Good God, not again.
“Bridgerton?”
Across the room, just by the door. Three gentlemen, an elderly lady, two matrons, and—
Her.
It was her. And he was being pulled, as sure as if there were a rope between them. He needed to reach her side.
“Bridgerton, is something—”
“I beg your pardon,” Gregory managed to say, brushing past Trevelstam.
It was her. Except . . .
It was a different her. It wasn’t Hermione Watson. It was— He wasn’t sure who she was; he could see her only from the back. But there it was—that same splendid and terrible feeling. It made him dizzy. It made him ecstatic. His lungs were hollow. He was hollow.
And he wanted her.
It was just as he’d always imagined it—that magical, almost incandescent sense of knowing that his life was complete, that she was the one.
Except that he’d done this before. And Hermione Watson hadn’t been the one.
Dear God, could a man fall insanely, stupidly in love twice?
Hadn’t he just told Lucy to be wary and scared, that if she was ever overcome with such a feeling, she should not trust it?
And yet . . .
And yet there she was.
And there he was.
And it was happening all over again.
It was just as it had been with Hermione. No, it was worse. His body tingled; he couldn’t keep his toes still in his boots. He wanted to jump out of his skin, rush across the room and . . . just . . . just . . .
Just see her.
He wanted her to turn. He wanted to see her face. He wanted to know who she was.
He wanted to know her.
No.
No, he told himself, trying to force his feet in the other direction. This was madness. He should leave. He should leave right now.
But he couldn’t. Even with every rational corner of his soul screaming at him to turn around and walk away, he was rooted to the spot, waiting for her to turn.
Praying for her to turn.
And then she did.
And she was—
Lucy.
He stumbled as if struck.