Haselby opened his mouth to reply, but to Lucy’s horror, the voice that emerged was that of his father.
“It’s not about what makes one happy!” came Lord Davenport’s blustery roar.
Lucy could not take her eyes off the sight of Haselby’s still-open mouth. Really, she thought, in a strange moment of absolute calm, that had been almost frightening.
Haselby shut his mouth and turned to his father with a tight smile. “What is about, then?” he inquired, and Lucy could not help but be impressed at the absolute lack of displeasure in his voice.
“It is about what one learns,” his father answered, letting one of his fists bang down on the table in a most unseemly manner. “And who one befriends.”
“Well, I did master the multiplication tables,” Lucy put in mildly, not that anyone was listening to her.
“She will be a countess,” Davenport boomed. “A countess!”
Haselby regarded his father equably. “She will only be a countess when you die,” he murmured.
Lucy’s mouth fell open.
“So really,” Haselby continued, casually popping a minuscule bite of fish into his mouth, “it won’t matter much to you, will it?”
Lucy turned to Lord Davenport, her eyes very very wide.
The earl’s skin flushed. It was a horrible color—angry, dusky, and deep, made worse by the vein that was positively jumping in his left temple. He was staring at Haselby, his eyes narrowed with rage. There was no malice there, no wish to do ill or harm, but although it made absolutely no sense, Lucy would have sworn in that moment that Davenport hated his son.
And Haselby just said, “Fine weather we’re having.” And he smiled.
Smiled!
Lucy gaped at him. It was pouring and had been for days. But more to the point, didn’t he realize that his father was one cheeky comment away from an apoplectic fit? Lord Davenport looked ready to spit, and Lucy was quite certain she could hear his teeth grinding from across the table.
And then, as the room practically pulsed with fury, Uncle Robert stepped into the breach. “I am pleased we have decided to hold the wedding here in London,” he said, his voice even and smooth and tinged with finality, as if to say—We are done with that, then. “As you know,” he continued, while everyone else regained his composure, “Fennsworth was married at the Abbey just two weeks ago, and while it does put one in the mind of ancestral history—I believe the last seven earls held their weddings in residence—really, hardly anyone was able to attend.”
Lucy suspected that had as much to do with the hurried nature of the event as with its location, but this didn’t seem the time to weigh in on the topic. And she had loved the wedding for its smallness. Richard and Hermione had been so very happy, and everyone in attendance had come out of love and friendship. It had truly been a joyous occasion.
Until they had left the next day for their honeymoon trip to Brighton. Lucy had never felt so miserable and alone as when she’d stood in the drive and waved them away.
They would be back soon, she reminded herself. Before her own wedding. Hermione would be her only attendant, and Richard was to give her away.
And in the meantime she had Aunt Harriet to keep her company. And Lord Davenport. And Haselby, who was either utterly brilliant or completely insane.
A bubble of laughter—ironic, absurd, and highly inappropriate—pressed in her throat, escaping through her nose with an inelegant snort.
“Enh?” Lord Davenport grunted.
“It is nothing,” she hastily said, coughing as best she could. “A bit of food. Fishbone, probably.”
It was almost funny. It would have been funny, even, if she’d been reading it in a book. It would have had to have been a satire, she decided, because it certainly wasn’t a romance.
And she couldn’t bear to think it might turn out a tragedy.
She looked around the table at the three men who presently made up her life. She was going to have to make the best of it. There was nothing else to do. There was no sense in remaining miserable, no matter how difficult it was to look on the bright side. And truly, it could have been worse.
So she did what she did best and tried to look at it all from a practical standpoint, mentally cataloguing all the ways it could have been worse.
But instead, Gregory Bridgerton’s face kept coming to mind—and all the ways it could have been better.
Fourteen
In which Our Hero and Heroine are reunited, and the birds of London are ecstatic.
When Gregory saw her, right there in Hyde Park his first day back in London, his first thought was—
Well, of course.
It seemed only natural that he would come across Lucy Abernathy in what was literally his first hour out and about in London. He didn’t know why; there was no logical reason for them to cross paths. But she had been much in his thoughts since they had parted ways in Kent. And even though he’d thought her still off at Fennsworth, he was strangely unsurprised that hers would be the first familiar face he’d see upon his return after a month in the country.
He’d arrived in town the night before, uncommonly weary after a long trip on flooded roads, and he’d gone straight to bed. When he woke—rather earlier than usual, actually—the world was still wet from the rains, but the sun had popped out and was shining brightly.
Gregory had immediately dressed to go out. He loved the way the air smelled clean after a good, stormy rain—even in London. No, especially in London. It was the only time the city smelled like that—thick and fresh, almost like leaves.
Gregory kept a small suite of rooms in a tidy little building in Marylebone, and though his furnishings were spare and simple, he rather liked the place. It felt like home.
His brother and his mother had, on multiple occasions, invited him to live with them. His friends thought him mad to refuse; both residences were considerably more opulent and more to the point, better staffed than his humble abode. But he preferred his independence. It wasn’t that he minded them telling him what to do—they knew he wasn’t going to listen, and he knew he wasn’t going to listen, but for the most part, everyone remained rather good-natured about it.
It was the scrutiny he couldn’t quite tolerate. Even if his mother was pretending not to interfere in his life, he knew that she was always watching him, taking note of his social schedule.
And commenting on it. Violet Bridgerton could, when the inclination struck, converse on the topic of young ladies, dance cards, and the intersection thereof (as pertained to her unmarried son) with a speed and facility that could make a grown man’s head spin.
And frequently did.
There was this young lady and that young lady and would he please be sure to dance with both of them—twice—at the next soiree, and above all, he must never, ever forget the other young lady. The one off by the wall, didn’t he see her, standing by herself. Her aunt, he must recall, was a close personal friend.
Gregory’s mother had a lot of close personal friends.
Violet Bridgerton had successfully ushered seven of her eight children into happy marriages, and now Gregory was bearing the sole brunt of her matchmaking fervor. He adored her, of course, and he adored that she cared so much for his well-being and happiness, but at times she made him want to pull his hair out.
And Anthony was worse. He didn’t even have to say anything. His mere presence was usually enough to make Gregory feel that he was somehow not living up to the family name. It was difficult to make one’s way in the world with the mighty Lord Bridgerton constantly looking over one’s shoulder. As far as Gregory could determine, his eldest brother had never made a mistake in his life.
Which made his own all the more egregious.
But, as luck would have it, this was a problem more easily solved than not. Gregory had simply moved out. It required a fair portion of his allowance to maintain his own residence, small though it was, but it was worth it, every last penny.
Even something as simpl
e as this—just leaving the house without anyone wondering why or where (or in his mother’s case, to whom)—it was lovely. Fortifying. It was strange how a mere stroll could make one feel like one’s own man, but it did.
And then there she was. Lucy Abernathy. In Hyde Park when by all rights she ought to still be in Kent.
She was sitting on a bench, tossing bits of bread at a scruffy lot of birds, and Gregory was reminded of that day he’d stumbled upon her at the back of Aubrey Hall. She had been sitting on a bench then as well, and she had seemed so subdued. In retrospect, Gregory realized that her brother had probably just told her that her engagement had been finalized.
He wondered why she hadn’t said anything to him.
He wished she’d said something to him.
If he had known that she was spoken for, he would never have kissed her. It went against every code of conduct to which he held himself. A gentleman did not poach upon another man’s bride. It was simply not done. If he had known the truth, he would have stepped away from her that night, and he would have—
He froze. He didn’t know what he would have done. How was it that he had rewritten the scene in his mind countless times, and he only now realized that he had never quite got to the point where he pushed her away?
If he had known, would he have set her on her way right at that first moment? He’d had to take hold of her arms to steady her, but he could have shifted her toward her destination when he let go. It would not have been difficult—just a little shuffle of the feet. He could have ended it then, before anything had had a chance to begin.
But instead, he had smiled, and he had asked her what she was doing there, and then—good God, what had he been thinking—he’d asked her if she drank brandy.
After that—well, he wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he remembered it all. Every last detail. The way she was looking at him, her hand on his arm. She’d been clutching him, and for a moment it had almost felt like she needed him. He could be her rock, her center.
He had never been anyone’s center.
But it wasn’t that. He hadn’t kissed her for that. He’d kissed her because . . .
Because . . .
Hell, he didn’t know why he’d kissed her. There had just been that moment—that strange, inscrutable moment—and it had all been so quiet—a fabulous, magical, mesmerizing silence that seemed to seep into him and steal his breath.
The house had been full, teeming with guests, even, but the hallway had been theirs alone. Lucy had been gazing up at him, her eyes searching, and then . . . somehow . . . she was closer. He didn’t recall moving, or lowering his head, but her face was just a few inches away. And the next he knew . . .
He was kissing her.
From that moment on, he had been quite simply gone. It was as if he’d lost all knowledge of words, of rationality and thought. His mind had become a strange, preverbal thing. The world was color and sound, heat and sensation. It was as if his mind had been subsumed by his body.
And now he wondered—when he let himself wonder—if he could have stopped it. If she hadn’t said no, if she hadn’t pressed her hands to his chest and told him to stop—
Would he have done so on his own?
Could he have done so?
He straightened his shoulders. Squared his jaw. Of course he could have. She was Lucy, for heaven’s sake. She was quite wonderful, in quite a number of ways, but she wasn’t the sort men lost their heads over. It had been a temporary aberration. Momentary insanity brought on by a strange and unsettling evening.
Even now, sitting on a bench in Hyde Park with a small fleet of pigeons at her feet, she was clearly the same old Lucy. She hadn’t seen him yet, and it felt almost luxurious just to observe. She was on her own, save for her maid, who was twiddling her thumbs two benches over.
And her mouth was moving.
Gregory smiled. Lucy was talking to the birds. Telling them something. Most likely she was giving them directions, perhaps setting a date for future bread-tossing engagements.
Or telling them to chew with their beaks closed.
He chuckled. He couldn’t help himself.
She turned. She turned, and she saw him. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, and it hit him squarely in the chest—
It was good to see her.
Which struck him as a rather odd sort of reaction, given how they’d parted.
“Lady Lucinda,” he said, walking forward. “This is a surprise. I had not thought you were in London.”
For a moment it seemed she could not decide how to act, and then she smiled—perhaps a bit more hesitantly than he was accustomed to—and held forward a slice of bread.
“For the pigeons?” he murmured. “Or me?”
Her smile changed, grew more familiar. “Whichever you prefer. Although I should warn you—it’s a bit stale.”
His lips twitched. “You’ve tried it, then?”
And then it was as if none of it had happened. The kiss, the awkward conversation the morning after . . . it was gone. They were back to their odd little friendship, and all was right with the world.
Her mouth was pursed, as if she thought she ought to be scolding him, and he was chuckling, because it was such good fun to bait her.
“It’s my second breakfast,” she said, utterly deadpan.
He sat on the opposite end of the bench and began to tear his bread into bits. When he had a good-sized handful, he tossed them all at once, then sat back to watch the ensuing frenzy of beaks and feathers.
Lucy, he noticed, was tossing her crumbs methodically, one after another, precisely three seconds apart.
He counted. How could he not?
“The flock has abandoned me,” she said with a frown.
Gregory grinned as the last pigeon hopped to the feast of Bridgerton. He threw down another handful. “I always host the best parties.”
She turned, her chin dipping as she gave him a dry glance over her shoulder. “You are insufferable.”
He gave her a wicked look. “It is one of my finest qualities.”
“According to whom?”
“Well, my mother seems to like me quite well,” he said modestly.
She sputtered with laughter.
It felt like a victory.
“My sister . . . not as much.”
One of her brows lifted. “The one you are fond of torturing?”
“I don’t torture her because I like to,” he said, in a rather instructing sort of tone. “I do it because it is necessary.”
“To whom?”
“To all Britain,” he said. “Trust me.”
She looked at him dubiously. “She can’t be that bad.”
“I suppose not,” he said. “My mother seems to like her quite well, much as that baffles me.”
She laughed again, and the sound was . . . good. A nondescript word, to be sure, but somehow it got right to the heart of it. Her laughter came from within—warm, rich, and true.
Then she turned, and her eyes grew quite serious. “You like to tease, but I would bet all that I have that you would lay down your life for her.”
He pretended to consider this. “How much do you have?”
“For shame, Mr. Bridgerton. You’re avoiding the question.”
“Of course I would,” he said quietly. “She’s my little sister. Mine to torture and mine to protect.”
“Isn’t she married now?”
He shrugged, gazing out across the park. “Yes, I suppose St. Clair can take care of her now, God help him.” He turned, flashing her a lopsided smile. “Sorry.”
But she wasn’t so high in the instep to take offense. And in fact, she surprised him utterly by saying—with considerable feeling, “There is no need to apologize. There are times when only the Lord’s name will properly convey one’s desperation.”
“Why do I feel you are speaking from recent experience?”
“Last night,” she confirmed.
“Really?” He leaned in, terribly in
terested. “What happened?”
But she just shook her head. “It was nothing.”
“Not if you were blaspheming.”
She sighed. “I did tell you you were insufferable, didn’t I?”
“Once today, and almost certainly several times before.”
She gave him a dry look, the blue of her eyes sharpening as they fixed upon him. “You’ve been counting?”
He paused. It was an odd question, not because she’d asked it—for heaven’s sake, he would have asked the very thing, had he been given the same bait. Rather, it was odd because he had the eerie feeling that if he thought about it long enough, he might actually know the answer.
He liked talking with Lucy Abernathy. And when she said something to him . . .
He remembered it.
Peculiar, that.
“I wonder,” he said, since it seemed a good time to change the topic. “Is sufferable a word?”
She considered that. “I think it must be, don’t you?”
“No one has ever uttered it in my presence.”
“This surprises you?”
He smiled slowly. With appreciation. “You, Lady Lucinda, have a smart mouth.”
Her brows arched, and in that moment she was positively devilish. “It is one of my best-kept secrets.”
He started to laugh.
“I’m more than just a busybody, you know.”
The laughter grew. Deep in his belly it rumbled, until he was shaking with it.
She was watching him with an indulgent smile, and for some reason he found that calming. She looked warm . . . peaceful, even.
And he was happy to be with her. Here on this bench. It was rather pleasant simply to be in her company. So he turned. Smiled. “Do you have another piece of bread?”
She handed him three. “I brought the entire loaf.”
He started tearing them up. “Are you trying to fatten the flock?”
“I have a taste for pigeon pie,” she returned, resuming her slow, miserly feeding schedule.
Gregory was quite sure it was his imagination, but he would have sworn the birds were looking longingly in his direction. “Do you come here often?” he asked.