On the Way to the Wedding (22 page)

And then she said it. She tried it. “Gregory,” she whispered, testing the name on her lips. It felt like an endearment, an intimacy, almost as if she could change the world and everything around her with one single word.

If she said his name, then he could be hers, and she could forget everything else, she could forget—

Haselby.

Dear God, she was engaged. It was not just an understanding any longer. The papers had been signed. And she was—

“No,” she said, pressing her hands on his chest. “No, I can’t.”

He allowed her to push him away. She turned her head, afraid to look at him. She knew . . . if she saw his face . . .

She was weak. She wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Lucy,” he said, and she realized that the sound of him was just as hard to bear as his face would have been.

“I can’t do this.” She shook her head, still not looking at him. “It’s wrong.”

“Lucy.” And this time she felt his fingers on her chin, gently urging her to face him.

“Please allow me to escort you upstairs,” he said.

“No!” It came out too loud, and she stopped, swallowing uncomfortably. “I can’t risk it,” she said, finally allowing her eyes to meet his.

It was a mistake. The way he was looking at her— His eyes were stern, but there was more. A hint of softness, a touch of warmth. And curiosity. As if . . . As if he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. As if he were looking at her for the very fi rst time.

Dear heaven, that was the part she couldn’t bear. She 1

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wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was because he was looking at
her.
Maybe it was because the expression was so . . .
him.

Maybe it was both.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

But it terrified her all the same.

“I will not be deterred,” he said. “Your safety is my responsibility.”

Lucy wondered what had happened to the slightly intoxicated, rather jolly man with whom she’d been conversing just moments earlier. In his place was someone else entirely.

Someone quite in charge.

“Lucy,” he said, and it wasn’t exactly a question, more of a reminder. He would have his way in this, and she would have to acknowledge it.

“My room isn’t far,” she said, trying one last time, anyway. “Truly, I don’t need your assistance. It’s just up those stairs.”

And down the hall and around a corner, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I will walk you to the stairs, then.”

Lucy knew better than to argue. He would not relent. His voice was quiet, but it had an edge she wasn’t quite certain she’d heard there before.

“And I will remain there until you reach your room.”

“That’s not necessary.”

He ignored her. “Knock three times when you do so.”

“I’m not going to—”

“If I don’t hear your knock, I will come upstairs and personally assure myself of your welfare.”

He crossed his arms, and as she looked at him she wondered if he’d have been the same man had he been the fi rst-born son. There was an unexpected imperiousness to him.

He would have made a fine viscount, she decided, although she wasn’t certain she would have liked him so well. Lord Bridgerton quite frankly terrified her, although he must have On the Way to the Wedding

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had a softer side, adoring his wife and children as he so obviously did.

Still . . .

“Lucy.”

She swallowed and grit her teeth, hating to have to admit that she’d lied. “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “If you wish to hear my knock, you had better come to the top of the stairs.”

He nodded and followed her, all the way to the top of the seventeen steps.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he said.

Lucy said nothing. She had a feeling that would be un-wise.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he repeated.

She nodded, since it seemed to be required, and she didn’t see how she was meant to avoid him, anyway.

And she wanted to see him. She shouldn’t want to, and she
knew
she shouldn’t do it, but she couldn’t help herself.

“I suspect we will be leaving,” she said. “I’m meant to return to my uncle, and Richard . . . Well, he will have matters to attend to.”

But her explanations did not change his expression. His face was still resolute, his eyes so fi rmly fixed on hers that she shivered.

“I will see you in the morning,” was all he said.

She nodded again, and then left, as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. She rounded the corner and fi -

nally saw her room, just three doors down.

But she stopped. Right there at the corner, just out of his sight.

And she knocked three times.

Just because she could.

$

Twelve

In which nothing is resolved.

When Gregory sat down to breakfast the next day, Kate was already there, grim-faced and weary.

“I’m so sorry,” was the first thing she said when she took the seat next to him.

What
was
it with apologies? he wondered. They were positively rampant these past few days.

“I know you had hoped—”

“It is nothing,” he interrupted, flicking a glance at the plate of food she’d left on the other side of the table. Two seats down.

“But—”

“Kate,” he said, and even he didn’t quite recognize his own voice. He sounded older, if that was possible. Harder.

She fell silent, her lips still parted, as if her words had been frozen on her tongue.

“It’s nothing,” he said again, and turned back to his eggs.

He didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want listen to expla-On the Way to the Wedding

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nations. What was done was done, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Gregory was not certain what Kate was doing while he concentrated on his food—presumably looking around the room, gauging whether any of the guests could hear their conversation. Every now and then he heard her shifting in her seat, unconsciously changing her position in anticipation of saying something.

He moved on to his bacon.

And then—he knew she would not be able to keep her mouth shut for long—“But are you—”

He turned. Looked at her hard. And said one word.

“Don’t.”

For a moment her expression remained blank. Then her eyes widened, and one corner of her mouth tilted up. Just a little. “How old were you when we met?” she asked.

What the devil was she about? “I don’t know,” he said impatiently, trying to recall her wedding to his brother.

There had been a bloody lot of flowers. He’d been sneezing for weeks, it seemed. “Thirteen, perhaps. Twelve?”

She regarded him curiously. “It must be diffi cult, I think, to be so very much younger than your brothers.”

He set his fork down.

“Anthony and Benedict and Colin—they are all right in a row. Like ducks, I’ve always thought, although I’m not so foolish to say so. And then—hmmm. How many years between you and Colin?”

“Ten.”

“Is that all?” Kate looked surprised, which he wasn’t sure he found particularly complimentary.

“It’s a full six years from Colin to Anthony,” she continued, pressing one finger against her chin as if that were to indicate deep thought. “A bit more than that, actually. But I suppose they are more commonly lumped together, what with Benedict in the middle.”

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He waited.

“Well, no matter,” she said briskly. “Everyone fi nds his place in life, after all. Now then—”

He stared at her in amazement. How could she change the subject like that? Before he had any idea what she was talking about.

“—I suppose I should inform you of the remainder of the events of last night. After you left.” Kate sighed—groaned really—shaking her head. “Lady Watson was a bit put out that her daughter had not been closely supervised, although really, whose fault is that? And
then
she was put out that Miss Watson’s London season was over before she had a chance to spend money on a new wardrobe. Because, after all, it is not as if she will make a debut now.”

Kate paused, waiting for Gregory to say something. He lifted his brows in the tiniest of shrugs, just enough to say that he had nothing to add to the conversation.

Kate gave him one more second, then continued with:

“Lady Watson did come about rather quickly when it was pointed out that Fennsworth is an earl, however young.”

She paused, twisting her lips. “He
is
rather young, isn’t he?”

“Not so much younger than I am,” Gregory said, even though he’d thought Fennsworth the veriest infant the night before.

Kate appeared to give that some thought. “No,” she said slowly, “there’s a difference. He’s not . . . Well, I don’t know.

Anyway—”

Why
did she keep changing the subject just when she started to say something he actually wanted to hear?

“—the betrothal is done,” she continued, picking up speed with that, “and I believe that all parties involved are content.”

Gregory supposed he did not count as an involved party.

On the Way to the Wedding

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But then again, he felt more irritation than anything else. He did not like being beaten. At anything.

Well, except for shooting. He’d long since given up on that.

How was it that it never occurred to him, not even once, that he might not win Miss Watson in the end? He had accepted that it would not be easy, but to him, it was a fait accompli. Predestined.

He’d actually been making progress with her. She had laughed with him, by gad. Laughed. Surely that had to have meant something.

“They are leaving today,” Kate said. “All of them. Separately, of course. Lady and Miss Watson are off to prepare for the wedding, and Lord Fennsworth is taking his sister home. It’s why he came, after all.”

Lucy.
He had to see Lucy.

He’d been trying not to think about her.

With mixed results.

But she was there, all the time, hovering at the back of his mind, even while he was stewing over the loss of Miss Watson.

Lucy.
It was impossible now to think of her as Lady Lucinda. Even if he hadn’t kissed her, she would be Lucy. It was who she was. It fit her perfectly.

But he
had
kissed her. And it had been magnifi cent.

But most of all, unexpected.

Everything about it had surprised him, even the very fact that he’d done it. It was Lucy. He wasn’t supposed to kiss
Lucy.

But she’d been holding his arm. And her eyes—what was it about her eyes? She’d been looking up at him, searching for something.

Searching
him
for something.

He hadn’t meant to do it. It just happened. He’d felt pulled, 1

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inexorably tugged toward her, and the space between them had grown smaller and smaller . . .

And then there she was. In his arms.

He’d wanted to melt to the floor, lose himself in her and never let go.

He’d wanted to kiss her until they both fell apart from the passion of it.

He’d wanted to—

Well. He’d wanted to do quite a bit, to tell the truth. But he’d also been a little bit drunk.

Not very. But enough to doubt the veracity of his response.

And
he’d been angry. And off-balance.

Not with Lucy, of course, but he was quite certain it had impaired his judgment.

Still, he should see her. She was a gently bred young lady.

One didn’t kiss one of
those
without making explanations.

And he ought to apologize as well, although that didn’t really feel like what he wanted to do.

But it was what he
should
do.

He looked up at Kate. “When are they leaving?”

“Lady and Miss Watson? This afternoon, I believe.”

No,
he almost blurted out,
I meant Lady Lucinda.
But he caught himself and kept his voice unconcerned as he said instead, “And Fennsworth?”

“Soon, I think. Lady Lucinda has already been down for breakfast.” Kate thought for a moment. “I believe Fennsworth said he wished to be home by supper. But they can make the journey in one day. They don’t live too very far away.”

“Near Dover,” Gregory murmured absently.

Kate’s brow furrowed. “I think you’re right.”

Gregory frowned at his food. He’d thought to wait here for Lucy; she would not be able to miss breakfast. But if On the Way to the Wedding

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she’d already eaten, then the time of her departure would be growing near.

And he needed to fi nd her.

He stood. A bit abruptly—he knocked his thigh against the edge of the table, causing Kate to look up at him with a startled expression.

“You’re not going to finish your breakfast?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

She looked at him with patent disbelief. She’d been a member of the family for over ten years, after all. “How is that possible?”

He ignored the question. “I bid you a lovely morning.”

“Gregory?”

He turned. He didn’t want to, but there was a slight edge to her voice, just enough for him to know he needed to pay attention.

Kate’s eyes filled with compassion—and apprehension.

“You’re not going to seek out Miss Watson, are you?”

“No,” he said, and it was almost funny, because that was the last thing on his mind.

Lucy stared at her packed trunks, feeling tired. And sad.

And confused.

And heaven knew what else.

Wrung out. That was how she felt. She’d watched the maids with the bath towels, how they twisted and twisted to wring out every last drop of water.

So it had come to this.

She was a bath towel.

“Lucy?”

It was Hermione, quietly entering their room. Lucy had already been asleep when Hermione had returned the night before, and Hermione had been asleep when Lucy had left for breakfast.