by Julia Quinn
He simply liked Lucy. Considered her a friend. And he wished for her to have a bit of fun.
It was admirable, really.
“I shall have your sister send an invitation with a personal note,” Violet mused. “And perhaps I shall call upon her uncle directly. I shall lie and tell him I met her in the park.”
“Lie?” Gregory’s lips twitched. “You?”
His mother’s smile was positively diabolical. “It won’t matter if he does not believe me. It is one of the advantages of advanced years. No one dares to countermand an old dragon like me.”
Gregory lifted his brows, refusing to fall for her bait. Violet Bridgerton might have been the mother of eight adult children, but with her milky, unlined complexion and wide smile, she did not look like anyone who could be termed old. In fact, Gregory had often wondered why she did not remarry. There was no shortage of dashing widowers clamoring to take her in to supper or stand up for a dance. Gregory suspected any one of them would have leaped at the chance to marry his mother, if only she would indicate interest.
But she did not, and Gregory had to admit that he was rather selfishly glad of it. Despite her meddling, there was something quite comforting in her single-minded devotion to her children and grandchildren.
His father had been dead for over two dozen years. Gregory hadn’t even the slightest memory of the man. But his mother had spoken of him often, and whenever she did, her voice changed. Her eyes softened, and the corners of her lips moved—just a little, just enough for Gregory to see the memories on her face.
It was in those moments that he understood why she was so adamant that her children choose their spouses for love.
He’d always planned to comply. It was ironic, really, given the farce with Miss Watson.
Just then a maid arrived with a tea tray, which she set on the low table between them.
“Cook made your favorite biscuits,” his mother said, handing him a cup prepared exactly as he liked it—no sugar, one tiny splash of milk.
“You anticipated my visit?” he asked.
“Not this afternoon, no,” Violet said, taking a sip of her own tea. “But I knew you could not stay away for long. Eventually you would need sustenance.”
Gregory offered her a lopsided smile. It was true. Like many men of his age and status, he did not have room in his apartments for a proper kitchen. He ate at parties, and at his club, and, of course, at the homes of his mother and siblings.
“Thank you,” he murmured, accepting the plate onto which she’d piled six biscuits.
Violet regarded the tea tray for a moment, her head cocked slightly to the side, then placed two on her own plate. “I am quite touched,” she said, looking up at him, “that you seek my assistance with Lady Lucinda.”
“Are you?” he asked curiously. “Who else would I turn to with such a matter?”
She took a delicate bite of her biscuit. “No, I am the obvious choice, of course, but you must realize that you rarely turn to your family when you need something.”
Gregory went still, then turned slowly in her direction. His mother’s eyes—so blue and so unsettlingly perceptive—were fixed on his face. What could she possibly have meant by that? No one could love his family better than he did.
“That cannot be true,” he finally said.
But his mother just smiled. “Do you think not?”
His jaw clenched. “I do think not.”
“Oh, do not take offense,” she said, reaching across the table to pat him on the arm. “I do not mean to say that you do not love us. But you do prefer to do things for yourself.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, finding yourself a wife—”
He cut her off right then and there. “Are you trying to tell me that Anthony, Benedict, and Colin welcomed your interference when they were looking for wives?”
“No, of course not. No man does. But—” She flitted one of her hands through the air, as if she could erase the sentence. “Forgive me. It was a poor example.”
She let out a small sigh as she gazed out the window, and Gregory realized that she was prepared to let the subject drop. To his surprise, however, he was not.
“What is wrong with preferring to do things for oneself?” he asked.
She turned to him, looking for all the world as if she had not just introduced a potentially discomforting topic. “Why, nothing. I am quite proud that I raised such self-sufficient sons. After all, three of you must make your own way in the world.” She paused, considering this, then added, “With some help from Anthony, of course. I should be quite disappointed if he did not watch out for the rest of you.”
“Anthony is exceedingly generous,” Gregory said quietly.
“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Violet said, smiling. “With his money and his time. He is quite like your father in this way.” She looked at him with wistful eyes. “I am so sorry you never knew him.”
“Anthony was a good father to me.” Gregory said it because he knew it would bring her joy, but he also said it because it was true.
His mother’s lips pursed and tightened, and for a moment Gregory thought she might cry. He immediately retrieved his handkerchief and held it out to her.
“No, no, that’s not necessary,” she said, even as she took it and dabbed her eyes. “I am quite all right. Merely a little—” She swallowed, then smiled. But her eyes still glistened. “Someday you will understand—when you have children of your own—how lovely it was to hear that.”
She set the handkerchief down and picked up her tea. Sipping it thoughtfully, she let out a little sigh of contentment.
Gregory smiled to himself. His mother adored tea. It went quite beyond the usual British devotion. She claimed it helped her to think, which he would normally have lauded as a good thing, except that all too often he was the subject of her thoughts, and after her third cup she had usually devised a frighteningly thorough plan to marry him off to the daughter of whichever friend she had most recently paid a morning call to.
But this time, apparently, her mind was not on marriage. She set her cup down, and, just when he thought she was ready to change the subject, she said, “But he is not your father.”
He paused, his own teacup halfway to his mouth. “I beg your pardon.”
“Anthony. He is not your father.”
“Yes?” he said slowly, because really, what could possibly be her point?
“He is your brother,” she continued. “As are Benedict and Colin, and when you were small—oh, how you wished to be a part of their affairs.”
Gregory held himself very still.
“But of course they were not interested in bringing you along, and really, who can blame them?”
“Who indeed?” he murmured tightly.
“Oh, do not take offense, Gregory,” his mother said, turning to him with an expression that was a little bit contrite and little bit impatient. “They were wonderful brothers, and truly, very patient most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“Some of the time,” she amended. “But you were so much smaller than they were. There simply wasn’t much in common for you to do. And then when you grew older, well . . .”
Her words trailed off, and she sighed. Gregory leaned forward. “Well?” he prompted.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Mother.”
“Very well,” she said, and he knew right then and there that she knew exactly what she was saying, and that any sighs and lingering words were entirely for effect.
“I think that you think you must prove yourself to them,” Violet said.
He regarded her with surprise. “Don’t I?”
His mother’s lips parted, but she made no sound for several seconds. “No,” she finally said. “Why would you think you would?”
What a silly question. It was because— It was because—
“It’s not the sort of thing one can easily put into words,” he muttered.
“Really?” She sipped at her tea.
“I must say, that was not the sort of reaction I had anticipated.”
Gregory felt his jaw clench. “What, precisely, did you anticipate?”
“Precisely?” She looked up at him with just enough humor in her eyes to completely irritate him. “I’m not certain that I can be precise, but I suppose I had expected you to deny it.”
“Just because I do not wish it to be the case does not render it untrue,” he said with a deliberately casual shrug.
“Your brothers respect you,” Violet said.
“I did not say they do not.”
“They recognize that you are your own man.”
That, Gregory thought, was not precisely true.
“It is not a sign of weakness to ask for help,” Violet continued.
“I have never believed that it was,” he replied. “Didn’t I just seek your assistance?”
“With a matter that could only be handled by a female,” she said, somewhat dismissively. “You had no choice but to call on me.”
It was true, so Gregory made no comment.
“You are used to having things done for you,” she said.
“Mother.”
“Hyacinth is the same way,” she said quickly. “I think it must be a symptom of being the youngest. And truly, I did not mean to imply that either of you is lazy or spoiled or mean-spirited in any way.”
“What did you mean, then?” he asked.
She looked up with a slightly mischievous smile. “Precisely?”
He felt a bit of his tension slipping away. “Precisely,” he said, with a nod to acknowledge her wordplay.
“I merely meant that you have never had to work particularly hard for anything. You’re quite lucky that way. Good things seem to happen to you.”
“And as my mother, you are bothered by this . . . how?”
“Oh, Gregory,” she said with a sigh. “I am not bothered at all. I wish you nothing but good things. You know that.”
He wasn’t quite sure what the proper response might be to this, so he held silent, merely lifting his brows in question.
“I’ve made a muddle of this, haven’t I?” Violet said with a frown. “All I am trying to say is that you have never had to expend much of an effort to achieve your goals. Whether that is a result of your abilities or your goals, I am not certain.”
He did not speak. His eyes found a particularly intricate spot in the patterned fabric covering the walls, and he was riveted, unable to focus on anything else as his mind churned.
And yearned.
And then, before he even realized what he was thinking, he asked, “What has this to do with my brothers?”
She blinked uncomprehendingly, and then finally murmured, “Oh, you mean about your feeling the need to prove yourself?”
He nodded.
She pursed her lips. Thought. And then said, “I’m not sure.”
He opened his mouth. That was not the answer he had been expecting.
“I don’t know everything,” she said, and he suspected it was the first time that particular collection of words had ever crossed her lips.
“I suppose,” she said, slowly and thoughtfully, “that you . . . Well, it’s an odd combination, I should think. Or perhaps not so odd, when one has so many older brothers and sisters.”
Gregory waited as she collected her thoughts. The room was quiet, the air utterly still, and yet it felt as if something were bearing down on him, pressing at him from all sides.
He did not know what she was going to say, but somehow . . .
He knew . . .
It mattered.
Maybe more than anything else he’d ever heard.
“You don’t wish to ask for help,” his mother said, “because it is so important to you that your brothers see you as a man grown. And yet at the same time . . . Well, life has come easily to you, and so I think sometimes you don’t try.”
His lips parted.
“It is not that you refuse to try,” she hastened to add. “Just that most of the time you don’t have to. And when something is going to require too much effort . . . If it is something you cannot manage yourself, you decide that it is not worth the bother.”
Gregory found his eyes pulling back toward that spot on the wall, the one where the vine twisted so curiously. “I know what it means to work for something,” he said in a quiet voice. He turned to her then, looking her full in the face. “To want it desperately and to know that it might not be yours.”
“Do you? I’m glad.” She reached for her tea, then apparently changed her mind and looked up. “Did you get it?”
“No.”
Her eyes turned a little bit sad. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” he said stiffly. “Not any longer.”
“Oh. Well.” She shifted in her seat. “Then I am not sorry. I imagine you are a better man for it now.”
Gregory’s initial impulse leaned toward offense, but to his great surprise, he found himself saying, “I believe you are correct.”
To his even greater surprise, he meant it.
His mother smiled wisely. “I am so glad you are able to see it in that light. Most men cannot.” She glanced up at the clock and let out a chirp of surprise. “Oh dear, the time. I promised Portia Featherington that I would call upon her this afternoon.”
Gregory stood as his mother rose to her feet.
“Do not worry about Lady Lucinda,” she said, hurrying to the door. “I shall take care of everything. And please, finish your tea. I do worry about you, living all by yourself with no woman to care for you. Another year of this, and you will waste away to skin and bones.”
He walked her to the door. “As nudges toward matrimony go, that was particularly unsubtle.”
“Was it?” She gave him an arch look. “How nice for me that I no longer even try for subtlety. I have found that most men do not notice anything that is not clearly spelled out, anyway.”
“Even your sons.”
“Especially my sons.”
He smiled wryly. “I asked for that, didn’t I?”
“You practically wrote me an invitation.”
He tried to accompany her to the main hall, but she shooed him away. “No, no, that’s not necessary. Go and finish your tea. I asked the kitchen to bring up sandwiches when you were announced. They should arrive at any moment and will surely go to waste if you don’t eat them.”
Gregory’s stomach grumbled at that exact moment, so he bowed and said, “You are a superb mother, did you know that?”
“Because I feed you?”
“Well, yes, but perhaps for a few other things as well.”
She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “You are no longer my darling boy, are you?”
Gregory smiled. It had been her endearment for him for as long as he remembered. “I am for as long as you wish it, Mother. As long as you wish it.”
Sixteen
In which Our Hero falls in love. Again.
When it came to social machinations, Violet Bridgerton was every bit as accomplished as she claimed, and indeed, when Gregory arrived at Hastings House the following evening, his sister Daphne, the current Duchess of Hastings, informed him that Lady Lucinda Abernathy would indeed be attending the ball.
He found himself rather unaccountably pleased at the outcome. Lucy had looked so disappointed when she’d told him that she would not be able to go, and really, shouldn’t the girl enjoy one last night of revelry before she married Haselby?
Haselby.
Gregory still couldn’t quite believe it. How could he have not known that she was marrying Haselby? There was nothing he could do to stop it, and really, it wasn’t his place, but dear God, it was Haselby.
Shouldn’t Lucy be told?
Haselby was a perfectly amiable fellow, and, Gregory had to allow, in possession of a more than acceptable wit. He wouldn’t beat her, and he wouldn’t be unkind, but he didn’t . . . he couldn’t . . .
He would not be a husband to her.
Haselby would be kind to her, and he’d probably provide her with an exceedingly generous allowance, which was more than many women had in their marriages, regardless of their husbands’ proclivities.
But it did not seem fair that, of all people, Lucy was destined for such a life. She deserved so much more. A house full of children. And dogs. Perhaps a cat or two. She seemed the sort who’d want a menagerie.
And flowers. In Lucy’s home there would be flowers everywhere, he was certain of it. Pink peonies, yellow roses, and that stalky blue thing she liked so well.
Delphinium. That was it.
He paused. Remembered. Delphinium.
Lucy might claim that her brother was the horticulturalist of the family, but Gregory could not imagine her living in a home without color.
There would be laughter and noise and splendid disarray—despite her attempts to keep every corner of her life neat and tidy. He could see her easily in his mind’s eye, fussing and organizing, trying to keep everyone on a proper schedule.
It almost made him laugh aloud, just to think of it. It wouldn’t matter if there was a fleet of servants dusting and straightening and shining and sweeping. With children nothing was ever quite where one put it.
Lucy was a manager. It was what made her happy, and she ought to have a household to manage.
Children. Lots of them.
Maybe eight.
He glanced around the ballroom, which was slowly beginning to fill. He didn’t see Lucy, and it wasn’t so crowded yet that he might miss her. He did, however, see his mother.
She was heading his way.
“Gregory,” she said, reaching out to him with both hands when she reached him, “you look especially handsome this evening.”
He took her hands and raised them to his lips. “Said with all the honesty and impartiality of a mother,” he murmured.
“Nonsense,” she said with a smile. “It is a fact that all of my children are exceedingly intelligent and good-looking. If it were merely my opinion, don’t you think someone would have corrected me by now?”
“As if any would dare.”