It's In His Kiss

Chapter 4

At which point Hyacinth’s life finally becomes almost as exciting as Priscilla Butterworth’s. Minus the cliffs, of course…

Hyacinth watched with interest as Mr. St. Clair appeared to hesitate. He glanced over at her, his clear blue eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before he turned back to his grandmother. Hyacinth tried not to look too interested; he was obviously trying to decide if he should mention his business in her presence, and she suspected that any interference on her part would cause him to keep his counsel.

But apparently she passed muster, because after a brief moment of silence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small, leather-bound book.

“What is this?” Lady Danbury asked, taking it into her hands.

“Grandmother St. Clair’s diary,” he replied. “Caroline brought it over this afternoon. She found it among George’s effects.”

“It’s in Italian,” Lady D said.

“Yes, I was aware.”

“I meant, why did you bring it to me?” she asked, somewhat impatiently.

Mr. St. Clair gave her a lazy half smile. “You are always telling me you know everything, or if not everything, then everyone.”

“You said that to me earlier this afternoon,” Hyacinth put in helpfully.

Mr. St. Clair turned to her with a vaguely patronizing, “Thank you,” which arrived at precisely the same moment as Lady Danbury’s glare.

Hyacinth squirmed. Not at Lady D’s glare-she was quite impervious to those. But she hated this feeling that Mr. St. Clair thought her deserving of condescension.

“I was hoping,” he said to his grandmother, “that you might know of a reputable translator.”

“For Italian?”

“It would seem to be the required language.”

“Hmmph.” Lady D tap tap tapped her cane against the carpet, much the way a normal person would drum fingers atop a table. “Italian? Not nearly as ubiquitous as French, which of course any decent person would-”

“I can read Italian,” Hyacinth interrupted.

Two identical pairs of blue eyes swung her direction.

“You’re joking,” Mr. St. Clair said, coming in a mere half second before his grandmother barked, “You can?”

“You don’t know everything about me,” Hyacinth said archly. To Lady Danbury, of course, since Mr. St. Clair could hardly make that claim.

“Well, yes, of course,” Lady D blustered, “but Italian?”

“I had an Italian governess when I was small,” Hyacinth said with a shrug. “It amused her to teach me. I’m not fluent,” she allowed, “but given a page or two, I can make out the general meaning.”

“This is quite more than a page or two,” Mr. St. Clair said, tilting his head toward the diary, which still rested in his grandmother’s hands.

“Clearly,” Hyacinth replied peevishly. “But I’m not likely to read more than a page or two at a time. And she didn’t write it in the style of the ancient Romans, did she?”

“That would be Latin,” Mr. St. Clair drawled.

Hyacinth clamped her teeth together. “Nevertheless,” she ground out.

“For the love of God, boy,” Lady Danbury cut in, “give her the book.”

Mr. St. Clair forbore to point out that she was still holding it, which Hyacinth thought showed remarkable restraint on his part. Instead, he rose to his feet, plucked the slim volume from his grandmother’s hands, and turned toward Hyacinth. He hesitated then-just for a moment, and Hyacinth would have missed it had she been looking anywhere but directly at his face.

He brought the book to her then, holding it out with a softly murmured, “Miss Bridgerton.”

Hyacinth accepted it, shivering against the odd feeling that she had just done something far more powerful than merely taking a book into her hands.

“Are you cold, Miss Bridgerton?” Mr. St. Clair murmured.

She shook her head, using the book as a means to avoid looking at him. “The pages are slightly brittle,” she said, carefully turning one.

“What does it say?” Mr. St. Clair asked.

Hyacinth gritted her teeth. It was never fun to be forced to perform under pressure, and it was nigh near impossible with Gareth St. Clair breathing down her neck.

“Give her some room!” Lady D barked.

He moved, but not enough to make Hyacinth feel any more at ease.

“Well?” he demanded.

Hyacinth’s head bobbed slightly back and forth as she worked out the meaning. “She’s writing about her upcoming wedding,” she said. “I think she’s due to marry your grandfather in”-she bit her lip as she scanned down the page for the appropriate words-“three weeks. I gather the ceremony was in Italy.”

Mr. St. Clair nodded once before prodding her with, “And?”

“And…” Hyacinth wrinkled her nose, as she always did when she was thinking hard. It wasn’t a terribly attractive expression, but the alternative was simply not to think, which she didn’t find appealing.

“What did she say?” Lady Danbury urged.

“Orrendo orrendo…,” Hyacinth murmured. “Oh, right.” She looked up. “She’s not very happy about it.”

“Who would be?” Lady D put in. “The man was a bear, apologies to those in the room sharing his blood.”

Mr. St. Clair ignored her. “What else?”

“I told you I’m not fluent,” Hyacinth finally snapped. “I need time to work it out.”

“Take it home,” Lady Danbury said. “You’ll be seeing him tomorrow night, anyway.”

“I am?” Hyacinth asked, at precisely the moment Mr. St. Clair said, “She will?”

“You’re accompanying me to the Pleinsworth poetry reading,” Lady D told her grandson. “Or have you forgotten?”

Hyacinth sat back, enjoying the sight of Gareth St. Clair’s mouth opening and closing in obvious distress. He looked a bit like a fish, she decided. A fish with the features of a Greek god, but still, a fish.

“I really…” he said. “That is to say, I can’t-”

“You can, and you will be there,” Lady D said. “You promised.”

He regarded her with a stern expression. “I cannot imagine-”

“Well, if you didn’t promise, you should have done, and ifyou love me…”

Hyacinth coughed to cover her laugh, then tried not to smirk when Mr. St. Clair shot a dirty look in her direction.

“When I die,” he said, “surely my epitaph will read, ‘He loved his grandmother when no one else would.’”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Lady Danbury asked.

“I’ll be there,” he sighed.

“Bring wool for your ears,” Hyacinth advised.

He looked aghast. “It cannot possibly be worse than last night’s musicale.”

Hyacinth couldn’t quite keep one corner of her mouth from tilting up. “Lady Pleinsworth used to be a Smythe-Smith.”

Across the room, Lady Danbury chortled with glee.

“I had best be getting home,” Hyacinth said, rising to her feet. “I shall try to translate the first entry before I see you tomorrow evening, Mr. St. Clair.”

“You have my gratitude, Miss Bridgerton.”

Hyacinth nodded and crossed the room, trying to ignore the strangely giddy sensation growing in her chest. It was just a book, for heaven’s sake.

And he was just a man.

It was annoying, this strange compulsion she felt to impress him. She wanted to do something that would prove her intelligence and wit, something that would force him to look at her with an expression other than vague amusement.

“Allow me to walk you to the door,” Mr. St. Clair said, falling into step beside her.

Hyacinth turned, then felt her breath stop short in surprise. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close. “I…ah…”

It was his eyes, she realized. So blue and clear she ought to have felt she could read his thoughts, but instead she rather thought he could read hers.

“Yes?” he murmured, placing her hand on his elbow.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“Why, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, guiding her into the hall. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words. Except for the other night,” he added, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side.

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes.

“At the musicale,” he supplied helpfully. “It was lovely.” He smiled, most annoyingly. “Wasn’t it lovely?”

Hyacinth clamped her lips together. “You barely know me, Mr. St. Clair,” she said.

“Your reputation precedes you.”

“As does yours.”

“Touché, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, but she didn’t particularly feel she’d won the point.

Hyacinth saw her maid waiting by the door, so she extricated her hand from Mr. St. Clair’s elbow and crossed the foyer. “Until tomorrow, Mr. St. Clair,” she said.

And as the door shut behind her, she could have sworn she heard him reply, “Arrivederci.”

Hyacinth arrives home.

Her mother has been waiting for her.

This is not good.

“Charlotte Stokehurst,” Violet Bridgerton announced, “is getting married.”

“Today?” Hyacinth queried, taking off her gloves.

Her mother gave her a look. “She has become engaged. Her mother told me this morning.”

Hyacinth looked around. “Were you waiting for me in the hall?”

“To the Earl of Renton,” Violet added. “Renton.”

“Have we any tea?” Hyacinth asked. “I walked all the way home, and I’m thirsty.”

“Renton!” Violet exclaimed, looking about ready to throw up her hands in despair. “Did you hear me?”

“Renton,” Hyacinth said obligingly. “He has fat ankles.”

“He’s-” Violet stopped short. “Why were you looking at his ankles?”

“I couldn’t very well miss them,” Hyacinth replied. She handed her reticule-which contained the Italian diary-to a maid. “Would you take this to my room, please?”

Violet waited until the maid scurried off. “I have tea in the drawing room, and there is nothing wrong with Renton’s ankles.”

Hyacinth shrugged. “If you like the puffy sort.”

“Hyacinth!”

Hyacinth sighed tiredly, following her mother into the drawing room. “Mother, you have six married children, and they all are quite happy with their choices. Why must you try to push me into an unsuitable alliance?”

Violet sat and prepared a cup of tea for Hyacinth. “I’m not,” she said, “but Hyacinth, couldn’t you even look?”

“Mother, I-”

“Or for my sake, pretend to?”

Hyacinth could not help but smile.

Violet held the cup out, then took it back and added another spoonful of sugar. Hyacinth was the only one in the family who took sugar in her tea, and she’d always liked it extra sweet.

“Thank you,” Hyacinth said, tasting the brew. It wasn’t quite as hot as she preferred, but she drank it anyway.

“Hyacinth,” her mother said, in that tone of voice that always made Hyacinth feel a little guilty, even though she knew better, “you know I only wish to see you happy.”

“I know,” Hyacinth said. That was the problem. Her mother did only wish her to be happy. If Violet had been pushing her toward marriage for social glory or financial gain, it would have been much easier to ignore her. But no, her mother loved her and truly did want her to be happy, not just married, and so Hyacinth tried her best to maintain her good humor through all of her mother’s sighs.

“I would never wish to see you married to someone whose company you did not enjoy,” Violet continued.

“I know.”

“And if you never met the right person, I would be perfectly happy to see you remain unwed.”

Hyacinth eyed her dubiously.

“Very well,” Violet amended, “not perfectly happy, but you know I would never pressure you to marry someone unsuitable.”

“I know,” Hyacinth said again.

“But darling, you’ll never find anyone if you don’t look.”

“I look!” Hyacinth protested. “I have gone out almost every night this week. I even went to the Smythe-Smith musicale last night. Which,” she said quite pointedly, “I might add you did not attend.”

Violet coughed. “Bit of a cough, I’m afraid.”

Hyacinth said nothing, but no one could have mistaken the look in her eyes.

“I heard you sat next to Gareth St. Clair,” Violet said, after an appropriate silence.

“Do you have spies everywhere?” Hyacinth grumbled.

“Almost,” Violet replied. “It makes life so much easier.”

“For you, perhaps.”

“Did you like him?” Violet persisted.

Like him? It seemed such an odd question. Did she like Gareth St. Clair? Did she like that it always felt as if he was silently laughing at her, even after she’d agreed to translate his grandmother’s diary? Did she like that she could never tell what he was thinking, or that he left her feeling unsettled, and not quite herself?

“Well?” her mother asked.

“Somewhat,” Hyacinth hedged.

Violet didn’t say anything, but her eyes took on a gleam that terrified Hyacinth to her very core.

“Don’t,” Hyacinth warned.

“He would be an excellent match, Hyacinth.”

Hyacinth stared at her mother as if she’d sprouted an extra head. “Have you gone mad? You know his reputation as well as I.”

Violet brushed that aside instantly. “His reputation won’t matter once you’re married.”

“It would if he continued to consort with opera singers and the like.”

“He wouldn’t,” Violet said, waving her hand dismissively.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Violet paused for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s a feeling I have.”

“Mother,” Hyacinth said with a great show of solicitude, “you know I love you dearly-”

“Why is it,” Violet pondered, “that I have come to expect nothing good when I hear a sentence beginning in that manner?”

“But,” Hyacinth cut in, “you must forgive me if I decline to marry someone based upon a feeling you might or might not have.”

Violet sipped her tea with rather impressive nonchalance. “It’s the next best thing to a feeling you might have. And if I may say so myself, my feelings on these things tend to be right on the mark.” At Hyacinth’s dry expression, she added, “I haven’t been wrong yet.”

Well, that was true, Hyacinth had to acknowledge. To herself, of course. If she actually admitted as much out loud, her mother would take that as a carte blanche to pursue Mr. St. Clair until he ran screaming for the trees.

“Mother,” Hyacinth said, pausing for slightly longer than normal to steal a bit of time to organize her thoughts, “I am not going to chase after Mr. St. Clair. He’s not at all the right sort of man for me.”

“I’m not certain you’d know the right sort of man for you if he arrived on our doorstep riding an elephant.”

“I would think the elephant would be a fairly good indication that I ought to look elsewhere.”

“Hyacinth.”

“And besides that,” Hyacinth added, thinking about the way Mr. St. Clair always seemed to look at her in that vaguely condescending manner of his, “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“Nonsense,” Violet said, with all the outrage of a mother hen. “Everyone likes you.”

Hyacinth thought about that for a moment. “No,” she said, “I don’t think everyone does.”

“Hyacinth, I am your mother, and I know-”

“Mother, you’re the last person anyone would tell if they didn’t like me.”

“Nevertheless-”

“Mother,” Hyacinth cut in, setting her teacup firmly in its saucer, “it is of no concern. I don’t mind that I am not universally adored. If I wanted everyone to like me, I’d have to be kind and charming and bland and boring all the time, and what would be the fun in that?”

“You sound like Lady Danbury,” Violet said.

“I like Lady Danbury.”

“I like her, too, but that doesn’t mean I want her as my daughter.”

“Mother-”

“You won’t set your cap for Mr. St. Clair because he scares you,” Violet said.

Hyacinth actually gasped. “That is not true.”

“Of course it is,” Violet returned, looking vastly pleased with herself. “I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me sooner. And he isn’t the only one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why have you not married yet?” Violet asked.

Hyacinth blinked at the abruptness of the question. “I beg your pardon.”

“Why have you not married?” Violet repeated. “Do you even want to?”

“Of course I do.” And she did. She wanted it more than she would ever admit, probably more than she’d ever realized until that very moment. She looked at her mother and she saw a matriarch, a woman who loved her family with a fierceness that brought tears to her eyes. And in that moment Hyacinth realized that she wanted to love with that fierceness. She wanted children. She wanted a family.

But that did not mean that she was willing to marry the first man who came along. Hyacinth was nothing if not pragmatic; she’d be happy to marry someone she didn’t love, provided he suited her in almost every other respect. But good heavens, was it so much to ask for a gentleman with some modicum of intelligence?

“Mother,” she said, softening her tone, since she knew that Violet meant well, “I do wish to marry. I swear to you that I do. And clearly I have been looking.”

Violet lifted her brows. “Clearly?”

“I have had six proposals,” Hyacinth said, perhaps a touch defensively. “It’s not my fault that none was suitable.”

“Indeed.”

Hyacinth felt her lips part with surprise at her mother’s tone. “What do you mean by that?”

“Of course none of those men was suitable. Half were after your fortune, and as for the other half-well, you would have reduced them to tears within a month.”

“Such tenderness for your youngest child,” Hyacinth muttered. “It quite undoes me.”

Violet let out a ladylike snort. “Oh, please, Hyacinth, you know exactly what I mean, and you know that I am correct. None of those men was your match. You need someone who is your equal.”

“That is exactly what I have been trying to tell you.”

“But my question to you is-why are the wrong men asking for your hand?”

Hyacinth opened her mouth, but she had no answer.

“You say you wish to find a man who is your match,” Violet said, “and I think you think you do, but the truth is, Hyacinth-every time you meet someone who can hold his own with you, you push him away.”

“I don’t,” Hyacinth said, but not very convincingly.

“Well, you certainly don’t encourage them,” Violet said. She leaned forward, her eyes filled with equal parts concern and remonstration. “You know I love you dearly, Hyacinth, but you do like to have the upper hand in the conversation.”

“Who doesn’t?” Hyacinth muttered.

“Any man who is your equal is not going to allow you to manage him as you see fit.”

“But that’s not what I want,” Hyacinth protested.

Violet sighed. But it was a nostalgic sound, full of warmth and love. “I wish I could explain to you how I felt the day you were born,” she said.

“Mother?” Hyacinth asked softly. The change of subject was sudden, and somehow Hyacinth knew that whatever her mother said to her, it was going to matter more than anything she’d ever heard in her life.

“It was so soon after your father died. And I was so sad. I can’t even begin to tell you how sad. There’s a kind of grief that just eats one up. It weighs one down. And one can’t-” Violet stopped, and her lips moved, the corners tightening in that way they did when a person was swallowing…and trying not to cry. “Well, one can’t do anything. There’s no way to explain it unless you’ve felt it yourself.”

Hyacinth nodded, even though she knew she could never truly understand.

“That entire last month I just didn’t know how to feel,” Violet continued, her voice growing softer. “I didn’t know how to feel about you. I’d had seven babies already; one would think I would be an expert. But suddenly everything was new. You wouldn’t have a father, and I was so scared. I was going to have to be everything to you. I suppose I was going to have to be everything to your brothers and sisters as well, but somehow that was different. With you…”

Hyacinth just watched her, unable to take her eyes from her mother’s face.

“I was scared,” Violet said again, “terrified that I might fail you in some way.”

“You didn’t,” Hyacinth whispered.

Violet smiled wistfully. “I know. Just look how well you turned out.”

Hyacinth felt her mouth wobble, and she wasn’t sure whether she was going to laugh or cry.

“But that’s not what I’m trying to tell you,” Violet said, her eyes taking on a slightly determined expression. “What I’m trying to say is that when you were born, and they put you into my arms-it’s strange, because for some reason I was so convinced you would look just like your father. I thought for certain I would look down and see his face, and it would be some sort of sign from heaven.”

Hyacinth’s breath caught as she watched her, and she wondered why her mother had never told her this story. And why she’d never asked.

“But you didn’t,” Violet continued. “You looked rather like me. And then-oh my, I remember this as if it were yesterday-you looked into my eyes, and you blinked. Twice.”

“Twice?” Hyacinth echoed, wondering why this was important.

“Twice.” Violet looked at her, her lips curving into a funny little smile. “I only remember it because you looked so deliberate. It was the strangest thing. You gave me a look as if to say, ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’ ”

A little burst of air rushed past Hyacinth’s lips, and she realized it was a laugh. A small one, the kind that takes a body by surprise.

“And then you let out a wail,” Violet said, shaking her head. “My heavens, I thought you were going to shake the paint right off the walls. And I smiled. It was the first time since your father died that I smiled.”

Violet took a breath, then reached for her tea. Hyacinth watched as her mother composed herself, wanting desperately to ask her to continue, but somehow knowing the moment called for silence.

For a full minute Hyacinth waited, and then finally her mother said, softly, “And from that moment on, you were so dear to me. I love all my children, but you…” She looked up, her eyes catching Hyacinth’s. “You saved me.”

Something squeezed in Hyacinth’s chest. She couldn’t quite move, couldn’t quite breathe. She could only watch her mother’s face, listen to her words, and be so very, very grateful that she’d been lucky enough to be her child.

“In some ways I was a little too protective of you,” Violet said, her lips forming the tiniest of smiles, “and at the same time too lenient. You were so exuberant, so completely sure of who you were and how you fit into the world around you. You were a force of nature, and I didn’t want to clip your wings.”

“Thank you,” Hyacinth whispered, but the words were so soft, she wasn’t even sure she’d said them aloud.

“But sometimes I wonder if this left you too unaware of the people around you.”

Hyacinth suddenly felt awful.

“No, no,” Violet said quickly, seeing the stricken expression on Hyacinth’s face. “You are kind, and you’re caring, and you are far more thoughtful than I think anyone realizes. But-oh dear, I don’t know how to explain this.” She took a breath, her nose wrinkling as she searched for the right words. “You are so used to being completely comfortable with yourself and what you say.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Hyacinth asked. Not defensively, just quietly.

“Nothing. I wish more people had that talent.” Violet clasped her hands together, her left thumb rubbing against her right palm. It was a gesture Hyacinth had seen on her mother countless times, always when she was lost in thought.

“But what I think happens,” Violet continued, “is that when you don’t feel that way-when something happens to give you unease-well, you don’t seem to know how to manage it. And you run. Or you decide it isn’t worth it.” She looked at her daughter, her eyes direct and perhaps just a little bit resigned. “And that,” she finally said, “is why I’m afraid you will never find the right man. Or rather, you’ll find him, but you won’t know it. You won’t let yourself know it.”

Hyacinth stared at her mother, feeling very still, and very small, and very unsure of herself. How had this happened? How had she come in here, expecting the usual talk of husbands and weddings and the lack thereof, only to find herself laid bare and open until she wasn’t quite certain who she was anymore.

“I’ll think about that,” she said to her mother.

“That’s all I can ask.”

And it was all she could promise.