On the Way to the Wedding

He watched her lips as she spoke. He didn’t know why, but the shape of them was suddenly intriguing…the way they moved, formed their consonants and vowels. They were ordinary lips. Nothing about them had attracted his attention before. But now, in the darkened library, with nothing in the air but the soft whisper of their voices…

She completed him. She made his life everything he had known it could someday be.

This was his dream. It was coming true, all around him, right there in his arms.

What did one do with nine children?

Love them, he supposed

Lucy nodded. “Will you release my bindings?”

He gave his head a tiny shake and stood. “I would trust you with my life, Lucy, but not with your own. You’re far too honorable for your own good.”

Mysterious creatures, women. If they could just learn to say what they meant, the world would be a far simpler place.

So Hermione was the siren, and Lucy was the trusty friend, and all was right with the world. Or if not right, then at least quite predictable.

Lucy was a little bit less. Or perhaps, if one wanted to put a nicer sheen on it, she was simply not quite.

“I don’t torture her because I like to,” he said, in a rather instructing sort of tone. “I do it because it is necessary. ”

“To whom?”

“To all Britain,” he said. “Trust me.”

She looked at him dubiously. “She can’t be that bad.”

“I suppose not,” he said. “My mother seems to like her quite well, much as that baffl es me.”

She laughed again, and the sound was . . . good. A nondescript word, to be sure, but somehow it got right to the heart of it. Her laughter came from within—warm, rich, and true.

Then she turned, and her eyes grew quite serious. “You like to tease, but I would bet all that I have that you would lay down your life for her.”

He pretended to consider this. “How much do you have?”

“For shame, Mr. Bridgerton. You’re avoiding the question.”

“Of course I would,” he said quietly. “She’s my little sister. Mine to torture and mine to protect.”

“I’m concerned for everybody’s welfare,” she muttered.

“Yes,” he murmured, “you would be.”

Lucy drew back. “Why does that sound like an insult?”

“Did it? I can assure you it wasn’t meant to.”

She stared at him suspiciously for so long that he fi nally lifted his hands in surrender. “It was a compliment, I swear to you,” he said.

“Grudgingly given.”

“Not at all!” He glanced over at her, quite obviously unable to suppress a smile.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“No,” he insisted, and then of course he laughed. “Sorry.

Now I am.”

“You could at least attempt to be kind and say that you are laughing with me.”

“I could.” He grinned, and his eyes turned positively devilish. “But it would be a lie.”

She almost smacked him on the shoulder. “Oh, you are terrible.”

That was the worst. When Anthony was disappointed that was one thing. But when he claimed that his wife had been somehow pained . . .

Well, that was when Gregory knew he was in trouble.