“And he hasn’t…Your brother hasn’t…” Lucy fought for words, mortified that she was unburdening herself to a near stranger, to Gregory’s own sister, for heaven’s sake. But Hyacinth wasn’t saying anything; she was just sitting there with her eyes focused on the needle looping in and out of Lucy’s hem. And if Hyacinth didn’t say anything, then Lucy had to. Because—Because—
Well, because she did.
“He has made me no promises,” Lucy said, her voice nearly shaking with it. “He stated no intentions.”
At that, Hyacinth did look up. She glanced around the room, as if to say, Look at us, mending your gown in the bedchamber of the Duchess of Hastings. And she murmured, “Hasn’t he?”
Lucy closed her eyes in agony. She was not like Hyacinth St. Clair. One needed only a quarter of an hour in her company to know that she would dare anything, take any chance to secure her own happiness. She would defy convention, stand up to the harshest of critics, and emerge entirely intact, in body and spirit.
Lucy was not so hardy. She wasn’t ruled by passions. Her muse had always been good sense. Pragmatism.
Hadn’t she been the one to tell Hermione that she needed to marry a man of whom her parents would approve?
Hadn’t she told Gregory that she didn’t want a violent, overwhelming love? That she just wasn’t the sort?
She wasn’t that kind of person. She wasn’t. When her governess had made line drawings for her to fill, she had always colored between the lines.
“I don’t think I can do it,” Lucy whispered.
Hyacinth held her gaze for an agonizingly long moment before turning back to her sewing. “I misjudged you,” she said softly.
It hit Lucy like a slap in the face.
“Wh…wh…”
What did you say?
But Lucy’s lips would not form the words. She did not wish to hear the answer. And Hyacinth was back to her brisk self, looking up with an irritated expression as she said, “Don’t fidget so much.”
“Sorry,” Lucy mumbled. And she thought—I’ve said it again. I am so predictable, so utterly conventional and unimaginative.
“You’re still moving.”
“Oh.” Good God, could she do nothing right this evening? “Sorry.”
Hyacinth jabbed her with the needle. “You’re still moving.”
“I am not!” Lucy almost yelled.
Hyacinth smiled to herself. “That’s better.”
Lucy looked down and scowled. “Am I bleeding?”
“If you are,” Hyacinth said, rising to her feet, “it’s nobody’s fault but your own.”
“I beg your pardon.”
But Hyacinth was already standing, a satisfied smile on her face. “There,” she announced, motioning to her handiwork. “Certainly not as good as new, but it will pass any inspection this evening.”
Lucy knelt to inspect her hem. Hyacinth had been generous in her self-praise. The stitching was a mess.
“I’ve never been gifted with a needle,” Hyacinth said with an unconcerned shrug.
Lucy stood, fighting the impulse to rip the stitches out and fix them herself. “You might have told me,” she muttered.
Hyacinth’s lips curved into a slow, sly smile. “My, my,” she said, “you’ve turned prickly all of a sudden.”
And then Lucy shocked herself by saying, “You’ve been hurtful.”