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B ridget’s stomach gave a small twist as she reached the table.

She had not been assigned this seat. She was certain of it.

Her place card had been beside Lord Davenport’s when she and Marjory were reviewing the dining room earlier.

And yet, here it was, resting beside Captain Grenville’s as if it had always belonged there.

Her eyes narrowed, just for a moment. Marjory. It had her mark all over it.

“Lady Bridget,” Grenville said, his voice low and precise as he pulled out her chair with deliberate care. “Allow me.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, sliding into her seat with practiced ease.

He settled beside her, far too close for comfort, or perhaps too close for indifference.

The scent of sandalwood lingered, frustratingly familiar.

She focused on the polished gleam of the silver or the careful arrangement of the place setting, anything to avoid glancing his way.

Around them, conversation rose and fell in gentle waves, but it might as well have been silence for how acutely aware she was of him .

The first course arrived, a parade of delicately arranged hors d’oeuvres and steaming bowls of consommé amid muted laughter. Guests, familiar with each other from many previous gatherings, conversed easily, their voices blending into a comfortable hum.

Yet Bridget’s attention was riveted on her plate, determined to suppress the unsettling emotions stirred by Grenville’s presence.

After a few measured bites, Grenville leaned forward, his eyes searching hers for any hint of uncertainty. “Are you familiar with the area, Lady Bridget?”

Her eyes stayed fixed on her meal as she replied curtly, “Not much. My visits to England have been… brief. Mostly to London.”

A soft smile played across his lips. “Perhaps tonight might tempt you to linger longer.”

Bridget’s green eyes flashed calm defiance as she met his gaze for a fraction of a second. “Highly improbable. I never found English company all that tempting.”

He paused as if choosing his next words carefully, finally adding with a playful lilt, “Then I suppose persistence must be part of our English charm.”

Before their conversation could deepen further, Captain Grenville smoothly interjected. “Lady Alastair, I must compliment you on the arrangement of tonight’s seating. It seems you have an instinct for placing the most… spirited of guests together.”

Marjory, ever the gracious hostess, smiled as she set down her glass. “A happy coincidence, I assure you, Captain.”

Grenville chuckled. “A fortunate one, indeed. There is nothing quite so dull as an evening where all are in perfect agreement.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Bridget, his meaning clear.

Bridget merely lifted her glass, taking a slow sip before responding. “How fortunate, then, that I have no inclination to provide dull company.”

A knowing gleam flickered in Grenville’s eye, but he did not press further. Still, Bridget’s earlier retort lingered like a quiet challenge in the charged space between them.

Later, as Marjory introduced her “Confessions and Challenges” game, a series of revelations and light-hearted dares that set the table abuzz with laughter and hushed confidences, Bridget’s mind kept returning to that initial exchange with Grenville.

“What, no game of chance?” a shocked Lady Worthington asked from across the table. “I don’t know when I’ve been to one of your parties when you haven’t challenged us with a game of cards.”

Marjory glanced at her guest with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Evelina, of course, I have a card game planned for after dinner. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you. But now we’re playing Confessions and Challenges.” She glanced at Mark, who appeared less than pleased.

Bridget turned to Blackwood. “I would think that a game of Vingt-et-un is non-threatening. The person closest to twenty-one wins the hand.”

The smug, knowing smile on Blackwood’s face told Bridget there was more to this game. “Is there something special about Marjory’s card games?”

He pursed his lips and leaned toward her so only she could hear. “Card games are very revealing. I doubt Marjory has Vingt-et-un in mind. No, she wants a game with partners. Whist, I suppose.” He paused. “And she will choose who partners with whom.”

“Lady Bridget,” Miss Hathaway called from across the table, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Have you played any of Marjory’s games before?”

“Yes, I have,” Bridget said, her gaze remaining on Marjory. “In London, she organized a memory game with various objects. “Och, we were in kinks wi’ laughter,” Bridget admitted with a grin. “Though I fear my partner nearly needed a brandy to recover.”

Grenville, who had been watching her, let a slow smirk creep onto his lips. “And did you, my lady, grant him mercy in the end?”

Bridget drummed her fingers on the tabletop, feigning great thought. “Mercy? Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

A brief silence followed, subtle but present. Bridget felt it, an almost imperceptible shift. She had spoken without thinking, the lilt of her childhood sneaking past her carefully measured tone. Her spine stiffened, her fingers pressing lightly against the stem of her glass. Did they notice?

Beside her, Grenville did.

He didn’t react outwardly, but she caught the flicker of something in his gaze, curiosity, perhaps amusement. His thumb traced the rim of his wineglass, a contemplative gesture, but he said nothing.

“Of course, we all agree, Lady Marjory,” Davenport chimed in. “Your games are renowned for getting us laughing. What do you have in store for us this evening?”

Marjory turned toward the butler and gave a subtle nod. Moments later, a discreet footman presented a silver tray with elegantly folded cards.

“I’ll go first,” Marjory said.

She drew a folded card from the tray and opened it. “Truth,” she said. “What inspired you to host this gathering?”

She paused, then answered her own question with warmth.

“Truth be told,” she smiled warmly. “I’ve missed the joy of good company filling these halls.

After such tumultuous times, I wanted to create an occasion where friends, old and new, could find relief and enjoy one another.

I daresay that seeing all your faces here tonight has already made it worthwhile. ”

As she spoke, Bridget noticed a fleeting shadow pass over Marjory’s features, a hint of melancholy that she quickly masked.

At the head of the table, Mark Alastair shifted subtly. His gaze focused intently on his wife, a trace of weariness in his eyes.

Marjory’s eyes briefly met Bridget’s, then moved to Blackwood and Grenville.

The first few rounds passed in a blur of laughter and light-hearted confessions. Lady Carlisle admitted a fondness for collecting seashells, while Lord Davenport humorously reenacted a clumsy dance from his youth, much to everyone’s amusement.

When it was Bridget’s turn, she drew a card that read: “Describe a moment when you defied expectations.”

“I suppose traveling unaccompanied from Scotland to England might count.” She gave a mischievous glint.

“But more so, I once engaged in a debate on philosophy with a professor at Edinburgh University.” She cast a sidelong glance at Professor Tresham.

“Much to his astonishment. It seems some believe a lady’s mind is best kept confined to embroidery and etiquette. ”

“Ah.” Blackwood raised an elegant eyebrow. “The lady reveals her intellect and independent spirit.”

Bridget tilted her head, her smile deepening. “Alas, it didnae go weel,” she said, her Scottish burr thickening as she relaxed into her words. “Ye’d ha’ thought I’d challenged him to a duel! Mony a man, whether here or there, cannae handle a lass who wields words sharper than a saber.”

For a heartbeat, the room was silent before erupting into hearty laughter.

Lord Davenport chuckled, shaking his head. “A duel of wits, indeed! I daresay the poor professor didn’t stand a chance.”

Lady Worthington pressed a gloved hand to her chest, eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, Lady Bridget, you are a delight! I can only imagine his astonishment.”

The admiration around the table was undeniable.

Bridget had won the moment, but when she glanced toward Grenville, he was the only one who wasn’t laughing.

His expression remained contemplative rather than amused, his gaze lingering on her.

It wasn’t disapproving, but discerning, as if he were assessing what lay beneath the clever words.

He sees me. The thought flickered through Bridget’s mind, unbidden and unsettling.

As the laughter subsided, Blackwood caught her eye and he raised his glass. “You must have been a formidable opponent. Perhaps the professor learned a valuable lesson that day.”

She inclined her head with a playful smile. “One can only hope, Lord Blackwood. Education should be a two-way street, after all.”

Marjory, her eyes dancing with delight, chimed in. “Well said, Bridget. Now, shall we continue?”

When it was Captain Grenville’s turn, he drew his card and read aloud, “Recite a favorite poem or verse that holds personal meaning.”

“Very well.” Grenville paused thoughtfully, placing the card down on the table with deliberate care. The dancing shadows caused by the soft candlelight accentuated the sharp lines of his face. His fingers drummed on the table, and for a few heartbeats, he seemed to withdraw into himself.

Finally, he lifted his gaze slowly, settling it not on the guests but somewhere distant.

His eyes reflected a quiet intensity, a hint of melancholy flickering beneath the surface.

He sat with his hands clasped lightly before him as though grounding himself, took a breath, and began.

He recited Blake’s verse with deliberate intensity.

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand,

And a Heaven in a Wild flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.”

When he finished, silence clung to the air like a held breath. Grenville exhaled, his gaze shifting, as if returning from somewhere distant. “William Blake’s words remind me that even the smallest moments hold infinite meaning.”

Bridget’s fingers curled around her glass. Unexpected. Unsettling. His voice carried a quiet reverence that made her question, just for a moment, whether he was truly the man she had judged him to be.

For an instant, his gaze found hers. Something passed between them, something graver than she cared to name.

Recognition? Understanding? Whatever it was, it unsettled her.

Then, as if aware of the moment’s significance, he looked away, his expression unreadable.

There was, perhaps, the faintest hint of color touching his cheeks, though whether from the warmth of the wine or something more, it was impossible to tell.

It was Blackwood’s turn. He drew the truth card. “Have you ever kept a secret that could alter someone’s perception of you?”

He paused, brushing his fingers over the card before he lifted his gaze. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “But don’t we all have our own secrets to keep?”

As the game continued, Lady Worthington chose a dare card to share a piece of advice she had once been given. With a twinkle in her eye, she proclaimed, “Never underestimate the art of listening. A well-timed ear gathers the best gossip.”

An uproar of laughter filled the room, lightening the mood of the room.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, anticipation of the following day’s equestrian chase, playful jabs about Marjory’s penchant for card games, and the odd humor of the gathering, the focus gradually drifted back to the broader group.

Marjory’s announcement that the ladies would soon join her on the terrace temporarily dispersed the lingering tension. Stepping outside, Blackwood remarked quietly as Bridget and he moved to a quieter corner, “You handle him well.”

Bridget’s lips tightened in a half-smile. “I’m not handling anything, just enduring.”

Blackwood chuckled softly. “Perhaps tomorrow’s chase will offer a welcome distraction.”

Her reply was gentle, almost wistful, “One can only hope.” Yet, even amid the light chatter and clinking glasses, Bridget’s thoughts repeatedly returned to that intense moment during Grenville’s recitation, the openness in his eyes, the vulnerability that betrayed a hidden side of him.

She wondered, against her better judgment, if that glimpse might hint at something more than mere English arrogance.

Outside, on the terrace beneath the stars, Bridget leaned against the cool stone balustrade. The night air carried the sweet scents of roses and night-blooming jasmine, mingling with the distant strains of laughter drifting through the open door.

Miss Gray joined her, her smile gentle and perceptive. “You were quiet after the game, Bridget. Not your usual lively self.”

Bridget exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting over the darkened gardens. “Some truths have a way of lingering after the laughter fades.”

Miss Gray’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps that’s the charm of these nights, mystery in every shadow.”

Before Bridget could offer a reply, Marjory called out. “Ladies, to the library for our card game!”

“Coming,” Miss Gray replied, then turned back to Bridget. “Are you joining us?”

“In a moment,” Bridget said. “I just need a bit more air.”

“Don’t stay out too long,” Miss Gray advised with a wink. “Who knows what secrets the night might reveal, and you don’t want to miss any.”

As Miss Gray returned inside, the soft sounds of laughter and clinking teacups drifted from the open doors. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling the mingled scents of roses and night-blooming jasmine.

Try as she might, she couldn’t banish the memory of his voice, the quiet reverence, the fleeting hesitation, the way his gaze slipped into something distant, something untouchable.

It unsettled her. She had known men who used words as weapons, who twisted sentiment into advantage. Was he any different? It was as if, for the span of a few lines, he had allowed a glimpse into a guarded heart.

Why should it matter? she chastised herself. He’s still the same man who embodies everything I distrust.

And yet, the disquiet remained.

With a determined breath, she straightened her shoulders.

Tomorrow would bring the equestrian chase and, with any luck, a distraction from these unsettling thoughts.

She resolved to focus on the tasks at hand, supporting Marjory, keeping Blackwood’s amiable company, and, most importantly, maintaining her guard against unwanted entanglements.

With one last glance at the moonlit gardens, Bridget turned. She did not see the shadow lingering beyond the doorway, nor feel the watchful eyes that traced her every step as she disappeared inside.