“I will make this happen,” she said to herself.
“Eh?” from Mr. Berbrooke. “Did you find the bird?”
“Over there,” Lucy said, pointing toward a tree.
He leaned forward. “Really?”
“Oh, Lucy!” came Hermione’s voice.
Lucy turned around.
“Shall we be off? Mr. Bridgerton is eager to be on his way.”
“I am at your service, Miss Watson,” the man in question said. “We depart at your discretion.”
Hermione gave Lucy a look that clearly said that she was eager to be on her way, so Lucy said, “Let us depart, then,” and she took Mr. Berbrooke’s proffered arm and allowed him to lead her to the front drive, managing to yelp only once, even though she thrice stubbed her toe on heaven knew what, but somehow, even with a nice, lovely expanse of grass, Mr. Berbrooke managed to find every tree root, rock, and bump, and lead her directly to them.
Gad.
Lucy mentally prepared herself for further injury. It was going to be a painful outing. But a productive one. By the time they returned home, Hermione would be at least a little intrigued by Mr. Bridgerton.
Lucy would make sure of it.
If Gregory had had any doubts about Miss Hermione Watson, they were banished the moment he placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. There was a rightness to it, a strange, mystical sense of two halves coming together. She fit perfectly next to him. They fit.
And he wanted her.
It wasn’t even desire. It was strange, actually. He wasn’t feeling anything so plebian as bodily desire. It was something else. Something within. He simply wanted her to be his. He wanted to look at her, and to know. To know that she would carry his name and bear his children and gaze lovingly at him every morning over a cup of chocolate.
He wanted to tell her all this, to share his dreams, to paint a picture of their life together, but he was no fool, and so he simply said, as he guided her down the front path, “You look exceptionally lovely this morning, Miss Watson.”
“Thank you,” she said.
And then said nothing else.
He cleared his throat. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
“Are you enjoying your stay?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
Funny, but he’d always thought conversation with the woman he’d marry would come just a little bit easier.
He reminded himself that she still fancied herself in love with another man. Someone unsuitable, if Lady Lucinda’s comment of the night before was any indication. What was that she had called him—the lesser of two evils?
He glanced forward. Lady Lucinda was stumbling along ahead of him on the arm of Neville Berbrooke, who had never learned to adjust his gait for a lady. She seemed to be managing well enough, although he did think he might have heard a small cry of pain at one point.
He gave his head a mental shake. It was probably just a bird. Hadn’t Neville said he’d seen a flock of them through the window?
“Have you been friends with Lady Lucinda for very long?” he asked Miss Watson. He knew the answer, of course; Lady Lucinda had told him the night before. But he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. And he needed a question that could not be answered with yes, thank you or no, thank you.
“Three years,” Miss Watson replied. “She is my dearest friend.” And then her face finally took on a bit of animation as she said, “We ought to catch up.”
“To Mr. Berbrooke and Lady Lucinda?”
“Yes,” she said with a firm nod. “Yes, we ought.”