On the Way to the Wedding with 2nd Epilogue

by Julia Quinn

  Lucy nodded, and together they departed for the rose salon.

  Seven

  In which Our Unexpected Guest delivers distressing news.

  Gregory had been chatting with his sister-in-law in the breakfast room when the butler informed her of their unexpected guest, and so naturally he decided to accompany her to the rose salon to greet Lord Fennsworth, elder brother to Lady Lucinda. He had nothing better to do, and it somehow seemed he ought to go meet the young earl, given that Miss Watson had been chattering on about him a quarter of an hour earlier. Gregory knew him only by reputation; the four years’ difference in their ages had ensured that they had not crossed paths at university, and Fennsworth had not yet chosen to take his place in London society.

  Gregory had been expecting a studious, bookish sort; he’d heard that Fennsworth had elected to remain at Cambridge even when school was not in session. Indeed, the gentleman waiting by the window in the rose salon did possess a certain gravitas that made him seem slightly older than his years. But Lord Fennsworth was also tall, fit, and although perhaps a touch shy, he carried himself with an air of self-possession that came from something more primal than a title of nobility.

  Lady Lucinda’s brother knew who he was, not just what he was born to be called. Gregory liked him immediately.

  Until it became obvious that he, like the rest of male humanity, was in love with Hermione Watson.

  The only mystery, really, was why Gregory was surprised.

  Gregory had to commend him—Fennsworth managed a full minute of inquiries about his sister’s welfare before he added, “And Miss Watson? Will she be joining us as well?”

  It wasn’t so much the words as the tone, and even that not so much as the flicker in his eyes—that spark of eagerness, anticipation.

  Oh, call a spade a spade. It was desperate longing, pure and simple. Gregory ought to know—he was quite certain it had flashed through his own eyes more than once in the past few days.

  Good God.

  Gregory supposed he still found Fennsworth a good enough fellow, even with his annoying infatuation, but really, the entire situation was beginning to grow tiresome.

  “We are so pleased to welcome you to Aubrey Hall, Lord Fennsworth,” Kate said, once she had informed him that she did not know if Miss Watson would be accompanying his sister down to the rose salon. “I do hope that your presence does not indicate an emergency at home.”

  “Not at all,” Fennsworth replied. “But my uncle has requested that I fetch Lucy and bring her home. He wishes to speak with her on a matter of some importance.”

  Gregory felt one corner of his lips quirk in an upward direction. “You must be quite devoted to your sister,” he said, “to come all this way yourself. Surely you could have simply sent a carriage.”

  To his credit, Lucy’s brother did not appear flustered by the question, but at the same time, he did not have an immediate answer. “Oh no,” he said, the words coming out rather quickly after the long pause. “I was more than happy to make the trip. Lucy is good company, and we have not visited for quite some time.”

  “Must you leave right away?” Kate asked. “I have been so enjoying your sister’s company. And we would be honored to count you among our guests as well.”

  Gregory wondered just what she was about. Kate was going to have to locate another female to even up the numbers if Lord Fennsworth was to join the party. Although he supposed that if Lady Lucinda left, she would have to do the exact same thing.

  The young earl hesitated, and Kate took advantage of the moment with a beautifully executed “Oh, do say that you will remain. Even if it cannot be for the duration of the party.”

  “Well,” Fennsworth said, blinking as he considered the invitation. It was clear that he wanted to stay (and Gregory was quite certain he knew the reason why). But title or no, he was still young, and Gregory imagined that he answered to his uncle on all matters pertaining to the family.

  And said uncle clearly desired Lady Lucinda’s swift return.

  “I suppose there would be no harm in taking an extra day,” Fennsworth said.

  Oh, dandy. He was willing to defy his uncle to gain extra time with Miss Watson. And as Lady Lucinda’s brother, he was the one man who Hermione would never brush away with her usual polite boredom. Gregory readied himself for another day of tedious competition.

  “Please say you will stay until Friday,” Kate said. “We are planning a masked ball for Thursday evening, and I would hate for you to miss it.”

  Gregory made a mental note to give Kate an extremely ordinary gift for her next birthday. Rocks, maybe.

  “It’s only one more day,” Kate said with a winning smile.

  It was at that moment that Lady Lucinda and Miss Watson entered the room, the former in a morning dress of lightish blue and the latter in the same green frock she’d worn to breakfast. Lord Fennsworth took one look at the duo (more at one than the other, and suffice it to say that blood was not thicker than unrequited love), and he murmured, “Friday it is.”

  “Delightful,” Kate said, clasping her hands together. “I shall have a room readied for you straightaway.”

  “Richard?” Lady Lucinda queried. “Why are you here?” She paused in the doorway and looked from person to person, apparently confused by Kate’s and Gregory’s presence.

  “Lucy,” her brother said. “It has been an age.”

  “Four months,” she said, almost unthinkingly, as if some little part of her brain required absolute accuracy, even when it hardly mattered.

  “Heavens, that is a long time,” Kate said. “We will leave you now, Lord Fennsworth. I am sure you and your sister wish to have a few moments of privacy.”

  “There is no rush,” Fennsworth said, his eyes flicking briefly to Miss Watson. “I would not wish to be rude, and I haven’t yet had the opportunity to thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It wouldn’t be rude at all,” Gregory put in, anticipating a swift departure from the salon with Miss Watson on his arm.

  Lord Fennsworth turned and blinked, as if he’d forgotten Gregory’s presence. Not terribly surprising, as Gregory had remained uncharacteristically silent through the exchange.

  “Pray do not trouble yourself,” the earl said. “Lucy and I will have our conversation later.”

  “Richard,” Lucy said, looking somewhat concerned, “are you certain? I was not expecting you, and if there is anything amiss . . .”

  But her brother shook his head. “Nothing that cannot wait. Uncle Robert wishes to speak with you. He asked me to bring you home.”

  “Now?”

  “He did not specify,” Fennsworth replied, “but Lady Bridgerton has very graciously asked us to remain until Friday, and I agreed. That is”—he cleared his throat—“assuming you wish to remain.”

  “Of course,” Lucy replied, looking confused and adrift. “But I—well . . . Uncle Robert . . .”

  “We should leave,” Miss Watson said firmly. “Lucy, you should have a moment with your brother.”

  Lucy looked at her brother, but he had taken advantage of Miss Watson’s entry into the conversation by looking at her, and he said, “And how are you, Hermione? It has been far too long.”

  “Four months,” Lucy said.

  Miss Watson laughed and smiled warmly at the earl. “I am well, thank you. And Lucy is correct, as always. We last spoke in January, when you visited us at school.”

  Fennsworth dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “How could I have forgotten? It was such a pleasant few days.”

  Gregory would have bet his right arm that Fennsworth had known down to the minute how long it had been since he had last laid eyes on Miss Watson. But the lady in question was clearly oblivious to the infatuation, because she just smiled and said, “It was, wasn’t it? It was so sweet of you to take us ice skating. You are always such good company.”

  Good God, how could she be so oblivious? There was no way she would have been so encouraging had she realized the n
ature of the earl’s feelings for her. Gregory was certain of it.

  But while it was obvious that Miss Watson was extremely fond of Lord Fennsworth, there was no indication that she held him in any sort of romantic esteem. Gregory consoled himself with the knowledge that the two had certainly known each other for years, and naturally she would be friendly with Fennsworth, given how close she was to Lady Lucinda.

  Practically brother and sister, really.

  And speaking of Lady Lucinda—Gregory turned in her direction and was not surprised to find that she was frowning. Her brother, who had traveled at least a day to reach her side, now seemed in no hurry whatsoever to speak with her.

  And indeed, everyone else had fallen silent, as well. Gregory watched the awkward tableau with interest. Everyone seemed to be glancing about, waiting to see who might speak next. Even Lady Lucinda, whom no one would call shy, seemed not to know what to say.

  “Lord Fennsworth,” Kate said, thankfully breaking the silence, “you must be famished. Will you have some breakfast?”

  “I would appreciate that greatly, Lady Bridgerton.”

  Kate turned to Lady Lucinda. “I did not see you at breakfast, either. Will you have something now?”

  Gregory thought of the massive tray Miss Watson had had brought up for her and wondered how much of it she’d managed to wolf down before having to come meet her brother.

  “Of course,” Lady Lucinda murmured. “I should like to keep Richard company, in any case.”

  “Miss Watson,” Gregory cut in smoothly, “would you care to take a turn about the gardens? I believe the peonies are in bloom. And those stalky blue things—I always forget what they are called.”

  “Delphinium.” It was Lady Lucinda, of course. He’d known she would not be able to resist. Then she turned and looked at him, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I told you that the other day.”

  “So you did,” he murmured. “I’ve never had much of a head for details.”

  “Oh, Lucy remembers everything,” Miss Watson said breezily. “And I would be delighted to view the gardens with you. That is, if Lucy and Richard do not mind.”

  Both assured her that they did not, although Gregory was quite certain he saw a flash of disappointment and—dare he say it—irritation in Lord Fennsworth’s eyes.

  Gregory smiled.

  “I shall find you back in our room?” Miss Watson said to Lucy.

  The other girl nodded, and with a feeling of triumph—there was nothing quite like besting one’s competition—Gregory placed Miss Watson’s hand in the crook of his elbow and led her out of the room.

  It was going to be an excellent morning, after all.

  Lucy followed her brother and Lady Bridgerton to the breakfast room, which she did not mind one bit, as she had not had a chance to eat very much of what Hermione had brought her earlier. But it did mean that she had to endure a full thirty minutes of meaningless conversation while her brain raced about, imagining all sorts of disasters that could be responsible for her unexpected summons home.

  Richard couldn’t very well speak to her about anything important with Lady Bridgerton and half of the house party blithering on about coddled eggs and the recent rainfall, so Lucy waited uncomplainingly while he finished (he’d always been an annoyingly slow eater), and then she tried her best not to lose her patience as they strolled out to the side lawn, Richard first asking her about school, then Hermione, and then Hermione’s mother, and then her upcoming debut, and then Hermione again, with a side tangent to Hermione’s brother, whom he’d apparently run across in Cambridge, and then it was back to the debut, and to what extent she was to share it with Hermione . . .

  Until finally Lucy halted in her tracks, planted her hands on her hips, and demanded that he tell her why he was there.

  “I told you,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Uncle Robert wishes to speak with you.”

  “But why?” It was not a question with an obvious answer. Uncle Robert hadn’t cared to speak with her more than a handful of times in the past ten years. If he was planning to start now, there was a reason for it.

  Richard cleared his throat a number of times before finally saying, “Well, Luce, I think he plans to marry you off.”

  “Straightaway?” Lucy whispered, and she didn’t know why she was so surprised. She’d known this was coming; she’d been practically engaged for years. And she had told Hermione, on more than one occasion, that a season for her was really quite foolish—why bother with the expense when she was just going to marry Haselby in the end?

  But now . . . suddenly . . . she didn’t want to do it. At least not so soon. She didn’t want to go from schoolgirl to wife, with nothing in between. She wasn’t asking for adventure—she didn’t even want adventure—truly, she wasn’t the sort.

  She wasn’t asking for very much—just a few months of freedom, of laughter.

  Of dancing breathlessly, spinning so fast that the candle flames streaked into long snakes of light.

  Maybe she was practical. Maybe she was “that old Lucy,” as so many had called her at Miss Moss’s. But she liked to dance. And she wanted to do it. Now. Before she was old. Before she became Haselby’s wife.

  “I don’t know when,” Richard said, looking down at her with . . . was it regret?

  Why would it be regret?

  “Soon, I think,” he said. “Uncle Robert seems somewhat eager to have it done.”

  Lucy just stared at him, wondering why she couldn’t stop thinking about dancing, couldn’t stop picturing herself, in a gown of silvery blue, magical and radiant, in the arms of—

  “Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth, as if that could somehow silence her thoughts.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. Her daydreams did not have a face. They could not. And so she said it again, more firmly, “It was nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Her brother stooped to examine a wildflower that had somehow missed the discerning eyes of Aubrey Hall’s gardeners. It was small, blue, and just beginning to open.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Richard murmured.

  Lucy nodded. Richard had always loved flowers. Wildflowers in particular. They were different that way, she realized. She had always preferred the order of a neatly arranged bed, each bloom in its place, each pattern carefully and lovingly maintained.

  But now . . .

  She looked down at that little flower, small and delicate, defiantly sprouting where it didn’t belong.

  And she decided that she liked the wild ones, too.

  “I know you were meant to have a season,” Richard said apologetically. “But truly, is it so very dreadful? You never really wanted one, did you?”

  Lucy swallowed. “No,” she said, because she knew it was what he wanted to hear, and she didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did. And she hadn’t really cared one way or the other about a season in London. At least not until recently.

  Richard pulled the little blue wildflower out by the roots, looked at it quizzically, and stood. “Cheer up, Luce,” he said, chucking her lightly on the chin. “Haselby’s not a bad sort. You won’t mind being married to him.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “He won’t hurt you,” he added, and he smiled, that slightly false sort of smile. The kind that was meant to be reassuring and somehow never was.

  “I didn’t think he would,” Lucy said, an edge of . . . of something creeping into her voice. “Why would you bring such a thing up?”

  “No reason at all,” Richard said quickly. “But I know that it is a concern for many women. Not all men give their wives the respect with which Haselby will treat you.”

  Lucy nodded. Of course. It was true. She’d heard stories. They’d all heard stories.

  “It won’t be so bad,” Richard said. “You’ll probably even like him. He’s quite agreeable.”

  Agreeable. It was a good thing. Better than disagreeable.

&n
bsp; “He will be the Earl of Davenport someday,” Richard added, even though of course she already knew that. “You will be a countess. Quite a prominent one.”

  There was that. Her schoolfriends had always said she was so lucky to have her prospects already settled, and with such a lofty result. She was the daughter of an earl and the sister of an earl. And she was destined to be the wife of one as well. She had nothing to complain about. Nothing.

  But she felt so empty.

  It wasn’t a bad feeling precisely. But it was disconcerting. And unfamiliar. She felt rootless. She felt adrift.

  She felt not like herself. And that was the worst of it.

  “You’re not surprised, are you, Luce?” Richard asked. “You knew this was coming. We all did.”

  She nodded. “It is nothing,” she said, trying to sound her usual matter-of-fact self. “It is only that it never felt quite so immediate.”

  “Of course,” Richard said. “It is a surprise, that is all. Once you grow used to the idea, it will all seem so much better. Normal, even. After all, you have always known you were to be Haselby’s wife. And think of how much you will enjoy planning the wedding. Uncle Robert says it is to be a grand affair. In London, I believe. Davenport insists upon it.”

  Lucy felt herself nod. She did rather like to plan things. There was such a pleasant feeling of being in charge that came along with it.

  “Hermione can be your attendant, as well,” Richard added.

  “Of course,” Lucy murmured. Because, really, who else would she choose?

  “Is there a color that doesn’t favor her?” Richard asked with a frown. “Because you will be the bride. You don’t want to be overshadowed.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. That was a brother for you.

  He seemed not to realize that he had insulted her, though, and Lucy supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Hermione’s beauty was so legendary that no one took insult with an unfavorable comparison. One would have to be delusional to think otherwise.