Because what? Lucy wanted to scream. But even if she’d had the inclination, she lacked the energy.

“Because it was where I belonged,” Hermione finished softly, and she looked amazed, as if she hadn’t herself realized it until that very moment.

Lucy suddenly began to feel very queer. Her muscles felt twitchy, and she had the most insane desire to wrap her hands into fists. What did she mean? Why was she saying this? Everyone had spent so much time telling her that love was a thing of magic, something wild and uncontrollable that came like a thunderstorm.

And now it was something else? It was just comfort? Something peaceful? Something that actually sounded nice? “What happened to hearing music?” she heard herself demand. “To seeing the back of his head and knowing?”

Hermione gave her a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. But I shouldn’t trust it, if I were you.”

Lucy closed her eyes in agony. She didn’t need Hermione’s warning. She would never have trusted that sort of feeling. She wasn’t the sort who memorized love sonnets, and she never would be. But the other kind-the one with the laughing, the comfort, the feeling nice-that she would trust in a heartbeat.

And dear God, that was what she’d felt with Mr. Bridgerton.

All that and music, too.

Lucy felt the blood drain from her face. She’d heard music when she kissed him. It had been a veritable symphony, with soaring crescendos and pounding percussion and even that pulsing little underbeat one never noticed until it crept up and took over the rhythm of one’s heart.

Lucy had floated. She’d tingled. She’d felt all those things Hermione had said she’d felt with Mr. Edmonds-and everything she’d said she felt with Richard, as well.

All with one person.

She was in love with him. She was in love with Gregory Bridgerton. The realization couldn’t have been more clear…or more cruel.

“Lucy?” Hermione asked hesitantly. And then again-“Luce?”

“When is the wedding?” Lucy asked abruptly. Because changing the subject was the only thing she could do. She turned, looked directly at Hermione and held her gaze for the first time in the conversation. “Have you begun making plans? Will it be in Fenchley?”

Details. Details were her salvation. They always had been.

Hermione’s expression grew confused, then concerned, and then she said, “I…no, I believe it is to be at the Abbey. It’s a bit more grand. And…are you certain you’re all right?”

“Quite well,” Lucy said briskly, and she sounded like herself, so maybe that would mean she would begin to feel that way, too. “But you did not mention when.”

“Oh. Soon. I’m told there were people near the orangery last night. I am not certain what was heard-or repeated-but the whispering has begun, so we will need to have it all settled posthaste.” Hermione gave her a sweet smile. “I don’t mind. And I don’t think Richard does, either.”

Lucy wondered which of them would reach the altar first. She hoped it was Hermione.

A knock sounded on the door. It was a maid, followed by two footmen, there to remove Lucy’s trunks.

“Richard desires an early start,” Lucy explained, even though she had not seen her brother since the events of the previous night. Hermione probably knew more about their plans than she did.

“Think of it, Lucy,” Hermione said, walking her to the door. “We shall both be countesses. I of Fennsworth, and you of Davenport. We shall cut quite a dash, we two.”

Lucy knew that she was trying to cheer her up, so she used every ounce of her energy to force her smile to reach her eyes as she said, “It will be great fun, won’t it?”

Hermione took her hand and squeezed it. “Oh, it will, Lucy. You shall see. We are at the dawn of a new day, and it will be bright, indeed.”

Lucy gave her friend a hug. It was the only way she could think to hide her face from view.

Because there was no way she could feign a smile this time.

Gregory found her just in time. She was in the front drive, surprisingly alone, save for the handful of servants scurrying about. He could see her profile, chin tipped slightly up as she watched her trunks being loaded onto the carriage. She looked…composed. Carefully held.

“Lady Lucinda,” he called out.

She went quite still before she turned. And when she did, her eyes looked pained.

“I am glad I caught you,” he said, although he was no longer sure that he was. She was not happy to see him. He had not been expecting that.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said. Her lips were pinched at the corners, as if she thought she was smiling.

There were a hundred different things he could have said, so of course he chose the least meaningful and most obvious. “You’re leaving.”

“Yes,” she said, after the barest of pauses. “Richard desires an early start.”

Gregory looked around. “Is he here?”

“Not yet. I imagine he is saying goodbye to Hermione.”

“Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

He looked at her, and she looked at him, and they were quiet.

Awkward.

“I wanted to say that I am sorry,” he said.

She…she didn’t smile. He wasn’t sure what her expression was, but it wasn’t a smile. “Of course,” she said.

Of course? Of course?

“I accept.” She looked slightly over his shoulder. “Please, do not think of it again.”

It was what she had to say, to be sure, but it still niggled at Gregory. He had kissed her, and it had been stupendous, and if he wished to remember it, he damned well would.

“Will I see you in London?” he asked.

She looked up at him then, her eyes finally meeting his. She was searching for something. She was searching for something in him, and he did not think she found it.

She looked too somber, too tired.

Too not like her.

“I expect you shall,” she replied. “But it won’t be the same. I am engaged, you see.”

“Practically engaged,” he reminded her, smiling.

“No.” She shook her head, slow and resigned. “I truly am now. That is why Richard came to fetch me home. My uncle has finalized the agreements. I believe the banns will be read soon. It is done.”

His lips parted with surprise. “I see,” he said, and his mind raced. And raced and raced, and got absolutely nowhere. “I wish you the best,” he said, because what else could he say?

She nodded, then tilted her head toward the wide green lawn in front of the house. “I believe I shall take a turn around the garden. I have a long ride ahead of me.”

“Of course,” he said, giving her a polite bow. She did not wish for his company. She could not have made herself more clear if she had spoken the words.

“It has been lovely knowing you,” she said. Her eyes caught his, and for the first time in the conversation, he saw her, saw right down to everything inside of her, weary and bruised.

And he saw that she was saying goodbye.

“I am sorry…” She stopped, looked to the side. At a stone wall. “I am sorry that everything did not work out as you had hoped.”

I’m not, he thought, and he realized that it was true. He had a sudden flash of his life married to Hermione Watson, and he was…

Bored.

Good God, how was it he was only just now realizing it? He and Miss Watson were not suited at all, and in truth, he had made a narrow escape.

He wasn’t likely to trust his judgment next time when it came to matters of the heart, but that seemed far more preferable to a dull marriage. He supposed he had Lady Lucinda to thank for that, although he wasn’t sure why. She had not prevented his marriage to Miss Watson; in fact, she had encouraged it at every turn.

But somehow she was responsible for his coming to his senses. If there was any one true thing to be known that morning, that was it.

Lucy motioned to the lawn again. “I shall take that stroll,” she said.

He nodded his greeting and watched her as she walked off. Her hair was smoothed neatly into a bun, the blond strands catching the sunlight like honey and butter.

He waited for quite some time, not because he expected her to turn around, or even because he hoped she would.

It was just in case.

Because she might. She might turn around, and she might have something to say to him, and then he might reply, and she might-

But she didn’t. She kept on walking. She did not turn, did not look back, and so he spent his final minutes watching the back of her neck. And all he could think was-

Something is not right.

But for the life of him, he did not know what.

Thirteen

In which Our Heroine sees a glimpse of her future.

One month later

The food was exquisite, the table settings magnificent, the surroundings beyond opulent.

Lucy, however, was miserable.

Lord Haselby and his father, the Earl of Davenport, had come to Fennsworth House in London for supper. It had been Lucy’s idea, a fact which she now found painfully ironic. Her wedding was a mere week away, and yet until this night she hadn’t even seen her future husband. Not since the wedding had shifted from probable to imminent, anyway.

She and her uncle had arrived in London a fortnight earlier, and after eleven days had passed without a glimpse of her intended, she had approached her uncle and asked if they might arrange some sort of gathering. He had looked rather irritated, although not, Lucy was fairly certain, because he thought the request foolish. No, her mere presence was all it required to bring on such an expression. She was standing in front of him, and he had been forced to look up.

Uncle Robert did not like to be interrupted.