The morning continued in a whirl of activity. Bridget helped organize last-minute details with the caterer, supervised the flower arrangements under Hector’s watchful eye (to ensure his ‘conversation starters’ were well hidden), and finally, with a sigh of relief, sat down in the garden to take a break.
The sun climbed higher, but Bridget didn’t mind the heat. It was pleasant, and a soft morning breeze created a fine counterpoint as it caressed her face and blew her hair.
The air buzzed with the industrious hum of bees and the melodic chirping of birds as they flitted restlessly from tree to tree. Bridget closed her eyes, drinking in the sun, the activity of the workers a pleasantly distant sound in the back of her mind.
“Lady Bridget!”
She started, the deep voice cutting into her reverie. She turned and found herself face-to-face with Abel. His imposing figure seemed to dwarf the vibrant blooms around him, yet a hint of a smile softened his usually stoic features.
“Your Grace,” Bridget greeted, surprise flickering in her eyes. “An unexpected pleasure seeing you here so early.” Twice in one morning, a new record.
“Indeed,” Abel replied, his voice a low rumble. “I decided a stroll through the gardens would be a welcome respite before the festivities begin.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the gentle buzzing of the bees. Despite their history, Bridget couldn’t help but be drawn to the unexpected vulnerability flickering in Abel’s blue eyes. She wondered if he had felt what she had felt earlier today when they had gone riding.
“The gardens are looking splendid,” he remarked, gesturing towards the vibrant blooms with a hint of genuine appreciation. “Your family has a fine eye for detail. I should have looked a bit closer when I first got here… Perhaps then I would not have misspoken.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Bridget replied, a genuine smile gracing her lips. “We take great pride in these grounds.”
A beat of silence followed, then Bridget, unable to contain her curiosity, blurted out, “I see you’ve picked up the novel I recommended.”
Abel raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing across his face. “Indeed, Lady Bridget. I must confess, the book is not entirely dreadful.”
Bridget feigned offense, clutching her hand to her chest dramatically. “High praise indeed, coming from you, Your Grace.”
A chuckle escaped his lips, a sound almost at odds with his imposing figure. “You mock me, but I speak the truth. The author, despite the fanciful plot, possesses a certain… way with words that I find myself… appreciating.”
This glimpse into his unexpected literary side piqued Bridget’s curiosity. Here, in her father’s perfectly manicured garden, the formidable Duke seemed… almost human.
Their conversation flowed effortlessly, a delightful exchange about the book, dissecting characters and plot points with a shared passion for the written word.
Bridget discovered a sharp wit underlying his stoicism and was surprised by the depth of his intellect that lay beyond his haughty persona.
Their debate on the book’s ending was particularly intriguing. Bridget championed the optimistic portrayal of love while Abel remained a skeptic, his voice laced with a hint of cynicism that hinted at a deeper story.
“Perhaps,” Bridget argued, a glint in her eyes, “the author simply believes that even in a world of cynicism, love has the power to prevail.”
Abel’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. “Perhaps,” he finally conceded, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy.
Suddenly, the chime of the clock tower signaled the approaching noon. Abel glanced towards the Borthwell manor, his brow furrowing slightly.
“The preparations for the garden party are well underway,” he remarked, his voice regaining its usual formal tone.
“Indeed,” Bridget replied, quietly. “The entire ton will be descending upon us this evening.”
Though uttered with apprehension, her emerald eyes still held a spark of defiance.
Abel observed her with an amused expression. “Perhaps,” he suggested in a playful tone, “you could offer them a bit more… unpredictability this year?”
Bridget’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. The Borthwell garden party was known for its elegance and formality, a stark contrast to the playful spirit that simmered just beneath Bridget’s mask.
“Now, Your Grace,” she began, a twinkle in her eyes, “wouldn’t that be a delightful surprise?”
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the clatter of approaching footsteps. From around the corner emerged Hector, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. In his arms, he carried a rather peculiar contraption—a large, ornately decorated birdcage with a single, brightly colored parrot perched inside.
“Hector!” Bridget exclaimed, a mix of amusement and exasperation coloring her voice. “What on earth is that?”
Hector, unfazed, bowed theatrically to Abel. “Your Grace, allow me to present the newest addition to the festivities—Theodore, the purveyor of poetic pronouncements.”
