“Is something the matter, Tilda?” Bridget asked. “You look troubled.”
“Nothing at all, my lady,” Tilda said. “It is just that—you look well.”
Bridget laughed. “I would not think that should be something to trouble yourself over.”
“It isn’t,” Tilda said. “I’m merely wondering the reason for it. Just yesterday you were still struggling to sleep. Indeed, I could have sworn I heard you moving about the solarium again.”
Bridget blushed. “I didn’t realize you could hear me.”
“We hear everything downstairs, my lady,” Tilda smiled. “I see, though… is that paint on your fingers?”
Bridget looked down at where she held her teacup, realizing that gold paint still flecked her knuckles. She nodded, unable to suppress the way her lips turned up at the memory of Graham. “Why, yes, it is,” she said.
“So you’ve taken up the brush again?” Tilda said.
“I have,” Bridget replied. “I feared I would never paint again after Mary, but…”
She trailed off, and Tilda put her hands on her hips. “But the dashing Duke of Hertfordshire has pulled you from your despair, hm?”
Bridget let out a gasp. “Tilda! I am to be married soon. Surely, you don’t believe anything untoward has occurred with the duke?”
“I meant to imply nothing of the sort,” Tilda said. “I know well how dear both the Barnet siblings were to you, once upon a time. Remember, I have known you all your life, my lady. Yes, it is unconventional, but the duke might have raised your spirits through friendship, that is all I meant. I would like to ask though…”
She trailed off.
“No,” she said. “It is not my place.”
Bridget clutched the teacup in her hands, her eyes wide. “Please, Tilda, speak.”
Tilda’s brow furrowed. “Has Lord Bragg been kind to you?”
Bridget’s face fell, and she shrugged as she set her cup on the side table. “He has not beenunkind.”
“That is not the standard to which we should hold our men,” Tilda tutted. “Lady Bridget, you have always been a good and kind girl, and I wish only the best for you. I know, too, that your mother has always longed for you to have a love match. Is this marriage what you want? Have you spoken to your mother?”
“I did not feel it was my place,” Bridget said. “It has happened so quickly, but the details have all been negotiated between Lord Bragg and my father. It is my duty to do as my father wishes.”
“Your mother has more sway in this matter than you might believe, dear lady,” Tilda said. “But I suppose it is not my place to encourage such things. Let’s get you up and dressed. It is well past time to start the day.”
Bridget rose, and Tilda dressed her in the many layers of mourning dress: stays, petticoat, and the black gown. She then bound her mistress’s hair into a bundle of curls, pinning them up with a pearl comb.
As Tilda dressed her, Bridget thought in silence of the maid’s words—and of the sketch of Graham, now tucked safely away in her closet. Perhaps the nightmarish future she assumed to be hers was not inevitable at all. Perhaps, now that Graham was there, he could rescue her from years wasting away on the moors as the lady of Bragg Manor. She took a deep breath and steadied herself as she smoothed out her dress, finally stepping away with a smile.
“You look lovely, my lady,” Tilda said, her wrinkled face showing a touch of nostalgia. “Now, your mother is waiting downstairs. The table should be set.”
“Thank you, Tilda,” Bridget said. “And thank you, too, for your advice. I think it is high time I spoke to her.”
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Graham dreamed of the beautiful Lady Bridget the whole night through. He could not erase her from his mind. How lovely she had looked in the shade of the willow tree, the golden light wrapping around the delicate curve of her cheek, reflecting with dazzling brilliance in the dark curls of her hair. She had walked through his dreams, the two of them treading deeper into a forest that he was quite certain had no beginning and no end.
In his dream, he had stopped beneath a willow tree very much like the one he’d sat by with her just hours ago.
“Your Grace, what in the world are you planning?” the dream Bridget had asked him then, a twinkle in her eyes. His own traveled down her lovely body, and feasted on her curves in a way he never would have dared when awake. Her breasts were round and the perfect size. Indeed, he was sure he could easily fit them in his hands, feeling the soft flesh beneath them. His palms burned as he spread the blanket and extended his hands to her.
“You shall see,” his dream self said, taking her with him onto the blanket. He cupped her face with one hand, feeling the tender, smooth skin beneath his fingers and tracing the outline of her face. Bridget shivered under his touch and let out a small moan.
“Oh, Graham, this is not at all proper,” she said with a tease in her voice.