On the Way to the Wedding with 2nd Epilogue

by Julia Quinn

  Not too hard.

  It could have been an accident. Really. They were still on the floor, locked into a stalemate position. It was entirely plausible that his knee could have slipped.

  Up.

  Whatever the case, Fennsworth had grunted and collapsed. Gregory rolled to the side the second the earl’s grip loosened, and he moved fluidly to his feet.

  “So sorry,” he’d said to the ladies. “I’m not certain what’s come over him.”

  And that, apparently, was that. Miss Watson had apologized to him—after apologizing to first Lucy, then Kate, then Fennsworth, although heaven knew why, as he’d clearly won the evening.

  “No apology is needed,” Gregory had said tightly.

  “No, but I—” She looked distressed, but Gregory didn’t much care just then.

  “I did have a lovely time at breakfast,” she said to him. “I just wanted you to know that.”

  Why? Why would she say that? Did she think it would make him feel better?

  Gregory hadn’t said a word. He gave her a single nod, and then walked away. The rest of them could sort the details out themselves. He had no ties to the newly affianced couple, no responsibilities to them or to propriety. He didn’t care when or how the families were informed.

  It was not his concern. None of it was.

  So he left. He had a bottle of brandy to locate.

  And now here he was. In his brother’s office, drinking his brother’s liquor, wondering what the hell this all meant. Miss Watson was lost to him now, that much was clear. Unless of course he wanted to kidnap the girl.

  Which he did not. Most assuredly. She’d probably squeal like an idiot the whole way. Not to mention the little matter of her possibly having given herself to Fennsworth. Oh, and Gregory destroying his good reputation. There was that. One did not kidnap a gently bred female—especially one affianced to an earl—and expect to emerge with one’s good name intact.

  He wondered what Fennsworth had said to get her off alone.

  He wondered what Hermione had meant when she’d said she fluttered.

  He wondered if they would invite him to the wedding.

  Hmmm. Probably. Lucy would insist upon it, wouldn’t she? Stickler for propriety, that one. Good manners all around.

  So what now? After so many years of feeling slightly aimless, of waiting waiting waiting for the pieces of his life to fall into place, he’d thought he finally had it all figured out. He’d found Miss Watson and he was ready to move forward and conquer.

  The world had been bright and good and shining with promise.

  Oh, very well, the world had been perfectly bright and good and shining with promise before. He hadn’t been unhappy in the least. In fact, he hadn’t really minded the waiting. He wasn’t even sure he’d wanted to find his bride so soon. Just because he knew his true love existed didn’t mean he wanted her right away.

  He’d had a very pleasant existence before. Hell, most men would give their eyeteeth to trade places.

  Not Fennsworth, of course.

  Bloody little bugger was probably plotting every last detail of his wedding night that very minute.

  Sodding little b—

  He tossed back his drink and poured another.

  So what did it mean? What did it mean when you met the woman who made you forget how to breathe and she up and married someone else? What was he supposed to do now? Sit and wait until the back of someone else’s neck sent him into raptures?

  He took another sip. He’d had it with necks. They were highly overrated.

  He sat back, plunking his feet on his brother’s desk. Anthony would hate it, of course, but was he in the room? No. Had he just discovered the woman he’d hoped to marry in the arms of another man? No. More to the immediate point, had his face recently served as a punching bag for a surprisingly fit young earl?

  Definitely not.

  Gregory gingerly touched his left cheekbone. And his right eye.

  He was not going to look attractive tomorrow, that was for sure.

  But neither would Fennsworth, he thought happily.

  Happily? He was happy? Who’d have thought?

  He let out a long sigh, attempting to assess his sobriety. It had to be the brandy. Happiness was not on the agenda for the evening.

  Although . . .

  Gregory stood. Just as a test. Bit of scientific inquiry. Could he stand?

  He could.

  Could he walk?

  Yes!

  Ah, but could he walk straight?

  Almost.

  Hmmm. He wasn’t nearly as foxed as he’d thought.

  He might as well go out. No sense in wasting an unexpectedly fine mood.

  He made his way to the door and put his hand on the knob. He stopped, cocking his head in thought.

  It had to be the brandy. Really, there was no other explanation for it.

  Eleven

  In which Our Hero does the one thing he would never have anticipated.

  The irony of the evening was not lost on Lucy as she made her way back to her room.

  Alone.

  After Mr. Bridgerton’s panic over Hermione’s disappearance . . . after Lucy had been thoroughly scolded for running off by herself in the middle of what was turning out to be a somewhat raucous evening . . . after one couple had been forced to become engaged, for heaven’s sake—no one had noticed when Lucy left the masked ball by herself.

  She still couldn’t believe that Lady Bridgerton had insisted upon returning her to the party. She had practically led Lucy back by the collar, depositing her in the care of someone or other’s maiden aunt before retrieving Hermione’s mother, who, it must be presumed, had no idea of the excitement that lay in wait for her.

  And so Lucy had stood at the edge of the ballroom like a fool, staring at the rest of the guests, wondering how they could possibly not be aware of the events of the evening. It seemed inconceivable that three lives could be upended so completely, and the rest of the world was carrying on as usual.

  No, she thought, rather sadly, actually—it was four; there was Mr. Bridgerton to be considered. His plans for the future had been decidedly different at the outset of the evening.

  But no, everyone else appeared perfectly normal. They danced, they laughed, they ate sandwiches that were still distressingly mixed up on a single serving platter.

  It was the strangest sight. Shouldn’t something seem different? Shouldn’t someone come up to Lucy and say, eyes quizzical—You look somewhat altered. Ah, I know. Your brother must have seduced your closest friend.

  No one did, of course, and when Lucy caught sight of herself in a mirror, she was startled to see that she appeared entirely unchanged. A little tired, perhaps, maybe a little pale, but other than that, the same old Lucy.

  Blond hair, not too blond. Blue eyes—again, not too blue. Awkwardly shaped mouth that never quite held still the way she wanted it to, and the same nondescript nose with the same seven freckles, including the one close to her eye that no one ever noticed but her.

  It looked like Ireland. She didn’t know why that interested her, but it always had.

  She sighed. She’d never been to Ireland, and she probably never would. It seemed silly that this would suddenly bother her, as she didn’t even want to go to Ireland.

  But if she did wish to, she’d have to ask Lord Haselby, wouldn’t she? It wasn’t much different from having to ask Uncle Robert for permission to do, well, anything, but somehow . . .

  She shook her head. Enough. It had been a strange night, and now she was in a strange mood, stuck in all her strangeness in the middle of a masked ball.

  Clearly what she needed to do was go to bed.

  And so, after thirty minutes of trying to look as if she were enjoying herself, it finally became apparent that the maiden aunt entrusted with her care did not quite understand the scope of the assignment. It wasn’t difficult to deduce; when Lucy had attempted to speak to her, she had squinted through her mask and screeched, �
�Lift your chin, gel! Do I know you?”

  Lucy decided that this was not an opportunity to be wasted, and so she had replied, “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else,” and walked right out of the ballroom.

  Alone.

  Really, it was almost funny.

  Almost.

  She wasn’t foolish, however, and she’d traversed enough of the house that evening to know that while the guests had spilled to the west and south of the ballroom, they had not ventured to the north wing, where the family kept their private rooms. Strictly speaking, Lucy ought not to go that way, either, but after what she’d been through in the past few hours, she rather thought she deserved a bit of latitude.

  But when she reached the long hall that led to the north, she saw a closed door. Lucy blinked with surprise; she’d never noticed a door there before. She supposed the Bridgertons normally left it open. Then her heart sank. Surely it would be locked—what was the purpose of a closed door if not to keep people out?

  But the doorknob turned with ease. Lucy carefully shut the door behind her, practically melting with relief. She couldn’t face going back to the party. She just wanted to crawl into bed, curl up under the covers, close her eyes, and sleep sleep sleep.

  It sounded like heaven. And with any luck, Hermione would not yet have returned. Or better yet, her mother would insist upon her remaining overnight in her room.

  Yes, privacy sounded extremely appealing just then.

  It was dark as she walked, and quiet, too. After a minute or so, Lucy’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. There were no lanterns or candles to illuminate the way, but a few doors had been left open, allowing pale shafts of moonlight to make parallelograms on the carpet. She walked slowly, and with an odd sort of deliberation, each step carefully measured and aimed, as if she were balancing on a thin line, stretching right down the center of the hall.

  One, two . . .

  Nothing out of the ordinary. She frequently counted her steps. And always on the stairs. She’d been surprised when she got to school and realized that other people did not.

  . . . three, four . . .

  The runner carpet looked monochromatic in the moonlight, but Lucy knew that the big diamonds were red, and the smaller ones were gold. She wondered if it were possible to step only on gold.

  . . . five, six . . .

  Or maybe red. Red would be easier. This wasn’t a night to challenge herself.

  . . . seven, eight, n—

  “Oomph!”

  She crashed into something. Or dear heaven, someone. She’d been looking down, following the red diamonds, and she hadn’t seen . . . but shouldn’t the other person have seen her?

  Strong hands caught her by the arms and steadied her. And then—“Lady Lucinda?”

  She froze. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

  His voice was low and smooth in the darkness. “Now this is a coincidence.”

  She carefully disentangled herself—he had grabbed her by the arms to keep her from falling—and stepped back. He seemed very large in the close confines of the hall. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He offered her a suspiciously easy grin. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Going to bed. This hallway seemed the best route,” she explained, then added with a wry expression, “given my state of unaccompaniment.”

  He cocked his head. Scrunched his brow. Blinked. And finally: “Is that a word?”

  For some reason that made her smile. Not her lips, exactly, but on the inside, where it counted. “I don’t think so,” she replied, “but really, I can’t be bothered.”

  He smiled faintly, then motioned with his head to the room he must have just exited. “I was in my brother’s office. Pondering.”

  “Pondering?”

  “Quite a bit to ponder this evening, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes.” She looked around the hall. Just in case there was someone else about, even though she was quite certain there was not. “I really shouldn’t be here alone with you.”

  He nodded gravely. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your practical engagement.”

  Lucy hadn’t even been thinking of that. “I meant after what happened with Hermione and—” And then it seemed somehow insensitive to spell it out. “Well, I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “Indeed.”

  She swallowed, then tried to make it appear as if she weren’t looking at his face to see if he was upset.

  He just blinked, then he shrugged, and his expression was . . .

  Nonchalant?

  She chewed on her lip. No, that couldn’t be. She must have misread him. He had been a man in love. He had told her so.

  But this was none of her business. This required a certain measure of self-remindering (to add another word to her rapidly growing collection), but there it was. It was none of her business. Not one bit.

  Well, except for the part about her brother and her best friend. No one could say that that didn’t concern her. If it had just been Hermione, or just been Richard, there might have been an argument that she should keep her nose out of it, but with the both of them—well, clearly she was involved.

  As regarded Mr. Bridgerton, however . . . none of her business.

  She looked at him. His shirt collar was loosened, and she could see a tiny scrap of skin where she knew she ought not look.

  None. None! Business. Of hers. None of it.

  “Right,” she said, ruining her determined tone with a decidedly involuntary cough. Spasm. Coughing spasm. Vaguely punctuated by: “Should be going.”

  But it came out more like . . . Well, it came out like something that she was quite certain could not be spelled with the twenty-six letters of the English language. Cyrillic might do it. Or possibly Hebrew.

  “Are you all right?” he queried.

  “Perfectly well,” she gasped, then realized she was back to looking at that spot that wasn’t even his neck. It was more his chest, which meant that it was more someplace decidedly unsuitable.

  She yanked her eyes away, then coughed again, this time on purpose. Because she had to do something. Otherwise her eyes would be right back where they ought not be.

  He watched her, almost a bit owlish in his regard, as she recovered. “Better?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m glad.”

  Glad? Glad? What did that mean?

  He shrugged. “I hate it when that happens.”

  Just that he is a human being, Lucy you dolt. One who knows what a scratchy throat feels like.

  She was going mad. She was quite certain of it.

  “I should go,” she blurted out.

  “You should.”

  “I really should.”

  But she just stood there.

  He was looking at her the strangest way. His eyes were narrowed—not in that angry way people usually associated with squinty eyes, but rather as if he were thinking exceptionally hard about something.

  Pondering. That was it. He was pondering, just as he’d said.

  Except that he was pondering her.

  “Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked hesitantly. Not that she knew what she might inquire of him when he acknowledged her.

  “Do you drink, Lady Lucinda?”

  Drink? “I beg your pardon?”

  He gave her a sheepish half-smile. “Brandy. I know where my brother keeps the good stuff.”

  “Oh.” Goodness. “No, of course not.”

  “Pity,” he murmured.

  “I really couldn’t,” she added, because, well, she felt as if she had to explain.

  Even though of course she did not drink spirits.

  And of course he would know that.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know why I asked.”

  “I should go,” she said.

  But he didn’t move.

  And neither did she.

  She wondered what brandy tasted like.

  And she wondered if she would ever know.

  “How did you enjoy the party?” he asked
.

  “The party?”

  “Weren’t you forced to go back?”

  She nodded, rolling her eyes. “It was strongly suggested.”

  “Ah, so then she dragged you.”

  To Lucy’s great surprise, she chuckled. “Rather close to it. And I didn’t have my mask, which made me stick out a bit.”

  “Like a mushroom?”

  “Like a—?”

  He looked at her dress and nodded at the color. “A blue mushroom.”

  She glanced at herself and then at him. “Mr. Bridgerton, are you intoxicated?”

  He leaned forward with a sly and slightly silly smile. He held up his hand, his thumb and index finger measuring an inch between them. “Just a little bit.”

  She eyed him dubiously. “Really?”

  He looked down at his fingers with a furrowed brow, then added another inch or so to the space between them. “Well, perhaps this much.”

  Lucy didn’t know much about men or much about spirits, but she knew enough about the two of them together to ask, “Isn’t that always the case?”

  “No.” He lifted his brows and stared down his nose at her. “I usually know exactly how drunk I am.”

  Lucy had no idea what to say to that.

  “But do you know, tonight I’m not sure.” And he sounded surprised at that.

  “Oh.” Because she was at her articulate best this evening.

  He smiled.

  Her stomach felt strange.

  She tried to smile back. She really should be going.

  So naturally, she did not move.

  His head tilted to the side and he let out a thoughtful exhale, and it occurred to her that he was doing exactly what he’d said he’d been doing—pondering. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that given the events of the evening . . .”

  She leaned forward expectantly. Why did people always let their voices trail off just when they were about to say something meaningful? “Mr. Bridgerton?” she nudged, because now he was just staring at some painting on the wall.

  His lips twisted thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t you think I ought to be a bit more upset?”

  Her lips parted with surprise. “You’re not upset?” How was that possible?

  He shrugged. “Not as much as I should be, given that my heart practically stopped beating the first time I saw Miss Watson.”