“I’m going to read the book now,” Hyacinth announced.

“If you must,” Lady D said with a sigh. She waited about a second before adding, “I believe Miss Butter-worth was scrambling up the hillside.”

Hyacinth turned her attention resolutely to the book in her hands.

“Well?” Lady Danbury demanded.

“I have to find my place,” Hyacinth muttered. She scanned the page, trying to find Miss Butterworth and the correct hillside (there were more than one, and she’d scrambled up them all), but the words swam before her eyes, and all she saw was Gareth.

Gareth, with those rakish eyes and perfect lips. Gareth, with a dimple she was sure he’d deny if she ever pointed it out to him. Gareth…

Who was making her sound as foolish as Miss Butter-worth. Why would he deny a dimple?

In fact…

Hyacinth flipped back a few pages. Yes, indeed, there it was, right in the middle of chapter sixteen:

His eyes were rakish and his lips perfectly molded. And he possessed a dimple, right above the left corner of his mouth, that he would surely deny if she were ever brave enough to point it out to him.

“Good God,” Hyacinth muttered. She didn’t think Gareth even had a dimple.

“We’re not that lost, are we?” Lady D demanded. “You’ve gone back three chapters, at least.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Hyacinth said. She was going mad. That had to be it. She’d clearly lost her wits if she was now unconsciously quoting from Miss Butterworth.

But then again…

He’d kissed her.

He’d really kissed her. The first time, back in the hall at Bridgerton House-that had been something else entirely. Their lips had touched, and in truth quite a few other things had touched as well, but it hadn’t been a kiss.

Not like this one.

Hyacinth sighed.

“What are you huffing about?” Lady Danbury demanded.

“Nothing.”

Lady D’s mouth clamped into a firm line. “You are not yourself this afternoon, Miss Bridgerton. Not yourself at all.”

Not a point Hyacinth wished to argue. “Miss Butter-worth,” she read with more force than was necessary, “scrambled up the hillside, her fingers digging deeper into the dirt with each step.”

“Can fingers step?” Lady D asked.

“They can in this book.” Hyacinth cleared her throat and continued: “She could hear him behind her. He was closing the distance between them, and soon she would be caught. But for what purpose? Good or evil?”

“Evil, I hope. It’ll keep things interesting.”

“I am in complete agreement,” Hyacinth said. “How would she know?” she read on. “How would she know? HowWOULD she know?” She looked up. “Emphasis mine.”

“Allowed,” Lady D said graciously.

“And then she recalled the advice given to her by her mother, before the blessed lady had gone to her reward, pecked to death by pigeons-”

“This can’t be real!”

“Of course it can’t. It’s a novel. But I swear to you, it’s right here on page 193.”

“Let me see that!”

Hyacinth’s eyes widened. Lady Danbury frequently accused Hyacinth of embellishment, but this was the first time she had actually demanded verification. She got up and showed the book to the countess, pointing to the paragraph in question.

“Well, I’ll be,” Lady Danbury said. “The poor lady did get done in by pigeons.” She shook her head. “It’s not how I’d like to go.”

“You probably don’t need to worry on that score,” Hyacinth said, resuming her seat.

Lady D reached for her cane, then scowled when she realized it was gone. “Continue,” she barked.

“Right,” Hyacinth said to herself, looking back down at the book. “Let me see. Ah, yes…gone to her reward, pecked to death by pigeons.” She looked up, spluttering. “I’m sorry. I can’t read that without laughing.”

“Just read!”

Hyacinth cleared her throat several times before resuming. “She had been only twelve, far too young for such a conversation, but perhaps her mother had anticipated her early demise. I’m sorry,” she cut in again, “but how on earth could someone anticipate something like that?”

“As you said,” Lady D said dryly, “it’s a novel.”

Hyacinth took a breath and read on: “Her mother had clutched her hand, and with sad, lonely eyes had said, ‘Dearest, dearest Priscilla. There is nothing in this world more precious than love.’”

Hyacinth stole a peek at Lady Danbury, who she fully expected to be snorting with disgust. But to her great surprise, the countess was rapt, hanging on her every word.

Quickly returning her attention to the book, Hyacinth read, “‘But there are deceivers, darling Priscilla, and there are men who will attempt to take advantage of you without a true meeting of the hearts.’”

“It’s true,” Lady Danbury said.

Hyacinth looked up, and it was immediately apparent that Lady Danbury had not realized that she’d spoken aloud.

“Well, it is,” Lady D said defensively, when she realized that Hyacinth was looking at her.

Not wishing to embarrass the countess any further, Hyacinth turned back to the book without speaking. Clearing her throat, she continued: “ ‘You will need to trust your instincts, dearest Priscilla, but I will give you one piece of advice. Hold it to your heart and remember it always, for I vow it is true.’ ”

Hyacinth turned the page, a little embarrassed to realize that she was as captured by the book as she’d ever been.

“Priscilla leaned forward, touching her mother’s pale cheek. ‘What is it, Mama?’she asked.

“‘If you want to know if a gentleman loves you,’ her mother said, ‘there is only one true way to be sure.’ ”

Lady Danbury leaned forward. Even Hyacinth leaned forward, and she was holding the book.

“‘It’s in his kiss,’ her mother whispered. ‘It’s all there, in his kiss.’ ”

Hyacinth’s lips parted, and one hand come up to touch them, without her even realizing it.

“Well,” Lady Danbury declared. “That wasn’t what I was expecting.”

It’s in his kiss. Could it be true?

“I would think,” Lady D continued officiously, “that it’s in his actions or his deeds, but I suppose that wouldn’t have sounded romantic enough for Miss Butterworth.”

“And the Mad Baron,” Hyacinth murmured.

“Exactly! Who in her right mind would want a madman?”

“It’s in his kiss,” Hyacinth whispered to herself.

“Enh?” Lady Danbury screeched. “I can’t hear you.”

“It’s nothing,” Hyacinth said quickly, giving her head a little shake as she forced her attention back to the countess. “I was merely woolgathering.”

“Pondering the intellectual dogmas laid out by Mother Butterworth?”

“Of course not.” She coughed. “Shall we read some more?”

“We’d better,” Lady D grumbled. “The sooner we finish this one, the sooner we can move on to another.”

“We don’t need to finish this one,” Hyacinth said, although if they didn’t, she was going to have to sneak it home and finish it herself.

“Don’t be silly. We can’t not finish it. I paid good money for that nonsense. And besides”-Lady D looked as sheepish as she was able when she said this, which, admittedly, wasn’t very sheepish-“I wish to know how it ends.”

Hyacinth smiled at her. It was as close to an expression of softheartedness as Lady Danbury was likely to display, and Hyacinth rather thought it should be encouraged. “Very well,” she said. “If you will allow me to find my place again…”

“Lady Danbury,” came the deep, even voice of the butler, who had entered the drawing room on silent feet, “Mr. St. Clair would like an audience.”

“And he’s asking for it?” Lady D inquired. “He usually just barges right in.”

The butler lifted an eyebrow, more expression than Hyacinth had ever seen on a butler’s face. “He has requested an audience with Miss Bridgerton,” he said.

“Me?” Hyacinth squeaked.

Lady Danbury’s jaw dropped. “Hyacinth!” she spluttered. “In my drawing room?”

“That is what he said, my lady.”

“Well,” Lady D declared, looking around the room even though there was no one present save Hyacinth and the butler. “Well.”

“Shall I escort him in?” the butler inquired.

“Of course,” Lady Danbury replied, “but I’m not going anywhere. Anything he has to say to Miss Bridgerton, he can say in front of me.”

“What?” Hyacinth demanded, finally tearing her eyes off the butler and turning toward Lady Danbury. “I hardly think-”

“It’s my drawing room,” Lady D said, “and he’s my grandson. And you’re-” She clamped her mouth together as she regarded Hyacinth, her diatribe momentarily halted. “Well, you’re you,” she finally finished. “Hmmph.”

“Miss Bridgerton,” Gareth said, appearing in the doorway and filling it, to wax Butterworthian, with his marvelous presence. He turned to Lady Danbury. “Grandmother.”

“Anything you have to say to Miss Bridgerton, you can say in front of me,” she told him.

“I’m almost tempted to test that theory,” he murmured.

“Is something amiss?” Hyacinth asked, perching at the front of her chair. After all, they’d parted ways barely two hours earlier.

“Not at all,” Gareth replied. He crossed the room until he was at her side, or at least as close to it as the furniture would allow. His grandmother was staring at him with unconcealed interest, and he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of coming straight here from Bridgerton House.

But he had stepped out onto the pavement and realized that it was Tuesday. And somehow that had seemed auspicious. This had all started on a Tuesday, good heavens, was it just two weeks earlier?

Tuesdays were when Hyacinth read to his grandmother. Every Tuesday, without fail, at the same time, in the same place. Gareth had realized, as he walked down the street, pondering the new direction of his life, that he knew exactly where Hyacinth was in that moment. And if he wanted to ask her to marry him, he had only to walk the brief distance across Mayfair to Danbury House.