Dearest Bridget…
Yes, that was the tone he wanted.
These past few days have been…
He chewed on his lip, then put the paper down on the window seat so he could pace once again, brandy in hand. How to even describe the past few days? Graham had never felt such a rush of emotions all at once—first the pain of losing his sister, then the exhilaration of discovering new love. He could not find the words for it, let alone to tell her that he longed for her to break her engagement.
Graham sighed. He had spent so many years studying the works of the great Romantic poets, and yet he himself stumbled when it came to expressing how he felt. He wished his father were there to help him. Apparently, the late Lord Barnet had managed to woo Graham’s mother with poetry of his own.
To the words of another poet, then.
Graham could manage that much.
He sat back down and raked his hand once again through his hair, finding it tousled after much anxious fidgeting. Taking up the pen, he sipped his brandy, and stared down at her name on the page.
He pictured her eyes, how he could stare into those eyes and let them banish the shadows in his heart.
Dearest Bridget,
These past few days have been beyond description—and though I wish that I was not, I am woefully clumsy with my words. Thus, I must lean on Keats once again to describe to you how I feel.
The poet speaks of banishing melancholy by drowning oneself in beauty. You, Bridget, have been that beauty for me. In the darkest time of my life, you have lifted me into the light.
He paused, sipping his brandy. Graham feared he was growing quite drunk and that he would need to write a new letter in the morning, no matter his scribblings that night. But now, he could not stop.
I understand you must be concerned about your reputation,and that you are engaged, but you cannot share with Lord Bragg what is between you and me. We are kindred souls, we two are bound together by tragedy, but also strengthened by it. It is not without deep conviction that I, therefore, ask you to end your engagement—and marry me instead.
Marry him?
He hadn't said the words yet, but it was obvious that he would propose. Graham was a man of honor; he would not urge a lady as noble as Bridget to renounce her betrothed only to be abandoned.
And beyond all that, her loved her. He loved her so much, he could scarcely breathe for want of her. It was so intense that it made his chest ache with exquisite, overpowering desire.
That would be scandalous for him to write in this letter. But he promised himself that if she said yes, he would tell her in person. He would let those honeyed words drip from his lips, whisper them in her ear as he planted kisses in her most secret places.
Later. He could think of that later, after all this was settled.
I swear to you on my family’s honor that I will see this through. If you accept my offer, I shall ride tonight to London for a marriage license. My mother has already approved the union, and you shall become the next lady of this house as we begin our life as lord and lady of Foxglove Hall.
He wanted to tell her that he would fill her house with flowers, that he would cherish her, body and soul until the day they died.
But he did not. Instead, he folded up the paper and, with a glass of brandy in his other hand, ambled up the stairs. There were envelopes in his rooms, and he would carefully address the letter to appear as if it was not from him. If someone found it and read it, it would be a scandal.
That was the only thing on his mind as he entered his rooms and shut the door behind him, placing the letter carefully on his desk. There was a bit of a draft coming in through the open window, but the night was warm, so he chose to forgo his usual fire and light a lamp instead. The match struck with a merry crackle, and he thought of how Bridget warmed his very soul with her presence.
He settled into his armchair and poured another glass of brandy, only to realize that Warren must have left his mail on his side table. He looked at it with a frown, seeing a letter from Everett at the very top—likely about the club.
Underneath that, though, was an envelope labeled with a delicate cursive he now knew well. He discarded Everett’s letter without a second thought, scooping up the note from Sedgwick Manor as his breath quickened.
Yes—this was definitely from Bridget.
Perhaps an explanation for her absence this morning?
Graham could hold his curiosity back no longer; he tore open the envelope and unfolded the note within, his face falling as he read.
This could not be.
Bridget did not wish to see him again, the note said. Graham felt as if the bottom had just fallen out of the world, as if he was sinking into the mire of grief once again. She had been his only solace in the cruel of circumstances, and now she was going to tear herself away.