“You—you don’t mind?” Bridget whispered.
“Not at all,” Graham replied, retracting his hand. “You are a sweet, bright, beautiful lady. What is not to admire?”
Could he be any more perfect?
She blushed but kept her head up. “That’s so very kind of you to say, my—Graham. I appreciate your gentle sentiments.”
“And I promise you, if we do wed, I will make sure Duke Arlington stays ten leagues away from you,” he laughed. “That man is nothing but trouble.”
I know it.
The carriage halted and Graham descended first, assisted her out, and soon they were on the Grande Walk heading to the Cascade, an artificial waterfall made with tin sheets and fog from ice.
Attuned to him, Bridget wrapped her shawl around her arms and took his arm as they strolled. Her head kept swinging from left to right, eagerly taking in all the sights; the triumphal arches along the South Walk and an excellent replica of Grecian ruins, theRotunda, a grand two-story structure, constructed of glowing white marble.
Hundreds of globe lamps glowed from the edges of the dome-shaped roof, and the colored paper lamps dangled from tree limbs, the light twinkling like rainbow fireflies while the gas lamps on the walk were pale yellow.
“This is delightful,” she breathed. “I truly have done myself a disservice by not visiting even once. I must correct that when I have the chance.”
“With proper chaperones, I expect,” Graham added teasingly.
“Of course,” she finished. “I would not dare do anything else.”
“Shall we,” he led her to the platform where the production was to begin, and happily, she leaned her temple onto his shoulder.
“Whoever designed that display has a keen mind,” Bridget said while seated in a supper box and cutting into her savory meat pie, a trademark Vauxhall delicacy, then added, “I admire such minds.”
“And to think its debut was sixty-five years ago,” Graham mused while sipping his drink. “Certainly ingenious.”
Picking up her wineglass, Bridget took a bracing sip of the arrack punch. “Have you ever created something you are proud of?”
“Goodness no,” he laughed. “I have not one creative bone in my body. I starkly remember the masters at Eton urging me to not try to draw anything, for the one time I tried to sketch a tree, they assured me it was a splinter of wood with gorgon hair roots.
“You, however, seem to be creative.” Graham nodded. “Have you created something unique?”
“Hmm. I once wrote a pianoforte piece inspired by Master Bach’s fugue in C-minor,” Bridget said modestly.
“That’s brilliant,” his brows shot up. “I would love to hear it one day.”
“I’d love to show you,” she replied brightly.
Wiping his mouth, Graham said, “I think it is time for the fireworks. Will you come with me?”
“Yes, please,” she smiled.
As they left the supper boxes and headed to the place for the fireworks, and as she tilted her head to the sky—something, or rather,someone, snagged her reticule.
Gasping, she turned to see a boy, clad in breeches, the tails of his jacket flapping in the wind as he darted from her.
“Give that back!” She grasped her skirt and ran after him in panic. The boy darted through bushes, and she followed.
Twigs from the thick canopies of giant elms and dense foliage of bushes tugged at her hair but she couldn’t stop. The sounds of the gay crowd faded into the distance, as she rushed, barely hearing Graham’s shouts behind her.
Devil and blast, he should not have come.
When the spies told William about Hansen taking Bridget to Vauxhall, he had debated on what to do, as while he knew he was intrigued by the lady, he still did not have a solid reason for what he wanted from her.
In the back of his mind, he knew the girl was not the sort to have a romp in the bed without a care—no. She was a proper virgin and would never compromise her integrity to please his passing whims.
