Gregory thought of the massive tray Miss Watson had had brought up for her and wondered how much of it she’d managed to wolf down before having to come meet her brother.
“Of course,” Lady Lucinda murmured. “I should like to keep Richard company, in any case.”
“Miss Watson,” Gregory cut in smoothly, “would you care to take a turn about the gardens? I believe the peonies are in bloom. And those stalky blue things-I always forget what they are called.”
“Delphinium.” It was Lady Lucinda, of course. He’d known she would not be able to resist. Then she turned and looked at him, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I told you that the other day.”
“So you did,” he murmured. “I’ve never had much of a head for details.”
“Oh, Lucy remembers everything,” Miss Watson said breezily. “And I would be delighted to view the gardens with you. That is, if Lucy and Richard do not mind.”
Both assured her that they did not, although Gregory was quite certain he saw a flash of disappointment and-dare he say it-irritation in Lord Fennsworth’s eyes.
Gregory smiled.
“I shall find you back in our room?” Miss Watson said to Lucy.
The other girl nodded, and with a feeling of triumph-there was nothing quite like besting one’s competition-Gregory placed Miss Watson’s hand in the crook of his elbow and led her out of the room.
It was going to be an excellent morning, after all.
Lucy followed her brother and Lady Bridgerton to the breakfast room, which she did not mind one bit, as she had not had a chance to eat very much of what Hermione had brought her earlier. But it did mean that she had to endure a full thirty minutes of meaningless conversation while her brain raced about, imagining all sorts of disasters that could be responsible for her unexpected summons home.
Richard couldn’t very well speak to her about anything important with Lady Bridgerton and half of the house party blithering on about coddled eggs and the recent rainfall, so Lucy waited uncomplainingly while he finished (he’d always been an annoyingly slow eater), and then she tried her best not to lose her patience as they strolled out to the side lawn, Richard first asking her about school, then Hermione, and then Hermione’s mother, and then her upcoming debut, and then Hermione again, with a side tangent to Hermione’s brother, whom he’d apparently run across in Cambridge, and then it was back to the debut, and to what extent she was to share it with Hermione…
Until finally Lucy halted in her tracks, planted her hands on her hips, and demanded that he tell her why he was there.
“I told you,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Uncle Robert wishes to speak with you.”
“But why?” It was not a question with an obvious answer. Uncle Robert hadn’t cared to speak with her more than a handful of times in the past ten years. If he was planning to start now, there was a reason for it.
Richard cleared his throat a number of times before finally saying, “Well, Luce, I think he plans to marry you off.”
“Straightaway?” Lucy whispered, and she didn’t know why she was so surprised. She’d known this was coming; she’d been practically engaged for years. And she had told Hermione, on more than one occasion, that a season for her was really quite foolish-why bother with the expense when she was just going to marry Haselby in the end?
But now…suddenly…she didn’t want to do it. At least not so soon. She didn’t want to go from schoolgirl to wife, with nothing in between. She wasn’t asking for adventure-she didn’t even want adventure-truly, she wasn’t the sort.
She wasn’t asking for very much-just a few months of freedom, of laughter.
Of dancing breathlessly, spinning so fast that the candle flames streaked into long snakes of light.
Maybe she was practical. Maybe she was “that old Lucy,” as so many had called her at Miss Moss’s. But she liked to dance. And she wanted to do it. Now. Before she was old. Before she became Haselby’s wife.
“I don’t know when,” Richard said, looking down at her with…was it regret?
Why would it be regret?
“Soon, I think,” he said. “Uncle Robert seems somewhat eager to have it done.”
Lucy just stared at him, wondering why she couldn’t stop thinking about dancing, couldn’t stop picturing herself, in a gown of silvery blue, magical and radiant, in the arms of-
“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth, as if that could somehow silence her thoughts.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. Her daydreams did not have a face. They could not. And so she said it again, more firmly, “It was nothing. Nothing at all.”
Her brother stooped to examine a wildflower that had somehow missed the discerning eyes of Aubrey Hall’s gardeners. It was small, blue, and just beginning to open.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Richard murmured.
Lucy nodded. Richard had always loved flowers. Wildflowers in particular. They were different that way, she realized. She had always preferred the order of a neatly arranged bed, each bloom in its place, each pattern carefully and lovingly maintained.
But now…
She looked down at that little flower, small and delicate, defiantly sprouting where it didn’t belong.
And she decided that she liked the wild ones, too.
“I know you were meant to have a season,” Richard said apologetically. “But truly, is it so very dreadful? You never really wanted one, did you?”
Lucy swallowed. “No,” she said, because she knew it was what he wanted to hear, and she didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did. And she hadn’t really cared one way or the other about a season in London. At least not until recently.
Richard pulled the little blue wildflower out by the roots, looked at it quizzically, and stood. “Cheer up, Luce,” he said, chucking her lightly on the chin. “Haselby’s not a bad sort. You won’t mind being married to him.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“He won’t hurt you,” he added, and he smiled, that slightly false sort of smile. The kind that was meant to be reassuring and somehow never was.
“I didn’t think he would,” Lucy said, an edge of…of something creeping into her voice. “Why would you bring such a thing up?”
“No reason at all,” Richard said quickly. “But I know that it is a concern for many women. Not all men give their wives the respect with which Haselby will treat you.”
Lucy nodded. Of course. It was true. She’d heard stories. They’d all heard stories.
“It won’t be so bad,” Richard said. “You’ll probably even like him. He’s quite agreeable.”
Agreeable. It was a good thing. Better than disagreeable.
“He will be the Earl of Davenport someday,” Richard added, even though of course she already knew that. “You will be a countess. Quite a prominent one.”
There was that. Her schoolfriends had always said she was so lucky to have her prospects already settled, and with such a lofty result. She was the daughter of an earl and the sister of an earl. And she was destined to be the wife of one as well. She had nothing to complain about. Nothing.
But she felt so empty.
It wasn’t a bad feeling precisely. But it was disconcerting. And unfamiliar. She felt rootless. She felt adrift.
She felt not like herself. And that was the worst of it.
“You’re not surprised, are you, Luce?” Richard asked. “You knew this was coming. We all did.”
She nodded. “It is nothing,” she said, trying to sound her usual matter-of-fact self. “It is only that it never felt quite so immediate.”
“Of course,” Richard said. “It is a surprise, that is all. Once you grow used to the idea, it will all seem so much better. Normal, even. After all, you have always known you were to be Haselby’s wife. And think of how much you will enjoy planning the wedding. Uncle Robert says it is to be a grand affair. In London, I believe. Davenport insists upon it.”