by Julia Quinn
“It was a play,” Hyacinth said absently. “They changed it at the last moment.”
“Even worse. I would have thought you’d have managed to get out of attending at least one.”
“They weren’t so awful.”
“Because you were sitting next to Mr. St. Clair,” Felicity said with a sly smile.
“You are terrible,” Hyacinth said, refusing to look at her. If she did, Felicity was sure to see the truth in her eyes. Hyacinth was a good liar, but not that good, and not with Felicity.
And the worst of it was—she could hear herself in Felicity’s words. How many times had she teased Felicity in the very same way before Felicity had married? A dozen? More?
“You should dance with him,” Felicity said.
Hyacinth kept her eyes on the ballroom floor. “I can’t do anything if he does not ask.”
“Of course he’ll ask. You have only to stand on the other side of the room, where he is more likely to see you.”
“I’m not going to chase him.”
Felicity’s smile spread across her face. “You do like him! Oh, this is lovely! I have never seen—”
“I don’t like him,” Hyacinth cut in. And then, because she realized how juvenile that sounded, and that Felicity would never believe her, she added, “I merely think that perhaps I ought to see if I might like him.”
“Well, that’s more than you’ve ever said about any other gentleman,” Felicity pointed out. “And you have no need to chase him. He wouldn’t dare ignore you. You are the sister of his host, and besides, wouldn’t his grandmother take him to task if he didn’t ask you to dance?”
“Thank you for making me feel like such a prize.”
Felicity chuckled. “I have never seen you like this, and I must say, I’m enjoying it tremendously.”
“I’m glad one of us is,” Hyacinth grumbled, but her words were lost under the sharp sound of Felicity’s gasp.
“What is it?” Hyacinth asked.
Felicity tilted her head slightly to the left, motioning across the room. “His father,” she said in a low voice.
Hyacinth turned around sharply, not even trying to conceal her interest. Good heavens, Lord St. Clair was here. All of London knew that father and son did not speak, but invitations to parties were still issued to both. The St. Clair men seemed to have a remarkable talent for not appearing where the other might be, and so hostesses were generally spared the embarrassment of having them attend the same function.
But obviously, something had gone wrong this evening.
Did Gareth know his father was there? Hyacinth looked quickly back to the dance floor. He was laughing at something Miss Hotchkiss was saying. No, he didn’t know. Hyacinth had witnessed him with his father once. It had been from across the room, but there had been no mistaking the strained expression on his face.
Or the way both had stormed off to separate exits.
Hyacinth watched as Lord St. Clair glanced around the room. His eyes settled on his son, and his entire face hardened.
“What are you going to do?” Felicity whispered.
Do? Hyacinth’s lips parted as she glanced from Gareth to his father. Lord St. Clair, still unaware of her regard, turned on his heel and walked out, possibly in the direction of the card room.
But there was no guarantee he wouldn’t be back.
“You’re going to do something, aren’t you?” Felicity pressed. “You have to.”
Hyacinth was fairly certain that wasn’t true. She had never done anything before. But now it was different. Gareth was…Well, she supposed he was her friend, in a strange, unsettling sort of way. And she did need to speak with him. She’d spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon in her room, translating his grandmother’s diary. Surely he would wish to know what she had learned.
And if she managed to prevent an altercation in the process…Well, she was always happy to be the heroine of the day, even if no one but Felicity would be aware of it.
“I will ask him to dance,” Hyacinth announced.
“You will?” Felicity asked, eyes bugging out. Hyacinth was certainly known as An Original, but even she had never dared to ask a gentleman to dance.
“I shan’t make a big scene about it,” Hyacinth said. “No one will know but Mr. St. Clair. And you.”
“And whoever happens to be standing next to him. And whomever they tell, and whoever—”
“Do you know what is nice about friendships as longstanding as ours?” Hyacinth interrupted.
Felicity shook her head.
“You won’t take permanent offense when I turn my back and walk away.”
And then Hyacinth did just that.
But the drama of her exit was considerably diminished when she heard Felicity chuckle and say, “Good luck!”
Thirty seconds later. It doesn’t take very long to cross a ballroom, after all.
Gareth had always liked Jane Hotchkiss. Her sister was married to his cousin, and as a result they saw each other from time to time at Grandmother Danbury’s house. More importantly, he knew he could ask her to dance without her wondering if there was some sort of ulterior matrimonial purpose.
But on the other hand—she knew him well. Or at least well enough to know when he was acting out of character.
“What are you looking for?” she asked, as their quadrille was drawing to a close.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“Very well,” she said, her pale blond brows coming together in a slightly exasperated expression. “Who are you looking for, then? And don’t say no one, because you have been craning your neck throughout the dance.”
He swung his head around so that his gaze was firmly fixed on her face. “Jane,” he said, “your imagination knows no bounds.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
She was right, of course. He’d been looking for Hyacinth Bridgerton since he had walked through the door twenty minutes earlier. He’d thought he caught sight of her before he’d stumbled upon Jane, but it had turned out to be one of her numerous sisters. All the Bridgertons looked devilishly alike. From across the room, they were practically indistinguishable.
As the orchestra played the last notes of their dance, Gareth took Jane’s arm and led her to the side of the room. “I would never lie to you, Jane,” he said, giving her a jaunty half smile.
“Of course you would,” she returned. “And anyway, it’s as obvious as day. Your eyes give you away. The only time they ever look serious is when you’re lying.”
“That can’t be—”
“It’s true,” she said. “Trust me. Oh, good evening, Miss Bridgerton.”
Gareth turned sharply to see Hyacinth, standing before them like a vision in blue silk. She looked especially lovely this evening. She’d done something different with her hair. He wasn’t sure what; he was rarely observant enough to notice such minutiae. But it was altered somehow. It must have framed her face differently, because something about her didn’t look quite the same.
Maybe it was her eyes. They looked determined, even for Hyacinth.
“Miss Hotchkiss,” Hyacinth said with a polite nod. “How lovely to see you again.”
Jane smiled warmly. “Lady Bridgerton always hosts such lovely parties. Please convey my regards.”
“I shall. Kate is just over there by the champagne,” Hyacinth said, referring to her sister-in-law, the current Lady Bridgerton. “In case you wished to tell her yourself.”
Gareth felt his eyebrows rise. Whatever Hyacinth was up to, she wanted to speak with him alone.
“I see,” Jane murmured. “I had best go speak with her, then. I wish you both a pleasant evening.”
“Smart girl,” Hyacinth said, once they were alone.
“You weren’t exactly subtle,” Gareth said.
“No,” she replied, “but then, I rarely am. It’s a skill one must be born with, I’m afraid.”
He smiled. “Now that you have me all to yourself, what do you wish to do
with me?”
“Don’t you wish to hear about your grandmother’s diary?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Shall we dance?” she suggested.
“You’re asking me?” He rather liked this.
She scowled at him.
“Ah, there is the real Miss Bridgerton,” he teased. “Shining through like a surly—”
“Would you care to dance with me?” she ground out, and he realized with surprise that this wasn’t easy for her. Hyacinth Bridgerton, who almost never gave the impression of being at odds with anything she did, was scared to ask him to dance.
How fun.
“I’d be delighted,” he said immediately. “May I guide you onto the floor, or is that a privilege reserved for the one doing the asking?”
“You may lead,” she said, with all the hauteur of a queen.
But when they reached the floor, she seemed a little less sure of herself. And though she hid it quite well, her eyes were flicking around the room.
“Who are you looking for?” Gareth asked, letting out an amused snuff of air as he realized he was echoing Jane’s exact words to him.
“No one,” Hyacinth said quickly. She snapped her gaze back to his with a suddenness that almost made him dizzy. “What is so amusing?”
“Nothing,” he countered, “and you were most certainly looking for someone, although I will compliment you on your ability to make it seem like you weren’t.”
“That’s because I wasn’t,” she said, dipping into an elegant curtsy as the orchestra began the first strains of a waltz.
“You’re a good liar, Hyacinth Bridgerton,” he murmured, taking her into his arms, “but not quite as good as you think you are.”
Music began to float through the air, a soft, delicate tune in three-four time. Gareth had always enjoyed dancing, particularly with an attractive partner, but it became apparent with the first—no, one must be fair, probably not until the sixth—step that this would be no ordinary waltz.
Hyacinth Bridgerton, he was quite amused to note, was a clumsy dancer.
Gareth couldn’t help but smile.
He didn’t know why he found this so entertaining. Maybe it was because she was so capable in everything else she did; he’d heard that she’d recently challenged a young man to a horse race in Hyde Park and won. And he was quite certain that if she ever found someone willing to teach her to fence, she’d soon be skewering her opponents through the heart.
But when it came to dancing…
He should have known she’d try to lead.
“Tell me, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, hoping that a spot of conversation might distract her, since it always seemed that one danced with more grace when one wasn’t thinking quite so hard about it. “How far along are you with the diary?”
“I’ve only managed ten pages since we last spoke,” she said. “It might not seem like much—”
“It seems like quite a lot,” he said, exerting a bit more pressure on the small of her back. A little more, and maybe he could force…her…to turn…
Left.
Phew.
It was quite the most exerting waltz he’d ever danced.
“Well, I’m not fluent,” she said. “As I told you. So it’s taking me much longer than if I could just sit down and read it like a book.”
“You don’t need to make excuses,” he said, wrenching her to the right.
She stepped on his toe, which he ordinarily would have taken as retaliation, but under the present circumstances, he rather thought it was accidental.
“Sorry,” she muttered, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”
He bit his lip. He couldn’t possibly laugh at her. It would break her heart. Hyacinth Bridgerton, he was coming to realize, didn’t like to do anything if she didn’t do it well. And he suspected that she had no idea that she was such an abysmal dancer, not if she took the toe-stomping as such an aberration.
It also explained why she felt the need to continually remind him that she wasn’t fluent in Italian. She couldn’t possibly bear for him to think she was slow without a good reason.
“I’ve had to make a list of words I don’t know,” she said. “I’m going to send them by post to my former governess. She still resides in Kent, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to translate them for me. But even so—”
She grunted slightly as he swung her to the left, somewhat against her will.
“Even so,” she continued doggedly, “I’m able to work out most of the meaning. It’s remarkable what you can deduce with only three-quarters of the total.”
“I’m sure,” he commented, mostly because some sort of agreement seemed to be required. Then he asked, “Why don’t you purchase an Italian dictionary? I will assume the expense.”
“I have one,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s very good. Half the words are missing.”
“Half?”
“Well, some,” she amended. “But truly, that’s not the problem.”
He blinked, waiting for her to continue.
She did. Of course. “I don’t think Italian is the author’s native tongue,” she said.
“The author of the dictionary?” he queried.
“Yes. It’s not terribly idiomatic.” She paused, apparently deep in whatever odd thoughts were racing through her mind. Then she gave a little shrug—which caused her to miss a step in the waltz, not that she noticed—and continued with, “It’s really of no matter. I’m making fair progress, even if it is a bit slow. I’m already up to her arrival in England.”
“In just ten pages?”
“Twenty-two in total,” Hyacinth corrected, “but she doesn’t make entries every day. In fact, she often skips several weeks at a time. She only devoted one paragraph to the sea crossing—just enough to express her delight that your grandfather was afflicted by seasickness.”
“One must take one’s happiness where one can,” Gareth murmured.
Hyacinth nodded. “And also, she, ah, declined to mention her wedding night.”
“I believe we may consider that a small blessing,” Gareth said. The only wedding night he wanted to hear about less than Grandmother St. Clair’s would have to be Grandmother Danbury’s.
Good God, that would send him right over the edge.
“What has you looking so pained?” Hyacinth asked.
He just shook his head. “There are some things one should never know about one’s grandparents.”
Hyacinth grinned at that.
Gareth’s breath caught for a moment, then he found himself grinning back. There was something infectious about Hyacinth’s smiles, something that forced her companions to stop what they were doing, even what they were thinking, and just smile back.
When Hyacinth smiled—when she really smiled, not one of those faux half smiles she did when she was trying to be clever—it transformed her face. Her eyes lit, her cheeks seemed to glow, and—
And she was beautiful.
Funny how he’d never noticed it before. Funny how no one had noticed it. Gareth had been out and about in London since she’d made her nod several years earlier, and while he’d never heard anyone speak of her looks in an uncomplimentary manner, nor had he heard anyone call her beautiful.
He wondered if perhaps everyone was so busy trying to keep up with whatever it was she was saying to stop and actually look at her face.
“Mr. St. Clair? Mr. St. Clair?”
He glanced down. She was looking up at him with an impatient expression, and he wondered how many times she’d uttered his name.
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “you might as well use my given name.”
She nodded approvingly. “A fine idea. You may of course use mine as well.”
“Hyacinth,” he said. “It suits you.”
“It was my father’s favorite flower,” she explained. “Grape hyacinths. They bloom like mad in spring near our home in Kent. The first to show color every year.”
�
��And the exact color of your eyes,” Gareth said.
“A happy coincidence,” she admitted.
“He must have been delighted.”
“He never knew,” she said, looking away. “He died before my birth.”
“I’m sorry,” Gareth said quietly. He did not know the Bridgertons well, but unlike the St. Clairs, they seemed to actually like each other. “I knew he had passed on some time ago, but I was not aware that you never knew him.”
“It shouldn’t matter,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t miss what I never had, but sometimes…I must confess…Ido.”
He chose his words carefully. “It’s difficult…I think, not to know one’s father.”
She nodded, looking down, then over his shoulder. It was odd, he thought, but still somewhat endearing that she didn’t wish to look at him during such a moment. Thus far their conversations had been all sly jokes and gossip. This was the first time they had ever said anything of substance, anything that truly revealed the person beneath the ready wit and easy smile.
She kept her eyes fixed on something behind him, even after he’d expertly twirled her to the left. He couldn’t help but smile. She was a much better dancer now that she was distracted.
And then she turned back, her gaze settling on his face with considerable force and determination. She was ready for a change of subject. It was clear.
“Would you like to hear the remainder of what I’ve translated?” she inquired.
“Of course,” he said.
“I believe the dance is ending,” she said. “But it looks as if there is a bit of room over there.” Hyacinth motioned with her head to the far corner of the ballroom, where several chairs had been set up for those with weary feet. “I am sure we could manage a few moments of privacy without anyone intruding.”
The waltz drew to a close, and Gareth took a step back and gave her a small bow. “Shall we?” he murmured, holding out his arm so that she might settle her hand in the crook of his elbow.
She nodded, and this time, he let her lead.
Chapter 7
Ten minutes later, and our scene has moved to the hall.