“For my wedding.”
That stopped the easy flow of conversation.
She reached into her bag and pulled out another slice of bread. “It is to take place in a week.”
He stared at her in shock. “That soon?”
“Uncle Robert says there is no point in dragging it out.”
“I see.”
And maybe he did. Maybe there was some sort of etiquette to all this that she, sheltered girl from the country that she was, had not been taught. Maybe there was no point in postponing the inevitable. Maybe it was all a part of that making the best of things philosophy she was working so diligently to espouse.
“Well,” he said. He blinked a few times, and she realized that he did not know what to say. It was a most uncharacteristic response and one she found gratifying. It was a bit like Hermione not knowing how to dance. If Gregory Bridgerton could be at a loss for words, then there was hope for the rest of humanity.
Finally he settled upon: “My felicitations.”
“Thank you.” She wondered if he had received an invitation. Uncle Robert and Lord Davenport were determined to hold the ceremony in front of absolutely everyone. It was, they said, to be her grand debut, and they wanted all the world to know that she was Haselby’s wife.
“It is to be at St. George’s,” she said, for no reason whatsoever.
“Here in London?” He sounded surprised. “I would have thought you would marry from Fennsworth Abbey.”
It was most peculiar, Lucy thought, how not painful this was—discussing her upcoming wedding with him. She felt more numb, actually. “It was what my uncle wanted,” she explained, reaching into her basket for another slice of bread.
“Your uncle remains the head of the household?” Gregory asked, regarding her with mild curiosity. “Your brother is the earl. Hasn’t he reached his majority?”
Lucy tossed the entire slice to the ground, then watched with morbid interest as the pigeons went a bit mad. “He has,” she replied. “Last year. But he was content to allow my uncle to handle the family’s affairs while he was conducting his postgraduate studies at Cambridge. I expect that he will assume his place soon now that he is”—she offered him an apologetic smile—“married.”
“Do not worry over my sensibilities,” he assured her. “I am quite recovered.”
“Truly?”
He gave her a small, one-shouldered shrug. “Truth be told, I count myself lucky.”
She pulled out another slice of bread, but her fingers froze before pinching off a piece. “You do?” she asked, turning to him with interest. “How is that possible?”
He blinked with surprise. “You are direct, aren’t you?”
And she blushed. She felt it, pink and warm and just horrible on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was terribly rude of me. It is only that you were so very much—”
“Say no more,” he cut her off, and then she felt even worse, because she had been about to describe—probably in meticulous detail—how lovesick he’d been over Hermione. Which, had she been in his position, she’d not wish recounted.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He turned. Regarded her with a contemplative sort of curiosity. “You say that quite frequently.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes.”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Her teeth ground together, and she felt quite tense. Uncomfortable. Why would he point out such a thing? “It’s what I do,” she said, and she said it firmly, because . . . Well, because. That ought to be enough of a reason.
He nodded. And that made her feel even worse. “It’s who I am,” she added defensively, even though he’d been agreeing with her, for heaven’s sake. “I smooth things over and I make things right.”
And at that, she hurled the last piece of bread to the ground.
His brows rose, an