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“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked hesitantly. Not that she knew what she might inquire of him when he acknowledged her.
“Do you drink, Lady Lucinda?”
Drink? “I beg your pardon?”
He gave her a sheepish half-smile. “Brandy. I know where my brother keeps the good stuff.”
“Oh.” Goodness. “No, of course not.”
“Pity,” he murmured.
“I really couldn’t,” she added, because, well, she felt as if she had to explain.
Even though of course she did not drink spirits.
And of course he would know that.
He shrugged. “Don’t know why I asked.”
“I should go,” she said.
But he didn’t move.
And neither did she.
She wondered what brandy tasted like.
And she wondered if she would ever know.
“How did you enjoy the party?” he asked
.
“The party?”
“Weren’t you forced to go back?”
She nodded, rolling her eyes. “It was strongly suggested.”
“Ah, so then she dragged you.”
To Lucy’s great surprise, she chuckled. “Rather close to it. And I didn’t have my mask, which made me stick out a bit.”
“Like a mushroom?”
“Like a—?”
He looked at her dress and nodded at the color. “A blue mushroom.”
She glanced at herself and then at him. “Mr. Bridgerton, are you intoxicated?”
He leaned forward with a sly and slightly silly smile. He held up his hand, his thumb and index finger measuring an inch between them. “Just a little bit.”
She eyed him dubiously. “Really?”
He looked down at his fingers with a furrowed brow, then added another inch or so to the space between them. “Well, perhaps this much.”
Lucy didn’t know much about men or much about spirits, but she knew enough about the two of them together to ask, “Isn’t that always the case?”
