Lucy repeated it, since she couldn’t take it back. “She can’t dance. That’s why she won’t dance. Because she can’t.”
And then she waited for a hole to open up in the ground so that she could jump into it. It didn’t help that he was presently staring at her as if she were slightly deranged.
She managed a feeble smile, which was all that filled the impossibly long moment until he finally said, “There must be a reason you are telling this to me.”
Lucy let out a nervous exhale. He didn’t sound angry—more curious than anything else. And she hadn’t meant to insult Hermione. But when he said he couldn’t shoot, it just seemed to make an odd sort of sense to tell him that Hermione couldn’t dance. It fit, really. Men were supposed to shoot, and women were supposed to dance, and trusty best friends were supposed to keep their foolish mouths shut.
Clearly, all three of them needed a bit of instruction.
“I thought to make you feel better,” Lucy finally said. “Because you can’t shoot.”
“Oh, I can shoot,” he said. “That’s the easy part. I just can’t aim.”
Lucy grinned. She couldn’t help herself. “I could show you.”
His head swung around. “Oh, gad. Don’t tell me you know how to shoot.”
She perked up. “Quite well, actually.”
He shook his head. “The day only needed this.”
&nb
sp; “It’s an admirable skill,” she protested.
“I’m sure it is, but I’ve already four females in my life who can best me. The last thing I need is—oh, gad again, please don’t say Miss Watson is a crack shot as well.”
Lucy blinked. “Do you know, I’m not sure.”
“Well, there is still hope there, then.”
“Isn’t that peculiar?” she murmured.
He gave her a deadpan look. “That I have hope?”
“No, that—” She couldn’t say it. Good heavens, it sounded silly even to her.
“Ah, then you must think it peculiar that you don’t know whether Miss Watson can shoot.”
And there it was. He guessed it, anyway. “Yes,” she admitted. “But then again, why would I? Marksmanship wasn’t a part of the curriculum at Miss Moss’s.”
“To the great relief of gentlemen everywhere, I assure you.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Who did teach you?”
“My father,” she said, and it was strange, because her lips parted before she answered. For a moment she thought she’d been surprised by the question, but it hadn’t been that.
She’d been surprised by her answer.
“Good heavens,” he responded, “were you even out of leading strings?”
“Just barely,” Lucy said, still puzzling over her odd reaction. It was probably just because she didn’t often think of her father. He had been gone so long that there weren’t many questions to which the late Earl of Fennsworth constituted the reply.
“He thought it an important skill,” she continued. “Even for girls. Our home is near the Dover coast, and there were always smugglers. Most of them were friendly—everyone knew who they were, even the magistrate.”
“He must have enjoyed French brandy,” Mr. Bridgerton murmured.
Lucy smiled in recollection. “As did my father. But not all of the smugglers were known to us. Some, I’m sure, were quite dangerous. And . . .” She leaned toward him. One really couldn’t say something like this without leaning in. Where would the fun be in that?
“And . . . ?” he prompted.