But once he reached the next street he doubled around.
Running.
Twenty-three
In which Our Hero risks everything. Again.
In the ten years since her uncle had become her guardian, Lucy had never known him to host a party. He was not one to smile upon any sort of unnecessary expense—in truth, he was not one to smile at all. So it was with some suspicion that she approached the lavish fête being thrown in her honor at Fennsworth House following the wedding ceremony.
Lord Davenport had surely insisted upon it. Uncle Robert would have been content to serve tea cakes at the church and be done with it.
But no, the wedding must be an event, in the most extravagant sense of the word, and so as soon as the ceremony was over, Lucy was whisked to her soon-to-be-former home and given just enough time in her soon-to-be-former bedchamber to splash some cool water on her face before she was summoned to greet her guests below.
It was remarkable, she thought as she nodded and received the well wishes of the attendees, just how good the ton was at pretending nothing had happened.
Oh, they would be speaking of nothing else tomorrow, and she could probably look forward to being the main topic of conversation for the next few months, even. And certainly for the next year no one would say her name without appending, “You know the one. With the wedding.”
Which would surely be followed by, “Ohhhhhhhh. She’s the one.”
But for now, to her face, there was nothing but “Such a happy occasion,” and “You make a beautiful bride.” And of course, for the sly and daring—“Lovely ceremony, Lady Haselby.”
Lady Haselby.
She tested it out in her mind. She was Lady Haselby now.
She could have been Mrs. Bridgerton.
Lady Lucinda Bridgerton, she supposed, as she was not required to surrender her honorific upon marriage to a commoner. It was a nice name—not as lofty as Lady Haselby, perhaps, and certainly nothing compared to the Countess of Davenport, but—
She swallowed, somehow managing not to dislodge the smile she’d affixed to her face five minutes earlier.
She would have liked to have been Lady Lucinda Bridgerton.
She liked Lady Lucinda Bridgerton. She was a happy sort, with a ready smile and a life that was full and complete. She had a dog, maybe two, and several children. Her house was warm and cozy, she drank tea with her friends, and she laughed.
Lady Lucinda Bridgerton laughed.
But she would never be that woman. She had married Lord Haselby, and now she was his wife, and try as she might, she could not picture where her life might lead. She did not know what it meant to be Lady Haselby.
The party hummed along, and Lucy danced her obligatory dance with her new husband, who was, she was relieved to note, quite accomplished. Then she danced with her brother, which nearly made her cry, and then her uncle, because it was expected.
“You did the right thing, Lucy,” he said.
She said nothing. She didn’t trust herself to do so.
“I am proud of you.”
She almost laughed. “You have never been proud of me before.”
“I am now.”
It did not escape her notice that this was not a contradiction.
Her uncle returned her to the side of the ballroom floor, and then—dear God—she had to dance with Lord Davenport.
Which she did, because she knew her duty. On this day, especially, she knew her duty.
At least she did not have to speak. Lord Davenport was at his most effusive, and more than carried the conversation for the both of them. He was delighted with Lucy. She was a magnificent asset to the family.
And so on and so forth until Lucy realized that she had managed to endear herself to him in the most indelible manner possible. She had not simply agreed to marry his dubiously reputationed son; she had affirmed the decision in front of the entire ton in a scene worthy of Drury Lane.
Lucy moved her head discreetly to the side. When Lord Davenport was excited, spittle tended to fly from his mouth with alarming speed and accuracy. Truly, she wasn’t sure which was worse—Lord Davenport’s disdain or his everlasting gratitude.
But Lucy managed to avoid her new father-in-law for most of the festivities, thank heavens. She managed to avoid most everyone, which was surprisingly undifficult, given that she was the bride. She didn’t want to see Lord Davenport, because she detested him, and she didn’t want to see her uncle, because she rather suspected she detested him, as well. She didn’t want to see Lord Haselby, because that would only lead to thoughts of her upcoming wedding night, and she didn’t want to see Hermione, because she would ask questions, and then Lucy would cry.
And she didn’t want to see her brother, because he was sure to be with Hermione, and besides that, she was feeling rather bitter, alternating with feeling rather guilty for feeling bitter. It wasn’t Richard’s fault that he was deliriously happy and she was not.
But all the same, she’d rather not have to see him.
Which left the guests, most of whom she did not know. And none of whom she wished to meet.
So she found a spot in the corner, and after a couple of hours, everyone had drunk so much that no one seemed to notice that the bride was sitting by herself.
And certainly no one took note when she escaped to her bedchamber to take a short rest. It was probably very bad manners for a bride to avoid her own party, but at that moment, Lucy simply did not care. People would think she’d gone off to relieve herself, if anyone noticed her absence. And somehow it seemed appropriate for her to be alone on this day.
She slipped up the back stairs, lest she come across any wandering guests, and with a sigh of relief, she stepped into her room and shut the door behind her.
She leaned her back against the door, slowly deflating until it felt like there was nothing left within her.
And she thought—Now I shall cry.
She wanted to. Truly, she did. She felt as if she’d been holding it inside for hours, just waiting for a private moment. But the tears would not come. She was too numb, too dazed by the events of the last twenty-four hours. And so she stood there, staring at her bed.
Remembering.
Dear heaven, had it been only twelve hours earlier that she had lain there, wrapped in his arms? It seemed like years. It was as if her life were now neatly divided in two, and she was most firmly in after.
She closed her eyes. Maybe if she didn’t see it, it would go away. Maybe if she—
“Lucy.”
She froze. Dear God, no.
“Lucy.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes. And whispered, “Gregory?”
He looked a mess, windblown and dirty as only a mad ride on horseback could do to a man. He must have sneaked in the same way he’d done the night before. He must have been waiting for her.
She opened her mouth, tried to speak.
“Lucy,” he said again, and his voice flowed through her, melted around her.
She swallowed. “Why are you here?”
He stepped toward her, and her heart just ached from it. His face was so handsome, and so dear, and so perfectly wonderfully familiar. She knew the slope of his cheeks, and the exact shade of his eyes, brownish near the iris, melting into green at the edge.
And his mouth—she knew that mouth, the look of it, the feel of it. She knew his smile, and she knew his frown, and she knew—
She knew far too much.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, the catch in her voice belying the stillness of her posture.
He took another step in her direction. There was no anger in his eyes, which she did not understand. But the way he was looking at her—it was hot, and it was possessive, and it was nothing a married woman should ever allow from a man who was not her husband.
“I had to know why,” he said. “I couldn’t let you go. Not until I knew why.”
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t do this.”
Please don’t make me
regret. Please don’t make me long and wish and wonder.
She hugged her arms to her chest, as if maybe . . . maybe she could squeeze so tight that she could pull herself inside out. And then she wouldn’t have to see, she wouldn’t have to hear. She could just be alone, and—
“Lucy—”
“Don’t,” she said again, sharply this time.
Don’t.
Don’t make me believe in love.
But he moved ever closer. Slowly, but without hesitation. “Lucy,” he said, his voice warm and full of purpose. “Just tell me why. That is all I ask. I will walk away and promise never to approach you again, but I must know why.”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
“You won’t tell me,” he corrected.
“No,” she cried out, choking on the word. “I can’t! Please, Gregory. You must go.”
For a long moment he said nothing. He just watched her face, and she could practically see him thinking.
She shouldn’t allow this, she thought, a bubble of panic beginning to rise within her. She should scream. Have him ejected. She should run from the room before he could ruin her careful plans for the future. But instead she just stood there, and he said—
“You’re being blackmailed.”
It wasn’t a question.
She did not answer, but she knew that her face gave her away.
“Lucy,” he said, his voice soft and careful, “I can help you. Whatever it is, I can make it right.”
“No,” she said, “you can’t, and you’re a fool to—” She cut herself off, too furious to speak. What made him think he could rush in and fix things when he knew nothing of her travails? Did he think she had given in for something small? Something that could be easily overcome?
She was not that weak.
“You don’t know,” she said. “You have no idea.”
“Then tell me.”
Her muscles were shaking, and she felt hot . . . cold . . . everything in between.
“Lucy,” he said, and his voice was so calm, so even—it was like a fork, poking her right where she could least tolerate it.
“You can’t fix this,” she ground out.
“That is not true. There is nothing anyone could hold over you that could not be overcome.”
“By what?” she demanded. “Rainbows and sprites and the everlasting good wishes of your family? It won’t work, Gregory. It won’t. The Bridgertons may be powerful, but you cannot change the past, and you cannot bend the future to suit your whims.”
“Lucy,” he said, reaching out for her.
“No. No!” She pushed him away, rejected his offer of comfort. “You don’t understand. You can’t possibly. You are all so happy, so perfect.”
“We are not.”
“You are. You don’t even know that you are, and you can’t conceive that the rest of us are not, that we might struggle and try and be good and still not receive what we wish for.”
Through it all, he watched her. Just watched her and let her stand by herself, hugging her arms to her body, looking small and pale and heartbreakingly alone.
And then he asked it.
“Do you love me?”
She closed her eyes. “Don’t ask me that.”
“Do you?”
He saw her jaw tighten, saw the way her shoulders tensed and rose, and he knew she was trying to shake her head.
Gregory walked toward her—slowly, respectfully.
She was hurting. She was hurting so much that it spread through the air, wrapped around him, around his heart. He ached for her. It was a physical thing, terrible and sharp, and for the first time he was beginning to doubt his own ability to make it go away.
“Do you love me?” he asked.
“Gregory—”
“Do you love me?”
“I can’t—”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched, but she did not move away.
He touched her chin, nudged her face until he could lose himself in the blue of her eyes. “Do you love me?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, collapsing into his arms. “But I can’t. Don’t you understand? I shouldn’t. I have to make it stop.”
For a moment Gregory could not move. Her admission should have come as a relief, and in a way it did, but more than that, he felt his blood begin to race.
He believed in love.
Wasn’t that the one thing that had been a constant in his life?
He believed in love.
He believed in its power, in its fundamental goodness, its rightness.
He revered it for its strength, respected it for its rarity.
And he knew, right then, right there, as she cried in his arms, that he would dare anything for it.
For love.
“Lucy,” he whispered, an idea beginning to form in his mind. It was mad, bad, and thoroughly inadvisable, but he could not escape the one thought that was rushing through his brain.
She had not consummated her marriage.
They still had a chance.
“Lucy.”
She pulled away. “I must return. They will be missing me.”
But he captured her hand. “Don’t go back.”
Her eyes grew huge. “What do you mean?”
“Come with me. Come with me now.” He felt giddy, dangerous, and just a little bit mad. “You are not his wife yet. You can have it annulled.”
“Oh no.” She shook her head, tugging her arm away from him. “No, Gregory.”
“Yes. Yes.” And the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. They hadn’t much time; after this evening it would be impossible for her to say that she was untouched. Gregory’s own actions had made sure of that. If they had any chance of being together, it had to be now.
He couldn’t kidnap her; there was no way he could remove her from the house without raising an alarm. But he could buy them a bit of time. Enough so that he could sort out what to do.
He pulled her closer.
“No,” she said, her voice growing louder. She started really yanking on her arm now, and he could see the panic growing in her eyes.
“Lucy, yes,” he said.
“I will scream,” she said.
“No one will hear you.”
She stared at him in shock, and even he could not believe what he was saying.
“Are you threatening me?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. I’m saving you.” And then, before he had the opportunity to reconsider his actions, he grabbed her around her middle, threw her over his shoulder, and ran from the room.
Twenty-four
In which Our Hero leaves Our Heroine in an awkward position.
“You are tying me to a water closet?”
“Sorry,” he said, tying two scarves into such expert knots that she almost worried that he had done this before. “I couldn’t very well leave you in your room. That’s the first place anyone would look.” He tightened the knots, then tested them for strength. “It was the first place I looked.”
“But a water closet!”
“On the third floor,” he added helpfully. “It will take hours before anyone finds you here.”
Lucy clenched her jaw, desperately trying to contain the fury that was rising within her.
He had lashed her hands together. Behind her back.
Good Lord, she had not known it was possible to be so angry with another person.
It wasn’t just an emotional reaction—her entire body had erupted with it. She felt hot and prickly, and even though she knew it would do no good, she jerked her arms against the piping of the water closet, grinding her teeth and letting out a frustrated grunt when it did nothing but produce a dull clang.
“Please don’t struggle,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “It is only going to leave you tired and sore.” He looked up, examining the structure of the water closet. “Or you’ll break the pipe, and surely that cannot be a hygienic prospect.”
“Gregory, you have to let me go.”
He crouched so that his face was on a level with hers. “I cannot,” he said. “Not while there is still a chance for us to be together.”
“Please,” she pleaded, “this is madness. You must return me. I will be ruined.”
“I will marry you,” he said.
“I’m already married!”
“Not quite,” he said with a wolfish smile.
“I said my vows!”
“But you did not consummate them. You can still get an annulment.”
“That is not the point!” she cried out, struggling fruitlessly as he stood and walked to the door. “You don’t understand the situation, and you are selfishly putting your own needs and happiness above those of others.”
At that, he stopped. His hand was on the doorknob, but he stopped, and when he turned around, the look in his eyes nearly broke her heart.
“You’re happy?” he asked. Softly, and with such love that she wanted to cry.
“No,” she whispered, “but—”
“I’ve never seen a bride who looked so sad.”
She closed her eyes, deflated. It was an echo of what Hermione had said, and she knew it was true. And even then, as she looked up at him, her shoulders aching, she could not escape the beatings of her own heart.
She loved him.
She would always love him.
And she hated him, too, for making her want what she could not have. She hated him for loving her so much that he would risk everything to be together. And most of all, she hated him for turning her into the instrument that would destroy her family.
Until she’d met Gregory, Hermione and Richard were the only two people in the world for whom she truly cared. And now they would be ruined, brought far lower and into greater unhappiness than Lucy could ever imagine with Haselby.
Gregory thought that it would take hours for someone to find her here, but she knew better. No one would locate her for days. She could not remember the last time anyone had wandered up here. She was in the nanny’s washroom—but Fennsworth House had not had a nanny in residence for years.
When her disappearance was noticed, first they would check her room. Then they’d try a few sensible alternatives—the library, the sitting room, a washroom that had not been in disuse for half a decade . . .