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Graham placed his hand on the column beside the mausoleum door, closing his eyes. He had abandoned his family in their hour of need, and now, he and his mother were all that was left of the Barnet name. For centuries, his family had overseen the land, from the days when the village had sprung up in the shadow of the manor house. Foxglove Hall had burned and been built again, and the Barnets had remained.
If Graham went back to London, it could be the end of his family. Certainly, it would be the end of his line. Another duke would take over, a cousin of his if not his uncle, but the branches of the family tree would certainly diverge. The long reign of his direct line would be over.
He would not see that happen.
It was with that thought in mind that he finally rode to the willow tree in the late afternoon, his horse’s hooves thundering across the hills. He still had time to spare when he arrived, spreading out the blanket from the tree’s hollow to sit in its shade. Graham pulled his books from his satchel, thumbing through the pages to search for the Bard’s wisdom—and perhaps to glean what it was that Bridget so loved aboutThe Tempest.
But that was just the thing—how could he think of anything but Bridget?
Graham leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree and sighed, discarding his book to the side. Perhaps she loved the play because she herself was a storm, wreaking havoc in his formerly dull life. She was polite enough on the surface, but underneath the lady-like exterior was a mind as sharp as a whip, a tongue that could speak eloquently on the most controversial of topics.
She could not be happy with Oliver Bragg, could she? The man seemed interested in nothing but gossip, whereas Bridget was bright, eager to learn, talented, kind.
And God—was she beautiful. A diamond amongst stones. Graham could not bear the thought of her wasting away on some northern moor, the lady of a lonely manor house and wife to a vulgar blackguard.
When they had touched yesterday, it had sparked something, he was sure of it. His fingers curled on the blanket at the mere memory of her, how their fingertips had grazed, how her lips had parted. In that too-brief moment of contact, Bridget seemed to forget herself, leaning toward him.
He could have kissed her.
He could have ruined her, there in the grass.
Graham was a gentleman—he would never do such a thing—and yet, the fantasy persisted. He imagined she would be insatiable once she got a taste of pleasure, just as she was with everything else. Bridget would devour him if given the chance—and he would let her.
He relaxed his aching muscles on the blanket, his hand straying upwards to twist in his shirt. He imagined those were Bridget’s fingers, that the breeze playing across his brow was her soft breath. It was not proper to dream of her in such manners, but he could not resist, especially not when her scent was still on the blanket. Rosewater and lavender, a touch of honey. She was a field of wildflowers, a storm cloud on a summer’s day, a swift wind coming in with the rain.
She was everything.
He could not bear the thought of breaking with her, of losing her once again now he had found her. Those lagoon-green eyes dragged him into the depths of his fantasies, and he swam in her emerald irises.
A midsummer’s daydream that transformed into slumber.
Graham dreamed of Bridget as Titania, inviting him into her bower, dressed in sparkling silk and shades of starlight. He laid her down in the leaves and kissed every inch of her, holding lush ivory thighs in his hands and spreading her legs to bring her to the peak of pleasure. He tried to keep track of her form, her words, but everything was abstract—dark curls and delicate hands and gasps in the dark.
Graham did not wake again until dusk was on its way, startling awake at the sound of his horse whinnying. The sun glowed orange in the distance, painting the sky in brilliant shades of violet and pink. He propped himself up on his elbows to look upon it in wonder, searching the horizon for any sign of Bridget.
But there was none, to his dismay.
He stood and paced, looking out in the direction of the village, waiting for hoofbeats. Still, she did not come.
The sun set.
Night fell.
It was only then that he gave up, carelessly bundling up the picnic blanket and shoving it back into the hollow of the tree.
Maybe his feelings were nothing more than a fantasy.
And perhaps Bridget loved Bragg after all.
* * *
Foxglove Hall was in disarray when Graham returned to the manor, the windows glowing gold from inside, lighting up the dark night. A rider was going in the opposite direction to him at a swift gallop as he approached, and he frowned in concern. Warren met him on the stairs, the butler’s eyes wide.
“Warren!” Graham said, striding up the stairs. “Is something the matter?”
“It’s your mother, Your Grace,” Warren said. “She—”
Graham did not hear the rest of Warren’s words; his ears rang and he staggered slightly, his knees weak. No—it could not be. He had only just returned, and his mother hadn’t even woken to speak with him. She couldn’t be…
