It's In His Kiss

Chapter 17

Teatime at Number Five. Hyacinth is alone in the drawing room with her mother, always a dangerous proposition when one is in possession of a secret.

“Is Mr. St. Clair out of town?”

Hyacinth looked up from her rather sloppy embroidery for just long enough to say, “I don’t believe so, why?”

Her mother’s lips tightened fleetingly before she said, “He hasn’t called in several days.”

Hyacinth affixed a bland expression onto her face as she said, “I believe he is busy with something or other relating to his property in Wiltshire.”

It was a lie, of course. Hyacinth didn’t think he possessed any property, in Wiltshire or anywhere else. But with any luck, her mother would be distracted by some other matter before she got around to inquiring about Gareth’s nonexistent estates.

“I see,” Violet murmured.

Hyacinth stabbed her needle into the fabric with perhaps a touch more vigor than was necessary, then looked down at her handiwork with a bit of a snarl. She was an abysmal needlewoman. She’d never had the patience or the eye for detail that it required, but she always kept an embroidery hoop going in the drawing room. One never knew when one would need it to provide an acceptable distraction from conversation.

The ruse had worked quite well for years. But now that Hyacinth was the only Bridgerton daughter living at home, teatime often consisted of just her and her mother. And unfortunately, the needlework that had kept her so neatly out of three-and four-way conversations didn’t seem to do the trick so well with only two.

“Is anything amiss?” Violet asked.

“Of course not.” Hyacinth didn’t want to look up, but avoiding eye contact would surely make her mother suspicious, so she set her needle down and lifted her chin. In for a penny, in for a pound, she decided. If she was going to lie, she might as well make it convincing. “He’s merely busy, that is all. I rather admire him for it. You wouldn’t wish for me to marry a wastrel, would you?”

“No, of course not,” Violet murmured, “but still, it does seem odd. You’re so recently affianced.”

On any other day, Hyacinth would have just turned to her mother and said, “If you have a question, just ask it.”

Except then her mother would ask a question.

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.