Stricken.
What had Hyacinth done to her?
“Lucy?” he asked, rushing forward. “Is something wrong?”
Lucy shook her head. “It is of no account.”
He turned to his sister with accusing eyes.
Hyacinth shrugged. “I will be in the next room.”
“Listening at the door?”
“I shall wait at Daphne’s escritoire,” she said. “It is halfway across the room, and before you make an objection, I cannot go farther. If someone comes you will need me to rush in to make everything respectable.”
Her point was a valid one, loath as Gregory was to admit it, so he gave her a curt nod and watched her leave the room, waiting for the click of the door latch before speaking.
“Did she say something unkind?” he asked Lucy. “She can be disgracefully tactless, but her heart is usually in the right place.”
Lucy shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I think she might have said exactly the right thing.”
“Lucy?” He stared at her in question.
Her eyes, which had seemed so cloudy, appeared to focus. “What was it you needed to tell me?” she asked.
“Lucy,” he said, wondering how best to approach this. He’d been rehearsing speeches in his mind the entire time he’d been dancing downstairs, but now that he was here, he didn’t know what to say.
Or rather, he did. But he didn’t know the order, and he didn’t know the tone. Did he tell her he loved her? Bare his heart to a woman who intended to marry another? Or did he opt for the safer route and explain why she could not marry Haselby?
A month ago, the choice would have been obvious. He was a romantic, fond of grand gestures. He would have declared his love, certain of a happy reception. He would have taken her hand. Dropped to his knees.
He would have kissed her.
But now . . .
He was no longer quite so certain. He trusted Lucy, but he did not trust fate.
“You can’t marry Haselby,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t marry him,” he replied, avoiding the question. “It will be a disaster. It will . . . You must trust me. You must not marry him.”
She shook her head. “Why are you telling me this?”
Because I want you for myself.
“Because . . . because . . .” He fought for words. “Because you have become my friend. And I wish for your happiness. He will not be a good husband to you, Lucy.”
“Why not?” Her voice was low, hollow, and heartbreakingly unlike her.
“He . . .” Dear God, how did he say it? Would she even understand what he meant?
“He doesn’t . . .” He swallowed. There had to be a gentle way to say it. “He doesn’t . . . Some people . . .”
He looked at her. Her lower lip was quivering.
“He prefers men,” he said, getting the words out as quickly as he was able. “To women. Some men are like that.”