“That, too.”
“Is that why you are so enamored of Hermione?”
He paused—just for a moment. But it was there. Lucy felt it.
“No,” he said. “It was something else entirely.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, feeling foolish for having asked. He’d told her all about it the night before—about love just happening, having no choice in the matter. He didn’t want Hermione to please his brother; he wanted Hermione because he couldn’t not want her.
And it made her feel just a little bit more alone.
“We are returned,” he said, motioning to the door to the drawing room, which she had not even realized they had reached.
“Yes, of course.” She looked at the door, then looked at him, then wondered why it felt so awkward now that they had to say goodbye. “Thank you for the company.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
Lucy took a step toward the door, then turned back to face him with a little “Oh!”
His brows rose. “Is something wrong?”
“No. But I must apologize—I turned you quite around. You said you like to go that way—down toward the lake—when you need to think. And you never got to.”
He looked at her curiously, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side. And his eyes—oh, she wished she could describe what she saw there. Because she didn’t understand it, didn’t quite comprehend how it made her tilt her head in concert with his, how it made her feel as if the moment were stretching . . . longer . . . longer . . . until it could last a lifetime.
“Didn’t you wish for time for yourself?” she asked, softly . . . so softly it was almost a whisper.
Slowly, he shook his head. “I did,” he said, sounding as if the words were coming to him at that very moment, as if the thought itself was new and not quite what he had expected.
“I did,” he said again, “but now I don’t.”
She looked at him, and he looked at her. And the thought quite suddenly popped into her head—
He doesn’t know why.
He didn’t know why he no longer wanted to be by himself.
And she didn’t know why that was meaningful.
Nine
In which Our Story takes a turn.
The following night was the masked ball. It was to be a grand affair, not too grand, of course—Gregory’s brother Anthony wouldn’t stand for that much disruption of his comfortable life in the country. But nevertheless, it was to be the pinnacle of the house party events. All the guests would be there, along with another hundred or so extra attendees—some down from London, others straight from their homes in the country. Every last bedchamber had been aired out and prepared for occupants, and even with that, a good number of partygoers were staying at the homes of neighbors, or, for an unlucky few, at nearby inns.
Kate’s original intention had been to throw a fancy dress party—she’d been longing to fashion herself as Medusa (to the surprise of no one)—but she had finally abandoned the idea after Anthony informed her that if she had her way with this, he would choose his own costume.
The look he gave her was apparently enough for her to declare an immediate retreat.
She later told Gregory that he had still not forgiven her for costuming him as Cupid at the Billington fancy dress ball the previous year.
“Costume too cherubic?” Gregory murmured.
“But on the bright side,” she had replied, “I now know exactly how he must have looked as a baby. Quite darling, actually.”
“Until this moment,” Gregory said with a wince, “I’m not sure I understood exactly how much my brother loves you.”
“Quite a bit.” She smiled and nodded. “Quite a bit indeed.”