On the Way to the Wedding Page 13

  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 prattling 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.

  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 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?”

  “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 satisfied.

  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 mortified.”

  “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.”

  “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 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 wo
uldn’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 cannonball—this feeling, this emotion, this bloody…awful…pissish…

  “Mr. Bridgerton?”

  Foul. Definitely 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?”

  “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 finds 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.”

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

  “No,” he said tersely, and he realized it was actually true. He had already grown accustomed to this strange fervor. He’d regained his equilibrium. And as a gentleman of considerably more experience, he was, even when Miss Watson was not an issue, more easily in possession of his wits than Fennsworth.

  Lady Lucinda gave him a look of disdainful impatience. “Richard is not in love with her. I don’t know how many ways I can explain that to you.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said flatly. He’d been watching Fennsworth for two days. He’d been watching him watching Miss Watson. Laughing at her jokes. Fetching her a cool drink.

  Picking a wildflower, tucking it behind her ear.

  If that wasn’t love, then Richard Abernathy was the most attentive, caring, and unselfish older brother in the history of man.

  And as an older brother himself—one who had frequently been pressed into service dancing attendance upon his sisters’ friends—Gregory could categorically say that there did not exist an older brother with such levels of thoughtfulness and devotion.

  One loved one’s sister, of course, but one did not sacrifice one’s every waking minute for the sake of her best friend without some sort of compensation.

  Unless a pathetic and unrequited love factored into the equation.

  “I am not wrong,” Lady Lucinda said, looking very much as if she would like to cross her arms. “And I’m getting Lady Bridgerton.”

  Gregory closed his hand around her wrist. “That would be a mistake of magnificent proportions.”

  She yanked, but he did not let go. “Don’t patronize me,” she hissed.

  “I’m not. I’m instructing you.”

  Her mouth fell open. Really, truly, flappingly open.

  Gregory would have enjoyed the sight, were he not so furious with everything else in the world just then.

  “You are insufferable,” she said, once she’d recovered.

  He shrugged. “Occasionally.”

  “And delusional.”

  “Well done, Lady Lucinda.” As one of eight, Gregory could not help but admire any well-placed quip or retort. “But I would be far more likely to admire your verbal skills if I were not trying to stop you from doing something monumentally stupid.”

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes, and then she said, “I don’t care to speak to you any longer.”

  “Ever?”

  “I’m getting Lady Bridgerton,” she announced.

  “You’re getting me? What is the occasion?”

  It was the last voice Gregory wanted to hear.

  He turned. Kate was standing in front of them both, regarding the tableau with a single lifted brow.

  No one spoke.

  Kate glanced pointedly at Gregory’s hand, still on Lady Lucinda’s wrist. He dropped it, quickly stepping back.

  “Is there something I should know about?” Kate asked, and her voice was that perfectly awful mix of cultured inquiry and moral authority. Gregory was reminded that his sister-in-law could be a formidable presence when she so chose.

  Lady Lucinda—of course—spoke immediately. “Mr. Bridgerton seems to feel that Hermione might be in danger.”

  Kate’s demeanor changed instantly. “Danger? Here?”

  “No,” Gregory ground out, although what he really meant was—I am going to kill you. Lady Lucinda, to be precise.

  “I haven’t seen her for some time,” the annoying twit continued. “We arrived together, but that was nearly an hour ago.”

  Kate glanced about, her gaze finally settling on the doors leading outside. “Couldn’t she be in the garden? Much of the party has moved abroad.”

  Lady Lucinda shook her head. “I didn’t see her. I looked.”

  Gregory said nothing. It was as if he were watching the world destructing before his very eyes. And really, what could he possibly say to stop it?

  “Not outside?” Kate said.

  “I didn’t think anything was amiss,” Lady Lucinda said, rather officiously. “But Mr. Bridgerton was instantly concerned.”

  “He was?” Kate’s head snapped to face him. “You were? Why?”

  “May we speak of this at another time?” Gregory ground out.

  Kate immediately dismissed him and looked squarely at Lucy. “Why was he concerned?”

  Lucy swallowed. And then she whispered, “I think she might be with my brother.”

  Kate blanched. “That is not good.”

  “Richard would never do anything improper,” Lucy insisted. “I promise you.”

  “He is in love with her,” Kate said.

  Gregory said nothing. Vindication had never fe
lt less sweet.

  Lucy looked from Kate to Gregory, her expression almost bordering on panic. “No,” she whispered. “No, you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong,” Kate said in a serious voice. “And we need to find them. Quickly.”

  She turned and immediately strode toward the door. Gregory followed, his long legs keeping pace with ease. Lady Lucinda seemed momentarily frozen, and then, jumping into action, she scurried after them both. “He would never do anything against Hermione’s will,” she said urgently. “I promise you.”

  Kate stopped. Turned around. Looked at Lucy, her expression frank and perhaps a little sad as well, as if she recognized that the younger woman was, in that moment, losing a bit of her innocence and that she, Kate, regretted having to be the one to deliver the blow.

  “He might not have to,” Kate said quietly.

  Force her. Kate didn’t say it, but the words hung in the air all the same.

  “He might not have—What do you—”

  Gregory saw the moment she realized it. Her eyes, always so changeable, had never looked more gray.

  Stricken.

  “We have to find them,” Lucy whispered.

  Kate nodded, and the three of them silently left the room.

  Ten

  In which love is triumphant—but not for Our Hero and Heroine.

  Lucy followed Lady Bridgerton and Gregory into the hallway, trying to stem the anxiety she felt building within her. Her belly felt queer, her breath not quite right.

  And her mind wouldn’t quite clear. She needed to focus on the matter at hand. She knew she needed to give her full attention to the search, but it felt as if a portion of her mind kept pulling away—dizzy, panicked, and unable to escape a horrible sense of foreboding.

  Which she did not understand. Didn’t she want Hermione to marry her brother? Hadn’t she just told Mr. Bridgerton that the match, while improbable, would be superb? Hermione would be her sister in name, not just in feeling, and Lucy could not imagine anything more fitting. But still, she felt…

  Uneasy.