“You’re joking,” Mr. St. Clair said, coming in a mere half second before his grandmother barked, “You can?”
“You don’t know everything about me,” Hyacinth said archly. To Lady Danbury, of course, since Mr. St. Clair could hardly make that claim.
“Well, yes, of course,” Lady D blustered, “but Italian?”
“I had an Italian governess when I was small,” Hyacinth said with a shrug. “It amused her to teach me. I’m not fluent,” she allowed, “but given a page or two, I can make out the general meaning.”
“This is quite more than a page or two,” Mr. St. Clair said, tilting his head toward the diary, which still rested in his grandmother’s hands.
“Clearly,” Hyacinth replied peevishly. “But I’m not likely to read more than a page or two at a time. And she didn’t write it in the style of the ancient Romans, did she?”
“That would be Latin,” Mr. St. Clair drawled.
Hyacinth clamped her teeth together. “Nevertheless,” she ground out.
“For the love of God, boy,” Lady Danbury cut in, “give her the book.”
Mr. St. Clair forbore to point out that she was still holding it, which Hyacinth thought showed remarkable restraint on his part. Instead, he rose to his feet, plucked the slim volume from his grandmother’s hands, and turned toward Hyacinth. He hesitated then—just for a moment, and Hyacinth would have missed it had she been looking anywhere but directly at his face.
He brought the book to her then, holding it out with a softly murmured, “Miss Bridgerton.”
Hyacinth accepted it, shivering against the odd feeling that she had just done something far more powerful than merely taking a book into her hands.
“Are you cold, Miss Bridgerton?” Mr. St. Clair murmured.
She shook her head, using the book as a means to avoid looking at him. “The pages are slightly brittle,” she said, carefully turning one.
“What does it say?” Mr. St. Clair asked.
Hyacinth gritted her teeth. It was never fun to be forced to perform under pressure, and it was nigh near impossible with Gareth St. Clair breathing down her neck.
“Give her some room!” Lady D barked.
He moved, but not enough to make Hyacinth feel any more at ease.
“Well?” he demanded.
Hyacinth’s head bobbed slightly back and forth as she worked out the meaning. “She’s writing about her upcoming wedding,” she said. “I think she’s due to marry your grandfather in”—she bit her lip as she scanned down the page for the appropriate words—“three weeks. I gather the ceremony was in Italy.”
Mr. St. Clair nodded once before prodding her with, “And?”
“And…” Hyacinth wrinkled her nose, as she alwa
ys did when she was thinking hard. It wasn’t a terribly attractive expression, but the alternative was simply not to think, which she didn’t find appealing.
“What did she say?” Lady Danbury urged.
“Orrendo orrendo…,” Hyacinth murmured. “Oh, right.” She looked up. “She’s not very happy about it.”
“Who would be?” Lady D put in. “The man was a bear, apologies to those in the room sharing his blood.”
Mr. St. Clair ignored her. “What else?”
“I told you I’m not fluent,” Hyacinth finally snapped. “I need time to work it out.”
“Take it home,” Lady Danbury said. “You’ll be seeing him tomorrow night, anyway.”
“I am?” Hyacinth asked, at precisely the moment Mr. St. Clair said, “She will?”