“You’re accompanying me to the Pleinsworth poetry reading,” Lady D told her grandson. “Or have you forgotten?”
Hyacinth sat back, enjoying the sight of Gareth St. Clair’s mouth opening and closing in obvious distress. He looked a bit like a fish, she decided. A fish with the features of a Greek god, but still, a fish.
“I really…” he said. “That is to say, I can’t—”
“You can, and you will be there,” Lady D said. “You promised.”
He regarded her with a stern expression. “I cannot imagine—”
“Well, if you didn’t promise, you should have done, and ifyou love me…”
Hyacinth coughed to cover her laugh, then tried not to smirk when Mr. St. Clair shot a dirty look in her direction.
“When I die,” he said, “surely my epitaph will read, ‘He loved his grandmother when no one else would.’”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Lady Danbury asked.
“I’ll be there,” he sighed.
“Bring wool for your ears,” Hyacinth advised.
He looked aghast. “It cannot possibly be worse than last night’s musicale.”
Hyacinth couldn’t quite keep one corner of her mouth from tilting up. “Lady Pleinsworth used to be a Smythe-Smith.”
Across the room, Lady Danbury chortled with glee.
“I had best be getting home,” Hyacinth said, rising to her feet. “I shall try to translate the first entry before I see you tomorrow evening, Mr. St. Clair.”
“You have my gratitude, Miss Bridgerton.”
Hyacinth nodded and crossed the room, trying to ignore the strangely giddy sensation growing in her chest. It was just a book, for heaven’s sake.
And he was just a man.
It was annoying, this strange compulsion she felt to impress him. She wanted to do something that would prove her intelligence and wit, something that would force him to look at her with an expression other than vague amusement.
“Allow me to walk you to the door,” Mr. St. Clair said, falling into step beside her.
Hyacinth turned, then felt her breath stop short in surprise. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close. “I…ah…”
It was his eyes, she realized. So blue and clear she ought to have felt she could read his thoughts, but instead she rather thought he could read hers.
“Yes?” he murmured, placing her hand on his elbow.
She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“Why, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, guiding her into the hall. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words. Except for the other night,” he added, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side.
She looked at him, narrowing her eyes.
“At the musicale,” he supplied helpfully. “It was lovely.” He smiled, most annoyingly. “Wasn’t it lovely?”
Hyacinth clamped her lips together. “You barely know me, Mr. St. Clair,” she said.
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours.”