Julia Quinn - It’s In His Kiss

“I need a challenge,” Lady D said. “Keeps the mind sharp. And surely we could do better than Miss Butter-worth and the Mealymouthed Baron.”

“Mad Baron,” Hyacinth said automatically.

“Precisely,” Lady D said. “Surely we can do better.”

“I’m sure we could, but it does beg the question-why would we want to?”

“Because we can.”

Hyacinth considered the prospect of a creative liaison with Lady Danbury, of spending hours upon hours-

“No,” she said, quite firmly, “we can’t.”

“Of course we can,” Lady D said, thumping her cane for what was only the second time during the interview-surely a new record of restraint. “I’ll think up the ideas, and you can figure out how to word it all.”

“It doesn’t sound like an equitable division of labor,” Hyacinth remarked.

“And why should it be?”

Hyacinth opened her mouth to reply, then decided there was really no point.

Lady Danbury frowned for a moment, then finally added, “Well, think about my proposal. We’d make an excellent team.”

“I shudder to think,” came a deep voice from the doorway, “what you might be attempting to browbeat poor Miss Bridgerton into now.”

“Gareth!” Lady Danbury said with obvious pleasure. “How nice of you finally to come visit me.”

Hyacinth turned. Gareth St. Clair had just stepped into the room, looking alarmingly handsome in his elegant afternoon clothing. A shaft of sunlight was streaming through the window, landing on his hair like burnished gold.

His presence was most surprising. Hyacinth had been visiting every Tuesday for a year now, and this was only the second time their paths had crossed. She had begun to think he might be purposefully avoiding her.

Which begged the question-why was he here now? Their conversation at the Smythe-Smith musicale was the first they had ever shared that went beyond the most basic of pleasantries, and suddenly he was here in his grandmother’s drawing room, right in the middle of their weekly visit.

“Finally?” Mr. St. Clair echoed with amusement. “Surely you haven’t forgotten my visit last Friday.” He turned to Hyacinth, his face taking on a rather convincing expression of concern. “Do you think she might be beginning to lose her memory, Miss Bridgerton? She is, what can it be now, ninety-”

Lady D’s cane came down squarely on his toes. “Not even close, my dear boy,” she barked, “and if you value your appendages, you shan’t blaspheme in such a manner again.”

“The Gospel according to Agatha Danbury,” Hyacinth murmured.

Mr. St. Clair flashed her a grin, which surprised her, first because she hadn’t thought he would hear her remark, and second because it made him seem so boyish and innocent, when she knew for a fact that he was neither.

Although…

Hyacinth fought the urge to shake her head. There was always an although. Lady D’s “finallys” aside, Gareth St. Clair was a frequent visitor at Danbury House. It made Hyacinth wonder if he was truly the rogue society made him out to be. No true devil would be so devoted to his grandmother. She’d said as much at the Smythe-Smith musicale, but he’d deftly changed the subject.

He was a puzzle. And Hyacinth hated puzzles.

Well, no, in truth she loved them.

Provided, of course, that she solved them.

The puzzle in question ambled across the room, leaning down to drop a kiss on his grandmother’s cheek. Hyacinth found herself staring at the back of his neck, at the rakish queue of hair brushing up against the edge of his bottle green coat.

She knew he hadn’t a great deal of money for tailors and such, and she knew he never asked his grandmother for anything, but lud, that coat fit him to perfection.

“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, settling onto the sofa and allowing one ankle to rest rather lazily on the opposite knee. “It must be Tuesday.”

“It must,” Hyacinth agreed.

“How fares Priscilla Butterworth?”

Hyacinth lifted her brows, surprised that he knew which book they were reading. “She is running for the cliffs,” she replied. “I fear for her safety, if you must know. Or rather, I would,” she added, “if there were not eleven chapters still to be read.”

“Pity,” he remarked. “The book would take a far more interesting turn if she was killed off.”

“Have you read it, then?” Hyacinth queried politely.

For a moment it seemed he would do nothing but give her a Surely You Jest look, but he punctuated the expression with, “My grandmother likes to recount the tale when I see her each Wednesday. Which I always do,” he added, sending a heavy-lidded glance in Lady Danbury’s direction. “And most Fridays and Sundays as well.”

“Not last Sunday,” Lady D said.

“I went to church,” he deadpanned.

Hyacinth choked on her biscuit.

He turned to her. “Didn’t you see the lightning strike the steeple?”

She recovered with a sip of tea, then smiled sweetly. “I was listening too devotedly to the sermon.”

“Claptrap last week,” Lady D announced. “I think the priest is getting old.”

Gareth opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, his grandmother’s cane swung around in a remarkably steady horizontal arc. “Don’t,” she warned, “make a comment beginning with the words, ‘Coming from you…’”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he demurred.

“Of course you would,” she stated. “You wouldn’t be my grandson if you wouldn’t.” She turned to Hyacinth. “Don’t you agree?”

To her credit, Hyacinth folded her hands in her lap and said, “Surely there is no right answer to that question.”

“Smart girl,” Lady D said approvingly.

“I learn from the master.”

Lady Danbury beamed. “Insolence aside,” she continued determinedly, gesturing toward Gareth as if he were some sort of zoological specimen, “he really is an exceptional grandson. Couldn’t have asked for more.”

Gareth watched with amusement as Hyacinth murmured something that was meant to convey her agreement without actually doing so.

“Of course,” Grandmother Danbury added with a dismissive wave of her hand, “he hasn’t much in the way of competition. The rest of them have only three brains to share among them.”

Not the most ringing of endorsements, considering that she had twelve living grandchildren.

“I’ve heard some animals eat their young,” Gareth murmured, to no one in particular.

“This being a Tuesday,” his grandmother said, ignoring his comment completely, “what brings you by?”

Gareth wrapped his fingers around the book in his pocket. He’d been so intrigued by its existence since Caroline had handed it over that he had completely forgotten about his grandmother’s weekly visit with Hyacinth Bridgerton. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have waited until later in the afternoon, after she had departed.

But now he was here, and he had to give them some reason for his presence. Otherwise-God help him-his grandmother would assume he’d come because of Miss Bridgerton, and it would take months to dissuade her of the notion.

“What is it, boy?” his grandmother asked, in her inimitable way. “Speak up.”

Gareth turned to Hyacinth, slightly pleased when she squirmed a little under his intent stare. “Why do you visit my grandmother?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Because I like her.”

And then she leaned forward and asked, “Why do you visit her?”

“Because she’s my-” He stopped, caught himself. He didn’t visit just because she was his grandmother. Lady Danbury was a number of things to him-trial, termagant, and bane of his existence sprang to mind-but never a duty. “I like her, too,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving Hyacinth’s.

She didn’t blink. “Good.”

And then they just stared at each other, as if trapped in some sort of bizarre contest.

“Not that I have any complaints with this particular avenue of conversation,” Lady Danbury said loudly, “but what the devil are the two of you talking about?”

Hyacinth sat back and looked at Lady Danbury as if nothing had happened. “I have no idea,” she said blithely, and proceeded to sip at her tea. Setting the cup back in its saucer, she added, “He asked me a question.”

Gareth watched her curiously. His grandmother wasn’t the easiest person to befriend, and if Hyacinth Bridgerton happily sacrificed her Tuesday afternoons to be with her, that was certainly a point in her favor. Not to mention that Lady Danbury hardly liked anyone, and she raved about Miss Bridgerton at every possible opportunity. It was, of course, partly because she was trying to pair the two of them up; his grandmother had never been known for her tact or subtlety.

But still, if Gareth had learned one thing over the years, it was that his grandmother was a shrewd judge of character. And besides, the diary was written in Italian. Even if it did contain some indiscreet secret, Miss Bridgerton would hardly know.

His decision made, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the book.

At which point Hyacinth’s life finally becomes almost as exciting as Priscilla Butterworth’s. Minus the cliffs, of course…

Hyacinth watched with interest as Mr. St. Clair appeared to hesitate. He glanced over at her, his clear blue eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before he turned back to his grandmother. Hyacinth tried not to look too interested; he was obviously trying to decide if he should mention his business in her presence, and she suspected that any interference on her part would cause him to keep his counsel.

But apparently she passed muster, because after a brief moment of silence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small, leather-bound book.

“What is this?” Lady Danbury asked, taking it into her hands.