On the Way to the Wedding (11 page)

He watched her lips as she spoke. He didn’t know why, but the shape of them was suddenly intriguing . . . the way they moved, formed their consonants and vowels. They were ordinary lips. Nothing about them had attracted his attention before. But now, in the darkened library, with nothing in the air but the soft whisper of their voices . . .

He wondered what it would mean to kiss her.

He stepped back, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly
wrong.

“We should return,” he said abruptly.

A flicker of hurt passed over her eyes. Damn. He hadn’t meant to sound like he was so eager to be rid of her. None of this was her fault. He was just tired. And frustrated. And she was there. And the night was dark. And they were alone.

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And it hadn’t been desire. It couldn’t be desire. He’d been waiting his entire life to react to a woman the way he had to Hermione Watson. He couldn’t possibly feel desire for another woman after that. Not Lady Lucinda, not anyone.

It was nothing.
She
was nothing.

No, that was not fair. She was something. Quite a bit, actually. But not for him.

$

Six

In which Our Hero makes progress.

Dear God,
what
had she said?

That single thought pounded through Lucy’s mind as she lay in bed that night, too horrified even to toss and turn. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, utterly still, utterly mortifi ed.

And the next morning, as she peered in the mirror, sighing at the weary lavender color beneath her eyes, there it was again—

Oh, Mr. Bridgerton, you are so much better than the rest.

And every time she relived it, the voice in her memory grew higher, more simpering, until she turned into one of those awful creatures—the girls who fluttered and swooned every time someone’s older brother came to visit at school.

“Lucy Abernathy,” she muttered under her breath, “you silly cow.”

“Did you say something?” Hermione looked up at her 8

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from her position near the bed. Lucy already had her hand on the doorknob, ready to leave for breakfast.

“Just doing sums in my head,” Lucy lied.

Hermione went back to putting on her shoes. “For heaven’s sake,
why
?” she said, mostly to herself.

Lucy shrugged, even though Hermione was not looking at her. She always said that she was doing sums in her head when Hermione caught her talking to herself. She had no idea why Hermione believed her; Lucy detested sums, almost as much as she hated fractions and tables. But it seemed like the sort of thing she might do, practical as she was, and Hermione had never questioned it.

Every now and then Lucy mumbled a number, just to make it more authentic.

“Are you ready to go down?” Lucy asked, twisting the knob. Not that
she
was. The last thing she wished was to see, well, anyone. Mr. Bridgerton in particular, of course, but the thought of facing the world at large was just ghastly.

But she was hungry, and she was going to have to show herself eventually, and she didn’t see why her misery ought to wallow on an empty stomach.

As they walked to breakfast, Hermione peered at her curiously. “Are you well, Lucy?” she asked. “You look a little strange.”

Lucy fought the urge to laugh. She
was
strange. She was an idiot, and probably shouldn’t be let loose in public.

Good God, had she actually told Gregory Bridgerton that he was better than the rest?

She wanted to die. Or at the very least hide under a bed.

But no, she couldn’t even manage to feign illness and have a good lying-in. It hadn’t even occurred to her to try.

She was so ridiculously normal and routineish that she was up and ready to depart for breakfast before she’d even managed a single coherent thought.

On the Way to the Wedding

8 3

Aside from the pondering of her apparent madness, of course.
That
she had no trouble focusing upon.

“Well, you look very fine, anyway,” Hermione said as they reached the top of the staircase. “I do like your choice of the green ribbon with the blue dress. I wouldn’t have thought of it, but it’s very smart. And so lovely with your eyes.”

Lucy looked down at her clothing. She had no recollection of dressing herself. It was a miracle she did not look as if she had escaped from a Gypsy circus.

Although . . .

She let out a little sigh. Running off with the Gypsies sounded rather appealing just then, practical even, since she was quite certain she ought never to show her face in polite society again. Clearly she was missing an extremely important connecting vessel between her brain and her mouth, and heaven only knew what might emerge from her lips next.

Good gracious, she might as well have told Gregory Bridgerton that she thought him a god.

Which
she did not. Not at all. She merely thought him a rather fine catch for Hermione. And she’d told him so. Hadn’t she?

What
had
she said? Precisely, what had she said?

“Lucy?”

What she said was . . . What she said
was
—

She stopped cold.

Dear
God.
He was going to think
she
wanted him.

Hermione walked another few paces before she realized Lucy was no longer in step beside her. “Lucy?”

“Do you know,” Lucy said, her voice coming out just a little bit squeaky, “I don’t believe I’m hungry after all.”

Hermione looked incredulous. “For breakfast?”

It
was
a bit farfetched. Lucy always ate like a sailor at breakfast.

“I . . . ah . . . I think something did not quite agree with 8

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me last night. Perhaps the salmon.” She put her hand on her belly for added effect. “I think I should lie down.”

And never get up.

“You do look a bit green,” Hermione said.

Lucy smiled wanly, making a conscious decision to be thankful for small favors.

“Would you like me to bring you something?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Lucy said fervently, hoping Hermione hadn’t heard the rumble of her stomach.

“Oh, but I shouldn’t,” Hermione said, placing one thoughtful finger to her lips. “You probably shouldn’t eat if you are feeling queasy. The last thing you want is to bring it all up again.”

“It’s not queasiness, exactly,” Lucy improvised.

“It’s not?”

“It’s . . . ah . . . rather difficult to explain, actually. I . . .”

Lucy sagged against the wall. Who knew she had it in her to be such a fi ne actress?

Hermione rushed to her side, concern knitting her brow.

“Oh dear,” she said, supporting Lucy with an arm around her back. “You look ghastly.”

Lucy blinked. Maybe she
was
taking ill. Even better. That would keep her sequestered for days.

“I am returning you to bed,” Hermione said, her tone brooking no argument. “And then I will summon Mother.

She will know what to do.”

Lucy nodded with relief. Lady Watson’s remedy for any sort of ailment was chocolate and biscuits. Unorthodox, to be sure, but as it was what Hermione’s mother chose whenever she claimed to be ill, she couldn’t very well deny it to anyone else.

Hermione guided her back to their bedchamber, even going so far as to remove Lucy’s slippers for her before she lay atop the bed. “If I didn’t know you so well,” Hermione said, On the Way to the Wedding

8 5

tossing the slippers carelessly into the armoire, “I would think you were faking.”

“I would never.”

“Oh, you would,” Hermione said. “You absolutely would.

But you could never carry it off. You’re far too traditional.”

Traditional? What had
that
to do with anything?

Hermione let out a little huff of air. “I’m probably going to have to sit with that wearisome Mr. Bridgerton at breakfast now.”

“He’s not so dreadful,” Lucy said, with perhaps a bit more verve than one might expect from someone with a belly full of bad salmon.

“I suppose not,” Hermione acceded. “He’s better than most, I daresay.”

Lucy winced at the echo of her own words.
So much better than the rest. So much better than the rest.

It was quite possibly the most appalling thing ever to cross her lips.

“But he is not for me,” Hermione continued, oblivious to Lucy’s distress. “He will realize it soon enough. And then he will move on to someone else.”

Lucy doubted that, but she didn’t say anything. What a coil. Hermione was in love with Mr. Edmonds, Mr. Bridgerton was in love with Hermione, and Lucy was
not
in love with Mr. Bridgerton.

But he thought she was.

Which was nonsense, of course. She would never allow that to happen, practically engaged as she was to Lord Haselby.

Haselby.
She nearly groaned. This would all be so much easier if she could remember his face.

“Perhaps I’ll ring for breakfast,” Hermione said, her face lighting up as if she had just discovered a new continent.

“Do you think they will send up a tray?”

Oh, blast. There went all her plans. Now Hermione had 8

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an excuse to remain in their chamber all day. And the next, too, if Lucy continued to feign illness.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner,” Hermione said, heading to the bellpull. “I would much rather remain here with you.”

“Don’t,” Lucy called out, her brain spinning madly.

“Why not?”

Indeed. Lucy thought quickly. “If you have them bring a tray, you might not get what you want.”

“But I know what I want. Coddled eggs and toast. Surely they can manage that.”

“But
I
don’t want coddled eggs and toast.” Lucy tried to keep her expression as pitiful and pathetic as she could manage. “You know my taste so well. If you go to the breakfast room, I’m sure you would find something exactly right.”

“But I thought you weren’t going to eat.”

Lucy put her hand back on her belly. “Well, I might want to eat a little.”

“Oh, very well,” Hermione said, by now sounding more impatient than anything else. “What do you want?”

“Er, perhaps some bacon?”

“With a fi shy stomach?”

“I’m not sure it was the fi sh.”

For the longest moment, Hermione just stood there and stared at her. “Just bacon, then?” she fi nally asked.

“Ehm, and anything else you think I might enjoy,” Lucy said, since it would have been easy enough to ring for bacon.

Hermione let out a pent-up breath. “I shall return soon.”

She regarded Lucy with a slightly suspicious expression.

“Don’t overexert yourself.”

“I won’t,” Lucy promised. She smiled at the door as it closed behind Hermione. She counted to ten, then hopped out of bed and ran to the wardrobe to straighten her slippers. Once that was done to her satisfaction, she snatched On the Way to the Wedding

8 7

up a book and crawled back in to settle down and read.

All in all, it was turning out to be a lovely morning.

By the time Gregory entered the breakfast room, he was feeling much better. What had happened the night before—

it was nothing. Practically forgotten.

It wasn’t as if he’d
wanted
to kiss Lady Lucinda. He’d merely wondered about it, which was worlds apart.

He was just a man, after all. He’d wondered about hundreds of women, most of the time without
any
intention of even speaking to them. Everybody wondered. It was whether one acted upon it that made the difference.

What was that his brothers—his happily married brothers, he might add—had once said? Marriage didn’t render them
blind.
They might not be looking for other women, but that didn’t mean they didn’t notice what was standing right in front of them. Whether it was a barmaid with extremely large bosoms or a proper young lady with a—well, with a pair of lips—one couldn’t very well not
see
the body part in question.

And if one saw, then of course one would wonder, and—

And nothing. It all added up to nothing.

Which meant Gregory could eat his breakfast with a clear head.

Eggs were good for the soul, he decided. Bacon, too.

The only other occupant of the breakfast room was the fiftyish and perpetually starchy Mr. Snowe, who was thankfully more interested in his newspaper than in conversation.

After the obligatory grunts of greeting, Gregory sat down at the opposite end of the table and began to eat.

Excellent sausage this morning. And the toast was exceptional as well. Just the right amount of butter. A bit of salt needed for the eggs, but other than that they were rather tasty.

He tried the salted cod. Not bad. Not bad at all.

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He took another bite. Chewed. Enjoyed himself. Thought very deep thoughts about politics and agriculture.

Moved on determinedly to Newtonian physics. He really should have paid more attention at Eton, because he couldn’t quite recall the difference between force and work.

Let’s see, work was that bit with the foot-pounds, and force was . . .

It wasn’t even really
wondering.
Honestly, it could all be blamed on a trick of the light. And his mood. He’d been feeling a bit off. He’d been looking at her mouth because she’d been talking, for heaven’s sake. Where else was he meant to look?

He picked up his fork with renewed vigor. Back to the cod. And his tea. Nothing washed everything away like tea.

He took a long sip, peering over the edge of his cup as he heard someone coming down the hall.

And then
she
filled the doorway.

He blinked with surprise, then glanced over her shoulder.

She’d come without her extra appendage.

Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think he’d ever seen Miss Watson without Lady Lucinda.