“It’s true,” Richard gasped.

“Gregory,” Lady Bridgerton said, “you must let him up.”

Lucy turned to face her as she spoke, and that was when she saw it. Behind Lady Bridgerton.

Pink. Just a flash. More of a strip, actually, just barely visible through the plants.

Hermione was wearing pink. That very shade.

Lucy’s eyes widened. Maybe it was just a flower. There were heaps of pink flowers. She turned back to Richard. Quickly.

Too quickly. Mr. Bridgerton saw her head snapping around.

“What did you see?” he demanded.

“Nothing.”

But he didn’t believe her. He let go of Richard and began to move in the direction Lucy was looking, but Richard rolled to the side and grabbed one of his ankles. Gregory went down with a yell, and he quickly retaliated, catching hold of Richard’s shirt and yanking with enough force to scrape his head along the floor.

“Don’t!” Lucy cried, rushing forward. Good God, they were going to kill each other. First Mr. Bridgerton was on top, then Richard, then Mr. Bridgerton, then she couldn’t tell who was winning, and the whole time they were just pummeling each other.

Lucy wanted desperately to separate them, but she didn’t see how without risking injury to herself. The two of them were beyond noticing anything so mundane as a human being.

Maybe Lady Bridgerton could stop them. It was her home, and the guests her responsibility. She could attack the situation with more authority than Lucy could hope to muster.

Lucy turned. “Lady Br-”

The words evaporated in her throat. Lady Bridgerton was not where she had been just moments earlier.

Oh no.

Lucy twisted frantically about. “Lady Bridgerton? Lady Bridgerton?”

And then there she was, moving back toward Lucy, making her way through the plants, her hand wrapped tightly around Hermione’s wrist. Hermione’s hair was mussed, and her dress was wrinkled and dirty, and-dear God above-she looked as if she might cry.

“Hermione?” Lucy whispered. What had happened? What had Richard done?

For a moment Hermione did nothing. She just stood there like a guilty puppy, her arm stretched limply in front of her, almost as if she’d forgotten that Lady Bridgerton still had her by the wrist.

“Hermione, what happened?”

Lady Bridgerton let go, and it was almost as if Hermione were water, let loose from a dam. “Oh, Lucy,” she cried, her voice catching as she rushed forward. “I’m so sorry.”

Lucy stood in shock, embracing her…but not quite. Hermione was clutching her like a child, but Lucy didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Her arms felt foreign, not quite attached. She looked past Hermione’s shoulder, down to the floor. The men had finally stopped thrashing about, but she wasn’t sure she cared any longer.

“Hermione?” Lucy stepped back, far enough so that she could see her face. “What happened?”

“Oh, Lucy,” Hermione said. “I fluttered.”

An hour later, Hermione and Richard were engaged to be married. Lady Lucinda had been returned to the party, not that she would be able to concentrate on anything anyone was saying, but Kate had insisted.

Gregory was drunk. Or at the very least, doing his best to get there.

He supposed the night had brought a few small favors. He hadn’t actually come across Lord Fennsworth and Miss Watson in flagrante delicto. Whatever they’d been doing-and Gregory was expending a great deal of energy to not imagine it-they had stopped when Kate had bellowed Fennsworth’s name.

Even now, it all felt like a farce. Hermione had apologized, then Lucy had apologized, then Kate had apologized, which had seemed remarkably out of character until she finished her sentence with, “but you are, as of this moment, engaged to be married.”

Fennsworth had looked delighted, the annoying little sod, and then he’d had the gall to give Gregory a triumphant little smirk.

Gregory had kneed him in the balls.

Not too hard.

It could have been an accident. Really. They were still on the floor, locked into a stalemate position. It was entirely plausible that his knee could have slipped.

Up.

Whatever the case, Fennsworth had grunted and collapsed. Gregory rolled to the side the second the earl’s grip loosened, and he moved fluidly to his feet.

“So sorry,” he’d said to the ladies. “I’m not certain what’s come over him.”

And that, apparently, was that. Miss Watson had apologized to him-after apologizing to first Lucy, then Kate, then Fennsworth, although heaven knew why, as he’d clearly won the evening.

“No apology is needed,” Gregory had said tightly.

“No, but I-” She looked distressed, but Gregory didn’t much care just then.

“I did have a lovely time at breakfast,” she said to him. “I just wanted you to know that.”

Why? Why would she say that? Did she think it would make him feel better?

Gregory hadn’t said a word. He gave her a single nod, and then walked away. The rest of them could sort the details out themselves. He had no ties to the newly affianced couple, no responsibilities to them or to propriety. He didn’t care when or how the families were informed.

It was not his concern. None of it was.

So he left. He had a bottle of brandy to locate.

And now here he was. In his brother’s office, drinking his brother’s liquor, wondering what the hell this all meant. Miss Watson was lost to him now, that much was clear. Unless of course he wanted to kidnap the girl.

Which he did not. Most assuredly. She’d probably squeal like an idiot the whole way. Not to mention the little matter of her possibly having given herself to Fennsworth. Oh, and Gregory destroying his good reputation. There was that. One did not kidnap a gently bred female-especially one affianced to an earl-and expect to emerge with one’s good name intact.

He wondered what Fennsworth had said to get her off alone.

He wondered what Hermione had meant when she’d said she fluttered.

He wondered if they would invite him to the wedding.

Hmmm. Probably. Lucy would insist upon it, wouldn’t she? Stickler for propriety, that one. Good manners all around.

So what now? After so many years of feeling slightly aimless, of waiting waiting waiting for the pieces of his life to fall into place, he’d thought he finally had it all figured out. He’d found Miss Watson and he was ready to move forward and conquer.

The world had been bright and good and shining with promise.

Oh, very well, the world had been perfectly bright and good and shining with promise before. He hadn’t been unhappy in the least. In fact, he hadn’t really minded the waiting. He wasn’t even sure he’d wanted to find his bride so soon. Just because he knew his true love existed didn’t mean he wanted her right away.

He’d had a very pleasant existence before. Hell, most men would give their eyeteeth to trade places.

Not Fennsworth, of course.

Bloody little bugger was probably plotting every last detail of his wedding night that very minute.

Sodding little b-

He tossed back his drink and poured another.

So what did it mean? What did it mean when you met the woman who made you forget how to breathe and she up and married someone else? What was he supposed to do now? Sit and wait until the back of someone else’s neck sent him into raptures?

He took another sip. He’d had it with necks. They were highly overrated.

He sat back, plunking his feet on his brother’s desk. Anthony would hate it, of course, but was he in the room? No. Had he just discovered the woman he’d hoped to marry in the arms of another man? No. More to the immediate point, had his face recently served as a punching bag for a surprisingly fit young earl?

Definitely not.

Gregory gingerly touched his left cheekbone. And his right eye.

He was not going to look attractive tomorrow, that was for sure.

But neither would Fennsworth, he thought happily.

Happily? He was happy? Who’d have thought?

He let out a long sigh, attempting to assess his sobriety. It had to be the brandy. Happiness was not on the agenda for the evening.

Although…

Gregory stood. Just as a test. Bit of scientific inquiry. Could he stand?

He could.

Could he walk?

Yes!

Ah, but could he walk straight?

Almost.

Hmmm. He wasn’t nearly as foxed as he’d thought.

He might as well go out. No sense in wasting an unexpectedly fine mood.

He made his way to the door and put his hand on the knob. He stopped, cocking his head in thought.

It had to be the brandy. Really, there was no other explanation for it.

Eleven

In which Our Hero does the one thing he would never have anticipated.

The irony of the evening was not lost on Lucy as she made her way back to her room.

Alone.

After Mr. Bridgerton’s panic over Hermione’s disappearance…after Lucy had been thoroughly scolded for running off by herself in the middle of what was turning out to be a somewhat raucous evening…after one couple had been forced to become engaged, for heaven’s sake-no one had noticed when Lucy left the masked ball by herself.

She still couldn’t believe that Lady Bridgerton had insisted upon returning her to the party. She had practically led Lucy back by the collar, depositing her in the care of someone or other’s maiden aunt before retrieving Hermione’s mother, who, it must be presumed, had no idea of the excitement that lay in wait for her.

And so Lucy had stood at the edge of the ballroom like a fool, staring at the rest of the guests, wondering how they could possibly not be aware of the events of the evening. It seemed inconceivable that three lives could be upended so completely, and the rest of the world was carrying on as usual.