by Julia Quinn
Lucy closed her eyes. “I’m not sad. I just feel…”
But she didn’t know what she felt. What was she supposed to feel? No one had trained her for this. In all her education, with her nurse, and governess, and three years at Miss Moss’s, no one had given her lessons in this.
Why hadn’t anyone realized that this was far more important than needlework or country dances?
“I feel…” And then she understood. “I feel like I’m saying goodbye.”
Hermione blinked with surprise. “To whom?”
To myself.
And she was. She was saying goodbye to herself, and everything she might have become.
She felt her brother’s hand on her arm. “It’s time to begin,” he said.
She nodded.
“Where is your bouquet?” Hermione asked, then answered herself with, “Oh. Right there.” She retrieved the flowers, along with her own, from a nearby table and handed them to Lucy. “You shall be happy,” she whispered, as she kissed Lucy’s cheek. “You must. I simply will not tolerate a world in which you are not.”
Lucy’s lips wobbled.
“Oh dear,” Hermione said. “I sound like you now. Do you see what a good influence you are?” And then, with one last blown kiss, she entered the chapel.
“Your turn,” Richard said.
“Almost,” Lucy answered.
And then it was.
She was in the church, walking down the aisle. She was at the front, nodding at the priest, looking at Haselby and reminding herself that despite…well, despite certain habits she did not quite understand, he would make a perfectly acceptable husband.
This was what she had to do.
If she said no…
She could not say no.
She could see Hermione out of the corner of her eye, standing beside her with a serene smile. She and Richard had arrived in London two nights earlier, and they had been so happy. They laughed and they teased and they spoke of the improvements they planned to make at Fennsworth Abbey. An orangery, they had laughed. They wanted an orangery. And a nursery.
How could Lucy take that from them? How could she cast them into a life of shame and poverty?
She heard Haselby’s voice, answering, “I will,” and then it was her turn.
Wilt thou have this Man to thy Wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?
She swallowed and tried not to think of Gregory. “I will.”
She had given her consent. Was it done, then? She didn’t feel different. She was still the same old Lucy, except she was standing in front of more people than she ever cared to stand in front of again, and her brother was giving her away.
The priest placed her right hand in Haselby’s, and he pledged his troth, his voice loud, firm, and clear.
They separated, and then Lucy took his hand.
I, Lucinda Margaret Catherine…
“I, Lucinda Margaret Catherine…”
…take thee, Arthur Fitzwilliam George…
“…take thee, Arthur Fitzwilliam George…”
She said it. She repeated after the priest, word for word. She said her part, right up until she meant to give Haselby her troth, right up until—
The doors to the chapel slammed open.
She turned around. Everyone turned around.
Gregory.
Dear God.
He looked like a madman, breathing so hard he was barely able to speak.
He staggered forward, clutching the edges of the pew for support, and she heard him say—
“Don’t.”
Lucy’s heart stopped.
“Don’t do it.”
Her bouquet slipped from her hands. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stand there like a statue as he walked toward her, seemingly oblivious to the hundreds of people staring at him.
“Don’t do it,” he said again.
And no one was talking. Why was no one talking? Surely someone would rush forward, grab Gregory by the arms, haul him away—
But no one did. It was a spectacle. It was theater, and it seemed no one wanted to miss the ending.
And then—
Right there.
Right there in front of everyone, he stopped.
He stopped. And he said, “I love you.”
Beside her Hermione murmured, “Oh my goodness.”
Lucy wanted to cry.
“I love you,” he said again, and he just kept walking, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Don’t do it,” he said, finally reaching the front of the church. “Don’t marry him.”
“Gregory,” she whispered, “why are you doing this?”
“I love you,” he said, as if there could be no other explanation.
A little moan choked in her throat. Tears burned her eyes, and her entire body felt stiff. Stiff and frozen. One little wind, one little breath would knock her over. And she couldn’t manage to think anything but Why?
And No.
And Please.
And—oh heavens, Lord Haselby!
She looked up at him, at the groom who had found himself demoted to a supporting role. He had been standing silently this entire time, watching the unfolding drama with as much interest as the audience. With her eyes she pleaded with him for guidance, but he just shook his head. It was a tiny movement, far too subtle for anyone else to discern, but she saw it, and she knew what it meant.
It is up to you.
She turned back to Gregory. His eyes burned, and he sank to one knee.
Don’t, she tried to say. But she could not move her lips. She could not find her voice.
“Marry me,” Gregory said, and she felt him in his voice. It wrapped around her body, kissed her, embraced her. “Marry me.”
And oh dear Lord, she wanted to. More than anything, she wanted to sink to her knees and take his face in her hands. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to shout out her love for him—here, in front of everyone she knew, possibly everyone she ever would know.
But she had wanted all of that the day before, and the day before that. Nothing had changed. Her world had become more public, but it had not changed.
Her father was still a traitor.
Her family was still being blackmailed.
The fate of her brother and Hermione was still in her hands.
She looked at Gregory, aching for him, aching for them both.
“Marry me,” he whispered.
Her lips parted, and she said—
“No.”
Twenty-two
In which all hell breaks loose.
All hell broke loose.
Lord Davenport charged forward, as did Lucy’s uncle and Gregory’s brother, who had just tripped up the steps to the church after chasing Gregory across Mayfair.
Lucy’s brother dashed forward to move both Lucy and Hermione from the melee, but Lord Haselby, who had been watching the events with the air of an intrigued spectator, calmly took the arm of his intended and said, “I will see to her.”
As for Lucy, she stumbled backward, her mouth open with shock as Lord Davenport leaped atop Gregory, landing belly down like a—well, like nothing Lucy had ever seen.
“I have him!” Davenport yelled triumphantly, only to be smacked soundly with a reticule belonging to Hyacinth St. Clair.
Lucy closed her eyes.
“Not the wedding of your dreams, I imagine,” Haselby murmured in her ear.
Lucy shook her head, too numb to do anything else. She should help Gregory. Really, she should. But she felt positively drained of energy, and besides, she was too cowardly to face him again.
What if he rejected her?
What if she could not resist him?
“I do hope he will be able to get out from under my father,” Haselby continued, his tone as
mild as if he were watching a not-terribly-exciting horse race. “The man weighs twenty stone, not that he would admit it.”
Lucy turned to him, unable to believe how calm he was given the near riot that had broken out in the church. Even the prime minister appeared to be fending off a largish, plumpish lady in an elaborately fruited bonnet who was swatting at anyone who moved.
“I don’t think she can see,” Haselby said, following Lucy’s gaze. “Her grapes are drooping.”
Who was this man she had—dear heavens, had she married him yet? They had agreed to something, of that she was certain, but no one had declared them man and wife. But either way, Haselby was bizarrely calm, given the events of the morning.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Lucy asked.
He turned, regarding her curiously. “You mean while your Mr. Bridgerton was professing his love?”
No, while the priest was droning on about the sacrament of marriage, she wanted to snap.
Instead, she nodded.
Haselby cocked his head to the side. “I suppose I wanted to see what you’d do.”
She stared at him in disbelief. What would he have done if she’d said yes?
“I am honored, by the way,” Haselby said. “And I shall be a kind husband to you. You needn’t worry on that score.”
But Lucy could not speak. Lord Davenport had been removed from Gregory, and even though some other gentleman she did not recognize was pulling him back, he was struggling to reach her.
“Please,” she whispered, even though no one could possibly hear her, not even Haselby, who had stepped down to aid the prime minister. “Please don’t.”
But Gregory was unrelenting, and even with two men pulling at him, one friendly and one not, he managed to reach the bottom of the steps. He lifted his face, and his eyes burned into hers. They were raw, stark with anguish and incomprehension, and Lucy nearly stumbled from the unleashed pain she saw there.
“Why?” he demanded.
Her entire body began to shake. Could she lie to him? Could she do it? Here, in a church, after she had hurt him in the most personal and the most public way imaginable.
“Why?”
“Because I had to,” she whispered.
His eyes flared with something—disappointment? No. Hope? No, not that, either. It was something else. Something she could not quite identify.
He opened his mouth to speak, to ask her something, but it was at that moment that the two men holding him were joined by a third, and together they managed to haul him from the church.
Lucy hugged her arms to her body, barely able to stand as she watched him being dragged away.
“How could you?”
She turned. Hyacinth St. Clair had crept up behind her and was glaring at her as if she were the very devil.
“You don’t understand,” Lucy said.
But Hyacinth’s eyes blazed with fury. “You are weak,” she hissed. “You do not deserve him.”
Lucy shook her head, not quite sure if she was agreeing with her or not.
“I hope you—”
“Hyacinth!”
Lucy’s eyes darted to the side. Another woman had approached. It was Gregory’s mother. They had been introduced at the ball at Hastings House.
“That will be enough,” she said sternly.
Lucy swallowed, blinking back tears.
Lady Bridgerton turned to her. “Forgive us,” she said, pulling her daughter away.
Lucy watched them depart, and she had the strangest sense that all this was happening to someone else, that maybe it was just a dream, just a nightmare, or perhaps she was caught up in a scene from a lurid novel. Maybe her entire life was a figment of someone else’s imagination. Maybe if she just closed her eyes—
“Shall we get on with it?”
She swallowed. It was Lord Haselby. His father was next to him, uttering the same sentiment, but in far less gracious words.
Lucy nodded.
“Good,” Davenport grunted. “Sensible girl.”
Lucy wondered what it meant to be complimented by Lord Davenport. Surely nothing good.
But still, she allowed him to lead her back to the altar. And she stood there in front of half of the congregation who had not elected to follow the spectacle outside.
And she married Haselby.
“What were you thinking?”
It took Gregory a moment to realize that his mother was demanding this of Colin, and not of him. They were seated in her carriage, to which he had been dragged once they had left the church. Gregory did not know where they were going. In random circles, most probably. Anywhere that wasn’t St. George’s.
“I tried to stop him,” Colin protested.
Violet Bridgerton looked as angry as any of them had ever seen her. “You obviously did not try hard enough.”
“Do you have any idea how fast he can run?”
“Very fast,” Hyacinth confirmed without looking at them. She was seated diagonally to Gregory, staring out the window through narrowed eyes.
Gregory said nothing.
“Oh, Gregory,” Violet sighed. “Oh, my poor son.”
“You shall have to leave town,” Hyacinth said.
“She is right,” their mother put in. “It can’t be helped.”
Gregory said nothing. What had Lucy meant—Because I had to?
What did that mean?
“I shall never receive her,” Hyacinth growled.
“She will be a countess,” Colin reminded her.
“I don’t care if she is the bloody queen of—”
“Hyacinth!” This, from their mother.
“Well, I don’t,” Hyacinth snapped. “No one has the right to treat my brother like that. No one!”
Violet and Colin stared at her. Colin looked amused. Violet, alarmed.
“I shall ruin her,” Hyacinth continued.
“No,” Gregory said in a low voice, “you won’t.”
The rest of his family fell silent, and Gregory suspected that they had not, until the moment he’d spoken, realized that he had not been taking part in the conversation.
“You will leave her alone,” he said.
Hyacinth ground her teeth together.
He brought his eyes to hers, hard and steely with purpose. “And if your paths should ever cross,” he continued, “you shall be all that is amiable and kind. Do you understand me?”
Hyacinth said nothing.
“Do you understand me?” he roared.
His family stared at him in shock. He never lost his temper. Never.
And then Hyacinth, who’d never possessed a highly developed sense of tact, said, “No, as a matter of fact.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gregory, said, his voice dripping ice at the very moment Colin turned to her and hissed, “Shut up.”
“I don’t understand you,” Hyacinth continued, jamming her elbow into Colin’s ribs. “How can you possibly possess sympathy for her? If this had happened to me, wouldn’t you—”
“This didn’t happen to you,” Gregory bit off. “And you do not know her. You do not know the reasons for her actions.”
“Do you?” Hyacinth demanded.
He didn’t. And it was killing him.
“Turn the other cheek, Hyacinth,” her mother said softly.
Hyacinth sat back, her bearing tense with anger, but she held her tongue.
“Perhaps you could stay with Benedict and Sophie in Wiltshire,” Violet suggested. “I believe Anthony and Kate are expected in town soon, so you cannot go to Aubrey Hall, although I am sure they would not mind if you resided there in their absence.”
Gregory just stared out the window. He did not wish to go to the country.
“You could travel,” Colin said. “Italy is particularly pleasant this time of year. And you haven’t been, have you?”
Gregory shook his head, only half listening. He did not wish to go to Italy.
Because I had to, she’d said.
Not because she wis
hed it. Not because it was sensible.
Because she had to.
What did that mean?
Had she been forced? Was she being blackmailed?
What could she have possibly done to warrant blackmail?
“It would have been very difficult for her not to go through with it,” Violet suddenly said, placing a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Lord Davenport is not a man anyone would wish as an enemy. And really, right there in the church, with everyone looking on…Well,” she said with a resigned sigh, “one would have to be extremely brave. And resilient.” She paused, shaking her head. “And prepared.”
“Prepared?” Colin queried.
“For what came next,” Violet clarified. “It would have been a huge scandal.”
“It already is a huge scandal,” Gregory muttered.
“Yes, but not as much as if she’d said yes,” his mother said. “Not that I am glad for the outcome. You know I wish you nothing but your heart’s happiness. But she will be looked upon approvingly for her choice. She will be viewed as a sensible girl.”
Gregory felt one corner of his mouth lift into a wry smile. “And I, a lovesick fool.”
No one contradicted him.
After a moment his mother said, “You are taking this rather well, I must say.”
Indeed.
“I would have thought—” She broke off. “Well, it matters not what I would have thought, merely what actually is.”
“No,” Gregory said, turning sharply to look at her. “What would you have thought? How should I be acting?”
“It is not a question of should,” his mother said, clearly flustered by the sudden questions. “Merely that I would have thought you would seem…angrier.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then turned back to the window. They were traveling along Piccadilly, heading west toward Hyde Park. Why wasn’t he angrier? Why wasn’t he putting his fist through the wall? He’d had to be dragged from the church and forcibly stuffed into the carriage, but once that had been done, he had been overcome by a bizarre, almost preternatural calm.
And then something his mother had said echoed in his mind.
You know I wish you nothing but your heart’s happiness.
His heart’s happiness.
Lucy loved him. He was certain of it. He had seen it in her eyes, even in the moment she’d refused him. He knew it because she had told him so, and she did not lie about such things. He had felt it in the way she had kissed him, and in the warmth of her embrace.
