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She thought of that horrific day again. Before her mind's eye, her friend's lovely smile faded and was replaced with a terrifying grimace of pain and suffering. Bridget shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. Her eyes settled on the canvas again as she examined the emerging work before her.
The scene was empty, depicting only two horses tied to a tree in the background. Bridget could almost hear the sound of birdsong emanating from her canvas, her brush flicking over it like the fluttering of wings. Her heart swelled with something new and beautiful as she recalled the scene, imagining Graham there with her. She dared not commit his likeness to canvas—anyone would see the way she yearned for him if she were to sketch those full lips and warm brown eyes—but she imagined it, nevertheless.
How their fingers had almost touched.
How his breath had disturbed the fine curls drifting against her neck.
How he had very nearly taken her in his arms—how she would have let him.
Bridget returned upstairs in the early hours of the morning with her sketchbook, leaving her canvas behind. She couldn't sleep that night forshe was too ecstatic at the thought of seeing Graham again under the willow tree. Instead of climbing into bed, she slid into her window seat and gazed out at the kiss of morning light as it unfurled across the hills.
Bridget knew she needed to tell him more about Mary's death, and she knew he had many questions. They would only grow more pressing as time passed. Even though it hurt and scared her, the coming afternoon held the promise of her finally telling him everything.
But there was also the promise of release, and of something more between them. For Graham truly seemed to feel something for her. The conviction nestled deep in her chest, a seed of hope waiting to grow and flower. There had been moments the day before—particularly when he had recited Keats to her—when she had felt admired. It was a sensation alien to her, as the only person who had ever expressed an interest in her was Lord Bragg, and his attentions had never been wanted.
To have Graham in that way, for him to want her, was a dream. Bridget had longed for his attentions for so many years, only to have him abandon her to the cruel twists of fate that had since consumed her. The previous day, though, it had been as if he had never left, and they were courting as they should have if he had never gone way.
With thoughts of Graham weighing heavy on her mind, she lowered her pencil to the page and began sketching him despite herself. She knew that if the drawings were ever found, it could result in a rebuke from her mother or—God forbid—from Lord Bragg. Yet she could not help herself.
Graham Barnet was on her mind, and he would not leave her until she committed his features to the page.
She started with the corner of his eye, following the curve of his upper lid, filling it with dark, thick lashes. Bridget could not capture the dark, rich brown of his irises without paint—though she planned to do so later, or else to be consumed by them—but she took care to depict the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke of poetry. His right eye took shape with a slight squint, as if he was cocking a half-smile at her, though she had still to draw his mouth.
His lips… oh God, his lips. She did not know what she would do when she reached his lips.
His brows were dignified, thick but well-groomed. Bridget meticulously groomed every fine hair in those brows, as well as the mole that seemed to punctuate his face just above the left arch. She imagined tracing her thumb over the hairs, her fingers falling to his high cheekbones as she drew. She paused for a moment to gaze out at the pale pink sky of early morning. She lost focus as she fantasized about placing her hands on his cheeks.
She drew those next, dotting in the freckles from where the sun had kissed him.
Her Apollo.
Her god of light and fire, warming her until all the shadows in her heart had been burned away.
She followed the straight line of his nose downward, then affectionately shaded in the bow of his lips. They were full, slightly parted, and curved in a friendly smirk as they had the day before when they had talked of poetry and philosophy. There was a certain animation to them as she drew, the fine lines giving them life and dimension.
Bridget found herself enraptured with his face, filling in the shadows, imagining the barest hint of his tongue in the darkness between his lips. That tongue could work such magic on her, she imagined with a shiver. His face reminded her that there was good in the world, that love was real. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillows behind her in the window seat, her pencil limp in her hand, every nerve firing with desire.
Her sketch came alive in her mind’s eye, Graham’s tongue flicking out to wet his lips. In an instant, she was back under the willow tree, but things had taken a different turn. As Graham finished his poem, his fingers slid over hers, then up her arm, to her face. He pulled her in, his breath hot, and she could feel her pulse going wild.
Bridget inhaled harshly as she opened her eyes again, staring down at her sketch. To have such impure thoughts with her betrothed sleeping in the guest wing of her home was outrageous and yet she could not resist.
She closed her eyes again.
Let the kiss come.
She imagined what Graham’s mouth would feel like pressed to hers, how he would hold her and banish the darkness. Under the willow tree that day, she would tell him everything. She found her resolve as she sat in the window and looked out at the sun rising over the village.
For Graham Barnet meant more to her than anything in the world, especially now that her dearest friend was gone.
Bridget finally returned to bed, hiding her sketchbook in the back of her wardrobe just as the sun began to stream through the window. She closed the curtains and hoped she could snatch just a few hours of sleep. After her fantasies of Graham, she felt invigorated, hopeful, and as if she might finally rest. As long as he remained in Hertfordshire, there was hope for her.
She just wished it had come soon enough to save Mary.
* * *
It seemed that barely any time had passed at all when Tilda arrived to get Bridget dressed and ready for the day. A soft knock on her door woke her from her slumber, and then came the familiar sounds of her maid stepping inside, her skirts swishing around her ankles.
Bridget blinked her eyes open and smiled at Tilda, who regarded her with something like shock. The older woman said nothing as she placed a silver tray of tea and biscuits on the side table. Bridget sat up with a contented sigh. She had dreamed of Graham, and it had left her feeling more refreshed than she had since Mary’s death.
