The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Read online

  Bridget studied Charles’ expression, not knowing whether to give in to her heart’s desire and walk through the garden with him, or if she should remain steadfast in her resolve and return to the comfort of her bedchamber. Of late, his words had cut her to the quick, but his sincere countenance told her that he meant what he said.

  She felt herself waver.

  He broke your heart, her conscience whispered.

  But what if he wishes to discuss something of import?

  She heaved a sigh and slowly nodded. “I may regret this later, but I will walk with you.”

  He sent her a quick smile, then held his arm out to her, catching her off guard. Her gaze rose to his in surprise. Did he truly believe that she would link her arm through his? Touch him?

  “That, Major Bradley, I will not do.” She clasped her hands behind her back and began a smart pace on the garden path.

  Heaven knew that if she touched the man, particularly in so casual a manner, she would be unable to stop there. She would wish to clasp his hand, to touch his arm. And that would lead to far more dangerous…caressing.

  * * *

  Charles’ stomach knotted. He knew Bridget was angry with him; he had given her sufficient reason to be so. But his new plan of action required having this difficult discussion with her. He merely hoped that he would have adequate self-discipline during this encounter, because he was perilously close to stealing a kiss from her.

  The moment she had stepped into the out of doors, Charles felt the familiar pang of lust and adoration that he always felt upon seeing her. She was a vision in periwinkle blue this morn, and he couldn’t help but drink her in. Curling tendrils of her white-blonde hair danced in the breeze at the back of her neck. His chest tightened.

  The path curved around a petite waterfall that led into a babbling brook, still flowing in the mild October weather.

  Bridget halted and turned to face him just as they were out of sight from her sisters.

  “What is it that you wish to say, Major Bradley?”

  Charles inwardly grimaced at his title spoken from her lips. It suddenly galled him that at one time, she had called him “my love” while in the throes of passion, and now she could not bring herself to call him by his given name.

  “Another rebuke?” she continued. “A snide comment, perhaps? Or would you prefer to insult my intelligence instead?”

  Charles could not withstand it any longer. Before she could react, he stepped forward, gently cupping her face with his gloved hands. Then he brought his mouth down on hers.

  The light contact sent a bolt of pleasure straight to the rapidly hardening appendage in his trousers, as memories of her writhing beneath him flooded his mind. He let out a groan and tried to deepen the kiss, but Bridget stood stiff against him.

  He pulled back slightly and playfully bit her lip. At her swift intake of breath, he plundered her mouth, letting his tongue taste and savour.

  He let out another groan; this one a deep rumble in his chest. Sweet Jesus, she was delicious.

  Charles lowered his hands to her waist and pulled her closer to him. Slowly he felt Bridget’s hands climb up his arms to encircle his neck, and triumph exploded in his chest.

  He carefully wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his body. Her supple breasts pushed into his chest, her pelvis pressing against the hard ridge of him.

  Breaking the kiss, Charles brought his lips across her jaw and down the soft skin at the side of her slender neck.

  “Bridget,” he groaned. “My darling, Bridget, I have sorely missed you.”

  As she froze, Charles realized that he had made a mistake.

  Bridget pulled away from Charles, the haze of passion dissipating from her eyes as his words evidently sank into her mind. Indeed, a grave mistake.

  “You have missed me?” She shoved at his chest and stepped backward out of his embrace. “You have missed me?”

  He’d certainly done something wrong, but for the life of him he could not piece this mystery together. The blood in his body still steadily flowed downward, leaving his mind entirely empty of sense.

  A fist of worry tightened itself in his chest. He reached a hand out to her, but she swatted it away. “Bridget—”

  “No! You have the nerve to say that you’ve missed me, when I have always been right here! I have not changed! Nor have I given you the cut direct, as you have done to me.”

  Desperation clutched him. “Damnation, Bridget, please listen to me. I—”

  “No, Charles.” She shook her head and retreated another step. “My time for listening has long since passed. You cannot kiss me once and change the past two years of our lives.” She looked contemptuously at him, then let out a delicate sniff. “I cried for you, Charles. You broke my heart, and I shall never forgive you.”

  Bridget turned on her heel and stormed away down the garden path, outrage visible in the line of her shoulders and the stiffness of her back. Charles’ body ached with the loss of her.

  He had made a mistake in kissing her. He had not meant to kiss her; it had just come as an instinct. A baser instinct, evidently.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and willed his mind to garner some control over his body.

  “Damn.” He had let his cock rule his mind when he had intended to discuss his plan with Bridget. She would not allow him a second opportunity. There seemed to be nothing for it; he would have to orchestrate his plan without Bridget’s input or knowledge.

  Once he was presentable, he started toward the stables. It would appear that he must have a meeting with a friend…and an orphanage.

  * * *

  Bridget strode determinedly toward Mason Hall, her heart lodged in her throat. She would not cry in front of him.

  No, she amended, I will not cry at all. Last evening, she had decided to change the course of her future, and that was exactly what she would do. She would act as though this morning’s brief interlude had not happened, and continue on with her plan to become a governess.

  The kiss should not have taken place at all. Shame on my weakened will to allow it to continue.

  Upon entering the drawing room, she would retrieve her letter, then she would deliver it to the paper herself. She and Katherine had planned to visit the soldiers at the hospital this afternoon anyway. Surely Katherine would not mind making a quick stop along the way.

  Chapter 5

  “Bridget! What the devil are you doing in my room? How did you get in?”

  A bright light flashed outside his bedchamber window preceding the booming rumble of thunder that echoed loudly in the room. Rain furiously spattered the window, the pitter-pat nearly matching the fluttering of Bridget’s heart.

  Her stomach trembled with anticipation and quivered with nervousness as she sat on the edge of Charles’ bed. “I came to tell you not to go. Please do not go, Charles. I couldn’t bear it if you left.”

  Charles pulled his blanket to his chin to cover his surprisingly muscular bare chest as he sat up to face Bridget. Her heart rate tripled in speed, and she blushed furiously. She realized, abruptly, that he must be nude under his covers.

  “Bridget, you know that I have felt useless in this war. I hate feeling like I am not making a difference. I have been trained; I have spent the past five years in training. I know what I am doing; I shall be perfectly safe.”

  “I know I must sound terribly selfish,” she said, plucking at the material of his counterpane, “but I must say what I came here to say. What about us, Charles? What of our wedding plans?”

  Charles smiled, his dark blue eyes brightening with his smile. “You know we will marry when I return. There is no need to rush it, my love. I am only three and twenty, and you only twenty. We have plenty of time.”

  Bridget shook her head, her plaited hair rustling with the movement. “I could not endure it if anything were to happen to you, Charles. Not a bit. Please stay. Marry me. Let us go to Gretna tonight; I would go with you, my love. I would run away with
you.”

  He smiled a humourless smile, understanding and compassion reflected in his eyes as another light flashed through the room. “I am not going abroad for myself, nor am I leaving by force. I am leaving for my king and country.” Another clap of thunder reverberated through the room. “I believe in this war,” he continued. “I must fight, Bridget.” He reached a hand out and lightly skimmed his fingers along her cheek.

  Goodness, what his touch did to her. She squeezed her legs tightly together in an attempt to stop the throbbing that had started at the apex of her thighs.

  The sheet slid from his grasp, and her gaze dropped to his muscled chest. It had a thatch of dark blonde curls that narrowed down his stomach, leading below the sheet. Her breath caught in her throat. Good heavens but he was magnificent.

  “Let me prove my devotion to you, my lovely Bridget.” His voice deepened. “Let me prove to you that I mean to marry you upon my return…” His eyelids grew heavy as he took in her appearance. “Let me make love to you.”

  Bridget stared at him, her eyes wide, as the words of his offer sank in. “I…” She had always envisioned losing her virginity on her wedding night. But she would marry Charles upon his return…and she trusted him. If he said that this would be all right, then he must know what he was about.

  “I can see that I have shocked you. I understand if you would like to wait.” He paused to brush a kiss on her lips. “I would wait forever for you, Bridget. It would be painful, to be sure, but you are most certainly worth it.”

  Bridget leaned forward and kissed him once more, using her tongue to explore the warmth of his mouth.

  She pulled back to look into his eyes, the splattering of rain against the window fading to a distant rumble. “No.”

  “No?”

  “I do not want to wait. I want to make love to you, Charles. Now. Tonight.”

  * * *

  Bridget came slowly awake. Her room was shrouded in the dimness of predawn light. Her maid, Helen, had not yet been in to open the curtains or build up the fire.

  She pulled her blankets tighter around her and groaned. That ill-timed kiss with Charles yesterday morning had clearly addled her brain. It had been months since she had dreamt of the last night before Charles had gone abroad in his service to the crown.

  That night had been magical. Charles had been gentle and attentive, and he had ensured that she would not end up enceinte. At the time, she had been disappointed that he had taken precautionary measures, but upon reflection, it was clearly a wise decision.

  He had confessed, rather abashedly, that she had been his first, but Bridget was sure that she had not been his last. It had been over five years since then, after all. Men had their needs.

  She shook her head. She wished that she had not dreamt it at all. The memories only served to torture her.

  Her youthful indiscretion had changed her future far more than she had ever anticipated. Once Charles had stopped returning her letters and she feared the worst, she had begun to realize that she would never again consider marriage to any other man. Not simply because her heart was already claimed, but also because she was no longer chaste.

  Bridget let out a sigh and willed herself to sleep. Sleep. Please, fall back to sleep. Stop thinking about him and go to sleep! She huffed a breath in frustration. Her eyes may have been shut, but her mind continued to reflect.

  “There is nothing for it,” she mumbled to herself as she threw back her covers. There was no sense in attempting to fall back to sleep this night. She lit the candle at her bedside and found a frock that she could put on by herself.

  There would be a chill to the air this morning, but Bridget was determined to leave the house. The gardens were simply lovely at dawn, regardless of the season.

  Dressed in a thick emerald walking dress, her hair braided, twisted, and pinned simply at the nape of her neck, she picked up her candle and set off down the hall.

  Bridget’s candle flickered as she passed an open doorway, and she paused to look into the darkness beyond the light of her candle. A shiver went down her spine. She had the oddest sensation that someone was in the room, watching her.

  Trusting her hearing over her sight, she tilted her head toward the darkened room in an attempt to hear any sign of someone within.

  A faint rustle and shift came from the blackness, and Bridget readied herself to scream should someone, be it thief or trespasser, reveal themselves.

  Suddenly, a small black mass bounded toward her and rubbed itself against her leg. Bridget let out a small squeak, but sighed in relief when she realized who—what—it was. “Willie, you rascal! You frightened me out of my wits!” She bent to scratch the cat behind his ears, then continued on her way to the entrance hall to put on her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves.

  Leaving her candle burning on the entrance table, Bridget stepped out into the chilled, early morning breeze. She filled her lungs with the crisp air and let it out with a small smile, her breath fogging and dissipating before her.

  She set off at a walk around the house toward the gardens, on a frequently-traversed path.

  Dew gathered on the leafless vegetation, giving the gardens a glimmer in the predawn light. Something scampered about nearby, shaking some shrubbery and causing the dew to rain down like little glass beads.

  An odd feeling prickled at the back of Bridget’s neck, but she continued walking, her stride determined and her mind focused.

  Today, her advertisement would appear in the paper. Optimism and anticipation surged through her. She sincerely hoped that many families would respond, wishing to hire her as their children’s governess.

  A gust of wind whispered past her, lightly pulling her pelisse and bonnet ribbons with it.

  She glanced about her. Despite her apparent solitude, Bridget’s skin crawled as though someone observed her. Surely she was fabricating such nonsensical feelings in her mind. It was approaching dawn, and she had not heard or seen any sign of the servants or her siblings about. She shook herself of the odd feeling and continued through the bare gardens toward the lake.

  Bridget walked to the edge of the water and stared out across its glass-like surface. If she had thought ahead, she would have come prepared. This would be the perfect setting to spend quality moments practicing her hobby.

  * * *

  The food at the morning meal was perfect, as always. Cook routinely outdid herself.

  Charles sat beside his father, Joseph Bradley, youngest brother of the Marquis of Greydon, and beside his Mama, Margaret Bradley. His father hid behind the morning paper at the table’s head, and Mama quietly sipped at her tea in her seat to his right. The brightness of the room and the strength of his tea lightened his mood considerably.

  The house had become distinctly quiet since Annabel had married and moved to live with the Mason family.

  “I had tea with Lady Kipling yesterday,” his mother said from across the table.

  “Did you, indeed, Mama?” Charles took a sip of his tea. “I trust you enjoyed yourself?”

  She waved a hand through the air. “You know I always enjoy my time with Cybil. But this time she shared a very interesting tidbit—”

  Charles shook his head. “Now, now, Mama, you know I do not like gossip.”

  “But this is not just any tidbit, my dear. Nor is it gossip.” She paused for effect. “Apparently, Cybil’s nephew, the one that lost an arm in the war, has just come into a title!”

  Charles raised his eyebrows in shock. Barrick Gray had lost his arm to infection shortly after Charles’ return from war. He knew the man well, but since his return, Gray had secluded himself at his father’s estate in Scotland.

  “Which title?” Charles could not help but ask. “How did it come about?”

  His mother smiled with her usual enthusiasm at relating information. “I shall tell you, dear boy. As Lady Kipling has informed me, her brother by marriage, Mr. Gray, was nephew to a rich Marquess. That is, the Marquess of Withington. He was married several
times, but sired no sons, and upon his death last week, they passed the title on to Mr. Gray’s son, Barrick Gray. The title would have gone to Lady Kipling’s brother by marriage, you see, but since he died two winters past, the title has gone to his son.” She spread some marmalade on a piece of toast. “Lady Kipling has said that the new Lord Withington had no desire to inherit the title after the loss of his arm, but I daresay there are worse hardships in life than gaining a title, land, and fortune.”

  Charles took a moment to process his mother’s rapid speech. “Do not be so hard on him, Mama. He has been through more than you could know.”

  “I would know it, Charles, if you spoke about your experiences abroad.”

  Charles’ gut knotted at the thought of not only reliving the atrocities of war, but also sharing them with his mother. “I was not merely abroad, Mama, I was at war. And war is certainly not a topic to discuss in the presence of women.”

  She clucked her tongue. “I am not as sensitive as all that. At the very least you could tell me what it was that brought you home! It caused a ghastly scar; surely it would do you good to unburden yourself.”

  Charles could feel the blood rapidly drain from his face. Beads of sweat began to form high on his blanched brow and pale upper lip. He couldn’t. He couldn’t talk about what brought him home. “Mother…”

  “I merely wish to understand! If—”

  “He is quite right, Margaret.” His father lowered his paper to give her a reproachful frown. “You do not truly wish to learn the goings-on of the years Charles was at war. I daresay you could scarcely withstand the volunteer work that Ladies Bridget and Katherine engage in at the hospital, without swooning.”

  “I hardly think that—”

  “Let us not quarrel, my dear. You know very well that it is true.” He cleared his throat and turned his attention to Charles, his gaze knowing. “Tell me, Charles, do you intend to return to London for the remainder of the Little Season?” His Mama knew when the topic had been dismissed, and she returned her attention to the food on her plate with a delicate sniff.