On the Way to the Wedding with 2nd Epilogue

by Julia Quinn

  “You’re still moving.”

  “Oh.” Good God, could she do nothing right this evening? “Sorry.”

  Hyacinth jabbed her with the needle. “You’re still moving.”

  “I am not!” Lucy almost yelled.

  Hyacinth smiled to herself. “That’s better.”

  Lucy looked down and scowled. “Am I bleeding?”

  “If you are,” Hyacinth said, rising to her feet, “it’s nobody’s fault but your own.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  But Hyacinth was already standing, a satisfied smile on her face. “There,” she announced, motioning to her handiwork. “Certainly not as good as new, but it will pass any inspection this evening.”

  Lucy knelt to inspect her hem. Hyacinth had been generous in her self-praise. The stitching was a mess.

  “I’ve never been gifted with a needle,” Hyacinth said with an unconcerned shrug.

  Lucy stood, fighting the impulse to rip the stitches out and fix them herself. “You might have told me,” she muttered.

  Hyacinth’s lips curved into a slow, sly smile. “My, my,” she said, “you’ve turned prickly all of a sudden.”

  And then Lucy shocked herself by saying, “You’ve been hurtful.”

  “Possibly,” Hyacinth replied, sounding as if she didn’t much care one way or the other. She glanced toward the door with a quizzical expression. “He ought to have been here by now.”

  Lucy’s heart thumped strangely in her chest. “You still plan to help me?” she whispered.

  Hyacinth turned back. “I am hoping,” she replied, her eyes meeting Lucy’s with cool assessment, “that you have misjudged yourself.”

  Gregory was ten minutes late to the assignation. It couldn’t be helped; once he had danced with one young lady, it had become apparent that he was required to repeat the favor for a half-dozen others. And although it was difficult to keep his attention on the conversations he was meant to be conducting, he did not mind the delay. It meant that Lucy and Hyacinth were well gone before he slipped out the door. He intended to find some way to make Lucy his wife, but there was no need to go looking for scandal.

  He made his way to his sister’s bedchamber; he had spent countless hours at Hastings House and knew his way around. When he reached his destination, he entered without knocking, the well-oiled hinges of the door giving way without a sound.

  “Gregory.”

  Hyacinth’s voice came first. She was standing next to Lucy, who looked . . .

  Stricken.

  What had Hyacinth done to her?

  “Lucy?” he asked, rushing forward. “Is something wrong?”

  Lucy shook her head. “It is of no account.”

  He turned to his sister with accusing eyes.

  Hyacinth shrugged. “I will be in the next room.”

  “Listening at the door?”

  “I shall wait at Daphne’s escritoire,” she said. “It is halfway across the room, and before you make an objection, I cannot go farther. If someone comes you will need me to rush in to make everything respectable.”

  Her point was a valid one, loath as Gregory was to admit it, so he gave her a curt nod and watched her leave the room, waiting for the click of the door latch before speaking.

  “Did she say something unkind?” he asked Lucy. “She can be disgracefully tactless, but her heart is usually in the right place.”

  Lucy shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I think she might have said exactly the right thing.”

  “Lucy?” He stared at her in question.

  Her eyes, which had seemed so cloudy, appeared to focus. “What was it you needed to tell me?” she asked.

  “Lucy,” he said, wondering how best to approach this. He’d been rehearsing speeches in his mind the entire time he’d been dancing downstairs, but now that he was here, he didn’t know what to say.

  Or rather, he did. But he didn’t know the order, and he didn’t know the tone. Did he tell her he loved her? Bare his heart to a woman who intended to marry another? Or did he opt for the safer route and explain why she could not marry Haselby?

  A month ago, the choice would have been obvious. He was a romantic, fond of grand gestures. He would have declared his love, certain of a happy reception. He would have taken her hand. Dropped to his knees.

  He would have kissed her.

  But now . . .

  He was no longer quite so certain. He trusted Lucy, but he did not trust fate.

  “You can’t marry Haselby,” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t marry him,” he replied, avoiding the question. “It will be a disaster. It will . . . You must trust me. You must not marry him.”

  She shook her head. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Because I want you for myself.

  “Because . . . because . . .” He fought for words. “Because you have become my friend. And I wish for your happiness. He will not be a good husband to you, Lucy.”

  “Why not?” Her voice was low, hollow, and heartbreakingly unlike her.

  “He . . .” Dear God, how did he say it? Would she even understand what he meant?

  “He doesn’t . . .” He swallowed. There had to be a gentle way to say it. “He doesn’t . . . Some people . . .”

  He looked at her. Her lower lip was quivering.

  “He prefers men,” he said, getting the words out as quickly as he was able. “To women. Some men are like that.”

  And then he waited. For the longest moment she made no reaction, just stood there like a tragic statue. Every now and then she would blink, but beyond that, nothing. And then finally—

  “Why?”

  Why? He didn’t understand. “Why is he—”

  “No,” she said forcefully. “Why did you tell me? Why would you say it?”

  “I told you—”

  “No, you didn’t do it to be kind. Why did you tell me? Was it just to be cruel? To make me feel the way you feel, because Hermione married my brother and not you?”

  “No!” The word burst out of him, and he was holding her, his hands wrapped around her upper arms. “No, Lucy,” he said again. “I would never. I want you to be happy. I want . . .”

  Her. He wanted her, and he didn’t know how to say it. Not then, not when she was looking at him as if he’d broken her heart.

  “I could have been happy with him,” she whispered.

  “No. No, you couldn’t. You don’t understand, he—”

  “Yes, I could,” she cried out. “Maybe I wouldn’t have loved him, but I could have been happy. It was what I expected. Do you understand, it was what I was prepared for. And you . . . you . . .” She wrenched herself away, turning until he could no longer see her face. “You ruined it.”

  “How?”

  She raised her eyes to his, and the look in them was so stark, so deep, he could not breathe. And she said, “Because you made me want you instead.”

  His heart slammed in his chest. “Lucy,” he said, because he could not say anything else. “Lucy.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed.

  “Kiss me.” He took her face in his hands. “Just kiss me.”

  This time, when he kissed her, it was different. She was the same woman in his arms, but he was not the same man. His need for her was deeper, more elemental.

  He loved her.

  He kissed her with everything he had, every breath, every last beat of his heart. His lips found her cheek, her brow, her ears, and all the while, he whispered her name like a prayer—

  Lucy Lucy Lucy.

  He wanted her. He needed her.

  She was like air.

  Food.

  Water.

  His mouth moved to her neck, then down to the lacy edge of her bodice. Her skin burned hot beneath him, and as his fingers slid the gown from one of her shoulders, she gasped—

  But she did not stop him.

  “Gregory,” she whispered, her fi
ngers digging into his hair as his lips moved along her collarbone. “Gregory, oh my G—Gregory.”

  His hand moved reverently over the curve of her shoulder. Her skin glowed pale and milky smooth in the candlelight, and he was struck by an intense sense of possession. Of pride.

  No other man had seen her thus, and he prayed that no other man ever would.

  “You can’t marry him, Lucy,” he whispered urgently, his words hot against her skin.

  “Gregory, don’t,” she moaned.

  “You can’t.” And then, because he knew he could not allow this to go any further, he straightened, pressing one last kiss against her lips before setting her back, forcing her to look him in the eye.

  “You cannot marry him,” he said again.

  “Gregory, what can I—”

  He gripped her arms. Hard. And he said it.

  “I love you.”

  Her lips parted. She could not speak.

  “I love you,” he said again.

  Lucy had suspected—she’d hoped—but she hadn’t really allowed herself to believe. And so, when she finally found words of her own, they were: “You do?”

  He smiled, and then he laughed, and then he rested his forehead on hers. “With all of my heart,” he vowed. “I only just realized it. I’m a fool. A blind man. A—”

  “No,” she cut in, shaking her head. “Do not berate yourself. No one ever notices me straightaway when Hermione is about.”

  His fingers gripped her all the tighter. “She does not hold a candle to you.”

  A warm feeling began to spread through her bones. Not desire, not passion, just pure, unadulterated happiness. “You really mean it,” she whispered.

  “Enough to move heaven and earth to make sure you do not go through with your wedding to Haselby.”

  She blanched.

  “Lucy?”

  No. She could do it. She would do it. It was almost funny, really. She had spent three years telling Hermione that she had to be practical, follow the rules. She’d scoffed when Hermione had gone on about love and passion and hearing music. And now . . .

  She took a deep, fortifying breath. And now she was going to break her engagement.

  That had been arranged for years.

  To the son of an earl.

  Five days before the wedding.

  Dear God, the scandal.

  She stepped back, lifting her chin so that she could see Gregory’s face. His eyes were watching her with all the love she herself felt.

  “I love you,” she whispered, because she had not yet said it. “I love you, too.”

  For once she was going to stop thinking about everyone else. She wasn’t going to take what she was given and make the best of it. She was going to reach for her own happiness, make her own destiny.

  She was not going to do what was expected.

  She was going to do what she wanted.

  It was time.

  She squeezed Gregory’s hands. And she smiled. It was no tentative thing, but wide and confident, full of her hopes, full of her dreams—and the knowledge that she would achieve them all.

  It would be difficult. It would be frightening.

  But it would be worth it.

  “I will speak with my uncle,” she said, the words firm and sure. “Tomorrow.”

  Gregory pulled her against him for one last kiss, quick and passionate with promise. “Shall I accompany you?” he asked. “Call upon him so that I might reassure him of my intentions?”

  The new Lucy, the daring and bold Lucy, asked, “And what are your intentions?”

  Gregory’s eyes widened with surprise, then approval, and then his hands took hers.

  She felt what he was doing before she realized it by sight. His hands seemed to slide along hers as he descended . . .

  Until he was on one knee, looking up at her as if there could be no more beautiful woman in all creation.

  Her hand flew to her mouth, and she realized she was shaking.

  “Lady Lucinda Abernathy,” he said, his voice fervent and sure, “will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

  She tried to speak. She tried to nod.

  “Marry me, Lucy,” he said. “Marry me.”

  And this time she did. “Yes.” And then, “Yes! Oh, yes!”

  “I will make you happy,” he said, standing to embrace her. “I promise you.”

  “There is no need to promise.” She shook her head, blinking back the tears. “There is no way you could not.”

  He opened his mouth, presumably to say more, but he was cut off by a knock at the door, soft but quick.

  Hyacinth.

  “Go,” Gregory said. “Let Hyacinth take you back to the ballroom. I will follow later.”

  Lucy nodded, tugging at her gown until everything was back in its proper place. “My hair,” she whispered, her eyes flying to his.

  “It’s lovely,” he assured her. “You look perfect.”

  She hurried to the door. “Are you certain?”

  I love you, he mouthed. And his eyes said the same.

  Lucy pulled open the door, and Hyacinth rushed in. “Good heavens, the two of you are slow,” she said. “We need to be getting back. Now.”

  She strode to the door to the corridor, then stopped, looking first at Lucy, then at her brother. Her gaze settled on Lucy, and she lifted one brow in question.

  Lucy held herself tall. “You did not misjudge me,” she said quietly.

  Hyacinth’s eyes widened, and then her lips curved. “Good.”

  And it was, Lucy realized. It was very good, indeed.

  Eighteen

  In which Our Heroine makes a terrible discovery.

  She could do this.

  She could.

  She needed only to knock.

  And yet there she stood, outside her uncle’s study door, her fingers curled into a fist, as if ready to knock on the door.

  But not quite.

  How long had she stood like this? Five minutes? Ten? Either way, it was enough to brand her a ridiculous ninny. A coward.

  How did this happen? Why did it happen? At school she had been known as capable and pragmatic. She was the girl who knew how to get things done. She was not shy. She was not fearful.

  But when it came to Uncle Robert . . .

  She sighed. She had always been like this with her uncle. He was so stern, so taciturn.

  So unlike her own laughing father had been.

  She’d felt like a butterfly when she left for school, but whenever she returned, it was as if she had been stuffed right back in her tight little cocoon. She became drab, quiet.

  Lonely.

  But not this time. She took a breath, squared her shoulders. This time she would say what she needed to say. She would make herself heard.

  She lifted her hand. She knocked.

  She waited.

  “Enter.”

  “Uncle Robert,” she said, letting herself into his study. It felt dark, even with the late afternoon sunlight slanting in through the window.

  “Lucinda,” he said, glancing briefly up before returning to his papers. “What is it?”

  “I need to speak with you.”

  He made a notation, scowled at his handiwork, then blotted his ink. “Speak.”

  Lucy cleared her throat. This would be a great deal easier if he would just look up at her. She hated speaking to the top of his head, hated it.

  “Uncle Robert,” she said again.

  He grunted a response but kept on writing.

  “Uncle Robert.”

  She saw his movements slow, and then, finally, he looked up. “What is it, Lucinda?” he asked, clearly annoyed.

  “We need to have a conversation about Lord Haselby.” There. She had said it.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked slowly.

  “No,” she heard herself say, even though that wasn’t at all the truth. But it was what she always said if someone asked if there was a problem. It was one of those things that just ca
me out, like Excuse me, or I beg your pardon.

  It was what she’d been trained to say.

  Is there a problem?

  No, of course not. No, don’t mind my wishes. No, please don’t worry yourself on my account.

  “Lucinda?” Her uncle’s voice was sharp, almost jarring.

  “No,” she said again, louder this time, as if the volume would give her courage. “I mean yes, there is a problem. And I need to speak with you about it.”

  Her uncle gave her a bored look.

  “Uncle Robert,” she began, feeling as if she were tiptoeing through a field of hedgehogs, “did you know . . .” She bit her lip, glancing everywhere but at his face. “That is to say, were you aware . . .”

  “Out with it,” he snapped.

  “Lord Haselby,” Lucy said quickly, desperate just to get it over with. “He doesn’t like women.”

  For a moment Uncle Robert did nothing but stare. And then he . . .

  Laughed.

  He laughed.

  “Uncle Robert?” Lucy’s heart began to beat far too quickly. “Did you know this?”

  “Of course I knew it,” he snapped. “Why do you think his father is so eager to have you? He knows you won’t talk.”

  Why wouldn’t she talk?

  “You should be thanking me,” Uncle Robert said harshly, cutting into her thoughts. “Half the men of the ton are brutes. I’m giving you to the only one who won’t bother you.”

  “But—”

  “Do you have any idea how many women would love to take your place?”

  “That is not the point, Uncle Robert.”

  His eyes turned to ice. “I beg your pardon.”

  Lucy stood perfectly still, suddenly realizing that this was it. This was her moment. She had never countermanded him before, and she probably never would again.

  She swallowed. And then she said it. “I do not wish to marry Lord Haselby.”

  Silence. But his eyes . . .

  His eyes were thunderous.

  Lucy met his stare with cool detachment. She could feel a strange new strength growing inside of her. She would not back down. Not now, not when the rest of her life was at stake.

  Her uncle’s lips pursed and twisted, even as the rest of his face seemed to be made of stone. Finally, just when Lucy was certain that the silence would break her, he asked, his voice clipped, “May I ask why?”