Metaphorically speaking.
Lucy grinned as she bobbed and twirled. Now there was an image. What would people say if she charged forward and grabbed him with both hands?
And never let go.
Most would say she was mad. A few that she was in love. The shrewd would say both.
“What are you thinking about?” Gregory asked. He was looking at her . . . differently.
She turned away, turned back. She felt daring, almost magical. “Wouldn’t you care to know?”
He stepped around the lady to his left and returned to his place. “I would,” he answered, smiling wolfishly at her.
But she just smiled and shook her head. Right now she wanted to pretend she was someone else. Someone a little less conventional. Someone a great deal more impulsive.
She did not want to be the same old Lucy. Not tonight. She was sick of planning, sick of placating, sick of never doing anything without first thinking through every possibility and consequence.
If I do this, then that will happen, but if I do that, then this, this, and the other thing will happen, which will yield an entirely different result, which could mean that—
It was enough to make a girl dizzy. It was enough to make her feel paralyzed, unable to take the reins of her own life.
But not tonight. Tonight, somehow, through some amazing miracle named the Duchess of Hastings—or perhaps the dowager Lady Bridgerton, Lucy was not quite certain—she was wearing a gown of the most exquisite green silk, attending the most glittering ball she could ever have imagined.
And she was dancing with the man she was quite certain she would love until the end of time.
“You look different,” he said.
“I feel different.” She touched his hand as they stepped past each other. His fingers gripped hers when they should have just brushed by. She looked up and saw that he was gazing at her. His eyes were warm and intense and he was watching her the same way—
Dear God, he was watching her the way he’d watched Hermione.
Her body began to tingle. She felt it in the tips of her toes, in places she did not dare to contemplate.
They stepped past each other again, but this time he leaned in, perhaps a bit more than he ought, and said, “I feel different as well.”
Her head snapped around, but he had already turned so that his back was to her. How was he different? Why? What did he mean?
She circled around the gentleman to her left, then moved past Gregory.
“Are you glad you attended this evening?” he murmured.
She nodded, since she had moved too far away to answer without speaking too loudly.
But then they were together again, and he whispered, “So am I.”
They moved back to their original places and held still as a different couple began to process. Lucy looked up. At him. At his eyes.
They never moved from her face.
And even in the flickering light of the night—the hundreds of candles and torches that lit the glittering ballroom—she could see the gleam there. The way he was looking at her—it was hot and possessive and proud.
It made her shiver.
It made her doubt her ability to stand.
And then the music was done, and Lucy realized that some things must truly be ingrained because she was curtsying and smiling and nodding at the woman next to her as if her entire life had not been altered in the course of the previous dance.
Gregory took her hand and led her to the side of the ballroom, back to where the chaperones milled about, watching their charges over the rims of their glasses of lemonade. But before they reached their destination, he leaned down and whispered in her ear.
“I need to speak with you.”
Her eyes flew to his.
“Privately,” he added.
She felt him slow their pace, presumably to allow them more time to speak before she was returned to Aunt Harriet. “What is it?” she asked. “Is something amiss?”
He shook his head. “Not any longer.”
And she let herself hope. Just a little, because she could not bear to ponder the heartbreak if she was wrong, but maybe . . . Maybe he loved her. Maybe he wished to marry her. Her wedding was less than a week away, but she had not said her vows.
Maybe there was a chance. Maybe there was a way.
She searched Gregory’s face for clues, for answers. But when she pressed him for more information, he just shook his head and whispered, “The library. It is two doors down from the ladies’ retiring room. Meet me there in thirty minutes.”
“Are you mad?”
He smiled. “Just a little.”
“Gregory, I—”
He gazed into her eyes, and it silenced her. The way he was looking at her—
It took her breath away.
“I cannot,” she whispered, because no matter what they might feel for each other, she was still engaged to another man. And even if she were not, such behavior could only lead to scandal. “I can’t be alone with you. You know that.”
“You must.”
She tried to shake her head, but she could not make herself move.
“Lucy,” he said, “you must.”
She nodded. It was probably the biggest mistake she would ever make, but she could not say no.
“Mrs. Abernathy,” Gregory said, his voice sounding overly loud as he greeted her aunt Harriet. “I return Lady Lucinda to your care.”
Aunt Harriet nodded, even though Lucy suspected she had no idea what Gregory had said to her, and then she turned to Lucy and yelled, “I’m sitting down!”
Gregory chuckled, then said, “I must dance with others.”
“Of course,” Lucy replied, even though she rather suspected she was not wholly cognizant of the various intricacies involved in scheduling an illicit meeting. “I see someone I know,” she lied, and then, to her great relief, she actually did see someone she knew—an acquaintance from school. Not a good friend, but still, a familiar enough face to offer greetings.
But before Lucy could even flex her foot, she heard a female voice call out Gregory’s name.
Lucy could not see who it was, but she could see Gregory. He had shut his eyes and looked quite pained.
“Gregory!”
The voice had drawn close, and so Lucy turned to her left to see a young woman who could only be one of Gregory’s sisters. The younger one, most probably, else she was remarkably well-preserved.
“This must be Lady Lucinda,” the woman said. Her hair, Lucy noted, was the precise shade of Gregory’s—a rich, warm chestnut. But her eyes were blue, sharp and acute.
“Lady Lucinda,” Gregory said, sounding a bit like a man with a chore, “may I present my sister, Lady St. Clair.”
“Hyacinth,” she said firmly. “We must dispense with the formalities. I am certain we shall be great friends. Now then, you must tell me all about yourself. And then I wish to hear about Anthony and Kate’s party last month. I had wished to go, but we had a previous engagement. I heard it was vastly entertaining.”
Startled by the human whirlwind in front of her, Lucy looked to Gregory for advice, but he just shrugged and said, “This would be the one I am fond of torturing.”
Hyacinth turned to him. “I beg your pardon.”
Gregory bowed. “I must go.”
And then Hyacinth Bridgerton St. Clair did the oddest thing. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked from her brother to Lucy and back again. And then again. And then one more time. And then she said, “You’ll need my help.”
“Hy—” Gregory began.
“You will,” she cut in. “You have plans. Do not try to deny it.”
Lucy could not believe that Hyacinth had deduced all that from one bow and an I must go. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but all she got out was, “How—” before Gregory cut her off with a warning look.
“I know that you have something up your sleeve,” Hyacinth said to Gregory. “Else you would not have gone to such lengths to secure
her attendance this evening.”
“He was just being kind,” Lucy tried to say.
“Don’t be silly,” Hyacinth said, giving her a reassuring pat on the arm. “He would never do that.”
“That’s not true,” Lucy protested. Gregory might be a bit of a devil, but his heart was good and true, and she would not countenance anyone—even his sister—saying otherwise.
Hyacinth regarded her with a delighted smile. “I like you,” she said slowly, as if she were deciding upon it right then and there. “You are wrong, of course, but I like you, anyway.” She turned to her brother. “I like her.”
“Yes, you’ve said as much.”
“And you need my help.”
Lucy watched as brother and sister exchanged a glance that she couldn’t begin to understand.
“You will need my help,” Hyacinth said softly. “Tonight, and later, too.”
Gregory stared at his sister intently, and then he said, in a voice so quiet that Lucy had to lean forward to hear it, “I need to speak with Lady Lucinda. Alone.”
Hyacinth smiled. Just a touch. “I can arrange that.”
Lucy had a feeling she could do anything.
“When?” Hyacinth asked.
“Whenever is easiest,” Gregory replied.
Hyacinth glanced around the room, although for the life of her, Lucy could not imagine what sort of information she was gleaning that could possibly be pertinent to the decision at hand.
“One hour,” she announced, with all the precision of a military general. “Gregory, you go off and do whatever it is you do at these affairs. Dance. Fetch lemonade. Be seen with that Whitford girl whose parents have been dangling after you for months.
“You,” Hyacinth continued, turning to Lucy with an authoritarian gleam in her eye, “shall remain with me. I shall introduce you to everyone you need to know.”
“Who do I need to know?” Lucy asked.
“I’m not sure yet. It really doesn’t matter.”
Lucy could only stare at her in awe.
“In precisely fifty-five minutes,” Hyacinth said, “Lady Lucinda will tear her dress.”
“I will?”
“I will,” Hyacinth replied. “I’m good at that sort of thing.”
“You’re going to tear her dress?” Gregory asked doubtfully. “Right here in the ballroom?”
“Don’t worry over the details,” Hyacinth said, waving him off dismissively. “Just go and do your part, and meet her in Daphne’s dressing room in one hour.”
“In the duchess’s bedchamber?” Lucy croaked. She couldn’t possibly.
“She’s Daphne to us,” Hyacinth said. “Now then, everyone, off with you.”
Lucy just stared at her and blinked. Wasn’t she meant to stay at Hyacinth’s side?
“That means him,” Hyacinth said.
And then Gregory did the most startling thing. He took Lucy’s hand. Right there, in the middle of the ballroom where anyone might see, he took her hand and kissed it. “I leave you in good hands,” he told her, stepping back with a polite nod. He gave his sister a look of warning before adding, “As difficult as that might be to believe.”
Then he went off, presumably to dote on some poor unsuspecting female who had no idea she was nothing but an innocent pawn in his sister’s master plan.
Lucy looked back at Hyacinth, somewhat exhausted by the entire encounter. Hyacinth was beaming at her.
“Well done,” she said, although to Lucy it sounded more like she was congratulating herself. “Now then,” she continued, “why does my brother need to speak with you? And don’t say that you have no idea, because I will not believe you.”
Lucy pondered the wisdom of various replies and finally decided upon “I have no idea.” It wasn’t precisely the truth, but she wasn’t about to divulge her most secret hopes and dreams to a woman she’d met only minutes earlier, no matter whose sister she might be.
And it made her feel as if she might have won the point.
“Really?” Hyacinth looked suspicious.
“Really.”
Hyacinth was clearly unconvinced. “Well, you’re clever, at least. I shall grant you that.”
Lucy decided she would not be cowed. “Do you know,” she said, “I thought I was the most organized and managing person I knew, but I think you’re worse.”
Hyacinth laughed. “Oh, I am not at all organized. But I am managing. And we shall get on famously.” She looped her arm through Lucy’s. “Like sisters.”
One hour later, Lucy had realized three things about Hyacinth, Lady St. Clair.
First, she knew everyone. And everything about everyone.
Second, she was a wealth of information about her brother. Lucy had not needed to ask a single question, but by the time they left the ballroom, she knew Gregory’s favorite color (blue) and food (cheese, any sort), and that as a child he had spoken with a lisp.
Lucy had also learned that one should never make the mistake of underestimating Gregory’s younger sister. Not only had Hyacinth torn Lucy’s dress, she had carried it out with enough flair and cunning so that four people were aware of the mishap (and the need for repair). And she had done all her damage to the hem, so as to conveniently preserve Lucy’s modesty.
It was really quite impressive.
“I’ve done this before,” Hyacinth confided as she guided her out of the ballroom.
Lucy was unsurprised.
“It’s a useful talent,” Hyacinth added, sounding utterly serious. “Here, this way.”
Lucy followed her up a back staircase.
“There are very few excuses available to women who wish to leave a social function,” Hyacinth continued, displaying a remarkable talent for sticking to her chosen topic like glue. “It behooves us to master every weapon in our arsenal.”
Lucy was beginning to believe that she’d led a very sheltered life.
“Ah, here we are.” Hyacinth pushed open a door. She peered in. “He’s not here yet. Good. That gives me time.”
“For what?”
“To mend your dress. I confess I forgot that detail when I formulated my plan. But I know where Daphne keeps needles.”
Lucy watched as Hyacinth strode to a dressing table and opened a drawer.
“Right where I thought they were,” Hyacinth said with a triumphant smile. “I do love it when I am right. It makes life so much more convenient, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lucy nodded, but her mind was on her own question. And then she asked it—“Why are you helping me?”
Hyacinth looked at her as if she were daft. “You can’t go back in with a torn dress. Not after we told everyone we’d gone off to mend it.”
“No, not that.”
“Oh.” Hyacinth held up a needle and regarded it thoughtfully. “This will do. What color thread, do you think?”
“White, and you did not answer my question.”
Hyacinth ripped a piece of thread off a spool and slid it through the eye of the needle. “I like you,” she said. “And I love my brother.”
“You know that I am engaged to be married,” Lucy said quietly.
“I know.” Hyacinth knelt at Lucy’s feet, and with quick, sloppy stitches began to sew.
“In a week. Less than a week.”
“I know. I was invited.”
“Oh.” Lucy supposed she ought to have known that. “Erm, do you plan to attend?”
Hyacinth looked up. “Do you?”
Lucy’s lips parted. Until that moment, the idea of not marrying Haselby was a wispy, far-fetched thing, more of a oh-how-I-wish-I-did-not-have-to-marry-him sort of feeling. But now, with Hyacinth watching her so carefully, it began to feel a bit more firm. Still impossible, of course, or at least . . .
Well, maybe . . .
Maybe not quite impossible. Maybe only mostly impossible.
“The papers are signed,” Lucy said.
Hyacinth turned back to her sewing. “Are they?”
“My uncle chose him
,” Lucy said, wondering just who she was trying to convince. “It has been arranged for ages.”
“Mmmm.”
Mmmm? What the devil did that mean?
“And he hasn’t . . . Your brother hasn’t . . .” Lucy fought for words, mortified that she was unburdening herself to a near stranger, to Gregory’s own sister, for heaven’s sake. But Hyacinth wasn’t saying anything; she was just sitting there with her eyes focused on the needle looping in and out of Lucy’s hem. And if Hyacinth didn’t say anything, then Lucy had to. Because—Because—
Well, because she did.
“He has made me no promises,” Lucy said, her voice nearly shaking with it. “He stated no intentions.”
At that, Hyacinth did look up. She glanced around the room, as if to say, Look at us, mending your gown in the bedchamber of the Duchess of Hastings. And she murmured, “Hasn’t he?”
Lucy closed her eyes in agony. She was not like Hyacinth St. Clair. One needed only a quarter of an hour in her company to know that she would dare anything, take any chance to secure her own happiness. She would defy convention, stand up to the harshest of critics, and emerge entirely intact, in body and spirit.
Lucy was not so hardy. She wasn’t ruled by passions. Her muse had always been good sense. Pragmatism.
Hadn’t she been the one to tell Hermione that she needed to marry a man of whom her parents would approve?
Hadn’t she told Gregory that she didn’t want a violent, overwhelming love? That she just wasn’t the sort?
She wasn’t that kind of person. She wasn’t. When her governess had made line drawings for her to fill, she had always colored between the lines.
“I don’t think I can do it,” Lucy whispered.
Hyacinth held her gaze for an agonizingly long moment before turning back to her sewing. “I misjudged you,” she said softly.
It hit Lucy like a slap in the face.
“Wh . . . wh . . .”
What did you say?
But Lucy’s lips would not form the words. She did not wish to hear the answer. And Hyacinth was back to her brisk self, looking up with an irritated expression as she said, “Don’t fidget so much.”
“Sorry,” Lucy mumbled. And she thought—I’ve said it again. I am so predictable, so utterly conventional and unimaginative.