Our hero, apparently, doesn’t waste any time.
“The viscount will see you now, Mr. St. Clair.”
Gareth followed Lord Bridgerton’s butler down the hall to a private section of the house, one which he had never seen during the handful of times he had been a guest at Bridgerton House.
“He is in his study,” the butler explained.
Gareth nodded. It seemed the right place for such an interview. Lord Bridgerton would wish to appear in command, in control, and this would be emphasized by their meeting in his private sanctuary.
When Gareth had knocked upon the front door of Bridgerton House five minutes earlier, he had not given the butler any indication as to his purpose there that day, but he had no doubt that Hyacinth’s brother, the almost infamously powerful Viscount Bridgerton, knew his intentions exactly.
Why else would Gareth come calling? He had never had any cause before. And after becoming acquainted with Hyacinth’s family—some of them, at least—he had no doubt that her mother had already met with her brother and discussed the possibility of their making a match.
“Mr. St. Clair,” the viscount said, rising from behind his desk as Gareth entered the room. That was promising. Etiquette did not demand that the viscount come to his feet, and it was a show of respect that he did.
“Lord Bridgerton,” Gareth said, nodding. Hyacinth’s brother possessed the same deep chestnut hair as his sister, although his was just starting to gray at the temples. The faint sign of age did nothing to diminish him, however. He was a tall man, and probably a dozen years Gareth’s senior, but he was still superbly fit and powerful. Gareth would not have wanted to meet him in a boxing ring. Or a dueling field.
The viscount motioned to a large leather chair, positioned opposite to his desk. “Sit,” he said, “please.”
Gareth did so, working fairly hard to hold himself still and keep his fingers from drumming nervously against the arm of the chair. He had never done this before, and damned if it wasn’t the most unsettling thing. He needed to appear calm, his thoughts organized and collected. He didn’t think his suit would be refused, but he’d like to come through the experience with a modicum of dignity. If he did marry Hyacinth, he was going to be seeing the viscount for the rest of his life, and he didn’t need the head of the Bridgerton family thinking him a fool.
“I imagine you know why I am here,” Gareth said.
The viscount, who had resumed his seat behind his large mahogany desk, tilted his head very slightly to the side. He was tapping his fingertips together, his hands making a hollow triangle. “Perhaps,” he said, “to save both of us from possible embarrassment, you could state your intentions clearly.”
Gareth sucked in a breath. Hyacinth’s brother wasn’t going to make this easy on him. But that didn’t matter. He had vowed to do this right, and he would not be cowed.
He looked up, meeting the viscount’s dark eyes with steady purpose. “I would like to marry Hyacinth,” he said. And then, because the viscount did not say anything, because he didn’t even move, Gareth added, “Er, if she’ll have me.”
And then about eight things happened at once. Or perhaps there were merely two or three, and it just seemed like eight, because it was all so unexpected.
First, the viscount exhaled, although that did seem to understate the case. It was more of a sigh, actually—a huge, tired, heartfelt sigh that made the man positively deflate in front of Gareth. Which was astonishing. Gareth had seen the viscount on many occasions and was quite familiar with his reputation. This was not a man who sagged or groaned.
His lips seemed to move through the whole thing, too, and if Gareth were a more suspicious man, he would have thought that the viscount had said, “Thank you, Lord.”
Combined with the heavenward tilt of the viscount’s eyes, it did seem the most likely translation.
And then, just as Gareth was taking all of this in, Lord Bridgerton let the palms of his hands fall against the desk with surprising force, and he looked Gareth squarely in the eye as he said, “Oh, she’ll have you. She will definitely have you.”
It wasn’t quite what Gareth had expected. “I beg your pardon,” he said, since truly, he could think of nothing else.
“I need a drink,” the viscount said, rising to his feet. “A celebration is in order, don’t you think?”
“Er…yes?”
Lord Bridgerton crossed the room to a recessed bookcase and plucked a cut-glass decanter off one of the shelves. “No,” he said to himself, putting it haphazardly back into place, “the good stuff, I think.” He turned to Gareth, his eyes taking on a strange, almost giddy light. “The good stuff, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Ehhhh…” Gareth wasn’t quite sure what to make of this.
“The good stuff,” the viscount said firmly. He moved some books to the side and reached behind to pull out what looked to be a very old bottle of cognac. “Have to keep it hidden,” he explained, pouring it liberally into two glasses.
“Servants?” Gareth asked.
“Brothers.” He handed Gareth a glass. “Welcome to the family.”
Gareth accepted the offering, almost disconcerted by how easy this had turned out to be. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the viscount had somehow managed to produce a special license and a vicar right then and there. “Thank you, Lord Bridgerton, I—”
“You should call me Anthony,” the viscount cut in. “We’re to be brothers, after all.”
“Anthony,” Gareth repeated. “I just wanted…”
“This is a wonderful day,” Anthony was muttering to himself. “A wonderful day.” He looked up sharply at Gareth. “You don’t have sisters, do you?”
“None,” Gareth confirmed.
“I am in possession of four,” Anthony said, tossing back at least a third of the contents of his glass. “Four. And now they’re all off my hands. I’m done,” he said, looking as if he might break into a jig at any moment. “I’m free.”
“You’ve daughters, don’t you?” Gareth could not resist reminding him.
“Just one, and she’s only three. I have years before I have to go through this again. If I’m lucky, she’ll convert to Catholicism and become a nun.”
Gareth choked on his drink.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Anthony said, looking at the bottle. “Aged twenty-four years.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever ingested anything quite so ancient,” Gareth murmured.
“Now then,” Anthony said, leaning against the edge of his desk, “you’ll want to discuss the settlements, I’m sure.”
The truth was, Gareth hadn’t even thought about the settlements, strange as that seemed for a man in possession of very few funds. He’d been so surprised by his sudden decision to marry Hyacinth that his mind hadn’t even touched upon the practical aspects of such a union.
“It is common knowledge that I increased her dowry last year,” Anthony said, his face growing more serious. “I will stand by that, although I would hope that it is not your primary reason for marrying her.”
“Of course not,” Gareth replied, bristling.
“I didn’t think so,” Anthony said, “but one has to ask.”
“I would hardly think a man would admit it to you if it were,” Gareth said.
Anthony looked up sharply. “I would like to think I can read a man’s face well enough to know if he is lying.”
“Of course,” Gareth said, sitting back down.
But it didn’t appear that the viscount had taken offense. “Now then,” he said, “her portion stands at…”
Gareth watched with a touch of confusion as Anthony just shook his head and allowed his words to trail off. “My lord?” he murmured.
“My apologies,” Anthony said, snapping back to attention. “I’m a bit unlike myself just now, I must assure you.”
“Of course,” Gareth murmured, since agreement was really the only acceptable course of action at that point.
“I never thought
this day would come,” the viscount said. “We’ve had offers, of course, but none I was willing to entertain, and none recently.” He let out a long breath. “I had begun to despair that anyone of merit would wish to marry her.”
“You seem to hold your sister in an unbecomingly low regard,” Gareth said coolly.
Anthony looked up and actually smiled. Sort of. “Not at all,” he said. “But nor am I blind to her…ah…unique qualities.” He stood, and Gareth realized instantly that Lord Bridgerton was using his height to intimidate. He also realized that he should not misinterpret the viscount’s initial display of levity and relief. This was a dangerous man, or at least he could be when he so chose, and Gareth would do well not to forget it.
“My sister Hyacinth,” the viscount said slowly, walking toward the window, “is a prize. You should remember that, and if you value your skin, you will treat her as the treasure she is.”
Gareth held his tongue. It didn’t seem the correct time to chime in.
“But while Hyacinth may be a prize,” Anthony said, turning around with the slow, deliberate steps of a man who is well familiar with his power, “she isn’t easy. I will be the first one to admit to this. There aren’t many men who can match wits with her, and if she is trapped into marriage with someone who does not appreciate her…singular personality, she will be miserable.”
Still, Gareth did not speak. But he did not remove his eyes from the viscount’s face.
And Anthony returned the gesture. “I will give you my permission to marry her,” he said. “But you should think long and hard before you ask her yourself.”
“What are you saying?” Gareth asked suspiciously, rising to his feet.
“I will not mention this interview to her. It is up to you to decide if you wish to take the final step. And if you do not…”The viscount shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in an oddly Gallic gesture. “In that case,” he said, sounding almost disturbingly calm, “she will never know.”
How many men had the viscount scared off in this manner, Gareth wondered. Good God, was this why Hyacinth had gone unmarried for so long? He supposed he should be grateful, since it had left her free to marry him, but still, did she realize her eldest brother was a madman?
“If you don’t make my sister happy,” Anthony Bridgerton continued, his eyes just intense enough to confirm Gareth’s suspicions about his sanity, “then you will not be happy. I will see to it myself.”
Gareth opened his mouth to offer the viscount a scathing retort—to hell with treating him with kid gloves and tiptoeing around his high and mightiness. But then, just when he was about to insult his future brother-in-law, probably irreversibly, something else popped out of his mouth instead.
“You love her, don’t you?”
Anthony snorted impatiently. “Of course I love her. She’s my sister.”
“I loved my brother,” Gareth said quietly. “Besides my grandmother, he was the only person I had in this world.”
“You do not intend to mend your rift with your father, then,” Anthony said.
“No.”
Anthony did not ask questions; he just nodded and said, “If you marry my sister, you will have all of us.”
Gareth tried to speak, but he had no voice. He had no words. There were no words for what was rushing through him.
“For better or for worse,” the viscount continued, with a light, self-mocking chuckle. “And I assure you, you will very often wish that Hyacinth were a foundling, left on a doorstep with not a relation to her name.”
“No,” Gareth said with soft resolve. “I would not wish that on anyone.”
The room held silent for a moment, and then the viscount asked, “Is there anything you wish to share with me about him?”
Unease began to seep through Gareth’s blood. “Who?”
“Your father.”
“No.”
Anthony appeared to consider this, then he asked, “Will he make trouble?”
“For me?”
“For Hyacinth.”
Gareth couldn’t lie. “He might.”
And that was the worst of it. That was what would keep him up at night. Gareth had no idea what the baron might do. Or what he might say.
Or how the Bridgertons might feel if they learned the truth.
And in that moment, Gareth realized that he needed to do two things. First, he had to marry Hyacinth as soon as possible. She—and her mother—would probably wish for one of those absurdly elaborate weddings that took months to plan, but he would need to put his foot down and insist that they wed quickly.
And second, as a sort of insurance, he was going to have to do something to make it impossible for her to back out, even if his father came forward with proof of Gareth’s parentage.
He was going to have to compromise her. As soon as possible. There was still the matter of Isabella’s diary. She might have known the truth, and if she’d written about it, Hyacinth would learn his secrets even without the intervention of the baron.
And while Gareth didn’t much mind Hyacinth learning the true facts of his birth, it was vital that it not happen until after the wedding.
Or after he’d secured its eventuality with seduction.
Gareth didn’t much like being backed into a corner. Nor was he especially fond of having to have to do anything.
But this…
This, he decided, would be pure pleasure.
Chapter 13
Only one hour later. As we have noted, when our hero puts his mind to something…
And did we mention that it’s a Tuesday?
“Enh?” Lady Danbury screeched. “You’re not speaking loudly enough!”
Hyacinth allowed the book from which she was reading to fall closed, with just her index finger stuck inside to mark her place. “Why,” she wondered aloud, “does it feel like I have heard this before?”
“You have,” Lady D declared. “You never speak loudly enough.”
“Funny, but my mother never makes that complaint.”
“Your mother’s ears aren’t of the same vintage as mine,” Lady Danbury said with a snort. “And where’s my cane?”
Ever since she’d seen Gareth in action, Hyacinth had felt emboldened when it came to encounters with Lady Danbury’s cane. “I hid it,” she said with an evil smile.
Lady Danbury drew back. “Hyacinth Bridgerton, you sly cat.”
“Cat?”
“I don’t like dogs,” Lady D said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Or foxes, for that matter.”
Hyacinth decided to take it as a compliment—always the best course of action when Lady Danbury was making no sense—and she turned back to Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron, chapter seventeen. “Let’s see,” she murmured, “where were we…”
“Where did you hide it?”
“It wouldn’t be hidden if I told you, now would it?” Hyacinth said, not even looking up.
“I’m trapped in this chair without it,” Lady D said. “You wouldn’t wish to deprive an old lady of her only means of transport, would you?”
“I would,” Hyacinth said, still looking down at the book. “I absolutely would.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with my grandson,” the countess muttered.
Hyacinth kept her attention diligently on the book, but she knew she wasn’t managing a completely straight face. She sucked in her lips, then pursed them, as she always did when she was trying not to look at someone, and if the temperature of her cheeks was any indication, she was blushing.
Dear God.
Lesson Number One in dealings with Lady Danbury: Never show weakness.
Lesson Number Two being, of course: When in doubt, refer to Lesson Number One.
“Hyacinth Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury said, too slowly for her to be up to anything but the most devious sort of mischief, “are your cheeks pink?”
Hyacinth looked up with her blankest expression. “I can’t see my cheeks.”
“They are p
ink.”
“If you say so.” Hyacinth flipped a page with a bit more purpose than was necessary, then looked down in dismay at the small rip near the binding. Oh dear. Well, nothing she could do about it now, and Priscilla Butter-worth had certainly survived worse.
“Why are you blushing?” Lady D asked.
“I’m not blushing.”
“I do believe you are.”
“I’m n—” Hyacinth caught herself before they started bickering like a pair of children. “I’m warm,” she said, with what she felt was an admirable display of dignity and decorum.
“It’s perfectly pleasant in this room,” Lady Danbury said immediately. “Why are you blushing?”
Hyacinth glared at her. “Do you wish for me to read this book or not?”
“Not,” Lady D said definitively. “I would much rather learn why you are blushing.”
“I’m not blushing!” Hyacinth fairly yelled.
Lady Danbury smiled, an expression that on anyone else might have been pleasant but on her was diabolical. “Well, you are now,” she said.
“If my cheeks are pink,” Hyacinth ground out, “it is from anger.”
“At me?” Lady D inquired, placing one, oh-so-innocent hand over her heart.
“I’m going to read the book now,” Hyacinth announced.
“If you must,” Lady D said with a sigh. She waited about a second before adding, “I believe Miss Butter-worth was scrambling up the hillside.”
Hyacinth turned her attention resolutely to the book in her hands.
“Well?” Lady Danbury demanded.
“I have to find my place,” Hyacinth muttered. She scanned the page, trying to find Miss Butterworth and the correct hillside (there were more than one, and she’d scrambled up them all), but the words swam before her eyes, and all she saw was Gareth.
Gareth, with those rakish eyes and perfect lips. Gareth, with a dimple she was sure he’d deny if she ever pointed it out to him. Gareth…
Who was making her sound as foolish as Miss Butter-worth. Why would he deny a dimple?
In fact…
Hyacinth flipped back a few pages. Yes, indeed, there it was, right in the middle of chapter sixteen: