“I don’t think so,” she said slowly. Lucy could not think of anyone who would say no to a duchess.
“It’s settled, then,” Gregory said. “You shall be hearing from Daphne by afternoon.” He stood, offering his hand to help her up.
She swallowed. It would be bittersweet to touch him, but she placed her hand in his. It felt warm, and comfortable. And safe.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking her hand back so that she might wrap both around the handle of her basket. She nodded at her maid, who immediately began walking to her side.
“Until tomorrow,” he said, bowing almost formally as he bade her farewell.
“Until tomorrow,” Lucy echoed, wondering if it were true. She had never known her uncle to change his mind before.
But maybe . . .
Possibly.
Hopefully.
Fifteen
In which Our Hero learns that he is not, and probably never will be, as wise as his mother.
One hour later, Gregory was waiting in the drawing room at Number Five, Bruton Street, his mother’s London home since she had insisted upon vacating Bridgerton House upon Anthony’s marriage. It had been his home, too, until he had found his own lodgings several years earlier. His mother lived there alone now, ever since his younger sister had married. Gregory made a point of calling upon her at least twice a week when he was in London, but it never ceased to surprise him how quiet the house seemed now.
“Darling!” his mother exclaimed, sailing into the room with a wide smile. “I had not thought to see you until this evening. How was your journey? And tell me everything about Benedict and Sophie and the children. It is a crime how infrequently I see my grandchildren.”
Gregory smiled indulgently. His mother had visited Wiltshire just one month earlier, and did so several times per year. He dutifully passed along news of Benedict’s four children, with added emphasis on little Violet, her namesake. Then, once she had exhausted her supply of questions, he said, “Actually, Mother, I have a favor to ask of you.”
Violet’s posture was always superb, but still, she seemed to straighten a bit. “You do? What is it you need?”
He told her about Lucy, keeping the tale as brief as possible, lest she reach any inappropriate conclusions about his interest in her.
His mother tended to view any unmarried female as a potential bride. Even those with a wedding scheduled for the week’s end.
“Of course I will assist you,” she said. “This will be easy.”
“Her uncle is determined to keep her sequestered,” Gregory reminded her.
She waved away his warning. “Child’s play, my dear son. Leave this to me. I shall make short work of it.”
Gregory decided not to pursue the subject further. If his mother said she knew how to ensure someone’s attendance at a ball, then he believed her. Continued questioning would only lead her to believe he had an ulterior motive.
Which he did not.
He simply liked Lucy. Considered her a friend. And he wished for her to have a bit of fun.
It was admirable, really.
“I shall have your sister send an invitation with a personal note,” Violet mused. “And perhaps I shall call upon her uncle directly. I shall lie and tell him I met her in the park.”
“Lie?” Gregory’s lips twitched. “You?”
His mother’s smile was positively diabolical. “It won’t matter if he does not believe me. It is one of the advantages of advanced years. No one dares to countermand an old dragon like me.”
Gregory lifted his brows, refusing to fall for her bait. Violet Bridgerton might have been the mother of eight adult children, but with her milky, unlined complexion and wide smile, she did not look like anyone who could be termed old. In fact, Gregory had often wondered why she did not remarry. There was no shortage of dashing widowers clamoring to take her in to supper or stand up for a dance. Gregory suspected any one of them would have leaped at the chance to marry his mother, if only she would indicate interest.
But she did not, and Gregory had to admit that he was rather selfishly glad of it. Despite her meddling, there was something quite comforting in her single-minded devotion to her children and grandchildren.
His father had been dead for over two dozen years. Gregory hadn’t even the slightest memory of the man. But his mother had spoken of him often, and whenever she did, her voice changed. Her eyes softened, and the corners of her lips moved—just a little, just enough for Gregory to see the memories on her face.