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“It is not meant to be,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” she replied and shifted in such a way to allow him full view of her cleavage. Bridget tucked a strand of hair behind her head, and he saw her long, elegant neck, begging to be kissed. He didn’t know it, but he had groaned both in his sleep and in his dream, moving closer toward her. His index finger traveled along her neck and over her collarbones while she arched back, pushing her breasts further toward him.
Graham’s breathing quickened as he leaned forward, his lips brushing over the virgin skin when—
Thunder boomed outside, and his eyes flew open. He gasped, his breathing ragged, and his manhood throbbing. It took a few moments to be fully awake, but when he was in control of his wits again, he quickly got up.
He needed to draw her face as he’d seen it in his dream. He was eager to put pen to paper in a desperate attempt to capture her likeness, just as she had captured his admiration. He sat at his desk and wrote by lamplight, fevered scribblings that scarcely did her justice. She was spring, pink roses covered with dew… no; she was summer, bold and warm and full of life. Graham ached to describe her, to wrap her up with words if not his arms. But he was no poet, no matter how he longed to be.
And she was engaged to another man.
It was that horrible fact that hurt most of all.
As the sun rose, Graham moved restlessly from his room to the library, anxious to distract himself with the words of some other poet about some other woman. Yet every book he picked up merely reminded him of her. Bridget’s laughter, her kindness, her beauty, and most of all, her keen mind distracted him to no end. He substituted all other eye colors for pools of emerald, all other tresses for locks of glossy, chocolate brown. Graham was helpless against her charms—a fool in love.
When he finally sat down for tea, he was too busy composing imaginary sonnets to realize he had received a letter. Warren left him to his thoughts but returned in what felt like moments only to tell him his tea had grown cold.
“And you’ve received correspondence, Your Grace,” Warren said. “I thought you would wish to know.”
Graham frowned, shaking himself from his reverie. “Oh, my apologies, Warren,” he said. “Where is it?”
Warren smiled despite himself. “On the tray, Your Grace.”
Graham’s eyes went wide as he finally noticed the note, now concealed under a mostly ignored pot of tea. Thinking it might be from Bridget, he hastily moved the tea aside to investigate, holding the envelope to his face to read the return address.
No—this was no local note delivered by porter. It was from London, complete with weathered edges courtesy of a journey by post. Graham recognized the handwriting a moment later as belonging to his friend Fairfield, a regular at his club in London.
Everything seemed so far away in the wake of all that had occurred. It was as if an entire lifetime had vanished in the wake of Mary’s death, all things revolving around his departed sister and the mysteries she had left behind. Graham had nearly forgotten that outside of Hertfordshire, an entire world existed.
Fairfield, however, had not.
Graham had not even bothered to place anyone in charge of his accounts or his household on quitting Town, leaving his butler in London to deal with his business. It seemed that Fairfield had called at the house to take Graham out for the breakfast he had promised him, and had been informed of the passing of Lady Mary. Fairfield wrote that he had kept things running smoothly at the club, and he had assured everyone that Graham would soon return to grapple with any ongoing matters.
It made Graham feel strange to think of London now, and he realized only in that moment that he did not wish to go back. Though Foxglove Hall was quiet and solemn without the company of his sister, he wanted to bring life back to the estate and to nurse his ill mother back to health. He was the only child of the Barnet line, and it was his duty to stay on as the steward of the county.
The realization took him quite by surprise. While certainly a romantic, he had never been a sentimental man and had never had any particular attachment to the county, nor to the house. He thought himself somewhat of an adventurer, destined to chart new paths for his family.
But what was he doing in London besides languishing in his bachelor’s rooms?
What was his destiny if not to make this place into a home once again?
There was only one stumbling block: that the lady who had captured his desire was alreadybetrothed. Graham was far too much of a gentleman to interfere with Bridget's marriage, but he still had a lot to learn about Lord Bragg and his hasty attempt to marry her. Fairfield had promised the club's patrons his imminent return, but it was becoming clearthat he should stay in Hertfordshire for another fortnight, at the very least.
So, he took out his paper and wrote a swift response to Fairfield, narrowing his eyes as he considered his words.
Dear Fairfield,
Consider yourself the steward of the club in my stead, and for the foreseeable future. I am unsure when I shall return to London, but I trust the club will flourish in your capable hands. Forgive me for my abrupt departure, but you must understand that I am grappling with the aftermath of my sister’s death, and thus, cannot return until all her affairs are settled.
He hummed to himself, nodding slightly. Yes, that was what needed to be done.
All this being said, your position may soon become permanent. Should you have questions, please write back to me or pay me a visit at Foxglove Hall in the coming weeks. I would be happy to entertain you—and perhaps Everett could join us for that hunt we spoke of. I find the country is not so bad after all.
Sincerely,
Graham Barnet
Duke of Hertfordshire
