If nothing else, Lady Lucinda would not have tolerated it. She was clearly a punctual sort.
In a good way.
As opposed to an insufferable, nagging way.
He smiled to himself. She wasn’t like that.
Lady Lucinda was more like Kate, or at least she would be, once she was a bit older. Intelligent, no-nonsense, just a little bit sly.
Rather good fun, actually. She was a good sport, Lady Lucinda was.
But he didn’t see her among the guests, either. Or at least he didn’t think he did. He couldn’t be quite sure. He did see several ladies with hair the approximate shade of hers, but none of them seemed quite right. One of them moved the wrong way-too clunky, maybe even a little bit lumbering. And another was the wrong height. Not very wrong, probably just a few inches. But he could tell.
It wasn’t she.
She was probably wherever Miss Watson was. Which he did find somewhat reassuring. Miss Watson could not possibly get into trouble with Lady Lucinda about.
His stomach growled, and he decided to abandon his search for the time being and instead seek sustenance. Kate had, as always, provided a hearty selection of food for her guests to nibble upon during the course of the evening. He went directly to the plate of sandwiches-they looked rather like the ones she’d served the night he’d arrived, and he’d liked those quite well. Ten of them ought to do the trick.
Hmmm. He saw cucumber-a waste of bread if ever he saw one. Cheese-no, not what he was looking for. Perhaps-
“Mr. Bridgerton?”
Lady Lucinda. He’d know that voice anywhere.
He turned. There she was. He congratulated himself. He’d been right about those other masked honey blonds. He definitely hadn’t come across her yet this evening.
Her eyes widened, and he realized that her mask, covered with slate blue felt, was the exact color of her eyes. He wondered if Miss Watson had obtained a similar one in green.
“It is you, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?” he returned.
She blinked. “I don’t know. I just did.” Then her lips parted-just enough to reveal a tiny little gleam of white teeth, and she said, “It’s Lucy. Lady Lucinda.”
“I know,” he murmured, still looking at her mouth. What was it about masks? It was as if by covering up the top, the bottom was made more intriguing.
Almost mesmerizing.
How was it he hadn’t noticed the way her lips tilted ever so slightly up at the corners? Or the freckles on her nose. There were seven of them. Precisely seven, all shaped like ovals, except for that last one, which looked rather like Ireland, actually.
“Were you hungry?” she asked.
He blinked, forced his eyes back to hers.
She motioned to the sandwiches. “The ham is very nice. As is the cucumber. I’m not normally partial to cucumber sandwiches-they never seem to satisfy although I do like the crunch-but these have a bit of soft cheese on them instead of just butter. It was a rather nice surprise.”
She paused and looked at him, tilting her head to the side as she awaited his reply.
And he smiled. He couldn’t help it. There was something so uncommonly entertaining about her when she was prattling on about food.
He reached out and placed a cucumber sandwich on his plate. “With such a recommendation,” he said, “how could I refuse?”
“Well, the ham is nice, too, if you don’t like it.”
Again, so like her. Wanting everyone to be happy. Try this. And if you don’t like it, try this or this or this or this. And if that doesn’t work, have mine.
She’d never said it, of course, but somehow he knew she would.
She looked down at the serving platter. “I do wish they weren’t all mixed up.”
He looked at her quizzically. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well,” she said-that singular sort of well that foretold a long and heartfelt explanation. “Don’t you think it would have made far more sense to separate the different types of sandwiches? To put each on its own smaller plate? That way, if you found one you liked, you would know exactly where to go to get another. Or”-at this she grew even more animated, as if she were attacking a problem of great societal importance-“if there was another. Consider it.” She waved at the platter. “There might not be a single ham sandwich left in the stack. And you couldn’t very well sift through them all, looking. It would be most impolite.”
He regarded her thoughtfully, then said, “You like things to be orderly, don’t you?”
“Oh, I do,” she said with feeling. “I really do.”
Gregory considered his own disorganized ways. He tossed shoes in the wardrobe, left invitations strewn about…The year before, he had released his valet-secretary from service for a week to visit his ailing father, and when the poor man had come back, the chaos on Gregory’s desk alone had nearly done him in.
Gregory looked at Lady Lucinda’s earnest expression and chuckled. He’d probably drive her mad in under a week as well.
“Do you like the sandwich?” she asked, once he’d taken a bite. “The cucumber?”
“Very intriguing,” he murmured.
“I wonder, is food meant to be intriguing?”
He finished the sandwich. “I’m not certain.”
She nodded absently, then said, “The ham is nice.”
They lapsed into a companionable silence as they glanced out across the room. The musicians were playing a lively waltz, and the ladies’ skirts were billowing like silken bells as they spun and twirled. It was impossible to watch the scene and not feel as if the night itself were alive…restless with energy…waiting to make its move.
Something would happen that night. Gregory was sure of it. Someone’s life would change.
If he was lucky, it would be his.
His hands began to tingle. His feet, too. It was taking everything he had just to stand still. He wanted to move, he wanted to do something. He wanted to set his life in motion, reach out and capture his dreams.
He wanted to move. He couldn’t stand still. He-
“Would you like to dance?”
He hadn’t meant to ask. But he’d turned, and Lucy was right there beside him, and the words just tumbled out.
Her eyes lit up. Even with the mask, he could see that she was delighted. “Yes,” she said, almost sighing as she added, “I love to dance.”
He took her hand and led her to the floor. The waltz was in full swing, and they quickly found their place in the music. It seemed to lift them, render them as one. Gregory needed only to press his hand at her waist, and she moved, exactly as he anticipated. They spun, they twirled, the air rushing past their faces so quickly that they had to laugh.
It was perfect. It was breathless. It was as if the music had crept under their skin and was guiding their every movement.
And then it was over.
So quickly. Too quickly. The music ended, and for a moment they stood, still in each other’s arms, still wrapped in the memory of the music.
“Oh, that was lovely,” Lady Lucinda said, and her eyes shone.
Gregory released her and bowed. “You are a superb dancer, Lady Lucinda. I knew you would be.”
“Thank you, I-” Her eyes snapped to his. “You did?”
“I-” Why had he said that? He hadn’t meant to say that. “You’re quite graceful,” he finally said, leading her back to the ballroom’s perimeter. Far more graceful than Miss Watson, actually, although that did make sense given what Lucy had said about her friend’s dancing ability.
“It is in the way you walk,” he added, since she seemed to be expecting a more detailed explanation.