“No.” He lifted his brows and stared down his nose at her. “I usually know exactly how drunk I am.”
Lucy had no idea what to say to that.
“But do you know, tonight I’m not sure.” And he sounded surprised at that.
“Oh.” Because she was at her articulate best this evening.
He smiled.
Her stomach felt strange.
She tried to smile back. She really should be going.
So naturally, she did not move.
His head tilted to the side and he let out a thoughtful exhale, and it occurred to her that he was doing exactly what he’d said he’d been doing—pondering. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that given the events of the evening . . .”
She leaned forward expectantly. Why did people always let their voices trail off just when they were about to say something meaningful? “Mr. Bridgerton?” she nudged, because now he was just staring at some painting on the wall.
His lips twisted thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t you think I ought to be a bit more upset?”
Her lips parted with surprise. “You’re not upset?” How was that possible?
He shrugged. “Not as much as I should be, given that my heart practically stopped beating the first time I saw Miss Watson.”
Lucy smiled tightly.
His head went back to vertical, and he looked at her and blinked—perfectly clear-eyed, as if he had just reached an obvious conclusion. “Which is why I suspect the brandy.”
“I see.” She didn’t, of course, but what else could she say? “You . . . ah . . . you certainly seemed upset.”
“I was cross,” he explained.
“You’re not any longer?”
He thought about that. “Oh, I’m still cross.”
And Lucy felt the need to apologize. Which she knew was ridiculous, because none of this was her fault. But it was so ingrained in her, this need to apologize for everything. She couldn’t help it. She wanted everyone to be happy. She always had. It was neater that way. More orderly.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about my brother,” she said. “I didn’t know. Truly, I didn’t know.”
He looked down at her, and his eyes were kind. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, because a moment ago, he’d been flip and nonchalant. But now . . . he was different.
“I know you didn’t,” he said. “And there is no need to apologize.”
“I was just as startled when we found them as you were.”
“I wasn’t very startled,” he said. Gently, as if he were trying to spare her feelings. Make her feel not such a dunce for not seeing the obvious.
She nodded. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have been. You realized what was happening, and I did not.” And truly, she did feel like a half-wit. How could she have been so completely unaware? It was Hermione and her brother, for heaven’s sake. If anyone were to detect a budding romance, it ought to have been she.
There was a pause—an awkward one—and then he said, “I will be well.”
“Oh, of course you will,” Lucy said reassuringly. And then she felt reassured, because it felt so lovely and normal to be the one trying to make everything right. That’s what she did. She scurried about. She made sure everyone was happy and comfortable.
That was who she was.
But then he asked—oh why did he ask—“Will you?”