On the Way to the Wedding (43 page)

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 fi nd 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 . . .

And then, when she was not found, it would be assumed that she’d run off. And after what had happened at the church, no one would think she’d left on her own.

She would be ruined. And so would everyone else.

“It is not a question of my own happiness,” she fi nally said, her voice quiet, almost broken. “Gregory, I beg of you, please don’t do this. This is not just about me. My family—

We will be ruined, all of us.”

He walked to her side and sat. And then he said, simply,

“Tell me.”

She did. He would not give in otherwise, of that she was certain.

She told him everything. About her father, and the written proof of his treason. She told him about the blackmail. She On the Way to the Wedding

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told him how she was the final payment and the only thing that would keep her brother from being stripped of his title.

Lucy stared straight ahead throughout the telling, and for that, Gregory was grateful. Because what she said—it shook him to his very core.

All day Gregory had been trying to imagine what terrible secret could possibly induce her to marry Haselby. He’d run twice through London, first to the church and then here, to Fennsworth House. He had had plenty of time to think, to wonder. But never—not once—had his imagination led him to this.

“So you see,” she said, “it is nothing so common as an il-legitimate child, nothing so racy as an extramarital affair.

My father—an earl of the realm—committed treason. Treason. ” And then she laughed. Laughed.

The way people did when what they really wanted was to cry.

“It’s an ugly thing,” she finished, her voice low and resigned. “There is no escaping it.”

She turned to him for a response, but he had none.

Treason. Good God, he could not think of anything worse.

There were many ways—many many ways—one could get oneself thrown out of society, but nothing was as unforgiv-able as treason. There wasn’t a man, woman, or child in Britain who had not lost someone to Napoleon. The wounds were still too fresh, and even if they weren’t . . .

It was treason.

A gentleman did not forsake his country.

It was ingrained in the soul of every man of Britain.

If the truth about Lucy’s father were known, the earldom of Fennsworth would be dissolved. Lucy’s brother would be left destitute. He and Hermione would almost certainly have to emigrate.

And Lucy would . . .

Well, Lucy would probably survive the scandal, especially 3

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if her surname was changed to Bridgerton, but she would never forgive herself. Of that, Gregory was certain.

And finally, he understood.

He looked at her. She was pale and drawn, and her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. “My family has been good and true,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “The Abernathys have been loyal to the crown since the fi rst earl was invested in the fifteenth century. And my father has shamed us all. I cannot allow it to be revealed. I cannot.” She swallowed awkwardly and then sadly said, “You should see your face. Even you don’t want me now.”

“No,” he said, almost blurting out the word. “No. That is not true. That could never be true.” He took her hands, held them in his own, savoring the shape of them, the arch of her fingers and the delicate heat of her skin.

“I am sorry,” he said. “It should not have taken me so long to collect myself. I had not imagined treason.”

She shook her head. “How could you?”

“But it does not change how I feel.” He took her face in his hands, aching to kiss her but knowing he could not.

Not yet.

“What your father did— It is reprehensible. It is—” He swore under his breath. “I will be honest with you. It leaves me sick. But you— you, Lucy—you are innocent. You did nothing wrong, and you should not have to pay for his sins.”

“Neither should my brother,” she said quietly, “but if I do not complete my marriage to Haselby, Richard will—”

“Shhh.” Gregory pressed a finger to her lips. “Listen to me. I love you.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I love you,” he said again. “There is nothing in this world or the next that could ever make me stop loving you.”

“You felt that way about Hermione,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, almost smiling at how silly it all seemed On the Way to the Wedding

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now. “I had been waiting so long to fall in love that I wanted the love more than the woman. I never loved Hermione, just the idea of her. But with you . . . It’s different, Lucy. It’s deeper. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

He struggled for words, but there were none. Words simply did not exist to explain what he felt for her. “It’s me, ” he finally said, appalled at the inelegance of it. “Without you, I . . . I am . . .”

“Gregory,” she whispered, “you don’t have to—”

“I am nothing,” he cut in, because he wasn’t going to allow her to tell him that he didn’t have to explain. “Without you, I am nothing.”

She smiled. It was a sad smile, but it was true, and it felt as if he’d been waiting years for that smile. “That’s not true,” she said. “You know that it’s not.”

He shook his head. “An exaggeration, perhaps, but that is all. You make me better, Lucy. You make me wish, and hope, and aspire. You make me want to do things.”

Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

With the pads of his thumbs he brushed them away. “You are the finest person I know,” he said, “the most honorable human being I have ever met. You make me laugh. And you make me think. And I . . .” He took a deep breath. “I love you.”

And again. “I love you.”

And again. “I love you.” He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

She turned away then, twisting her head so that his hands slid from her face to her shoulders, and fi nally, away from her body completely. Gregory could not see her face, but he could hear her—the quiet, broken sound of her breathing, the soft whimper in her voice.

“I love you,” she finally answered, still not looking at him.

“You know that I do. I will not demean us both by lying about it. And if it were only me, I would do anything—anything for 3

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that love. I would risk poverty, ruin. I would move to America, I would move to darkest Africa if that were the only way to be with you.”

She let out a long, shaky breath. “I cannot be so selfi sh as to bring down the two people who have loved me so well and for so long.”

“Lucy . . .” He had no idea what he wanted to tell her, just that he didn’t want her to finish. He knew he did not want to hear what she had to say.

But she cut him off with—“Don’t, Gregory. Please. I’m sorry. I cannot do it, and if you love me as you say you do, you will bring me back now, before Lord Davenport realizes I’ve gone missing.”

Gregory squeezed his fingers into fists, then fl exed them wide and straight. He knew what he should do. He should release her, let her run downstairs to the party. He should sneak back out the servants’ door and vow never to approach her again.

She had promised to love, honor, and obey another man.

She was supposed to forsake all others.

Surely, he fell under that aegis.

And yet he couldn’t give up.

Not yet.

“One hour,” he said, moving into a crouching position beside her. “Just give me one hour.”

She turned, her eyes doubtful and astonished and maybe— maybe—just a little bit hopeful as well. “One hour?” she echoed. “What do you think you can—”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I will promise you this. If I cannot find a way to free you from this blackmail in one hour, I will return for you. And I will release you.”

“To return to Haselby?” she whispered, and she sounded—

Did she sound disappointed? Even a little?

“Yes,” he said. Because in truth it was the only thing he On the Way to the Wedding

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could say. Much as he wished to throw caution to the wind, he knew that he could not steal her away. She would be respectable, as he would marry her as soon as Haselby agreed to the annulment, but she would never be happy.

And he knew that he could not live with himself.

“You will not be ruined if you go missing for one hour,”

he said to her. “You can simply tell people you were overset.

You wished to take a nap. I am sure that Hermione will cor-roborate your story if you ask her to.”

Lucy nodded. “Will you release my bindings?”

He gave his head a tiny shake and stood. “I would trust you with my life, Lucy, but not with your own. You’re far too honorable for your own good.”

“Gregory!”

He shrugged as he walked to the door. “Your conscience will get the better of you. You know that it will.”

“What if I promise—”

“Sorry.” One corner of his mouth stretched into a not quite apologetic expression. “I won’t believe you.”

He took one last look at her before he left. And he had to smile, which seemed ludicrous, given that he had one hour to neutralize the blackmail threat against Lucy’s family and extract her from her marriage. During her wedding reception.

By comparison, moving heaven and earth seemed a far better prospect.

But when he turned to Lucy, and saw her sitting there, on the floor, she looked . . .

Like herself again.

“Gregory,” she said, “you cannot leave me here. What if someone finds you and removes you from the house? Who will know I am here? And what if . . . and what if . . . and then what if . . .”

He smiled, enjoying her officiousness too much to actually listen to her words. She was definitely herself again.

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“When this is all over,” he said, “I shall bring you a sandwich.”

That stopped her short. “A sandwich? A sandwich?”

He twisted the doorknob but didn’t yet pull. “You want a sandwich, don’t you? You always want a sandwich.”

“You’ve gone mad,” she said.

He couldn’t believe she’d only just come to the conclusion. “Don’t yell,” he warned.

“You know I can’t,” she muttered.

It was true. The last thing she wanted was to be found. If Gregory was not successful, she would need to be able to slip back into the party with as little fuss as possible.

“Goodbye, Lucy,” he said. “I love you.”

She looked up. And she whispered, “One hour. Do you really think you can do it?”

He nodded. It was what she needed to see, and it was what he needed to pretend.

And as he closed the door behind him, he could have sworn he heard her murmur, “Good luck.”

He paused for one deep breath before heading for the stairs. He was going to need more than luck; he was going to need a bloody miracle.

The odds were against him. The odds were extremely against him. But Gregory had always been one to cheer for the underdog. And if there was any sense of justice in the world, any existential fairness floating through the air . . . If Do unto others offered any sort of payback, surely he was due.

Love existed.

He knew that it did. And he would be damned if it did not exist for him.

Gregory’s first stop was Lucy’s bedchamber, on the second floor. He couldn’t very well stroll into the ballroom and request an audience with one of the guests, but he thought On the Way to the Wedding

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there was a chance that someone had noticed Lucy’s absence and gone off looking for her. God willing it would be someone sympathetic to their cause, someone who actually cared about Lucy’s happiness.

But when Gregory slipped inside the room, all was exactly as he’d left it. “Damn,” he muttered, striding back to the door. Now he was going to have to figure out how to speak to her brother—or Haselby, he supposed—without attracting attention.

He placed his hand on the knob and yanked, but the weight of the door was all wrong, and Gregory wasn’t certain which happened first—the feminine shriek of surprise or the soft, warm body tumbling into his.