by Julia Quinn
“I can’t very well put her in black,” Lucy said. It was the only hue she could think of that turned Hermione a bit sallow.
“No, no you couldn’t, could you?” Richard paused, clearly pondering this, and Lucy stared at him in disbelief. Her brother, who had to be regularly informed of what was fashionable and what was not, was actually interested in the shade of Hermione’s attendant dress.
“Hermione can wear whatever color she desires,” Lucy decided. And why not? Of all the people who would be in attendance, there was no one who meant more to her than her closest friend.
“That’s very kind of you,” Richard said. He looked at her thoughtfully. “You’re a good friend, Lucy.”
Lucy knew she should have felt complimented, but instead she just wondered why it had taken him so long to realize it.
Richard gave her a smile, then looked down at the flower, still in his hands. He held it up, twirled it a few times, the stem rolling back and forth between his thumb and index finger. He blinked, his brow furrowing a touch, then he placed the flower in front of her dress. They were the same blue—slightly purple, maybe just a little bit gray.
“You should wear this color,” he said. “You look quite lovely just now.”
He sounded a little surprised, so Lucy knew that he was not just saying it. “Thank you,” she said. She’d always thought the hue made her eyes a bit brighter. Richard was the first person besides Hermione ever to comment on it. “Perhaps I will.”
“Shall we walk back to the house?” he asked. “I am sure you will wish to tell Hermione everything.”
She paused, then shook her head. “No, thank you. I think I shall remain outside for a short while.” She motioned to a spot near the path that led down to the lake. “There is a bench not too far away. And the sun feels rather pleasant on my face.”
“Are you certain?” Richard squinted up at the sky. “You’re always saying you don’t want to get freckles.”
“I already have freckles, Richard. And I won’t be very long.” She hadn’t planned to come outside when she’d gone to greet him, so she had not brought her bonnet. But it was early yet in the day. A few minutes of sunshine would not destroy her complexion.
And besides that, she wanted to. Wouldn’t it be nice to do something just because she wanted to, and not because it was expected?
Richard nodded. “I will see you at dinner?”
“I believe it is laid at half one.”
He grinned. “You would know.”
“There is nothing like a brother,” she grumbled.
“And there is nothing like a sister.” He leaned over and kissed her brow, catching her completely off-guard.
“Oh, Richard,” she muttered, aghast at her soppy reaction. She never cried. In fact, she was known for her complete lack of flowerpot tendencies.
“Go on,” he said, with enough affection to send one tear rolling down her cheek. Lucy brushed it away, embarrassed that he’d seen it, embarrassed that she’d done it.
Richard squeezed her hand and motioned with his head toward the south lawn. “Go stare at the trees and do whatever you need to do. You’ll feel better after you have a few moments to yourself.”
“I don’t feel poorly,” Lucy said quickly. “There is no need for me to feel better.”
“Of course not. You are merely surprised.”
“Exactly.”
Exactly. Exactly. Really, she was delighted, really. She’d been waiting for this moment for years. Wouldn’t it be nice to have everything settled? She liked order. She liked being settled.
It was just the surprise. That was all. Rather like when one saw a friend in an unexpected location and almost didn’t recognize her. She hadn’t expected the announcement now. Here, at the Bridgerton house party. And that was the only reason she felt so odd.
Really.
Eight
In which Our Heroine learns a truth about her brother (but does not believe it), Our Hero learns a secret about Miss Watson (but is not concerned by it), and both learn a truth about themselves (but are not aware of it).
An hour later, Gregory was still congratulating himself on the masterful combination of strategy and timing that had led to his outing with Miss Watson. They had had a perfectly lovely time, and Lord Fennsworth had—well, Fennsworth may have also had a perfectly lovely time, but if so, it had been in the company of his sister and not the lovely Hermione Watson.
Victory was indeed sweet.
As promised, Gregory had taken her on a stroll through the Aubrey Hall gardens, impressing them both with his stupendous recall of six different horticultural names. Delphinium, even, though in truth that was all Lady Lucinda’s doing.
The others were, just to give credit where it was due: rose, daisy, peony, hyacinth, and grass. All in all, he thought he’d acquitted himself well. Details never had been his forte. And truly, it was all just a game by that point.
Miss Watson appeared to be warming to his company, as well. She might not have been sighing and fluttering her lashes, but the veil of polite disinterest was gone, and twice he had even made her laugh.
She hadn’t made him laugh, but he wasn’t so certain she’d been trying to, and besides, he had certainly smiled. On more than one occasion.
Which was a good thing. Really. It was rather pleasant to once again have his wits about him. He was no longer struck by that punched-in-the-chest feeling, which one would think had to be good for his respiratory health. He was discovering he rather enjoyed breathing, an undertaking he seemed to find difficult while gazing upon the back of Miss Watson’s neck.
Gregory frowned, pausing in his solitary jaunt down to the lake. It was a rather odd reaction. And surely he’d seen the back of her neck that morning. Hadn’t she run ahead to smell one of the flowers?
Hmmm. Perhaps not. He couldn’t quite recall.
“Good day, Mr. Bridgerton.”
He turned, surprised to see Lady Lucinda sitting by herself on a nearby stone bench. It was an odd location for a bench, he’d always thought, facing nothing but a bunch of trees. But maybe that was the point. Turning one’s back on the house—and its many inhabitants. His sister Francesca had often said that after a day or two with the entire Bridgerton family, trees could be quite good company.
Lady Lucinda smiled faintly in greeting, and it struck him that she didn’t look quite herself. Her eyes seemed tired, and her posture was not quite straight.
She looks vulnerable, he thought, rather unexpectedly. Her brother must have brought unhappy tidings.
“You’re wearing a somber expression,” he said, walking politely to her side. “May I join you?”
She nodded, offering him a bit of a smile. But it wasn’t a smile. Not quite.
He took a seat beside her. “Did you have an opportunity to visit with your brother?”
She nodded. “He passed along some family news. It was . . . not important.”
Gregory tilted his head as he regarded her. She was lying, clearly. But he did not press further. If she’d wanted to share, she would have done. And besides, it wasn’t his business in any case.
He was curious, though.
She stared off in the distance, presumably at some tree. “It’s quite pleasant here.”
It was an oddly bland statement, coming from her.
“Yes,” he said. “The lake is just a short walk beyond these trees. I often come in this direction when I wish to think.”
She turned suddenly. “You do?”
“Why are you so surprised?”
“I—I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I suppose you don’t seem the sort.”
“To think?” Well, really.
“Of course not,” she said, giving him a peevish look. “I meant the sort who needed to get away to do so.”
“Pardon my presumptuousness, but you don’t seem the sort, either.”
She thought about that for a moment. “I’m not.”
He chuckled at that. “You must have had quite
a conversation with your brother.”
She blinked in surprise. But she didn’t elaborate. Which again didn’t seem like her. “What are you here to think about?” she asked.
He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could utter a word, she said, “Hermione, I suppose.”
There seemed little point in denying it. “Your brother is in love with her.”
That seemed to snap her out of her fog. “Richard? Don’t be daft.”
Gregory looked at her in disbelief. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen it.”
“I can’t believe you have. For heaven’s sake, she thinks of him as a brother.”
“That may well be true, but he does not return the sentiment.”
“Mr. Br—”
But he halted her with a lifted hand. “Now, now, Lady Lucinda, I daresay I have been witness to more fools in love than you have—”
The laughter quite literally exploded from her mouth. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, once she was able, “I have been constant companion these last three years to Hermione Watson. Hermione Watson,” she added, just in case he hadn’t understood her meaning. “Trust me when I tell you there is no one who has been witness to more lovesick fools than I.”
For a moment Gregory did not know how to respond. She did have a point.
“Richard is not in love with Hermione,” she said with a dismissive shake of her head. And a snort. A ladylike one, but still. She snorted at him.
“I beg to differ,” he said, because he had seven siblings, and he certainly did not know how to gracefully bow out of an argument.
“He can’t be in love with her,” she said, sounding quite certain of her statement. “There is someone else.”
“Oh, really?” Gregory didn’t even bother to get his hopes up.
“Really. He’s always nattering on about a girl he met through one of his friends,” she said. “I think it was someone’s sister. I can’t recall her name. Mary, perhaps.”
Mary. Hmmph. He knew that Fennsworth had no imagination.
“Ergo,” Lady Lucinda continued, “he is not in love with Hermione.”
At least she seemed rather more like herself. The world seemed a bit steadier with Lucy Abernathy yipping along like a terrier. He’d felt almost off-balance when she’d been staring morosely at the trees.
“Believe what you will,” Gregory said with a lofty sigh. “But know this: your brother will be nursing a broken heart ere long.”
“Oh, really?” she scoffed. “Because you are so convinced of your own success?”
“Because I’m convinced of his lack of it.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“And now you are defending him? Just moments ago you said he wasn’t interested.”
“He’s not.” She bit her lip. “But he is my brother. And if he were interested, I would have to support him, wouldn’t you think?”
Gregory lifted a brow. “My, how quickly your loyalties shift.”
She looked almost apologetic. “He is an earl. And you . . . are not.”
“You shall make a fine society mama.”
Her back stiffened. “I beg your pardon.”
“Auctioning your friend off to the highest bidder. You’ll be well-practiced by the time you have a daughter.”
She jumped to her feet, her eyes flashing with anger and indignation. “That is a terrible thing to say. My most important consideration has always been Hermione’s happiness. And if she can be made happy by an earl . . . who happens to be my brother . . .”
Oh, brilliant. Now she was going to try to match Hermione with Fennsworth. Well done, Gregory. Well done, indeed.
“She can be made happy by me,” he said, rising to his feet. And it was true. He’d made her laugh twice this morning, even if she had not done the same for him.
“Of course she can,” Lady Lucinda said. “And heavens, she probably will if you don’t muck it up. Richard is too young to marry, anyway. He’s only two-and-twenty.”
Gregory eyed her curiously. Now she sounded as if she were back to him as the best candidate. What was she about, anyway?
“And,” she added, impatiently tucking a lock of her dark blond hair behind her ear when the wind whipped it into her face, “he is not in love with her. I’m quite certain of it.”
Neither one of them seemed to have anything to add to that, so, since they were both already on their feet, Gregory motioned toward the house. “Shall we return?”
She nodded, and they departed at a leisurely pace.
“This still does not solve the problem of Mr. Edmonds,” Gregory remarked.
She gave him a funny look.
“What was that for?” he demanded.
And she actually giggled. Well, perhaps not a giggle, but she did do that breathy thing with her nose people did when they were rather amused. “It was nothing,” she said, still smiling. “I’m rather impressed, actually, that you didn’t pretend to not remember his name.”
“What, should I have called him Mr. Edwards, and then Mr. Ellington, and then Mr. Edifice, and—”
Lucy gave him an arch look. “You would have lost all of my respect, I assure you.”
“The horror. Oh, the horror,” he said, laying one hand over his heart.
She glanced at him over her shoulder with a mischievous smile. “It was a near miss.”
He looked unconcerned. “I’m a terrible shot, but I do know how to dodge a bullet.”
Now that made her curious. “I’ve never known a man who would admit to being a bad shot.”
He shrugged. “There are some things one simply can’t avoid. I shall always be the Bridgerton who can be bested at close range by his sister.”
“The one you told me about?”
“All of them,” he admitted.
“Oh.” She frowned. There ought to be some sort of prescribed statement for such a situation. What did one say when a gentleman confessed to a shortcoming? She couldn’t recall ever hearing one do so before, but surely, sometime in the course of history, some gentleman had. And someone would have had to make a reply.
She blinked, waiting for something meaningful to come to mind. Nothing did.
And then—
“Hermione can’t dance.” It just popped out of her mouth, with no direction whatsoever from her head.
Good gracious, that was meant to be meaningful?
He stopped, turning to her with a curious expression. Or maybe it was more that he was startled. Probably both. And he said the only thing she imagined one could say under the circumstances:
“I beg your pardon?”
Lucy repeated it, since she couldn’t take it back. “She can’t dance. That’s why she won’t dance. Because she can’t.”
And then she waited for a hole to open up in the ground so that she could jump into it. It didn’t help that he was presently staring at her as if she were slightly deranged.
She managed a feeble smile, which was all that filled the impossibly long moment until he finally said, “There must be a reason you are telling this to me.”
Lucy let out a nervous exhale. He didn’t sound angry—more curious than anything else. And she hadn’t meant to insult Hermione. But when he said he couldn’t shoot, it just seemed to make an odd sort of sense to tell him that Hermione couldn’t dance. It fit, really. Men were supposed to shoot, and women were supposed to dance, and trusty best friends were supposed to keep their foolish mouths shut.
Clearly, all three of them needed a bit of instruction.
“I thought to make you feel better,” Lucy finally said. “Because you can’t shoot.”
“Oh, I can shoot,” he said. “That’s the easy part. I just can’t aim.”
Lucy grinned. She couldn’t help herself. “I could show you.”
His head swung around. “Oh, gad. Don’t tell me you know how to shoot.”
She perked up. “Quite well, actually.”
He shook his head. “The day only needed this.”
&nb
sp; “It’s an admirable skill,” she protested.
“I’m sure it is, but I’ve already four females in my life who can best me. The last thing I need is—oh, gad again, please don’t say Miss Watson is a crack shot as well.”
Lucy blinked. “Do you know, I’m not sure.”
“Well, there is still hope there, then.”
“Isn’t that peculiar?” she murmured.
He gave her a deadpan look. “That I have hope?”
“No, that—” She couldn’t say it. Good heavens, it sounded silly even to her.
“Ah, then you must think it peculiar that you don’t know whether Miss Watson can shoot.”
And there it was. He guessed it, anyway. “Yes,” she admitted. “But then again, why would I? Marksmanship wasn’t a part of the curriculum at Miss Moss’s.”
“To the great relief of gentlemen everywhere, I assure you.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Who did teach you?”
“My father,” she said, and it was strange, because her lips parted before she answered. For a moment she thought she’d been surprised by the question, but it hadn’t been that.
She’d been surprised by her answer.
“Good heavens,” he responded, “were you even out of leading strings?”
“Just barely,” Lucy said, still puzzling over her odd reaction. It was probably just because she didn’t often think of her father. He had been gone so long that there weren’t many questions to which the late Earl of Fennsworth constituted the reply.
“He thought it an important skill,” she continued. “Even for girls. Our home is near the Dover coast, and there were always smugglers. Most of them were friendly—everyone knew who they were, even the magistrate.”
“He must have enjoyed French brandy,” Mr. Bridgerton murmured.
Lucy smiled in recollection. “As did my father. But not all of the smugglers were known to us. Some, I’m sure, were quite dangerous. And . . .” She leaned toward him. One really couldn’t say something like this without leaning in. Where would the fun be in that?
“And . . . ?” he prompted.
She lowered her voice. “I think there were spies.”
“In Dover? Ten years ago? Absolutely there were spies. Although I do wonder at the advisability of arming the infant population.”