On the Way to the Wedding (28 page)

“Until tomorrow,” he said, bowing almost formally as he bade her farewell.

“Until tomorrow,” Lucy echoed, wondering if it were On the Way to the Wedding

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true. She had never known her uncle to change his mind before. But maybe . . .

Possibly.

Hopefully.

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Fifteen

In which Our Hero learns that he is not,

and probably never will be, as wise as his mother.

One hour later, Gregory was waiting in the drawing room at Number Five, Bruton Street, his mother’s London home since she had insisted upon vacating Bridgerton House upon Anthony’s marriage. It had been his home, too, until he had found his own lodgings several years earlier. His mother lived there alone now, ever since his younger sister had married. Gregory made a point of calling upon her at least twice a week when he was in London, but it never ceased to surprise him how quiet the house seemed now.

“Darling!” his mother exclaimed, sailing into the room with a wide smile. “I had not thought to see you until this evening. How was your journey? And tell me everything about Benedict and Sophie and the children. It is a crime how infrequently I see my grandchildren.”

Gregory smiled indulgently. His mother had visited Wiltshire just one month earlier, and did so several times per year. He dutifully passed along news of Benedict’s four chil-On the Way to the Wedding

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dren, with added emphasis on little Violet, her namesake.

Then, once she had exhausted her supply of questions, he said, “Actually, Mother, I have a favor to ask of you.”

Violet’s posture was always superb, but still, she seemed to straighten a bit. “You do? What is it you need?”

He told her about Lucy, keeping the tale as brief as possible, lest she reach any inappropriate conclusions about his interest in her.

His mother tended to view any unmarried female as a potential bride. Even those with a wedding scheduled for the week’s end.

“Of course I will assist you,” she said. “This will be easy.”

“Her uncle is determined to keep her sequestered,” Gregory reminded her.

She waved away his warning. “Child’s play, my dear son.

Leave this to me. I shall make short work of it.”

Gregory decided not to pursue the subject further. If his mother said she knew how to ensure someone’s attendance at a ball, then he believed her. Continued questioning would only lead her to believe he had an ulterior motive.

Which he did not.

He simply liked Lucy. Considered her a friend. And he wished for her to have a bit of fun.

It was admirable, really.

“I shall have your sister send an invitation with a personal note,” Violet mused. “And perhaps I shall call upon her uncle directly. I shall lie and tell him I met her in the park.”

“Lie?” Gregory’s lips twitched. “You?”

His mother’s smile was positively diabolical. “It won’t matter if he does not believe me. It is one of the advantages of advanced years. No one dares to countermand an old dragon like me.”

Gregory lifted his brows, refusing to fall for her bait. Violet Bridgerton might have been the mother of eight adult children, but with her milky, unlined complexion and wide 2

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smile, she did not look like anyone who could be termed old.

In fact, Gregory had often wondered why she did not re-marry. There was no shortage of dashing widowers clamor-ing to take her in to supper or stand up for a dance. Gregory suspected any one of them would have leaped at the chance to marry his mother, if only she would indicate interest.

But she did not, and Gregory had to admit that he was rather selfishly glad of it. Despite her meddling, there was something quite comforting in her single-minded devotion to her children and grandchildren.

His father had been dead for over two dozen years. Gregory hadn’t even the slightest memory of the man. But his mother had spoken of him often, and whenever she did, her voice changed. Her eyes softened, and the corners of her lips moved—just a little, just enough for Gregory to see the memories on her face.

It was in those moments that he understood why she was so adamant that her children choose their spouses for love.

He’d always planned to comply. It was ironic, really, given the farce with Miss Watson.

Just then a maid arrived with a tea tray, which she set on the low table between them.

“Cook made your favorite biscuits,” his mother said, handing him a cup prepared exactly as he liked it—no sugar, one tiny splash of milk.

“You anticipated my visit?” he asked.

“Not this afternoon, no,” Violet said, taking a sip of her own tea. “But I knew you could not stay away for long.

Eventually you would need sustenance.”

Gregory offered her a lopsided smile. It was true. Like many men of his age and status, he did not have room in his apartments for a proper kitchen. He ate at parties, and at his club, and, of course, at the homes of his mother and siblings.

“Thank you,” he murmured, accepting the plate onto which she’d piled six biscuits.

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Violet regarded the tea tray for a moment, her head cocked slightly to the side, then placed two on her own plate. “I am quite touched,” she said, looking up at him, “that you seek my assistance with Lady Lucinda.”

“Are you?” he asked curiously. “Who else would I turn to with such a matter?”

She took a delicate bite of her biscuit. “No, I am the obvious choice, of course, but you must realize that you rarely turn to your family when you need something.”

Gregory went still, then turned slowly in her direction.

His mother’s eyes—so blue and so unsettlingly perceptive—

were fixed on his face. What could she possibly have meant by that? No one could love his family better than he did.

“That cannot be true,” he fi nally said.

But his mother just smiled. “Do you think not?”

His jaw clenched. “I do think not.”

“Oh, do not take offense,” she said, reaching across the table to pat him on the arm. “I do not mean to say that you do not love us. But you do prefer to do things for yourself.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, finding yourself a wife—”

He cut her off right then and there. “Are you trying to tell me that Anthony, Benedict, and Colin welcomed your interference when they were looking for wives?”

“No, of course not. No man does. But—” She fl itted one of her hands through the air, as if she could erase the sentence. “Forgive me. It was a poor example.”

She let out a small sigh as she gazed out the window, and Gregory realized that she was prepared to let the subject drop. To his surprise, however, he was not.

“What is wrong with preferring to do things for oneself?”

he asked.

She turned to him, looking for all the world as if she had not just introduced a potentially discomforting topic. “Why, nothing. I am quite proud that I raised such self-suffi cient 2

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sons. After all, three of you must make your own way in the world.” She paused, considering this, then added, “With some help from Anthony, of course. I should be quite disappointed if he did not watch out for the rest of you.”

“Anthony is exceedingly generous,” Gregory said quietly.

“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Violet said, smiling. “With his money and his time. He is quite like your father in this way.”

She looked at him with wistful eyes. “I am so sorry you never knew him.”

“Anthony was a good father to me.” Gregory said it because he knew it would bring her joy, but he also said it because it was true.

His mother’s lips pursed and tightened, and for a moment Gregory thought she might cry. He immediately retrieved his handkerchief and held it out to her.

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” she said, even as she took it and dabbed her eyes. “I am quite all right. Merely a little—”

She swallowed, then smiled. But her eyes still glistened.

“Someday you will understand—when you have children of your own—how lovely it was to hear that.”

She set the handkerchief down and picked up her tea.

Sipping it thoughtfully, she let out a little sigh of contentment.

Gregory smiled to himself. His mother adored tea. It went quite beyond the usual British devotion. She claimed it helped her to think, which he would normally have lauded as a good thing, except that all too often he was the subject of her thoughts, and after her third cup she had usually de-vised a frighteningly thorough plan to marry him off to the daughter of whichever friend she had most recently paid a morning call to.

But this time, apparently, her mind was not on marriage.

She set her cup down, and, just when he thought she was ready to change the subject, she said, “But he is not your father.”

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He paused, his own teacup halfway to his mouth. “I beg your pardon.”

“Anthony. He is not your father.”

“Yes?” he said slowly, because really, what could possibly be her point?

“He is your brother,” she continued. “As are Benedict and Colin, and when you were small—oh, how you wished to be a part of their affairs.”

Gregory held himself very still.

“But of course they were not interested in bringing you along, and really, who can blame them?”

“Who indeed?” he murmured tightly.

“Oh, do not take offense, Gregory,” his mother said, turning to him with an expression that was a little bit contrite and little bit impatient. “They were wonderful brothers, and truly, very patient most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“Some of the time,” she amended. “But you were so much smaller than they were. There simply wasn’t much in common for you to do. And then when you grew older, well . . .”

Her words trailed off, and she sighed. Gregory leaned forward. “Well?” he prompted.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Mother.”

“Very well,” she said, and he knew right then and there that she knew exactly what she was saying, and that any sighs and lingering words were entirely for effect.

“I think that you think you must prove yourself to them,”

Violet said.

He regarded her with surprise. “Don’t I?”

His mother’s lips parted, but she made no sound for several seconds. “No,” she finally said. “Why would you think you would?”

What a silly question. It was because— It was because—

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“It’s not the sort of thing one can easily put into words,”

he muttered.

“Really?” She sipped at her tea. “I must say, that was not the sort of reaction I had anticipated.”

Gregory felt his jaw clench. “What, precisely, did you anticipate?”

“Precisely?” She looked up at him with just enough humor in her eyes to completely irritate him. “I’m not certain that I can be precise, but I suppose I had expected you to deny it.”

“Just because I do not wish it to be the case does not render it untrue,” he said with a deliberately casual shrug.

“Your brothers respect you,” Violet said.

“I did not say they do not.”

“They recognize that you are your own man.”

That, Gregory thought, was not precisely true.

“It is not a sign of weakness to ask for help,” Violet continued.

“I have never believed that it was,” he replied. “Didn’t I just seek your assistance?”

“With a matter that could only be handled by a female,”

she said, somewhat dismissively. “You had no choice but to call on me.”

It was true, so Gregory made no comment.

“You are used to having things done for you,” she said.

“Mother.”

“Hyacinth is the same way,” she said quickly. “I think it must be a symptom of being the youngest. And truly, I did not mean to imply that either of you is lazy or spoiled or mean-spirited in any way.”

“What did you mean, then?” he asked.

She looked up with a slightly mischievous smile. “Precisely?”

He felt a bit of his tension slipping away. “Precisely,” he said, with a nod to acknowledge her wordplay.

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“I merely meant that you have never had to work particularly hard for anything. You’re quite lucky that way. Good things seem to happen to you.”

“And as my mother, you are bothered by this . . . how?”