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He signed his name with a flourish, adding his title with an uncharacteristic flush of pride. There had once been a time when he had dreamed of becoming the master of the house, of marrying and filling the halls with the joyful laughter of his children. Perhaps he could dream of such things again, now that Bridget had cleared away the shadowy despair in his heart.
He had to speak to her—soon.
He just had to wait to meet her once again under the willow tree.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Bridget went down to breakfast filled with resolve to speak with her mother. Sarah Sedgwick did not seem overly fond of Lord Bragg, it was true, and the engagement had been rushed and rather unorthodox. Though Oliver had already obtained a marriage license, perhaps she could convince her mother to speak with her distant father, who had so often left the two women to their own devices.
For Bridget was beginning to see her situation not as inevitable but something she could potentially escape, and was filled with fervor to flee it. Her future was not set in stone. She could yet change her lot in life.
She was dismayed, however, to hear Lord Bragg already at the table when she went down for breakfast, speaking over her mother as they had their tea and waited for her. He must have heard her step on the stairs, for a moment later he ducked his head around the corner of the dining room door. His dark hair was unkempt with sleep, and he wore only trousers and a plain white shirt. Bridget supposed that, at one point in his life, Bragg must have been handsome—but now, the permanent sneer that curled his lip made him distasteful to even the most forgiving eye.
“Oh, good,” he said. “You’re awake. I was just telling your mother of the most interesting conversation I had yesterday.”
Bridget’s expression tightened, and she lifted her chin, raising her skirts as she walked into the dining room. Sarah looked displeased with her company, but Bragg did not seem to notice as he resumed his seat at the head of the table—in Bridget’s father’s chair.
“I thought you were to return to Liverpool today, to get things in order at your house,” Bridget said politely. The butler had to pull out her chair for her, her betrothed forgetting his manners entirely.
Oliver reached for her hand, his skin cold and clammy on hers. “How could I leave my dear fiancée in her time of need?” he said. “You have been in such despair, drunk on laudanum and sketching night and day. I would be a true blackguard if I were to abandon you in such a state.”
She wanted to believe Oliver truly meant those words, that perhaps there was some kernel of kindness in him after all. But she had the distinct impression that he had ulterior motives for staying in Hertfordshire, especially since he had mentioned her drawings. Bridget dreaded the notion of him seeing her most secret works, those she had stashed away in the trunk in the solarium. Worse, he might have seen the lurid portrait she had drawn of Graham the night before.
“I am quite all right, Lord Bragg,” she murmured. “I was looking forward to spending the few days with my mother. In fact, if I am to go with you to live in Liverpool, I will miss her keenly.”
“My presence will not interfere with your time with Lady Sedgwick, do not worry, my dear,” Oliver said. “Indeed, I am glad to stay, for who would protect your honor from that villainous duke if I should leave?”
Bridget was lifting her tea to her lips as he said the words, and she could not help herself when she abruptly put the cup back down with aclink. She frowned at Oliver, shaking her head.
“Excuse me?”
“The Duke of Hertfordshire,” Oliver said, as if she was confused as to who he referred to. “I paid him a visit yesterday, simply to ensure his intentions toward you are gentlemanly. And yet… I learned some salacious details.”
Sarah’s eyes went wide, and she exchanged a look with Bridget. Was there something she did not know about Graham? She had assumed he was still the kind, considerate man she had known so many years ago, but perhaps he had changed.
No—she could not believe it.
“Details such as what?” Sarah asked coldly, her lips thin.
“I couldn’t possibly say,” Oliver scoffed. “The things he told me are not for ladies to hear.”
“What kinds of things?” Sarah pressed. “If it is concerning my daughter, I have a right to know.”
Oliver shook his head. “Well… if you insist,” he said. “I inquired about his dealings in London, and he told me all about the things that go on at his club in the West End.”
“You are being evasive, Lord Bragg,” Bridget blurted out. “Tell us what you mean.”
Both Oliver and Sarah’s eyes snapped to Bridget in shock. She was normally so quiet and demure. To speak so commandingly was quite unlike her. But she had to know.
She had to know if Graham had been deceiving her all this time.
“Apparently, the club is frequented by lascivious widows and ladies of the night, along with the usual fare,” Oliver said. “Gambling, drinking, and vice—it is no place for a gentleman.”
“Such is the nature of bachelors’ establishments,” Bridget said, though her voice was uncertain. She had presumed Graham spent his time reading, writing, and conducting business—not attending the club nightly. “And Graham—I mean, His Grace—has had no reason to avoid such things. He is young and remains single.”
“I understand he is your friend, dearest, but you cannot feel safe with such a rogue,” Oliver said. “He shared a decanter of brandy with me last night and let all this slip himself—I tell you, I heard the words from the man’s own mouth. The duke is a rake!”
Oliver slapped his hands on the table as he said it, as if to punctuate the sentence. Bridget winced at the accusation. “Those are strong words, Lord Bragg,” she said. “I would caution you against such claims.”
