Her mouth was pursed, as if she thought she ought to be scolding him, and he was chuckling, because it was such good fun to bait her.
“It’s my second breakfast,” she said, utterly deadpan.
He sat on the opposite end of the bench and began to tear his bread into bits. When he had a good-sized handful, he tossed them all at once, then sat back to watch the ensuing frenzy of beaks and feathers.
Lucy, he noticed, was tossing her crumbs methodically, one after another, precisely three seconds apart.
He counted. How could he not?
“The flock has abandoned me,” she said with a frown.
Gregory grinned as the last pigeon hopped to the feast of Bridgerton. He threw down another handful. “I always host the best parties.”
She turned, her chin dipping as she gave him a dry glance over her shoulder. “You are insufferable.”
He gave her a wicked look. “It is one of my finest qualities.”
“According to whom?”
“Well, my mother seems to like me quite well,” he said modestly.
She sputtered with laughter.
It felt like a victory.
“My sister . . . not as much.”
One of her brows lifted. “The one you are fond of torturing?”
“I don’t torture her because I like to,” he said, in a rather instructing sort of tone. “I do it because it is necessary.”
“To whom?”
“To all Britain,” he said. “Trust me.”
She looked at him dubiously. “She can’t be that bad.”
“I suppose not,” he said. “My mother seems to like her quite well, much as that baffles me.”
She laughed again, and the sound was . . . good. A nondescript word, to be sure, but somehow it got right to the heart of it. Her laughter came from within—warm, rich, and true.
Then she turned, and her eyes grew quite serious. “You like to tease, but I would bet all that I have that you would lay down your life for her.”
He pretended to consider this. “How much do you have?”
“For shame, Mr. Bridgerton. You’re avoiding the question.”
“Of course I would,” he said quietly. “She’s my little sister. Mine to torture and mine to protect.”
“Isn’t she married now?”
He shrugged, gazing out across the park. “Yes, I suppose St. Clair can take care of her now, God help him.” He turned, flashing her a lopsided smile. “Sorry.”
But she wasn’t so high in the instep to take offense. And in fact, she surprised him utterly by saying—with considerable feeling, “There is no need to apologize. There are times when only the Lord’s name will properly convey one’s desperation.”
“Why do I feel you are speaking from recent experience?”
“Last night,” she confirmed.