Bridget pushed her sister’s fur coat away from her, spitting out the fuzz coating her tongue. She had been mid-sentence when her sister had suddenly thrown the manteau on her, smacking her right in the face.
“Becca!” Bridget protested. “Keep this monstrosity on your side of the carriage, please. I still do not understand why you brought it along. ‘Tis spring, for heaven’s sake! You will not need such a thick coat.”
“Oh, do calm down,” said Rebecca in a tired voice. “I’ll take away my so-called monstrosity. I forget that you are pitiful when it comes to anything remotely fashionable.”
“Is it fashionable to wear a fur coat in spring?” Bridget asked, raising an eyebrow. “We are well into March, and the snow has melted. A pelisse would have been preferable.”
“And risk having every notable woman of noble birth see me in anything but my best? I would rather be too warm than be unfashionable.”
“What if none of these notable women are wearing fur coats?” Bridget asked.
“Then I shall not wear mine,” the young woman replied with a shrug. “Why is that so hard for you to comprehend?”
“I do not wish to ride with something so cumbersome all the way to Salisbury and back, Becca,” Bridget explained for the umpteenth time since awakening for their journey this morning.
“Now, girls,” their mother chided, interrupting their argument. “No more arguing unless you wish to worsen my headache. ’Tis a frightful thing.”
Bridget and Rebecca looked at each other and rolled their eyes with a little giggle. Their mother did not have a headache but was pretending to be in the throes of pain so their father would agree to her request for a shopping day in Bath. Mr Lockhart had thus far refused, but the constant nagging of his wife and her supposed headache would eventually wear him down. The man could never deny his wife for too long, but he certainly tried to exercise some kind of restraint in Mrs Lockhart. The woman was fond of shopping and had passed that love down to Rebecca, much to Mr Lockhart’s disappointment. Fortunately, Bridget had taken after her father. She was more academically inclined, but her love of books was a source of distress for her mother, who frequently expressed her worries that her bookish daughter would fail to marry for want of an academic’s lonely life. That made no sense at all, considering that Bridget wished to marry one day. It was Rebecca who would have a harder time finding the man she wanted to marry as she had set her sights on nothing but a wealthy nobleman.
After a moment of silence, Mrs Lockhart snuck a glance at her husband, unaware her daughters were watching her. Mr Lockhart didn’t seem concerned about his wife’s headache because he likely knew there wasn’t an ounce of truth to her illness.
“Oh, how I wish I were in my bed with a cold compress draped across my brow,” Mrs Lockhart moaned. “I cannot see why we all had to come to Salisbury, Mr Lockhart. I’m missing at least one party this week.”
“This is a family trip,” said Mr Lockhart. “We seldom have any.”
“But we have only come so Bridget can take part in the painting competition, Papa,” Rebecca protested. “This has nothing to do with the family.”
“Did you not voice your excitement to be around Baroness Spencer?” Mr Lockhart asked. “While I admit that the painting competition is our primary reason for our trip, I cannot see anything wrong with making the most of it.”
“There are but four miles between Alderbury and Salisbury!” cried Rebecca. “That cannot constitute a family trip. We could go to the painting competition and be home in time for dinner. At least let us do a bit of shopping in Bath.”
“I fully agree with our daughter, Mr Lockhart,” Mrs Lockhart inserted. “Salisbury is hardly a place for a family holiday. Somerset would have suited us much better.”
“Furthermore, Salisbury is a rather old and ugly city, Papa,” Rebecca added. “Do you recall when we went to church? Hardly anyone attended the Sunday service beyond those officiating!”
Bridget felt sorry for her father. Her mother and sister were a formidable team who rarely took no for an answer. If her father didn’t put his foot down now, they would continue to nag him until he developed a headache.
“We go to church to hear the word of the Lord, Becca,” Bridget gently reminded her. “It is not to be seen by others.”
“Oh, my darling pious sister,” said Rebecca, her tone somewhat mocking. “Not all of us are as devoutly Christian as you.”
“That is not something to admit aloud, Rebecca,” Mr Lockhart replied with a stern voice. “There is more to life than parties and the ton. You would do good to remember that.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to respond, but Bridget shook her head. Her twin sister rarely had the common sense to stop arguing and often drove their father to his study, where he would nurse a glass of Scotch whisky until dinner time. The strong drink was smuggled across the border once every three months by a family member who bought wool from Scottish sheep farmers.
“What? You have nothing else to say?” Mr Lockhart asked, seemingly surprised by his daughter’s silence. “Frankly, I’m rather amused that you were able to control your tongue, young lady.”
“Oh, Mr Lockhart!” Mrs Lockhart cried. “Do not tease your daughter so. She only meant that Bridget has put us to shame by how fervently she partakes in her faith. It’s an admirable quality in one so young.”
“How quickly you come to your daughter’s defence, Mrs Lockhart,” her husband returned. “You seem quite well and rosy-cheeked at present. Has the headache finally left you?”
Bridget observed how one side of her father’s lips had lifted slightly, only noticeable by the unevenness of his moustache. He was amused, but the steely glint in his brown eyes was a warning to all the women in the carriage. His patience was wearing thin, and he was an argument away from unleashing his ire on his family.
“Oh, so I am!” Mrs Lockhart replied, her cheeks growing pinker by the second. “What a wonderful relief.” The woman briefly looked out the window and turned back to her husband. “It seems we have arrived in Salisbury, my dear Mr Lockhart. Half an hour could not have passed since we left home.”
“We’re making good time,” Mr Lockhart announced. “We’ll have our breakfast at the Maidenhead Inn.”
“Oh, but I wished to go to Gable’s Tea Shop!” cried Rebecca. “They have the most wonderfully shaped ices, candied fruits, biscuits, and delicious, sweet buns with blackcurrants and a thick icing on top. Oh please, Papa, do say we’ll go there instead.”
“I have already sent a message ahead for our breakfast to be prepared by the time we arrive,” said Mr Lockhart. “I will not change our plans to accommodate your need for sweet buns with blackcurrants.”
“We never do what I wish to do!” Rebecca objected, pushing her bottom lip out in a pout.
Bridget shook her head at her twin sister, wishing she would show more maturity. Mrs Gable, the owner of Gable’s Tea Shop, had a handsome son who shamelessly flirted with every young, pretty woman who walked through their doors. Rebecca had taken a liking to him during their last trip to Salisbury this past winter and probably wished to see him again. She had no use for the young man other than a mild flirtation, which she would then tell her friends for the sole purpose of making them envious. Bridget might not have minded so much if the young gentleman had not mistaken her for Rebecca during a ball at the Assembly Rooms held two months ago. It had taken much convincing before the gentleman realised that she was telling the truth and was indeed not her twin sister Rebecca.
Mr Lockhart’s response to his daughter’s whining was to give none at all, choosing instead to focus his attention on the cathedral town outside their carriage. They were going to stay three days in Salisbury with their widowed aunt, whom Bridget adored. Aunt Ophelia was made a widow only ten years into her marriage and never married again. She received many proposals before her mourning period had even ended, but she had been content to remain alone in her home with her faithful servants. Two years ago, she adopted an orphan girl who everyone assumed was mute, but with patience and kindness, the girl had started to speak, much to Aunt Ophelia’s pleasure.
Their carriage eventually drew up to the Maidenhead Inn, and they all climbed out, undoubtedly relieved to no longer be in close proximity. Mr Lockhart often grew weary of his wife and Rebecca’s constant badgering about their wants and spent most of his day locked away in his study, their library, or a literary club where he met like-minded men to read and debate essays. Bridget would also lend her ear to his grievances until her father was calm enough to discuss a piece of literature or regale her with a story from his youth. Of course, her mother would expect Bridget to listen to her grievances and be equally sympathetic to her challenges. It was left up to Bridget to be the voice of reason and smooth any ruffled feathers, making her the unofficial family counsellor.
“I’m surprised we did not go directly to Ophelia’s house,” Mrs Lockhart commented.
“I do not wish to trouble my sister so early in the morning,” Mr Lockhart replied, holding the door open for them to walk into the inn.
Mrs Lockhart frowned in confusion. “Surely nine o’clock is not too early? I always ensure to keep my house prepared to welcome any guests at all times,” the woman boasted. “I think I shall give Ophelia a little advice about keeping a house.”
“You will do no such thing,” Mr Lockhart said firmly, looking around the room. “Where is Mr Ralfe?”
The Maidenhead Inn’s owner was Mr Lockhart’s old friend and part of their literary society. Bridget predicted her father would disappear to play cards and leave the women to amuse themselves in Mrs Ralfe’s famed garden until he deemed it necessary to depart. Mrs Lockhart would not be impressed because she did not see eye-to-eye with the woman and would be painfully polite until Bridget and Rebecca could no longer stand it and would ask to be excused.
“Lockhart!” a man cried, his voice booming over those of the guests present.
Mr Lockhart turned in place, his face lighting up with relief when he saw his friend approach him. The poor father had evidently had enough of his family’s company.
“Ralfe!” Mr Lockhart called out, striding forward to grasp the man’s hand. “How are you, old friend? How was your stay in Northumberland?”
“Far too cold,” the man complained. “I should have waited until June at least, but Mrs Ralfe wished to see her parents. ’Tis a good thing I like them, or I might have objected to travelling so far up north.” Mr Ralfe leaned in closer to Mr Lockhart, speaking under his breath, “I brought a few bottles with me. Had a contact sneak them over the border for me. We can have a glass as soon as you’ve settled with your family.”
Mr Ralfe was undoubtedly referring to a specific Scotch whisky produced by an illegal distillery in Scotland. Bridget had pleaded with her father on countless occasions to choose a beverage that did not have trouble attached to it, but the scholar appeared to prefer the dangerous aspect of smuggling illegal whisky into the country. Not even a level-headed man could resist the lure of moonshine, adding to the illicit whisky trade that sat ill within Bridget’s pious soul.
“How is your family?” Mr Lockhart asked, falling in step with Mr Ralfe.
The women wordlessly followed behind the men, aware that it was expected of them. Mrs Lockhart’s face was slightly pinched, while Rebecca appeared irked with having to eat in an establishment that she considered unworthy of her presence.
“Mrs Ralfe is with child again,” Mr Ralfe replied proudly. “The physician has prescribed bed rest due to the difficult nature of her first pregnancy, so she, unfortunately, cannot be here to greet you. My son is home from boarding school but has gone riding with friends. He leaves for Cambridge after summer.”
“Indeed?” said Mr Lockhart. “I thought he might have gone to Oxford as you did.”
Mr Ralfe shrugged his shoulders. “I thought so too, but James’ heart is set on Cambridge. Mrs Ralfe’s father and grandfather went there, so the boy wishes to continue the legacy.”
They entered the dining hall and were led to a table near the window that overlooked the garden. It was the best table in the establishment and was already set with plates and cutlery. Mr Lockhart tore himself away from his friend long enough to pull a chair out for his wife and tuck her in. Mr Ralfe did the same for Bridget and Rebecca, remarking on their growing beauty.
“You two must be the prettiest women in Wiltshire if not the whole of England!” he exclaimed. “James will be pleased to see you again.”
Bridget inwardly groaned. The young man was two years younger than them but strutted about like a self-assured man older than his years, expecting the attention of every woman within view of him. She had believed he would be away at boarding school and was surprised that he was home earlier than usual. Fortunately, he was out riding with his friends and would hopefully stay away until they left.
“James had best stay away,” Rebecca mumbled when Mr Ralfe walked away. “I cannot stand that idiot. Pray that he may stay out the whole day— the Lord listens to you.”
“The Lord listens to everyone, Becca. You need only have faith, but I shall surely pray. James hasn’t a thought to one’s boundaries.”
Bridget managed a silent prayer before servants brought in toast, cakes, preserves, and tea. Rebecca requested a cup of hot chocolate, earning a hard stare from one of the maids. The young servant was not aware Bridget was looking at her until she placed a small plum cake beside her. Seeing that someone had witnessed her expression, the maid blushed and lowered her head before leaving the room as quickly as she could. Bridget wasn’t insulted because she understood how demanding Rebecca could be and wished she could have conveyed this to the maid. Hot chocolate took time to make, a fact Bridget knew well because she regularly spent time in the kitchen with Cook and the kitchen maids. She enjoyed the atmosphere among the servants, preferring it to the friends her parents expected her to keep. The only exception was Lydia Robins, Bridget’s best friend since their nursery years. Her family was also middle class, but the Lockharts were wealthier with a larger estate. The only two estates larger than theirs in Alderbury were Clarendon and Longford.
“Did you say Lydia would meet us in Salisbury, dear?” Mrs Lockhart enquired of her.
“Yes, Mama,” Bridget replied. “Mr Robins needed to run an errand here, so Lydia will come along with him. We should see her around midday.”
“She must be relieved to get away from her siblings,” Rebecca remarked. “Having seven children seems ludicrous.”
Lydia was the eldest of seven children and often expected to mind them while her mother rested from the stress of so many offspring. Bridget had insisted that her friend spend the three days with them to get away from the chaos at home.
“I find it remarkable that all the children survived,” said Mr Lockhart. “Not everyone is so fortunate, not with the ever-present illnesses that strike the vulnerable.”
“Mrs Robins believes it’s her calling to have many children for the Lord,” said Mrs Lockhart. “I suppose having a reverend for a husband has encouraged that notion. Would you pass the pound cake, Rebecca?”
Rebecca cut herself a large slice before passing it to their mother. Failing to do so would mean no pound cake for her as Mrs Lockhart was known to finish an eight-inch cake on her own.
“Are you happy with the paintings you have chosen, Bridget?” Mr Lockhart asked. “I know you were undecided.”
“I have brought five with me, but I think I shall only choose three. I do not wish to spend money on five entries.”
Her father shook his head. “Do not fret, dear. Enter all five paintings— they will increase your chances of winning. I’m confident the judges will recognise talent when they see it.”
Bridget’s belly clenched slightly before a flurry of winged creatures took flight, bumping into each other in their haste. She imagined tiny, vexed faeries fluttering about, trying to escape the confines of her stomach and muttering angry words. The anxiety of having strangers critique her work never quite went away despite Bridget’s participation in several past competitions, but her nervousness never lasted too long.
“I certainly hope so,” she finally replied. “Lady Spencer is an accomplished painter with years of experience. I can only hope that she will see me as worthy of being part of her competition.”
“She will, dear,” her father assured her. “Your talent surpasses mine, and I was known to be a great painter when I competed with my peers. Simply believe in yourself.”
Bridget nodded. “Yes, Papa. I shall try. I think the challenge worries me the most. What will Lady Spencer ask us to paint? Will it be something I have never done before? There will be many artists who have painted for many years and whose skill far surpasses mine.”
“That kind of talk will push you out of your confidence, Bridget,” Mr Lockhart gently chided. “I will be with you every step of the way, so you needn’t worry.”
Mr Lockhart patted her hand and took up the Salisbury and Winchester Journal, opening where short articles were usually printed. The Simpson’s Salisbury Gazette sat on the table as well and would be read as soon as the other newspaper had reached its end.
“I see the competition has a page to itself,” Mr Lockhart remarked. “Lady Spencer has certainly spared no expense to make it a success.”
“Well, when you are as wealthy as she is, a silly painting competition is hardly a dent in her coffers,” said Mrs Lockhart. “I, for one, will not be able to stand about staring at paintings for the whole day. If I cannot go to Bath, then I suppose I shall make do with what Salisbury has to offer.”
“We could have our nuncheon at Gable Tea Shop, Mama,” said Rebecca excitedly.
“That was my very thought, dear,” Mrs Lockhart replied. “I think I shall start at the milliners and make my way to Leeton and Stein for a few accessories.”
“Would you get me a list of books from the library, Becca?” Bridget asked. “You’ll surely go to Catherine Street.”
“I do not particularly enjoy frequenting such places, Bree,” Rebecca complained. “You know this well.”
“But Fellows Circulating Library is the only one for miles around, and I need new reading material. I have a list that I shall give you before I leave for the competition tomorrow. Say you will do it?”
“Oh, very well,” the young woman sighed. “I suppose I can spend a few minutes getting your books, but you shall owe me a sizeable favour.”
“Siblings do not do things to obtain favours, Rebecca,” their father said. “Bridget does many things for you and never asks for anything in return.”
“That is the Christian thing to do,” Rebecca argued.
“Which you are, young lady,” said Mr Lockhart, his bushy eyebrows rising. “Or have you changed religion?”
“I’m as Anglican as the rest of you,” Rebecca declared.
It was rather amusing that one’s denomination was seen as one’s religion, and if one was not Anglican, they could not be good Christians. It wouldn’t do for Bridget to announce that she wished to be a non-conformist Protestant and had spoken to the only family in Alderbury who proudly admitted to being ‘Dissenters.’ Their devotion to the Lord seemed to outshine that of the Anglican narrative Bridget had known until her sixteenth year when she had stumbled across the family during her morning walk through the Clarendon Forest. Needless to say, her parents would not be impressed to know that she regularly visited the Granger family and broke bread with them every Monday.
With Rebecca’s allegiance to the Anglican denomination secured, Mr Lockhart took his newspapers and excused himself.
“I suppose we shall have an hour or two of doing nothing,” said Mrs Lockhart, sighing as she watched her husband’s retreating figure. “It would be the Christianly thing to see how Mrs Ralfe is faring now that she is with child. Perhaps her condition will mellow her vanity. Excuse me, girls.”
Mrs Lockhart pushed her chair out a tad too roughly and did not see that the stones on her brooch had caught the tablecloth to her when she bent forward. As she pulled away, the tablecloth went with her, dropping a pot of tea, a few pieces of toast, and a half-eaten plum cake on the floor. Bridget leapt from her chair and removed the offending cloth fibre that had wound itself around a protruding rhinestone in her mother’s brooch, freeing the distraught woman.
“Oh! Oh!” her mother cried, her cheeks darkening with embarrassment. “What a mess!”
“Go and see Mrs Ralfe, Mama,” Bridget urged. “We’ll take care of this mess with the servants.”
Mrs Lockhart was only too glad to leave the mess and the inquisitive eyes of the few guests in the dining hall. Bridget leaned down and picked up the broken teapot, dismayed at the waste of good china. This pot had likely cost a pretty penny and would only be good enough to be patched up and used for decorative purposes. It would hold no more liquid.
“Why are you cleaning up?” Rebecca asked. “Wait for the servants, Bree. They are likely on their way. No doubt Prinny would have heard the clatter all the way from his home in London. Why do our parents have to embarrass us so?”
The young woman had not budged from her position despite watching the unfortunate accident unfold before her very eyes.
“There is nothing wrong with a little help, Becca. Picking up a teapot is not a hardship.”
“I would never do any sort of work if I could help it,” Rebecca declared. “I would not even take to embroidery! I abhor the activity.”
“You detest any activity that does not directly put you in the line of vision of a nobleman.”
Rebecca smiled. “You are perfectly correct, dear sister. I shall marry a titled, wealthy man who will give me the praise, presence, and power I deserve.”
“The Great Ps,” said Bridget with a shake of her head.
“The only Ps,” Rebecca insisted. “You will likely marry a vicar’s son or a humble farmer. I cannot begin to comprehend why you refuse to set your sights higher.”
“We have different definitions of what higher is,” said Bridget, putting the smashed cake back on its platter. “I believe a high-quality man is courageous, honest, respectful, and kind. I would sooner remain unmarried than marry an upper-class man.”
“You are hopeless,” Rebecca sighed. “Oh, goodness! Do not turn around. Perhaps he’ll not see you and move along.”
“Who is it?” Bridget asked, turning around. “It should not matter whether or not he sees me because we look identical.”
“I said not to look!” Rebecca hissed. “Do you see what you have done? You have called Andrew Audley here.”
“Andrew?” Bridget repeated. “What on earth is he doing here?”
The man was keen on her, but Bridget wasn’t remotely interested. Andrew was a sweet person, but she felt nothing for him other than a basic friendship.
“I would not put it past the fellow to follow you here,” said Rebecca. “Does he know you have come to Salisbury for a painting competition?”
“I do not see how. Only Lydia and her family knew about it because I needed their permission to release her for three days. Are you certain it’s Andrew? Perhaps the gentleman merely looks like him.”
“I never make a mistake,” whispered Rebecca, soon stretching her lips into a smile. “Andrew! What a lovely surprise.”
Bridget said a silent prayer for patience before rising to her feet and turning to the young man.
“Good day, Andrew.”
“Good day, Bridget, Rebecca,” the man said with a sincere grin. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.”
Bridget let her sister speak to the man as a servant arrived with a bucket to put in all the broken crockery and food, producing a cloth from her apron pocket to wipe up what she could.
“We’ve come to support Bridget,” her sister replied. “She’s entering a painting competition.”
“What a coincidence!” the man exclaimed. “I have come for the very same thing.”
“I did not know you painted,” said Rebecca, mildly surprised.
“Oh, I do not paint, but I wished to see the work of the other artists. I’m interested in art, but I couldn’t paint a measly ant. Bridget is the one with the talent.”
Bridget did not respond but quietly spoke to the maid about needing a little soap and water to get the tea out of the carpet. She had learned all she knew about spills and stains from Mrs Robins, whom Bridget assisted once a week to feed the poor. The reverend’s wife had been a farmer’s daughter accustomed to manual work before Lydia’s father fell in love with her and married the woman within two months of meeting her. Despite marrying a gentleman, Mrs Robins insisted on overseeing the cleaning of the house, often doing it herself to show her servants how it should be done. However, having six children and giving birth to the seventh one last autumn had taken its toll on her, and she now spent most of her days in bed.
“I take it that you will wish to support Bridget at the painting competition?” Rebecca enquired, her voice taking on a devilish tone.
“Of course!” Andrew replied. “It would be my absolute pleasure to cheer her on. I’m certain she will win, or I’ll eat my hat.”
“Best you not make such oaths,” said Bridget, finally joining in the conversation. “Simply let your nay be nay, and your yea be yea.”
Andrew blushed, lowering his eyes. “I only meant that I’m confident your talent will surpass that of the other artists. I have seen your work and stand in awe of it.”
“Thank you for your vote of confidence, Andrew,” Bridget told him. “That is very kind of you. Did you arrive on your own?”
“Yes,” he said. “I have stopped for something to eat before moving on to my grandparents’ home.”
“How lovely,” said Bridget, recalling the sweet couple. “Would you pass our regards to them?”
“Certainly,” Andrew promised, looking at her with calf eyes.
Bridget inwardly sighed. She had done all she could possibly think of to deter him from carrying a candle in his heart for her, but Andrew was a stubborn and determined man. If only another woman could catch his fancy.
“Would you excuse us, Andrew?” said Bridget.
“Are you leaving already?” the man asked, disappointed.
“Not quite yet, but we do not wish to disturb your breakfast.”
“Oh no!” the man protested. “You could never disturb me, Bridget. Some company would do wonderfully.”
“Oh, no, no,” Bridget insisted, giving her sister a side look to help her. “We simply must go, but we will see you tomorrow at the competition.”
“Indeed,” said Rebecca with a smirk as she stood up. “Until tomorrow.”
Bridget looped her arm through her sister’s, pulling her away from the table after they had said their goodbyes.
“You enjoyed that far too much,” Bridget complained.
“Who am I to stand in the way of love?” Rebecca asked. “Andrew is so taken with you that he ceased to look at me once you started to talk to him. That is quite a feat considering that we are identical twins.”
“He will eventually understand that I am not interested and move on,” Bridget replied none too certainly.
“I would not object if he had been a nobleman, but he is only a mere man. I suppose his ties to Earl Radnor should count in his favour, but his lack of a title troubles me.”
“Oh, Becca,” said Bridget, exasperated with her sister’s high ambitions. “Let’s cease to talk about this topic and enjoy a walk through Mrs Ralfe’s garden.”
Rebecca agreed, but it would only be a matter of time before the subject was revisited. The woman was obsessed with the need to be someone of quality, a woman worth knowing. Rebecca believed that only a title and a heavy coffer would achieve that, while Bridget believed a kind soul was worth more than the world’s money. Perhaps her sister would one day come to that realisation as well.
“Colouring a Nobleman’s Heart” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
Bridget Lockhart is a kind soul with a true talent in painting. When she meets Lord Pembroke at an art competition, she feels insulted and irritated by his comments. However, a magical dance with him will be enough to change her mind. It won’t be long though until things take a turn for the worst when she discovers a betrayal that leaves her heartbroken…
Will Bridget’s newfound love have a chance to blossom despite the endless challenges?
Charles Campbell IV, is an honourable nobleman who is still grieving the loss of his beloved father. When his feelings for Bridget start to grow, his failure to reveal his true identity places him in an unexpected predicament that drives her away. Can Charles win Bridget’s trust back, or will he have to live with the knowledge that he lost the only woman he has ever truly loved?
Two guarded hearts caught in an emotional whirlwind…
Despite getting off to a bad start, Bridget and Charles share a chemistry that draws them together each passing day. However, Charles’ secret and Bridget’s twin sister’s wicked scheme threaten to damage the only love that could bring sunshine in their lives. Will Bridget and Charles fight the obstacles that pull them apart? Or will they lose every chance at a happily ever after together?
“Colouring a Nobleman’s Heart” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.