On the Way to the Wedding with 2nd Epilogue

by Julia Quinn

  Lucy couldn’t imagine a better husband for Hermione. Well, she supposed she would not complain if Mr. Bridgerton were next in line for a marquisate, but really, one could not have everything. And most importantly, she was quite certain that he would make Hermione happy, even if Hermione did not yet realize this.

  “I will make this happen,” she said to herself.

  “Eh?” from Mr. Berbrooke. “Did you find the bird?”

  “Over there,” Lucy said, pointing toward a tree.

  He leaned forward. “Really?”

  “Oh, Lucy!” came Hermione’s voice.

  Lucy turned around.

  “Shall we be off? Mr. Bridgerton is eager to be on his way.”

  “I am at your service, Miss Watson,” the man in question said. “We depart at your discretion.”

  Hermione gave Lucy a look that clearly said that she was eager to be on her way, so Lucy said, “Let us depart, then,” and she took Mr. Berbrooke’s proffered arm and allowed him to lead her to the front drive, managing to yelp only once, even though she thrice stubbed her toe on heaven knew what, but somehow, even with a nice, lovely expanse of grass, Mr. Berbrooke managed to find every tree root, rock, and bump, and lead her directly to them.

  Gad.

  Lucy mentally prepared herself for further injury. It was going to be a painful outing. But a productive one. By the time they returned home, Hermione would be at least a little intrigued by Mr. Bridgerton.

  Lucy would make sure of it.

  If Gregory had had any doubts about Miss Hermione Watson, they were banished the moment he placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. There was a rightness to it, a strange, mystical sense of two halves coming together. She fit perfectly next to him. They fit.

  And he wanted her.

  It wasn’t even desire. It was strange, actually. He wasn’t feeling anything so plebian as bodily desire. It was something else. Something within. He simply wanted her to be his. He wanted to look at her, and to know. To know that she would carry his name and bear his children and gaze lovingly at him every morning over a cup of chocolate.

  He wanted to tell her all this, to share his dreams, to paint a picture of their life together, but he was no fool, and so he simply said, as he guided her down the front path, “You look exceptionally lovely this morning, Miss Watson.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  And then said nothing else.

  He cleared his throat. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said.

  “Are you enjoying your stay?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said.

  Funny, but he’d always thought conversation with the woman he’d marry would come just a little bit easier.

  He reminded himself that she still fancied herself in love with another man. Someone unsuitable, if Lady Lucinda’s comment of the night before was any indication. What was that she had called him—the lesser of two evils?

  He glanced forward. Lady Lucinda was stumbling along ahead of him on the arm of Neville Berbrooke, who had never learned to adjust his gait for a lady. She seemed to be managing well enough, although he did think he might have heard a small cry of pain at one point.

  He gave his head a mental shake. It was probably just a bird. Hadn’t Neville said he’d seen a flock of them through the window?

  “Have you been friends with Lady Lucinda for very long?” he asked Miss Watson. He knew the answer, of course; Lady Lucinda had told him the night before. But he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. And he needed a question that could not be answered with yes, thank you or no, thank you.

  “Three years,” Miss Watson replied. “She is my dearest friend.” And then her face finally took on a bit of animation as she said, “We ought to catch up.”

  “To Mr. Berbrooke and Lady Lucinda?”

  “Yes,” she said with a firm nod. “Yes, we ought.”

  The last thing Gregory wanted to do was squander his precious time alone with Miss Watson, but he dutifully called out to Berbrooke to hold up. He did, stopping so suddenly that Lady Lucinda quite literally crashed into him.

  She let out a startled cry, but other than that was clearly unhurt.

  Miss Watson took advantage of the moment, however, by disengaging her hand from his elbow and rushing forward. “Lucy!” she cried out. “Oh, my dearest Lucy, are you injured?”

  “Not at all,” Lady Lucinda replied, looking slightly confused by the extreme level of her friend’s concern.

  “I must take your arm,” Miss Watson declared, hooking her elbow through Lady Lucinda’s.

  “You must?” Lady Lucinda echoed, twisting away. Or rather, attempting to. “No, truly, that is not necessary.”

  “I insist.”

  “It is not necessary,” Lady Lucinda repeated, and Gregory wished he could see her face, because it sounded as if she were gritting her teeth.

  “Heh heh,” came Berbrooke’s voice. “P’rhaps I’ll take your arm, Bridgerton.”

  Gregory gave him a level look. “No.”

  Berbrooke blinked. “It was a joke, you know.”

  Gregory fought the urge to sigh and somehow managed to say, “I was aware.” He’d known Neville Berbrooke since they’d both been in leading strings, and he usually had more patience with him, but right now he wanted nothing so much as to fit him with a muzzle.

  Meanwhile, the two girls were bickering about something, in tones hushed enough that Gregory couldn’t hope to make out what they were saying. Not that he’d likely have understood their language even if they’d been shouting it; it was clearly something bafflingly female. Lady Lucinda was still tugging her arm, and Miss Watson quite simply refused to let go.

  “She is injured,” Hermione said, turning and batting her eyelashes.

  Batting her eyelashes? She chose this moment to flirt?

  “I am not,” Lucy returned. She turned to the two gentlemen. “I am not,” she repeated. “Not in the slightest. We should continue.”

  Gregory couldn’t quite decide if he was amused or insulted by the entire spectacle. Miss Watson quite clearly did not wish for his escort, and while some men loved to pine for the unattainable, he’d always preferred his women smiling, friendly, and willing.

  Miss Watson turned then, however, and he caught sight of the back of her neck (what was it about the back of her neck?). He felt himself sinking again, that madly in love feeling that had captured him the night before, and he told himself not to lose heart. He hadn’t even known her a full day; she merely needed time to get to know him. Love did not strike everyone with the same speed. His brother Colin, for example, had known his wife for years and years before he’d realized they were meant to be together.

  Not that Gregory planned to wait years and years, but still, it did put the current situation in a better perspective.

  After a few moments it became apparent that Miss Watson would not acquiesce, and the two women would be walking arm in arm. Gregory fell in step beside Miss Watson, while Berbrooke ambled on, somewhere in the vicinity of Lady Lucinda.

  “You must tell us what it is like to be from such a large family,” Lady Lucinda said to him, leaning forward and speaking past Miss Watson. “Hermione and I each have but one sibling.”

  “Have three m’self,” said Berbrooke. “All boys, all of us. ’Cept for my sister, of course.”

  “It is . . .” Gregory was about to give his usual answer, about it being mad and crazy and usually more trouble than it was worth, but then somehow the deeper truth slipped across his lips, and he found himself saying, “Actually, it’s comforting.”

  “Comforting?” Lady Lucinda echoed. “What an intriguing choice of word.”

  He looked past Miss Watson to see her regarding him with curious blue eyes.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, allowing his thoughts to coalesce before replying. “There is comfort in having a family, I think. It’s a sense of . . . just knowing, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucy as
ked, and she appeared quite sincerely interested.

  “I know that they are there,” Gregory said, “that should I ever be in trouble, or even simply in need of a good conversation, I can always turn to them.”

  And it was true. He had never really thought about it in so many words, but it was true. He was not as close to his brothers as they were to one another, but that was only natural, given the age difference. When they had been men about town, he had been a student at Eton. And now they were all three married, with families of their own.

  But still, he knew that should he need them, or his sisters for that matter, he had only to ask.

  He never had, of course. Not for anything important. Or even most things unimportant. But he knew that he could. It was more than most men had in this world, more than most men would ever have.

  “Mr. Bridgerton?”

  He blinked. Lady Lucinda was regarding him quizzically.

  “My apologies,” he murmured. “Woolgathering, I suppose.” He offered her a smile and a nod, then glanced over at Miss Watson, who, he was surprised to see, had also turned to look at him. Her eyes seemed huge in her face, clear and dazzlingly green, and for a moment he felt an almost electric connection. She smiled, just a little, and with a touch of embarrassment at having been caught, then looked away.

  Gregory’s heart leaped.

  And then Lady Lucinda spoke again. “That is exactly how I feel about Hermione,” she said. “She is the sister of my heart.”

  “Miss Watson is truly an exceptional lady,” Gregory murmured, then added, “As, of course, are you.”

  “She is a superb watercolorist,” Lady Lucinda said.

  Hermione blushed prettily. “Lucy.”

  “But you are,” her friend insisted.

  “Like to paint myself,” came Neville Berbrooke’s jovial voice. “Ruin my shirts every time, though.”

  Gregory glanced at him in surprise. Between his oddly revealing conversation with Lady Lucinda and his shared glance with Miss Watson, he’d almost forgotten Berbrooke was there.

  “M’valet is up in arms about it,” Neville continued, ambling along. “Don’t know why they can’t make paint that washes out of linen.” He paused, apparently in deep thought. “Or wool.”

  “Do you like to paint?” Lady Lucinda asked Gregory.

  “No talent for it,” he admitted. “But my brother is an artist of some renown. Two of his paintings hang in the National Gallery.”

  “Oh, that is marvelous!” she exclaimed. She turned to Miss Watson. “Did you hear that, Hermione? You must ask Mr. Bridgerton to introduce you to his brother.”

  “I would not wish to inconvenience either Mr. Bridgerton,” she said demurely.

  “It would be no inconvenience at all,” Gregory said, smiling down at her. “I would be delighted to make the introduction, and Benedict always loves to natter on about art. I rarely am able to follow the conversation, but he seems quite animated.”

  “You see,” Lucy put in, patting Hermione’s arm. “You and Mr. Bridgerton have a great deal in common.”

  Even Gregory thought that was a bit of a stretch, but he did not comment.

  “Velvet,” Neville suddenly declared.

  Three heads swung in his direction. “I beg your pardon?” Lady Lucinda murmured.

  “S’the worst,” he said, nodding with great vigor. “T’get the paint out of, I mean.”

  Gregory could only see the back of her head, but he could well imagine her blinking as she said, “You wear velvet while you paint?”

  “If it’s cold.”

  “How . . . unique.”

  Neville’s face lit up. “Do you think so? I’ve always wanted to be unique.”

  “You are,” she said, and Gregory did not hear anything other than reassurance in her voice. “You most certainly are, Mr. Berbrooke.”

  Neville beamed. “Unique. I like that. Unique.” He smiled anew, testing the word on his lips. “Unique. Unique. You-oo-oooooo-neek.”

  The foursome continued toward the village in amiable silence, punctuated by Gregory’s occasional attempts to draw Miss Watson into a conversation. Sometimes he succeeded, but more often than not, it was Lady Lucinda who ended up chatting with him. When she wasn’t trying to prod Miss Watson into conversation, that was.

  And the whole time Neville chattered on, mostly carrying on a conversation with himself, mostly about his newfound uniqueness.

  At last the familiar buildings of the village came into view. Neville declared himself uniquely famished, whatever that meant, so Gregory steered the group to the White Hart, a local inn that served simple but always delicious fare.

  “We should have a picnic,” Lady Lucinda suggested. “Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

  “Capital idea,” Neville exclaimed, gazing at her as if she were a goddess. Gregory was a little startled by the fervor of his expression, but Lady Lucinda seemed not to notice.

  “What is your opinion, Miss Watson?” Gregory asked. But the lady in question was lost in thought, her eyes unfocused even as they remained fixed on a painting on the wall.

  “Miss Watson?” he repeated, and then when he finally had her attention, he said, “Would you care to take a picnic?”

  “Oh. Yes, that would be lovely.” And then she went back to staring off into space, her perfect lips curved into a wistful, almost longing expression.

  Gregory nodded, tamping down his disappointment, and set out making arrangements. The innkeeper, who knew his family well, gave him two clean bedsheets to lay upon the grass and promised to bring out a hamper of food when it was ready.

  “Excellent work, Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Lucinda said. “Don’t you agree, Hermione?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Hope he brings pie,” Neville said as he held the door open for the ladies. “I can always eat pie.”

  Gregory tucked Miss Watson’s hand in the crook of his arm before she could escape. “I asked for a selection of foods,” he said quietly to her. “I hope there is something that meets your cravings.”

  She looked up at him and he felt it again, the air swooshing from his body as he lost himself in her eyes. And he knew she felt it, too. She had to. How could she not, when he felt as if his own legs might give out beneath him?

  “I am sure that it will be delightful,” she said.

  “Are you in possession of a sweet tooth?”

  “I am,” she admitted.

  “Then you are in luck,” Gregory told her. “Mr. Gladdish has promised to include some of his wife’s gooseberry pie, which is quite famous in this district.”

  “Pie?” Neville visibly perked up. He turned to Lady Lucinda. “Did he say we were getting pie?”

  “I believe he did,” she replied.

  Neville sighed with pleasure. “Do you like pie, Lady Lucinda?”

  The barest hint of exasperation washed over her features as she asked, “What sort of pie, Mr. Berbrooke?”

  “Oh, any pie. Sweet, savory, fruit, meat.”

  “Well . . .” She cleared her throat, glancing about as if the buildings and trees might offer some guidance. “I . . . ah . . . I suppose I like most pies.”

  And it was in that minute that Gregory was quite certain Neville had fallen in love.

  Poor Lady Lucinda.

  They walked across the main thoroughfare to a grassy field, and Gregory swept open the sheets, laying them flat upon the ground. Lady Lucinda, clever girl that she was, sat first, then patted a spot for Neville that would guarantee that Gregory and Miss Watson would be forced to share the other patch of cloth.

  And then Gregory set about winning her heart.

  Four

  In which Our Heroine offers advice, Our Hero takes it, and everyone eats too much pie.

  He was going about it all wrong.

  Lucy glanced over Mr. Berbrooke’s shoulder, trying not to frown. Mr. Bridgerton was making a valiant attempt to win Hermione’s favor, and Lucy had to admit that under normal circumstances, with a
different female, he would have succeeded handily. Lucy thought of the many girls she knew from school—any one of them would be head over heels in love with him by now. Every one of them, as a matter of fact.

  But not Hermione.

  He was trying too hard. Being too attentive, too focused, too . . . too . . . Well, too in love, quite frankly, or at least too infatuated.

  Mr. Bridgerton was charming, and he was handsome, and obviously quite intelligent as well, but Hermione had seen all this before. Lucy could not even begin to count the number of gentlemen who had pursued her friend in much the same manner. Some were witty, some were earnest. They gave flowers, poetry, candy—one even brought Hermione a puppy (instantly refused by Hermione’s mother, who had informed the poor gentleman that the natural habitat of dogs did not include Aubusson carpets, porcelain from the Orient, or herself).

  But underneath they were all the same. They hung on her every word, they gazed at her as if she were a Greek goddess come down to earth, and they fell over each other in an attempt to offer the cleverest, most romantic compliments ever to rain down upon her pretty ears. And they never seemed to understand how completely unoriginal they all were.

  If Mr. Bridgerton truly wished to pique Hermione’s interest, he was going to need to do something different.

  “More gooseberry pie, Lady Lucinda?” Mr. Berbrooke asked.

  “Yes, please,” Lucy murmured, if only to keep him busy with the slicing as she pondered what to do next. She really didn’t want Hermione to throw her life away on Mr. Edmonds, and truly, Mr. Bridgerton was perfect. He just needed a little help.

  “Oh, look!” Lucy exclaimed. “Hermione doesn’t have any pie.”

  “No pie?” Mr. Berbrooke gasped.

  Lucy batted her eyelashes at him, not a mannerism with which she had much practice or skill. “Would you be so kind as to serve her?”

  As Mr. Berbrooke nodded, Lucy stood up. “I believe I will stretch my legs,” she announced. “There are lovely flowers on the far side of the field. Mr. Bridgerton, do you know anything about the local flora?”