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She felt the heat rise to her cheeks but said nothing. No words were needed for their hearts had other ways of letting themselves known. For a brief moment, she believed they were no longer in foggy London, about to enter a ball, but rather at home under their willow tree.
Before Bridget knew it, they were approaching the grand entrance of Graham's friend's five-story Mayfair home. Andas they crossed the threshold, she realizedthat a new chapter in their lives was about to begin.
* * *
“I can’t believe it. You, Graham Barnet, Duke of Hertfordshire, and owner of a gentleman’s club, are a proper hero,” the young man named Everett said as he took a sip of brandy.
“Come now, Everett, let us not tease him too much. If the scandal sheets are to be believed, we ought to be proud that he even graces our doorstep, the hero of the masses,” Fairfield laughed, while Graham’s face grew bright red beside her.
Bridget laughed. Graham's blushing at his friend's teasing was rather endearing. Everett was a little rougher and less refined than Fairfield, but his love for Graham was no less genuine.
“Now, Lady Bridget, I hope you know what sort of burden you are taking on. This one here is quite troublesome,” Everett said with a wink. He was already rather merry with drink, and Fairfield was not far behind. But, on the other hand, Graham had only indulged in a cup of Negus and was thus almost completely sober.
“I am aware, Mr. Everett. I’ve known him since we were children,” she said and beamed at Graham, who grew even redder.
“Of course, my lady, of course,” Everett said, suddenly serious. Bridget realized that mentioning their childhood must have reminded Graham’s friends of the circumstances that had brought them together. Indeed, Society did not easily let them forget. While they had not made their official entrance into High Society that evening, news of their engagement had been spreading for months now. Every gossip paper in the kingdom seemed to be writing about them and their romance, all inspired by their tragic loss.
Following that, the story of Lord Bragg's mischief was recountedagain and again, sometimes accurately, sometimes fantastically adorned. In every story, however, Graham came out as the hero.It was, after all, the truth. Graham was a hero. He would always be. In her eyes, at least.
With time, Society would forget about what had taken place at Foxglove Hall, and the name Oliver Bragg would fade to no more than an unpleasant memory. The man had been found guilty two months prior, after standing trial for three days in front of his peers. Graham had been among those who had watched. He’d also testified, and in the end, Bragg had not fought the conviction. The evidence had been too damning and Bridget and Graham’s testimony too convincing. Bridget’s father had written a letter from his self-imposed exile in Italy, denying any knowledge of his wife’s actions carried out behind his back. Lady Sedgwick had declined to testify and retreated to a small cottage at the seaside, where she remained.
It hadn’t mattered. Lord Bragg had been found guilty and sent away for life. Indeed, he’d only barely escaped exile by confessing.
“There is no need to apologize,” Bridget said to the young man, who smiled gratefully. Then, before another word could be exchanged, the sounds of the waltz striking up filled the air, and Graham beamed at her.
“I believe that is our signal,” he winked at his friends. “I promised my lady the waltz as our second dance.”
“Ah,” Fairfield said dramatically. “The infamous second dance signals to all the ladies that you are no longer on the market. What do you say, Everett, shall we look for distraught ladies who might need comfort after such news?”
Everett chuckled. “I say we shall. We can’t be left behind, after all, once Graham marries and leaves us here in London. Abandoned and all alone.”
“I shall visit, regularly. Hertfordshire is not so far away. And I placed the club’s future in your hands. Am I wrong to trust you?” He teased.
He tipped his head to one side, but his friends eagerly nodded. “Of course not; we would not want to disappoint the mighty Duke of Hertfordshire,” Fairfield said, and the two chuckled while Graham whisked Bridget off.
“I apologize. They are rambunctious,” he said once they were on the dancefloor.
“They are charming. I cannot wait to see them at Foxglove Hall,” she smiled. “Perhaps they could come for a house party after the wedding?”
Speaking of their upcoming wedding, to be held after the first anniversary of Mary’s passing, still gave her butterflies in her stomach.
“It would be rather lovely to have them. Although first… our honeymoon,” Graham whispered.
He placed his hand on her hip, remindingher of the many nights they had spent in the privacy of his chamber. Since they had not yet married, such visits had to be kept secret.
As the music began, he twirled her slowly.
“Honeymoon?” Bridget asked.
“Indeed,” Graham said, fingers digging into her back, eliciting a lustful look from her. “I have discussed it with my mother, and she is more than capable of running the estate without me. She has done it long enough. A tour of the Scottish Highlands. What say you?”
Bridget beamed. Theprospect of traveling with him thriller her.
“I think it is a wonderful idea!”
“I possess a small cottage in the Highlands surrounded by rows of mountains and sheep and cattle. A wonder indeed. We shall be free to do as we please,” he winked.
Bridget's cheeks burned with embarrassment and blazing anticipation.
