On The Way To The Wedding

Three

In which Our Hero tries very, very hard.

The following morning was bright and clear, and as Gregory helped himself to breakfast, his sister-in-law appeared at his side, smiling faintly, clearly up to something.

“Good morning,” she said, far too breezy and cheerful.

Gregory nodded his greeting as he heaped eggs on his plate. “Kate.”

“I thought, with the weather so fine, that we might organize an excursion to the village.”

“To buy ribbons and bows?”

“Exactly,” she replied. “I do think it is important to support the local shopkeepers, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he murmured, “although I have not recently found myself in great need of ribbons and bows.”

Kate appeared not to notice his sarcasm. “All of the young ladies have a bit of pin money and nowhere to spend it. If I do not send them to town they are liable to start a gaming establishment in the rose salon.”

Now that was something he’d like to see.

“And,” Kate continued quite determinedly, “if I send them to town, I will need to send them with escorts.”

When Gregory did not respond quickly enough, she repeated, “With escorts.”

Gregory cleared his throat. “Might I assume you are asking me to walk to the village this afternoon?”

“This morning,” she clarified, “and, since I thought to match everyone up, and, since you are a Bridgerton and thus my favorite gentleman of the bunch, I thought I might inquire if there happened to be anyone with whom you might prefer to be paired.”

Kate was nothing if not a matchmaker, but in this case Gregory decided he ought to be grateful for her meddling tendencies. “As a matter of fact,” he began, “there is-”

“Excellent!” Kate interrupted, clapping her hands together. “Lucy Abernathy it is.”

Lucy Aber-“Lucy Abernathy?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “The Lady Lucinda?”

“Yes, the two of you seemed so well-matched last evening, and I must say, Gregory, I like her tremendously. She says she is practically engaged, but it is my opinion that-”

“I’m not interested in Lady Lucinda,” he cut in, deciding it would be too dangerous to wait for Kate to draw breath.

“You’re not?”

“No. I’m not. I-” He leaned in, even though they were the only two people in the breakfast room. Somehow it seemed odd, and yes, a little bit embarrassing to shout it out. “Hermione Watson,” he said quietly. “I would like to be paired with Miss Watson.”

“Really?” Kate didn’t look disappointed exactly, but she did look slightly resigned. As if she’d heard this before. Repeatedly.

Damn.

“Yes,” Gregory responded, and he felt a rather sizable surge of irritation washing over him. First at Kate, because, well, she was right there, and he’d fallen desperately in love and all she could do was say, “Really?” But then he realized he’d been rather irked all morning. He hadn’t slept well the night before; he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Hermione and the slope of her neck, the green of her eyes, the soft lilt of her voice. He had never-never-reacted to a woman like this, and while he was in some way relieved to have finally found the woman he planned to make his wife, it was a bit disconcerting that she had not had the same reaction to him.

Heaven knew he’d dreamed of this moment before. Whenever he’d thought about finding his true love, she had always been fuzzy in his thoughts-nameless, faceless. But she had always felt the same grand passion. She hadn’t sent him off dancing with her best friend, for God’s sake.

“Hermione Watson it is, then,” Kate said, exhaling in that way females did when they meant to tell you something you couldn’t possibly begin to understand even if they had chosen to convey it in English, which, of course they did not.

Hermione Watson it was. Hermione Watson it would be.

Soon.

Maybe even that morning.

“Do you suppose there is anything to purchase in the village aside from bows and ribbons?” Hermione asked Lucy as they pulled on their gloves.

“I certainly hope so,” Lucy responded. “They do this at every house party, don’t they? Send us off with our pin money to purchase ribbons and bows. I could decorate an entire house by now. Or at the very least, a small thatched cottage.”

Hermione smiled gamely. “I shall donate mine to the cause, and together we shall remake a…” She paused, thinking, then smiled. “A large thatched cottage!”

Lucy grinned. There was something so loyal about Hermione. Nobody ever saw it, of course. No one ever bothered to look past her face. Although, to be fair, Hermione rarely shared enough of herself with any of her admirers for them to realize what lay behind her pretty exterior. It wasn’t that she was shy, precisely, although she certainly wasn’t as outgoing as Lucy. Rather, Hermione was private. She simply did not care to share her thoughts and opinions with people she did not know.

And it drove the gentlemen mad.

Lucy peered out the window as they entered one of Aubrey Hall’s many drawing rooms. Lady Bridgerton had instructed them to arrive promptly at eleven. “At least it doesn’t look as if it might rain,” she said. The last time they’d been sent out for fripperies it had drizzled the entire way home. The tree canopy had kept them moderately dry, but their boots had been nearly ruined. And Lucy had been sneezing for a week.

“Good morning, Lady Lucinda, Miss Watson.”

It was Lady Bridgerton, their hostess, striding into the room in that confident way of hers. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back, and her eyes gleamed with brisk intelligence. “How lovely to see you both,” she said. “You are the last of the ladies to arrive.”

“We are?” Lucy asked, horrified. She hated being late. “I’m so terribly sorry. Didn’t you say eleven o’clock?”

“Oh dear, I did not mean to upset you,” Lady Bridgerton said. “I did indeed say eleven o’clock. But that is because I thought to send everyone out in shifts.”

“In shifts?” Hermione echoed.

“Yes, it’s far more entertaining that way, wouldn’t you agree? I have eight ladies and eight gentlemen. If I sent the lot of you out at once, it would be impossible to have a proper conversation. Not to mention the width of the road. I would hate for you to be tripping over one another.”

There was also something to be said for safety in numbers, but Lucy kept her thoughts to herself. Lady Bridgerton clearly had some sort of agenda, and as Lucy had already decided that she greatly admired the viscountess, she was rather curious as to the outcome.

“Miss Watson, you will be paired with my husband’s brother. I believe you made his acquaintance last night?”

Hermione nodded politely.

Lucy smiled to herself. Mr. Bridgerton had been a busy man that morning. Well done.

“And you, Lady Lucinda,” Lady Bridgerton continued, “will be escorted by Mr. Berbrooke.” She smiled weakly, almost in apology. “He is a relation of sorts,” she added, “and, ah, truly a good-natured fellow.”

“A relation?” Lucy echoed, since she wasn’t exactly certain how she was meant to respond to Lady Bridgerton’s uncharacteristically hesitant tone. “Of sorts?”

“Yes. My husband’s brother’s wife’s sister is married to his brother.”

“Oh.” Lucy kept her expression bland. “Then you are close?”

Lady Bridgerton laughed. “I like you, Lady Lucinda. And as for Neville…well, I am certain you will find him entertaining. Ah, here he is now. Neville! Neville!”

Lucy watched as Lady Bridgerton moved to greet Mr. Neville Berbrooke at the door. They had already been introduced, of course; introductions had been made for everyone at the house party. But Lucy had not yet conversed with Mr. Berbrooke, nor truly even seen him except from afar. He seemed an affable enough fellow, rather jolly-looking with a ruddy complexion and a shock of blond hair.

“Hallo, Lady Bridgerton,” he said, somehow crashing into a table leg as he entered the room. “Excellent breakfast this morning. Especially the kippers.”

“Thank you,” Lady Bridgerton replied, glancing nervously at the Chinese vase now teetering on the tabletop. “I’m sure you remember Lady Lucinda.”

The pair murmured their greetings, then Mr. Berbrooke said, “D’you like kippers?”

Lucy looked first to Hermione, then to Lady Bridgerton for guidance, but neither seemed any less baffled than she, so she just said, “Er…yes?”

“Excellent!” he said. “I say, is that a tufted tern out the window?”

Lucy blinked. She looked to Lady Bridgerton, only to discover that the viscountess would not make eye contact. “A tufted tern you say,” Lucy finally murmured, since she could not think of any other suitable reply. Mr. Berbrooke had ambled over to the window, so she went to join him. She peered out. She could see no birds.

Meanwhile, out of the corner of her eye she could see that Mr. Bridgerton had entered the room and was doing his best to charm Hermione. Good heavens, the man had a nice smile! Even white teeth, and the expression extended to his eyes, unlike most of the bored young aristocrats Lucy had met. Mr. Bridgerton smiled as if he meant it.

Which made sense, of course, as he was smiling at Hermione, with whom he was quite obviously infatuated.

Lucy could not hear what they were saying, but she easily recognized the expression on Hermione’s face. Polite, of course, since Hermione would never be impolite. And maybe no one could see it but Lucy, who knew her friend so well, but Hermione was doing no more than tolerating Mr. Bridgerton’s attentions, accepting his flattery with a nod and a pretty smile while her mind was far, far elsewhere.

With that cursed Mr. Edmonds.

Lucy clenched her jaw as she pretended to look for terns, tufted or otherwise, with Mr. Berbrooke. She had no reason to think Mr. Edmonds anything but a nice young man, but the simple truth was, Hermione’s parents would never countenance the match, and while Hermione might think she would be able to live happily on a secretary’s salary, Lucy was quite certain that once the first bloom of marriage faded, Hermione would be miserable.

And she could do so much better. It was obvious that Hermione could marry anyone. Anyone. She wouldn’t need to settle. She could be a queen of the ton if she so desired.

Lucy eyed Mr. Bridgerton, nodding and keeping one ear on Mr. Berbrooke, who was back on the subject of kippers. Mr. Bridgerton was perfect. He didn’t possess a title, but Lucy was not so ruthless that she felt Hermione had to marry into the highest available rank. She just could not align herself with a secretary, for heaven’s sake.

Plus, Mr. Bridgerton was extremely handsome, with dark, chestnut hair and lovely hazel eyes. And his family seemed perfectly nice and reasonable, which Lucy had to think was a point in his favor. When you married a man, you married his family, really.

Lucy couldn’t imagine a better husband for Hermione. Well, she supposed she would not complain if Mr. Bridgerton were next in line for a marquisate, but really, one could not have everything. And most importantly, she was quite certain that he would make Hermione happy, even if Hermione did not yet realize this.

“I will make this happen,” she said to herself.

“Eh?” from Mr. Berbrooke. “Did you find the bird?”

“Over there,” Lucy said, pointing toward a tree.

He leaned forward. “Really?”

“Oh, Lucy!” came Hermione’s voice.

Lucy turned around.

“Shall we be off? Mr. Bridgerton is eager to be on his way.”

“I am at your service, Miss Watson,” the man in question said. “We depart at your discretion.”

Hermione gave Lucy a look that clearly said that she was eager to be on her way, so Lucy said, “Let us depart, then,” and she took Mr. Berbrooke’s proffered arm and allowed him to lead her to the front drive, managing to yelp only once, even though she thrice stubbed her toe on heaven knew what, but somehow, even with a nice, lovely expanse of grass, Mr. Berbrooke managed to find every tree root, rock, and bump, and lead her directly to them.

Gad.

Lucy mentally prepared herself for further injury. It was going to be a painful outing. But a productive one. By the time they returned home, Hermione would be at least a little intrigued by Mr. Bridgerton.

Lucy would make sure of it.

If Gregory had had any doubts about Miss Hermione Watson, they were banished the moment he placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. There was a rightness to it, a strange, mystical sense of two halves coming together. She fit perfectly next to him. They fit.

And he wanted her.

It wasn’t even desire. It was strange, actually. He wasn’t feeling anything so plebian as bodily desire. It was something else. Something within. He simply wanted her to be his. He wanted to look at her, and to know. To know that she would carry his name and bear his children and gaze lovingly at him every morning over a cup of chocolate.

He wanted to tell her all this, to share his dreams, to paint a picture of their life together, but he was no fool, and so he simply said, as he guided her down the front path, “You look exceptionally lovely this morning, Miss Watson.”

“Thank you,” she said.

And then said nothing else.

He cleared his throat. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

“Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

Funny, but he’d always thought conversation with the woman he’d marry would come just a little bit easier.

He reminded himself that she still fancied herself in love with another man. Someone unsuitable, if Lady Lucinda’s comment of the night before was any indication. What was that she had called him-the lesser of two evils?

He glanced forward. Lady Lucinda was stumbling along ahead of him on the arm of Neville Berbrooke, who had never learned to adjust his gait for a lady. She seemed to be managing well enough, although he did think he might have heard a small cry of pain at one point.

He gave his head a mental shake. It was probably just a bird. Hadn’t Neville said he’d seen a flock of them through the window?

“Have you been friends with Lady Lucinda for very long?” he asked Miss Watson. He knew the answer, of course; Lady Lucinda had told him the night before. But he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. And he needed a question that could not be answered with yes, thank you or no, thank you.

“Three years,” Miss Watson replied. “She is my dearest friend.” And then her face finally took on a bit of animation as she said, “We ought to catch up.”

“To Mr. Berbrooke and Lady Lucinda?”

“Yes,” she said with a firm nod. “Yes, we ought.”

The last thing Gregory wanted to do was squander his precious time alone with Miss Watson, but he dutifully called out to Berbrooke to hold up. He did, stopping so suddenly that Lady Lucinda quite literally crashed into him.

She let out a startled cry, but other than that was clearly unhurt.

Miss Watson took advantage of the moment, however, by disengaging her hand from his elbow and rushing forward. “Lucy!” she cried out. “Oh, my dearest Lucy, are you injured?”

“Not at all,” Lady Lucinda replied, looking slightly confused by the extreme level of her friend’s concern.

“I must take your arm,” Miss Watson declared, hooking her elbow through Lady Lucinda’s.

“You must?” Lady Lucinda echoed, twisting away. Or rather, attempting to. “No, truly, that is not necessary.”

“I insist.”

“It is not necessary,” Lady Lucinda repeated, and Gregory wished he could see her face, because it sounded as if she were gritting her teeth.

“Heh heh,” came Berbrooke’s voice. “P’rhaps I’ll take your arm, Bridgerton.”

Gregory gave him a level look. “No.”

Berbrooke blinked. “It was a joke, you know.”

Gregory fought the urge to sigh and somehow managed to say, “I was aware.” He’d known Neville Berbrooke since they’d both been in leading strings, and he usually had more patience with him, but right now he wanted nothing so much as to fit him with a muzzle.

Meanwhile, the two girls were bickering about something, in tones hushed enough that Gregory couldn’t hope to make out what they were saying. Not that he’d likely have understood their language even if they’d been shouting it; it was clearly something bafflingly female. Lady Lucinda was still tugging her arm, and Miss Watson quite simply refused to let go.

“She is injured,” Hermione said, turning and batting her eyelashes.

Batting her eyelashes? She chose this moment to flirt?

“I am not,” Lucy returned. She turned to the two gentlemen. “I am not,” she repeated. “Not in the slightest. We should continue.”

Gregory couldn’t quite decide if he was amused or insulted by the entire spectacle. Miss Watson quite clearly did not wish for his escort, and while some men loved to pine for the unattainable, he’d always preferred his women smiling, friendly, and willing.

Miss Watson turned then, however, and he caught sight of the back of her neck (what was it about the back of her neck?). He felt himself sinking again, that madly in love feeling that had captured him the night before, and he told himself not to lose heart. He hadn’t even known her a full day; she merely needed time to get to know him. Love did not strike everyone with the same speed. His brother Colin, for example, had known his wife for years and years before he’d realized they were meant to be together.

Not that Gregory planned to wait years and years, but still, it did put the current situation in a better perspective.

After a few moments it became apparent that Miss Watson would not acquiesce, and the two women would be walking arm in arm. Gregory fell in step beside Miss Watson, while Berbrooke ambled on, somewhere in the vicinity of Lady Lucinda.

“You must tell us what it is like to be from such a large family,” Lady Lucinda said to him, leaning forward and speaking past Miss Watson. “Hermione and I each have but one sibling.”

“Have three m’self,” said Berbrooke. “All boys, all of us. ’Cept for my sister, of course.”

“It is…” Gregory was about to give his usual answer, about it being mad and crazy and usually more trouble than it was worth, but then somehow the deeper truth slipped across his lips, and he found himself saying, “Actually, it’s comforting.”

“Comforting?” Lady Lucinda echoed. “What an intriguing choice of word.”

He looked past Miss Watson to see her regarding him with curious blue eyes.

“Yes,” he said slowly, allowing his thoughts to coalesce before replying. “There is comfort in having a family, I think. It’s a sense of…just knowing, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?” Lucy asked, and she appeared quite sincerely interested.

“I know that they are there,” Gregory said, “that should I ever be in trouble, or even simply in need of a good conversation, I can always turn to them.”

And it was true. He had never really thought about it in so many words, but it was true. He was not as close to his brothers as they were to one another, but that was only natural, given the age difference. When they had been men about town, he had been a student at Eton. And now they were all three married, with families of their own.

But still, he knew that should he need them, or his sisters for that matter, he had only to ask.

He never had, of course. Not for anything important. Or even most things unimportant. But he knew that he could. It was more than most men had in this world, more than most men would ever have.

“Mr. Bridgerton?”

He blinked. Lady Lucinda was regarding him quizzically.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “Woolgathering, I suppose.” He offered her a smile and a nod, then glanced over at Miss Watson, who, he was surprised to see, had also turned to look at him. Her eyes seemed huge in her face, clear and dazzlingly green, and for a moment he felt an almost electric connection. She smiled, just a little, and with a touch of embarrassment at having been caught, then looked away.

Gregory’s heart leaped.

And then Lady Lucinda spoke again. “That is exactlyhow I feel about Hermione,” she said. “She is the sister of my heart.”

“Miss Watson is truly an exceptional lady,” Gregory murmured, then added, “As, of course, are you.”

“She is a superb watercolorist,” Lady Lucinda said.

Hermione blushed prettily. “Lucy.”

“But you are,” her friend insisted.

“Like to paint myself,” came Neville Berbrooke’s jovial voice. “Ruin my shirts every time, though.”

Gregory glanced at him in surprise. Between his oddly revealing conversation with Lady Lucinda and his shared glance with Miss Watson, he’d almost forgotten Berbrooke was there.

“M’valet is up in arms about it,” Neville continued, ambling along. “Don’t know why they can’t make paint that washes out of linen.” He paused, apparently in deep thought. “Or wool.”

“Do you like to paint?” Lady Lucinda asked Gregory.

“No talent for it,” he admitted. “But my brother is an artist of some renown. Two of his paintings hang in the National Gallery.”

“Oh, that is marvelous!” she exclaimed. She turned to Miss Watson. “Did you hear that, Hermione? You must ask Mr. Bridgerton to introduce you to his brother.”

“I would not wish to inconvenience either Mr. Bridgerton,” she said demurely.

“It would be no inconvenience at all,” Gregory said, smiling down at her. “I would be delighted to make the introduction, and Benedict always loves to natter on about art. I rarely am able to follow the conversation, but he seems quite animated.”

“You see,” Lucy put in, patting Hermione’s arm. “You and Mr. Bridgerton have a great deal in common.”

Even Gregory thought that was a bit of a stretch, but he did not comment.

“Velvet,” Neville suddenly declared.

Three heads swung in his direction. “I beg your pardon?” Lady Lucinda murmured.

“S’the worst,” he said, nodding with great vigor. “T’get the paint out of, I mean.”

Gregory could only see the back of her head, but he could well imagine her blinking as she said, “You wear velvet while you paint?”

“If it’s cold.”

“How…unique.”

Neville’s face lit up. “Do you think so? I’ve always wanted to be unique.”

“You are,” she said, and Gregory did not hear anything other than reassurance in her voice. “You most certainly are, Mr. Berbrooke.”

Neville beamed. “Unique. I like that. Unique.” He smiled anew, testing the word on his lips. “Unique. Unique. Youoo-oooooo-neek.”

The foursome continued toward the village in amiable silence, punctuated by Gregory’s occasional attempts to draw Miss Watson into a conversation. Sometimes he succeeded, but more often than not, it was Lady Lucinda who ended up chatting with him. When she wasn’t trying to prod Miss Watson into conversation, that was.

And the whole time Neville chattered on, mostly carrying on a conversation with himself, mostly about his newfound uniqueness.

At last the familiar buildings of the village came into view. Neville declared himself uniquely famished, whatever that meant, so Gregory steered the group to the White Hart, a local inn that served simple but always delicious fare.

“We should have a picnic,” Lady Lucinda suggested. “Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

“Capital idea,” Neville exclaimed, gazing at her as if she were a goddess. Gregory was a little startled by the fervor of his expression, but Lady Lucinda seemed not to notice.

“What is your opinion, Miss Watson?” Gregory asked. But the lady in question was lost in thought, her eyes unfocused even as they remained fixed on a painting on the wall.

“Miss Watson?” he repeated, and then when he finally had her attention, he said, “Would you care to take a picnic?”

“Oh. Yes, that would be lovely.” And then she went back to staring off into space, her perfect lips curved into a wistful, almost longing expression.

Gregory nodded, tamping down his disappointment, and set out making arrangements. The innkeeper, who knew his family well, gave him two clean bedsheets to lay upon the grass and promised to bring out a hamper of food when it was ready.

“Excellent work, Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Lucinda said. “Don’t you agree, Hermione?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hope he brings pie,” Neville said as he held the door open for the ladies. “I can always eat pie.”

Gregory tucked Miss Watson’s hand in the crook of his arm before she could escape. “I asked for a selection of foods,” he said quietly to her. “I hope there is something that meets your cravings.”

She looked up at him and he felt it again, the air swooshing from his body as he lost himself in her eyes. And he knew she felt it, too. She had to. How could she not, when he felt as if his own legs might give out beneath him?

“I am sure that it will be delightful,” she said.

“Are you in possession of a sweet tooth?”

“I am,” she admitted.

“Then you are in luck,” Gregory told her. “Mr. Gladdish has promised to include some of his wife’s gooseberry pie, which is quite famous in this district.”

“Pie?” Neville visibly perked up. He turned to Lady Lucinda. “Did he say we were getting pie?”

“I believe he did,” she replied.

Neville sighed with pleasure. “Do you like pie, Lady Lucinda?”

The barest hint of exasperation washed over her features as she asked, “What sort of pie, Mr. Berbrooke?”

“Oh, any pie. Sweet, savory, fruit, meat.”

“Well…” She cleared her throat, glancing about as if the buildings and trees might offer some guidance. “I…ah…I suppose I like most pies.”

And it was in that minute that Gregory was quite certain Neville had fallen in love.

Poor Lady Lucinda.

They walked across the main thoroughfare to a grassy field, and Gregory swept open the sheets, laying them flat upon the ground. Lady Lucinda, clever girl that she was, sat first, then patted a spot for Neville that would guarantee that Gregory and Miss Watson would be forced to share the other patch of cloth.

And then Gregory set about winning her heart.