“But you must agree,” Lucy said in her most pondering of voices, “he’s not too handsome. It’s a good thing, really.”
“Mr. Bridgerton?”
“Yes. His nose has a great deal of character, wouldn’t you say? And his eyebrows aren’t quite even.” Lucy frowned. She hadn’t realized she was quite so familiar with Gregory Bridgerton’s face.
Hermione did nothing but nod, so Lucy continued with “I don’t think I should want to be married to someone who was too handsome. It must be terribly intimidating. I would feel like a duck every time I opened my mouth.”
Hermione giggled at that. “A duck?”
Lucy nodded and decided not to quack. She wondered if the men who courted Hermione worried about the same thing.
“He’s quite dark,” Hermione said.
“Not so dark.” Lucy thought his hair a medium-brown.
“Yes, but Mr. Edmonds is so fair.”
Mr. Edmonds did have lovely blond hair, so Lucy decided not to comment. And she knew she had to be very careful at this point. If she pushed Hermione too hard in Mr. Bridgerton’s direction, Hermione would surely balk and go right back to being in love with Mr. Edmonds, which, of course, was utter disaster.
No, Lucy was going to need to be subtle. If Hermione was going to switch her devotion to Mr. Bridgerton, she was going to have to figure it out for herself. Or think she did.
“And his family is very smart,” Hermione murmured.
“Mr. Edmonds’s?” Lucy asked, deliberately misinterpreting.
“No, Mr. Bridgerton’s, of course. I have heard such interesting things about them.”
“Oh, yes,” Lucy said. “I have as well. I rather admire Lady Bridgerton. She’s been a marvelous hostess.”
Hermione nodded her agreement. “I think she prefers you to me.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I don’t mind,” Hermione said with a shrug. “It’s not as if she doesn’t like me. She just likes you better. Women always like you better.”
Lucy opened her mouth to contradict but then stopped, realizing that it was true. How odd that she had never noticed it. “Well, it’s not as if you’d be marrying her,” she said.
Hermione looked at her sharply. “I didn’t say I wished to marry Mr. Bridgerton.”
“No, of course not,” Lucy said, mentally kicking herself. She’d known the words were a mistake the minute they’d escaped her mouth.
“But . . .” Hermione sighed and proceeded to stare off into space.
Lucy leaned forward. So this was what it meant to hang on a word.
And she hung, and she hung . . . until she could bear it no longer. “Hermione?” she finally queried.
Hermione flopped back onto the bed. “Oh, Lucy,” she moaned, in tones worthy of Covent Garden, “I’m so confused.”
“Confused?” Lucy smiled. This had to be a good thing.
“Yes,” Hermione replied, from her decidedly inelegant position atop the bed. “When I was sitting at the table with Mr. Bridgerton—well, actually at first I thought him quite mad—but then I realized I was enjoying myself. He was funny, actually, and made me laugh.”
Lucy did not speak, waiting for Hermione to gather the rest of her thoughts.
Hermione made a little noise, half-sigh, half-moan. Wholly distressed. “And then once I realized that, I looked up at him, and I—” She rolled onto her side, leaning on her elbow and propping her head up with one hand. “I fluttered.”
Lucy was still trying to digest the mad comment. “Fluttered?” she echoed. “What is fluttered?”