When Gregory saw her, right there in Hyde Park his first day back in London, his first thought was—

Well, of course.

It seemed only natural that he would come across Lucy Abernathy in what was literally his first hour out and about in London. He didn’t know why; there was no logical reason for them to cross paths. But she had been much in his thoughts since they had parted ways in Kent. And even though he’d thought her still off at Fennsworth, he was strangely unsurprised that hers would be the first familiar face he’d see upon his return after a month in the country.

He’d arrived in town the night before, uncommonly weary after a long trip on flooded roads, and he’d gone straight to bed. When he woke—rather earlier than usual, actually—the world was still wet from the rains, but the sun had popped out and was shining brightly.

Gregory had immediately dressed to go out. He loved the way the air smelled clean after a good, stormy rain—even in London. No, especially in London. It was the only time the city smelled like that—thick and fresh, almost like leaves.

Gregory kept a small suite of rooms in a tidy little building in Marylebone, and though his furnishings were spare and simple, he rather liked the place. It felt like home.

His brother and his mother had, on multiple occasions, invited him to live with them. His friends thought him mad to refuse; both residences were considerably more opulent and more to the point, better staffed than his humble abode. But he preferred his independence. It wasn’t that he minded them telling him what to do—they knew he wasn’t going to listen, and he knew he wasn’t going to listen, but for the most part, everyone remained rather good-natured about it.

It was the scrutiny he couldn’t quite tolerate. Even if his mother was pretending not to interfere in his life, he knew that she was always watching him, taking note of his social schedule.

And commenting on it. Violet Bridgerton could, when the inclination struck, converse on the topic of young ladies, dance cards, and the intersection thereof (as pertained to her unmarried son) with a speed and facility that could make a grown man’s head spin.

And frequently did.

There was this young lady and that young lady and would he please be sure to dance with both of them—twice—at the next soiree, and above all, he must never, ever forget the other young lady. The one off by the wall, didn’t he see her, standing by herself. Her aunt, he must recall, was a close personal friend.

Gregory’s mother had a lot of close personal friends.

Violet Bridgerton had successfully ushered seven of her eight children into happy marriages, and now Gregory was bearing the sole brunt of her matchmaking fervor. He adored her, of course, and he adored that she cared so much for his well-being and happiness, but at times she made him want to pull his hair out.

And Anthony was worse. He didn’t even have to say anything. His mere presence was usually enough to make Gregory feel that he was somehow not living up to the family name. It was difficult to make one’s way in the world with the mighty Lord Bridgerton constantly looking over one’s shoulder. As far as Gregory could determine, his eldest brother had never made a mistake in his life.

Which made his own all the more egregious.

But, as luck would have it, this was a problem more easily solved than not. Gregory had simply moved out. It required a fair portion of his allowance to maintain his own residence, small though it was, but it was worth it, every last penny.

Even something as simple as this—just leaving the house without anyone wondering why or where (or in his mother’s case, to whom)—it was lovely. Fortifying. It was strange how a mere stroll could make one feel like one’s own man, but it did.

And then there she was. Lucy Abernathy. In Hyde Park when by all rights she ought to still be in Kent.

She was sitting on a bench, tossing bits of bread at a scruffy lot of birds, and Gregory was reminded of that day he’d stumbled upon her at the back of Aubrey Hall. She had been sitting on a bench then as well, and she had seemed so subdued. In retrospect, Gregory realized that her brother had probably just told her that her engagement had been finalized.

He wondered why she hadn’t said anything to him.

He wished she’d said something to him.

If he had known that she was spoken for, he would never have kissed her. It went against every code of conduct to which he held himself. A gentleman did not poach upon another man’s bride. It was simply not done. If he had known the truth, he would have stepped away from her that night, and he would have—

He froze. He didn’t know what he would have done. How was it that he had rewritten the scene in his mind countless times, and he only now realized that he had never quite got to the point where he pushed her away?

If he had known, would he have set her on her way right at that first moment? He’d had to take hold of her arms to steady her, but he could have shifted her toward her destination when he let go. It would not have been difficult—just a little shuffle of the feet. He could have ended it then, before anything had had a chance to begin.

But instead, he had smiled, and he had asked her what she was doing there, and then—good God, what had he been thinking—he’d asked her if she drank brandy.

After that—well, he wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he remembered it all. Every last detail. The way she was looking at him, her hand on his arm. She’d been clutching him, and for a moment it had almost felt like she needed him. He could be her rock, her center.

He had never been anyone’s center.

But it wasn’t that. He hadn’t kissed her for that. He’d kissed her because…

Because…

Hell, he didn’t know why he’d kissed her. There had just been that moment—that strange, inscrutable moment—and it had all been so quiet—a fabulous, magical, mesmerizing silence that seemed to seep into him and steal his breath.

The house had been full, teeming with guests, even, but the hallway had been theirs alone. Lucy had been gazing up at him, her eyes searching, and then…somehow…she was closer. He didn’t recall moving, or lowering his head, but her face was just a few inches away. And the next he knew…

He was kissing her.

From that moment on, he had been quite simply gone. It was as if he’d lost all knowledge of words, of rationality and thought. His mind had become a strange, preverbal thing. The world was color and sound, heat and sensation. It was as if his mind had been subsumed by his body.

And now he wondered—when he let himself wonder—if he could have stopped it. If she hadn’t said no, if she hadn’t pressed her hands to his chest and told him to stop—

Would he have done so on his own?

Could he have done so?

He straightened his shoulders. Squared his jaw. Of course he could have. She was Lucy, for heaven’s sake. She was quite wonderful, in quite a number of ways, but she wasn’t the sort men lost their heads over. It had been a temporary aberration. Momentary insanity brought on by a strange and unsettling evening.

Even now, sitting on a bench in Hyde Park with a small fleet of pigeons at her feet, she was clearly the same old Lucy. She hadn’t seen him yet, and it felt almost luxurious just to observe. She was on her own, save for her maid, who was twiddling her thumbs two benches over.

And her mouth was moving.

Gregory smiled. Lucy was talking to the birds. Telling them something. Most likely she was giving them directions, perhaps setting a date for future bread-tossing engagements.

Or telling them to chew with their beaks closed.

He chuckled. He couldn’t help himself.

She turned. She turned, and she saw him. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, and it hit him squarely in the chest—

It was good to see her.

Which struck him as a rather odd sort of reaction, given how they’d parted.

“Lady Lucinda,” he said, walking forward. “This is a surprise. I had not thought you were in London.”

For a moment it seemed she could not decide how to act, and then she smiled—perhaps a bit more hesitantly than he was accustomed to—and held forward a slice of bread.

“For the pigeons?” he murmured. “Or me?”

Her smile changed, grew more familiar. “Whichever you prefer. Although I should warn you—it’s a bit stale.”

His lips twitched. “You’ve tried it, then?”

And then it was as if none of it had happened. The kiss, the awkward conversation the morning after…it was gone. They were back to their odd little friendship, and all was right with the world.

Her mouth was pursed, as if she thought she ought to be scolding him, and he was chuckling, because it was such good fun to bait her.

“It’s my second breakfast,” she said, utterly deadpan.

He sat on the opposite end of the bench and began to tear his bread into bits. When he had a good-sized handful, he tossed them all at once, then sat back to watch the ensuing frenzy of beaks and feathers.

Lucy, he noticed, was tossing her crumbs methodically, one after another, precisely three seconds apart.

He counted. How could he not?

“The flock has abandoned me,” she said with a frown.

Gregory grinned as the last pigeon hopped to the feast of Bridgerton. He threw down another handful. “I always host the best parties.”

She turned, her chin dipping as she gave him a dry glance over her shoulder. “You are insufferable.”

He gave her a wicked look. “It is one of my finest qualities.”

“According to whom?”

“Well, my mother seems to like me quite well,” he said modestly.

She sputtered with laughter.

It felt like a victory.

“My sister…not as much.”

One of her brows lifted. “The one you are fond of torturing?”

“I don’t torture her because I like to,” he said, in a rather instructing sort of tone. “I do it because it is necessary.”

“To whom?”

“To all Britain,” he said. “Trust me.”

She looked at him dubiously. “She can’t be that bad.”

“I suppose not,” he said. “My mother seems to like her quite well, much as that baffles me.”

She laughed again, and the sound was…good. A nondescript word, to be sure, but somehow it got right to the heart of it. Her laughter came from within—warm, rich, and true.

Then she turned, and her eyes grew quite serious. “You like to tease, but I would bet all that I have that you would lay down your life for her.”

He pretended to consider this. “How much do you have?”

“For shame, Mr. Bridgerton. You’re avoiding the question.”

“Of course I would,” he said quietly. “She’s my little sister. Mine to torture and mine to protect.”

“Isn’t she married now?”

He shrugged, gazing out across the park. “Yes, I suppose St. Clair can take care of her now, God help him.” He turned, flashing her a lopsided smile. “Sorry.”

But she wasn’t so high in the instep to take offense. And in fact, she surprised him utterly by saying—with considerable feeling, “There is no need to apologize. There are times when only the Lord’s name will properly convey one’s desperation.”

“Why do I feel you are speaking from recent experience?”

“Last night,” she confirmed.

“Really?” He leaned in, terribly interested. “What happened?”

But she just shook her head. “It was nothing.”

“Not if you were blaspheming.”

She sighed. “I did tell you you were insufferable, didn’t I?”

“Once today, and almost certainly several times before.”

She gave him a dry look, the blue of her eyes sharpening as they fixed upon him. “You’ve been counting?”

He paused. It was an odd question, not because she’d asked it—for heaven’s sake, he would have asked the very thing, had he been given the same bait. Rather, it was odd because he had the eerie feeling that if he thought about it long enough, he might actually know the answer.

He liked talking with Lucy Abernathy. And when she said something to him…

He remembered it.

Peculiar, that.

“I wonder,” he said, since it seemed a good time to change the topic. “Is sufferable a word?”

She considered that. “I think it must be, don’t you?”

“No one has ever uttered it in my presence.”

“This surprises you?”

He smiled slowly. With appreciation. “You, Lady Lucinda, have a smart mouth.”

Her brows arched, and in that moment she was positively devilish. “It is one of my best-kept secrets.”

He started to laugh.

“I’m more than just a busybody, you know.”

The laughter grew. Deep in his belly it rumbled, until he was shaking with it.

She was watching him with an indulgent smile, and for some reason he found that calming. She looked warm…peaceful, even.

And he was happy to be with her. Here on this bench. It was rather pleasant simply to be in her company. So he turned. Smiled. “Do you have another piece of bread?”

She handed him three. “I brought the entire loaf.”

He started tearing them up. “Are you trying to fatten the flock?”

“I have a taste for pigeon pie,” she returned, resuming her slow, miserly feeding schedule.

Gregory was quite sure it was his imagination, but he would have sworn the birds were looking longingly in his direction. “Do you come here often?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away, and her head tilted, almost as if she had to think about her answer.

Which was odd, as it was a rather simple question.

“I like to feed the birds,” she said. “It’s relaxing.”

He hurled another handful of bread chunks and quirked a smile. “Do you think so?”

Her eyes narrowed and she tossed her next piece with a precise, almost military little flick of her wrist. The following piece went out the same way. And the one after that, as well. She turned to him with pursed lips. “It is if you’re not trying to incite a riot.”

“Me?” he returned, all innocence. “You are the one forcing them to battle to the death, all for one pathetic crumb of stale bread.”

“It’s a very fine loaf of bread, well-baked and extremely tasty, I’ll have you know.”

“On matters of nourishment,” he said with overdone graciousness, “I shall always defer to you.”

Lucy regarded him dryly. “Most women would not find that complimentary.”

“Ah, but you are not most women. And,” he added, “I have seen you eat breakfast.”

Her lips parted, but before she could gasp her indignation, he cut in with: “That was a compliment, by the way.”

Lucy shook her head. He really was insufferable. And she was so thankful for that. When she’d first seen him, just standing there watching her as she fed the birds, her stomach had dropped, and she’d felt queasy, and she didn’t know what to say or how to act, or really, anything.

But then he’d ambled forward, and he’d been so…himself. He’d put her immediately at ease, which, under the circumstances, was really quite astonishing.

She was, after all, in love with him.

But then he’d smiled, that lazy, familiar smile of his, and he’d made some sort of joke about the pigeons, and before she knew it, she was smiling in return. And she felt like herself, which was so reassuring.

She hadn’t felt like herself for weeks.

And so, in the spirit of making the best of things, she had decided not to dwell upon her inappropriate affection for him and instead be thankful that she could be in his presence without turning into an awkward, stammering fool.

There were small favors left in the world, apparently.

“Have you been in London all this time?” she asked him, quite determined to maintain a pleasant and perfectly normal conversation.

He drew back in surprise. Clearly, he had not expected that question. “No. I only just returned last night.”

“I see.” Lucy paused to digest that. It was strange, but she hadn’t even considered that he might not be in town. But it would explain—Well, she wasn’t sure what it would explain. That she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him? It wasn’t as if she’d been anywhere besides her home, the park, and the dressmaker. “Were you at Aubrey Hall, then?”

“No, I left shortly after you departed and went to visit my brother. He lives with his wife and children off in Wiltshire, quite blissfully away from all that is civilized.”

“Wiltshire isn’t so very far away.”

He shrugged. “Half the time they don’t even receive the Times. They claim they are not interested.”

“How odd.” Lucy didn’t know anyone who did not receive the newspaper, even in the most remote of counties.

He nodded. “I found it rather refreshing this time, however. I have no idea what anyone is doing, and I don’t mind it a bit.”

“Are you normally such a gossip?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Men don’t gossip. We talk.”

“I see,” she said. “That explains so much.”

He chuckled. “Have you been in town long? I had assumed you were also rusticating.”

“Two weeks,” she replied. “We arrived just after the wedding.”

“We? Are your brother and Miss Watson here, then?”

She hated that she was listening for eagerness in his voice, but she supposed it couldn’t be helped. “She is Lady Fennsworth now, and no, they are on their honeymoon trip. I am here with my uncle.”

“For the season?”

“For my wedding.”

That stopped the easy flow of conversation.

She reached into her bag and pulled out another slice of bread. “It is to take place in a week.”

He stared at her in shock. “That soon?”

“Uncle Robert says there is no point in dragging it out.”

“I see.”

And maybe he did. Maybe there was some sort of etiquette to all this that she, sheltered girl from the country that she was, had not been taught. Maybe there was no point in postponing the inevitable. Maybe it was all a part of that making the best of things philosophy she was working so diligently to espouse.

“Well,” he said. He blinked a few times, and she realized that he did not know what to say. It was a most uncharacteristic response and one she found gratifying. It was a bit like Hermione not knowing how to dance. If Gregory Bridgerton could be at a loss for words, then there was hope for the rest of humanity.

Finally he settled upon: “My felicitations.”

“Thank you.” She wondered if he had received an invitation. Uncle Robert and Lord Davenport were determined to hold the ceremony in front of absolutely everyone. It was, they said, to be her grand debut, and they wanted all the world to know that she was Haselby’s wife.

“It is to be at St. George’s,” she said, for no reason whatsoever.

“Here in London?” He sounded surprised. “I would have thought you would marry from Fennsworth Abbey.”

It was most peculiar, Lucy thought, how not painful this was—discussing her upcoming wedding with him. She felt more numb, actually. “It was what my uncle wanted,” she explained, reaching into her basket for another slice of bread.

“Your uncle remains the head of the household?” Gregory asked, regarding her with mild curiosity. “Your brother is the earl. Hasn’t he reached his majority?”

Lucy tossed the entire slice to the ground, then watched with morbid interest as the pigeons went a bit mad. “He has,” she replied. “Last year. But he was content to allow my uncle to handle the family’s affairs while he was conducting his postgraduate studies at Cambridge. I expect that he will assume his place soon now that he is”—she offered him an apologetic smile—“married.”

“Do not worry over my sensibilities,” he assured her. “I am quite recovered.”

“Truly?”

He gave her a small, one-shouldered shrug. “Truth be told, I count myself lucky.”

She pulled out another slice of bread, but her fingers froze before pinching off a piece. “You do?” she asked, turning to him with interest. “How is that possible?”

He blinked with surprise. “You are direct, aren’t you?”

And she blushed. She felt it, pink and warm and just horrible on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was terribly rude of me. It is only that you were so very much—”

“Say no more,” he cut her off, and then she felt even worse, because she had been about to describe—probably in meticulous detail—how lovesick he’d been over Hermione. Which, had she been in his position, she’d not wish recounted.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He turned. Regarded her with a contemplative sort of curiosity. “You say that quite frequently.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes.”

“I…I don’t know.” Her teeth ground together, and she felt quite tense. Uncomfortable. Why would he point out such a thing? “It’s what I do,” she said, and she said it firmly, because…Well, because. That ought to be enough of a reason.

He nodded. And that made her feel even worse. “It’s who I am,” she added defensively, even though he’d been agreeing with her, for heaven’s sake. “I smooth things over and I make things right.”

And at that, she hurled the last piece of bread to the ground.

His brows rose, and they both turned in unison to watch the ensuing chaos. “Well done,” he murmured.

“I make the best of things,” she said. “Always.”

“It’s a commendable trait,” he said softly.

And at that, somehow, she was angry. Really, truly, beastly angry. She didn’t want to be commended for knowing how to settle for second-best. That was like winning a prize for the prettiest shoes in a footrace. Irrelevant and not the point.

“And what of you?” she asked, her voice growing strident. “Do you make the best of things? Is that why you claim yourself recovered? Weren’t you the one who waxed rhapsodic over the mere thought of love? You said it was everything, that it gave you no choice. You said—”

She cut herself off, horrified by her tone. He was staring at her as if she’d gone mad, and maybe she had.

“You said many things,” she mumbled, hoping that might end the conversation.

She ought to go. She had been sitting on the bench for at least fifteen minutes before he’d arrived, and it was damp and breezy, and her maid wasn’t dressed warmly enough, and if she thought long and hard enough about it, she probably had a hundred things she needed to do at home.

Or at least a book she could read.

“I am sorry if I upset you,” Gregory said quietly.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him.

“But I did not lie to you,” he said. “Truthfully, I no longer think of Miss—excuse me, Lady Fennsworth—with any great frequency, except, perhaps, to realize that we should not have been well-suited after all.”

She turned to him, and she realized she wanted to believe him. She really did.

Because if he could forget Hermione, maybe she could forget him.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he said, and he shook his head, as if he were every bit as perplexed as she. “But if ever you fall madly and inexplicably in love…”

Lucy froze. He wasn’t going to say it. Surely, he couldn’t say it.

He shrugged. “Well, I shouldn’t trust it.”

Dear God. Hermione’s words. Exactly.

She tried to remember how she had replied to Hermione. Because she had to say something. Otherwise, he would notice the silence, and then he’d turn, and he’d see her looking so unnerved. And then he would ask questions, and she wouldn’t know the answers, and—

“It’s not likely to happen to me,” she said, the words practically pouring from her mouth.

He turned, but she kept her face scrupulously forward. And she wished desperately that she had not tossed out all the bread. It would be far easier to avoid looking at him if she could pretend to be involved with something else.

“You don’t believe that you will fall in love?” he asked.

“Well, perhaps,” she said, trying to sound blithe and sophisticated. “But not that.”

“That?”

She took a breath, hating that he was forcing her to explain. “That desperate sort of thing you and Hermione now disavow,” she said. “I’m not the sort, don’t you think?”

She bit her lip, then finally allowed herself to turn in his direction. Because what if he could tell that she was lying? What if he sensed that she was already in love—with him? She would be embarrassed beyond comprehension, but wouldn’t it be better to know that he knew? At least then, she wouldn’t have to wonder.

Ignorance wasn’t bliss. Not for someone like her.

“It is all beside the point, anyway,” she continued, because she couldn’t bear the silence. “I am marrying Lord Haselby in one week, and I would never stray from my vows. I—”

“Haselby?” Gregory’s entire body twisted as he swung around to face her. “You’re marrying Haselby?”

“Yes,” she said, blinking furiously. What sort of reaction was that? “I thought you knew.”

“No. I didn’t—” He looked shocked. Stupefied.

Good heavens.

He shook his head. “I can’t imagine why I didn’t know.”

“It wasn’t a secret.”

“No,” he said, a bit forcefully. “I mean, no. No, of course not. I did not mean to imply.”

“Do you hold Lord Haselby in low esteem?” she asked, choosing her words with extreme care.

“No,” Gregory replied, shaking his head—but just a little, as if he were not quite aware that he was doing it. “No. I’ve known him for a number of years. We were at college together. And university.”

“Are you of an age, then?” Lucy asked, and it occurred to her that something was a bit wrong if she did not know the age of her fiancé. But then again, she wasn’t certain of Gregory’s age, either.

He nodded. “He’s quite…affable. He will treat you well.” He cleared his throat. “Gently.”

“Gently?” she echoed. It seemed an odd choice of words.

His eyes met hers, and it was only then that she realized he had not precisely looked at her since she’d told him the name of her fiancé. But he didn’t speak. Instead he just stared at her, his eyes so intense that they seemed to change color. They were brown with green, then green with brown, and then it all seemed almost to blur.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“It is of no account,” he said, but he did not sound like himself. “I…” And then he turned away, broke the spell. “My sister,” he said, clearing his throat. “She is hosting a soiree tomorrow evening. Would you like to attend?”

“Oh yes, that would be lovely,” Lucy said, even though she knew she should not. But it had been so long since she’d had any sort of social interaction, and she wasn’t going to be able to spend time in his company once she was married. She ought not torture herself now, longing for something she could not have, but she couldn’t help it.

Gather ye rosebuds.

Now. Because really, when else—

“Oh, but I can’t,” she said, disappointment turning her voice to nearly a whine.

“Why not?”

“It is my uncle,” she replied, sighing. “And Lord Davenport—Haselby’s father.”

“I know who he is.”

“Of course. I’m sor—” She cut herself off. She wasn’t going to say it. “They don’t wish for me to make my bow yet.”

“I beg your pardon. Why?”

Lucy shrugged. “There is no point in my being introduced to society as Lady Lucinda Abernathy when I’m to be Lady Haselby in a week.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is what they say.” She frowned. “And I don’t think they wish to suffer the expense, either.”

“You will attend tomorrow evening,” Gregory said firmly. “I shall see to it.”

“You?” Lucy asked dubiously.

“Not me,” he answered, as if she’d gone mad. “My mother. Trust me, when it comes to matters of social discourse and niceties, she can accomplish anything. Have you a chaperone?”

Lucy nodded. “My aunt Harriet. She is a bit frail, but I am certain she could attend a party if my uncle allowed it.”

“He will allow it,” Gregory said confidently. “The sister in question is my eldest. Daphne.” He then clarified: “Her grace the Duchess of Hastings. Your uncle would not say no to a duchess, would he?”

“I don’t think so,” she said slowly. Lucy could not think of anyone who would say no to a duchess.

“It’s settled, then,” Gregory said. “You shall be hearing from Daphne by afternoon.” He stood, offering his hand to help her up.

She swallowed. It would be bittersweet to touch him, but she placed her hand in his. It felt warm, and comfortable. And safe.

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking her hand back so that she might wrap both around the handle of her basket. She nodded at her maid, who immediately began walking to her side.

“Until tomorrow,” he said, bowing almost formally as he bade her farewell.

“Until tomorrow,” Lucy echoed, wondering if it were true. She had never known her uncle to change his mind before. But maybe…

Possibly.

Hopefully.