“Lady Lucinda,” he called out.
She went quite still before she turned. And when she did, her eyes looked pained.
“I am glad I caught you,” he said, although he was no longer sure that he was. She was not happy to see him. He had not been expecting that.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said. Her lips were pinched at the corners, as if she thought she was smiling.
There were a hundred different things he could have said, so of course he chose the least meaningful and most obvious. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes,” she said, after the barest of pauses. “Richard desires an early start.”
Gregory looked around. “Is he here?”
“Not yet. I imagine he is saying goodbye to Hermione.”
“Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Of course.”
He looked at her, and she looked at him, and they were quiet.
Awkward.
“I wanted to say that I am sorry,” he said.
She . . . she didn’t smile. He wasn’t sure what her expression was, but it wasn’t a smile. “Of course,” she said.
Of course? Of course?
“I accept.” She looked slightly over his shoulder. “Please, do not think of it again.”
It was what she had to say, to be sure, but it still niggled at Gregory. He had kissed her, and it had been stupendous, and if he wished to remember it, he damned well would.
“Will I see you in London?” he asked.
She looked up at him then, her eyes finally meeting his. She was searching for something. She was searching for something in him, and he did not think she found it.
She looked too somber, too tired.
Too not like her.
“I expect you shall,” she replied. “But it won’t be the same. I am engaged, you see.”
“
Practically engaged,” he reminded her, smiling.
“No.” She shook her head, slow and resigned. “I truly am now. That is why Richard came to fetch me home. My uncle has finalized the agreements. I believe the banns will be read soon. It is done.”
His lips parted with surprise. “I see,” he said, and his mind raced. And raced and raced, and got absolutely nowhere. “I wish you the best,” he said, because what else could he say?
She nodded, then tilted her head toward the wide green lawn in front of the house. “I believe I shall take a turn around the garden. I have a long ride ahead of me.”
“Of course,” he said, giving her a polite bow. She did not wish for his company. She could not have made herself more clear if she had spoken the words.
“It has been lovely knowing you,” she said. Her eyes caught his, and for the first time in the conversation, he saw her, saw right down to everything inside of her, weary and bruised.
And he saw that she was saying goodbye.
“I am sorry . . .” She stopped, looked to the side. At a stone wall. “I am sorry that everything did not work out as you had hoped.”