Read On the Way to the Wedding Online
Authors: Julia Quinn
Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Fiction, #Historical, #Love Stories, #England - Social Life and Customs - 19th Century, #London (England), #Regency Fiction, #English Fiction
On the Way to the Wedding
For Lyssa Keusch.
Because you’re my editor.
Because you’re my friend.
And also for Paul.
Just because.
$
$
In which:
Firstly,
Gregory Bridgerton falls in love with the wrong woman, and
Secondly,
she falls in love with someone else, but
Thirdly,
Lucy Abernathy decides to meddle; however,
Fourthly
, she falls in love with Gregory, which is highly inconvenient because
Fifthly,
she is practically engaged to Lord Haselby, but
Sixthly,
Gregory falls in love with Lucy.
Which leaves everyone in a bit of a pickle.
Watch them all find their happy endings in: The stunning conclusion
to the Bridgerton series
by the incomparable Julia Quinn
Contents
iii
iv
His lungs were on fire.
1
Unlike most men of his acquaintance, Gregory Bridgerton believed in…
5
Gregory was nothing if not a gentleman, and he hid…
19
The following morning was bright and clear, and as Gregory…
38
He was going about it all wrong.
54
One moment Lucy was walking down the corridor, her nose…
69
Dear God, what had she said?
81
Gregory had been chatting with his sister-in-law in the breakfast…
100
An hour later, Gregory was still
congratulating himself on the…
113
The following night was the masked ball.
It was to…
125
Lucy followed Lady Bridgerton and
Gregory into the hallway, trying…
142
The irony of the evening was not lost on
Lucy…
158
When Gregory sat down to breakfast the next day, Kate…
174
The food was exquisite, the table
settings magnificent, the surroundings…
189
When Gregory saw her, right there in Hyde Park his…
202
One hour later, Gregory was waiting in the
drawing
room…
220
When it came to social machinations, Violet Bridgerton was every…
230
It was heaven.
243
She could do this.
263
By Friday Gregory was desperate.
276
Sometime later, after sleep, and then more passion, and then…
294
Are you ready?”
306
All hell broke loose.
314
In the ten years since her uncle had become
her…
323
“You are tying me to a water closet?”
332
Had it been an hour? Surely it had been
an…
349
The first time, Gregory had been a wreck.
368
$
London, not far from St. George’s, Hanover Square
Summer, 1827
His lungs were on fi re.
Gregory Bridgerton was running. Through the streets of London, oblivious to the curious stares of onlookers, he was running.
There was a strange, powerful rhythm to his movements—
one two three four, one two three four
—that pushed him along, propelling him forward even as his mind remained focused on one thing and one thing only.
The church.
He had to get to the church.
He had to stop the wedding.
How long had he been running? One minute? Five? He 2 J
ulia
Quinn
couldn’t know, couldn’t concentrate on anything but his destination.
The church. He had to get to the church.
It had started at eleven. This thing. This ceremony. This thing that should never have happened. But she’d done it anyway. And he had to stop it. He had to stop
her.
He didn’t know how, and he certainly didn’t know why, but she was doing it, and it was wrong.
She had to know that it was wrong.
She was
his.
They belonged together. She knew that. God damn it all, she knew that.
How long did a wedding ceremony take? Five minutes?
Ten? Twenty? He’d never paid attention before, certainly never thought to check his watch at the beginning and end.
Never thought he’d need the information. Never thought it would matter this much.
How long had he been running? Two minutes? Ten?
He skidded around a corner and onto Regent Street, grunting something that was meant to take the place of
“Excuse me,” as he bumped into a respectably dressed gentleman, knocking his case to the ground.
Normally Gregory would have stopped to aid the gentleman, bent to retrieve the case, but not today, not this morning.
Not now.
The church. He had to get to the church. He could not think of anything else. He must not. He must—
Damn! He skidded to a halt as a carriage cut in front of him. Resting his hands on his thighs—not because he wanted to, but rather because his desperate body demanded it—he sucked in huge gulps of air, trying to relieve the screaming pressure in his chest, that horrible burning, tearing feeling as—
The carriage moved past and he was off again. He was close now. He could do it. It couldn’t have been more than On the Way to the Wedding
3
fi ve minutes since he’d left the house. Maybe six. It felt like thirty, but it couldn’t have been more than seven.
He had to stop this. It was wrong. He had to stop it. He
would
stop it.
He could see the church. Off in the distance, its gray steeple rising into the bright blue sky. Someone had hung flowers from the lanterns. He couldn’t tell what kind they were—yellow and white, yellow mostly. They spilled forth with reckless abandon, bursting from the baskets. They looked celebratory, cheerful even, and it was all so wrong.
This was not a cheerful day. It was not an event to be celebrated.
And he
would
stop it.
He slowed down just enough so that he could run up the steps without falling on his face, and then he wrenched the door open, wide, wider, barely hearing the slam as it crashed into the outer wall. Maybe he should have paused for breath.
Maybe he should have entered quietly, giving himself a moment to assess the situation, to gauge how far along they were.
The church went silent. The priest stopped his drone, and every spine in every pew twisted until every face was turned to the back.
To him.
“Don’t,” Gregory gasped, but he was so short of breath, he could barely hear the word.
“Don’t,” he said, louder this time, clutching the edge of the pews as he staggered forward. “Don’t do it.”
She said nothing, but he saw her. He saw her, her mouth open with shock. He saw her bouquet slip from her hands, and he knew—by God he knew that she’d stopped breathing.
She looked so beautiful. Her golden hair seemed to catch the light, and it shone with a radiance that filled him with strength. He straightened, still breathing hard, but he could walk unassisted now, and he let go of the pew.
4 J
ulia
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“Don’t do it,” he said again, moving toward her with the stealthy grace of a man who knows what he wants.
Who knows what should be.
Still she didn’t speak. No one did. It was strange, that.
Three hundred of London’s biggest busybodies, gathered into one building, and no one could utter a word. No one could take his eyes off him as he walked down the aisle.
“I love you,” he said, right there, right in front of everyone. Who cared? He would not keep this a secret. He would not let her marry someone else without making sure all the world knew that she owned his heart.
“I love you,” he said again, and out of the corner of his eye he could see his mother and sister, seated primly in a pew, their mouths open with shock.
He kept walking. Down the aisle, each step more confi -
dent, more sure.
“Don’t do it,” he said, stepping out of the aisle and into the apse. “Don’t marry him.”
“Gregory,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
“I love you,” he said, because it was the only thing to say.
It was the only thing that mattered.
Her eyes glistened, and he could see her breath catch in her throat. She looked up at the man she was trying to marry. His brows rose as he gave her a tiny, one-shouldered shrug, as if to say,
It is your choice.
Gregory sank to one knee. “Marry me,” he said, his very soul in his words. “Marry
me.
”
He stopped breathing. The entire church stopped breathing.
She brought her eyes to his. They were huge and clear and everything he’d ever thought was good and kind and true.
“Marry me,” he whispered, one last time.
Her lips were trembling, but her voice was clear when she said—
$
In which Our Hero falls in love.
Two months earlier
Unlike most men of his acquaintance, Gregory Bridgerton believed in true love.
He’d have to have been a fool not to.
Consider the following:
