On the Way to the Wedding with 2nd Epilogue

by Julia Quinn

  Lucy. He had to see Lucy.

  He’d been trying not to think about her.

  With mixed results.

  But she was there, all the time, hovering at the back of his mind, even while he was stewing over the loss of Miss Watson.

  Lucy. It was impossible now to think of her as Lady Lucinda. Even if he hadn’t kissed her, she would be Lucy. It was who she was. It fit her perfectly.

  But he had kissed her. And it had been magnificent.

  But most of all, unexpected.

  Everything about it had surprised him, even the very fact that he’d done it. It was Lucy. He wasn’t supposed to kiss Lucy.

  But she’d been holding his arm. And her eyes—what was it about her eyes? She’d been looking up at him, searching for something.

  Searching him for something.

  He hadn’t meant to do it. It just happened. He’d felt pulled, inexorably tugged toward her, and the space between them had grown smaller and smaller . . .

  And then there she was. In his arms.

  He’d wanted to melt to the floor, lose himself in her and never let go.

  He’d wanted to kiss her until they both fell apart from the passion of it.

  He’d wanted to—

  Well. He’d wanted to do quite a bit, to tell the truth. But he’d also been a little bit drunk.

  Not very. But enough to doubt the veracity of his response.

  And he’d been angry. And off-balance.

  Not with Lucy, of course, but he was quite certain it had impaired his judgment.

  Still, he should see her. She was a gently bred young lady. One didn’t kiss one of those without making explanations. And he ought to apologize as well, although that didn’t really feel like what he wanted to do.

  But it was what he should do.

  He looked up at Kate. “When are they leaving?”

  “Lady and Miss Watson? This afternoon, I believe.”

  No, he almost blurted out, I meant Lady Lucinda. But he caught himself and kept his voice unconcerned as he said instead, “And Fennsworth?”

  “Soon, I think. Lady Lucinda has already been down for breakfast.” Kate thought for a moment. “I believe Fennsworth said he wished to be home by supper. But they can make the journey in one day. They don’t live too very far away.”

  “Near Dover,” Gregory murmured absently.

  Kate’s brow furrowed. “I think you’re right.”

  Gregory frowned at his food. He’d thought to wait here for Lucy; she would not be able to miss breakfast. But if she’d already eaten, then the time of her departure would be growing near.

  And he needed to find her.

  He stood. A bit abruptly—he knocked his thigh against the edge of the table, causing Kate to look up at him with a startled expression.

  “You’re not going to finish your breakfast?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

  She looked at him with patent disbelief. She’d been a member of the family for over ten years, after all. “How is that possible?”

  He ignored the question. “I bid you a lovely morning.”

  “Gregory?”

  He turned. He didn’t want to, but there was a slight edge to her voice, just enough for him to know he needed to pay attention.

  Kate’s eyes filled with compassion—and apprehension. “You’re not going to seek out Miss Watson, are you?”

  “No,” he said, and it was almost funny, because that was the last thing on his mind.

  Lucy stared at her packed trunks, feeling tired. And sad. And confused.

  And heaven knew what else.

  Wrung out. That was how she felt. She’d watched the maids with the bath towels, how they twisted and twisted to wring out every last drop of water.

  So it had come to this.

  She was a bath towel.

  “Lucy?”

  It was Hermione, quietly entering their room. Lucy had already been asleep when Hermione had returned the night before, and Hermione had been asleep when Lucy had left for breakfast.

  When Lucy had returned, Hermione had been gone. In many ways, Lucy had been grateful for that.

  “I was with my mother,” Hermione explained. “We depart this afternoon.”

  Lucy nodded. Lady Bridgerton had found her at breakfast and informed her of everyone’s plans. By the time she had returned to her bedchamber, her belongings were all packed and ready to be loaded onto a carriage.

  That was it, then.

  “I wanted to talk with you,” Hermione said, perching on the edge of the bed but keeping a respectful distance from Lucy. “I wanted to explain.”

  Lucy’s gaze remained fixed on her trunks. “There is nothing to explain. I’m very happy that you will be marrying Richard.” She managed a weary smile. “You shall be my sister now.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “I’m tired.”

  Hermione was quiet for a moment, and then, when it was apparent that Lucy was done speaking, she said, “I wanted to make sure that you knew that I was not keeping secrets from you. I would never do that. I hope you know I would never do that.”

  Lucy nodded, because she did know, even if she had felt abandoned, and perhaps even a little betrayed the night before.

  Hermione swallowed, and then her jaw tightened, and then she took a breath. And Lucy knew in that moment that she had been rehearsing her words for hours, tossing them back and forth in her mind, looking for the exact right combination to say what she felt.

  It was exactly what Lucy would have done, and yet somehow it made her want to cry.

  But for all Hermione’s practice, when she spoke she was still changing her mind, choosing new words and phrases. “I really did love— No. No,” she said, talking more to herself than to Lucy. “What I mean is, I really did think I loved Mr. Edmonds. But I reckon I didn’t. Because first there was Mr. Bridgerton, and then . . . Richard.”

  Lucy looked sharply up. “What do you mean, first there was Mr. Bridgerton?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure, actually,” Hermione answered, flustered by the question. “When I shared breakfast with him it was as if I was awakened from a long, strange dream. Do you remember, I spoke to you about it? Oh, I didn’t hear music or any some such, and I did not even feel . . . Well, I don’t know how to explain it, but even though I was not in any way overcome—as I was with Mr. Edmonds—I . . . I wondered. About him. And whether maybe I could feel something. If I tried. And I did not see how I could possibly be in love with Mr. Edmonds if Mr. Bridgerton made me wonder.”

  Lucy nodded. Gregory Bridgerton made her wonder, too. But not about whether she could. That she knew. She just wanted to know how to make herself not.

  But Hermione did not see her distress. Or perhaps Lucy hid it well. Either way, Hermione just continued with her explanation. “And then . . .” she said, “with Richard . . . I’m not certain how it happened, but we were walking, and we were talking, and it all felt so pleasant. But more than pleasant,” she hastily added. “Pleasant sounds dull, and it wasn’t that. I felt . . . right. Like I’d come home.”

  Hermione smiled, almost helplessly, as if she couldn’t quite believe her good fortune. And Lucy was glad for her. She really was. But she wondered how it was possible to feel so happy and so sad at the same time. Because she was never going to feel that way. And even if she hadn’t believed in it before, she did now. And that made it so much worse.

  “I am sorry if I did not appear happy for you last night,” Lucy said softly. “I am. Very much so. It was the shock, that is all. So many changes all at one time.”

  “But good changes, Lucy,” Hermione said, her eyes shining. “Good changes.”

  Lucy wished she could share her confidence. She wanted to embrace Hermione’s optimism, but instead she felt overwhelmed. But she could not say that to her friend. Not now, when she was glowing with happiness.

  So Lucy smiled and said, “You will have a good life with Richard.” And
she meant it, too.

  Hermione grasped her hand with both of her own, squeezing tightly with all the friendship and excitement inside of her. “Oh, Lucy, I know it. I have known him for so long, and he’s your brother, so he has always made me feel safe. Comfortable, really. I don’t have to worry about what he thinks of me. You’ve surely already told him everything, good and bad, and he still believes I’m rather fine.”

  “He doesn’t know you can’t dance,” Lucy admitted.

  “He doesn’t?” Hermione shrugged. “I will tell him, then. Perhaps he can teach me. Does he have any talent for it?”

  Lucy shook her head.

  “Do you see?” Hermione said, her smile wistful and hopeful and joyful all at once. “We are perfectly matched. It has all become so clear. It is so easy to talk with him, and last night . . . I was laughing, and he was laughing, and it just felt so . . . lovely. I can’t really explain.”

  But she didn’t have to explain. Lucy was terrified that she knew exactly what Hermione meant.

  “And then we were in the orangery, and it was so beautiful with the moonlight shining through the glass. It was all dappled and blurry and . . . and then I looked at him.” Hermione’s eyes grew misty and unfocused, and Lucy knew that she was lost in the memory.

  Lost and happy.

  “I looked at him,” Hermione said again, “and he was looking down at me. I could not look away. I simply could not. And then we kissed. It was . . . I didn’t even think about it. It just happened. It was just the most natural, wonderful thing in the world.”

  Lucy nodded sadly.

  “I realized that I didn’t understand before. With Mr. Edmonds—oh, I thought myself so violently in love with him, but I did not know what love was. He was so handsome, and he made me feel shy and excited, but I never longed to kiss him. I never looked at him and leaned in, not because I wanted to, but just because . . . because . . .”

  Because what? Lucy wanted to scream. But even if she’d had the inclination, she lacked the energy.

  “Because it was where I belonged,” Hermione finished softly, and she looked amazed, as if she hadn’t herself realized it until that very moment.

  Lucy suddenly began to feel very queer. Her muscles felt twitchy, and she had the most insane desire to wrap her hands into fists. What did she mean? Why was she saying this? Everyone had spent so much time telling her that love was a thing of magic, something wild and uncontrollable that came like a thunderstorm.

  And now it was something else? It was just comfort? Something peaceful? Something that actually sounded nice? “What happened to hearing music?” she heard herself demand. “To seeing the back of his head and knowing?”

  Hermione gave her a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. But I shouldn’t trust it, if I were you.”

  Lucy closed her eyes in agony. She didn’t need Hermione’s warning. She would never have trusted that sort of feeling. She wasn’t the sort who memorized love sonnets, and she never would be. But the other kind—the one with the laughing, the comfort, the feeling nice—that she would trust in a heartbeat.

  And dear God, that was what she’d felt with Mr. Bridgerton.

  All that and music, too.

  Lucy felt the blood drain from her face. She’d heard music when she kissed him. It had been a veritable symphony, with soaring crescendos and pounding percussion and even that pulsing little underbeat one never noticed until it crept up and took over the rhythm of one’s heart.

  Lucy had floated. She’d tingled. She’d felt all those things Hermione had said she’d felt with Mr. Edmonds—and everything she’d said she felt with Richard, as well.

  All with one person.

  She was in love with him. She was in love with Gregory Bridgerton. The realization couldn’t have been more clear . . . or more cruel.

  “Lucy?” Hermione asked hesitantly. And then again—“Luce?”

  “When is the wedding?” Lucy asked abruptly. Because changing the subject was the only thing she could do. She turned, looked directly at Hermione and held her gaze for the first time in the conversation. “Have you begun making plans? Will it be in Fenchley?”

  Details. Details were her salvation. They always had been.

  Hermione’s expression grew confused, then concerned, and then she said, “I . . . no, I believe it is to be at the Abbey. It’s a bit more grand. And . . . are you certain you’re all right?”

  “Quite well,” Lucy said briskly, and she sounded like herself, so maybe that would mean she would begin to feel that way, too. “But you did not mention when.”

  “Oh. Soon. I’m told there were people near the orangery last night. I am not certain what was heard—or repeated—but the whispering has begun, so we will need to have it all settled posthaste.” Hermione gave her a sweet smile. “I don’t mind. And I don’t think Richard does, either.”

  Lucy wondered which of them would reach the altar first. She hoped it was Hermione.

  A knock sounded on the door. It was a maid, followed by two footmen, there to remove Lucy’s trunks.

  “Richard desires an early start,” Lucy explained, even though she had not seen her brother since the events of the previous night. Hermione probably knew more about their plans than she did.

  “Think of it, Lucy,” Hermione said, walking her to the door. “We shall both be countesses. I of Fennsworth, and you of Davenport. We shall cut quite a dash, we two.”

  Lucy knew that she was trying to cheer her up, so she used every ounce of her energy to force her smile to reach her eyes as she said, “It will be great fun, won’t it?”

  Hermione took her hand and squeezed it. “Oh, it will, Lucy. You shall see. We are at the dawn of a new day, and it will be bright, indeed.”

  Lucy gave her friend a hug. It was the only way she could think to hide her face from view.

  Because there was no way she could feign a smile this time.

  Gregory found her just in time. She was in the front drive, surprisingly alone, save for the handful of servants scurrying about. He could see her profile, chin tipped slightly up as she watched her trunks being loaded onto the carriage. She looked . . . composed. Carefully held.

  “Lady Lucinda,” he called out.

  She went quite still before she turned. And when she did, her eyes looked pained.

  “I am glad I caught you,” he said, although he was no longer sure that he was. She was not happy to see him. He had not been expecting that.

  “Mr. Bridgerton,” she said. Her lips were pinched at the corners, as if she thought she was smiling.

  There were a hundred different things he could have said, so of course he chose the least meaningful and most obvious. “You’re leaving.”

  “Yes,” she said, after the barest of pauses. “Richard desires an early start.”

  Gregory looked around. “Is he here?”

  “Not yet. I imagine he is saying goodbye to Hermione.”

  “Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  He looked at her, and she looked at him, and they were quiet.

  Awkward.

  “I wanted to say that I am sorry,” he said.

  She . . . she didn’t smile. He wasn’t sure what her expression was, but it wasn’t a smile. “Of course,” she said.

  Of course? Of course?

  “I accept.” She looked slightly over his shoulder. “Please, do not think of it again.”

  It was what she had to say, to be sure, but it still niggled at Gregory. He had kissed her, and it had been stupendous, and if he wished to remember it, he damned well would.

  “Will I see you in London?” he asked.

  She looked up at him then, her eyes finally meeting his. She was searching for something. She was searching for something in him, and he did not think she found it.

  She looked too somber, too tired.

  Too not like her.

  “I expect you shall,” she replied. “But it won’t be the same. I am engaged, you see.”

  “
Practically engaged,” he reminded her, smiling.

  “No.” She shook her head, slow and resigned. “I truly am now. That is why Richard came to fetch me home. My uncle has finalized the agreements. I believe the banns will be read soon. It is done.”

  His lips parted with surprise. “I see,” he said, and his mind raced. And raced and raced, and got absolutely nowhere. “I wish you the best,” he said, because what else could he say?

  She nodded, then tilted her head toward the wide green lawn in front of the house. “I believe I shall take a turn around the garden. I have a long ride ahead of me.”

  “Of course,” he said, giving her a polite bow. She did not wish for his company. She could not have made herself more clear if she had spoken the words.

  “It has been lovely knowing you,” she said. Her eyes caught his, and for the first time in the conversation, he saw her, saw right down to everything inside of her, weary and bruised.

  And he saw that she was saying goodbye.

  “I am sorry . . .” She stopped, looked to the side. At a stone wall. “I am sorry that everything did not work out as you had hoped.”

  I’m not, he thought, and he realized that it was true. He had a sudden flash of his life married to Hermione Watson, and he was . . .

  Bored.

  Good God, how was it he was only just now realizing it? He and Miss Watson were not suited at all, and in truth, he had made a narrow escape.

  He wasn’t likely to trust his judgment next time when it came to matters of the heart, but that seemed far more preferable to a dull marriage. He supposed he had Lady Lucinda to thank for that, although he wasn’t sure why. She had not prevented his marriage to Miss Watson; in fact, she had encouraged it at every turn.

  But somehow she was responsible for his coming to his senses. If there was any one true thing to be known that morning, that was it.

  Lucy motioned to the lawn again. “I shall take that stroll,” she said.

  He nodded his greeting and watched her as she walked off. Her hair was smoothed neatly into a bun, the blond strands catching the sunlight like honey and butter.

  He waited for quite some time, not because he expected her to turn around, or even because he hoped she would.