by Julia Quinn
“Where is the scintillating Lord Bridgerton?” he asked.
“Oh, somewhere. I don’t know. We’ll find each other at the end of the day, that is all that matters.” Kate turned to him with a remarkably serene smile. Annoyingly serene. “I must mingle,” she said, smiling at him as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Do enjoy yourself.” And she was off.
Gregory hung back, making polite conversation with a few of the other guests as he surreptitiously watched Miss Watson. She was chatting with two young gentlemen—annoying sops, the both of them—while Lady Lucinda stood politely to the side. And while Miss Watson did not appear to be flirting with either, she certainly was paying them more attention than he’d received that evening.
And there was Lady Lucinda, smiling prettily, taking it all in.
Gregory’s eyes narrowed. Had she double-crossed him? She didn’t seem the sort. But then again, their acquaintance was barely twenty-four hours old. How well did he know her, really? She could have an ulterior motive. And she might be a very fine actress, with dark, mysterious secrets lying below the surface of her—
Oh, blast it all. He was going mad. He would bet his last penny that Lady Lucinda could not lie to save her life. She was sunny and open and most definitely not mysterious. She had meant well, of that much he was certain.
But her advice had been excremental.
He caught her eye. A faint expression of apology seemed to flit across her face, and he thought she might have shrugged.
Shrugged? What the hell did that mean?
He took a step forward.
Then he stopped.
Then he thought about taking another step.
No.
Yes.
No.
Maybe?
Damn it. He didn’t know what to do. It was a singularly unpleasant sensation.
He looked back at Lady Lucinda, quite certain that his expression was not one of sweetness and light. Really, this was all her fault.
But of course now she wasn’t looking at him.
He did not shift his gaze.
She turned back. Her eyes widened, hopefully with alarm.
Good. Now they were getting somewhere. If he couldn’t feel the bliss of Miss Watson’s regard, then at least he could make Lady Lucinda feel the misery of his.
Truly, there were times that just didn’t call for maturity and tact.
He remained at the edge of the room, finally beginning to enjoy himself. There was something perversely entertaining about imagining Lady Lucinda as a small defenseless hare, not quite sure if or when she might meet her untimely end.
Not, of course, that Gregory could ever assign himself the role of hunter. His piss-poor marksmanship guaranteed that he couldn’t hit anything that moved, and it was a damned good thing he wasn’t responsible for acquiring his own food.
But he could imagine himself the fox.
He smiled, his first real one of the evening.
And then he knew that the fates were on his side, because he saw Lady Lucinda make her excuses and slip out the conservatory door, presumably to attend to her needs. As Gregory was standing on his own in the back corner, no one noticed when he exited the room through a different door.
And when Lady Lucinda passed by the doorway to the library, he was able to yank her in without making a sound.
Five
In which Our Hero and Heroine have a most intriguing conversation.
One moment Lucy was walking down the corridor, her nose scrunched in thought as she tried to recall the location of the nearest washroom, and the next she was hurtling through air, or at the very least tripping over her feet, only to find herself bumping up against a decidedly large, decidedly warm, and decidedly human form.
“Don’t scream,” came a voice. One she knew.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” Good heavens, this seemed out of character. Lucy wasn’t quite certain if she ought to be scared.
“We need to talk,” he said, letting go of her arm. But he locked the door and pocketed the key.
“Now?” Lucy asked. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she realized they were in the library. “Here?” And then a more pertinent question sprang to mind. “Alone?”
He scowled. “I’m not going to ravish you, if that’s what worries you.”
She felt her jaw clench. She hadn’t thought he would, but he didn’t need to make his honorable behavior sound so much like an insult.
“Well, then, what is this about?” she demanded. “If I am caught here in your company, there will be the devil to pay. I’m practically engaged, you know.”
“I know,” he said. In that sort of tone. As if she’d informed him of it ad nauseam, when she knew for a fact she had not mentioned it more than once. Or possibly twice.
“Well, I am,” she grumbled, just knowing that she would think of the perfect retort two hours later.
“What,” he demanded, “is going on?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, even though she knew quite well what he was talking about.
“Miss Watson,” he ground out.
“Hermione?” As if there was another Miss Watson. But it did buy her a bit of time.
“Your advice,” he said, his gaze boring into hers, “was abysmal.”
He was correct, of course, but she’d been hoping he might not have noticed.
“Right,” she said, eyeing him warily as he crossed his arms. It wasn’t the most welcoming of gestures, but she had to admit that he carried it off well. She’d heard that his reputation was one of joviality and fun, neither of which was presently in evidence, but, well, hell hath no fury and all that. She supposed one didn’t need to be a woman to feel a tad bit underwhelmed at the prospect of unrequited love.
And as she glanced hesitantly at his handsome face, it occurred to her that he probably didn’t have much experience with unrequited love. Really, who would say no to this gentleman?
Besides Hermione. But she said no to everyone. He shouldn’t take it personally.
“Lady Lucinda?” he drawled, waiting for a response.
“Of course,” she stalled, wishing he didn’t seem so very large in the closed room. “Right. Right.”
He lifted a brow. “Right.”
She swallowed. His tone was one of vaguely paternal indulgence, as if she were mildly amusing but not quite worthy of notice. She knew that tone well. It was a favorite of older brothers, for use with younger sisters. And any friends they might bring home for school holidays.
She hated that tone.
But she plowed on nonetheless and said, “I agree that my plan did not turn out to be the best course of action, but truthfully, I am not certain that anything else would have been an improvement.”
This did not appear to be what he wished to hear. She cleared her throat. Twice. And then again. “I’m terribly sorry,” she added, because she did feel badly, and it was her experience that apologies always worked when one wasn’t quite certain what to say. “But I really did think—”
“You told me,” he interrupted, “that if I ignored Miss Watson—”
“I didn’t tell you to ignore her!”
“You most certainly did.”
“No. No, I did not. I told you to back away a bit. To try to be not quite so obvious in your besottedment.”
It wasn’t a word, but really, Lucy couldn’t be bothered.
“Very well,” he replied, and his tone shifted from slightly-superior-older-brother to outright condescension. “If I wasn’t meant to ignore her, just what precisely do you think I should have done?”
“Well . . .” She scratched the back of her neck, which suddenly felt as if it were sprouting the most horrid of hives. Or maybe it was just nerves. She’d almost rather the hives. She didn’t much like this queasy feeling growing in her stomach as she tried to think of something reasonable to say.
“Other than what I did, that is,” he added.
“I’m not sure,” she ground out. “I haven’t oceans of exp
erience with this sort of thing.”
“Oh, now you tell me.”
“Well, it was worth a try,” she shot back. “Heaven knows, you certainly weren’t succeeding on your own.”
His mouth clamped into a line, and she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile for hitting a nerve. She wasn’t normally a mean-spirited person, but the occasion did seem to call for just a little bit of self-congratulation.
“Very well,” he said tightly, and while she would have preferred that he apologized and then said—explicitly—that she was right and he was wrong, she supposed that in some circles, “Very well” might pass for an acknowledgment of error.
And judging by his face, it was the most she was likely to receive.
She nodded regally. It seemed the best course of action. Act like a queen and maybe she would be treated like one.
“Have you any other brilliant ideas?”
Or not.
“Well,” she said, pretending that he’d actually sounded as if he cared about the answer, “I don’t think it’s so much a question of what to do as why what you did didn’t work.”
He blinked.
“No one has ever given up on Hermione,” Lucy said with a touch of impatience. She hated when people did not understand her meaning immediately. “Her disinterest only makes them redouble their efforts. It’s embarrassing, really.”
He looked vaguely affronted. “I beg your pardon.”
“Not you,” Lucy said quickly.
“My relief is palpable.”
Lucy should have taken offense at his sarcasm, but his sense of humor was so like her own she couldn’t help but enjoy it. “As I was saying,” she continued, because she always did like to remain on the topic at hand, “no one ever seems to admit defeat and move on to a more attainable lady. Once everyone realizes that everyone else wants her, they seem to go mad. It’s as if she’s nothing but a prize to be won.”
“Not to me,” he said quietly.
Her eyes snapped to his face, and she realized instantly that he meant that Hermione was more than a prize. He cared for her. He truly cared for her. Lucy wasn’t sure why, or even how, as he had barely made her friend’s acquaintance. And Hermione hadn’t been terribly forthcoming in her conversations, not that she ever was with the gentlemen who pursued her. But Mr. Bridgerton cared for the woman inside, not just the perfect face. Or at least he thought he did.
She nodded slowly, letting all this sink in. “I thought that perhaps if someone actually stopped dancing attendance on her, she might find it intriguing. Not,” she hastened to assure him, “that Hermione sees all of this gentlemanly attention as her due. Quite to the contrary. To be honest, for the most part it’s a nuisance.”
“Your flattery knows no bounds.” But he was smiling—just a little bit—as he said it.
“I’ve never been very skilled at flattery,” she admitted.
“Apparently not.”
She smiled wryly. He hadn’t meant his words as an insult, and she wasn’t going to take them as such. “She will come around.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do. She will have to. Hermione is a romantic, but she understands how the world works. Deep down she knows she cannot marry Mr. Edmonds. It simply cannot be done. Her parents will disown her, or at the very least they will threaten to, and she is not the sort to risk that.”
“If she really loved someone,” he said softly, “she would risk anything.”
Lucy froze. There was something in his voice. Something rough, something powerful. It shivered across her skin, raising goosebumps, leaving her strangely unable to move.
And she had to ask. She had to. She had to know. “Would you?” she whispered. “Would you risk anything?”
He didn’t move, but his eyes burned. And he didn’t hesitate. “Anything.”
Her lips parted. With surprise? Awe? Something else?
“Would you?” he countered.
“I . . . I’m not sure.” She shook her head, and she had the queerest feeling that she didn’t quite know herself any longer. Because it ought to have been an easy question. It would have been, just a few days ago. She would have said of course not, and she would have said she was far too practical for that sort of nonsense.
And most of all, she would have said that that sort of love did not exist, anyway.
But something had changed, and she didn’t know what. Something had shifted within her, leaving her off-balance.
Unsure.
“I don’t know,” she said again. “I suppose it would depend.”
“On what?” And his voice grew even softer. Impossibly soft, and yet she could make out every word.
“On . . .” She didn’t know. How could she not know what it would depend upon? She felt lost, and rootless, and . . . and . . . and then the words just came. Slipped softly from her lips. “On love, I suppose.”
“On love.”
“Yes.” Good heavens, had she ever had such a conversation? Did people actually talk about such things? And were there even any answers?
Or was she the only person in the world who didn’t understand?
Something caught in her throat, and Lucy suddenly felt far too alone in her ignorance. He knew, and Hermione knew, and the poets claimed they did as well. It seemed she was the only lost soul, the only person who didn’t understand what love was, who wasn’t even sure it existed, or if it did, whether it existed for her.
“On how it felt,” she finally said, because she didn’t know what else to say. “On how love felt. How it feels.”
His eyes met hers. “Do you think there is a variation?”
She hadn’t expected another question. She was still reeling from the last one.
“How love feels,” he clarified. “Do you think it could possibly be different for different people? If you loved someone, truly and deeply, wouldn’t it feel like . . . like everything?”
She didn’t know what to say.
He turned and took a few steps toward the window. “It would consume you,” he said. “How could it not?”
Lucy just stared at his back, mesmerized by the way his finely cut coat stretched across his shoulders. It was the strangest thing, but she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from the little spot where his hair touched his collar.
She almost jumped when he turned around. “There would be no doubting it,” he said, his voice low with the intensity of a true believer. “You would simply know. It would feel like everything you’d ever dreamed, and then it would feel like more.”
He stepped toward her. Once. Then again. And then he said, “That, I think, is how love must feel.”
And in that moment Lucy knew that she was not destined to feel that way. If it existed—if love existed the way Gregory Bridgerton imagined it—it did not wait for her. She couldn’t imagine such a maelstrom of emotion. And she would not enjoy it. That much she knew. She didn’t want to feel lost to the whirlwind, at the mercy of something beyond her control.
She didn’t want misery. She didn’t want despair. And if that meant she also had to forsake bliss and rapture, so be it.
She lifted her eyes to his, made breathless by the gravity of her own revelations. “It’s too much,” she heard herself say. “It would be too much. I wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .”
Slowly, he shook his head. “You would have no choice. It would be beyond your control. It just . . . happens.”
Her mouth parted with surprise. “That’s what she said.”
“Who?”
And when she answered, her voice was strangely detached, as if the words were being drawn straight from her memory. “Hermione,” she said. “That’s what Hermione said about Mr. Edmonds.”
Gregory’s lips tightened at the corners. “Did she?”
Lucy slowly nodded. “Almost precisely. She said it just happens. In an instant.”
“She said that?” The words sounded like an echo, and indeed, that was all he could do—whisper inane questions, looking
for verification, hoping that maybe he had misheard, and she would reply with something entirely different.
But of course she did not. In fact, it was worse than he’d feared. She said, “She was in the garden, that’s what she said, just looking at the roses, and then she saw him. And she knew.”
Gregory just stared at her. His chest felt hollow, his throat tight. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Damn it, this was the one thing he didn’t want to hear.
She looked up at him then, and her eyes, gray in the dim light of the night, found his in an oddly intimate manner. It was as if he knew her, knew what she would say, and how her face would look when she said it. It was strange, and terrifying, and most of all, discomforting, because this wasn’t the Honorable Miss Hermione Watson.
This was Lady Lucinda Abernathy, and she was not the woman with whom he intended to spend the rest of his life.
She was perfectly nice, perfectly intelligent, and certainly more than attractive. But Lucy Abernathy was not for him. And he almost laughed, because it all would have been so much easier if his heart had flipped the first time he saw her. She might be practically engaged, but she wasn’t in love. Of that he was certain.
But Hermione Watson . . .
“What did she say?” he whispered, dreading the answer.
Lady Lucinda tilted her head to the side, and she looked nothing so much as puzzled. “She said that she didn’t even see his face. Just the back of his head—”
Just the back of her neck.
“—and then he turned, and she thought she heard music, and all she could think was—”
I am wrecked.
“—‘I am ruined.’ That is what she said to me.” She looked up at him, her head still tilting curiously to the side. “Can you imagine? Ruined? Of all things. I couldn’t quite grasp it.”
But he could. He could.
Exactly.
He looked at Lady Lucinda, and he saw that she was watching his face. She looked puzzled still. And concerned. And just a little bit bewildered when she asked, “Don’t you find it odd?”
“Yes.” Just one word, but with his entire heart wrapped around it. Because it was strange. It cut like a knife. She wasn’t supposed to feel that way about someone else.