Not very. But enough to doubt the veracity of his response.
And he’d been angry. And off-balance.
Not with Lucy, of course, but he was quite certain it had impaired his judgment.
Still, he should see her. She was a gently bred young lady. One didn’t kiss one of those without making explanations. And he ought to apologize as well, although that didn’t really feel like what he wanted to do.
But it was what he should do.
He looked up at Kate. “When are they leaving?”
“Lady and Miss Watson? This afternoon, I believe.”
No, he almost blurted out, I meant Lady Lucinda. But he caught himself and kept his voice unconcerned as he said instead, “And Fennsworth?”
“Soon, I think. Lady Lucinda has already been down for breakfast.” Kate thought for a moment. “I believe Fennsworth said he wished to be home by supper. But they can make the journey in one day. They don’t live too very far away.”
“Near Dover,” Gregory murmured absently.
Kate’s brow furrowed. “I think you’re right.”
Gregory frowned at his food. He’d thought to wait here for Lucy; she would not be able to miss breakfast. But if she’d already eaten, then the time of her departure would be growing near.
And he needed to find her.
He stood. A bit abruptly—he knocked his thigh against the edge of the table, causing Kate to look up at him with a startled expression.
“You’re not going to finish your breakfast?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
She looked at him with patent disbelief. She’d been a member of the family for over ten years, after all. “How is that possible?”
He ignored the question. “I bid you a lovely morning.”
“Gregory?”
He turned. He didn’t want to, but there was a slight edge to her voice, just enough for him to know he needed to pay attention.
Kate’s eyes filled with compassion—and apprehension. “You’re not going to seek out Miss Watson, are you?”
“No,” he said, and it was almost funny, because that was the last thing on his mind.
Lucy stared at her packed trunks, feeling tired. And sad. And confused.
And heaven knew what else.
Wrung out. That was how she felt. She’d watched the maids with the bath towels, how they twisted and twisted to wring out every last drop of water.
So it had come to this.
She was a bath towel.
“Lucy?”
It was Hermione, quietly entering their room. Lucy had already been asleep when Hermione had returned the night before, and Hermione had been asleep when Lucy had left for breakfast.
When Lucy had returned, Hermione had been gone. In many ways, Lucy had been grateful for that.