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instead he had conceded to her father’s evident apprehension and agreed to this imminent marriage.
    Tomorrow at this time Bridget would be his wife—and a lady. Lord, how the ton would gossip then! Thank goodness they’d kept that part of the wager secret. The ton would think him even more eccentric, but the onus would fall on him, not Bridget. Lords had been known to marry commoners before, all sorts of commoners. So that was nothing new.
    He shook his head. He had a great deal to do. Mrs. Purvey would have to set her staff to work preparing the room adjoining his. It was decorated in yellow and hardly a suitable foil for an occupant of Bridget’s coloring, but she should have a chamber of her own. Later he would have it redecorated in more complementary shades. Or better yet, give the redoing of it into her hands.
    Good grief! As soon as he reached the city, he must go directly to the dressmaker’s. The girl would need a gown to be wed in—something simple but elegant, something white.
    The thought gave him pause. Was Bridget the innocent she appeared to be? He frowned. He’d had ample experience with women, but none of it had prepared him for a woman like Bridget. She was an unknown quantity—he didn’t know how to handle her. Well, he’d get to that later.
    Let’s see. She’d definitely need clothes. She probably only owned one gown, if that, so she’d need the whole array—morning dresses, walking dresses, evening dresses, a riding habit. She’d need boots and slippers, too. And bonnets and gloves. All the little frewfraws that delighted feminine hearts.
    Thank goodness she spoke well: the effect, no doubt, of her mama’s books—over which her father said she pored daily—a good ear for language, and the efforts of the teacher Durabian had hired for her. But perhaps he should engage a dancing master. The rest he could teach her himself—the proper eating utensil, the proper reply to introductions, the proper curtsy.
    He frowned. He liked the old Bridget. She had a rough, untutored honesty, a freshness that appealed to him. What would she be like when she lost that freshness? When she became like the other ladies in the ton?
    He sighed. It was next to impossible to imagine Bridget as a lady at all. But he could imagine her in the room next to his, even in his bed. He gave himself up to thinking about the pleasanter aspects of this marriage.
     

Chapter Five
     
    The next day Bridget stood before the vicar. Haverly—no, she was supposed to call him Andrew now—stood at her side. She felt like some other woman, not herself at all. For one thing this gauzy white gown he’d given her to be married in seemed almost indecent after the safety of her familiar leather breeches. And the flimsy little satin slippers and thin stockings were practically useless for keeping her feet warm. The patterned Indian shawl was pretty and it did help to keep her from catching a chill, but a jacket would have been much better. Much more sensible, too. It was hard to see how ladies could do anything at all wearing these peculiar clothes, clothes that made it practically impossible to move.
    Of course, Mama had been a lady. A beautiful lady, Papa said, and kind, too.
    Bridget sighed. She wasn’t beautiful—or kind. Except to animals. Too bad she wasn’t a horse. She’d make a good mare—and if Hav—if Andrew were a stallion, maybe they could—
    The vicar paused in the words he was saying, words about love and honor. How did they expect her to love a man she’d only known a month? What was love anyway? Certainly not something that could be won in a wager.
    She glanced sideways at the man who would soon be her husband. She supposed it was honor that made him go ahead with this marriage. He had given his word and he would stand by it. She liked that about him—that he was an honorable man.
    And his looks weren’t bad. He looked quite handsome today, but she liked him better in the clothes he usually wore to the