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“And are you as well-read in the Romantics?” Graham continued. “Lord Byron, Keats, Wordsworth…”
“Mary was not so fond of the Romantics, but I love them,” she said. “I recall you had a fondness for them as well.”
“I particularly admire Keats,” Graham said. “Something about his wonder at the world speaks to my very soul. These past few days, upon returning to the countryside, I’ve thought often of some of his verses. London just does not have quite the same romanticism to it.”
“Which poems in particular?” Bridget asked. “Perhaps I’ll recognize them.”
“Ode on Melancholy,” Graham said. “It describes the pain of a loved one’s passing, but it also celebrates the beauty of life—two things that may seem at odds, but in fact complement one another in glorious symmetry.”
Bridget fiddled with her skirts, biting her lip as she gazed into Graham’s dark eyes. “Do you know it by heart?”
Graham laughed self-deprecatingly. “I know many of Keats’ poems by heart.”
“Will you recite it for me?”
“Of course,” Graham said. “It’s one verse in particular.”
He cleared his throat, and Bridget smiled as she awaited the performance. She thought he might stand to recite for her, but instead he leaned ever closer, until his breath disturbed the stray curls now laying over her shoulder. Bridget swallowed hard and willed herself not to betray how much she wished he would kiss her.
And then he began to speak.
‘“And when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud…’”
Bridget’s heart ached at his words—at the emotions they drew out of her, like honey from a flower. She knew the feeling well: the sensation that she should be happy with the summer months but that a pall had fallen over her. Grief welled in her chest, threatening to consume her.
But Graham continued:
‘“Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.”’
Bridget sensedhe was speaking about her as he said the final lines, whilehe stared deep into her eyes. They were so close, they could touch, and shenearly gasped when she felt his fingertips brush against hers on the blanket.
She wanted to fall into his arms and beg him to take her away from everything. Guilt, love, and anticipation mingled in her heart, with Mary's spirit all around her as she shamelessly flirted with her best friend's brother. But she was betrothed to another! Everything was wrong, and Graham deserved better. Despite this, his lips were full and close enough to kiss, and his dark eyes glowed with desire.
Bridget inhaled sharply as she wrenched herself away, clenching her hand so tightly, her nails bit into her palm. “My apologies, Your Grace,” she said. “I am feeling quite strange and a bit uneasy. Would you mind walking for a spell?”
Graham seemed somewhat disturbed as well, getting immediately to his feet. “Of course,” he said. “Let me help you up.”
He extended his hand, and shetook it, looking into his eyes once more. He wasApollo himself, silhouetted against the golden summer light. Bridget had been drowning in darkness for a week, and now it was as if Graham had come to lift her out of the shadows.
I should not be thinking such things. Not when I am engaged to Hades himself.
* * *
