“He is not a gentleman,” his mother inferred.
“Yes, and you know I do not take well to disrespect, especially not in the wake of such sad events,” Graham said. “So you can imagine our first meeting did not go well.”
“I can indeed,” the dowager muttered. “If this is all true, though, you know what you must do.”
Graham shook his head. “I wish I did. I have been at my wit’s end these past few days.”
“Why, though?” Fanny said. “It is clear—you must tell Lady Bridget how you feel, and end her betrothal to this wicked man—whoever he is.”
Graham had to stop a moment to collect himself, gaping at his mother. “Mother, are you sure you aren’t still feeling ill? It would be a scandal!”
“And haven’t we weathered worse?” Fanny said. “Graham, you are obviously in love with the girl, and if you speak the truth, then she is in love with you, too. Why doom yourself to a life without love and her to a loveless marriage when a brighter future is well at hand?”
“It isn’t that simple, and you know it,” Graham scoffed.
“Nor is love,” Fanny said. “I know that quite well. Do you truly believe that things were always simple between your father and I? That we met at a ball, that he offered for my hand, and we rode off happily into the sunset together?”
Graham grew quiet. His mother did not often talk of his father, as it had pained her so when her husband passed. They had loved one another deeply, he knew that much—but he could not say he knew how they met.
“I don’t rightly know,” he said quietly.
“Well, it is time for you to learn,” Fanny said. “You might be surprised to hear that I too was engaged to someone else, and that I broke my engagement to marry your father.”
Graham almost laughed. “You did?”
Her lips curled in a half-smile, her eyes dreamy as she stared over her son’s shoulder, as if she could see her late husband standing right behind him. Graham swallowed the lump in his throat, giving her time to tell her tale.
“I met your father late in the Season,” she said. “I was meant to marry a viscount who held land near the Welsh borders. Beautiful country, on the coast. I was looking forward to it, in fact.”
“And what changed your mind?”
“Your father had a fondness for poetry,” she laughed. “Indeed, many of the other bachelors thought of him as a bit of a dandy. But I knew better. And once he read me his own poetry, I knew I was done for.”
Graham’s face fell. “Father wrote poetry? I never knew.”
“Only in our youth, and he never dared to share it with you children,” Fanny said, meeting his eyes again. “But I do not tell you this for the sake of the story. I say it because there is a precedent. Engagements have been broken in the past, and many more will be broken in the future. If Bridget chooses to end hers, it may cause a temporary scandal, but we will weather that storm.”
“Are you sure it will be worth it?” he asked, hope already welling in his heart.
“My dear boy,” his mother said, grasping his hands across the table. “Love isalwaysworth it.”
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Once again, Graham found himself unable to sleep.
He did not even try going to bed; he was too agitated from his conversation with his mother, which had gone quite differently than he’d expected. Whereas he expected her to tell him to be cautious and terminate the dalliance between them, she told him to urge Bridget to end her engagement instead.
It seemed absurd that his practical, dignified mother should tell him such a thing, and yet she had. It all but convinced him that he and Bridget were meant to be, the sensation settling over him that destiny was hurtling toward them both.
Graham went straight to the library and poured himself a glass of brandy, standing in the window and staring down at the lights of the village. He could just barely see the turrets of Sedgwick Manor on the other side, and wondered if Bridget was looking out just as he was, thinking about him. Yes, she had missed their meeting at the willow tree, but there could be numerous reasons for that. Perhaps Lord Bragg had caught her attempting to leave the house, or her mother had forbidden it.
But that was no matter; he would write to her and send his letter first thing tomorrow, ensuring the porter got it to her. He would offer her an escape, should she wish for one. He would invite her to meet him at Foxglove Hall so they could make arrangements of their own. He would write directly to Lord Sedgwick in France. By God, he would even travel there himself if it meant he could have her as his wife.
Graham rushed to the desk in the library to fetch paper and pen, though he could not sit still long enough to write at the desk. Instead, he flung himself into the window seat in the library with a book underneath his sheet of paper, resting his head against the glass and looking toward Sedgwick Manor.
Lady Bridget…
No, he could not greet like that. It felt wrong, when there was already such depth of feeling between them.