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“It is only fair that you should ask me whatever you like,” she said. She steeled herself, her back straightening and her chin lifting. “I shall keep no secrets from you.”
By God, she was beautiful. Graham knew he needed to focus on his line of questioning, but it was difficult when her hair was tumbling over her shoulders all the way to her elbows, where her graceful hands held the white teacup. The paint on her fingers brought out the alabaster of her skin with remarkable clarity, as if she was made to bask in the glory of spring.
He was becoming distracted by the poetry of her form once again, and so he reminded himself that it would do him no good to dwell on such things.
“You and Mary were always so close,” he said. “Before her passing, did you remain so?”
Bridget nodded, her smile tight and sad. “Even more so, if you can believe it,” she murmured. “We were practically inseparable. More often than not, we were guests at each other’s dinner table, and we rode together every morning.”
“So, you must have gone through your first Season together,” Graham suggested. Bridget nodded, and he went on, “Mary wrote to me about it last summer. She said it was dreadful.”
Bridget laughed quietly. “Mary hated the pretense of it all but no, we did not go through our first Season together. She was already out before me.”
“But she accompanied you when you went to court?”
“Yes,” Bridget said. “I remember she wouldn’t stop making fun of the ostrich feathers in my hair, and I was already so frustrated with them. Those headdresses are awfully heavy.”
“So, you didn’t like it?”
She frowned as if she was puzzling over his question. “Hmm. I’m not entirely sure how to answer that. I liked it well enough, I suppose. The glamor, the gowns, the ritual of it all. When Mary wasn’t poking fun at the whole thing, I often fantasized about being whisked away by—”
She paused and blinked at him as if she had been startled out of a memory, caught with a secret.
“By some grand duke, I’m sure,” Graham finished for her. “I hear that’s what all young ladies wish for.”
“Indeed,” she said, blushing. “By ‘somegrand duke.’ No—I think I prefer the country to the grand ballrooms of Society.”
“And what does the country have to offer that Society doesn’t?” Graham asked.
She mused on the question, sipping her tea. She seemed to be relaxing again, the frown lines in her pretty face fading away. Graham was startled to find that he could actually see a dimple in her right cheek as she considered the things she liked about the country, a soft smile gracing her features.
“Painting in the morning sunlight,” she finally said. “Reading in the afternoon. And riding with my best friend, of course, across the green hills of Hertfordshire.” She gazed at him. “London has nothing to offer that compares to such sweet serenity.”
“I noticed the paint on your fingertips,” Graham said, glancing at her hands. She seemed suddenly insecure, her entire body curling in on itself. It was the opposite of what he wanted. “The colors you appear to have chosen are beautiful.”
Her frown returned. “Thank you, but I… I’ve actually stopped painting at present. Since the accident. I’m not sure if I shall continue.”
Ah, he understood that. It was hard to engage in one’s passions when struggling with grief. He wished he could smooth the furrow in her brow, show her how to love and laugh once again. The more they spoke, the more he realized he had not come to ask her about Mary; he wanted to know abouther.
“Will you return to London to seek a husband?” he asked.
Graham cringed at the way he had blurted out the question. He reminded himself sternly that he was not there to woo her. Yet here he was, inquiring about her marriage prospects.
I am such a fool!
When he looked at Bridget, though, he felt that perhaps there was something more between them—that she had sensed their connection. She gazed at him as if he was the only man in the world, and he returned her heated stare. Bridget put her cup down on the table and bit her lip, and Graham fixated on the press of her white teeth into her plump red lip.
“How very forward,” she murmured, though she did not seem upset in the slightest.
“I understand that question was not appropriate,” Graham said, feeling his cheeks flush with heat. “But I… forgive me, I want to know more of how you’ve fared these years. Please, Bridget, tell me—has some young man caught your eye this Season?”
Bridget’s brow furrowed, and she suddenly looked as if she wanted to cry. Graham hated himself for having made her look that way.
“Not exactly,” she said. “But Graham—”
She did not have time to finish her sentence, for at that moment, the butler entered the room. Just as the man made himself known, Graham heard the telltale grinding of carriage wheels on the gravel drive, and his hopes were shattered, as if he knew what she was about to say.
“Your Grace,” the butler said, bowing low. “Lady Bridget, Lord Bragg has just arrived.”
