On The Way To The Wedding

Six

In which Our Hero makes progress.

Dear God, what had she said?

That single thought pounded through Lucy’s mind as she lay in bed that night, too horrified even to toss and turn. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, utterly still, utterly mortified.

And the next morning, as she peered in the mirror, sighing at the weary lavender color beneath her eyes, there it was again-

Oh, Mr. Bridgerton, you are so much better than the rest.

And every time she relived it, the voice in her memory grew higher, more simpering, until she turned into one of those awful creatures-the girls who fluttered and swooned every time someone’s older brother came to visit at school.

“Lucy Abernathy,” she muttered under her breath, “you silly cow.”

“Did you say something?” Hermione looked up at her from her position near the bed. Lucy already had her hand on the doorknob, ready to leave for breakfast.

“Just doing sums in my head,” Lucy lied.

Hermione went back to putting on her shoes. “For heaven’s sake, why?” she said, mostly to herself.

Lucy shrugged, even though Hermione was not looking at her. She always said that she was doing sums in her head when Hermione caught her talking to herself. She had no idea why Hermione believed her; Lucy detested sums, almost as much as she hated fractions and tables. But it seemed like the sort of thing she might do, practical as she was, and Hermione had never questioned it.

Every now and then Lucy mumbled a number, just to make it more authentic.

“Are you ready to go down?” Lucy asked, twisting the knob. Not that she was. The last thing she wished was to see, well, anyone. Mr. Bridgerton in particular, of course, but the thought of facing the world at large was just ghastly.

But she was hungry, and she was going to have to show herself eventually, and she didn’t see why her misery ought to wallow on an empty stomach.

As they walked to breakfast, Hermione peered at her curiously. “Are you well, Lucy?” she asked. “You look a little strange.”

Lucy fought the urge to laugh. She was strange. She was an idiot, and probably shouldn’t be let loose in public.

Good God, had she actually told Gregory Bridgerton that he was better than the rest?

She wanted to die. Or at the very least hide under a bed.

But no, she couldn’t even manage to feign illness and have a good lying-in. It hadn’t even occurred to her to try. She was so ridiculously normal and routineish that she was up and ready to depart for breakfast before she’d even managed a single coherent thought.

Aside from the pondering of her apparent madness, of course. That she had no trouble focusing upon.

“Well, you look very fine, anyway,” Hermione said as they reached the top of the staircase. “I do like your choice of the green ribbon with the blue dress. I wouldn’t have thought of it, but it’s very smart. And so lovely with your eyes.”

Lucy looked down at her clothing. She had no recollection of dressing herself. It was a miracle she did not look as if she had escaped from a Gypsy circus.

Although…

She let out a little sigh. Running off with the Gypsies sounded rather appealing just then, practical even, since she was quite certain she ought never to show her face in polite society again. Clearly she was missing an extremely important connecting vessel between her brain and her mouth, and heaven only knew what might emerge from her lips next.

Good gracious, she might as well have told Gregory Bridgerton that she thought him a god.

Which she did not. Not at all. She merely thought him a rather fine catch for Hermione. And she’d told him so. Hadn’t she?

What had she said? Precisely, what had she said?

“Lucy?”

What she said was…What she said was-

She stopped cold.

Dear God. He was going to think she wanted him.

Hermione walked another few paces before she realized Lucy was no longer in step beside her. “Lucy?”

“Do you know,” Lucy said, her voice coming out just a little bit squeaky, “I don’t believe I’m hungry after all.”

Hermione looked incredulous. “For breakfast?”

It was a bit farfetched. Lucy always ate like a sailor at breakfast.

“I…ah…I think something did not quite agree with me last night. Perhaps the salmon.” She put her hand on her belly for added effect. “I think I should lie down.”

And never get up.

“You do look a bit green,” Hermione said.

Lucy smiled wanly, making a conscious decision to be thankful for small favors.

“Would you like me to bring you something?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Lucy said fervently, hoping Hermione hadn’t heard the rumble of her stomach.

“Oh, but I shouldn’t,” Hermione said, placing one thoughtful finger to her lips. “You probably shouldn’t eat if you are feeling queasy. The last thing you want is to bring it all up again.”

“It’s not queasiness, exactly,” Lucy improvised.

“It’s not?”

“It’s…ah…rather difficult to explain, actually. I…” Lucy sagged against the wall. Who knew she had it in her to be such a fine actress?

Hermione rushed to her side, concern knitting her brow. “Oh dear,” she said, supporting Lucy with an arm around her back. “You look ghastly.”

Lucy blinked. Maybe she was taking ill. Even better. That would keep her sequestered for days.

“I am returning you to bed,” Hermione said, her tone brooking no argument. “And then I will summon Mother. She will know what to do.”

Lucy nodded with relief. Lady Watson’s remedy for any sort of ailment was chocolate and biscuits. Unorthodox, to be sure, but as it was what Hermione’s mother chose whenever she claimed to be ill, she couldn’t very well deny it to anyone else.

Hermione guided her back to their bedchamber, even going so far as to remove Lucy’s slippers for her before she lay atop the bed. “If I didn’t know you so well,” Hermione said, tossing the slippers carelessly into the armoire, “I would think you were faking.”

“I would never.”

“Oh, you would,” Hermione said. “You absolutely would. But you could never carry it off. You’re far too traditional.”

Traditional? What had that to do with anything?

Hermione let out a little huff of air. “I’m probably going to have to sit with that wearisome Mr. Bridgerton at breakfast now.”

“He’s not so dreadful,” Lucy said, with perhaps a bit more verve than one might expect from someone with a belly full of bad salmon.

“I suppose not,” Hermione acceded. “He’s better than most, I daresay.”

Lucy winced at the echo of her own words. So much better than the rest. So much better than the rest.

It was quite possibly the most appalling thing ever to cross her lips.

“But he is not for me,” Hermione continued, oblivious to Lucy’s distress. “He will realize it soon enough. And then he will move on to someone else.”

Lucy doubted that, but she didn’t say anything. What a coil. Hermione was in love with Mr. Edmonds, Mr. Bridgerton was in love with Hermione, and Lucy was not in love with Mr. Bridgerton.

But he thought she was.

Which was nonsense, of course. She would never allow that to happen, practically engaged as she was to Lord Haselby.

Haselby. She nearly groaned. This would all be so much easier if she could remember his face.

“Perhaps I’ll ring for breakfast,” Hermione said, her face lighting up as if she had just discovered a new continent. “Do you think they will send up a tray?”

Oh, blast. There went all her plans. Now Hermione had an excuse to remain in their chamber all day. And the next, too, if Lucy continued to feign illness.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner,” Hermione said, heading to the bellpull. “I would much rather remain here with you.”

“Don’t,” Lucy called out, her brain spinning madly.

“Why not?”

Indeed. Lucy thought quickly. “If you have them bring a tray, you might not get what you want.”

“But I know what I want. Coddled eggs and toast. Surely they can manage that.”

“But I don’t want coddled eggs and toast.” Lucy tried to keep her expression as pitiful and pathetic as she could manage. “You know my taste so well. If you go to the breakfast room, I’m sure you would find something exactly right.”

“But I thought you weren’t going to eat.”

Lucy put her hand back on her belly. “Well, I might want to eat a little.”

“Oh, very well,” Hermione said, by now sounding more impatient than anything else. “What do you want?”

“Er, perhaps some bacon?”

“With a fishy stomach?”

“I’m not sure it was the fish.”

For the longest moment, Hermione just stood there and stared at her. “Just bacon, then?” she finally asked.

“Ehm, and anything else you think I might enjoy,” Lucy said, since it would have been easy enough to ring for bacon.

Hermione let out a pent-up breath. “I shall return soon.” She regarded Lucy with a slightly suspicious expression. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

“I won’t,” Lucy promised. She smiled at the door as it closed behind Hermione. She counted to ten, then hopped out of bed and ran to the wardrobe to straighten her slippers. Once that was done to her satisfaction, she snatched up a book and crawled back in to settle down and read.

All in all, it was turning out to be a lovely morning.

By the time Gregory entered the breakfast room, he was feeling much better. What had happened the night before-it was nothing. Practically forgotten.

It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to kiss Lady Lucinda. He’d merely wondered about it, which was worlds apart.

He was just a man, after all. He’d wondered about hundreds of women, most of the time without any intention of even speaking to them. Everybody wondered. It was whether one acted upon it that made the difference.

What was that his brothers-his happily married brothers, he might add-had once said? Marriage didn’t render them blind. They might not be looking for other women, but that didn’t mean they didn’t notice what was standing right in front of them. Whether it was a barmaid with extremely large bosoms or a proper young lady with a-well, with a pair of lips-one couldn’t very well not see the body part in question.

And if one saw, then of course one would wonder, and-

And nothing. It all added up to nothing.

Which meant Gregory could eat his breakfast with a clear head.

Eggs were good for the soul, he decided. Bacon, too.

The only other occupant of the breakfast room was the fiftyish and perpetually starchy Mr. Snowe, who was thankfully more interested in his newspaper than in conversation. After the obligatory grunts of greeting, Gregory sat down at the opposite end of the table and began to eat.

Excellent sausage this morning. And the toast was exceptional as well. Just the right amount of butter. A bit of salt needed for the eggs, but other than that they were rather tasty.

He tried the salted cod. Not bad. Not bad at all.

He took another bite. Chewed. Enjoyed himself. Thought very deep thoughts about politics and agriculture.

Moved on determinedly to Newtonian physics. He really should have paid more attention at Eton, because he couldn’t quite recall the difference between force and work.

Let’s see, work was that bit with the foot-pounds, and force was…

It wasn’t even really wondering. Honestly, it could all be blamed on a trick of the light. And his mood. He’d been feeling a bit off. He’d been looking at her mouth because she’d been talking, for heaven’s sake. Where else was he meant to look?

He picked up his fork with renewed vigor. Back to the cod. And his tea. Nothing washed everything away like tea.

He took a long sip, peering over the edge of his cup as he heard someone coming down the hall.

And then she filled the doorway.

He blinked with surprise, then glanced over her shoulder. She’d come without her extra appendage.

Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think he’d ever seen Miss Watson without Lady Lucinda.

“Good morning,” he called out, in precisely the right tone. Friendly enough so as not to sound bored, but not too friendly. A man never wanted to sound desperate.

Miss Watson looked over at him as he stood, and her face registered absolutely no emotion whatsoever. Not happiness, not ire, nothing but the barest flicker of acknowledgment. It was quite remarkable, really.

“Good morning,” she murmured.

Then, hell, why not. “Will you join me?” he asked.

Her lips parted and she paused, as if not quite sure what she wished to do. And then, as if to offer perverse proof that they did in fact share some sort of higher connection, he read her mind.

Truly. He knew exactly what she was thinking.

Oh, very well, I suppose I have to eat breakfast, anyway.

It positively warmed the soul.

“I cannot stay very long,” Miss Watson said. “Lucy is unwell, and I promised to bring her a tray.”

It was difficult to imagine the indomitable Lady Lucinda taking ill, although Gregory didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he knew her. Really, it had been nothing but a few conversations. If that. “I trust it is nothing serious,” he murmured.

“I don’t think so,” she replied, taking a plate. She looked up at him, blinking those astounding green eyes. “Did you eat the fish?”

He looked down at his cod. “Now?”

“No, last night.”

“I imagine so. I usually eat everything.”

Her lips pursed for a moment, then she murmured, “I ate it as well.”

Gregory waited for further explanation, but she didn’t seem inclined to offer any. So instead he remained on his feet as she placed delicate portions of eggs and ham on her plate. Then, after a moment’s deliberation-

Am I really hungry? Because the more food I put on my plate, the longer it will take to consume it. Here. In the breakfast room. With him.

– she took a piece of toast.

Hmmm. Yes, I’m hungry.

Gregory waited until she took a seat across from him, and he sat down. Miss Watson offered him a small smile-the sort that was really nothing more than a shrug of the lips-and proceeded to eat her eggs.

“Did you sleep well?” Gregory asked.

She dabbed at her mouth with her serviette. “Very well, thank you.”

“I did not,” he announced. Hell, if polite conversation failed to draw her out, perhaps he ought to opt for surprise.

She looked up. “I’m so sorry.” And then she looked back down. And ate.

“Terrible dream,” he said. “Nightmare, really. Ghastly.”

She picked up her knife and cut her bacon. “I’m so sorry,” she said, seemingly unaware that she’d uttered those very same words mere moments earlier.

“I can’t quite recall what it was,” Gregory mused. He was making it all up, of course. He hadn’t slept well, but not because of a nightmare. But he was going to get her to talk to him or die trying. “Do you remember your dreams?” he asked.

Her fork stopped midway to her mouth-and there was that delightful connection of the minds again.

In God’s name, why is he asking me this?

Well, maybe not in God’s name. That would require a bit more emotion than she seemed to possess. At least with him.

“Er, no,” she said. “Not usually.”

“Really? How intriguing. I recall mine about half of the time, I would estimate.”

She nodded.

If I nod, I won’t have to come up with something to say.

He plowed on. “My dream from last night was quite vivid. There was a rainstorm. Thunder and lightning. Very dramatic.”

She turned her neck, ever so slowly, and looked over her shoulder.

“Miss Watson?”

She turned back. “I thought I heard someone.”

I hoped I heard someone.

Really, this mind-reading talent was beginning to grow tedious.

“Right,” he said. Well, where was I?”

Miss Watson began to eat very quickly.

Gregory leaned forward. She wasn’t going to escape so easily. “Oh, yes, the rain,” he said. “It was pouring. Absolute deluge. And the ground began to melt beneath my feet. Dragged me down.”

He paused, purposefully, and then kept his eyes on her face until she was forced to say something.

After a few moments of exceedingly awkward silence, she finally moved her gaze from her food to his face. A small piece of egg trembled on the edge of her fork.

“The ground was melting,” he said. And almost laughed.

“How…unpleasant.”

“It was,” he said, with great animation. “I thought it would swallow me whole. Have you ever felt like that, Miss Watson?”

Silence. And then-“No. No, I can’t say that I have.”

He idly fingered his earlobe, and then said, quite offhandedly, “I didn’t much like it.”

He thought she might spit her tea.

“Well, really,” he continued. “Who would?”

And for the first time since he’d met her, he thought he saw the disinterested mask slip from her eyes as she said, with quite a bit of feeling, “I have no idea.”

She even shook her head. Three things at once! A complete sentence, a spot of emotion, and a shake of the head. By George, he might be getting through to her.

“What happened next, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Good God, she had asked him a question. He might tumble from his chair. “Actually,” he said, “I woke up.”

“That’s fortunate.”

“I thought so as well. They say if you die in your dreams, you die in your sleep.”

Her eyes widened. “They do?”

“They being my brothers,” he admitted. “You may feel free to assess the information based upon its source.”

“I have a brother,” she said. “He delights in tormenting me.”

Gregory offered her a grave nod. “That is what brothers are meant to do.”

“Do you torment your sisters?”

“Mostly just the younger one.”

“Because she’s smaller.”

“No, because she deserves it.”

She laughed. “Mr. Bridgerton, you are terrible.”

He smiled slowly. “You haven’t met Hyacinth.”

“If she bothers you enough to make you wish to torment her, I am sure I would adore her.”

He sat back, enjoying this feeling of ease. It was nice not to have to work so hard. “Your brother is your elder, then?”

She nodded. “He does torment me because I’m smaller.”

“You mean you don’t deserve it?”

“Of course not.”

He couldn’t quite tell if she was being facetious. “Where is your brother now?”

“Trinity Hall.” She took the last bite of her eggs. “Cambridge. Lucy’s brother was there as well. He has been graduated for a year.”

Gregory wasn’t quite certain why she was telling him this. He wasn’t interested in Lucinda Abernathy’s brother.

Miss Watson cut another small piece of bacon and lifted her fork to her mouth. Gregory ate as well, stealing glances at her as he chewed. Lord, but she was lovely. He didn’t think he’d ever seen another woman with her coloring. It was the skin, really. He imagined that most men thought her beauty came from her hair and eyes, and it was true that those were the features that initially stopped a man cold. But her skin was like alabaster laid over a rose petal.

He paused mid-chew. He had no idea he could be so poetic.

Miss Watson set down her fork. “Well,” she said, with the tiniest of sighs, “I suppose I should prepare that plate for Lucy.”

He stood immediately to assist her. Good heavens, but she actually sounded as if she didn’t wish to leave. Gregory congratulated himself on an extremely productive breakfast.

“I shall find someone to carry it back for you,” he said, signaling to a footman.

“Oh, that would be lovely.” She smiled gratefully at him, and his heart quite literally skipped a beat. He’d thought it merely a figure of speech, but now he knew it was true. Love really could affect one’s internal organs.

“Please do offer Lady Lucinda my well wishes,” he said, watching curiously as Miss Watson heaped five slices of meat on the plate.

“Lucy likes bacon,” she said.

“I see that.”

And then she proceeded to spoon eggs, cod, potatoes, tomatoes, and then on a separate plate muffins and toast.

“Breakfast has always been her favorite meal,” Miss Watson said.

“Mine as well.”

“I shall tell her that.”

“I can’t imagine that she will be interested.”

A maid had entered the room with a tray, and Miss Watson placed the heaping plates upon it. “Oh, she will,” she said breezily. “Lucy is interested in everything. She does sums in her head, even. For entertainment.”

“You’re joking.” Gregory couldn’t imagine a less pleasant way to keep oneself occupied.

She placed her hand on her heart. “I swear it to you. I think she must be trying to improve her mind, because she was never very good at maths.” She walked to the door, then turned to face him. “Breakfast was lovely, Mr. Bridgerton. Thank you for the company and the conversation.”

He inclined his head. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Except that it wasn’t. She had enjoyed their time together, too. He could see it in her smile. And her eyes.

And he felt like a king.

“Did you know that if you die in your dreams, you die in your sleep?”

Lucy didn’t even pause in her cutting of her bacon. “Nonsense,” she said. “Who told you that?”

Hermione perched on the edge of the bed. “Mr. Bridgerton.”

Now that rated above bacon. Lucy looked up immediately. “Then you saw him at breakfast?”

Hermione nodded. “We sat across from each other. He helped me arrange for the tray.”

Lucy regarded her massive breakfast with dismay. Usually she managed to hide her ferocious appetite by dallying at the breakfast table, then getting another serving once the first wave of guests had departed.

Oh well, nothing to do about it. Gregory Bridgerton already thought her a widgeon-he might as well think her a widgeon who would weigh twelve stone by the year’s end.

“He’s rather amusing, actually,” Hermione said, absently twirling her hair.

“I’ve heard he’s quite charming.”

“Mmmm.”

Lucy watched her friend closely. Hermione was gazing out the window, and if she didn’t quite have that ridiculous memorizing-a-love-sonnet look to her, she had at least worked her way up to a couplet or two.

“He is extremely handsome,” Lucy said. There seemed no harm in confessing it. It wasn’t as if she was planning to set her cap for him, and his looks were fine enough that it could be interpreted as a statement of fact rather than opinion.

“Do you think so?” Hermione asked. She turned back to Lucy, her head tilting thoughtfully to the side.

“Oh yes,” Lucy replied. “His eyes, particularly. I’m quite partial to hazel eyes. I always have been.”

Actually, she’d never considered it one way or the other, but now that she thought about it, hazel eyes were rather fine. Bit of brown, bit of green. Best of both worlds.

Hermione looked at her curiously. “I didn’t know that.”

Lucy shrugged. “I don’t tell you everything.”

Another lie. Hermione was privy to every boring detail of Lucy’s life and had been for three years. Except, of course, for her plans to match Hermione with Mr. Bridgerton.

Mr. Bridgerton. Right. Must return the conversation to the subject of him.

“But you must agree,” Lucy said in her most pondering of voices, “he’s not too handsome. It’s a good thing, really.”

“Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Yes. His nose has a great deal of character, wouldn’t you say? And his eyebrows aren’t quite even.” Lucy frowned. She hadn’t realized she was quite so familiar with Gregory Bridgerton’s face.

Hermione did nothing but nod, so Lucy continued with “I don’t think I should want to be married to someone who was too handsome. It must be terribly intimidating. I would feel like a duck every time I opened my mouth.”

Hermione giggled at that. “A duck?”

Lucy nodded and decided not to quack. She wondered if the men who courted Hermione worried about the same thing.

“He’s quite dark,” Hermione said.

“Not so dark.” Lucy thought his hair a medium-brown.

“Yes, but Mr. Edmonds is so fair.”

Mr. Edmonds did have lovely blond hair, so Lucy decided not to comment. And she knew she had to be very careful at this point. If she pushed Hermione too hard in Mr. Bridgerton’s direction, Hermione would surely balk and go right back to being in love with Mr. Edmonds, which, of course, was utter disaster.

No, Lucy was going to need to be subtle. If Hermione was going to switch her devotion to Mr. Bridgerton, she was going to have to figure it out for herself. Or think she did.

“And his family is very smart,” Hermione murmured.

“Mr. Edmonds’s?” Lucy asked, deliberately misinterpreting.

“No, Mr. Bridgerton’s, of course. I have heard such interesting things about them.”

“Oh, yes,” Lucy said. “I have as well. I rather admire Lady Bridgerton. She’s been a marvelous hostess.”

Hermione nodded her agreement. “I think she prefers you to me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I don’t mind,” Hermione said with a shrug. “It’s not as if she doesn’t like me. She just likes you better. Women always like you better.”

Lucy opened her mouth to contradict but then stopped, realizing that it was true. How odd that she had never noticed it. “Well, it’s not as if you’d be marrying her,” she said.

Hermione looked at her sharply. “I didn’t say I wished to marry Mr. Bridgerton.”

“No, of course not,” Lucy said, mentally kicking herself. She’d known the words were a mistake the minute they’d escaped her mouth.

“But…” Hermione sighed and proceeded to stare off into space.

Lucy leaned forward. So this was what it meant to hang on a word.

And she hung, and she hung…until she could bear it no longer. “Hermione?” she finally queried.

Hermione flopped back onto the bed. “Oh, Lucy,” she moaned, in tones worthy of Covent Garden, “I’m so confused.”

“Confused?” Lucy smiled. This had to be a good thing.

“Yes,” Hermione replied, from her decidedly inelegant position atop the bed. “When I was sitting at the table with Mr. Bridgerton-well, actually at first I thought him quite mad-but then I realized I was enjoying myself. He was funny, actually, and made me laugh.”

Lucy did not speak, waiting for Hermione to gather the rest of her thoughts.

Hermione made a little noise, half-sigh, half-moan. Wholly distressed. “And then once I realized that, I looked up at him, and I-” She rolled onto her side, leaning on her elbow and propping her head up with one hand. “I fluttered.”

Lucy was still trying to digest the mad comment. “Fluttered?” she echoed. “What is fluttered?”

“My stomach. My heart. My-my something. I don’t know what.”

“Similar to when you saw Mr. Edmonds for the first time?”

“No. No. No.” Each no was said with a different emphasis, and Lucy had the distinct sense that Hermione was trying to convince herself of it.

“It wasn’t the same at all,” Hermione said. “But it was…a little bit the same. On a much smaller scale.”

“I see,” Lucy said, with an admirable amount of gravity, considering that she didn’t understand at all. But then again, she never understood this sort of thing. And after her strange conversation with Mr. Bridgerton the night before, she was quite convinced she never would.

“But wouldn’t you think-if I am so desperately in love with Mr. Edmonds-wouldn’t you think I would never flutter with anyone else?”

Lucy thought about that. And then she said, “I don’t see why love has to be desperate.”

Hermione pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at her curiously. “That wasn’t my question.”

It wasn’t? Oughtn’t it have been?

“Well,” Lucy said, choosing her words carefully, “perhaps it means-”

“I know what you are going to say,” Hermione cut in. “You’re going to say that it probably means I am not as in love with Mr. Edmonds as I thought. And then you will say that I need to give Mr. Bridgerton a chance. And then you will tell me that I ought to give all of the other gentlemen a chance.”

“Well, not all of them,” Lucy said. But the rest of it was rather close.

“Don’t you think this has all occurred to me? Don’t you realize how terribly distressing all of this is? To doubt myself so? And good heavens, Lucy, what if this is not the end of it? What if this happens again? With someone else?”

Lucy rather suspected she was not meant to answer, but still she spoke. “There is nothing wrong with doubting yourself, Hermione. Marriage is an enormous undertaking. The biggest choice you will ever make in your life. Once it’s done, you can’t change your mind.”

Lucy took a bite of her bacon, reminding herself how grateful she was that Lord Haselby was so suitable. Her situation could have been ever so much worse. She chewed, swallowed, and said, “You need only to give yourself a bit of time, Hermione. And you should. There is never any good reason to rush into marriage.”

There was a long paused before Hermione answered. “I reckon you’re right.”

“If you are truly meant to be with Mr. Edmonds, he will wait for you.” Oh, heavens. Lucy couldn’t believe she’d just said that.

Hermione jumped from the bed, just so that she could rush to Lucy’s side and envelop her in a hug. “Oh, Lucy, that was the sweetest thing you have ever said to me. I know you don’t approve of him.”

“Well…” Lucy cleared her throat, trying to think of an acceptable reply. Something that would make her feel not quite so guilty for not having meant it. “It’s not that-”

A knock sounded at the door.

Oh, thank goodness.

“Enter,” the two girls called out in unison.

A maid came in and bobbed a quick curtsy. “M’lady,” she said, looking at Lucy, “Lord Fennsworth has arrived to see you.”

Lucy gaped at her. “My brother?”

“He is waiting in the rose salon, m’lady. Shall I tell him you will be right down?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Will there be anything else?”

Lucy slowly shook her head. “No, thank you. That will be all.”

The maid departed, leaving Lucy and Hermione staring at each other in shock.

“Why do you think Richard is here?” Hermione asked, her eyes wide with interest. She had met Lucy’s brother on a number of occasions, and they had always got on well.

“I don’t know.” Lucy quickly climbed out of bed, all thoughts of feigning an upset stomach forgotten. “I hope nothing is amiss.”

Hermione nodded and followed her to the wardrobe. “Has your uncle been unwell?”

“Not that I have been made aware.” Lucy fished out her slippers and sat on the edge of the bed to put them back on her feet. “I had best get down to see him. If he is here, it is something important.”

Hermione regarded her for a moment, then asked, “Would you like for me to accompany you? I shan’t intrude upon your conversation, of course. But I will walk down with you, if you like.”

Lucy nodded, and together they departed for the rose salon.