It's In His Kiss

Chapter 12

Twenty minutes later, after a long and silent walk.

It was remarkable, Gareth thought with more than a little self-loathing, how one encounter with the baron could ruin a perfectly good day.

And it wasn’t even so much the baron. He couldn’t stand the man, that was true, but that wasn’t what bothered him, what kept him up at night, mentally smacking himself for his stupidity.

He hated what his father did to him, how one conversation could turn him into a stranger. Or if not a stranger, then an astonishingly good facsimile of Gareth William St. Clair…at the age of fifteen. For the love of God, he was an adult now, a man of twenty-eight. He’d left home and, one hoped, grown up. He should be able to behave like an adult when in an interview with the baron. He shouldn’t feel this way.

He should feel nothing. Nothing.

But it happened every time. He got angry. And snappish. And he said things just for the sake of being provoking. It was rude, and it was immature, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

And this time, it had happened in front of Hyacinth.

He had walked her home in silence. He could tell she wanted to speak. Hell, even if he hadn’t seen it on her face, he would have known she wanted to speak. Hyacinth always wanted to speak. But apparently she did occasionally know when to leave well enough alone, because she’d held silent throughout the long walk through Hyde Park and Mayfair. And now here they were, in front of her house, Frances the maid still trailing them by twenty feet.

“I am sorry for the scene in the park,” he said swiftly, since some kind of apology was in order.

“I don’t think anyone saw,” she replied. “Or at the very least, I don’t think anyone heard. And it wasn’t your fault.”

He felt himself smile. Wryly, since that was the only sort he could manage. It was his fault. Maybe his father had provoked him, but it was long past time that Gareth learned to ignore it.

“Will you come in?” Hyacinth asked.

He shook his head. “I’d best not.”

She looked up at him, her eyes uncommonly serious. “I would like you to come in,” she said.

It was a simple statement, so bare and plain that he knew he could not refuse. He gave her a nod, and together they walked up the steps. The rest of the Bridgertons had dispersed, so they entered the now-empty rose-and-cream drawing room. Hyacinth waited near the door until he reached the seating area, and then she shut it. All the way.

Gareth lifted his brows in question. In some circles, a closed door was enough to demand marriage.

“I used to think,” Hyacinth said after a moment, “that the only thing that would have made my life better was a father.”

He said nothing.

“Whenever I was angry with my mother,” she continued, still standing by the door, “or with one of my brothers or sisters, I used to think-If only I had a father. Everything would be perfect, and he would surely take my side.” She looked up, and her lips were curved in an endearingly lopsided smile. “He wouldn’t have done, of course, since I’m sure that most of the time I was in the wrong, but it gave me great comfort to think it.”

Gareth still said nothing. All he could do was stand there and imagine himself a Bridgerton. Picture himself with all those siblings, all that laughter. And he couldn’t respond, because it was too painful to think that she’d had all that and still wanted more.

“I’ve always been jealous of people with fathers,” she said, “but no longer.”

He turned sharply, his eyes snapping to hers. She returned his gaze with equal directness, and he realized he couldn’t look away. Not shouldn’t-couldn’t.

“It’s better to have no father at all than to have one such as yours, Gareth,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

And that was his undoing. Here was this girl who had everything-at least everything he thought he’d ever wanted-and somehow she still understood.

“I have memories, at least,” she continued, smiling wistfully. “Or at least the memories others have told to me. I know who my father was, and I know he was a good man. He would have loved me if he’d lived. He would have loved me without reservations and without conditions.”

Her lips wobbled into an expression he had never seen on her before. A little bit quirky, an awful lot self-deprecating. It was entirely unlike Hyacinth, and for that reason completely mesmerizing.

“And I know,” she said, letting out a short, staccato breath, the sort one did when one couldn’t quite believe what one was saying, “that it’s often rather hard work to love me.”

And suddenly Gareth realized that some things did come in a flash. And there were some things one simply knew without being able to explain them. Because as he stood there watching her, all he could think was-No.

No.

It would be rather easy to love Hyacinth Bridgerton.

He didn’t know where the thought had come from, or what strange corner of his brain had come to that conclusion, because he was quite certain it would be nearly impossible to live with her, but somehow he knew that it wouldn’t be at all difficult to love her.

“I talk too much,” she said.

He’d been lost in his own thoughts. What was she saying?

“And I’m very opinionated.”

That was true, but what was-

“And I can be an absolute pill when I do not get my way, although I would like to think that most of the time I’m reasonably reasonable…”

Gareth started to laugh. Good God, she was cataloguing all the reasons why she was difficult to love. She was right, of course, about all of them, but none of it seemed to matter. At least not right then.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

“Be quiet,” he said, crossing the distance between them.

“Why?”

“Just be quiet.”

“But-”

He placed a finger on her lips. “Grant me one favor,” he said softly, “and don’t say a word.”

Amazingly, she complied.

For a moment he did nothing but look at her. It was so rare that she was still, that something on her face wasn’t moving or speaking or expressing an opinion with nothing more than a scrunch of her nose. He just looked at her, memorizing the way her eyebrows arched into delicate wings and her eyes grew wide under the strain of keeping quiet. He savored the hot rush of her breath across his finger, and the funny little sound she made at the back of her throat without realizing it.

And then he couldn’t help it. He kissed her.

He took her face in his hands, and he lowered his mouth to hers. The last time he’d been angry, and he’d seen her as little more than a piece of forbidden fruit, the one girl his father thought he couldn’t have.

But this time he was going to do it right. This would be their first kiss.

And it would be one to remember.

His lips were soft, gentle. He waited for her to sigh, for her body to soften against his. He wouldn’t take until she made it clear she was ready to give.

And then he would offer himself in return.

He brushed his mouth against hers, with just enough friction to feel the texture of her lips, to sense the heat of her body. He tickled her with his tongue, tender and sweet, until her lips parted.

And then he tasted her. She was sweet, and she was warm, and she was returning his kiss with the most devilish mix of innocence and experience he could ever have imagined. Innocence, because it was quite clear she didn’t know what she was doing. And experience, because despite all that, she drove him wild.

He deepened the kiss, his hands sliding down the length of her back until one rested on the curve of her bottom and the other at the small of her back. He pulled her against him, against the rising evidence of his desire. This was insane. It was mad. They were standing in her mother’s drawing room, three feet from a door that could be opened at any moment, by a brother who certainly would feel no compunction at tearing Gareth apart limb from limb.

And yet he couldn’t stop.

He wanted her. He wanted all of her.

God help him, he wanted her now.

“Do you like this?” he murmured, his lips moving to her ear.

He felt her nod, heard her gasp as he took her lobe between his teeth. It emboldened him, fired him.

“Do you like this?” he whispered, taking one hand and bringing it around to the swell of her breast.

She nodded again, this time gasping a tiny little, “Yes!”

He couldn’t help but smile, nor could he do anything but slide his hand inside the folds of her coat, so that the only thing between his hand and her body was the thin fabric of her dress.

“You’ll like this even better,” he said wickedly, skimming his palm over her until he felt her nipple harden.

She let out a moan, and he allowed himself even greater liberties, catching the nub between his fingers, rolling it just a touch, tweaking it until she moaned again, and her fingers clutched frantically at his shoulders.

She would be good in bed, he realized with a primitive satisfaction. She wouldn’t know what she was doing, but it wouldn’t matter. She’d learn soon enough, and he would have the time of his life teaching her.

And she would be his.

His.

And then, as his lips found hers again, as his tongue slid into her mouth and claimed her as his own, he thought-

Why not?

Why not marry her? Why n-

He pulled back, still holding her face in his hands. Some things needed to be considered with a clear mind, and the Lord knew that his head wasn’t clear when he was kissing Hyacinth.

“Did I do something wrong?” she whispered.

He shook his head, unable to do anything but look at her.

“Then wh-”

He quieted her with a firm finger to her lips.

Why not marry her? Everybody seemed to want them to. His grandmother had been hinting about it for over a year, and her family was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. Furthermore, he actually rather liked Hyacinth, which was more than he could say for most of the women he’d met during his years as a bachelor. Certainly she drove him mad half the time, but even with that, he liked her.

Plus, it was becoming increasingly apparent that he would not be able to keep his hands off her for very much longer. Another afternoon like this, and he’d ruin her.

He could picture it, see it in his mind. Not just the two of them, but all of the people in their lives-her family, his grandmother.

His father.

Gareth almost laughed aloud. What a boon. He could marry Hyacinth, which was shaping up in his mind to be an extremely pleasant endeavor, and at the same time completely show up the baron.

It would kill him. Absolutely kill him.

But, he thought, letting his fingers trail along the line of her jaw as he pulled away, he needed to do this right. He hadn’t always lived his life on the correct side of propriety, but there were some things a man had to do as a gentleman.

Hyacinth deserved no less.

“I have to go,” he murmured, taking one of her hands and lifting it to his mouth in a courtly gesture of farewell.

“Where?” she blurted out, her eyes still dazed with passion.

He liked that. He liked that he befuddled her, left her without her famous self-possession.

“There are a few things I need to think about,” he said, “and a few things I need to do.”

“But…what?”

He smiled down at her. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“When?”

He walked to the door. “You’re a bundle of questions this afternoon, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have to be,” she retorted, clearly regaining her wits, “if you’d actually say something of substance.”

“Until next time, Miss Bridgerton,” he murmured, slipping out into the hall.

“But when?” came her exasperated voice.

He laughed all the way out.

One hour later, in the foyer of Bridgerton House.

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.