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“I was with her, yes,” Bridget said. She had told the tale so many times now that it was nearly mechanical. “It was a foggy day, much as many have been this year. It could have happened to even the most skilled rider—and it did.”
“But was it…” Imelda paused. “Was itbloody?”
Bridget’s lips thinned beneath her veil. “I prefer not to speak of it,” she said.
“It must have been quite shocking.”
Fortunately, at that moment, the conversation was interrupted by someone tapping Bridget on the shoulder, apparently coming from the foyer. When she turned around, her heart nearly burst.
It was Graham.
He frowned at the sight of her, trying to see through the veil, but she was glad the gauzy black fabric concealed her blush. Now, with him up close, she recalled her dream in vivid detail—the way he’d touched her shoulder, climbed into her bed, the way his body had curled around hers and held her tight as she’d wept. Bridget quickly composed herself, allowing him to take her hand and brush his lips against her knuckles.
It was courtly, proper, polite. And yet it stirred something deep in her that she had not felt since she was merely a girl of sixteen and, of course, the night before.
“Lady Sedgwick,” he said, a kind smile on his face. He wore it well, but she could see a hint of sadness through her veil. “Unless it is not you under that veil.”
“No, Your Grace—it is I, indeed,” she said. Bridget wished away the tremor in her voice, but she could do nothing to stop it from betraying her emotions. “I am so very sorry for the loss of your sister.”
For a brief moment, his expression became pained, his brow furrowing and his lips tightening into a grimace. Within mere seconds, though, the mask returned.
“I wished to say hello before we head into town to… to bury my sister,” he said, swallowing hard. “And to ask for a moment of your time after the funeral.”
Bridget bowed her head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“Please,” he said with a smile. “Graham is fine, Lady Bridget. There’s no need for such titles between old friends.”
Her hands trembled where they were clasped before her, but she dared not let him see. She stifled the urge to grasp his hands once again, to squeeze them tightly and tell him she was there to support him.
“Yes… Graham,” she said. “I would be happy to visit with you after the funeral. And you should call me Bridget if we’re to do away with formalities.”
“Bridget,” he said, his lips wrapping around her name as if he was testing it on his tongue. She knew she shouldn’t have such thoughts on such a solemn occasion, but the way his voice resonated in her very bones made it impossible not to give into fantasy. “I look forward to speaking to you this afternoon, then. Now, we must head to the church.”
All Bridget could do was nod. “I shall see you there, Graham.”
He left her in the foyer, his departure placing a void inside hershe hadn't realized existed.
CHAPTERFIVE
Graham’s dear, vibrant sister was buried in a drizzle on a summer’s day.
The village had a small church, decorated as the great room had been at Foxglove Hall. Heavy, black fabric draped the walls from floor to ceiling, candlelight casting strange shadows into the corners of the room. For Graham, the place was full of ghosts—his father’s, and now his sister’s. He hoped his mother would not soon be among them.
Lady Francesca Barnet, Dowager Duchess of Hertfordshire, was still confined to her rooms, ill and stricken with grief. Due to the misfortune, Graham was the only one there to represent his family at the funeral, fielding all the insincere condolences from the lords and ladies of the surrounding counties. They were all more interested in the details of the accident than they were in Mary’s departure.
The whole affair made him sick. It was exactly why he hated participating in Society; nearly everyone there was insincere, viewing the funeral as a place to be seen rather than as a place to mourn. Graham’s peers cared nothing for Mary, and it felt disrespectful having them present.
The only person who seemed to truly care for Mary was Lady Bridget. True, she had maintained her composure during the viewing at the house, but she began to weep during the funeral ceremony. He could not see her face, but he could hear her heavy breaths, see her shoulders shaking in her black gown. Her features were entirely concealed by the veil, giving her the appearance of a wraith.
He knew how she felt, and his heart ached for her. Bridget’s outpouring of emotion during the service anchored him to the reality of the tragedy, making his knees weak as the vicar prayed for Mary’s eternal soul. For a moment, Graham felt he might collapse as he listened to testimony of Mary's kindness and vivacity. But that was not what dukes did. Instead, he listened to Bridget sob until he felt they were the only two people in the room.
Worst of all was the interment. The casket was carried out of the church, into the graveyard, and then to the Barnet mausoleum by pallbearers. Graham was among them, one last time carrying his little sister—and then burying her. As they laid Mary to rest, the other mourners left one by one, until only Graham, Bridget, and hermother Lady Sarah remained. Lady Sedgwick stood at a distance under a parasol, while the twostood at the mausoleum's door, looking at Mary's tombstone.
“I miss her terribly,” Bridget murmured. “It feels as if we were just together, and now…”
Graham looked down at her, his brow furrowed in concern. “Would you like a moment of silence with her?”
Shenodded, and Graham walked toward her mother, leaving her in the light rain. Bridget seemed unconcerned about her clothes getting wet; too preoccupied with her grief to care about fashion at the moment.
