by Cecilia Gray
“Indeed,” Benjamin agreed, not answering the unasked question in his brother’s tone. Bridget would do fine, and his father was not around to contradict or condescend or disagree in any way. There was the small matter of her having rejected his previous proposal, but the situation had changed, hadn’t it? “I’ll observe the customary period of mourning, no more than expected. I must travel to Woodbury before too long.”
“As must I. The Belles’ birthday crush,” Graham murmured. “It’s already in hand.”
“Then we’ll leave it there,” Benjamin said. “Sera could use the love and support of her sisters.”
And he could use the attentions of one sister in particular.
After a fifth knock with no response, Bridget opened the door to Sera’s darkened bedroom. She had come home with them to the house in Bayswater where they’d grown up rather than stay in the Abernathy house by herself—Alice’s suggestion, of course. Sera’s bedroom was unchanged, despite her marriage several years earlier. The four-poster bed was draped in white lace, the rug an equally angelic hue.
Bridget could make out a lump amid the pillows and sheets. She closed the door behind her and approached the bed slowly. It was cold in Sera’s room. The servants had not expected them to bring her home and had only started the fire an hour earlier. While the roaring flames licked the alabaster fireplace, the heat had yet to spread through the rest of the room.
Sera’s eyes were screwed shut, her feather-white hair splayed across her pillow. Her fingers clutched at the blankets, which were knotted under her chin.
Bridget sat on the bed and rested her hand against Sera’s forehead. After a moment, some of the tension softened and she sighed.
A tray of uneaten soup sat on the chest of drawers. “Please have a bite,” Bridget urged.
Sera pressed her face deeper into her pillow but didn’t make a sound save for the rustling of sheets. Bridget stroked her hair. She remembered being with Sera like this when they’d been younger, after the death of a cat that Sera had adopted. She decided to do what she had done then.
“Let me tell you a story,” Bridget whispered. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess with hair as white as an angel’s wings.”
Sera tilted her head and opened her eyes, blinking up at Bridget.
“She had a loving family and all the riches in the world. She had everything she could want except—”
“Except nothing,” Sera finished in a hoarse voice. “She had everything, but she didn’t see it until it was taken away. She was an ungrateful, stupid girl.”
Bridget’s throat tightened. “That’s not true, Sera. You’re kind and loving and—”
“No, I’m not.” She let out an anguished cry. “That’s what everyone says about me. That I’m beautiful and good—an angel! That’s the story they tell, but it’s not the truth. The truth is I am awful and I’m the one who deserved to drown, not Tom. Not him.”
Bridget threw her arms around her sister and held her tight. Sera was speaking nonsense, of course, in her grief.
Sera grabbed her arms and pulled back with a strength Bridget hadn’t realized her delicate sister possessed. Sera took Bridget’s face between her cold hands for a moment. “They’re fairy tales for a reason. They’re just stories. Make believe.”
Bridget reached for the laudanum on the bedside table and urged Sera to drink. After a few moments, her sister’s gray eyes became heavy and her head fell back on the pillow. Her strong fingers, which had curled into fists, loosened and fell to her sides. With trembling hands, Bridget pulled the blanket up to Sera’s chin.
Her sister’s story had all the makings of a fairy tale: a young, beautiful bride jilted at the altar, only to wed her intended’s brother and become his duchess. Bridget lay down next to Sera and rested her arm over her sister’s shoulder, drawing her close the way she used to when they were children.
Dear Duke,
Please find enclosed your rightful property.
Sincerely,
Miss B.
Chapter Seven
Fourth annual Belle birthday crush
July 2, 1820
Woodbury, England
It was ironic that Bridget was determined to land a husband the very year that the attendance at the Belle birthday crush was at its lowest. Not because of a decline in their popularity—far from it, actually. The clamor for invitations had been positively unsavory—but because Alice had rightly determined that while the birthday might shake Sera from her malaise, hosting a showy, gauche affair would be in poor taste so soon after the tragedy.
Thus, the house was in appropriate mourning: Alice had seen the servants’ attire dyed black, the relevant portraits had been moved to viewing locations of honor, and the day’s menu was rather simple and bland when compared with those of previous years. However, there was still a fete. The usual orchestra had been replaced by a trio of strings and a flautist, who had set up by the lake. Only one tent had been raised up for guests. Sparkling wine and other beverages were served, but there was no fountain of bubbling champagne, no fire-breathing acrobats.
Her father was normally the man to encourage the excess, but he was only just arriving back in London so had no choice but to accept the somber mood, no matter his personal preferences.
It was, in some ways, the birthday party that Bridget would have preferred every year except this year: something intimate. But the most important thing was that Sera, while still gaunt and tired looking, was smiling as she greeted guests. And that was enough for Bridget.
Determined to be optimistic, she decided a smaller affair meant she would have a smaller, more quality pool of men from which to choose. Then she could engage herself once and for all, and in doing so, she’d be the very heroine to save her sisters so that Father would leave her poor single sisters at peace, particularly Alice.
Bridget had not noticed at first, but over the years, it had become clear that Alice was in love with someone who was entirely unsuitable by her father’s standards. Given they were all now unmarried with Sera having been widowed, it put Alice in an untenable position. She would be expected to marry. There were even rumors that the lucky groom might be Benjamin.
Ha! As if they would suit.
But Bridget knew that if she could just marry first, if she could throw herself on the matrimonial altar, then perhaps Alice would be free to marry the man of her choosing.
Bridget surveyed the ballroom and their guests, searching for one man in particular—Lord Damon Savage.
For the past few days, she and her sisters had been visiting the village, attending sewing circles and harvests and all manner of activities to keep Sera occupied. Lord Savage had been present for most of it, and she enjoyed his company well enough.
He made sense for her. He was the hero she would have written, wasn’t he? The romantic type who made women swoon. She had even considered him the perfect suitor in years past. He looked right. Perhaps, in time, he would feel right, as well.
When she spotted him, her gaze went straight to his handsome face. Black locks lay carelessly over his forehead, framing the crystalline green eyes that would distract any lady for a moment before she became aware of his criminally compelling mouth. She recalled the vigor of that mouth in the gambling den, and even the urgent penmanship in the journal and what it might imply.
But for all that, when it counted, he’d been attentive and well-mannered—a friend to the Abernathys, as well as to the Belles. Quite anything but the rake he was rumored to be. She was certain he could be suitable and that she would be happy. And that would make everyone else in her life happy.
And what did it matter if she occasionally thought of the kiss she’d shared with Benjamin? She was certain Lord Savage had kissed numerous women. She’d seen it. Was it strange not to be jealous? No, she decided. It was very much the thing, wasn’t it? Though, it wasn’t quite the romantic thing.
No more stalling. It was quite timid of her to have talked and thought about pu
rsuing Lord Savage while not actually embarking on the path. Mythical heroines would not have quivered in uncertainty and emotional turmoil.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Her hand strayed to her hair to ensure every curl was in place. Then she made a beeline for Lord Savage.
He was a sensible man—and in need of an heir—and she could be the perfect wife for him while also placating her father. She was pretty, fashionable, and dreadfully wealthy. He’d be a fool to turn that away. Wouldn’t he?
Was she frowning? Drat, she shouldn’t frown as she approached him. He quickly took note of her and offered a low incline of his head. She forced herself to smile. He returned it, his face lighting up and showing off his dimples as a sparkle came to his eyes. She almost sighed. Goodness. If he and Sera were to marry, Sera would bear the most mystically beautiful children. They should have Sera’s hair, of course, but perhaps Lord Savage’s eyes. They both had fine profiles, though the slope of Sera’s nose tilted up slightly more. Bridget would be the best auntie—
Oh, what was she doing? She was supposed to be imagining her own children with Lord Savage.
“Miss Bridget.” He closed the distance between them. “I have become aware of the criminal negligence of our friends and family, in that we have never been formally introduced.”
She gaped at the notion, but he was correct. They had never once been introduced. Her glimpses of him had all been from a distance. This was the first time they had exchanged words in person, as all the previous exchanges had happened solely in her imagination.
“Be quick, then, and find someone to introduce us,” she said with a smile.
“It is highly likely that our acquaintance is believed to be a forgone introduction. Look now, no one is affronted at our discussions.”
She glimpsed around the room, and while there were a few curious glances—most likely from those speculating as to the subject of their conversation—there was no censure.
“Have I offered my felicitations for your birthday?” he asked, pulling her attention back to him. He proffered his arm, which she accepted.
“No, you have not.”
He led her in a slow walk around the ballroom. Since there was to be no dancing, many parties had taken to using the large space as a walking rotunda, and they easily joined in.
“I haven’t? That was very poorly done of me.”
“You did not offer me felicitations last year, nor the year before, either,” she said, gently teasing. “As we’ve agreed, this is our first exchange.”
“And yet I am always invited back.” He stroked his chin in mock speculation. “Dinah would say the correlation merits consideration.”
“Dinah would already have pondered the matter and reached a conclusion,” Bridget amended.
“I stand corrected. She is a fearsome thing, your younger sister.” He glanced sideways at her. “As are all of you, in fact.”
“A bold statement.” It wasn’t quite a compliment, though he seemed to intend it as one. Bridget would want her future husband to have some regard for her sisters. In fact, she couldn’t imagine marrying anyone who disapproved of them, even if he were the prince himself. “Do you fear me, Lord Savage?”
A moment passed as he considered her question. Speculation hooded his green eyes. “I fear,” he said slowly, “that there is no limit to what each of you might do to ensure one other’s happiness, even at the expense of your own.”
“Is one of my sisters in danger of being unhappy?” she asked sharply, edging closer.
“All unengaged hearts are in peril, Miss Bridget.”
Was he funning with her? Had she misinterpreted his remarks? It was hard to know, but regardless, she had found her opening and she intended to take it. “Does the engaged heart fare much better?”
“If one is to believe every grand matron, insistent father, eager mother, young debutant, official in government, king, country, and the word of our Lord, then yes, an engaged heart is infinitely preferred, perhaps even the only one worth aspiring to.”
“And what do you believe?” she asked, curious to uncover the reason for the edge in his tone. It was one thing to remain a rake because one was young, but it was another to disrespect the notion of marriage.
He gave an exasperated laugh. “I believe I’ve monopolized too much of your time. Look, His Grace approaches to tell me so.”
Bridget felt a reassuring warmth at her side. Benjamin slipped his hand around her arm forcing Lord Savage to disengage from her side. “A turn outside, Miss Bridget?” he asked. “You don’t mind, do you, Savage?”
“Not at all, Your Grace.”
Bridget felt Benjamin flinch at the deliberate use of his title.
“And Miss Bridget,” Lord Savage added, “felicitations.”
Benjamin pulled her away, smoothly navigating through the crowd, without another word to his friend. How strange that she was being pulled away from a perilously handsome man but her body went willingly, her skin tingling and her thoughts in turmoil. She allowed herself to be led out of the ballroom and onto the terrace. Despite the warmth from the sun, there was a bite to the breeze. She and Benjamin had both been in residence at Woodbury for several days, but had never been alone, nor without Alice directing some charitable effort.
Curious eyes tracked them as their pace quickened, their shoes clicking against the stone steps. They were now heading toward the lake.
“Did Lord Savage keep you sufficiently amused?” he asked. His voice was tight, his knuckles strained.
“Your friend Lord Savage is difficult to comprehend at times. He seems equal parts playful and sincere.”
“That’s always been his allure.”
“I prefer your unaffectedness.” Had she said that aloud? She must have because he stiffened beside her and broke stride. “What I meant to say is that it is easier to engage. Your manner.”
“Ah, not quite as exciting as a hero in a book, then.”
She wasn’t sure about that. “Lord Savage is indeed a perfect character, and yet …” She didn’t know how to explain it since she was just comprehending the matter herself. He was as beautiful as any literary figure, with behavior as mysterious. She was considering an attachment because it would be beneficial to her family. Yet, when she tried to write herself into the pages of his story, that’s precisely how it felt: as if he were the hero and she were not a heroine, not a partner, but merely extra ink.
“Sometimes life is not perfect,” Benjamin said, interrupting her thoughts. “And we must make imperfect choices.”
He uncoupled their arms, then took her elbow and stopped them both. They had rounded nearly half the lake and were close to the gardener’s cottage. He was careful not to pull them out of sight of the main house, but he had angled them so that no observer could see their faces. She realized now that he had intended all along to speak with her privately.
There was so much to be said—about their argument, the passing of his family, the journal that she had returned—so much that she’d been eager to discuss and lay to rest. But now that the moment was here, she felt reticent and anxious.
“Miss Bridget,” he said, “it has not escaped my attention that Sera, while recovering, is still in deep mourning and that your father, even now, has made known his intention to see you all married before too long.”
“It has always been his intention to see us well married,” she said. And she wanted to be married, didn’t she? Seeking an understanding with Lord Savage was supposed to fulfill everyone’s needs—her father’s, her sisters’, and her own. He was the perfect choice … in theory.
“It is his duty to see you cared for,” he agreed, “and tragic circumstances have impressed upon him the need for urgency. I see it in him, and in you and your sisters, as well.”
“Pray, do not trouble yourself when your own tragedy is far greater.” She cupped his cheeks, unable to stop herself.
He rested his hands on top of hers and sighed, then drew both their
hands down to their sides. She had missed the feel of him, although she’d only ever had it for a moment. “It seems the Abernathys and Belles will always find their fates entwined. Miss Bridget—Bridget—may I call you Bridget?”
She stuttered her approval. After all, she’d thought of him as Benjamin in her mind for so long.
“I have given thought to the issues that plague us. Your sisters’ predicaments at the hands of your father. My acquisition of the title and the subsequent need to provide an heir. Your preoccupation with the journal and its contents. I had originally planned to make this speech at a much later date, but … Well, never mind. I was gripped by the need for expediency, and it appears to me the most expedient solution to all matters is a marriage—”
Yes, she agreed. A marriage. She’d been investigating that very matter with Lord Savage.
“—between you and I.”
She cocked her head, blinking, not comprehending. They had gone down this road together before, and he had left angry. She had planned never to tread here again except in the darkest and most privates moments of her imagination.
“I have not yet taken the opportunity to speak to your father, though I imagine he will find the situation agreeable. I know there is some discussion that I ought to marry Sera or Alice, but I think an understanding between us would also address our other issues.”
She cocked her head to the other side this time. Issues. He was proposing marriage between them … to solve issues. She remained still as stone, her eyes locked with his.
He continued in a long breath. “In addition, I am willing to make a compromise that were we to become engaged, I could reasonably be expected to extend the privilege of confidentiality to you in regard to the journal. Even if I was to become entangled with someone whose temperament seems an illogical fit to my own and who would likely cause me a lifetime of headaches and pain, I would still feel, I suppose, some affection for her.”
