening around her glass. “Experience is a cruel tutor. Particularly when one is confronted with a man who believes charm an adequate substitute for humility.”

“Ah, I forget your sentiments about our southern neighbors,” Blackwood said lightly. “Though not all Englishmen deserve such anger.”

“Don’t they?” Bridget retorted, finally tearing her eyes away from Grenville to look at him. “Tell me, Lord Blackwood, have you not seen the effects of their so-called progress? The Clearances have left scars that run deep.”

Blackwood’s expression remained unreadable. “I have, indeed. But time has a way of reshaping wounds into history. And history is often kinder to those who adapt.”

“Easy to say when it’s not your family being uprooted,” she replied, the bitterness evident in her tone.

He inclined his head. “Touché.”

Bridget stole another glance at Grenville. He had stepped aside with Lord Barrington near a table with crystal decanters. Their heads were inclined toward one another, the soft murmur of their conversation lost amidst the background chatter.

*

Lord Barrington handed Grenville a glass of claret, his gaze sweeping over the elegantly attired guests. “A proper evening of leisure. There are no pressing matters, no looming urgency. Refreshing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Grenville accepted the glass with a slight nod. “A rare indulgence, perhaps, but not unwelcome.”

He let the claret settle on his tongue a moment longer than necessary. “Though I confess, the token you sent didn’t suggest leisure.”

Barrington’s smile was mild. “No, I suppose it didn’t.” He took a sip of his own, adding after a heartbeat, “But your arrival was necessary all the same.”

Barrington swirled his wine, his expression laced with quiet amusement. “It occurs to me you may have forgotten how to enjoy an evening without purpose.”

Grenville huffed a quiet laugh. “I suppose old habits are difficult to break.”

Barrington followed his line of sight, his eyes settled briefly on Bridget, who was engaged in an animated discussion with Blackwood. “Lady Alastair has gathered quite the collection of personalities. Some more intriguing than others.”

Grenville took a measured sip of his wine. “Intriguing, indeed.”

Barrington arched a brow. “And yet your attention seems drawn to one in particular.”

Grenville raised an eyebrow in return. “Observant, as always.”

“Years of practice.” Barrington’s lips quirked. “Though I’d wager you’ve had little practice in dealing with a woman of Lady Bridget’s caliber.”

Grenville exhaled, tilting his glass slightly. “Our acquaintance is… complex.”