It's in His Kiss

  And Hyacinth most certainly did not wish to answer.

  It had been three days since she had learned the truth about Gareth. It sounded so dramatic, melodramatic even—“learned the truth.” It sounded like she’d discovered some terrible secret, uncovered some dastardly skeleton in the St. Clair family closet.

  But there was no secret. Nothing dark or dangerous, or even mildly embarrassing. Just a simple truth that had been staring her in the face all along.

  And she had been too blind to see it. Love did that to a woman, she supposed.

  And she had most certainly fallen in love with him. That much was clear. Sometime between the moment she had agreed to marry him and the night they had made love, she’d fallen in love with him.

  But she hadn’t known him. Or had she? Could she really say that she’d known him, truly known the measure of the man, when she hadn’t even understood the most basic element of his character?

  He’d used her.

  That’s what it was. He had used her to win his never-ending battle with his father.

  And it hurt far more than she would ever have dreamed.

  She kept telling herself she was being silly, that she was splitting hairs. Shouldn’t it count that he liked her, that he thought she was clever and funny and even occasionally wise? Shouldn’t it count that she knew he would protect her and honor her and, despite his somewhat spotted past, be a good and faithful husband?

  Why did it matter why he’d asked her to marry him? Shouldn’t it only matter that he had?

  But it did matter. She’d felt used, unimportant, as if she were just a chess piece on a much larger game board.

  And the worst part of it was—she didn’t even understand the game.

  “That’s a rather heartfelt sigh.”

  Hyacinth blinked her mother’s face into focus. Good heavens, how long had she been sitting there, staring into space?

  “Is there something you wish to tell me?” Violet asked gently.

  Hyacinth shook her head. How did one share something such as this with one’s mother?

  —Oh, yes, by the by and in case you’re interested, it has recently come to my attention that my affianced husband asked me to marry him because he wished to infuriate his father.

  —Oh, and did I mention that I am no longer a virgin? No getting out of it now!

  No, that wasn’t going to work.

  “I suspect,” Violet said, taking a little sip of her tea, “that you have had your first lovers’ quarrel.”

  Hyacinth tried very hard not to blush. Lovers, indeed.

  “It is nothing to be ashamed about,” Violet said.

  “I’m not ashamed,” Hyacinth said quickly.

  Violet raised her brows, and Hyacinth wanted to kick herself for falling so neatly into her mother’s trap.

  “It’s nothing,” she muttered, poking at her embroidery until the yellow flower she’d been working on looked like a fuzzy little chick.

  Hyacinth shrugged and pulled out some orange thread. Might as well give it some feet and a beak.

  “I know that it is considered unseemly to display one’s emotions,” Violet said, “and certainly I would not suggest that you engage in anything that might be termed histrionic, but sometimes it does help to simply tell someone how you feel.”

  Hyacinth looked up, meeting her mother’s gaze directly. “I rarely have difficulty telling people how I feel.”

  “Well, that much is true,” Violet said, looking slightly disgruntled at having her theory shot to pieces.

  Hyacinth turned back to her embroidery, frowning as she realized that she’d put the beak too high. Oh, very well, it was a chick in a party hat.

  “Perhaps,” her mother persisted, “Mr. St. Clair is the one who finds it difficult to—”

  “I know how he feels,” Hyacinth cut in.

  “Ah.” Violet pursed her lips and let out a short little exhale through her nose. “Perhaps he is not sure how to proceed. How he ought to go about approaching you.”

  “He knows where I live.”

  Violet sighed audibly. “You’re not making this easy for me.”

  “I’m trying to embroider.” Hyacinth held up her handiwork as proof.

  “You’re trying to avoid—” Her mother stopped, blinking. “I say, why does that flower have an ear?”

  “It’s not an ear.” Hyacinth looked down. “And it’s not a flower.”

  “Wasn’t it a flower yesterday?”

  “I have a very creative mind,” Hyacinth ground out, giving the blasted flower another ear.

  “That,” Violet said, “has never been in any doubt.”

  Hyacinth looked down at the mess on the fabric. “It’s a tabby cat,” she announced. “I just need to give it a tail.”

  Violet held silent for a moment, then said, “You can be very hard on people.”

  Hyacinth’s head snapped up. “I’m your daughter!” she cried out.

  “Of course,” Violet replied, looking somewhat shocked by the force of Hyacinth’s reaction. “But—”

  “Why must you assume that whatever is the matter, it must be my fault?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “You did.” And Hyacinth thought of countless spats between the Bridgerton siblings. “You always do.”

  Violet responded with a horrified gasp. “That is not true, Hyacinth. It’s just that I know you better than I do Mr. St. Clair, and—”

  “—and therefore you know all of my faults?”

  “Well…yes.” Violet appeared to be surprised by her own answer and hastened to add, “That is not to say that Mr. St. Clair is not in possession of foibles and faults of his own. It’s just that…Well, I’m just not acquainted with them.”

  “They are large,” Hyacinth said bitterly, “and quite possibly insurmountable.”

  “Oh, Hyacinth,” her mother said, and there was such concern in her voice that Hyacinth very nearly burst into tears right then and there. “Whatever can be the matter?”

  Hyacinth looked away. She shouldn’t have said anything. Now her mother would be beside herself with worry, and Hyacinth would have to sit there, feeling terrible, wanting desperately to throw herself into her arms and be a child again.

  When she was small, she had been convinced that her mother could solve any problem, make anything better with a soft word and a kiss on the forehead.

  But she wasn’t a child any longer, and these weren’t a child’s problems.

  And she couldn’t share them with her mother.

  “Do you wish to cry off?” Violet asked, softly and very carefully.

  Hyacinth gave her head a shake. She couldn’t back out of the marriage. But…

  She looked away, surprised by the direction of her thoughts. Did she even want to back out of the marriage? If she had not given herself to Gareth, if they hadn’t made love, and there was nothing forcing her to remain in the betrothal, what would she do?

  She had spent the last three days obsessing about that night, about that horrible moment when she’d heard Gareth’s father laughingly talk about how he had manipulated him into offering for her. She’d gone over every sentence in her head, every word she could remember, and yet she was only just now asking herself what had to be the most important question. The only question that mattered, really. And she realized—

  She would stay.

  She repeated it in her mind, needing time for the words to sink in.

  She would stay.

  She loved him. Was it really as simple as that?

  “I don’t wish to cry off,” she said, even though she’d already shaken her head. Some things needed to be said aloud.

  “Then you will have to help him,” Violet said. “With whatever it is that troubles him, it will be up to you to help him.”

  Hyacinth nodded slowly, too lost in her thoughts to offer a more meaningful reply. Could she help him? Was it possible? She had known him barely a month; he’d had a lifetime to build this hatred with his father.

>   He might not want help, or perhaps more likely—he might not realize that he needed it. Men never did.

  “I believe he cares for you,” her mother said. “I truly believe that he does.”

  “I know he does,” Hyacinth said sadly. But not as much as he hated his father.

  And when he’d gone down on one knee and asked her to spend the rest of her life with him, to take his name and bear him children, it hadn’t been because of her.

  What did that say about him?

  She sighed, feeling very weary.

  “This isn’t like you,” her mother said.

  Hyacinth looked up.

  “To be so quiet,” Violet clarified, “to wait.”

  “To wait?” Hyacinth echoed.

  “For him. I assume that is what you’re doing, waiting for him to call upon you and beg your forgiveness for whatever it is he has done.”

  “I—” She stopped. That was exactly what she’d been doing. She hadn’t even realized it. And it was probably part of the reason she was feeling so miserable. She’d placed her fate and her happiness in the hands of another, and she hated it.

  “Why don’t you send him a letter?” Violet suggested. “Request that he pay you a visit. He is a gentleman, and you are his fiancée. He would never refuse.”

  “No,” Hyacinth murmured, “he wouldn’t. But”—she looked up, her eyes begging for advice—“what would I say?”

  It was a silly question. Violet didn’t even know what the problem was, so how could she know the solution? And yet, somehow, as always, she managed to say exactly the right thing.

  “Say whatever is in your heart,” Violet said. Her lips twisted wryly. “And if that doesn’t work, I suggest that you take a book and knock him over the head with it.”

  Hyacinth blinked, then blinked again. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Violet said quickly.

  Hyacinth felt herself smile. “I’m rather certain you did.”

  “Do you think?” Violet murmured, concealing her own smile with her teacup.

  “A large book,” Hyacinth queried, “or small?”

  “Large, I think, don’t you?”

  Hyacinth nodded. “Have we The Complete Works of Shakespeare in the library?”

  Violet’s lips twitched. “I believe that we do.”

  Something began to bubble in Hyacinth’s chest. Something very close to laughter. And it felt so good to feel it again.

  “I love you, Mother,” she said, suddenly consumed by the need to say it aloud. “I just wanted you to know that.”

  “I know, darling,” Violet said, and her eyes were shining brightly. “I love you, too.”

  Hyacinth nodded. She’d never stopped to think how precious that was—to have the love of a parent. It was something Gareth had never had. Heaven only knew what his childhood had been like. He had never spoken of it, and Hyacinth was ashamed to realize that she’d never asked.

  She’d never even noticed the omission.

  Maybe, just maybe, he deserved a little understanding on her part.

  He would still have to beg her forgiveness; she wasn’t that full of kindness and charity.

  But she could try to understand, and she could love him, and maybe, if she tried with everything she had, she could fill that void within him.

  Whatever it was he needed, maybe she could be it.

  And maybe that would be all that mattered.

  But in the meantime, Hyacinth was going to have to expend a bit of energy to bring about her happy ending. And she had a feeling that a note wasn’t going to be sufficient.

  It was time to be brazen, time to be bold.

  Time to beard the lion in his den, to—

  “I say, Hyacinth,” came her mother’s voice, “are you quite all right?”

  She shook her head, even as she said, “I’m perfectly well. Just thinking like a fool, that’s all.”

  A fool in love.

  Chapter 18

  Later that afternoon, in the small study in Gareth’s very small suite of apartments. Our hero has come to the conclusion that he must take action.

  He does not realize that Hyacinth is about to beat him to the punch.

  A grand gesture.

  That, Gareth decided, was what he needed. A grand gesture.

  Women loved grand gestures, and while Hyacinth was certainly rather unlike any other woman he’d had dealings with, she was still a woman, and she would certainly be at least a little swayed by a grand gesture.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Well, she’d better, Gareth thought grumpily, because he didn’t know what else to do.

  But the problem with grand gestures was that the grandest ones tended to require money, which was one thing Gareth had in short supply. And the ones that didn’t require a great deal of money usually involved some poor sod embarrassing himself in a most public manner—reciting poetry or singing a ballad, or making some sort of sappy declaration with eight hundred witnesses.

  Not, Gareth decided, anything he was likely to do.

  But Hyacinth was, as he’d often noted, an uncommon sort of female, which meant that—hopefully—an uncommon sort of gesture would work with her.

  He would show her he cared, and she’d forget all this nonsense about his father, and all would be well.

  All had to be well.

  “Mr. St. Clair, you have a visitor.”

  He looked up. He’d been seated behind his desk for so long it was a wonder he hadn’t grown roots. His valet was standing in the doorway to his office. As Gareth could not afford a butler—and really, who needed one with only four rooms to care for—Phelps often assumed those duties as well.

  “Show him in,” Gareth said, somewhat absently, sliding some books over the papers currently sitting on his desk.

  “Er…” Cough cough. Cough cough cough.

  Gareth looked up. “Is there a problem?”

  “Well…no…” The valet looked pained. Gareth tried to take pity on him. Poor Mr. Phelps hadn’t realized that he would occasionally be acting as a butler when he’d interviewed for the position, and clearly he’d never been taught the butlerian skill of keeping one’s face devoid of all emotion.

  “Mr. Phelps?” Gareth queried.

  “He is a she, Mr. St. Clair.”

  “A hermaphrodite, Mr. Phelps?” Gareth asked, just to see the poor fellow blush.

  To his credit, the valet made no reaction save squaring his jaw. “It is Miss Bridgerton.”

  Gareth jumped to his feet so quickly he smacked both his thighs on the edge of the desk. “Here?” he asked. “Now?”

  Phelps nodded, looking just a little bit pleased at his discomfiture. “She gave me her card. She was rather polite about it all. As if it were nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Gareth’s mind spun, trying to figure out why on earth Hyacinth would do something so ill-advised as to call upon him at his home in the middle of the day. Not that the middle of the night would have been better, but still, any number of busybodies might have seen her entering the building.

  “Ah, show her in,” he said. He couldn’t very well turn her out. As it was, he would certainly have to return her to her home himself. He couldn’t imagine she’d come with a proper escort. She’d probably brought no one save that peppermint-eating maid of hers, and heaven knew she was no protection on the streets of London.

  He crossed his arms as he waited. His rooms were set up in a square, and one could access his study from either the dining room or his bedchamber. Unfortunately, the day maid had chosen this day to provide the dining room floor with some sort of twice-yearly wax that she swore (rather vocally and on her dear mother’s grave) would keep the floor clean and ward off disease. As a result, the table had been shoved up against the door to the study, which meant that the only way in was through his bedroom.

  Gareth groaned and shook his head. The last thing he needed was to picture Hyacinth in his bedroom.

  He hoped she felt awkward pass
ing through. It was the least she deserved, coming out here on her own.

  “Gareth,” she said, appearing in the doorway.

  And all his good intentions flew right out the window.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” she said, with such composure that he felt like a fool.

  But still he plodded on. “Any number of people could have seen you. Have you no care for your reputation?”

  She shrugged delicately, pulling off her gloves. “I’m engaged to be married. You can’t cry off, and I don’t intend to, so I doubt I’ll be forever ruined if someone catches me.”

  Gareth tried to ignore the rush of relief he felt at her words. He had, of course, gone to great lengths to ensure that she could not cry off, and she had already said that she would not, but all the same, it was surprisingly good to hear it again.

  “Very well,” he said slowly, choosing his words with great care. “Why, then, are you here?”

  “I am not here to discuss your father,” she said briskly, “if that is what worries you.”

  “I’m not worried,” he bit off.

  She lifted one brow. Damn, but why had he chosen to marry the one woman in the world who could do that? Or at least the one woman of his acquaintance.

  “I’m not,” he said testily.

  She said nothing in direct reply, but she did give him a look that said she didn’t believe him for one instant. “I have come,” she said, “to discuss the jewels.”

  “The jewels,” he repeated.

  “Yes,” she replied, still in that prim, businesslike voice of hers. “I hope you have not forgotten about them.”

  “How could I?” he murmured. She was starting to irritate him, he realized. Or rather, her demeanor was. He was still roiling inside, on edge just from the very sight of her, and she was utterly cool, almost preternaturally composed.

  “I hope you still intend to look for them,” she said. “We have come too far to give up now.”

  “Have you any idea where we might begin?” he asked, keeping his voice scrupulously even. “If I recall correctly, we seem to have hit a bit of a brick wall.”

  She reached into her reticule and pulled out the latest clue from Isabella, which she’d had in her possession ever since they had parted a few days earlier. With careful, steady fingers she unfolded it and smoothed it open on his desk. “I took the liberty of taking this to my brother Colin,” she said. She looked up and reminded him, “You had given me your permission to do so.”