It's in His Kiss

by Julia Quinn

  Gareth watched with amusement as Hyacinth murmured something that was meant to convey her agreement without actually doing so.

  “Of course,” Grandmother Danbury added with a dismissive wave of her hand, “he hasn’t much in the way of competition. The rest of them have only three brains to share among them.”

  Not the most ringing of endorsements, considering that she had twelve living grandchildren.

  “I’ve heard some animals eat their young,” Gareth murmured, to no one in particular.

  “This being a Tuesday,” his grandmother said, ignoring his comment completely, “what brings you by?”

  Gareth wrapped his fingers around the book in his pocket. He’d been so intrigued by its existence since Caroline had handed it over that he had completely forgotten about his grandmother’s weekly visit with Hyacinth Bridgerton. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have waited until later in the afternoon, after she had departed.

  But now he was here, and he had to give them some reason for his presence. Otherwise—God help him—his grandmother would assume he’d come because of Miss Bridgerton, and it would take months to dissuade her of the notion.

  “What is it, boy?” his grandmother asked, in her inimitable way. “Speak up.”

  Gareth turned to Hyacinth, slightly pleased when she squirmed a little under his intent stare. “Why do you visit my grandmother?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Because I like her.”

  And then she leaned forward and asked, “Why do you visit her?”

  “Because she’s my—” He stopped, caught himself. He didn’t visit just because she was his grandmother. Lady Danbury was a number of things to him—trial, termagant, and bane of his existence sprang to mind—but never a duty. “I like her, too,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving Hyacinth’s.

  She didn’t blink. “Good.”

  And then they just stared at each other, as if trapped in some sort of bizarre contest.

  “Not that I have any complaints with this particular avenue of conversation,” Lady Danbury said loudly, “but what the devil are the two of you talking about?”

  Hyacinth sat back and looked at Lady Danbury as if nothing had happened. “I have no idea,” she said blithely, and proceeded to sip at her tea. Setting the cup back in its saucer, she added, “He asked me a question.”

  Gareth watched her curiously. His grandmother wasn’t the easiest person to befriend, and if Hyacinth Bridgerton happily sacrificed her Tuesday afternoons to be with her, that was certainly a point in her favor. Not to mention that Lady Danbury hardly liked anyone, and she raved about Miss Bridgerton at every possible opportunity. It was, of course, partly because she was trying to pair the two of them up; his grandmother had never been known for her tact or subtlety.

  But still, if Gareth had learned one thing over the years, it was that his grandmother was a shrewd judge of character. And besides, the diary was written in Italian. Even if it did contain some indiscreet secret, Miss Bridgerton would hardly know.

  His decision made, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the book.

  Chapter 4

  At which point Hyacinth’s life finally becomes almost as exciting as Priscilla Butterworth’s. Minus the cliffs, of course…

  Hyacinth watched with interest as Mr. St. Clair appeared to hesitate. He glanced over at her, his clear blue eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before he turned back to his grandmother. Hyacinth tried not to look too interested; he was obviously trying to decide if he should mention his business in her presence, and she suspected that any interference on her part would cause him to keep his counsel.

  But apparently she passed muster, because after a brief moment of silence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small, leather-bound book.

  “What is this?” Lady Danbury asked, taking it into her hands.

  “Grandmother St. Clair’s diary,” he replied. “Caroline brought it over this afternoon. She found it among George’s effects.”

  “It’s in Italian,” Lady D said.

  “Yes, I was aware.”

  “I meant, why did you bring it to me?” she asked, somewhat impatiently.

  Mr. St. Clair gave her a lazy half smile. “You are always telling me you know everything, or if not everything, then everyone.”

  “You said that to me earlier this afternoon,” Hyacinth put in helpfully.

  Mr. St. Clair turned to her with a vaguely patronizing, “Thank you,” which arrived at precisely the same moment as Lady Danbury’s glare.

  Hyacinth squirmed. Not at Lady D’s glare—she was quite impervious to those. But she hated this feeling that Mr. St. Clair thought her deserving of condescension.

  “I was hoping,” he said to his grandmother, “that you might know of a reputable translator.”

  “For Italian?”

  “It would seem to be the required language.”

  “Hmmph.” Lady D tap tap tapped her cane against the carpet, much the way a normal person would drum fingers atop a table. “Italian? Not nearly as ubiquitous as French, which of course any decent person would—”

  “I can read Italian,” Hyacinth interrupted.

  Two identical pairs of blue eyes swung her direction.

  “You’re joking,” Mr. St. Clair said, coming in a mere half second before his grandmother barked, “You can?”

  “You don’t know everything about me,” Hyacinth said archly. To Lady Danbury, of course, since Mr. St. Clair could hardly make that claim.

  “Well, yes, of course,” Lady D blustered, “but Italian?”

  “I had an Italian governess when I was small,” Hyacinth said with a shrug. “It amused her to teach me. I’m not fluent,” she allowed, “but given a page or two, I can make out the general meaning.”

  “This is quite more than a page or two,” Mr. St. Clair said, tilting his head toward the diary, which still rested in his grandmother’s hands.

  “Clearly,” Hyacinth replied peevishly. “But I’m not likely to read more than a page or two at a time. And she didn’t write it in the style of the ancient Romans, did she?”

  “That would be Latin,” Mr. St. Clair drawled.

  Hyacinth clamped her teeth together. “Nevertheless,” she ground out.

  “For the love of God, boy,” Lady Danbury cut in, “give her the book.”

  Mr. St. Clair forbore to point out that she was still holding it, which Hyacinth thought showed remarkable restraint on his part. Instead, he rose to his feet, plucked the slim volume from his grandmother’s hands, and turned toward Hyacinth. He hesitated then—just for a moment, and Hyacinth would have missed it had she been looking anywhere but directly at his face.

  He brought the book to her then, holding it out with a softly murmured, “Miss Bridgerton.”

  Hyacinth accepted it, shivering against the odd feeling that she had just done something far more powerful than merely taking a book into her hands.

  “Are you cold, Miss Bridgerton?” Mr. St. Clair murmured.

  She shook her head, using the book as a means to avoid looking at him. “The pages are slightly brittle,” she said, carefully turning one.

  “What does it say?” Mr. St. Clair asked.

  Hyacinth gritted her teeth. It was never fun to be forced to perform under pressure, and it was nigh near impossible with Gareth St. Clair breathing down her neck.

  “Give her some room!” Lady D barked.

  He moved, but not enough to make Hyacinth feel any more at ease.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  Hyacinth’s head bobbed slightly back and forth as she worked out the meaning. “She’s writing about her upcoming wedding,” she said. “I think she’s due to marry your grandfather in”—she bit her lip as she scanned down the page for the appropriate words—“three weeks. I gather the ceremony was in Italy.”

  Mr. St. Clair nodded once before prodding her with, “And?”

  “And…” Hyacinth wrinkled her nose, as she alwa
ys did when she was thinking hard. It wasn’t a terribly attractive expression, but the alternative was simply not to think, which she didn’t find appealing.

  “What did she say?” Lady Danbury urged.

  “Orrendo orrendo…,” Hyacinth murmured. “Oh, right.” She looked up. “She’s not very happy about it.”

  “Who would be?” Lady D put in. “The man was a bear, apologies to those in the room sharing his blood.”

  Mr. St. Clair ignored her. “What else?”

  “I told you I’m not fluent,” Hyacinth finally snapped. “I need time to work it out.”

  “Take it home,” Lady Danbury said. “You’ll be seeing him tomorrow night, anyway.”

  “I am?” Hyacinth asked, at precisely the moment Mr. St. Clair said, “She will?”

  “You’re accompanying me to the Pleinsworth poetry reading,” Lady D told her grandson. “Or have you forgotten?”

  Hyacinth sat back, enjoying the sight of Gareth St. Clair’s mouth opening and closing in obvious distress. He looked a bit like a fish, she decided. A fish with the features of a Greek god, but still, a fish.

  “I really…” he said. “That is to say, I can’t—”

  “You can, and you will be there,” Lady D said. “You promised.”

  He regarded her with a stern expression. “I cannot imagine—”

  “Well, if you didn’t promise, you should have done, and ifyou love me…”

  Hyacinth coughed to cover her laugh, then tried not to smirk when Mr. St. Clair shot a dirty look in her direction.

  “When I die,” he said, “surely my epitaph will read, ‘He loved his grandmother when no one else would.’”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Lady Danbury asked.

  “I’ll be there,” he sighed.

  “Bring wool for your ears,” Hyacinth advised.

  He looked aghast. “It cannot possibly be worse than last night’s musicale.”

  Hyacinth couldn’t quite keep one corner of her mouth from tilting up. “Lady Pleinsworth used to be a Smythe-Smith.”

  Across the room, Lady Danbury chortled with glee.

  “I had best be getting home,” Hyacinth said, rising to her feet. “I shall try to translate the first entry before I see you tomorrow evening, Mr. St. Clair.”

  “You have my gratitude, Miss Bridgerton.”

  Hyacinth nodded and crossed the room, trying to ignore the strangely giddy sensation growing in her chest. It was just a book, for heaven’s sake.

  And he was just a man.

  It was annoying, this strange compulsion she felt to impress him. She wanted to do something that would prove her intelligence and wit, something that would force him to look at her with an expression other than vague amusement.

  “Allow me to walk you to the door,” Mr. St. Clair said, falling into step beside her.

  Hyacinth turned, then felt her breath stop short in surprise. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close. “I…ah…”

  It was his eyes, she realized. So blue and clear she ought to have felt she could read his thoughts, but instead she rather thought he could read hers.

  “Yes?” he murmured, placing her hand on his elbow.

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Why, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, guiding her into the hall. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words. Except for the other night,” he added, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side.

  She looked at him, narrowing her eyes.

  “At the musicale,” he supplied helpfully. “It was lovely.” He smiled, most annoyingly. “Wasn’t it lovely?”

  Hyacinth clamped her lips together. “You barely know me, Mr. St. Clair,” she said.

  “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “As does yours.”

  “Touché, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, but she didn’t particularly feel she’d won the point.

  Hyacinth saw her maid waiting by the door, so she extricated her hand from Mr. St. Clair’s elbow and crossed the foyer. “Until tomorrow, Mr. St. Clair,” she said.

  And as the door shut behind her, she could have sworn she heard him reply, “Arrivederci.”

  Hyacinth arrives home.

  Her mother has been waiting for her.

  This is not good.

  “Charlotte Stokehurst,” Violet Bridgerton announced, “is getting married.”

  “Today?” Hyacinth queried, taking off her gloves.

  Her mother gave her a look. “She has become engaged. Her mother told me this morning.”

  Hyacinth looked around. “Were you waiting for me in the hall?”

  “To the Earl of Renton,” Violet added. “Renton.”

  “Have we any tea?” Hyacinth asked. “I walked all the way home, and I’m thirsty.”

  “Renton!” Violet exclaimed, looking about ready to throw up her hands in despair. “Did you hear me?”

  “Renton,” Hyacinth said obligingly. “He has fat ankles.”

  “He’s—” Violet stopped short. “Why were you looking at his ankles?”

  “I couldn’t very well miss them,” Hyacinth replied. She handed her reticule—which contained the Italian diary—to a maid. “Would you take this to my room, please?”

  Violet waited until the maid scurried off. “I have tea in the drawing room, and there is nothing wrong with Renton’s ankles.”

  Hyacinth shrugged. “If you like the puffy sort.”

  “Hyacinth!”

  Hyacinth sighed tiredly, following her mother into the drawing room. “Mother, you have six married children, and they all are quite happy with their choices. Why must you try to push me into an unsuitable alliance?”

  Violet sat and prepared a cup of tea for Hyacinth. “I’m not,” she said, “but Hyacinth, couldn’t you even look?”

  “Mother, I—”

  “Or for my sake, pretend to?”

  Hyacinth could not help but smile.

  Violet held the cup out, then took it back and added another spoonful of sugar. Hyacinth was the only one in the family who took sugar in her tea, and she’d always liked it extra sweet.

  “Thank you,” Hyacinth said, tasting the brew. It wasn’t quite as hot as she preferred, but she drank it anyway.

  “Hyacinth,” her mother said, in that tone of voice that always made Hyacinth feel a little guilty, even though she knew better, “you know I only wish to see you happy.”

  “I know,” Hyacinth said. That was the problem. Her mother did only wish her to be happy. If Violet had been pushing her toward marriage for social glory or financial gain, it would have been much easier to ignore her. But no, her mother loved her and truly did want her to be happy, not just married, and so Hyacinth tried her best to maintain her good humor through all of her mother’s sighs.

  “I would never wish to see you married to someone whose company you did not enjoy,” Violet continued.

  “I know.”

  “And if you never met the right person, I would be perfectly happy to see you remain unwed.”

  Hyacinth eyed her dubiously.

  “Very well,” Violet amended, “not perfectly happy, but you know I would never pressure you to marry someone unsuitable.”

  “I know,” Hyacinth said again.

  “But darling, you’ll never find anyone if you don’t look.”

  “I look!” Hyacinth protested. “I have gone out almost every night this week. I even went to the Smythe-Smith musicale last night. Which,” she said quite pointedly, “I might add you did not attend.”

  Violet coughed. “Bit of a cough, I’m afraid.”

  Hyacinth said nothing, but no one could have mistaken the look in her eyes.

  “I heard you sat next to Gareth St. Clair,” Violet said, after an appropriate silence.

  “Do you have spies everywhere?” Hyacinth grumbled.

  “Almost,” Violet replied. “It makes life so much easier.”

  “For you, perhaps.”

  “Did you li
ke him?” Violet persisted.

  Like him? It seemed such an odd question. Did she like Gareth St. Clair? Did she like that it always felt as if he was silently laughing at her, even after she’d agreed to translate his grandmother’s diary? Did she like that she could never tell what he was thinking, or that he left her feeling unsettled, and not quite herself?

  “Well?” her mother asked.

  “Somewhat,” Hyacinth hedged.

  Violet didn’t say anything, but her eyes took on a gleam that terrified Hyacinth to her very core.

  “Don’t,” Hyacinth warned.

  “He would be an excellent match, Hyacinth.”

  Hyacinth stared at her mother as if she’d sprouted an extra head. “Have you gone mad? You know his reputation as well as I.”

  Violet brushed that aside instantly. “His reputation won’t matter once you’re married.”

  “It would if he continued to consort with opera singers and the like.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Violet said, waving her hand dismissively.

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  Violet paused for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s a feeling I have.”

  “Mother,” Hyacinth said with a great show of solicitude, “you know I love you dearly—”

  “Why is it,” Violet pondered, “that I have come to expect nothing good when I hear a sentence beginning in that manner?”

  “But,” Hyacinth cut in, “you must forgive me if I decline to marry someone based upon a feeling you might or might not have.”

  Violet sipped her tea with rather impressive nonchalance. “It’s the next best thing to a feeling you might have. And if I may say so myself, my feelings on these things tend to be right on the mark.” At Hyacinth’s dry expression, she added, “I haven’t been wrong yet.”

  Well, that was true, Hyacinth had to acknowledge. To herself, of course. If she actually admitted as much out loud, her mother would take that as a carte blanche to pursue Mr. St. Clair until he ran screaming for the trees.

  “Mother,” Hyacinth said, pausing for slightly longer than normal to steal a bit of time to organize her thoughts, “I am not going to chase after Mr. St. Clair. He’s not at all the right sort of man for me.”