In which Our Heroine learns a truth about her brother (but does not believe it), Our Hero learns a secret about Miss Watson (but is not concerned by it), and both learn a truth about themselves (but are not aware of it).
An hour later, Gregory was still congratulating himself on the masterful combination of strategy and timing that had led to his outing with Miss Watson. They had had a perfectly lovely time, and Lord Fennsworth had—well, Fennsworth may have also had a perfectly lovely time, but if so, it had been in the company of his sister and not the lovely Hermione Watson.
Victory was indeed sweet.
As promised, Gregory had taken her on a stroll through the Aubrey Hall gardens, impressing them both with his stupendous recall of six different horticultural names. Delphinium, even, though in truth that was all Lady Lucinda’s doing.
The others were, just to give credit where it was due: rose, daisy, peony, hyacinth, and grass. All in all, he thought he’d acquitted himself well. Details never had been his forte. And truly, it was all just a game by that point.
Miss Watson appeared to be warming to his company, as well. She might not have been sighing and fluttering her lashes, but the veil of polite disinterest was gone, and twice he had even made her laugh.
She hadn’t made him laugh, but he wasn’t so certain she’d been trying to, and besides, he had certainly smiled. On more than one occasion.
Which was a good thing. Really. It was rather pleasant to once again have his wits about him. He was no longer struck by that punched-in-the-chest feeling, which one would think had to be good for his respiratory health. He was discovering he rather enjoyed breathing, an undertaking he seemed to find difficult while gazing upon the back of Miss Watson’s neck.
Gregory frowned, pausing in his solitary jaunt down to the lake. It was a rather odd reaction. And surely he’d seen the back of her neck that morning. Hadn’t she run ahead to smell one of the flowers?
Hmmm. Perhaps not. He couldn’t quite recall.
“Good day, Mr. Bridgerton.”
He turned, surprised to see Lady Lucinda sitting by herself on a nearby stone bench. It was an odd location for a bench, he’d always thought, facing nothing but a bunch of trees. But maybe that was the point. Turning one’s back on the house—and its many inhabitants. His sister Francesca had often said that after a day or two with the entire Bridgerton family, trees could be quite good company.
Lady Lucinda smiled faintly in greeting, and it struck him that she didn’t look quite herself. Her eyes seemed tired, and her posture was not quite straight.
She looks vulnerable, he thought, rather unexpectedly. Her brother must have brought unhappy tidings.
“You’re wearing a somber expression,” he said, walking politely to her side. “May I join you?”
She nodded, offering him a bit of a smile. But it wasn’t a smile. Not quite.
He took a seat beside her. “Did you have an opportunity to visit with your brother?”
She nodded. “He passed along some family news. It was . . . not important.”
Gregory tilted his head as he regarded her. She was lying, clearly. But he did not press further. If she’d wanted to share, she would have done. And besides, it wasn’t his business in any case.
He was curious, though.
She stared off in the distance, presumably at some tree. “It’s quite pleasant here.”
It was an oddly bland statement, coming from her.
“Yes,” he said. “The lake is just a short walk beyond these trees. I often come in this direction when I wish to think.”
She turned suddenly. “You do?”
“Why are you so surprised?”
“I—I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I suppose you don’t seem the sort.”
“To think?” Well, really.
“Of course not,” she said, giving him a peevish look. “I meant the sort who needed to get away to do so.”
“Pardon my presumptuousness, but you don’t seem the sort, either.”
She thought about that for a moment. “I’m not.”