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Graham had planned to greet her coldly, appalled and surprised as he was to learn of her engagement. Yet the quote she had chosen stirred something in him, leaving him at a loss for words as he struggled to make sense of the woman before him. Bridget had always enjoyed reading when they were children, but it appeared she had gone from loving the gothic novels of Miss Edgeworth to quoting Shakespeare.
How had a gem such as she been missed during the Season, landing only a man like Oliver Bragg? Bridget was beautiful, intelligent, and skilled with a paintbrush. She was well-read and self-assured, and an excellent rider. Surely, she could have obtained a better offer.
Indeed…hecould have made her a better offer.
If only I had paid more attention, accepted Mary’s invitations to parties, and written to Bridget every so often. He imagined a re-lived past in which he took better care of his family and friends and returned to Hertfordshire on a regular basis, no matter how painful it was to remember his dearfather. There should have been many Christmases whencould have seen Bridgetblossom from a bud into the most beautiful of roses.
He composed himself as they stood in silence, straightening his shoulders to look at her.
“I received your note, and wanted you to know there is nothing to be forgiven,” he said stiffly. “You have done nothing wrong, Bridget.”
“I should have told you sooner,” she said. “It was… I couldn’t find the right words.”
“It was not my place to presume you were not betrothed,” Graham said. “But let us put that behind us. Shall we take a turn around the grounds, take the fresh air, now the rain has come to an end?”
“Yes,” Bridget said. “That would be lovely.”
They then walked out of the library together. Graham noticed Warren staring at them and thought he saw a twinkle in the old man's eye. Warren had long admired her, as if she were his own kin. Again, Graham cursedhimself for having been so absent over the past few years. If things had gone differently, he could have proposed to the lady himself.
But that was neither here nor there. They walked together out to the gardens in silence, then toward the stables. Graham paused, wondering if he had made a mistake bringing her there as he remembered the nature of Mary’s accident. “I thought we might ride, but it now occurs to me that you may not be keen on riding at present,” he said. “We don’t have to, if you would prefer not to.”
“That’s quite all right,” Bridget said. “I actually rode here on my own horse, but… would you mind avoiding the lake?”
Of course. That was where the accident had occurred, and it no doubt brought back painful memories. Graham still admired her strength in finding the will to ride a horse once again, after such a terrible thing had happened before her very eyes. “We can take a different route,” he said. “I don’t wish to cause you any distress.”
She smiled, and they waited in the courtyard while their horses were saddled. It was a beautiful day, especially compared to the abysmal weather the day prior, and Graham let the fresh air fill his lungs as he shook off the last traces of his brandy-filled evening.
Bridget moved to mount her horse, and Graham extended his hand. “Would you like any assistance, my lady?” he asked with a teasing smile.
She grinned. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said.
He knew she did not need it; she was an experienced rider, after all. Yet it thrilled him to touch her, even through her gloves. When they clasped hands, their eyes met, and something intangible, like sparks,moved between themas she mounted and settled herself.
Graham hoisted himself into his own saddle, and soon, they were riding off into the late morning sun, side by side.
CHAPTERELEVEN
The Hertfordshire countryside stretched out ahead of them as they set off on horseback from Foxglove Hall in the opposite direction of the town. The manor grounds were vast, stretching far to the north of the village,and home to a variety of wildlife. The area immediately to the north was taken up by a large plain of wildflowers, while the area beyond that occupieda small forest.
They rode through the wildflowers at a canter, Bridget feeling like herself for the first time since Mary’s death. The wind whipped her hair out of place, strands of dark brown curls flying free beneath her hat. Graham remained at her side, and they exchanged glances every so often, both smiling. It felt good to run away from everything for now, to take shelter in the embrace of the countryside where the world seemed far away.
Bridget couldn't stop herself from sneaking glances at Graham every now and then. From his tall, robust physique to the fine, strong features of his face, he had always been a beautiful man. He was still tanned and appeared to belong in the rolling hills of Hertfordshire rather than the city. His brown eyes were almost black, and his dark-blonde hair glistened with sunlight threads. Shewished she could run her fingers through his thick hair, trace the lines of stubble across his jawline, draw the outline of his lips...
Stop! Such thoughts were unbecoming of a lady, and most certainly of someone who was betrothed. Yet, in the silence they shared, she could not seem to still her racing heart, nor stop looking at the man beside her.
Bridget could not shake the feeling that it was him she was meant to marry, not the cruel man who would no doubt be angry at her when she returned home later. In her youthful fantasies, she had always imagined how Graham would one day realize that she was worthy of him, and would whisk her away to live at Foxglove Hall.
But that was all a dream, and she had to accept that the life ahead of her would be spent with Oliver Bragg. Returning to daydreams would only result in more heartbreak.
They slowed to a walk as they reached the trees, both of them panting after their enlivening run across the field. The forest was not dense, but it still provided some shade, which Bridget appreciated in her long-sleeved riding attire. She took off her hat to straighten her hair, and when she untied her braid to let it fly free, she noticed Graham staring at her.
She bit her lip and tore her eyes away from him just as he did the same, awkwardness growing between them where none had been before.
“Do you plan on staying in Hertfordshire long, Your Grace?” she asked.
“Bridget, please… call me Graham,” he said. “And I’m not entirely sure. I do not intend on leaving until I have learned all I can about my sister—not just of her death, but of her life. I feel I missed so much of it while I was away in London.”
