It's In His Kiss

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 passing 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.”

He gave her a brief nod of agreement.

“As I mentioned, he has traveled extensively on the Continent, and he seems to feel that it is written in a Slavic language. After consulting a map, he guessed that it is Slovene.” At his blank stare, she added, “It is what they speak in Slovenia.”

Gareth blinked. “Is there such a country?”

For the first time in the interview, Hyacinth smiled. “There is. I must confess, I was unaware of its existence as well. It’s more of a region, really. To the north and east of Italy.”

“Part of Austria-Hungary, then?”

Hyacinth nodded. “And the Holy Roman Empire before that. Was your grandmother from the north of Italy?”

Gareth suddenly realized that he had no idea. Grandmother Isabella had loved to tell him stories of her childhood in Italy, but they had been tales of food and holidays-the sorts of things a very young boy might find interesting. If she’d mentioned the town of her birth, he had been too young to take note. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling rather foolish-and in truth, somewhat inconsiderate-for his ignorance. “I suppose she must have been. She wasn’t very dark. Her coloring was a bit like mine, actually.”

Hyacinth nodded. “I had wondered about that. Neither you nor your father has much of a Mediterranean look about you.”

Gareth smiled tightly. He could not speak for the baron, but there was a very good reason why he did not look as if he carried any Italian blood.

“Well,” Hyacinth said, looking back down at the sheet of paper she had laid on his desk. “If she was from the northeast, it stands to reason that she might have lived near the Slovene border and thus been familiar with the language. Or at least familiar enough to pen two sentences in it.”

“I can’t imagine that she thought anyone here in England might be able to translate it, though.”

“Exactly,” she said, making an animated motion of agreement. When it became apparent that Gareth had no idea what she was talking about, she continued with, “If you wanted to make a clue particularly difficult, wouldn’t you write it in the most obscure language possible?”

“It’s really a pity I don’t speak Chinese,” he murmured.

She gave him a look-either of impatience or irritation; he wasn’t sure which-then continued with, “I am also convinced that this must be the final clue. Anyone who had got this far would be forced to expend quite a lot of energy, and quite possibly expense as well to obtain a translation. Surely she wouldn’t force someone to go through the trouble twice.”

Gareth looked down at the unfamiliar words, chewing on his lower lip as he pondered this.

“Don’t you agree?” Hyacinth pressed.

He looked up, shrugging. “Well, you would.”

Her mouth fell open. “What do you mean? That’s simply not-” She stopped, reflecting on his words. “Very well, I would. But I think we can both agree that, for better or for worse, I am a bit more diabolical than a typical female. Or male, for that matter,” she muttered.

Gareth smiled wryly, wondering if he ought to be made more nervous by the phrase, “for better or for worse.”

“Do you think your grandmother would be as devious as, er…”-she cleared her throat-“I?” Hyacinth seemed to lose a little steam toward the end of the question, and Gareth suddenly saw in her eyes that she was not as collected as she wished for him to believe.

“I don’t know,” he said quite honestly. “She passed away when I was rather young. My recollections and perceptions are those of a seven-year-old boy.”

“Well,” she said, tapping her fingers against the desk in a revealingly nervous gesture. “We can certainly begin our search for a speaker of Slovene.” She rolled her eyes as she added, somewhat dryly, “There must be one somewhere in London.”

“One would think,” he murmured, mostly just to egg her on. He shouldn’t do it; he should be far wiser by now, but there was something so…entertaining about Hyacinth when she was determined.

And as usual, she did not disappoint. “In the meantime,” she stated, her voice marvelously matter-of-fact, “I believe we should return to Clair House.”

“And search it from top to bottom?” he asked, so politely that it had to be clear that he thought she was mad.

“Of course not,” she said with a scowl.

He almost smiled. That was much more like her.

“But it seems to me,” she added, “that the jewels must be hidden in her bedchamber.”

“And why would you think that?”

“Where else would she put them?”

“Her dressing room,” he suggested, tilting his head to the side, “the drawing room, the attic, the butler’s closet, the guest bedroom, the other guest bedroom-”

“But where,” she cut in, looking rather annoyed with his sarcasm, “would make the most sense? Thus far, she has been keeping everything to the areas of the house least visited by your grandfather. Where better than her bedchamber?”

He eyed her thoughtfully and for long enough to make her blush. Finally, he said, “We know he visited her there at least twice.”

She blinked. “Twice?”

“My father and my father’s younger brother. He died at Trafalgar,” he explained, even though she hadn’t asked.

“Oh.” That seemed to take the winds out of her sails. At least momentarily. “I’m sorry.”

Gareth shrugged. “It was a long time ago, but thank you.”

She nodded slowly, looking as if she wasn’t quite sure what to say now. “Right,” she finally said. “Well.”

“Right,” he echoed.

“Well.”

“Well,” he said softly.

“Oh, hang it all!” she burst out. “I cannot stand this. I am not made to sit idly by and brush things under the rug.”

Gareth opened his mouth to speak, not that he had any idea of what to say, but Hyacinth wasn’t done.

“I know I should be quiet, and I know I should leave well enough alone, but I can’t. I just can’t do it.” She looked at him, and she looked like she wanted to grab his shoulders and shake. “Do you understand?”

“Not a word,” he admitted.

“I have to know!” she cried out. “I have to know why you asked me to marry you.”

It was a topic he did not wish to revisit. “I thought you said you didn’t come here to discuss my father.”

“I lied,” she said. “You didn’t really believe me, did you?”

“No,” he realized. “I don’t suppose I did.”

“I just-I can’t-” She wrung her hands together, looking more pained and tortured than he’d ever seen her. A few strands of her hair had come loose from its pinnings, probably the result of her anxious gestures, and her color was high.

But it was her eyes that looked the most changed. There was a desperation there, a strange discomfort that did not belong.

And he realized that that was the thing about Hyacinth, the distinguishing characteristic that set her so apart from the rest of humanity. She was always at ease in her own skin. She knew who she was, and she liked who she was, and he supposed that was a large part of why he so enjoyed her company.

And he realized that she had-and she was-so many things he’d always wanted.

She knew her place in this world. She knew where she belonged.

She knew who she belonged with.

And he wanted the same. He wanted it with an intensity that cut right down to his soul. It was a strange, almost indescribable jealousy, but it was there. And it seared him.

“If you have any feeling for me whatsoever,” she said, “you will understand how bloody difficult this is for me, so for the love of God, Gareth, will you say something?”

“I-” He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to strangle him. Why had he asked her to marry him? There were a hundred reasons, a thousand. He tried to remember just what it was that had pushed the idea into his mind. It had come to him suddenly-he remembered that. But he didn’t recall exactly why, except that it had seemed the right thing to do.

Not because it was expected, not because it was proper, but just because it was right.

And yes, it was true that it had crossed his mind that it would be the ultimate win in this never-ending game with his father, but that wasn’t why he’d done it.

He’d done it because he’d had to.

Because he couldn’t imagine not doing it.

Because he loved her.

He felt himself slide, and thank God the desk was behind him, or he’d have ended up on the floor.

How on earth had this happened? He was in love with Hyacinth Bridgerton.

Surely someone somewhere was laughing about this.

“I’ll go,” she said, her voice breaking, and it was only when she reached the door that he realized he must have been silent for a full minute.

“No!” he called out, and his voice sounded impossibly hoarse. “Wait!” And then:

“Please.”

She stopped, turned. Shut the door.

And he realized that he had to tell her. Not that he loved her-that he wasn’t quite ready to reveal. But he had to tell her the truth about his birth. He couldn’t trick her into marriage.

“Hyacinth, I-”

The words jammed in his throat. He’d never told anyone. Not even his grandmother. No one knew the truth except for him and the baron.

For ten years, Gareth had kept it inside, allowed it to grow and fill him until sometimes it felt like it was all that he was. Nothing but a secret. Nothing but a lie.

“I need to tell you something,” he said haltingly, and she must have sensed that this was something out of the ordinary, because she went very still.

And Hyacinth was rarely still.

“I-My father…”

It was strange. He’d never thought to say it, had never rehearsed the words. And he didn’t know how to put them together, didn’t know which sentence to choose.

“He’s not my father,” he finally blurted out.

Hyacinth blinked. Twice.

“I don’t know who my real father is.”

Still, she said nothing.

“I expect I never will.”

He watched her face, waited for some sort of reaction. She was expressionless, so completely devoid of movement that she didn’t look like herself. And then, just when he was certain that he’d lost her forever, her mouth came together in a peevish line, and she said:

“Well. That’s a relief, I must say.”

His lips parted. “I beg your pardon.”

“I wasn’t particularly excited about my children carrying Lord St. Clair’s blood.” She shrugged, lifting her brows in a particularly Hyacinthish expression. “I’m happy for them to have his title-it’s a handy thing to possess, after all-but his blood is quite another thing. He’s remarkably bad-tempered, did you know that?”

Gareth nodded, a bubble of giddy emotion rising within him. “I’d noticed,” he heard himself say.

“I suppose we’ll have to keep it a secret,” she said, as if she were speaking of nothing more than the idlest of gossip. “Who else knows?”

He blinked, still a little dazed by her matter-of-fact approach to the problem. “Just the baron and me, as far as I’m aware.”

“And your real father.”

“I hope not,” Gareth said, and he realized that it was the first time he’d actually allowed himself to say the words-even, really, to think them.

“He might not have known,” Hyacinth said quietly, “or he might have thought you were better off with the St. Clairs, as a child of nobility.”

“I know all that,” Gareth said bitterly, “and yet somehow it doesn’t make it feel any better.”

“Your grandmother might know more.”

His eyes flew to her face.

“Isabella,” she clarified. “In her diary.”

“She wasn’t really my grandmother.”

“Did she ever act that way? As if you weren’t hers?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said, losing himself to the memories. “She loved me. I don’t know why, but she did.”

“It might be,” Hyacinth said, her voice catching in the oddest manner, “because you’re slightly lovable.”

His heart leapt. “Then you don’t wish to end the engagement,” he said, somewhat cautiously.

She looked at him with an uncommonly direct gaze. “Do you?”

He shook his head.

“Then why,” she said, her lips forming the barest of smiles, “would you think that I would?”

“Your family might object.”

“Pffft. We’re not so high in the instep as that. My brother’s wife is the illegitimate daughter of the Earl of Penwood and an actress of God knows what provenance, and any one of us would lay down our lives for her.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “But you are not illegitimate.”

He shook his head. “To my father’s everlasting despair.”

“Well, then,” she said, “I don’t see a problem. My brother and Sophie like to live quietly in the country, in part because of her past, but we shan’t be forced to do the same. Unless of course, you wish to.”

“The baron could raise a huge scandal,” he warned her.

She smiled. “Are you trying to talk me out of marrying you?”

“I just want you to understand-”

“Because I would hope by now you’ve learned that it’s a tiresome endeavor to attempt to talk me out of anything.”

Gareth could only smile at that.

“Your father won’t say a word,” she stated. “What would be the point? You were born in wedlock, so he can’t take away the title, and revealing you as a bastard would only reveal him as a cuckold.” She waved her hand through the air with great authority. “No man wants that.”

His lips curved, and he felt something changing inside of him, as if he were growing lighter, more free. “And you can speak for all men?” he murmured, moving slowly in her direction.

“Would you wish to be known as a cuckold?”

He shook his head. “But I don’t have to worry about that.”

She started to look just a little unnerved-but also excited-as he closed the distance between them. “Not if you keep me happy.”

“Why, Hyacinth Bridgerton, is that a threat?”

Her expression turned coy. “Perhaps.”

He was only a step away now. “I can see that I have my work cut out for me.”

Her chin lifted, and her chest began to rise and fall more rapidly. “I’m not a particularly easy woman.”

He found her hand and lifted her fingers to his mouth. “I do enjoy a challenge.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re-”

He took one of her fingers and slid it into his mouth, and she gasped.

“-marrying me,” she somehow finished.

He moved to another finger. “Mmm-hmm.”

“I-Ah-I-Ah-”

“You do like to talk,” he said with a chuckle.

“What do you-Oh!-”

He smiled to himself as he moved to the inside of her wrist.

“-mean by that?” But there wasn’t much punch left in her question. She was quite literally melting against the wall, and he felt like king of the world.

“Oh, nothing much,” he murmured, tugging her close so that he could move his lips to the side of her throat. “Just that I’m looking forward to actually marrying you so that you can make as much noise as you’d like.”

He couldn’t see her face-he was much too busy attending to the neckline of her dress, which clearly had to be brought down-but he knew she blushed. He felt the heat beneath her skin.

“Gareth,” she said in feeble protest. “We should stop.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said, sliding his hand under the hem of her skirt once it became clear that the bodice wasn’t going to budge.

“No”-she sighed-“not really.”

He smiled. “Good.”

She let out a moan as his fingers tickled up her leg, and then she must have grasped onto one last shred of sanity, because she said, “But we can’t…oh.”

“No, we can’t,” he agreed. The desk wouldn’t be comfortable, there was no room on the floor, and heaven only knew if Phelps had shut the outer door to his bedroom. He pulled back and gave her a devilish smile. “But we can do other things.”

Her eyes opened wide. “What other things?” she asked, sounding delightfully suspicious.

He wound his fingers in hers and then pulled both her hands over her head. “Do you trust me?”

“No,” she said, “but I don’t care.”

Still holding her hands aloft, he leaned her against the door and came in for a kiss. She tasted like tea, and like…

Her.

He could count the number of times he’d kissed her on one hand, and yet he still knew, still understood, that this was the essence of her. She was unique in his arms, beneath his kiss, and he knew that no one else would ever do again.

He let go of one of her hands, stroking his way softly down the line of her arm to her shoulder…neck…jaw. And then his other hand released her and found its way back to the hem of her dress.

She moaned his name, gasping and panting as his fingers moved up her leg.

“Relax,” he instructed, his lips hot against her ear.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“No,” she said, grabbing his face and forcing him to look at her. “I can’t.”

Gareth laughed aloud, enchanted by her bossiness. “Very well,” he said, “don’t relax.” And then, before she had a chance to respond, he slid his finger past the edge of her underthings and touched her.

“Oh!”

“No relaxing now,” he said with a chuckle.

“Gareth,” she gasped.

“Oh, Gareth, No Gareth, or More Gareth?” he murmured.

“More,” she moaned. “Please.”

“I love a woman who knows when to beg,” he said, redoubling his efforts.

Her head, which had been thrown back, came down so that she could look him in the eye. “You’ll pay for that,” she said.

He quirked a brow. “I will?”

She nodded. “Just not now.”

He laughed softly. “Fair enough.”

He rubbed her gently, using soft friction to bring her to a quivering peak. She was breathing erratically now, her lips parted and her eyes glazed. He loved her face, loved every little curve of it, the way the light hit her cheekbones and the shape of her jaw.

But there was something about it now, when she was lost in her own passion, that took his breath away. She was beautiful-not in a way that would launch a thousand ships, but in a more private fashion.

Her beauty was his and his alone.

And it humbled him.

He leaned down to kiss her, tenderly, with all the love he felt. He wanted to catch her gasp when she climaxed, wanted to feel her breath and her moan with his mouth. His fingers tickled and teased, and she tensed beneath him, her body trapped between his and the wall, grinding against them both.

“Gareth,” she gasped, breaking free of the kiss for just long enough to say his name.

“Soon,” he promised. He smiled. “Maybe now.”

And then, as he captured her for one last kiss, he slid one finger inside of her, even as another continued its caress. He felt her close tight around him, felt her body practically lift off the floor with the force of her passion.

And it was only then that he realized the true measure of his own desire. He was hard and hot and desperate for her, and even so, he’d been so focused on her that he hadn’t noticed.

Until now.

He looked at her. She was limp, breathless, and as near to insensible as he’d ever seen her.

Damn.

That was all right, he told himself unconvincingly. They had their whole lives ahead of them. One encounter with a tub of cold water wasn’t going to kill him.

“Happy?” he murmured, gazing down at her indulgently.

She nodded, but that was all she managed.

He dropped a kiss on her nose, then remembered the papers he’d left on his desk. They weren’t quite complete, but still, it seemed a good time to show them to her.

“I have a present for you,” he said.

Her eyes lit up. “You do?”

He nodded. “Just keep in mind that it’s the thought that counts.”

She smiled, following him to his desk, then taking a seat in the chair in front of it.

Gareth pushed aside some books, then carefully lifted a piece of paper. “It’s not done.”

“I don’t care,” she said softly.

But still, he didn’t show it to her. “I think it’s rather obvious that we are not going to find the jewels,” he said.

“No!” she protested. “We can-”

“Shhh. Let me finish.”

It went against her every last impulse, but she managed to shut her mouth.

“I am not in possession of a great deal of money,” he said.

“That doesn’t matter.”

He smiled wryly. “I’m glad you feel that way, because while we shan’t want for anything, nor will we live like your brothers and sisters.”

“I don’t need all that,” she said quickly. And she didn’t. Or at least she hoped she didn’t. But she knew, down to the tips of her toes, that she didn’t need anything as much as she needed him.

He looked slightly grateful, and also, maybe, just a little bit uncomfortable. “It’ll probably be even worse once I inherit the title,” he added. “I think the baron is trying to fix it so that he can beggar me from beyond the grave.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of marrying you again?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re most definitely stuck with me now. But I did want you to know that if I could, I would give you the world.” He held out the paper. “Starting with this.”

She took the sheet into her hands and looked down. It was a drawing, of her.

Her eyes widened with surprise. “Did you do this?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’m not well trained, but I can-”

“It’s very good,” she said, cutting him off. He would never find his way into history as a famous artist, but the likeness was a good one, and she rather thought he’d captured something in her eyes, something that she’d not seen in any of the portraits of her her family had commissioned.

“I have been thinking about Isabella,” he said, leaning against the edge of his desk. “And I remembered a story she told me when I was young. There was a princess, and an evil prince, and”-he smiled ruefully-“a diamond bracelet.”

Hyacinth had been watching his face, mesmerized by the warmth in his eyes, but at this she looked quickly back down at the drawing. There, on her wrist, was a diamond bracelet.

“I’m sure it’s nothing like what she actually hid,” he said, “but it is how I remember her describing it to me, and it is what I would give to you, if only I could.”

“Gareth, I-” And she felt tears, welling in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. “It is the most precious gift I have ever received.”

He looked…not like he didn’t believe her, but rather like he wasn’t quite sure that he should. “You don’t have to say-”

“It is,” she insisted, rising to her feet.

He turned and picked another piece of paper up off the desk. “I drew it here as well,” he said, “but larger, so you could see it better.”

She took the second piece of paper into her hands and looked down. He’d drawn just the bracelet, as if suspended in air. “It’s lovely,” she said, touching the image with her fingers.

He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “If it doesn’t exist, it should.”

She nodded, still examining the drawing. The bracelet was lovely, each link shaped almost like a leaf. It was delicate and whimsical, and Hyacinth ached to place it on her wrist.

But she could never treasure it as much as she did these two drawings. Never.

“I-” She looked up, her lips parting with surprise. She almost said, “I love you.”

“I love them,” she said instead, but when she looked up at him, she rather fancied that the truth was in her eyes.

I love you.

She smiled and placed her hand over his. She wanted to say it, but she wasn’t quite ready. She didn’t know why, except that maybe she was afraid to say it first. She, who was afraid of almost nothing, could not quite summon the courage to utter three little words.

It was astounding.

Terrifying.

And she decided to change the mood. “I still want to look for the jewels,” she said, clearing her throat until her voice emerged in its customarily efficient manner.

He groaned. “Why won’t you give up?”

“Because I…Well, because I can’t.” She clamped her mouth into a frown. “I certainly don’t want your father to have them now. Oh.” She looked up. “Am I to call him that?”

He shrugged. “I still do. It’s a difficult habit to break.”

She acknowledged this with a nod. “I don’t care if Isabella wasn’t really your grandmother. You deserve the bracelet.”

He gave her an amused smile. “And why is that?”

That stumped her for a moment. “Because you do,” she finally said. “Because someone has to have it, and I don’t want it to be him. Because-” She glanced longingly down at the drawing in her hands. “Because this is gorgeous.”

“Can’t we wait to find our Slovenian translator?”

She shook her head, pointing at the note, still lying on the desk. “What if it’s not in Slovene?”

“I thought you said it was,” he said, clearly exasperated.

“I said my brother thought it was,” she returned. “Do you know how many languages there are in central Europe?”

He cursed under his breath.

“I know,” she said. “It’s very frustrating.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “That’s not why I swore.”

“Then why-”

“Because you are going to be the death of me,” he ground out.

Hyacinth smiled, pointing her index finger and pressing it right against his chest. “Now you know why I said my family was mad to get me off their hands.”

“God help me, I do.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Can we go tomorrow?”

“No?”

“The next day?”

“No!”

“Please?” she tried.

He clamped his hands on her shoulders and spun her around until she faced the door. “I’m taking you home,” he announced.

She turned, trying to talk over her shoulder. “Pl-”

“No!”

Hyacinth shuffled along, allowing him to push her toward the door. When she could not put it off any longer, she grasped the doorknob, but before she turned it, she twisted back one last time, opened her mouth, and-

“NO!”

“I didn’t-”

“Very well,” he groaned, practically throwing his arms up in exasperation. “You win.”

“Oh, thank-”

“But you are not coming.”

She froze, her mouth still open and round. “I beg your pardon,” she said.

“I will go,” he said, looking very much as if he’d rather have all of his teeth pulled. “But you will not.”

She stared at him, trying to come up with a way to say, “That’s not fair,” without sounding juvenile. Deciding that was impossible, she set to work attempting to figure out how to ask how she would know he’d actually gone without sounding as if she didn’t trust him.

Botheration, that was a lost cause as well.

So she settled for crossing her arms and skewering him with a glare.

To no effect whatsoever. He just stared down at her and said, “No.”

Hyacinth opened her mouth one last time, then gave up, sighed, and said, “Well, I suppose if I could walk all over you, you wouldn’t be worth marrying.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “You’re going to be a fine wife, Hyacinth Bridgerton,” he said, nudging her out of the room.

“Hmmph.”

He groaned. “Good God, but not if you turn into my grandmother.”

“It is my every aspiration,” she said archly.

“Pity,” he murmured, tugging at her arm so that she came to a halt before they reached his sitting room.

She turned to him, questioning with her eyes.

He curved his lips, all innocence. “Well, I can’t do this to my grandmother.”

“Oh!” she yelped. How had he gotten his hand there?

“Or this.”

“Gareth!”

“Gareth, yes, or Gareth, no?”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it.

“Gareth more.”