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“And yet you did it anyway.”
“Mary brought out an adventurous streak in me,” Bridget said. Her voice lowered, though her eyes blazed with savage fire. “As do you.”
They were so close, now—close enough that he could feel her skirts drifting around his knees, the fabric light enough that he was certain her knees were bare. This would surely be a scandal if anyone were to see them. But in the big, open parklands of Foxglove Hall no one was likely to pass. The lake had always been one of their secret places, a refuge for them as children.
And now, a place for the two of them to be together.
She swallowed hard enough that he saw her throat bob, her lips parting. Once again, he felt the near insatiable urge to kiss her. He wondered how her cool flesh would heat under his touch, how he could feel so warm in the cold water. He leaned closer to her, and she tilted her head, her eyelashes fluttering. But she did not close them.
She met his gaze, challenging him.
“Bridget, I…”
He stopped short.
It could not happen. She had written to him just yesterday saying that she did not wish to see him again, and now here they were, almost kissing in a lake. If he wanted to, he could have taken her hips in his hands, clutched her to him…
“What is it?” Bridget said, her breath catching in her throat.
Her jerked away from her, his jaw tense. “You have your reputation to consider as a lady,” he said, echoing the words in her letter.
Bridget looked as if he had slapped her. She took a heavy breath. “I see,” she said. “I should be going.”
“I want to learn how my sister died,” he said. “That was the point of our meeting, and you behaved as if something untoward was happening between us. All I want is the truth.”
Bridget’s chin trembled, but she kept her composure. “You cannot tell me that you did not have ulterior motives for meeting with me.”
“That is quite an accusation,” Graham scoffed.
“And you are quite offended for a rake!” she said.
With a splash, she swam back to the edge of the lake, lifting herself over it with surprising strength. Graham followed her, committed now to gleaning the truth, whether she wanted to offer it or not. He was curious, too, where her change of heart had come from. He was not known in any circles in London for being anything but a gentleman, as far as he knew.
Bridget was already rushing toward her horse when he got out of the water, his bare feet scraping against the gravel path. His palm had started to sting, and he remembered then that he had cut it on a piece of glass the night before, after breaking a tumbler in a drunken stupor. He had been in quite the state last night. His mother must be worried sick.
“Bridget!” he shouted. “Wait just a moment; what did you mean by calling me a rake?”
She was dripping wet, her hair in utter disarray, her cotton skirt clinging to her legs. He could see how shapely she was underneath, and it left him quite distracted for a moment as he gaped at her. She turned and saw him looking, and her face flushed red with embarrassment.
“You… I know of your dealings in London.”
Graham stepped forward, flicking his head to push the drenched locks from his forehead. “What dealings in London?” he asked. “I am quite boring, I must admit. Whatever can you mean?”
Bridget’s chin trembled, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. Her eyes darted to the water, then back to Graham, and when she looked at him again, they were filled with tears.
“Please,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Give me a reason to be angry with you so I can stop feeling so very sad.”
She bit her lip, and the tears began to fall as he watched her in confusion. Her emotions had gone so swiftly from desire to anger, and now she was clearly devastated. He could not help but pull her to his chest, where she nestled her face and sobbed.
Graham did not feel even an ounce of desire now; he merely wanted to comfort her, one hand staying on her shoulders while the other came up to stroke her hair. Bridget’s hands twisted in his shirt, wringing out the lake water and replacing it with salty tears.
“I know it is hard,” he murmured into her hair, continuing to run his fingers down her damp curls. “I miss her too. I just wish I knew more of how she died when it seems so very senseless.”
Bridget sniffled, her eyes raising slowly to his. They were red with tears, her green irises glassy and bright. “It happened here,” she said quietly.
Graham stilled. “At the lake? I know.”
“No,” she said. “Right here—or at least very close to here, on the path. Just at the water’s edge.”
