by Julia Quinn
“Er, have you known Miss Watson very long?” he asked, trying not to be too obvious.
There was a very slight pause, and then she said, “Three years. We are students together at Miss Moss’s. Or rather we were students together. We completed our studies earlier this year.”
“May I assume you plan to make your debuts in London later this spring?”
“Yes,” she replied, nodding toward a table laden with small snacks. “We have spent the last few months preparing, as Hermione’s mother likes to call it, attending house parties and small gatherings.”
“Polishing yourselves?” he asked with a smile.
Her lips curved in answer. “Exactly that. I should make an excellent candlestick by now.”
He found himself amused. “A mere candlestick, Lady Lucinda? Pray, do not understate your value. At the very least you are one of those extravagant silver urns everyone seems to need in their sitting rooms lately.”
“I am an urn, then,” she said, almost appearing to consider the idea. “What would that make Hermione, I wonder?”
A jewel. A diamond. A diamond set in gold. A diamond set in gold surrounded by…
He forcibly halted the direction of his thoughts. He could perform his poetic gymnastics later, when he wasn’t expected to keep up one end of a conversation. A conversation with a different young lady. “I’m sure I do not know,” he said lightly, offering her a plate. “I have only barely made Miss Watson’s acquaintance, after all.”
She said nothing, but her eyebrows rose ever so slightly. And that, of course, was when Gregory realized he was glancing over her shoulder to get a better look at Miss Watson.
Lady Lucinda let out a small sigh. “You should probably know that she is in love with someone else.”
Gregory dragged his gaze back to the woman he was meant to be paying attention to. “I beg your pardon?”
She shrugged delicately as she placed a few small sandwiches on her plate. “Hermione. She is in love with someone else. I thought you would like to know.”
Gregory gaped at her, and then, against every last drop of his good judgment, looked back at Miss Watson. It was the most obvious, pathetic gesture, but he couldn’t help himself. He just…Dear God, he just wanted to look at her and look at her and never stop. If this wasn’t love, he could not imagine what was.
“Ham?”
“What?”
“Ham.” Lady Lucinda was holding out a little strip of sandwich with a pair of serving tongs. Her face was annoyingly serene. “Would you care for one?” she asked.
He grunted and held out his plate. And then, because he couldn’t leave the matter as it was, he said stiffly, “I’m sure it is none of my business.”
“About the sandwich?”
“About Miss Watson,” he ground out.
Even though, of course, he meant no such thing. As far as he was concerned, Hermione Watson was very much his business, or at least she would be, very soon.
It was somewhat disconcerting that she had apparently not been hit by the same thunderbolt that had struck him. It had never occurred to him that when he did fall in love, his intended might not feel the same, and with equal immediacy, too. But at least this explanation—her thinking she was in love with someone else—assuaged his pride. It was much more palatable to think her infatuated with someone else than completely indifferent to him.
All that was left to do was make her realize that whoever the other man was, he was not the one for her.
Gregory was not so filled with conceit that he thought he could win any woman upon whom he set his sights, but he certainly had never had difficulties with the fairer sex, and given the nature of his reaction to Miss Watson, it was simply inconceivable that his feelings could go unrequited for very long. He might have to work to win her heart and hand, but that would simply make victory all the sweeter.
Or so he told himself. Truth was, a mutual thunderbolt would have been far less trouble.
“Don’t feel badly,” Lady Lucinda said, craning her neck slightly as she surveyed the sandwiches, looking, presumably, for something more exotic than British pig.
“I don’t,” he bit off, then waited for her to actually return her attention to him. When she didn’t, he said again, “I don’t.”
She turned, gazed at him frankly, and blinked. “Well, that’s refreshing, I must say. Most men are crushed.”
He scowled. “What do you mean, most men are crushed?”
“Exactly what I said,” she replied, giving him an impatient glance. “Or if they’re not crushed, they become rather unaccountably angry.” She let out a ladylike snort. “As if any of it could be considered her fault.”
“Fault?” Gregory echoed, because in truth, he was having a devil of a time following her.
“You are not the first gentleman to imagine himself in love with Hermione,” she said, her expression quite jaded. “It happens all the time.”
“I don’t imagine myself in love—” He cut himself off, hoping she didn’t notice the stress on the word imagine. Good God, what was happening to him? He used to have a sense of humor. Even about himself. Especially about himself.
“You don’t?” She sounded pleasantly surprised. “Well, that’s refreshing.”
“Why,” he asked with narrowed eyes, “is that refreshing?
She returned with: “Why are you asking so many questions?”
“I’m not,” he protested, even though he was.
She sighed, then utterly surprised him by saying, “I am sorry.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She glanced at the egg salad sandwich on her plate, then back up at him, the order of which he did not find complimentary. He usually rated above egg salad. “I thought you would wish to speak of Hermione,” she said. “I apologize if I was mistaken.”
Which put Gregory in a fine quandary. He could admit that he’d fallen headlong in love with Miss Watson, which was rather embarrassing, even to a hopeless romantic such as himself. Or he could deny it all, which she clearly wouldn’t believe. Or he could compromise, and admit to a mild infatuation, which he might normally regard as the best solution, except that it could only be insulting to Lady Lucinda.
He’d met the two girls at the same time, after all. And he wasn’t headlong in love with her.
But then, as if she could read his thoughts (which frankly scared him), she waved a hand and said, “Pray do not worry yourself over my feelings. I’m quite used to this. As I said, it happens all the time.”
Open heart, insert blunt dagger. Twist.
“Not to mention,” she continued blithely, “that I am practically engaged myself.” And then she took a bite of the egg salad.
Gregory found himself wondering what sort of man had found himself attached to this odd creature. He didn’t pity the fellow, exactly, just…wondered.
And then Lady Lucinda let out a little “Oh!”
His eyes followed hers, to the spot where Miss Watson had once stood.
“I wonder where she went,” Lady Lucinda said.
Gregory immediately turned toward the door, hoping to catch one last glimpse of her before she disappeared, but she was already gone. It was damned frustrating, that. What was the point of a mad, bad, immediate attraction if one couldn’t do anything about it?
And forget all about it being one-sided. Good Lord.
He wasn’t sure what one called sighing through gritted teeth, but that’s exactly what he did.
“Ah, Lady Lucinda, there you are.”
Gregory looked up to see his sister-in-law approaching.
And remembered that he’d forgotten all about her. Kate wouldn’t take offense; she was a phenomenally good sport. But still, Gregory did usually try to have better manners with women to whom he was not blood related.
Lady Lucinda gave a pretty little curtsy. “Lady Bridgerton.”
Kate smiled warmly in return. “Miss Watson has asked me to inform you that she was not feeling well and has retired f
or the evening.”
“She has? Did she say—Oh, never mind.” Lady Lucinda gave a little wave with her hand—the sort meant to convey nonchalance, but Gregory saw the barest hint of frustration pinching at the corners of her mouth.
“A head cold, I believe,” Kate added.
Lady Lucinda gave a brief nod. “Yes,” she said, looking a bit less sympathetic than Gregory would have imagined, given the circumstances, “it would be.”
“And you,” Kate continued, turning to Gregory, “have not even seen fit to greet me. How are you?”
He took her hands, kissed them as one in apology. “Tardy.”
“That I knew.” Her face assumed an expression that was not irritated, just a little bit exasperated. “How are you otherwise?”
“Otherwise lovely.” He grinned. “As always.”
“As always,” she repeated, giving him a look that was a clear promise of future interrogation. “Lady Lucinda,” Kate continued, her tone considerably less dry, “I trust you have made the acquaintance of my husband’s brother, Mr. Gregory Bridgerton?”
“Indeed,” Lady Lucinda replied. “We have been admiring the food. The sandwiches are delicious.”
“Thank you,” Kate said, then added, “and has Gregory promised you a dance? I cannot promise music of a professional quality, but we managed to round together a string quartet amongst our guests.”
“He did,” Lady Lucinda replied, “but I released him from his obligation so that he might assuage his hunger.”
“You must have brothers,” Kate said with a smile.
Lady Lucinda looked to Gregory with a slightly startled expression before replying, “Just one.”
He turned to Kate. “I made the same observation earlier,” he explained.
Kate let out a short laugh. “Great minds, to be sure.” She turned to the younger woman and said, “It is well worth understanding the behavior of men, Lady Lucinda. One should never underestimate the power of food.”
Lady Lucinda regarded her with wide eyes. “For the benefit of a pleasing mood?”
“Well, that,” Kate said, almost offhandedly, “but one really shouldn’t discount its uses for the purpose of winning an argument. Or simply getting what you want.”
“She’s barely out of the schoolroom, Kate,” Gregory chided.
Kate ignored him and instead smiled widely at Lady Lucinda. “One is never too young to acquire important skills.”
Lady Lucinda looked at Gregory, then at Kate, and then her eyes began to sparkle with humor. “I understand why so many look up to you, Lady Bridgerton.”
Kate laughed. “You are too kind, Lady Lucinda.”
“Oh, please, Kate,” Gregory cut in. He turned to Lady Lucinda and added, “She will stand here all night if you keep offering compliments.”
“Pay him no attention,” Kate said with a grin. “He is young and foolish and knows not of what he speaks.”
Gregory was about to make another comment—he couldn’t very well allow Kate to get away with that—but then Lady Lucinda cut in.
“I would happily sing your praises for the rest of the evening, Lady Bridgerton, but I believe that it is time for me to retire. I should like to check on Hermione. She has been under the weather all day, and I wish to assure myself that she is well.”
“Of course,” Kate replied. “Please do give her my regards, and be certain to ring if you need anything. Our housekeeper fancies herself something of an herbalist, and she is always mixing potions. Some of them even work.” She grinned, and the expression was so friendly that Gregory instantly realized that she approved of Lady Lucinda. Which meant something. Kate had never suffered fools, gladly or otherwise.
“I shall walk you to the door,” he said quickly. It was the least he could do to offer her this courtesy, and besides, it would not do to insult Miss Watson’s closest friend.
They said their farewells, and Gregory fit her arm into the crook of his elbow. They walked in silence to the door to the drawing room, and Gregory said, “I trust you can make your way from here?”
“Of course,” she replied. And then she looked up—her eyes were bluish, he noticed almost absently—and asked, “Would you like me to convey a message to Hermione?”
His lips parted with surprise. “Why would you do that?” he asked, before he could think to temper his response.
She just shrugged and said, “You are the lesser of two evils, Mr. Bridgerton.”
He wanted desperately to ask her to clarify that comment, but he could not ask, not on such a flimsy acquaintance, so he instead worked to maintain an even mien as he said, “Give her my regards, that is all.”
“Really?”
Damn, but that look in her eye was annoying. “Really.”
She bobbed the tiniest of curtsies and was off.
Gregory stared at the doorway through which she had disappeared for a moment, then turned back to the party. The guests had begun dancing in greater numbers, and laughter was most certainly filling the air, but somehow the night felt dull and lifeless.
Food, he decided. He’d eat twenty more of those tiny little sandwiches and then he’d retire for the night as well.
All would come clear in the morning.
Lucy knew that Hermione didn’t have a headache, or any sort of ache for that matter, and she was not at all surprised to find her sitting on her bed, poring over what appeared to be a four-page letter.
Written in an extremely compact hand.
“A footman brought it to me,” Hermione said, not even looking up. “He said it arrived in today’s post, but they forgot to bring it earlier.”
Lucy sighed. “From Mr. Edmonds, I presume?”
Hermione nodded.
Lucy crossed the room she and Hermione were currently sharing and sat down in the chair at the vanity table. This wasn’t the first piece of correspondence Hermione had received from Mr. Edmonds, and Lucy knew from experience that Hermione would need to read it twice, then once again for deeper analysis, and then finally one last time, if only to pick apart any hidden meanings in the salutation and closing.
Which meant that Lucy would have nothing to do but examine her fingernails for at least five minutes.
Which she did, not because she was terribly interested in her fingernails, nor because she was a particularly patient person, but rather because she knew a useless situation when she saw one, and she saw little reason in expending the energy to engage Hermione in conversation when Hermione was so patently uninterested in anything she had to say.
Fingernails could only occupy a girl for so long, however, especially when they were already meticulously neat and groomed, so Lucy stood and walked to the wardrobe, peering absently at her belongings.
“Oh, dash,” she muttered, “I hate when she does that.” Her maid had left a pair of shoes the wrong way, with the left on the right and the right on the left, and while Lucy knew there was nothing earth-shatteringly wrong with that, it did offend some strange (and extremely tidy) little corner of her sensibilities, so she righted the slippers, then stood back to inspect her handiwork, then planted her hands on her hips and turned around. “Are you finished yet?” she demanded.
“Almost,” Hermione said, and it sounded as if the word had been resting on the edge of her lips the whole time, as if she’d had it ready so that she could fob off Lucy when she asked.
Lucy sat back down with a huff. It was a scene they had played out countless times before. Or at least four.
Yes, Lucy knew exactly how many letters Hermione had received from the romantic Mr. Edmonds. She would have liked not to have known; in fact, she was more than a little irritated that the item was taking up valuable space in her brain that might have been devoted to something useful, like botany or music, or good heavens, even another page in De-Brett’s, but the unfortunate fact was, Mr. Edmonds’s letters were nothing if not an event, and when Hermione had an event, well, Lucy was forced to have it, too.
They had shared a room for three
years at Miss Moss’s, and since Lucy had no close female relative who might help her make her bow into society, Hermione’s mother had agreed to sponsor her, and so here they were, still together.
Which was lovely, really, except for the always-present (in spirit, at least) Mr. Edmonds. Lucy had made his acquaintance only once, but it certainly felt as if he were always there, hovering over them, causing Hermione to sigh at strange moments and gaze wistfully off into the distance as if she were committing a love sonnet to memory so that she might include it in her next reply.
“You are aware,” Lucy said, even though Hermione had not indicated that she was finished reading her missive, “that your parents will never permit you to marry him.”
That was enough to get Hermione to set the letter down, albeit briefly. “Yes,” she said with an irritated expression, “you’ve said as much.”
“He is a secretary,” Lucy said.
“I realize that.”
“A secretary,” Lucy repeated, even though they’d had this conversation countless times before. “Your father’s secretary.”
Hermione had picked the letter back up in an attempt to ignore Lucy, but finally she gave up and set it back down, confirming Lucy’s suspicions that she had long since finished it and was now in the first, or possibly even second, rereading.
“Mr. Edmonds is a good and honorable man,” Hermione said, lips pinched.
“I’m sure he is,” Lucy said, “but you can’t marry him. Your father is a viscount. Do you really think he will allow his only daughter to marry a penniless secretary?”
“My father loves me,” Hermione muttered, but her voice wasn’t exactly replete with conviction.
“I am not trying to dissuade you from making a love match,” Lucy began, “but—”
“That is exactly what you are trying to do,” Hermione cut in.
“Not at all. I just don’t see why you can’t try to fall in love with someone of whom your parents might actually approve.”
