On the Way to the Wedding Page 12

  Clearly, all three of them needed a bit of instruction.

  “I thought to make you feel better,” Lucy finally said. “Because you can’t shoot.”

  “Oh, I can shoot,” he said. “That’s the easy part. I just can’t aim.”

  Lucy grinned. She couldn’t help herself. “I could show you.”

  His head swung around. “Oh, gad. Don’t tell me you know how to shoot.”

  She perked up. “Quite well, actually.”

  He shook his head. “The day only needed this.”

  “It’s an admirable skill,” she protested.

  “I’m sure it is, but I’ve already four females in my life who can best me. The last thing I need is—oh, gad again, please don’t say Miss Watson is a crack shot as well.”

  Lucy blinked. “Do you know, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, there is still hope there, then.”

  “Isn’t that peculiar?” she murmured.

  He gave her a deadpan look. “That I have hope?”

  “No, that—” She couldn’t say it. Good heavens, it sounded silly even to her.

  “Ah, then you must think it peculiar that you don’t know whether Miss Watson can shoot.”

  And there it was. He guessed it, anyway. “Yes,” she admitted. “But then again, why would I? Marksmanship wasn’t a part of the curriculum at Miss Moss’s.”

  “To the great relief of gentlemen everywhere, I assure you.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Who did teach you?”

  “My father,” she said, and it was strange, because her lips parted before she answered. For a moment she thought she’d been surprised by the question, but it hadn’t been that.

  She’d been surprised by her answer.

  “Good heavens,” he responded, “were you even out of leading strings?”

  “Just barely,” Lucy said, still puzzling over her odd reaction. It was probably just because she didn’t often think of her father. He had been gone so long that there weren’t many questions to which the late Earl of Fennsworth constituted the reply.

  “He thought it an important skill,” she continued. “Even for girls. Our home is near the Dover coast, and there were always smugglers. Most of them were friendly—everyone knew who they were, even the magistrate.”

  “He must have enjoyed French brandy,” Mr. Bridgerton murmured.

  Lucy smiled in recollection. “As did my father. But not all of the smugglers were known to us. Some, I’m sure, were quite dangerous. And…” She leaned toward him. One really couldn’t say something like this without leaning in. Where would the fun be in that?

  “And…?” he prompted.

  She lowered her voice. “I think there were spies.”

  “In Dover? Ten years ago? Absolutely there were spies. Although I do wonder at the advisability of arming the infant population.”

  Lucy laughed. “I was a bit older than that. I believe we began when I was seven. Richard continued the lessons once my father had passed on.”

  “I suppose he’s a brilliant marksman as well.”

  She nodded ruefully. “Sorry.”

  They resumed their stroll toward the house. “I won’t challenge him to a duel, then,” he said, somewhat offhandedly.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  He turned to her with an expression that could only be called sly. “Why, Lady Lucinda, I do believe you have just declared your affection for me.”

  Her mouth flapped open like an inarticulate fish. “I have n—what could possibly lead you to that conclusion?” And why did her cheeks feel so suddenly hot?

  “It could never be a fair match,” he said, sounding remarkably at ease with his shortcomings. “Although in all truth, I don’t know that there is a man in Britain with whom I could have a fair match.”

  She still felt somewhat light-headed after her previous surprise, but she managed to say, “I’m sure you overstate.”

  “No,” he said, almost casually. “Your brother would surely leave a bullet in my shoulder.” He paused, considering this. “Assuming he wasn’t of a mind to put one in my heart.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly.”

  He shrugged. “Regardless, you must be more concerned for my welfare than you were aware.”

  “I’m concerned for everybody’s welfare,” she muttered.

  “Yes,” he murmured, “you would be.”

  Lucy drew back. “Why does that sound like an insult?”

  “Did it? I can assure you it wasn’t meant to.”

  She stared at him suspiciously for so long that he finally lifted his hands in surrender. “It was a compliment, I swear to you,” he said.

  “Grudgingly given.”

  “Not at all!” He glanced over at her, quite obviously unable to suppress a smile.

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No,” he insisted, and then of course he laughed. “Sorry. Now I am.”

  “You could at least attempt to be kind and say that you are laughing with me.”

  “I could.” He grinned, and his eyes turned positively devilish. “But it would be a lie.”

  She almost smacked him on the shoulder. “Oh, you are terrible.”

  “Bane of my brothers’ existence, I assure you.”

  “Really?” Lucy had never been the bane of anyone’s existence, and right then it sounded rather appealing. “How so?”

  “Oh, the same as always. I need to settle down, find purpose, apply myself.”

  “Get married?”

  “That, too.”

  “Is that why you are so enamored of Hermione?”

  He paused—just for a moment. But it was there. Lucy felt it.

  “No,” he said. “It was something else entirely.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly, feeling foolish for having asked. He’d told her all about it the night before—about love just happening, having no choice in the matter. He didn’t want Hermione to please his brother; he wanted Hermione because he couldn’t not want her.

  And it made her feel just a little bit more alone.

  “We are returned,” he said, motioning to the door to the drawing room, which she had not even realized they had reached.

  “Yes, of course.” She looked at the door, then looked at him, then wondered why it felt so awkward now that they had to say goodbye. “Thank you for the company.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.”

  Lucy took a step toward the door, then turned back to face him with a little “Oh!”

  His brows rose. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. But I must apologize—I turned you quite around. You said you like to go that way—down toward the lake—when you need to think. And you never got to.”

  He looked at her curiously, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side. And his eyes—oh, she wished she could describe what she saw there. Because she didn’t understand it, didn’t quite comprehend how it made her tilt her head in concert with his, how it made her feel as if the moment were stretching…longer…longer…until it could last a lifetime.

  “Didn’t you wish for time for yourself?” she asked, softly…so softly it was almost a whisper.

  Slowly, he shook his head. “I did,” he said, sounding as if the words were coming to him at that very moment, as if the thought itself was new and not quite what he had expected.

  “I did,” he said again, “but now I don’t.”

  She looked at him, and he looked at her. And the thought quite suddenly popped into her head—

  He doesn’t know why.

  He didn’t know why he no longer wanted to be by himself.

  And she didn’t know why that was meaningful.

  Nine

  In which Our Story takes a turn.

  The following night was the masked ball. It was to be a grand affair, not too grand, of course—Gregory’s brother Anthony wouldn’t stand for that much disruption of his comfortable life in the country. But nevertheless, it was to be the pinnacle of the house party events.
All the guests would be there, along with another hundred or so extra attendees—some down from London, others straight from their homes in the country. Every last bedchamber had been aired out and prepared for occupants, and even with that, a good number of partygoers were staying at the homes of neighbors, or, for an unlucky few, at nearby inns.

  Kate’s original intention had been to throw a fancy dress party—she’d been longing to fashion herself as Medusa (to the surprise of no one)—but she had finally abandoned the idea after Anthony informed her that if she had her way with this, he would choose his own costume.

  The look he gave her was apparently enough for her to declare an immediate retreat.

  She later told Gregory that he had still not forgiven her for costuming him as Cupid at the Billington fancy dress ball the previous year.

  “Costume too cherubic?” Gregory murmured.

  “But on the bright side,” she had replied, “I now know exactly how he must have looked as a baby. Quite darling, actually.”

  “Until this moment,” Gregory said with a wince, “I’m not sure I understood exactly how much my brother loves you.”

  “Quite a bit.” She smiled and nodded. “Quite a bit indeed.”

  And so a compromise was reached. No costumes, just masks. Anthony didn’t mind that one bit, as it would enable him to abandon his duties as host entirely if he so chose (who would notice his absence, after all?), and Kate set to work designing a mask with Medusish snakes jumping out in every direction. (She was unsuccessful.)

  At Kate’s insistence, Gregory arrived in the ballroom at precisely half eight, the ball’s announced start. It meant, of course, that the only guests in attendance were he, his brother, and Kate, but there were enough servants milling about to make it seem not quite so empty, and Anthony declared himself delighted with the gathering.

  “It’s a much better party without everyone else jostling about,” he said happily.

  “When did you grow so opposed to social discourse?” Gregory asked, plucking a champagne flute off a proffered tray.

  “It’s not that at all,” Anthony answered with a shrug. “I’ve simply lost patience for stupidity of any kind.”

  “He is not aging well,” his wife confirmed.

  If Anthony took any exception to her comment, he made no show of it. “I simply refuse to deal with idiots,” he told Gregory. His face brightened. “It has cut my social obligations in half.”

  “What’s the point of possessing a title if one cannot refuse one’s invitations?” Gregory murmured wryly.

  “Indeed,” was Anthony’s reply. “Indeed.”

  Gregory turned to Kate. “You have no arguments with this?”

  “Oh, I have many arguments,” she answered, craning her neck as she examined the ballroom for any last-minute disasters. “I always have arguments.”

  “It’s true,” Anthony said. “But she knows when she cannot win.”

  Kate turned to Gregory even though her words were quite clearly directed at her husband. “What I know is how to choose my battles.”

  “Pay her no mind,” Anthony said. “That is just her way of admitting defeat.”

  “And yet he continues,” Kate said to no one in particular, “even though he knows that I always win in the end.”

  Anthony shrugged and gave his brother an uncharacteristically sheepish grin. “She’s right, of course.” He finished his drink. “But there is no point in surrendering without a fight.”

  Gregory could only smile. Two bigger fools in love had yet to be born. It was endearing to watch, even if it did leave him with a slight pang of jealousy.

  “How fares your courtship?” Kate asked him.

  Anthony’s ears perked up. “Your courtship?” he echoed, his face assuming its usual obey-me-I-am-the-viscount expression. “Who is she?”

  Gregory shot Kate an aggravated look. He had not shared his feelings with his brother. He wasn’t sure why; surely in part because he hadn’t actually seen much of Anthony in the past few days. But there was more. It just didn’t seem like the sort of thing one wished to share with one’s brother. Especially one who was considerably more father than brother.

  Not to mention…If he didn’t succeed…

  Well, he didn’t particularly wish for his family to know.

  But he would succeed. Why was he doubting himself? Even earlier, when Miss Watson was still treating him like a minor nuisance, he had been sure of the outcome. It made no sense that now—with their friendship growing—he should suddenly doubt himself.

  Kate, predictably, ignored Gregory’s irritation. “I just adore it when you don’t know something,” she said to her husband. “Especially when I do.”

  Anthony turned to Gregory. “You’re sure you want to marry one of these?”

  “Not that one precisely,” Gregory answered. “Something rather like it, though.”

  Kate’s expression turned somewhat pinched at having been called an “it,” but she recovered quickly, turning to Anthony and saying, “He has declared his love for—” She let one of her hands flutter in the air as if waving away a foolish idea. “Oh, never mind, I think I won’t tell you.”

  Her phrasing was a bit suspect. She probably had meant to keep it from him all along. Gregory wasn’t sure which he found more satisfying—that Kate had honored his secret or that Anthony had been flummoxed.

  “See if you can guess,” Kate said to Anthony with an arch smile. “That should lend your evening a sense of purpose.”

  Anthony turned to Gregory with a level stare. “Who is it?”

  Gregory shrugged. He always sided with Kate when it came to thwarting his brother. “Far be it from me to deny you a sense of purpose.”

  Anthony muttered, “Arrogant pup,” and Gregory knew that the evening was off to a fine start.

  The guests began to trickle in, and within an hour, the ballroom sang with the low buzz of conversation and laughter. Everyone seemed a bit more adventurous with a mask on the face, and soon the banter grew more risqué, the jokes more ribald.

  And the laughter…It was difficult to put the right word on it, but it was different. There was more than merriment in the air. There was an edge to the excitement, as if the partygoers somehow knew that this was the night to be daring.

  To break free.

  Because in the morning, no one would know.

  All in all, Gregory liked nights like these.

  By half nine, however, he was growing frustrated. He could not be positive, but he was almost certain that Miss Watson had not made an appearance. Even with a mask, she would find it nearly impossible to keep her identity a secret. Her hair was too startling, too ethereal in the candlelight for her to pass as anyone else.

  But Lady Lucinda, on the other hand…She would have no trouble blending in. Her hair was certainly a lovely shade of honeyish blond, but it was nothing unexpected or unique. Half the ladies of the ton probably had hair that color.

  He glanced around the ballroom. Very well, not half. And maybe not even a quarter. But it wasn’t the spun moonlight of her friend’s.

  He frowned. Miss Watson really ought to have been present by then. As a member of the house party, she need not deal with muddy roads or lame horses or even the long line of carriages waiting out front to deliver the guests. And while he doubted she would have wished to arrive as early as he had done, surely she would not come over an hour late.

  If nothing else, Lady Lucinda would not have tolerated it. She was clearly a punctual sort.

  In a good way.

  As opposed to an insufferable, nagging way.

  He smiled to himself. She wasn’t like that.

  Lady Lucinda was more like Kate, or at least she would be, once she was a bit older. Intelligent, no-nonsense, just a little bit sly.

  Rather good fun, actually. She was a good sport, Lady Lucinda was.

  But he didn’t see her among the guests, either. Or at least he didn’t think he did. He couldn’t be quite sure. He did see several
ladies with hair the approximate shade of hers, but none of them seemed quite right. One of them moved the wrong way—too clunky, maybe even a little bit lumbering. 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 definitely 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.

  “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.”