“Under the circumstances,” he said, “you might as well use my given name.”
She nodded approvingly. “A fine idea. You may of course use mine as well.”
“Hyacinth,” he said. “It suits you.”
“It was my father’s favorite flower,” she explained. “Grape hyacinths. They bloom like mad in spring near our home in Kent. The first to show color every year.”
“And the exact color of your eyes,” Gareth said.
“A happy coincidence,” she admitted.
“He must have been delighted.”
“He never knew,” she said, looking away. “He died before my birth.”
“I’m sorry,” Gareth said quietly. He did not know the Bridgertons well, but unlike the St. Clairs, they seemed to actually like each other. “I knew he had passed on some time ago, but I was not aware that you never knew him.”
“It shouldn’t matter,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t miss what I never had, but sometimes…I must confess…Ido.”
He chose his words carefully. “It’s difficult…I think, not to know one’s father.”
She nodded, looking down, then over his shoulder. It was odd, he thought, but still somewhat endearing that she didn’t wish to look at him during such a moment. Thus far their conversations had been all sly jokes and gossip. This was the first time they had ever said anything of substance, anything that truly revealed the person beneath the ready wit and easy smile.
She kept her eyes fixed on something behind him, even after he’d expertly twirled her to the left. He couldn’t help but smile. She was a much better dancer now that she was distracted.
And then she turned back, her gaze settling on his face with considerable force and determination. She was ready for a change of subject. It was clear.
“Would you like to hear the remainder of what I’ve translated?” she inquired.
“Of course,” he said.
“I believe the dance is ending,” she said. “But it looks as if there is a bit of room over there.” Hyacinth motioned with her head to the far corner of the ballroom, where several chairs had been set up for those with weary feet. “I am sure we could manage a few moments of privacy without anyone intruding.”
The waltz drew to a close, and Gareth took a step back and gave her a small bow. “Shall we?” he murmured, holding out his arm so that she might settle her hand in the crook of his elbow.
She nodded, and this time, he let her lead.
Chapter 7
Ten minutes later, and our scene has moved to the hall.
Gareth generally had little use for large balls; they were hot and crowded, and much as he enjoyed dancing, he’d found that he usually spent the bulk of his time making idle conversation with people in whom he wasn’t particularly interested. But, he thought as he made his way into the side hall of Bridgerton House, he was having a fine time this evening.
After his dance with Hyacinth, they had moved to the corner of the ballroom, where she’d informed him of her work with the diary. Despite her excuses, she had made good progress, and had in fact just reached the point of Isabella’s arrival in England. It had not been auspicious. His grandmother had slipped while exiting the small dinghy that had carried her to shore, and thus her first connection with British soil had been her bottom against the wet sludge of the Dover shore.
Her new husband, of course, hadn’t lifted a hand to help her.
Gareth shook his head. It was a wonder she hadn’t turned tail and run back to Italy right then. Of course, according to Hyacinth, there wasn’t much waiting for her there, either. Isabella had repeatedly begged her parents not to make her marry an Englishman, but they had insisted, and it did not sound as if they would have been particularly welcoming if she had run back home.
But there was only so long he could spend in a somewhat secluded corner of the ballroom with an unmarried lady without causing talk, and so once Hyacinth had finished the tale, he had bid her farewell and handed her off to the next gentleman on her dance card.
His objectives for the evening accomplished (greeting his hostess, dancing with Hyacinth, discerning her progress with the diary), he decided he might as well leave altogether. The night was still reasonably young; there was no reason he couldn’t go to his club or a gambling hell.
Or, he thought with a bit more anticipation, he hadn’t seen his mistress in some time. Well, not a mistress, exactly. Gareth hadn’t enough money to keep a woman like Maria in the style to which she was accustomed, but luckily one of her previous gentlemen had given her a neat little house in Bloomsbury, eliminating the need for Gareth to do the same. Since he wasn’t paying her bills, she felt no need to remain faithful, but that hardly signified, since he didn’t, either.
And it had been a while. It seemed the only woman he’d spent any time with lately was Hyacinth, and the Lord knew he couldn’t dally there.
Gareth murmured his farewells to a few acquaintances near the ballroom door, then slipped out into the hall. It was surprisingly empty, given the number of people attending the party. He started to walk toward the front of the house, but then stopped. It was a long way to Blooms-bury, especially in a hired hack, which was what he was going to need to use, since he’d gained a ride over with his grandmother. The Bridgertons had set aside a room in the back for gentlemen to see to their needs. Gareth decided to make use of it.
He turned around and retraced his steps, then bypassed the ballroom door and headed farther down the hall. A couple of laughing gentlemen stepped out as he reached the door, and Gareth nodded his greetings before entering.
It was one of those two-room chambers, with a small waiting area outside an inner sanctum to afford a bit more privacy. The door to the second room was closed, so Gareth whistled softly to himself as he waited his turn.
He loved to whistle.
My bonnie lies over the ocean…
He always sang the words to himself as he whistled.
My bonnie lies over the sea…
Half the songs he whistled had words he couldn’t very well sing aloud, anyway.
My bonnie lies over the ocean…
“I should have known it was you.”
Gareth froze, finding himself face-to-face with his father, who, he realized, had been the person for whom he had been waiting so patiently to relieve himself.
“So bring back my bonnie to me,” Gareth sang out loudly, giving the final word a nice, dramatic flourish.
He watched his father’s jaw set into an uncomfortable line. The baron hated singing even more than he did whistling.
“I’m surprised they let you in,” Lord St. Clair said, his voice deceptively placid.
Gareth shrugged insolently. “Funny how one’s blood remains so conveniently hidden inside, even when it’s not quite blue.” He gave the older man a game smile. “All of the world thinks I am yours. Is that not just the most-”
“Stop,” the baron hissed. “Good God, it’s enough just to look at you. Listening makes me ill.”
“Strangely enough, I remain unbothered.”
But inside, Gareth could feel himself beginning to change. His heart was beating faster, and his chest had taken on a strange, shaky feeling. He felt unfocused, restless, and it took all of his self-control to hold his arms still at his sides.
One would think he’d have grown used to this, but every time, it took him by surprise. He always told himself that this would be the time he would see his father and it just wouldn’t matter, but no…
It always did.
And Lord St. Clair wasn’t even really his father. That was the true rub. The man had the ability to turn him into an immature idiot, and he wasn’t even really his father. Gareth had told himself, time and again, that it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. They weren’t related by blood, and the baron should not mean any more to him than a stranger on the street.