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Bridget's demeanor had completely changed as Bragg chastised Graham. She had been quiet and fearful before, but now she was composed and confident, smiling sweetly. Graham blinked as he watched her transformation, taken aback by how she used her beauty to soften Bragg's harsh tongue.
“His Grace and I were just catching up as old friends,” she said, putting her tea down. She glanced at Graham with a smile that melted his cold exterior, making him feel once again as if he belonged there at her side. “He, too, is in mourning. Lady Mary was his sister.”
Her voice instantly anchored him, reminding him of how wonderful it had been just moments earlier when they had sat alone in the parlor. Graham wished he could return to that moment, and that her answer could have been different—that she had no one to wed, and that Lord Bragg did not exist.
Then, Graham was brought hurtling back to the present when Bragg spoke again.
“You must excuse me for my rough manners, Your Grace,” he said, getting up to bow halfheartedly before sitting back down again. His tone did not sound apologetic whatsoever. “You see, it is only my love for this sweet young lady here that drove me to act in such a way. As far as I knew, you could have been some kind of villain, here to prey on my beloved’s ill health.”
Graham could not stop himself, his eyes going wide at the accusation. “I would never—”
But Bragg wasn’t paying any attention to him. He had turned fully to Bridget now, clasping her hand in his. “I should never have left you, my darling. But I shall not have to do so again, for we will be married within a fortnight.”
Graham's chest felt like it was about to collapse. His knees became weak, and he had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling to his knees. He told himself it was just the stress of the day, but he knew better.
He was aware that the future he had begun to fantasize about was imploding around him.
“Married so soon after a tragedy?” Graham said despite himself. “Shouldn’t Lady Bridget have more time to mourn?”
“Lady Mary would have wanted her best friend to be happy, don’t you agree, Your Grace?” Bragg said. He smiled at Graham, though the expression was more of a sneer. “I wasn’t able to be at the funeral, for I had to rush to London to obtain a special marriage license.”
Graham could not help himself—he flinched at the words, then swallowed hard. “I’m… I am so sorry, Lady Bridget, but I am suddenly feeling quite unwell. I should be going—”
“No, please stay for dinner,” Sarah cut in from where she sat in the armchair. “I’ve had the servants set a place for you. Besides, it’s just started to rain again.”
“Thank you, my lady, but I must decline,” Graham said. “I should check in on my mother. Farewell.”
He tilted his head in a show of respect to the ladies of the house, and without another word, he spun on his heel and left.
How was it that his heart had been broken twice in one day? As he rushed out of the front door and toward the stables, he realized that was exactly what he was feeling: heartbreak. Not only had he spent the morning saying goodbye to his dear sister, but he had started falling for Lady Bridget only to realize she was no longer attainable.
Graham stormed into the stables, surprising the lad inside, and proceeded to his horse's stall. The black stallion had been his father's favorite horse, and he'd left it at Foxglove Hall when he moved to London. As heuntied it and led it out into the courtyard, the beast pawed at the hay-strewn floor, no doubt picking up on Graham's conflicted emotions.
“Your Grace, you shouldn’t—there’s a storm rolling in!” the stable hand said, but Graham didn’t care. He led his horse out into the rain, put his foot into the saddle, and slung himself upright.
The sun was setting behind a thunderhead, casting the whole world in a greenish pallor. Fog had settled into the valleys of wildflowers as he rode across the green hills of Hertfordshire, and it made his head swim with thoughts of Mary. She was a skilled horsewoman; if he could ride in such conditions, she should have been able to do the same thing with ease. He still had so many questions about her death, and all he had done that afternoon was break his own heart.
His sour mood persisted when he arrived at Foxglove Hall, giving the horse over to a groom before heading inside the manor. As he walked up to his rooms, his clothes dripped on the floor, and he quickly shed them, pacing across his chamberin nothing but his trousers and shirtsleeves.
Graham lit a fire in the hearth and sat before it as he let himself dry out, raking a hand through his hair. He resolved then and there to do all he could to learn of Mary’s death, and then he would leave Hertfordshire—for good, this time. Yes, he would return to visit his mother, but perhaps he could persuade her to take up residence with him in London. He hated the empty rooms of Foxglove Hall, which should have been filled with his family’s laughter, but instead rang hollow with unfulfilled promises.
He poured himself a glass of brandy and downed it in one swallow, his clothes clammy and stiff against his skin. He knew he should change, perhaps even bathe and go to bed, but the cloying flavor of brandy lured him in.
One night wouldn’t hurt.
So Graham drank himself to sleep, giving up on a dream that had only lasted a day.
CHAPTERNINE
Graham’s head ached when he woke, a beam of sunlight shining through the window and straight into his eyes. The fire in the hearth was still crackling, and his clothes were completely dry, albeit stiff and harsh on his skin. He'd dozed off in an armchair, a half-empty glass of brandy on the table beside him.
He rarely drank to excess, but yesterday had seemed like the occasion for it if ever there was one. Lord Bragg had rankled him to the extent that he felt compelled to leave Hertfordshire at once. The only reason he hadn’t demanded to be taken by carriage to London last night was because he still wanted to know more of Mary’s death, and, of course, his mother’s ill health.
Graham groaned at the sound of a knock at his chamber door, squeezing his temples with his thumb and index finger to try and ease the ache in his head.I shall never drink brandy again.He chided himself, cringing as he caught the aroma of the drink beside him. He rose to dump it out of the window before making his way to unlock the door, his feet heavy beneath him.
Warren stood on the other side, and if the pitying smile on his face was any indication, the valet already knew of Graham’s current condition. He held a tray of coffee and a light breakfast, along with a folded white envelope.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Warren said with a short bow. “I’ve brought you breakfast, and—”
