On the Way to the Wedding (17 page)

And another was the wrong height. Not very wrong, probably just a few inches. But he could tell.

It wasn’t she.

She was probably wherever Miss Watson was. Which he did find somewhat reassuring. Miss Watson could not possibly get into trouble with Lady Lucinda about.

His stomach growled, and he decided to abandon his search for the time being and instead seek sustenance. Kate had, as always, provided a hearty selection of food for her guests to nibble upon during the course of the evening. He went directly to the plate of sandwiches—they looked rather like the ones she’d served the night he’d arrived, and he’d liked those quite well. Ten of them ought to do the trick.

Hmmm. He saw cucumber—a waste of bread if ever he saw one. Cheese—no, not what he was looking for.

Perhaps—

“Mr. Bridgerton?”

Lady Lucinda. He’d know that voice anywhere.

He turned. There she was. He congratulated himself. He’d been right about those other masked honey blonds. He defi -

nitely hadn’t come across her yet this evening.

Her eyes widened, and he realized that her mask, covered with slate blue felt, was the exact color of her eyes. He wondered if Miss Watson had obtained a similar one in green.

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“It
is
you, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?” he returned.

She blinked. “I don’t know. I just did.” Then her lips parted—just enough to reveal a tiny little gleam of white teeth, and she said, “It’s Lucy. Lady Lucinda.”

“I know,” he murmured, still looking at her mouth. What was it about masks? It was as if by covering up the top, the bottom was made more intriguing.

Almost mesmerizing.

How was it he hadn’t noticed the way her lips tilted ever so slightly up at the corners? Or the freckles on her nose.

There were seven of them. Precisely seven, all shaped like ovals, except for that last one, which looked rather like Ireland, actually.

“Were you hungry?” she asked.

He blinked, forced his eyes back to hers.

She motioned to the sandwiches. “The ham is very nice.

As is the cucumber. I’m not normally partial to cucumber sandwiches—they never seem to satisfy although I do like the crunch—but these have a bit of soft cheese on them instead of just butter. It was a rather nice surprise.”

She paused and looked at him, tilting her head to the side as she awaited his reply.

And he smiled. He couldn’t help it. There was something so uncommonly entertaining about her when she was prat-tling on about food.

He reached out and placed a cucumber sandwich on his plate. “With such a recommendation,” he said, “how could I refuse?”

“Well, the ham is nice, too, if you don’t like it.”

Again, so like her. Wanting everyone to be happy.
Try
this. And if you don’t like it, try this or this or this or this.

And if that doesn’t work, have mine.

She’d never said it, of course, but somehow he knew she would.

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She looked down at the serving platter. “I do wish they weren’t all mixed up.”

He looked at her quizzically. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” she said—that singular sort of
well
that foretold a long and heartfelt explanation. “Don’t you think it would have made far more sense to separate the different types of sandwiches? To put each on its own smaller plate? That way, if you found one you liked, you would know exactly where to go to get another.
Or
”—at this she grew even more animated, as if she were attacking a problem of great societal importance—“
if
there was another. Consider it.” She waved at the platter. “There might not be a single ham sandwich left in the stack. And you couldn’t very well sift through them all, looking. It would be most impolite.”

He regarded her thoughtfully, then said, “You like things to be orderly, don’t you?”

“Oh, I do,” she said with feeling. “I really do.”

Gregory considered his own disorganized ways. He tossed shoes in the wardrobe, left invitations strewn about . . . The year before, he had released his valet-secretary from service for a week to visit his ailing father, and when the poor man had come back, the chaos on Gregory’s desk alone had nearly done him in.

Gregory looked at Lady Lucinda’s earnest expression and chuckled. He’d probably drive her mad in under a week as well.

“Do you like the sandwich?” she asked, once he’d taken a bite. “The cucumber?”

“Very intriguing,” he murmured.

“I wonder, is food meant to be intriguing?”

He finished the sandwich. “I’m not certain.”

She nodded absently, then said, “The ham is nice.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence as they glanced out across the room. The musicians were playing a lively waltz, and the ladies’ skirts were billowing like silken bells On the Way to the Wedding

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as they spun and twirled. It was impossible to watch the scene and not feel as if the night itself were alive . . . restless with energy . . . waiting to make its move.

Something would happen that night. Gregory was sure of it. Someone’s life would change.

If he was lucky, it would be his.

His hands began to tingle. His feet, too. It was taking everything he had just to stand still. He wanted to move, he wanted to
do
something. He wanted to set his life in motion, reach out and capture his dreams.

He wanted to move. He couldn’t stand still. He—

“Would you like to dance?”

He hadn’t meant to ask. But he’d turned, and Lucy was right there beside him, and the words just tumbled out.

Her eyes lit up. Even with the mask, he could see that she was delighted. “Yes,” she said, almost sighing as she added,

“I love to dance.”

He took her hand and led her to the floor. The waltz was in full swing, and they quickly found their place in the music. It seemed to lift them, render them as one. Gregory needed only to press his hand at her waist, and she moved, exactly as he anticipated. They spun, they twirled, the air rushing past their faces so quickly that they had to laugh.

It was perfect. It was breathless. It was as if the music had crept under their skin and was guiding their every movement.

And then it was over.

So quickly.
Too
quickly. The music ended, and for a moment they stood, still in each other’s arms, still wrapped in the memory of the music.

“Oh, that was lovely,” Lady Lucinda said, and her eyes shone.

Gregory released her and bowed. “You are a superb dancer, Lady Lucinda. I knew you would be.”

“Thank you, I—” Her eyes snapped to his. “You did?”

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“I—” Why had he said that? He hadn’t meant to say that.

“You’re quite graceful,” he finally said, leading her back to the ballroom’s perimeter. Far more graceful than Miss Watson, actually, although that did make sense given what Lucy had said about her friend’s dancing ability.

“It is in the way you walk,” he added, since she seemed to be expecting a more detailed explanation.

And that would have to do, since he wasn’t about to examine the notion any further.

“Oh.” And her lips moved. Just a little. But it was enough.

And it struck him—she looked happy. And he realized that most people didn’t. They looked amused, or entertained, or satisfi ed.

Lady Lucinda looked happy.

He rather liked that.

“I wonder where Hermione is,” she said, looking this way and that.

“She didn’t arrive with you?” Gregory asked, surprised.

“She did. But then we saw Richard. And he asked her to dance.
Not,
” she added with great emphasis, “because he is in love with her. He was merely being polite. That is what one does for one’s sister’s friends.”

“I have four sisters,” he reminded her. “I know.” But then he remembered. “I thought Miss Watson does not dance.”

“She doesn’t. But Richard does not know that. No one does. Except me. And you.” She looked at him with some urgency. “Please do
not
tell anyone. I beg of you. Hermione would be mortifi ed.”

“My lips are sealed,” he promised.

“I imagine they went off to find something to drink,”

Lucy said, leaning slightly to one side as she tried to catch a glimpse of the lemonade table. “Hermione made a comment about being overheated. It is her favorite excuse. It almost always works when someone asks her to dance.”

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“I don’t see them,” Gregory said, following her gaze.

“No, you wouldn’t.” She turned back to face him, giving her head a little shake. “I don’t know why I was looking. It was some time ago.”

“Longer than one can sip at a drink?”

She chuckled. “No, Hermione can make a glass of lemonade last an entire evening when she needs to. But I think Richard would have lost patience.”

It was Gregory’s opinion that her brother would gladly cut off his right arm just for the chance to gaze upon Miss Watson while she pretended to drink lemonade, but there was little point in trying to convince Lucy of that.

“I imagine they decided to take a stroll,” Lucy said, quite obviously unconcerned.

But Gregory immediately felt an unease. “Outside?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. They are certainly not here in the ballroom. Hermione cannot hide in a crowd. Her hair, you know.”

“But do you think it is wise for them to be off alone?”

Gregory pressed.

Lady Lucinda looked at him as if she couldn’t quite understand the urgency in his voice. “They’re hardly off alone,”

she said. “There are at least two dozen people outside. I looked out through the French doors.”

Gregory forced himself to stand perfectly still while he considered what to do. Clearly he needed to find Miss Watson, and quickly, before she was subjected to anything that might be considered irrevocable.

Irrevocable.

Jesus.

Lives could turn on a single moment. If Miss Watson really was off with Lucy’s brother . . . If someone caught them . . .

A strange heat began to rise within him, something angry and jealous and entirely unpleasant. Miss Watson might be 1

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in danger . . . or she might not. Maybe she welcomed Fennsworth’s advances . . .

No.
No, she did not. He practically forced the thought down his throat. Miss Watson thought she was in love with that ridiculous Mr. Edmonds, whoever he was. She wouldn’t welcome advances from Gregory
or
Lord Fennsworth.

But had Lucy’s brother seized an opportunity that
he
had missed? It rankled, lodged itself in his chest like a hot can-nonball—this
feeling,
this emotion, this bloody . . . awful . . . pissish . . .

“Mr. Bridgerton?”

Foul.
Defi nitely foul.

“Mr. Bridgerton, is something wrong?”

He moved his head the inch required to face Lady Lucinda, but even so, it took several seconds for him to focus on her features. Her eyes were concerned, her mouth pressed into a worried line.

“You don’t look well,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he ground out.

“But—”

“Fine,”
he positively snapped.

She drew back. “Of course you are.”

How had Fennsworth done it? How had he got Miss Watson off alone? He was still wet behind the ears, for God’s sake, barely out of university and never come down to London. And Gregory was . . . Well, more experienced than that.

He should have been paying more attention.

He should never have allowed this.

“Perhaps I’ll look for Hermione,” Lucy said, inching away. “I can see that you would prefer to be alone.”

“No,” he blurted out, with a bit more force than was strictly polite. “I will join you. We shall search together.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“Why wouldn’t it be wise?”

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“I . . . don’t know.” She stopped, stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes, finally saying, “I just don’t think it is. You yourself just questioned the wisdom of Richard and Hermione going off together.”

“You certainly cannot search the house by yourself.”

“Of course not,” she said, as if he were foolish for even having suggested it. “I was going to find Lady Bridgerton.”

Kate? Good God. “Don’t do
that,
” he said quickly. And perhaps a bit disdainfully as well, although that hadn’t been his intention.

But she clearly took umbrage because her voice was clipped as she asked, “And why not?”

He leaned in, his tone low and urgent. “If Kate fi nds them, and they are not as they should be, they will be married in less than a fortnight. Mark my words.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course they will be as they should,”

she hissed, and it took him aback, actually, because it never occurred to him that she might stand up for herself with quite so much vigor.

“Hermione would never behave in an untoward manner,”

she continued furiously, “and neither would Richard, for that matter. He is my brother. My
brother.
”

“He loves her,” Gregory said simply.

“No. He.
Doesn’t.
” Good God, she looked ready to explode. “And even if he did,” she railed on, “which he does not, he would
never
dishonor her. Never. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t—”

“He wouldn’t what?”

She swallowed. “He wouldn’t do that to
me.
”

Gregory could not believe her naiveté. “He’s not thinking of
you,
Lady Lucinda. In fact, I believe it would be safe to say that you have not crossed his mind even once.”

“That is a terrible thing to say.”

Gregory shrugged. “He’s a man in love. Hence, he is a man insensible.”

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“Oh, is
that
how it works?” she retorted. “Does that render
you
insensible as well?”