by Julia Quinn
Nothing.
Where the hell had she gone? He knew she was uncommonly athletic for a female, but good God, how fast could she run?
He dashed past Charles Street, onto the square proper. A carriage rolled by, but Gareth paid it no mind. Tomorrow’s gossip would probably be filled with tales of his crazed middle-of-the-night run through the streets of Mayfair, but it was nothing his reputation couldn’t withstand.
He ran along the edge of the square, and then finally he was on Bruton Street passing by Number Sixteen, Twelve, Seven…
There she was, running like the wind, heading around the corner so that she could enter the house from the back.
His body propelled by a strange, furious energy, Gareth took off even faster. His arms were pumping, and his legs were burning, and his shirt would surely be forever soiled with sweat, but he didn’t care. He was going to catch that bloody woman before she entered her house, and when he did…
Hell, he didn’t know what he was going to do with her, but it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Hyacinth skidded around the last corner, slowing down just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her mouth opened as she spied him, and then, her entire body tensed with determination, she took off for the servants’ entrance in the back.
Gareth’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. She was going to have to fumble for the key. She’d never make it now. He slowed a bit, just enough to attempt to catch his breath, then eased his gait into a stalk.
She was in for it now.
But instead of reaching behind a brick for a key, Hyacinth just opened the door.
Bloody hell. They hadn’t locked the door behind them when they left.
Gareth vaulted into another sprint, and he almost made it.
Almost.
He reached the door just as she shut it in his face.
And his hand landed on the knob just in time to hear the lock click into place.
Gareth’s hand formed a fist, and he itched to pound it against the door. More than anything he wanted to bellow her name, propriety be damned. All it would do was force their wedding to be held even sooner, which was his aim, anyway.
But he supposed some things were far too ingrained in a man, and he was, apparently, too much of a gentleman to destroy her reputation in such a public manner.
“Oh, no,” he muttered to himself, striding back to the front of the house, “all destruction shall be strictly in private.”
He planted his hands on his hips and glared up at her bedroom window. He’d got himself in once; he could do it again.
A quick glance up and down the street assured him that no one was coming, and he quickly scaled the wall, his ascent much easier this time, now that he knew exactly where to place his hands and feet. The window was still slightly open, just as he’d left it the last time—not that he’d thought he was going to have to climb in again.
He jammed it up, tumbled through, and landed with a thud on the carpet just as Hyacinth entered through the door.
“You,” he growled, coming to his feet like a cat, “have some explaining to do.”
“Me?” Hyacinth returned. “Me? I hardly think—” Her lips parted as she belatedly assessed the situation. “And get out of my room!”
He quirked a brow. “Shall I take the front stairs?”
“You’ll go back out the window, you miserable cur.”
Gareth realized that he’d never seen Hyacinth angry. Irritated, yes; annoyed, certainly. But this…
This was something else entirely.
“How dare you!” she fumed. “How dare you.” And then, before he could even begin to reply, she stormed to his side and smacked him with the heels of both of her hands. “Get out!” she snarled. “Now!”
“Not until you”—he punctuated this with a pointed finger, right against her breastbone—“promise me that you will never do anything as foolish as what you did tonight.”
“Unh! Unh!” She let out a choking sort of noise, the kind one makes when one cannot manage even a single intelligible syllable. And then finally, after a few more gasps of fury, she said, her voice dangerously low, “You are in no position to demand anything of me.”
“No?” He lifted one of his brows and looked down at her with an arrogant half smile. “As your future husband—”
“Do not even mention that to me right now.”
Gareth felt something squeeze and turn over in his chest. “Do you plan to cry off?”
“No,” she said, looking at him with a furious expression, “but you took care of that this evening, didn’t you? Was that your purpose? To force my hand by rendering me unmarriageable for any other man?”
It had been exactly his purpose, and for that reason Gareth didn’t say anything. Not a word.
“You’ll rue this,” Hyacinth hissed. “You will rue the day. Trust me.”
“Oh, really?”
“As your future wife,” she said, her eyes flashing dangerously, “I can make your life hell on earth.”
Of that, Gareth had no doubt, but he decided to deal with that problem when he came to it. “This is not about what happened between us earlier,” he said, “and it is not about anything you may or may not have heard the baron say. What this is about—”
“Oh, for the love of—” Hyacinth cut herself off in the nick of time. “Who do you think you are?”
He jammed his face next to hers. “The man who is going to marry you. And you, Hyacinth Bridgerton soon-to-be St. Clair, will never ever wander the streets of London without a chaperone, at any time of day.”
For a moment she said nothing, and he almost let himself think that she was touched by his concern for her safety. But then, she just stepped back and said, “It’s a rather convenient time to develop a sense of propriety.”
He resisted the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake—barely. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I came back around the corner, and you were gone? Did you even stop to think about what might have happened to you before you ran off on your own?”
One of her brows lifted into a perfectly arrogant arch. “Nothing more than what happened to me right here.”
As strikes went, it was perfectly aimed, and Gareth nearly flinched. But he held on to his temper, and his voice was cool as he said, “You don’t mean that. You might think you mean it, but you don’t, and I’ll forgive you for it.”
She stood still, utterly and completely still save for the rise and fall of her chest. Her hands were fists at her sides, and her face was growing redder and redder.
“Don’t you ever,” she finally said, her voice low and clipped and terribly controlled, “speak to me in that tone of voice again. And don’t you ever presume to know my mind.”
“Don’t worry, it’s a claim I’m seldom likely to make.”
Hyacinth swallowed—her only show of nerves before saying, “I want you to leave.”
“Not until I have your promise.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Mr. St. Clair. And you certainly are not in a position to make demands.”
“Your promise,” he repeated.
Hyacinth just stared at him. How dare he come in here and try to make this about her? She was the injured party. He was the one who—He—
Good God, she couldn’t even think in full sentences.
“I want you to leave,” she said again.
His reply came practically on top of her last syllable. “And I want your promise.”
She clamped her mouth shut. It would have been an easy promise to make; she certainly didn’t plan on any more middle-of-the-night jaunts. But a promise would have been akin to an apology, and she would not give him that satisfaction.
Call her foolish, call her juvenile, but she would not do it. Not after what he’d done to her.
“Good God,” he muttered, “you’re stubborn.”
She gave him a sickly smile. “It is going to be a joy to be married to me.”
“Hyacinth,” he said, or rather, half sighed
. “In the name of all that is—” He raked his hand through his hair, and he seemed to look all around the room before finally turning back to her. “I understand that you’re angry…”
“Do not speak to me as if I were a child.”
“I wasn’t.”
She looked at him coolly. “You were.”
He gritted his teeth together and continued. “What my father said about Mary Winthrop…”
Her mouth fell open. “Is that what you think this is about?”
He stared at her, blinking twice before saying, “Isn’t it?”
“Of course not,” she sputtered. “Good heavens, do you take me for a fool?”
“I…er…no?”
“I hope I know you well enough to know that you would not offer marriage to two women. At least not purposefully.”
“Right,” he said, looking a little confused. “Then what—”
“Do you know why you asked me to marry you?” she demanded.
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Do you know?” she repeated. She’d asked him once before, and he had not answered.
“Of course I know. It’s because—” But he cut himself off, and he obviously didn’t know what to say.
She shook her head, blinking back tears. “I don’t want to see you right now.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“There is nothing wrong with me,” she cried out, as loudly as she dared. “I at least know why I accepted your proposal. But you—You have no idea why you rendered it.”
“Then tell me,” he burst out. “Tell me what it is you think is so damned important. You always seem to know what is best for everything and everyone, and now you clearly know everyone’s mind as well. So tell me. Tell me, Hyacinth—”
She flinched from the venom in his voice.
“—tell me.”
She swallowed. She would not back down. She might be shaking, she might be as close to tears as she had ever been in her life, but she would not back down. “You did this,” she said, her voice low, to keep the tremors at bay, “you asked me…because of him.”
He just stared at her, making a please elaborate motion with his head.
“Your father.” She would have yelled it, if it hadn’t been the middle of the night.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he swore. “Is that what you think? This has nothing to do with him.”
Hyacinth gave him a pitying look.
“I don’t do anything because of him,” Gareth hissed, furious that she would even suggest it. “He means nothing to me.”
She shook her head. “You are deluding yourself, Gareth. Everything you do, you do because of him. I didn’t realize it until he said it, but it’s true.”
“You’d take his word over mine?”
“This isn’t about someone’s word,” she said, sounding tired, and frustrated, and maybe just a little bit bleak. “It’s just about the way things are. And you…you asked me to marry you because you wanted to show him you could. It had nothing to do with me.”
Gareth held himself very still. “That is not true.”
“Isn’t it?” She smiled, but her face looked sad, almost resigned. “I know that you wouldn’t ask me to marry you if you believed yourself promised to another woman, but I also know that you would do anything to show up your father. Including marrying me.”
Gareth gave his head a slow shake. “You have it all wrong,” he said, but inside, his certitude was beginning to slip. He had thought, more than once and with an unbecoming gleefulness, that his father must be livid over Gareth’s marital success. And he’d enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed knowing that in the chess game that was his relationship with Lord St. Clair, he had finally delivered the killing move.
Checkmate.
It had been exquisite.
But it wasn’t why he had asked Hyacinth to marry him. He’d asked her because—Well, there had been a hundred different reasons. It had been complicated.
He liked her. Wasn’t that important? He even liked her family. And she liked his grandmother. He couldn’t possibly marry a woman who couldn’t deal well with Lady Danbury.
And he’d wanted her. He’d wanted her with an intensity that had taken his breath away.
It had made sense to marry Hyacinth. It still made sense.
That was it. That was what he needed to articulate. He just needed to make her understand. And she would. She was no foolish girl. She was Hyacinth.
It was why he liked her so well.
He opened his mouth, motioning with his hand before any words actually emerged. He had to get this right. Or if not right, then at least not completely wrong. “If you look at this sensibly,” he began.
“I am looking at it sensibly,” she shot back, cutting him off before he could complete the thought. “Good heavens, if I weren’t so bloody sensible, I would have cried off.” Her jaw went rigid, and she swallowed.
And he thought to himself—My God, she’s going to cry.
“I knew what I was doing earlier this evening,” she said, her voice painfully quiet. “I knew what it meant, and I knew that it was irrevocable.” Her lower lip quivered, and she looked away as she said, “I just never expected to regret it.”
It was like a punch to the gut. He’d hurt her. He’d really hurt her. He hadn’t meant to, and he wasn’t certain that she wasn’t overreacting, but he’d hurt her.
And he was stunned to realize how much that hurt him.
For a moment they did nothing, just stood there, warily watching the other.
Gareth wanted to say something, thought perhaps that he should say something, but he had no idea. The words just weren’t there.
“Do you know how it feels to be someone’s pawn?” Hyacinth asked.
“Yes,” he whispered.
The corners of her mouth tightened. She didn’t look angry, just…sad. “Then you will understand why I’m asking you to leave.”
There was something primal within him that cried out to stay, something primitive that wanted to grab her and make her understand. He could use his words or he could use his body. It didn’t really matter. He just wanted to make her understand.
But there was something else within him—something sad and something lonely that knew what it was to hurt. And somehow he knew that if he stayed, if he tried to force her to understand, he would not succeed. Not this night.
And he’d lose her.
So he nodded. “We will discuss this later,” he said.
She said nothing.
He walked back to the window. It seemed a bit ludicrous and anticlimactic, making his exit that way, but really, who the hell cared?
“This Mary person,” Hyacinth said to his back, “whatever the problem is with her, I am certain it can be resolved. My family will pay hers, if necessary.”
She was trying to gain control of herself, to tamp down her pain by focusing on practicalities. Gareth recognized this tactic; he had employed it himself, countless times.
He turned around, meeting her gaze directly. “She is the daughter of the Earl of Wrotham.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Well, that does change things, but I’m sure if it was a long time ago…”
“It was.”
She swallowed before asking, “Is it the cause of your estrangement? The betrothal?”
“You’re asking a rather lot of questions for someone who has demanded that I leave.”
“I’m going to marry you,” she said. “I will learn eventually.”
“Yes, you will,” he said. “But not tonight.”
And with that, he swung himself through the window.
He looked up when he reached the ground, desperate for one last glimpse of her. Anything would have been nice, a silhouette, perhaps, or even just her shadowy form, moving behind the curtains.
But there was nothing.
She was gone.
Chapter 17
Teatime at Number Five. Hyacinth is alone in the drawing room with her moth
er, always a dangerous proposition when one is in possession of a secret.
“Is Mr. St. Clair out of town?”
Hyacinth looked up from her rather sloppy embroidery for just long enough to say, “I don’t believe so, why?”
Her mother’s lips tightened fleetingly before she said, “He hasn’t called in several days.”
Hyacinth affixed a bland expression onto her face as she said, “I believe he is busy with something or other relating to his property in Wiltshire.”
It was a lie, of course. Hyacinth didn’t think he possessed any property, in Wiltshire or anywhere else. But with any luck, her mother would be distracted by some other matter before she got around to inquiring about Gareth’s nonexistent estates.
“I see,” Violet murmured.
Hyacinth stabbed her needle into the fabric with perhaps a touch more vigor than was necessary, then looked down at her handiwork with a bit of a snarl. She was an abysmal needlewoman. She’d never had the patience or the eye for detail that it required, but she always kept an embroidery hoop going in the drawing room. One never knew when one would need it to provide an acceptable distraction from conversation.
The ruse had worked quite well for years. But now that Hyacinth was the only Bridgerton daughter living at home, teatime often consisted of just her and her mother. And unfortunately, the needlework that had kept her so neatly out of three-and four-way conversations didn’t seem to do the trick so well with only two.
“Is anything amiss?” Violet asked.
“Of course not.” Hyacinth didn’t want to look up, but avoiding eye contact would surely make her mother suspicious, so she set her needle down and lifted her chin. In for a penny, in for a pound, she decided. If she was going to lie, she might as well make it convincing. “He’s merely busy, that is all. I rather admire him for it. You wouldn’t wish for me to marry a wastrel, would you?”
“No, of course not,” Violet murmured, “but still, it does seem odd. You’re so recently affianced.”
On any other day, Hyacinth would have just turned to her mother and said, “If you have a question, just ask it.”
Except then her mother would ask a question.