Julia Quinn - It’s In His Kiss

“I’ve only managed ten pages since we last spoke,” she said. “It might not seem like much-”

“It seems like quite a lot,” he said, exerting a bit more pressure on the small of her back. A little more, and maybe he could force…her…to turn…

Left.

Phew.

It was quite the most exerting waltz he’d ever danced.

“Well, I’m not fluent,” she said. “As I told you. So it’s taking me much longer than if I could just sit down and read it like a book.”

“You don’t need to make excuses,” he said, wrenching her to the right.

She stepped on his toe, which he ordinarily would have taken as retaliation, but under the present circumstances, he rather thought it was accidental.

“Sorry,” she muttered, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”

He bit his lip. He couldn’t possibly laugh at her. It would break her heart. Hyacinth Bridgerton, he was coming to realize, didn’t like to do anything if she didn’t do it well. And he suspected that she had no idea that she was such an abysmal dancer, not if she took the toe-stomping as such an aberration.

It also explained why she felt the need to continually remind him that she wasn’t fluent in Italian. She couldn’t possibly bear for him to think she was slow without a good reason.

“I’ve had to make a list of words I don’t know,” she said. “I’m going to send them by post to my former governess. She still resides in Kent, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to translate them for me. But even so-”

She grunted slightly as he swung her to the left, somewhat against her will.

“Even so,” she continued doggedly, “I’m able to work out most of the meaning. It’s remarkable what you can deduce with only three-quarters of the total.”

“I’m sure,” he commented, mostly because some sort of agreement seemed to be required. Then he asked, “Why don’t you purchase an Italian dictionary? I will assume the expense.”

“I have one,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s very good. Half the words are missing.”

“Half?”

“Well, some,” she amended. “But truly, that’s not the problem.”

He blinked, waiting for her to continue.

She did. Of course. “I don’t think Italian is the author’s native tongue,” she said.

“The author of the dictionary?” he queried.

“Yes. It’s not terribly idiomatic.” She paused, apparently deep in whatever odd thoughts were racing through her mind. Then she gave a little shrug-which caused her to miss a step in the waltz, not that she noticed-and continued with, “It’s really of no matter. I’m making fair progress, even if it is a bit slow. I’m already up to her arrival in England.”

“In just ten pages?”

“Twenty-two in total,” Hyacinth corrected, “but she doesn’t make entries every day. In fact, she often skips several weeks at a time. She only devoted one paragraph to the sea crossing-just enough to express her delight that your grandfather was afflicted by seasickness.”

“One must take one’s happiness where one can,” Gareth murmured.

Hyacinth nodded. “And also, she, ah, declined to mention her wedding night.”

“I believe we may consider that a small blessing,” Gareth said. The only wedding night he wanted to hear about less than Grandmother St. Clair’s would have to be Grandmother Danbury’s.

Good God, that would send him right over the edge.

“What has you looking so pained?” Hyacinth asked.

He just shook his head. “There are some things one should never know about one’s grandparents.”

Hyacinth grinned at that.

Gareth’s breath caught for a moment, then he found himself grinning back. There was something infectious about Hyacinth’s smiles, something that forced her companions to stop what they were doing, even what they were thinking, and just smile back.

When Hyacinth smiled-when she really smiled, not one of those faux half smiles she did when she was trying to be clever-it transformed her face. Her eyes lit, her cheeks seemed to glow, and-

And she was beautiful.

Funny how he’d never noticed it before. Funny how no one had noticed it. Gareth had been out and about in London since she’d made her nod several years earlier, and while he’d never heard anyone speak of her looks in an uncomplimentary manner, nor had he heard anyone call her beautiful.

He wondered if perhaps everyone was so busy trying to keep up with whatever it was she was saying to stop and actually look at her face.

“Mr. St. Clair? Mr. St. Clair?”

He glanced down. She was looking up at him with an impatient expression, and he wondered how many times she’d uttered his name.

“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.

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.