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Bridget took a deep breath, composing herself, even though her green eyes glimmered like glass. “Please, go and tell my mother. I shall greet him at the door.”
The butler left them then, while Graham sat in shocked silence. Bridget rose, apparently unable to look at him, and he finally stammered out the last of his questions.
“Lord Bragg?” Graham asked. “He is… he is your betrothed?”
She nodded, though, judging from her face, Graham deduced the man’s visit was not a joyous occasion. “I did not have a chance to tell you, Your Grace,” she said, returning to formalities. “But yes, Lord Bragg is to be my husband.”
—
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CHAPTEREIGHT
Graham had only just realized the depth of his feeling for Bridget Sedgwick, and she was already slipping out of reach. He could scarcely move as she went toward the foyer, finally standing and following her to the front door. There, he kept his distance, observing the way she held herself as she waited for Lord Bragg.
Lord Bragg. Graham had never heard of the man. While it was true that he did not busy himself keeping abreast of who was who in Society, he thought he should have at least heard the name before, but the man was entirely foreign. He did not recognize the coat of arms on the man’s carriage either, a crown flanked by two swords. Perhaps he was new to the nobility, then. The crown could mean he had gained his fortune overseas in service of the empire.
None of that mattered, though. What mattered was that Bragg had laid claim to the object of Graham’s admiration.
Bridget straightened her back as Lady Sarah Sedgwick descended the stairwell, her daughter's face as concerned as her own. So this was not a joyous occasion. If it had been, the women would have been beaming.
The carriage stopped outside and the footman opened the door. Out of the darkness of the coach stepped a tall gentleman with something of a rakish look about him, his dark hair unruly in the wind. He was older than Graham. If he had to guess, he'd say Bragg wasa decade his senior. Bridget practically trembled at the sight of her betrothed, while hewas the only one smiling whilethe butler opened the door.
“Bridget, my darling!” he exclaimed, stepping toward her and taking her hands in his. Bridget flinched at the man’s touch, making Graham’s skin crawl, but Sarah did nothing to stop it. Graham wondered what Lord Bragg was offering the Sedgwicks in exchange for allowing him to freely touch their daughter before they married. Bragg kissed Bridget's hands for too long, and Graham almost succumbed to the urge to step between them in protest.
“You shouldn’t be standing,” he said, “what with your ill health. Come, Bridget.”
Oliver took Bridget's arm and drew her back into the parlor, Sarah following and casting an anxious glance at Graham. The man had not even noticed hispresence, despite the fact that he had to have seen him—and hehad no intention of leaving Bragg alone with them when the ladies of the house were obviously terrified.
“Please, Bridget, sit down, and Sarah, pour her some tea,” Bragg ordered. He thrust Bridget back to where she had been sitting and joined her on the sofa as Sarah poured the tea, keeping her eyes downcast. Bridget seemed torn between fleeing Bragg’s obnoxious company and retreating within herself.
“Your nerves have been so poor as of late,” he said. “I’m shocked you’re even on your feet!”
Graham crossed his arms and leaned against the threshold to the living room, frowning. He hadn’t known she had been ill, and he worried that she had concealed some horrible affliction from him—that he might lose her when he had just found her. “Lady Bridget has been in poor health?” he asked.
Bragg finally raised his eyes to Graham, scowling at him as he placed a proprietary hand on Bridget’s knee. “Don’t you know?” he said. “Her most beloved friend has died. The poor girl is so devastated that she’s taken to drinking laudanum nightly.”
Graham stiffened, the blatant disrespect in Bragg’s tone annoying him. Howdarethis stranger accuse him of ignorance when it was his own sister who was dead? He opened his mouth for a retort, but Bragg wasn’t done.
“And who are you, sir?” Bragg continued. “I return from London to see to my betrothed, and I find her being visited by some young rake who does not know the first thing about her? Why are you calling on a lady who is soon to be married, and while in mourning?”
“Oliver,” Bridget suddenly said. “This is His Grace, the Duke of Hertfordshire.”
