As regarded Mr. Bridgerton, however…none of her business.
She looked at him. His shirt collar was loosened, and she could see a tiny scrap of skin where she knew she ought not look.
None. None! Business. Of hers. None of it.
“Right,” she said, ruining her determined tone with a decidedly involuntary cough. Spasm. Coughing spasm. Vaguely punctuated by: “Should be going.”
But it came out more like…Well, it came out like something that she was quite certain could not be spelled with the twenty-six letters of the English language. Cyrillic might do it. Or possibly Hebrew.
“Are you all right?” he queried.
“Perfectly well,” she gasped, then realized she was back to looking at that spot that wasn’t even his neck. It was more his chest, which meant that it was more someplace decidedly unsuitable.
She yanked her eyes away, then coughed again, this time on purpose. Because she had to do something. Otherwise her eyes would be right back where they ought not be.
He watched her, almost a bit owlish in his regard, as she recovered. “Better?”
She nodded.
“I’m glad.”
Glad? Glad? What did that mean?
He shrugged. “I hate it when that happens.”
Just that he is a human being, Lucy you dolt. One who knows what a scratchy throat feels like.
She was going mad. She was quite certain of it.
“I should go,” she blurted out.
“You should.”
“I really should.”
But she just stood there.
He was looking at her the strangest way. His eyes were narrowed-not in that angry way people usually associated with squinty eyes, but rather as if he were thinking exceptionally hard about something.
Pondering. That was it. He was pondering, just as he’d said.
Except that he was pondering her.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked hesitantly. Not that she knew what she might inquire of him when he acknowledged her.
“Do you drink, Lady Lucinda?”
Drink? “I beg your pardon?”
He gave her a sheepish half-smile. “Brandy. I know where my brother keeps the good stuff.”
“Oh.” Goodness. “No, of course not.”
“Pity,” he murmured.
“I really couldn’t,” she added, because, well, she felt as if she had to explain.
Even though of course she did not drink spirits.
And of course he would know that.
He shrugged. “Don’t know why I asked.”
“I should go,” she said.
But he didn’t move.
And neither did she.
She wondered what brandy tasted like.
And she wondered if she would ever know.
“How did you enjoy the party?” he asked.
“The party?”
“Weren’t you forced to go back?”
She nodded, rolling her eyes. “It was strongly suggested.”
“Ah, so then she dragged you.”
To Lucy’s great surprise, she chuckled. “Rather close to it. And I didn’t have my mask, which made me stick out a bit.”
“Like a mushroom?”
“Like a-?”
He looked at her dress and nodded at the color. “A blue mushroom.”
She glanced at herself and then at him. “Mr. Bridgerton, are you intoxicated?”
He leaned forward with a sly and slightly silly smile. He held up his hand, his thumb and index finger measuring an inch between them. “Just a little bit.”
She eyed him dubiously. “Really?”
He looked down at his fingers with a furrowed brow, then added another inch or so to the space between them. “Well, perhaps this much.”
Lucy didn’t know much about men or much about spirits, but she knew enough about the two of them together to ask, “Isn’t that always the case?”
“No.” He lifted his brows and stared down his nose at her. “I usually know exactly how drunk I am.”
Lucy had no idea what to say to that.
“But do you know, tonight I’m not sure.” And he sounded surprised at that.
“Oh.” Because she was at her articulate best this evening.
He smiled.
Her stomach felt strange.
She tried to smile back. She really should be going.
So naturally, she did not move.
His head tilted to the side and he let out a thoughtful exhale, and it occurred to her that he was doing exactly what he’d said he’d been doing-pondering. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that given the events of the evening…”
She leaned forward expectantly. Why did people always let their voices trail off just when they were about to say something meaningful? “Mr. Bridgerton?” she nudged, because now he was just staring at some painting on the wall.
His lips twisted thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t you think I ought to be a bit more upset?”
Her lips parted with surprise. “You’re not upset?” How was that possible?
He shrugged. “Not as much as I should be, given that my heart practically stopped beating the first time I saw Miss Watson.”
Lucy smiled tightly.
His head went back to vertical, and he looked at her and blinked-perfectly clear-eyed, as if he had just reached an obvious conclusion. “Which is why I suspect the brandy.”
“I see.” She didn’t, of course, but what else could she say? “You…ah…you certainly seemed upset.”
“I was cross,” he explained.
“You’re not any longer?”
He thought about that. “Oh, I’m still cross.”
And Lucy felt the need to apologize. Which she knew was ridiculous, because none of this was her fault. But it was so ingrained in her, this need to apologize for everything. She couldn’t help it. She wanted everyone to be happy. She always had. It was neater that way. More orderly.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about my brother,” she said. “I didn’t know. Truly, I didn’t know.”
He looked down at her, and his eyes were kind. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, because a moment ago, he’d been flip and nonchalant. But now…he was different.
“I know you didn’t,” he said. “And there is no need to apologize.”
“I was just as startled when we found them as you were.”
“I wasn’t very startled,” he said. Gently, as if he were trying to spare her feelings. Make her feel not such a dunce for not seeing the obvious.
She nodded. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have been. You realized what was happening, and I did not.” And truly, she did feel like a half-wit. How could she have been so completely unaware? It was Hermione and her brother, for heaven’s sake. If anyone were to detect a budding romance, it ought to have been she.
There was a pause-an awkward one-and then he said, “I will be well.”
“Oh, of course you will,” Lucy said reassuringly. And then she felt reassured, because it felt so lovely and normal to be the one trying to make everything right. That’s what she did. She scurried about. She made sure everyone was happy and comfortable.
That was who she was.
But then he asked-oh why did he ask-“Will you?”
She said nothing.
“Be well,” he clarified. “Will you be well”-he paused, then shrugged-“as well?”
“Of course,” she said, a little too quickly.
She thought that was the end of it, but then he said, “Are you certain? Because you seemed a little…”
She swallowed, waiting uncomfortably for his assessment.
“…overset,” he finished.
“Well, I was surprised,” she said, glad to have an answer. “And so naturally I was somewhat disconcerted.” But she heard a slight stammer in her voice, and she was wondering which one of them she was trying convince.