“Would you like me to bring you something?” Hermione asked.
“Yes,” Lucy said fervently, hoping Hermione hadn’t heard the rumble of her stomach.
“Oh, but I shouldn’t,” Hermione said, placing one thoughtful finger to her lips. “You probably shouldn’t eat if you are feeling queasy. The last thing you want is to bring it all up again.”
“It’s not queasiness, exactly,” Lucy improvised.
“It’s not?”
“It’s . . . ah . . . rather difficult to explain, actually. I . . .” Lucy sagged against the wall. Who knew she had it in her to be such a fine actress?
Hermione rushed to her side, concern knitting her brow. “Oh dear,” she said, supporting Lucy with an arm around her back. “You look ghastly.”
Lucy blinked. Maybe she was taking ill. Even better. That would keep her sequestered for days.
“I am returning you to bed,” Hermione said, her tone brooking no argument. “And then I will summon Mother. She will know what to do.”
Lucy nodded with relief. Lady Watson’s remedy for any sort of ailment was chocolate and biscuits. Unorthodox, to be sure, but as it was what Hermione’s mother chose whenever she claimed to be ill, she couldn’t very well deny it to anyone else.
Hermione guided her back to their bedchamber, even going so far as to remove Lucy’s slippers for her before she lay atop the bed. “If I didn’t know you so well,” Hermione said, tossing the slippers carelessly into the armoire, “I would think you were faking.”
“I would never.”
“Oh, you would,” Hermione said. “You absolutely would. But you could never carry it off. You’re far too traditional.”
Traditional? What had that to do with anything?
Hermione let out a little huff of air. “I’m probably going to have to sit with that wearisome Mr. Bridgerton at breakfast now.”
“He’s not so dreadful,” Lucy said, with perhaps a bit more verve than one might expect from someone with a belly full of bad salmon.
“I suppose not,” Hermione acceded. “He’s better than most, I daresay.”
Lucy winced at the echo of her own words. So much better than the rest. So much better than the rest.
It was quite possibly the most appalling thing ever to cross her lips.
“But he is not for me,” Hermione continued, oblivious to Lucy’s distress. “He will realize it soon enough. And then he will move on to someone else.”
Lucy doubted that, but she didn’t say anything. What a coil. Hermione was in love with Mr. Edmonds, Mr. Bridgerton was in love with Hermione, and Lucy was not in love with Mr. Bridgerton.
But he thought she was.
Which was nonsense, of course. She would never allow that to happen, practically engaged as she was to Lord Haselby.
Haselby. She nearly groaned. This would all be so much easier if she could remember his face.
“Perhaps I’ll ring for breakfast,” Hermione said, her face lighting up as if she had just discovered a new continent. “Do you think they will send up a tray?”
Oh, blast. There went all her plans. Now Hermione had an excuse to remain in their chamber all day. And the next, too, if Lucy continued to feign illness.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner,” Hermione said, heading to the bellpull. “I would much rather remain here with you.”
“Don’t,” Lucy called out, her brain spinning madly.
“Why not?”
Indeed. Lucy thought quickly. “If you have them bring a tray, you might not get what you want.”