Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience or injury this causes you.
He stared at the words, unable to truly comprehend them. They were so cold compared to the way she had spoken with him yesterday in the long hours they had spent under the willow tree. Graham squeezed his temples and dragged his hand down his face, shaking his head as if to banish the fog from his mind.
“I have been a damned fool,” he said to himself, his voice hollow in the silence of the room. “So,sofoolish.”
He stood and paced to the window, looking out at Sedgwick Manor. He had thought she might be standing at her own window, thinking of him. But was she there now, flirting with a man whom he knew to be a scoundrel? His heart was broken, his pride wounded. How could Bridget choose Oliver Bragg over him?
How could she have made him think she cared for him when all she had been doing was playing games?
Graham growled and crumpled her note in his right hand, his fist clenched to the point where his nails bit into his palm. With his other hand, he slammed the rest of his brandy back, the amber liquid burning his throat and chest as it went down. He paced to the opposite side of the room, then back, to refill his glass.
He drank.
He refilled the glass.
And drank some more.
He could not bear to live in a world of such pain. His sister was dead, his family shrinking. He had no prospects. And the woman he had fallen so deeply and foolishly in love with no longer had any interest in him.
His head was swimming when the glass slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor. Graham cursed and bent to fetch the pieces, slashing his palm in the process. “Damn!” he grunted, scrabbling for a handkerchief to stem the bleeding. It did not hurt as much as it should, and in that moment, he realized how very drunk he was.
That thought, however, was fleeting. He needed to escape—to leave Hertfordshire, or Foxglove Hall, at least. For a brief and beautiful moment, he had imagined a future there with Bridget, and it seemed the estate was already haunted by the specter of that lost hope. Graham wrapped the wound in his left hand as best he could, and did not even don his jacket before fleeing the room.
Down the stairs, through the foyer, out onto the lawn. He raced to the stables, his feet moving faster than his mind could keep up with, and pulled his disgruntled horse from its stall. It was the middle of the night, and the stallion had no doubt been resting, but he did not care; he needed the breeze on his face, the feeling of freedom that came with riding away from home.
He needed to understand why he was there now that Bridget had forsaken him.
So, as the moon shone overhead, casting the countryside in silver, he set off for the lake.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
The day came and went, and Bridget saw her dreams slipping away.
The life she had fantasized about these past few days was going to disappear just as quickly as it had come, gone in the blink of an eye. Her parents were right, of course—they needed her to marry well if they wished to maintain financial security. There was no guarantee the duke would marry her were she to end her engagement to Oliver. Especially not if Graham was truly a rake. Pursuing him could mean her ruin.
Oliver spent the whole morning telling her of his home on the moors, and she pretended to listen as she daydreamed a scenario in which she ran away for good. He mercifully left her to her own business in the early afternoon. He’d announced his desire to go into London for several days to meet with a business associate of his and acquire a suit for their impending wedding. She would have several days of peace and quiet to look forward to, at least.
She could not bring herself to do much of anything the whole day through. She could not read, she could not paint, she could not even eat when lunch was served. Her mother avoided her, as if she was ashamed of having robbed Bridget of the single joy in her life.
As dusk approached, Bridget felt a nervous tension that chafed against all her sensibilities. Despite her mother's wishes, she considered fleeing to meet Graham at the willow tree, but it could lead to punishment. Worse, if word got out that she had been spending time alone with him, her engagement could be called off. Then, if Graham were to leave her ruined…
There was too much risk, and she assumed he had received her letter by then, anyway.
Thus, she took to her bed early, and once again retreated into the clouded sleep offered by laudanum. Perhaps this was how she would sleep from now on, spending her days half-awake and lost in dreams.
Her heart had been broken again when it had not yet fully mended.
She woke late the next morning, tears staining her pillow and streaking her cheeks. When Tilda came to dress her, she found herself asking for the black mourning gown again. It suited her dark, desperate mood. She had Tilda twist her hair into a simple chignon, binding her curls away from her face.
“How did you sleep, my lady?” Tilda asked cautiously. “I did not hear you in the solarium last night. I presume the laudanum did its work.”
“I slept through the night,” Bridget said. “Though I would not say I slept well.”
Tilda sighed. “I am very sorry for the way yesterday turned out,” she said. “Your dear mother is doing her best in horrible circumstances.”
“My mother was right to chastise me,” Bridget said. “I have behaved recklessly these past few days. I needed no encouragement.”
Tilda sealed her mouth shut and finished helping her dress, not saying another word. Bridget did not like the silence between them—she had always been fond of her matronly maid—but she knew Tilda’s advice had not been sound.