On the Way to the Wedding (9 page)

It was damned irritating, actually.

And so he watched the two women, willing them to turn, On the Way to the Wedding

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to squirm, to do something to indicate that they were cognizant of his presence. Finally, after three concertos and a fugue, Lady Lucinda slowly twisted in her seat.

He could easily imagine her thoughts.

Slowly, slowly, act as if you’re glancing at the door to see
if someone came in. Flick your eyes ever so slightly at Mr.

Bridgerton—

He lifted his glass in salute.

She gasped, or at least he hoped she did, and turned quickly around.

He smiled. He probably shouldn’t take such joy in her distress, but truly, it was the only bright spot in the evening thus far.

As for Miss Watson—if she could feel the heat of his stare, she gave no indication. Gregory would have liked to have thought that she was studiously ignoring him—that at least might have indicated some sort of awareness. But as he watched her glance idly around the room, dipping her head every so often to whisper something in Lady Lucinda’s ear, it became painfully clear that she wasn’t ignoring him at all.

That would imply that she noticed him.

Which she quite obviously did not.

Gregory felt his jaw clench. While he did not doubt the good intentions behind Lady Lucinda’s advice, the advice itself had been quite patently dreadful. And with only fi ve days remaining to the house party, he had wasted valuable time.

“You look bored.”

He turned. His sister-in-law had slipped into the seat next to him and was speaking in a low undertone so as not to interfere with the performance.

“Quite a blow to my reputation as a hostess,” she added dryly.

“Not at all,” he murmured. “You are splendid as always.”

Kate turned forward and was silent for a few moments before saying, “She’s quite pretty.”

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Gregory did not bother to pretend that he didn’t know what she was talking about. Kate was far too clever for that.

But that didn’t mean he had to encourage the conversation.

“She is,” he said simply, keeping his eyes facing front.

“My suspicion,” said Kate, “is that her heart is otherwise engaged. She has not encouraged any of the gentlemen’s attentions, and they have certainly all tried.”

Gregory felt his jaw tense.

“I have heard,” Kate continued, surely aware that she was being a bother, not that that would stop her, “that the same has been true all of this spring. The girl gives no indication that she wishes to make a match.”

“She fancies her father’s secretary,” Gregory said. Because, really, what was the point of keeping it a secret? Kate had a way of finding everything out. And perhaps she could be of help.

“Really?” Her voice came out a bit too loud, and she was forced to murmur apologies to her guests. “Really?” she said again, more quietly. “How do you know?”

Gregory opened his mouth to reply, but Kate answered her own question. “Oh, of course,” she said, “the Lady Lucinda. She would know everything.”

“Everything,” Gregory confi rmed dryly.

Kate pondered this for a few moments, then stated the obvious. “Her parents cannot be pleased.”

“I don’t know that they are aware.”

“Oh my.” Kate sounded sufficiently impressed by this gossipy tidbit that Gregory turned to look at her. Sure enough, her eyes were wide and sparkling.

“Do try to contain yourself,” he said.

“But it’s the most excitement I’ve had all spring.”

He looked her squarely in the face. “You need to fi nd a hobby.”

“Oh, Gregory,” she said, giving him a little nudge with her elbow. “Don’t allow love to turn you into such a stuff.

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You’re far too much fun for that. Her parents will never allow her to marry the secretary, and she’s not one to elope.

You need only to wait her out.”

He let out an irritated exhale.

Kate patted him comfortingly. “I know, I know, you wish to have things done. Your sort is never one for patience.”

“My sort?”

She flicked her hand, which she clearly considered enough of an answer. “Truly, Gregory,” she said, “this is for the best.”

“That she is in love with someone else?”

“Stop being so dramatic. I meant that it will give you time to be certain of your feelings for her.”

Gregory thought of the gut-punched feeling he got every time he looked at her. Good God, especially the back of her neck, strange as that seemed. He couldn’t imagine he needed time. This was everything he’d ever imagined love to be.

Huge, sudden, and utterly exhilarating.

And somehow crushing at the same time.

“I was surprised you didn’t ask to be seated with her at supper,” Kate murmured.

Gregory glared at the back of Lady Lucinda’s head.

“I can arrange it for tomorrow, if you wish,” Kate offered.

“Do.”

Kate nodded. “Yes, I— Oh, here we are. The music is ending. Pay attention now and look like we’re polite.”

He stood to applaud, as did she. “Have you ever
not
chattered all the way through a music recital?” he asked, keeping his eyes front.

“I have a curious aversion to them,” she said. But then her lips curved into a wicked little smile. “And a nostalgic sort of a fondness, as well.”

“Really?”
Now
he was interested.

“I don’t tell tales, of course,” she murmured, quite purposefully not looking at him, “but really, have you ever seen me attend the opera?”

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Gregory felt his brows lift. Clearly there was an opera singer somewhere in his brother’s past. Where
was
his brother, anyway? Anthony seemed to have developed a remarkable talent for avoiding most of the social functions of the house party. Gregory had seen him only twice aside from their interview the night he arrived.

“Where
is
the scintillating Lord Bridgerton?” he asked.

“Oh, somewhere. I don’t know. We’ll find each other at the end of the day, that is all that matters.” Kate turned to him with a remarkably serene smile. Annoyingly serene. “I must mingle,” she said, smiling at him as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Do enjoy yourself.” And she was off.

Gregory hung back, making polite conversation with a few of the other guests as he surreptitiously watched Miss Watson. She was chatting with two young gentlemen—

annoying sops, the both of them—while Lady Lucinda stood politely to the side. And while Miss Watson did not appear to be flirting with either, she certainly was paying them more attention than
he’d
received that evening.

And there was Lady Lucinda, smiling prettily, taking it all in.

Gregory’s eyes narrowed. Had she double-crossed him?

She didn’t seem the sort. But then again, their acquaintance was barely twenty-four hours old. How well did he know her, really? She
could
have an ulterior motive. And she
might
be a very fine actress, with dark, mysterious secrets lying below the surface of her—

Oh, blast it all. He was going mad. He would bet his last penny that Lady Lucinda could not lie to save her life. She was sunny and open and most defi nitely
not
mysterious. She had meant well, of that much he was certain.

But her advice had been excremental.

He caught her eye. A faint expression of apology seemed to flit across her face, and he thought she might have shrugged.

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Shrugged? What the hell did
that
mean?

He took a step forward.

Then he stopped.

Then he thought about taking another step.

No.

Yes.

No.

Maybe?

Damn it. He didn’t know what to do. It was a singularly unpleasant sensation.

He looked back at Lady Lucinda, quite certain that his expression was not one of sweetness and light. Really, this was all her fault.

But of course now she wasn’t looking at him.

He did not shift his gaze.

She turned back. Her eyes widened, hopefully with alarm.

Good. Now they were getting somewhere. If he couldn’t feel the bliss of Miss Watson’s regard, then at least he could make Lady Lucinda feel the misery of his.

Truly, there were times that just didn’t call for maturity and tact.

He remained at the edge of the room, fi nally beginning to enjoy himself. There was something perversely entertaining about imagining Lady Lucinda as a small defense-less hare, not quite sure if or when she might meet her untimely end.

Not, of course, that Gregory could ever assign himself the role of hunter. His piss-poor marksmanship guaranteed that he couldn’t hit anything that moved, and it was a damned good thing he wasn’t responsible for acquiring his own food.

But he
could
imagine himself the fox.

He smiled, his first real one of the evening.

And then he knew that the fates were on his side, because he saw Lady Lucinda make her excuses and slip out the conservatory door, presumably to attend to her needs.

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As Gregory was standing on his own in the back corner, no one noticed when he exited the room through a different door.

And when Lady Lucinda passed by the doorway to the library, he was able to yank her in without making a sound.

$

Five

In which Our Hero and Heroine

have a most intriguing conversation.

One moment Lucy was walking down the corridor, her nose scrunched in thought as she tried to recall the location of the nearest washroom, and the next she was hurtling through air, or at the very least tripping over her feet, only to find herself bumping up against a decidedly large, decidedly warm, and decidedly human form.

“Don’t scream,” came a voice. One she knew.

“Mr. Bridgerton?” Good heavens, this seemed out of character. Lucy wasn’t quite certain if she ought to be scared.

“We need to talk,” he said, letting go of her arm. But he locked the door and pocketed the key.

“Now?” Lucy asked. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she realized they were in the library. “Here?” And then a more pertinent question sprang to mind. “Alone?”

He scowled. “I’m not going to ravish you, if that’s what worries you.”

She felt her jaw clench. She hadn’t thought he
would,
but 7

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he didn’t need to make his honorable behavior sound so much like an insult.

“Well, then, what is this about?” she demanded. “If I am caught here in your company, there will be the devil to pay.

I’m practically engaged, you know.”

“I know,” he said. In
that
sort of tone. As if she’d informed him of it ad nauseam, when she knew for a fact she had not mentioned it more than once. Or possibly twice.

“Well, I am,” she grumbled, just knowing that she would think of the perfect retort two hours later.

“What,” he demanded, “is going on?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, even though she knew quite well what he was talking about.

“Miss Watson,” he ground out.

“Hermione?” As if there was another Miss Watson. But it did buy her a bit of time.

“Your advice,” he said, his gaze boring into hers, “was abysmal.”

He was correct, of course, but she’d been hoping he might not have noticed.

“Right,” she said, eyeing him warily as he crossed his arms. It wasn’t the most welcoming of gestures, but she had to admit that he carried it off well. She’d heard that his reputation was one of joviality and fun, neither of which was presently in evidence, but, well, hell hath no fury and all that. She supposed one didn’t need to be a woman to feel a tad bit underwhelmed at the prospect of unrequited love.

And as she glanced hesitantly at his handsome face, it occurred to her that he probably didn’t have much experience with unrequited love. Really, who
would
say no to this gentleman?

Besides Hermione. But she said no to everyone. He shouldn’t take it personally.

“Lady Lucinda?” he drawled, waiting for a response.

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“Of course,” she stalled, wishing he didn’t seem so very
large
in the closed room. “Right. Right.”

He lifted a brow. “Right.”

She swallowed. His tone was one of vaguely paternal indulgence, as if she were mildly amusing but not quite worthy of notice. She knew that tone well. It was a favorite of older brothers, for use with younger sisters. And any friends they might bring home for school holidays.

She hated that tone.

But she plowed on nonetheless and said, “I agree that my plan did not turn out to be the best course of action, but truth-fully, I am not certain that anything else would have been an improvement.”

This did not appear to be what he wished to hear. She cleared her throat. Twice. And then again. “I’m terribly sorry,”

she added, because she did feel badly, and it was her experience that apologies always worked when one wasn’t quite certain what to say. “But I really did think—”

“You told me,” he interrupted, “that if I ignored Miss Watson—”

“I didn’t tell you to
ignore
her!”

“You most certainly did.”

“No. No, I did not. I told you to back away a bit. To try to be not quite so obvious in your besottedment.”

It wasn’t a word, but really, Lucy couldn’t be bothered.

“Very well,” he replied, and his tone shifted from slightly-superior-older-brother to outright condescension. “If I wasn’t meant to ignore her, just what precisely do you think I should have done?”

“Well . . .” She scratched the back of her neck, which suddenly felt as if it were sprouting the most horrid of hives. Or maybe it was just nerves. She’d almost rather the hives. She didn’t much like this queasy feeling growing in her stomach as she tried to think of something reasonable to say.