by Julia Quinn
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
And then, as if a spell had been broken, Lady Lucinda turned and took a few steps to the right. She peered at the bookshelves—not that she could possibly make out any of the titles in this light—then ran her fingers along the spines.
Gregory watched her hand; he didn’t know why. He just watched it as it moved. She was quite elegant, he realized. It wasn’t noticeable at first, because her looks were so wholesome and traditional. One expected elegance to shimmer like silk, to glow, to transfix. Elegance was an orchid, not a simple daisy.
But when Lady Lucinda moved, she looked different. She seemed to . . . flow.
She would be a good dancer. He was sure of it.
Although he wasn’t quite sure why that mattered.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning quite suddenly around.
“About Miss Watson?”
“Yes. I did not mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t,” he said, perhaps a little too sharply.
“Oh.” She blinked, perhaps with surprise. “I’m glad for that. I didn’t mean to.”
She wouldn’t mean to, he realized. She wasn’t the sort.
Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak right away. Her eyes seemed to focus beyond his shoulder, as if she were searching behind him for the correct words. “It was just that . . . Well, when you said what you said about love,” she began, “it just sounded so familiar. I couldn’t quite fathom it.”
“Nor could I,” he said softly.
She held silent, not quite looking at him. Her lips were pursed—just a touch—and every now and then she would blink. Not a fluttery sort of movement but rather something quite deliberate.
She was thinking, he realized. She was the sort who thought about things, probably to the neverending frustration of anyone charged with the task of guiding her through life.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“About Miss Watson?”
She nodded.
“What do you suggest I do?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I can speak to her on your behalf, if you would like.”
“No.” Something about that seemed far too juvenile. And Gregory was only just now beginning to feel that he was truly a man, well and grown, ready to make his mark.
“You can wait, then,” she said with a tiny shrug. “Or you can proceed and try again to woo her. She won’t have the opportunity to see Mr. Edmonds for at least a month, and I would think . . . eventually . . . she would come to see . . .”
But she didn’t finish. And he wanted to know. “Come to see what?” he pressed.
She looked up, as if pulled from a dream. “Why, that you . . . that you . . . just that you are so much better than the rest. I don’t know why she cannot see it. It’s quite obvious to me.”
From anyone else it would have been a strange statement. Overly forward, perhaps. Maybe even a coy hint of availability.
But not from her. She was without artifice, the sort of girl a man could trust. Rather like his sisters, he supposed, with a keen wit and a sharp sense of humor. Lucy Abernathy would never inspire poetry, but she would make a very fine friend.
“It will happen,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “She will realize. You . . . and Hermione . . . You will be together. I am sure of it.”
He watched her lips as she spoke. He didn’t know why, but the shape of them was suddenly intriguing . . . the way they moved, formed their consonants and vowels. They were ordinary lips. Nothing about them had attracted his attention before. But now, in the darkened library, with nothing in the air but the soft whisper of their voices . . .
He wondered what it would mean to kiss her.
He stepped back, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly wrong.
“We should return,” he said abruptly.
A flicker of hurt passed over her eyes. Damn. He hadn’t meant to sound like he was so eager to be rid of her. None of this was her fault. He was just tired. And frustrated. And she was there. And the night was dark. And they were alone.
And it hadn’t been desire. It couldn’t be desire. He’d been waiting his entire life to react to a woman the way he had to Hermione Watson. He couldn’t possibly feel desire for another woman after that. Not Lady Lucinda, not anyone.
It was nothing. She was nothing.
No, that was not fair. She was something. Quite a bit, actually. But not for him.
Six
In which Our Hero makes progress.
Dear God, what had she said?
That single thought pounded through Lucy’s mind as she lay in bed that night, too horrified even to toss and turn. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, utterly still, utterly mortified.
And the next morning, as she peered in the mirror, sighing at the weary lavender color beneath her eyes, there it was again—
Oh, Mr. Bridgerton, you are so much better than the rest.
And every time she relived it, the voice in her memory grew higher, more simpering, until she turned into one of those awful creatures—the girls who fluttered and swooned every time someone’s older brother came to visit at school.
“Lucy Abernathy,” she muttered under her breath, “you silly cow.”
“Did you say something?” Hermione looked up at her from her position near the bed. Lucy already had her hand on the doorknob, ready to leave for breakfast.
“Just doing sums in my head,” Lucy lied.
Hermione went back to putting on her shoes. “For heaven’s sake, why?” she said, mostly to herself.
Lucy shrugged, even though Hermione was not looking at her. She always said that she was doing sums in her head when Hermione caught her talking to herself. She had no idea why Hermione believed her; Lucy detested sums, almost as much as she hated fractions and tables. But it seemed like the sort of thing she might do, practical as she was, and Hermione had never questioned it.
Every now and then Lucy mumbled a number, just to make it more authentic.
“Are you ready to go down?” Lucy asked, twisting the knob. Not that she was. The last thing she wished was to see, well, anyone. Mr. Bridgerton in particular, of course, but the thought of facing the world at large was just ghastly.
But she was hungry, and she was going to have to show herself eventually, and she didn’t see why her misery ought to wallow on an empty stomach.
As they walked to breakfast, Hermione peered at her curiously. “Are you well, Lucy?” she asked. “You look a little strange.”
Lucy fought the urge to laugh. She was strange. She was an idiot, and probably shouldn’t be let loose in public.
Good God, had she actually told Gregory Bridgerton that he was better than the rest?
She wanted to die. Or at the very least hide under a bed.
But no, she couldn’t even manage to feign illness and have a good lying-in. It hadn’t even occurred to her to try. She was so ridiculously normal and routineish that she was up and ready to depart for breakfast before she’d even managed a single coherent thought.
Aside from the pondering of her apparent madness, of course. That she had no trouble focusing upon.
“Well, you look very fine, anyway,” Hermione said as they reached the top of the staircase. “I do like your choice of the green ribbon with the blue dress. I wouldn’t have thought of it, but it’s very smart. And so lovely with your eyes.”
Lucy looked down at her clothing. She had no recollection of dressing herself. It was a miracle she did not look as if she had escaped from a Gypsy circus.
Although . . .
She let out a little sigh. Running off with the Gypsies sounded rather appealing just then, practical even, since she was quite certain she ought never to show her face in polite society again. Clearly she was missing an extremely important connecting vessel between her brain and her mouth, and heaven only knew what might emerge from her lips next.
Good gracious, she might as well have told Gregory
Bridgerton that she thought him a god.
Which she did not. Not at all. She merely thought him a rather fine catch for Hermione. And she’d told him so. Hadn’t she?
What had she said? Precisely, what had she said?
“Lucy?”
What she said was . . . What she said was—
She stopped cold.
Dear God. He was going to think she wanted him.
Hermione walked another few paces before she realized Lucy was no longer in step beside her. “Lucy?”
“Do you know,” Lucy said, her voice coming out just a little bit squeaky, “I don’t believe I’m hungry after all.”
Hermione looked incredulous. “For breakfast?”
It was a bit farfetched. Lucy always ate like a sailor at breakfast.
“I . . . ah . . . I think something did not quite agree with me last night. Perhaps the salmon.” She put her hand on her belly for added effect. “I think I should lie down.”
And never get up.
“You do look a bit green,” Hermione said.
Lucy smiled wanly, making a conscious decision to be thankful for small favors.
“Would you like me to bring you something?” Hermione asked.
“Yes,” Lucy said fervently, hoping Hermione hadn’t heard the rumble of her stomach.
“Oh, but I shouldn’t,” Hermione said, placing one thoughtful finger to her lips. “You probably shouldn’t eat if you are feeling queasy. The last thing you want is to bring it all up again.”
“It’s not queasiness, exactly,” Lucy improvised.
“It’s not?”
“It’s . . . ah . . . rather difficult to explain, actually. I . . .” Lucy sagged against the wall. Who knew she had it in her to be such a fine actress?
Hermione rushed to her side, concern knitting her brow. “Oh dear,” she said, supporting Lucy with an arm around her back. “You look ghastly.”
Lucy blinked. Maybe she was taking ill. Even better. That would keep her sequestered for days.
“I am returning you to bed,” Hermione said, her tone brooking no argument. “And then I will summon Mother. She will know what to do.”
Lucy nodded with relief. Lady Watson’s remedy for any sort of ailment was chocolate and biscuits. Unorthodox, to be sure, but as it was what Hermione’s mother chose whenever she claimed to be ill, she couldn’t very well deny it to anyone else.
Hermione guided her back to their bedchamber, even going so far as to remove Lucy’s slippers for her before she lay atop the bed. “If I didn’t know you so well,” Hermione said, tossing the slippers carelessly into the armoire, “I would think you were faking.”
“I would never.”
“Oh, you would,” Hermione said. “You absolutely would. But you could never carry it off. You’re far too traditional.”
Traditional? What had that to do with anything?
Hermione let out a little huff of air. “I’m probably going to have to sit with that wearisome Mr. Bridgerton at breakfast now.”
“He’s not so dreadful,” Lucy said, with perhaps a bit more verve than one might expect from someone with a belly full of bad salmon.
“I suppose not,” Hermione acceded. “He’s better than most, I daresay.”
Lucy winced at the echo of her own words. So much better than the rest. So much better than the rest.
It was quite possibly the most appalling thing ever to cross her lips.
“But he is not for me,” Hermione continued, oblivious to Lucy’s distress. “He will realize it soon enough. And then he will move on to someone else.”
Lucy doubted that, but she didn’t say anything. What a coil. Hermione was in love with Mr. Edmonds, Mr. Bridgerton was in love with Hermione, and Lucy was not in love with Mr. Bridgerton.
But he thought she was.
Which was nonsense, of course. She would never allow that to happen, practically engaged as she was to Lord Haselby.
Haselby. She nearly groaned. This would all be so much easier if she could remember his face.
“Perhaps I’ll ring for breakfast,” Hermione said, her face lighting up as if she had just discovered a new continent. “Do you think they will send up a tray?”
Oh, blast. There went all her plans. Now Hermione had an excuse to remain in their chamber all day. And the next, too, if Lucy continued to feign illness.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner,” Hermione said, heading to the bellpull. “I would much rather remain here with you.”
“Don’t,” Lucy called out, her brain spinning madly.
“Why not?”
Indeed. Lucy thought quickly. “If you have them bring a tray, you might not get what you want.”
“But I know what I want. Coddled eggs and toast. Surely they can manage that.”
“But I don’t want coddled eggs and toast.” Lucy tried to keep her expression as pitiful and pathetic as she could manage. “You know my taste so well. If you go to the breakfast room, I’m sure you would find something exactly right.”
“But I thought you weren’t going to eat.”
Lucy put her hand back on her belly. “Well, I might want to eat a little.”
“Oh, very well,” Hermione said, by now sounding more impatient than anything else. “What do you want?”
“Er, perhaps some bacon?”
“With a fishy stomach?”
“I’m not sure it was the fish.”
For the longest moment, Hermione just stood there and stared at her. “Just bacon, then?” she finally asked.
“Ehm, and anything else you think I might enjoy,” Lucy said, since it would have been easy enough to ring for bacon.
Hermione let out a pent-up breath. “I shall return soon.” She regarded Lucy with a slightly suspicious expression. “Don’t overexert yourself.”
“I won’t,” Lucy promised. She smiled at the door as it closed behind Hermione. She counted to ten, then hopped out of bed and ran to the wardrobe to straighten her slippers. Once that was done to her satisfaction, she snatched up a book and crawled back in to settle down and read.
All in all, it was turning out to be a lovely morning.
By the time Gregory entered the breakfast room, he was feeling much better. What had happened the night before—it was nothing. Practically forgotten.
It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to kiss Lady Lucinda. He’d merely wondered about it, which was worlds apart.
He was just a man, after all. He’d wondered about hundreds of women, most of the time without any intention of even speaking to them. Everybody wondered. It was whether one acted upon it that made the difference.
What was that his brothers—his happily married brothers, he might add—had once said? Marriage didn’t render them blind. They might not be looking for other women, but that didn’t mean they didn’t notice what was standing right in front of them. Whether it was a barmaid with extremely large bosoms or a proper young lady with a—well, with a pair of lips—one couldn’t very well not see the body part in question.
And if one saw, then of course one would wonder, and—
And nothing. It all added up to nothing.
Which meant Gregory could eat his breakfast with a clear head.
Eggs were good for the soul, he decided. Bacon, too.
The only other occupant of the breakfast room was the fiftyish and perpetually starchy Mr. Snowe, who was thankfully more interested in his newspaper than in conversation. After the obligatory grunts of greeting, Gregory sat down at the opposite end of the table and began to eat.
Excellent sausage this morning. And the toast was exceptional as well. Just the right amount of butter. A bit of salt needed for the eggs, but other than that they were rather tasty.
He tried the salted cod. Not bad. Not bad at all.
He took another bite. Chewed. Enjoyed himself. Thought very deep thoughts about politics and agriculture.
Moved on determinedly to Newtonian physics. He really should have paid more att
ention at Eton, because he couldn’t quite recall the difference between force and work.
Let’s see, work was that bit with the foot-pounds, and force was . . .
It wasn’t even really wondering. Honestly, it could all be blamed on a trick of the light. And his mood. He’d been feeling a bit off. He’d been looking at her mouth because she’d been talking, for heaven’s sake. Where else was he meant to look?
He picked up his fork with renewed vigor. Back to the cod. And his tea. Nothing washed everything away like tea.
He took a long sip, peering over the edge of his cup as he heard someone coming down the hall.
And then she filled the doorway.
He blinked with surprise, then glanced over her shoulder. She’d come without her extra appendage.
Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think he’d ever seen Miss Watson without Lady Lucinda.
“Good morning,” he called out, in precisely the right tone. Friendly enough so as not to sound bored, but not too friendly. A man never wanted to sound desperate.
Miss Watson looked over at him as he stood, and her face registered absolutely no emotion whatsoever. Not happiness, not ire, nothing but the barest flicker of acknowledgment. It was quite remarkable, really.
“Good morning,” she murmured.
Then, hell, why not. “Will you join me?” he asked.
Her lips parted and she paused, as if not quite sure what she wished to do. And then, as if to offer perverse proof that they did in fact share some sort of higher connection, he read her mind.
Truly. He knew exactly what she was thinking.
Oh, very well, I suppose I have to eat breakfast, anyway.
It positively warmed the soul.
“I cannot stay very long,” Miss Watson said. “Lucy is unwell, and I promised to bring her a tray.”
It was difficult to imagine the indomitable Lady Lucinda taking ill, although Gregory didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he knew her. Really, it had been nothing but a few conversations. If that. “I trust it is nothing serious,” he murmured.
“I don’t think so,” she replied, taking a plate. She looked up at him, blinking those astounding green eyes. “Did you eat the fish?”
