On the Way to the Wedding (10 page)

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“Other than what I did, that is,” he added.

“I’m not sure,” she ground out. “I haven’t
oceans
of experience with this sort of thing.”

“Oh,
now
you tell me.”

“Well, it was worth a try,” she shot back. “Heaven knows, you certainly weren’t succeeding on your own.”

His mouth clamped into a line, and she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile for hitting a nerve. She wasn’t
normally
a mean-spirited person, but the occasion did seem to call for just a little bit of self-congratulation.

“Very well,” he said tightly, and while she would have preferred that he apologized and then said—explicitly—that she was right and he was wrong, she supposed that in
some
circles, “Very well”
might
pass for an acknowledgment of error.

And judging by his face, it was the most she was likely to receive.

She nodded regally. It seemed the best course of action.

Act like a queen and maybe she would be treated like one.

“Have you any other brilliant ideas?”

Or not.

“Well,” she said, pretending that he’d actually sounded as if he cared about the answer, “I don’t think it’s so much a question of what to do as why what you did didn’t work.”

He blinked.

“No one has ever given up on Hermione,” Lucy said with a touch of impatience. She hated when people did not understand her meaning immediately. “Her disinterest only makes them redouble their efforts. It’s embarrassing, really.”

He looked vaguely affronted. “I beg your pardon.”

“Not
you,
” Lucy said quickly.

“My relief is palpable.”

Lucy should have taken offense at his sarcasm, but his sense of humor was so like her own she couldn’t help but enjoy it. “As I was saying,” she continued, because she always did like to remain on the topic at hand, “no one ever On the Way to the Wedding

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seems to admit defeat and move on to a more attainable lady. Once everyone realizes that everyone
else
wants her, they seem to go mad. It’s as if she’s nothing but a prize to be won.”

“Not to me,” he said quietly.

Her eyes snapped to his face, and she realized instantly that he meant that Hermione was
more
than a prize. He cared for her. He truly cared for her. Lucy wasn’t sure why, or even how, as he had barely made her friend’s acquaintance. And Hermione hadn’t been terribly forthcoming in her conversations, not that she ever was with the gentlemen who pursued her. But Mr. Bridgerton cared for the woman inside, not just the perfect face. Or at least he thought he did.

She nodded slowly, letting all this sink in. “I thought that perhaps if someone actually
stopped
dancing attendance on her, she might find it intriguing. Not,” she hastened to assure him, “that Hermione sees all of this gentlemanly attention as her due. Quite to the contrary. To be honest, for the most part it’s a nuisance.”

“Your flattery knows no bounds.” But he was smiling—

just a little bit—as he said it.

“I’ve never been very skilled at flattery,” she admitted.

“Apparently not.”

She smiled wryly. He hadn’t meant his words as an insult, and she wasn’t going to take them as such. “She will come around.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do. She will have to. Hermione is a romantic, but she understands how the world works. Deep down she knows she cannot marry Mr. Edmonds. It simply cannot be done.

Her parents will disown her, or at the very least they will threaten to, and she is not the sort to risk that.”

“If she really loved someone,” he said softly, “she would risk anything.”

Lucy froze. There was something in his voice. Something 7

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rough, something powerful. It shivered across her skin, raising goosebumps, leaving her strangely unable to move.

And she had to ask. She had to. She had to
know.
“Would you?” she whispered. “Would you risk anything?”

He didn’t move, but his eyes burned. And he didn’t hesitate. “Anything.”

Her lips parted. With surprise? Awe? Something else?

“Would
you
?” he countered.

“I . . . I’m not sure.” She shook her head, and she had the queerest feeling that she didn’t quite know herself any longer. Because it ought to have been an easy question. It would have been, just a few days ago. She would have said of course not, and she would have said she was far too practical for that sort of nonsense.

And most of all, she would have said that that sort of love did not exist, anyway.

But something had changed, and she didn’t know what.

Something had shifted within her, leaving her off-balance.

Unsure.

“I don’t know,” she said again. “I suppose it would depend.”

“On what?” And his voice grew even softer. Impossibly soft, and yet she could make out every word.

“On . . .” She didn’t know. How could she not know what it would depend upon? She felt lost, and rootless, and . . .

and . . . and then the words just came. Slipped softly from her lips. “On love, I suppose.”

“On love.”

“Yes.” Good heavens, had she ever had such a conversation? Did people actually talk about such things? And were there even any answers?

Or was she the only person in the world who didn’t understand?

Something caught in her throat, and Lucy suddenly felt far too alone in her ignorance. He knew, and Hermione On the Way to the Wedding

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knew, and the poets claimed they did as well. It seemed
she
was the only lost soul, the only person who didn’t understand what love was, who wasn’t even sure it existed, or if it did, whether it existed for her.

“On how it felt,” she finally said, because she didn’t know what else to say. “On how love felt. How it feels.”

His eyes met hers. “Do you think there is a variation?”

She hadn’t expected another question. She was still reel-ing from the last one.

“How love feels,” he clarified. “Do you think it could possibly be different for different people? If you loved someone, truly and deeply, wouldn’t it feel like . . . like
everything
?”

She didn’t know what to say.

He turned and took a few steps toward the window. “It would consume you,” he said. “How could it not?”

Lucy just stared at his back, mesmerized by the way his finely cut coat stretched across his shoulders. It was the strangest thing, but she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from the little spot where his hair touched his collar.

She almost jumped when he turned around. “There would be no doubting it,” he said, his voice low with the intensity of a true believer. “You would simply know. It would feel like everything you’d ever dreamed, and then it would feel like more.”

He stepped toward her. Once. Then again. And then he said, “That, I think, is how love must feel.”

And in that moment Lucy knew that she was not destined to feel that way. If it existed—if love existed the way Gregory Bridgerton imagined it—it did not wait for her. She couldn’t imagine such a maelstrom of emotion. And she would not enjoy it. That much she knew. She didn’t want to feel lost to the whirlwind, at the mercy of something beyond her control.

She didn’t want misery. She didn’t want despair. And if that meant she also had to forsake bliss and rapture, so be it.

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She lifted her eyes to his, made breathless by the gravity of her own revelations. “It’s too much,” she heard herself say. “It would be too much. I wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .”

Slowly, he shook his head. “You would have no choice. It would be beyond your control. It just . . . happens.”

Her mouth parted with surprise. “That’s what she said.”

“Who?”

And when she answered, her voice was strangely detached, as if the words were being drawn straight from her memory. “Hermione,” she said. “That’s what Hermione said about Mr. Edmonds.”

Gregory’s lips tightened at the corners. “Did she?”

Lucy slowly nodded. “Almost precisely. She said it just happens. In an instant.”

“She said that?” The words sounded like an echo, and indeed, that was all he could do—whisper inane questions, looking for verification, hoping that maybe he had misheard, and she would reply with something entirely different.

But of course she did not. In fact, it was worse than he’d feared. She said, “She was in the garden, that’s what she said, just looking at the roses, and then she saw him. And she knew.”

Gregory just stared at her. His chest felt hollow, his throat tight. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
Damn
it, this was the one thing he didn’t want to hear.

She looked up at him then, and her eyes, gray in the dim light of the night, found his in an oddly intimate manner. It was as if he knew her, knew what she would say, and how her face would look when she said it. It was strange, and terrifying, and most of all, discomforting, because this wasn’t the Honorable Miss Hermione Watson.

This was Lady Lucinda Abernathy, and she was not the woman with whom he intended to spend the rest of his life.

She was perfectly nice, perfectly intelligent, and certainly more than attractive. But Lucy Abernathy was not for him.

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And he almost laughed, because it all would have been so much easier if his heart had flipped the first time he saw
her.

She might be practically engaged, but she wasn’t in love. Of that he was certain.

But Hermione Watson . . .

“What did she say?” he whispered, dreading the answer.

Lady Lucinda tilted her head to the side, and she looked nothing so much as puzzled. “She said that she didn’t even see his face. Just the back of his head—”

Just the back of her neck.

“—and then he turned, and she thought she heard music, and all she could think was—”

I am wrecked.

“—‘I am ruined.’ That is what she said to me.” She looked up at him, her head still tilting curiously to the side. “Can you imagine? Ruined? Of all things. I couldn’t quite grasp it.”

But
he
could. He could.

Exactly.

He looked at Lady Lucinda, and he saw that she was watching his face. She looked puzzled still. And concerned.

And just a little bit bewildered when she asked, “Don’t you find it odd?”

“Yes.” Just one word, but with his entire heart wrapped around it. Because it
was
strange. It cut like a knife. She wasn’t supposed to feel that way about someone else.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

And then, as if a spell had been broken, Lady Lucinda turned and took a few steps to the right. She peered at the bookshelves—not that she could possibly make out any of the titles in this light—then ran her fingers along the spines.

Gregory watched her hand; he didn’t know why. He just watched it as it moved. She was quite elegant, he realized. It wasn’t noticeable at fi rst, because her looks were so whole-some and traditional. One expected elegance to shimmer 7

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like silk, to glow, to transfix. Elegance was an orchid, not a simple daisy.

But when Lady Lucinda moved, she looked different. She seemed to . . . fl ow.

She would be a good dancer. He was sure of it.

Although he wasn’t quite sure why that mattered.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning quite suddenly around.

“About Miss Watson?”

“Yes. I did not mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t,” he said, perhaps a little too sharply.

“Oh.” She blinked, perhaps with surprise. “I’m glad for that. I didn’t mean to.”

She wouldn’t mean to, he realized. She wasn’t the sort.

Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak right away. Her eyes seemed to focus beyond his shoulder, as if she were searching behind him for the correct words. “It was just that . . . Well, when you said what you said about love,” she began, “it just sounded so familiar. I couldn’t quite fathom it.”

“Nor could I,” he said softly.

She held silent, not quite looking at him. Her lips were pursed—just a touch—and every now and then she would blink. Not a fl uttery sort of movement but rather something quite deliberate.

She was thinking, he realized. She was the sort who
thought
about things, probably to the neverending frustration of anyone charged with the task of guiding her through life.

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“About Miss Watson?”

She nodded.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I can speak to her on your be-half, if you would like.”

“No.” Something about that seemed far too juvenile. And Gregory was only just now beginning to feel that he was truly a man, well and grown, ready to make his mark.

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“You can wait, then,” she said with a tiny shrug. “Or you can proceed and try again to woo her. She won’t have the opportunity to see Mr. Edmonds for at least a month, and I would think . . . eventually . . . she would come to see . . .”

But she didn’t finish. And he wanted to know. “Come to see what?” he pressed.

She looked up, as if pulled from a dream. “Why, that you . . . that you . . . just that you are so much
better
than the rest. I don’t know why she cannot see it. It’s quite obvious to me.”

From anyone else it would have been a strange statement.

Overly forward, perhaps. Maybe even a coy hint of avail-ability.

But not from her. She was without artifice, the sort of girl a man could trust. Rather like his sisters, he supposed, with a keen wit and a sharp sense of humor. Lucy Abernathy would never inspire poetry, but she would make a very fi ne friend.

“It will happen,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “She will realize. You . . . and Hermione . . . You will be together.

I am sure of it.”