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“I would appreciate that greatly, Lady Bridgerton.”
Kate turned to Lady Lucinda. “I did not see you at breakfast, either. Will you have something now?”
Gregory thought of the massive tray Miss Watson had had brought up for her and wondered how much of it she’d managed to wolf down before having to come meet her brother.
“Of course,” Lady Lucinda murmured. “I should like to keep Richard company, in any case.”
“Miss Watson,” Gregory cut in smoothly, “would you care to take a turn about the gardens? I believe the peonies are in bloom. And those stalky blue things—I always forget what they are called.”
“Delphinium.” It was Lady Lucinda, of course. He’d known she would not be able to resist. Then she turned and looked at him, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I told you that the other day.”
“So you did,” he murmured. “I’ve never had much of a head for details.”
“Oh, Lucy remembers everything,” Miss Watson said breezily. “And I would be delighted to view the gardens with you. That is, if Lucy and Richard do not mind.”
Both assured her that they did not, although Gregory was quite certain he saw a flash of disappointment and—dare he say it—irritation in Lord Fennsworth’s eyes.
Gregory smiled.
“I shall find you back in our room?” Miss Watson said to Lucy.
The other girl nodded, and with a feeling of triumph—there was nothing quite like besting one’s competition—Gregory placed Miss Watson’s hand in the crook of his elbow and led her out of the room.
It was going to be an excellent morning, after all.
Lucy followed her brother and Lady Bridgerton to the breakfast room, which she did not mind one bit, as she had not had a chance to eat very much of what Hermione had brought her earlier. But it did mean that she had to endure a full thirty minutes of meaningless conversation while her brain raced about, imagining all sorts of disasters that could be responsible for her unexpected summons home.
Richard couldn’t very well speak to her about anything important with Lady Bridgerton and half of the house party blithering on about coddled eggs and the recent rainfall, so Lucy waited uncomplainingly while he finished (he’d always been an annoyingly slow eater), and then she tried her best not to lose her patience as they strolled out to the side lawn, Richard first asking her about school, then Hermione, and then Hermione’s mother, and then her upcoming debut, and then Hermione again, with a side tangent to Hermione’s brother, whom he’d apparently run across in Cambridge, and then it was back to the debut, and to what extent she was to share it with Hermione . . .
Until finally Lucy halted in her tracks, planted her hands on her hips, and demanded that he tell her why he was there.
“I told you,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Uncle Robert wishes to speak with you.”
“But why?” It was not a question with an obvious answer. Uncle Robert hadn’t cared to speak with her more than a handful of times in the past ten years. If he was planning to start now, there was a reason for it.
Richard cleared his throat a number of times before finally saying, “Well, Luce, I think he plans to marry you off.”
“Straightaway?” Lucy whispered, and she didn’t know why she was so surprised. She’d known this was coming; she’d been practically engaged for years. And she had told Hermione, on more than one occasion, that a season for her was really quite foolish—why bother with the expense when she was just going to marry Haselby in the end?
But now . . . suddenly . . . she didn’t want to do it. At least not so soon. She didn’t want to go from schoolgirl to wife, with nothing in between. She wasn’t asking for adventure—she didn’t even want adventure—truly, she wasn’t the sort.
She wasn’t asking for very much—just a few months of freedom, of laughter.
Of dancing breathlessly, spinning so fast that the candle flames streaked into long snakes of light.
Maybe she was practical. Maybe she was “that old Lucy,” as so many had called her at Miss Moss’s. But she liked to dance. And she wanted to do it. Now. Before she was old. Before she became Haselby’s wife.
“I don’t know when,” Richard said, looking down at her with . . . was it regret?
Why would it be regret?
“Soon, I think,” he said. “Uncle Robert seems somewhat eager to have it done.”
Lucy just stared at him, wondering why she couldn’t stop thinking about dancing, couldn’t stop picturing herself, in a gown of silvery blue, magical and radiant, in the arms of—
“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth, as if that could somehow silence her thoughts.
“What is it?”
