Lucy?
No. It couldn’t be possible. He knew Lucy.
She did not do this to him.
He had seen her dozens of times, kissed her even, and never once felt like this, as if the world might swallow him whole if he did not reach her side and take her hand in his.
There had to be an explanation. He had felt this way before. With Hermione.
But this time—it wasn’t quite the same. With Hermione
it had been dizzying, new. There had been the thrill of discovery, of conquest. But this was Lucy.
It was Lucy, and—
It all came flooding back. The tilt of her head as she explained why sandwiches ought to be properly sorted. The delightfully peeved look on her face when she had tried to explain to him why he was doing everything wrong in his courtship of Miss Watson.
The way it had felt so right simply to sit on a bench with her in Hyde Park and throw bread at the pigeons.
And the kiss. Dear God, the kiss.
He still dreamed about that kiss.
And he wanted her to dream about it, too.
He took a step. Just one—slightly forward and to the side so that he could better see her profile. It was all so familiar now—the tilt of her head, the way her lips moved when she spoke. How could he not have recognized her instantly, even from the back? The memories had been there, tucked away in the recesses of his mind, but he hadn’t wanted—no he hadn’t allowed himself—to acknowledge his presence.
And then she saw him. Lucy saw him. He saw it first in her eyes, which widened and sparkled, and then in the curve of her lips.
She smiled. For him.
It filled him. To near bursting, it filled him. It was just one smile, but it was all he needed.
He began to walk. He could barely feel his feet, had almost no conscious control over his body. He simply moved, knowing from deep within that he had to reach her.
“Lucy,” he said, once he was next to her, forgetting that they were surrounded by strangers, and worse, friends, and he should not presume to use her given name.
But nothing else felt right on his lips.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, but her eyes said, Gregory.
And he knew.
He loved her.
It was the strangest, most wonderful sensation. It was exhilarating. It was as if the world had suddenly become open to him. Clear. He understood. He understood everything he needed to know, and it was all right there in her eyes.
“Lady Lucinda,” he said, bowing deeply over her hand. “May I have this dance?”
Seventeen
In which Our Hero’s sister moves things along.
It was heaven.
Forget angels, forget St. Peter and glittering harpsichords. Heaven was a dance in the arms of one’s true love. And when the one in question had a mere week before marrying someone else entirely, aforementioned one had to grab heaven tightly, with both hands.
Metaphorically speaking.