She didn’t answer right away, and her head tilted, almost as if she had to think about her answer.
Which was odd, as it was a rather simple question.
“I like to feed the birds,” she said. “It’s relaxing.”
He hurled another handful of bread chunks and quirked a smile. “Do you think so?”
Her eyes narrowed and she tossed her next piece with a precise, almost military little flick of her wrist. The following piece went out the same way. And the one after that, as well. She turned to him with pursed lips. “It is if you’re not trying to incite a riot.”
“Me?” he returned, all innocence. “You are the one forcing them to battle to the death, all for one pathetic crumb of stale bread.”
“It’s a very fine loaf of bread, well-baked and extremely tasty, I’ll have you know.”
“On matters of nourishment,” he said with overdone graciousness, “I shall always defer to you.”
Lucy regarded him dryly. “Most women would not find that complimentary.”
“Ah, but you are not most women. And,” he added, “I have seen you eat breakfast.”
Her lips parted, but before she could gasp her indignation, he cut in with: “That was a compliment, by the way.”
Lucy shook her head. He really was insufferable. And she was so thankful for that. When she’d first seen him, just standing there watching her as she fed the birds, her stomach had dropped, and she’d felt queasy, and she didn’t know what to say or how to act, or really, anything.
But then he’d ambled forward, and he’d been so . . . himself. He’d put her immediately at ease, which, under the circumstances, was really quite astonishing.
She was, after all, in love with him.
But then he’d smiled, that lazy, familiar smile of his, and he’d made some sort of joke about the pigeons, and before she knew it, she was smiling in return. And she felt like herself, which was so reassuring.
She hadn’t felt like herself for weeks.
And so, in the spirit of making the best of things, she had decided not to dwell upon her inappropriate affection for him and instead be thankful that she could be in his presence without turning into an awkward, stammering fool.
There were small favors left in the world, apparently.
“Have you been in London all this time?” she asked him, quite determined to maintain a pleasant and perfectly normal conversation.
He drew back in surprise. Clearly, he had not expected that question. “No. I only just returned last night.”
“I see.” Lucy paused to digest that. It was strange, but she hadn’t even considered that he might not be in town. But it would explain— Well, she wasn’t sure what it would explain. That she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him? It wasn’t as if she’d been anywhere besides her home, the park, and the dressmaker. “Were you at Aubrey Hall, then?”
“No, I left shortly after you departed and went to visit my brother. He lives with his wife and children off in Wiltshire, quite blissfully away from all that is civilized.”
“Wiltshire isn’t so very far away.”
He shrugged. “Half the time they don’t even receive the Times. They claim they are not interested.”
“How odd.” Lucy didn’t know anyone who did not receive the newspaper, even in the most remote of counties.
He nodded. “I found it rather refreshing this time, however. I have no idea what anyone is doing, and I don’t mind it a bit.”
“Are you normally such a gossip?”
He gave her a sideways look. “Men don’t gossip. We talk.”
“I see,” she said. “That explains so much.”
He chuckled. “Have you been in town long? I had assumed you were also rusticating.”
“Two weeks,” she replied. “We arrived just after the wedding.”
“We? Are your brother and Miss Watson here, then?”
She hated that she was listening for eagerness in his voice, but she supposed it couldn’t be helped. “She is Lady Fennsworth now, and no, they are on their honeymoon trip. I am here with my uncle.”
“For the season?”
“For my wedding.”
That stopped the easy flow of conversation.
She reached into her bag and pulled out another slice of bread. “It is to take place in a week.”
He stared at her in shock. “That soon?”
“Uncle Robert says there is no point in dragging it out.”
“I see.”
And maybe he did. Maybe there was some sort of etiquette to all this that she, sheltered girl from the country that she was, had not been taught. Maybe there was no point in postponing the inevitable. Maybe it was all a part of that making the best of things philosophy she was working so diligently to espouse.
“Well,” he said. He blinked a few times, and she realized that he did not know what to say. It was a most uncharacteristic response and one she found gratifying. It was a bit like Hermione not knowing how to dance. If Gregory Bridgerton could be at a loss for words, then there was hope for the rest of humanity.
Finally he settled upon: “My felicitations.”
“Thank you.” She wondered if he had received an invitation. Uncle Robert and Lord Davenport were determined to hold the ceremony in front of absolutely everyone. It was, they said, to be her grand debut, and they wanted all the world to know that she was Haselby’s wife.
“It is to be at St. George’s,” she said, for no reason whatsoever.
“Here in London?” He sounded surprised. “I would have thought you would marry from Fennsworth Abbey.”
It was most peculiar, Lucy thought, how not painful this was—discussing her upcoming wedding with him. She felt more numb, actually. “It was what my uncle wanted,” she explained, reaching into her basket for another slice of bread.
“Your uncle remains the head of the household?” Gregory asked, regarding her with mild curiosity. “Your brother is the earl. Hasn’t he reached his majority?”
Lucy tossed the entire slice to the ground, then watched with morbid interest as the pigeons went a bit mad. “He has,” she replied. “Last year. But he was content to allow my uncle to handle the family’s affairs while he was conducting his postgraduate studies at Cambridge. I expect that he will assume his place soon now that he is”—she offered him an apologetic smile—“married.”
“Do not worry over my sensibilities,” he assured her. “I am quite recovered.”
“Truly?”
He gave her a small, one-shouldered shrug. “Truth be told, I count myself lucky.”
She pulled out another slice of bread, but her fingers froze before pinching off a piece. “You do?” she asked, turning to him with interest. “How is that possible?”
He blinked with surprise. “You are direct, aren’t you?”
And she blushed. She felt it, pink and warm and just horrible on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was terribly rude of me. It is only that you were so very much—”
“Say no more,” he cut her off, and then she felt even worse, because she had been about to describe—probably in meticulous detail—how lovesick he’d been over Hermione. Which, had she been in his position, she’d not wish recounted.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He turned. Regarded her with a contemplative sort of curiosity. “You say that quite frequently.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes.”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Her teeth ground together, and she felt quite tense. Uncomfortable. Why would he point out such a thing? “It’s what I do,” she said, and she said it firmly, because . . . Well, because. That ought to be enough of a reason.
He nodded. And that made her feel even worse. “It’s who I am,” she added defensively, even though he’d been agreeing with her, for heaven’s sake. “I smooth things over and I make things right.”
And at that, she hurled the last piece of bread to the ground.
His brows rose, an
d they both turned in unison to watch the ensuing chaos. “Well done,” he murmured.
“I make the best of things,” she said. “Always.”
“It’s a commendable trait,” he said softly.
And at that, somehow, she was angry. Really, truly, beastly angry. She didn’t want to be commended for knowing how to settle for second-best. That was like winning a prize for the prettiest shoes in a footrace. Irrelevant and not the point.
“And what of you?” she asked, her voice growing strident. “Do you make the best of things? Is that why you claim yourself recovered? Weren’t you the one who waxed rhapsodic over the mere thought of love? You said it was everything, that it gave you no choice. You said—”
She cut herself off, horrified by her tone. He was staring at her as if she’d gone mad, and maybe she had.
“You said many things,” she mumbled, hoping that might end the conversation.
She ought to go. She had been sitting on the bench for at least fifteen minutes before he’d arrived, and it was damp and breezy, and her maid wasn’t dressed warmly enough, and if she thought long and hard enough about it, she probably had a hundred things she needed to do at home.
Or at least a book she could read.
“I am sorry if I upset you,” Gregory said quietly.
She couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him.
“But I did not lie to you,” he said. “Truthfully, I no longer think of Miss—excuse me, Lady Fennsworth—with any great frequency, except, perhaps, to realize that we should not have been well-suited after all.”
She turned to him, and she realized she wanted to believe him. She really did.
Because if he could forget Hermione, maybe she could forget him.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” he said, and he shook his head, as if he were every bit as perplexed as she. “But if ever you fall madly and inexplicably in love . . .”
Lucy froze. He wasn’t going to say it. Surely, he couldn’t say it.
He shrugged. “Well, I shouldn’t trust it.”
Dear God. Hermione’s words. Exactly.
She tried to remember how she had replied to Hermione. Because she had to say something. Otherwise, he would notice the silence, and then he’d turn, and he’d see her looking so unnerved. And then he would ask questions, and she wouldn’t know the answers, and—
“It’s not likely to happen to me,” she said, the words practically pouring from her mouth.
He turned, but she kept her face scrupulously forward. And she wished desperately that she had not tossed out all the bread. It would be far easier to avoid looking at him if she could pretend to be involved with something else.
“You don’t believe that you will fall in love?” he asked.
“Well, perhaps,” she said, trying to sound blithe and sophisticated. “But not that.”
“That?”
She took a breath, hating that he was forcing her to explain. “That desperate sort of thing you and Hermione now disavow,” she said. “I’m not the sort, don’t you think?”
She bit her lip, then finally allowed herself to turn in his direction. Because what if he could tell that she was lying? What if he sensed that she was already in love—with him? She would be embarrassed beyond comprehension, but wouldn’t it be better to know that he knew? At least then, she wouldn’t have to wonder.
Ignorance wasn’t bliss. Not for someone like her.
“It is all beside the point, anyway,” she continued, because she couldn’t bear the silence. “I am marrying Lord Haselby in one week, and I would never stray from my vows. I—”
“Haselby?” Gregory’s entire body twisted as he swung around to face her. “You’re marrying Haselby?”
“Yes,” she said, blinking furiously. What sort of reaction was that? “I thought you knew.”
“No. I didn’t—” He looked shocked. Stupefied.
Good heavens.
He shook his head. “I can’t imagine why I didn’t know.”
“It wasn’t a secret.”
“No,” he said, a bit forcefully. “I mean, no. No, of course not. I did not mean to imply.”
“Do you hold Lord Haselby in low esteem?” she asked, choosing her words with extreme care.
“No,” Gregory replied, shaking his head—but just a little, as if he were not quite aware that he was doing it. “No. I’ve known him for a number of years. We were at college together. And university.”
“Are you of an age, then?” Lucy asked, and it occurred to her that something was a bit wrong if she did not know the age of her fiancé. But then again, she wasn’t certain of Gregory’s age, either.
He nodded. “He’s quite . . . affable. He will treat you well.” He cleared his throat. “Gently.”
“Gently?” she echoed. It seemed an odd choice of words.
His eyes met hers, and it was only then that she realized he had not precisely looked at her since she’d told him the name of her fiancé. But he didn’t speak. Instead he just stared at her, his eyes so intense that they seemed to change color. They were brown with green, then green with brown, and then it all seemed almost to blur.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“It is of no account,” he said, but he did not sound like himself. “I . . .” And then he turned away, broke the spell. “My sister,” he said, clearing his throat. “She is hosting a soiree tomorrow evening. Would you like to attend?”
“Oh yes, that would be lovely,” Lucy said, even though she knew she should not. But it had been so long since she’d had any sort of social interaction, and she wasn’t going to be able to spend time in his company once she was married. She ought not torture herself now, longing for something she could not have, but she couldn’t help it.
Gather ye rosebuds.
Now. Because really, when else—
“Oh, but I can’t,” she said, disappointment turning her voice to nearly a whine.
“Why not?”
“It is my uncle,” she replied, sighing. “And Lord Davenport—Haselby’s father.”
“I know who he is.”
“Of course. I’m sor—” She cut herself off. She wasn’t going to say it. “They don’t wish for me to make my bow yet.”
“I beg your pardon. Why?”
Lucy shrugged. “There is no point in my being introduced to society as Lady Lucinda Abernathy when I’m to be Lady Haselby in a week.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is what they say.” She frowned. “And I don’t think they wish to suffer the expense, either.”
“You will attend tomorrow evening,” Gregory said firmly. “I shall see to it.”
“You?” Lucy asked dubiously.
“Not me,” he answered, as if she’d gone mad. “My mother. Trust me, when it comes to matters of social discourse and niceties, she can accomplish anything. Have you a chaperone?”
Lucy nodded. “My aunt Harriet. She is a bit frail, but I am certain she could attend a party if my uncle allowed it.”
“He will allow it,” Gregory said confidently. “The sister in question is my eldest. Daphne.” He then clarified: “Her grace the Duchess of Hastings. Your uncle would not say no to a duchess, would he?”
“I don’t think so,” she said slowly. Lucy could not think of anyone who would say no to a duchess.
“It’s settled, then,” Gregory said. “You shall be hearing from Daphne by afternoon.” He stood, offering his hand to help her up.
She swallowed. It would be bittersweet to touch him, but she placed her hand in his. It felt warm, and comfortable. And safe.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking her hand back so that she might wrap both around the handle of her basket. She nodded at her maid, who immediately began walking to her side.
“Until tomorrow,” he said, bowing almost formally as he bade her farewell.
“Until tomorrow,” Lucy echoed, wondering if it were true. She had never known her uncle to change his mind before.
But maybe . . .
Possibly.
Hopefully.
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 children, 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.