“I love you,” he said, as if there could be no other explanation.
A little moan choked in her throat. Tears burned her eyes, and her entire body felt stiff. Stiff and frozen. One little wind, one little breath would knock her over. And she couldn’t manage to think anything but Why?
And No.
And Please.
And—oh heavens, Lord Haselby!
She looked up at him, at the groom who had found himself demoted to a supporting role. He had been standing silently this entire time, watching the unfolding drama with as much interest as the audience. With her eyes she pleaded with him for guidance, but he just shook his head. It was a tiny movement, far too subtle for anyone else to discern, but she saw it, and she knew what it meant.
It is up to you.
She turned back to Gregory. His eyes burned, and he sank to one knee.
Don’t, she tried to say. But she could not move her lips. She could not find her voice.
“Marry me,” Gregory said, and she felt him in his voice. It wrapped around her body, kissed her, embraced her. “Marry me.”
And oh dear Lord, she wanted to. More than anything, she wanted to sink to her knees and take his face in her hands. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to shout out her love for him—here, in front of everyone she knew, possibly everyone she ever would know.
But she had wanted all of that the day before, and the day before that. Nothing had changed. Her world had become more public, but it had not changed.
Her father was still a traitor.
Her family was still being blackmailed.
The fate of her brother and Hermione was still in her hands.
She looked at Gregory, aching for him, aching for them both.
“Marry me,” he whispered.
Her lips parted, and she said—
“No.”
Twenty-two
In which all hell breaks loose.
All hell broke loose.
Lord Davenport charged forward, as did Lucy’s uncle and Gregory’s brother, who had just tripped up the steps to the church after chasing Gregory across Mayfair.
Lucy’s brother dashed forward to move both Lucy and Hermione from the melee, but Lord Haselby, who had been watching the events with the air of an intrigued spectator, calmly took the arm of his intended and said, “I will see to her.”
As for Lucy, she stumbled backward, her mouth open with shock as Lord Davenport leaped atop Gregory, landing belly down like a—well, like nothing Lucy had ever seen.
“I have him!” Davenport yelled triumphantly, only to be smacked soundly with a reticule belonging to Hyacinth St. Clair.
Lucy closed her eyes.
“Not the wedding of your dreams, I imagine,” Haselby murmured in her ear.
Lucy shook her head, too numb to do anything else. She should help Gregory. Really, she should. But she felt positively drained of energy, and besides, she was too cowardly to face him again.
What if he rejected her?