by Julia Quinn
Surely such behavior couldn’t be healthy.
And even if “scores” was a bit of an exaggeration, and the true number was much more modest, how could she compete? She knew for a fact that his last mistress had been none other than Maria Bartolomeo, the Italian soprano as famed for her beauty as she was for her voice. Not even her own mother could claim that Hyacinth was anywhere near as beautiful as that.
How horrible that must be, to enter into one’s wedding night, knowing that one would suffer by comparison.
“I think it’s beginning.” She heard Mr. St. Clair sigh.
Footmen were crisscrossing the room, snuffing candles to dim the light. Hyacinth turned, catching sight of Mr. St. Clair’s profile. A candelabrum had been left alive over his shoulder, and in the flickering light his hair appeared almost streaked with gold. He was wearing his queue, she thought idly, the only man in the room to do so.
She liked that. She didn’t know why, but she liked it.
“How bad would it be,” she heard him whisper, “if I ran for the door?”
“Right now?” Hyacinth whispered back, trying to ignore the tingling feeling she got when he leaned in close. “Very bad.”
He sat back with a sad sigh, then focused on the stage, giving every appearance of the polite, and only very slightly bored, gentleman.
But it was only one minute later when Hyacinth heard it. Soft, and for her ears only:
“Baaa.
“Baaaaaaaaa.”
Ninety mind-numbing minutes later, and sadly, our hero was right about the cows.
“Do you drink port, Miss Bridgerton?” Gareth asked, keeping his eyes on the stage as he stood and applauded the Pleinsworth children.
“Of course not, but I’ve always wanted to taste it, why?”
“Because we both deserve a drink.”
He heard her smother a laugh, then say, “Well, the unicorn was rather sweet.”
He snorted. The unicorn couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Which would have been fine, except that Henry VIII had insisted upon taking an unscripted ride. “I’m surprised they didn’t have to call for a surgeon,” he muttered.
Hyacinth winced. “She did seem to be limping a bit.”
“It was all I could do not to whinny in pain on her behalf. Good God, who—Oh! Lady Pleinsworth,” Gareth said, pasting a smile on his face with what he thought was admirable speed. “How nice to see you.”
“Mr. St. Clair,” Lady Pleinsworth said effusively. “I’m so delighted you could attend.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“And Miss Bridgerton,” Lady Pleinsworth said, clearly angling for a bit of gossip. “Do I have you to thank for Mr. St. Clair’s appearance?”
“I’m afraid his grandmother is to blame,” Hyacinth replied. “She threatened him with her cane.”
Lady Pleinsworth didn’t seem to know quite how to respond to this, so she turned back to Gareth, clearing her throat a few times before asking, “Have you met my daughters?”
Gareth managed not to grimace. This was exactly why he tried to avoid these things. “Er, no, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“The shepherdess,” Lady Pleinsworth said helpfully.
Gareth nodded. “And the unicorn?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes,” Lady Pleinsworth replied, blinking in confusion, and quite possibly distress, “but she’s a bit young.”
“I’m sure Mr. St. Clair would be delighted to meet Harriet,” Hyacinth cut in before turning to Gareth with an explanatory, “The shepherdess.”
“Of course,” he said. “Yes, delighted.”
Hyacinth turned back to Lady Pleinsworth with a smile that was far too innocent. “Mr. St. Clair is an expert on all things ovine.”
“Where is my cane when I need it?” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Pleinsworth said, leaning forward.
“I would be honored to meet your daughter,” he said, since it seemed the only acceptable statement at that point.
“Wonderful!” Lady Pleinsworth exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I know she will be so excited to meet you.” And then, saying something about needing to see to the rest of her guests, she was off.
“Don’t look so upset,” Hyacinth said, once it was just the two of them again. “You’re quite a catch.”
He looked at her assessingly. “Is one meant to say such things quite so directly?”
She shrugged. “Not to men one is trying to impress.”
“Touché, Miss Bridgerton.”
She sighed happily. “My three favorite words.”
Of that, he had no doubt.
“Tell me, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, “have you begun to read my grandmother’s diary?”
She nodded. “I was surprised you didn’t ask earlier.”
“Distracted by the shepherdess,” he said, “although please don’t say as much to her mother. She’d surely take it the wrong way.”
“Mothers always do,” she agreed, glancing around the room.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Hmmm? Oh, nothing. Just looking.”
“For what?” he persisted.
She turned to him, her eyes wide, unblinking, and startlingly blue. “Nothing in particular. Don’t you like to know everything that is going on?”
“Only as it pertains to me.”
“Really?” She paused. “I like to know everything.”
“So I’m gathering. And speaking of which, what have you learned of the diary?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, brightening before his eyes. It seemed an odd sort of metaphor, but it was true. Hyacinth Bridgerton positively sparkled when she had the opportunity to speak with authority. And the strangest thing was, Gareth thought it rather charming.
“I have only read twelve pages, I’m afraid,” she said. “My mother required my assistance with her correspondence this afternoon, and I did not have the time I would have wished to work on it. I didn’t tell her about it, by the way. I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a secret.”
Gareth thought of his father, who would probably want the diary, if only because Gareth had it in his possession. “It’s a secret,” he said. “At least until I deem otherwise.”
She nodded. “It’s probably best not to say anything until you know what she wrote.”
“What did you find out?”
“Well…”
He watched her as she grimaced. “What is it?” he asked.
Both corners of her mouth stretched out and down in that expression one gets when one is trying not to deliver bad news. “There’s really no polite way to say it, I’m afraid,” she said.
“There rarely is, when it comes to my family.”
She eyed him curiously, saying, “She didn’t particularly wish to marry your grandfather.”
“Yes, you said as much this afternoon.”
“No, I mean she really didn’t want to marry him.”
“Smart woman,” he muttered. “The men in my family are bullheaded idiots.”
She smiled. Slightly. “Yourself included?”
He should have anticipated that. “You couldn’t resist, could you?” he murmured.
“Could you?”
“I imagine not,” he admitted. “What else did she say?”
“Not a great deal more,” Hyacinth told him. “She was only seventeen at the beginning of the diary. Her parents forced the match, and she wrote three pages about how upset she was.”
“Upset?”
She winced. “Well, a bit more than upset, I must say, but—”
“We’ll leave it at ‘upset.’ ”
“Yes,” she agreed, “that’s best.”
“How did they meet?” he asked. “Did she say?”
Hyacinth shook her head. “No. She seems to have begun the journal after their introduction. Although she did make reference to a party at her uncle’s house, so perhaps that was it.”
Gareth no
dded absently. “My grandfather took a grand tour,” he said. “They met and married in Italy, but that’s all I’ve been told.”
“Well, I don’t think he compromised her, if that’s what you wish to know,” Hyacinth said. “I would think she’d mention that in her diary.”
He couldn’t resist a little verbal poke. “Would you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Would you write about it in your diary if someone compromised you?”
She blushed, which delighted him. “I don’t keep a diary,” she said.
Oh, he was loving this. “But if you did…”
“But I don’t,” she ground out.
“Coward,” he said softly.
“Would you write all of your secrets down in a diary?” she countered.
“Of course not,” he said. “If someone found it, that would hardly be fair to the people I’ve mentioned.”
“People?” she dared.
He flashed her a grin. “Women.”
She blushed again, but it was softer this time, and he rather doubted she even knew she’d done it. It tinged her pink, played with the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose. At this point, most women would have expressed their outrage, or at least pretended to, but not Hyacinth. He watched as her lips pursed slightly—maybe to hide her embarrassed expression, maybe to bite off a retort, he wasn’t sure which.
And he realized that he was enjoying himself. It was hard to believe, since he was standing next to a piano covered with twigs, and he was well aware that he was going to have to spend the rest of the evening avoiding a shepherdess and her ambitious mother, but he was enjoying himself.
“Are you really as bad as they say?” Hyacinth asked.
He started in surprise. He hadn’t expected that. “No,” he admitted, “but don’t tell anyone.”
“I didn’t think so,” she said thoughtfully.
Something about her tone scared him. He didn’t want Hyacinth Bridgerton thinking so hard about him. Because he had the oddest feeling that if she did, she might see right through him.
And he wasn’t sure what she’d find.
“Your grandmother is coming this way,” she said.
“So she is,” he said, glad for the distraction. “Shall we attempt an escape?”
“It’s far too late for that,” Hyacinth said, her lips twisting slightly. “She’s got my mother in tow.”
“Gareth!” came his grandmother’s strident voice.
“Grandmother,” he said, gallantly kissing her hand when she reached his side. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”
“Of course it is,” she replied pertly.
Gareth turned to face an older, slightly fairer, version of Hyacinth. “Lady Bridgerton.”
“Mr. St. Clair,” said Lady Bridgerton warmly. “It has been an age.”
“I don’t often attend such recitations,” he said.
“Yes,” Lady Bridgerton said frankly, “your grandmother told me she was forced to twist your arm to attend.”
He turned to his grandmother with raised brows. “You are going to ruin my reputation.”
“You’ve done that all on your own, m’dear boy,” Lady D said.
“I think what he means,” Hyacinth put in, “is that he’s not likely to be thought dashing and dangerous if the world knows how well he dotes upon you.”
A slightly awkward silence fell over the group as Hyacinth realized that they had all understood his remark. Gareth found himself taking pity on her, so he filled the gap by saying, “I do have another engagement this evening, however, so I’m afraid I must take my leave.”
Lady Bridgerton smiled. “We will see you Tuesday evening, however, yes?”
“Tuesday?” he queried, realizing that Lady Bridgerton’s smile was nowhere near as innocent as it looked.
“My son and his wife are hosting a large ball. I’m sure you received an invitation.”
Gareth was sure he had, too, but half the time he tossed them aside without looking at them.
“I promise you,” Lady Bridgerton continued, “there will be no unicorns.”
Trapped. And by a master, too. “In that case,” he said politely, “how could I refuse?”
“Excellent. I’m sure Hyacinth will be delighted to see you.”
“I am quite beside myself with glee,” Hyacinth murmured.
“Hyacinth!” Lady Bridgerton said. She turned to Gareth. “She doesn’t mean that.”
He turned to Hyacinth. “I’m crushed.”
“Because I’m beside myself, or because I’m not?” she queried.
“Whichever you prefer.” Gareth turned to the group at large. “Ladies,” he murmured.
“Don’t forget the shepherdess,” Hyacinth said, her smile sweet and just a little bit wicked. “You did promise her mother.”
Damn. He’d forgotten. He glanced across the room. Little Bo Peep had begun to point her crook in his direction, and Gareth had the unsettling feeling that if he got close enough, she might loop it round and reel him in.
“Aren’t the two of you friends?” he asked Hyacinth.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I hardly know her.”
“Wouldn’t you like to meet her?” he ground out.
She tapped her finger against her jaw. “I…No.” She smiled blandly. “But I will watch you from afar.”
“Traitor,” he murmured, brushing past her on the way to the shepherdess.
And for the rest of the night, he couldn’t quite forget the smell of her perfume.
Or maybe it was the soft sound of her chuckle.
Or maybe it was neither of those things. Maybe it was just her.
Chapter 6
The following Tuesday, in the ballroom at Bridgerton House. The candles are lit, music fills the air, and the night seems made for romance
But not, however, for Hyacinth, who is learning that friends can be just as vexing as family
Sometimes more so.
“Do you know whom I think you should marry? I think you should marry Gareth St. Clair.”
Hyacinth looked at Felicity Albansdale, her closest friend, with an expression that hovered somewhere between disbelief and alarm. She absolutely, positively, was not prepared to say that she should marry Gareth St. Clair, but on the other hand, she had begun to wonder if perhaps she ought to give it just a touch of consideration.
But still, was she so transparent?
“You’re mad,” she said, since she wasn’t about to tell anyone that she might be developing a bit of a tendre for the man. She didn’t like to do anything if she didn’t do it well, and she had a sinking feeling that she did not know how to pursue a man with anything resembling grace or dignity.
“Not at all,” Felicity said, eyeing the gentleman in question from across the ballroom. “He would be perfect for you.”
As Hyacinth had spent the last several days thinking of nothing but Gareth, his grandmother, and his other grandmother’s diary, she had no choice but to say, “Nonsense. I hardly know the man.”
“No one does,” Felicity said. “He’s an enigma.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Hyacinth muttered. Enigma sounded far too romantic, and—
“Of course he is,” Felicity said, cutting into her thoughts. “What do we know about him? Nothing. Ergo—”
“Ergo nothing,” Hyacinth said. “And I’m certainly not going to marry him.”
“Well, you have to marry somebody,” Felicity said.
“This is what happens when people get married,” Hyacinth said disgustedly. “All they want is to see everyone else married.”
Felicity, who had wed Geoffrey Albansdale six months earlier, just shrugged. “It’s a noble goal.”
Hyacinth glanced back at Gareth, who was dancing with the very lovely, very blond, and very petite Jane Hotchkiss. He appeared to be hanging on her every word.
“I am not,” she said, turning to Felicity with renewed determination, “setting my cap for Gareth St. Clair.�
�
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Felicity said airily.
Hyacinth gritted her teeth. “The lady protested twice.”
“If you stop to think about it—”
“Which I won’t do,” Hyacinth interjected.
“—you’ll see that he is a perfect match.”
“And how is that?” Hyacinth asked, even though she knew it would only encourage Felicity.
Felicity turned to her friend and looked her squarely in the eye. “He is the only person I can think of who you wouldn’t—or rather, couldn’t—run into the ground.”
Hyacinth looked at her for a long moment, feeling unaccountably stung. “I am unsure of whether to be complimented by that.”
“Hyacinth!” Felicity exclaimed. “You know I meant no insult. For heaven’s sake, what is the matter with you?”
“It’s nothing,” Hyacinth mumbled. But between this conversation and the one the previous week with her mother, she was beginning to wonder how, exactly, the world saw her.
Because she wasn’t so certain it corresponded with how she saw herself.
“I wasn’t saying that I want you to change,” Felicity said, taking Hyacinth’s hand in a gesture of friendship. “Goodness, no. Just that you need someone who can keep up with you. Even you must confess that most people can’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Hyacinth said, giving her head a little shake. “I overreacted. I just…I haven’t felt quite like myself the last few days.”
And it was true. She hid it well, or at least she thought she did, but inside, she was in a bit of a turmoil. It was that talk with her mother. No, it was that talk with Mr. St. Clair.
No, it was everything. Everything all at once. And she was left feeling as if she wasn’t quite sure who she was anymore, which was almost impossible to bear.
“It’s probably a sniffle,” Felicity said, looking back out at the ballroom floor. “Everyone seems to have one this week.”
Hyacinth didn’t contradict her. It would have been nice if it was just a sniffle.
“I know you are friendly with him,” Felicity continued. “I heard you sat together at both the Smythe-Smith musicale and the Pleinsworth poetry recitation.”
