It was heaven.

Forget angels, forget St. Peter and glittering harpsichords. Heaven was a dance in the arms of one’s true love. And when the one in question had a mere week before marrying someone else entirely, aforementioned one had to grab heaven tightly, with both hands.

Metaphorically speaking.

Lucy grinned as she bobbed and twirled. Now there was an image. What would people say if she charged forward and grabbed him with both hands?

And never let go.

Most would say she was mad. A few that she was in love. The shrewd would say both.

“What are you thinking about?” Gregory asked. He was looking at her…differently.

She turned away, turned back. She felt daring, almost magical. “Wouldn’t you care to know?”

He stepped around the lady to his left and returned to his place. “I would,” he answered, smiling wolfishly at her.

But she just smiled and shook her head. Right now she wanted to pretend she was someone else. Someone a little less conventional. Someone a great deal more impulsive.

She did not want to be the same old Lucy. Not tonight. She was sick of planning, sick of placating, sick of never doing anything without first thinking through every possibility and consequence.

If I do this, then that will happen, but if I do that, then this, this, and the other thing will happen, which will yield an entirely different result, which could mean that—

It was enough to make a girl dizzy. It was enough to make her feel paralyzed, unable to take the reins of her own life.

But not tonight. Tonight, somehow, through some amazing miracle named the Duchess of Hastings—or perhaps the dowager Lady Bridgerton, Lucy was not quite certain—she was wearing a gown of the most exquisite green silk, attending the most glittering ball she could ever have imagined.

And she was dancing with the man she was quite certain she would love until the end of time.

“You look different,” he said.

“I feel different.” She touched his hand as they stepped past each other. His fingers gripped hers when they should have just brushed by. She looked up and saw that he was gazing at her. His eyes were warm and intense and he was watching her the same way—

Dear God, he was watching her the way he’d watched Hermione.

Her body began to tingle. She felt it in the tips of her toes, in places she did not dare to contemplate.

They stepped past each other again, but this time he leaned in, perhaps a bit more than he ought, and said, “I feel different as well.”

Her head snapped around, but he had already turned so that his back was to her. How was he different? Why? What did he mean?

She circled around the gentleman to her left, then moved past Gregory.

“Are you glad you attended this evening?” he murmured.

She nodded, since she had moved too far away to answer without speaking too loudly.

But then they were together again, and he whispered, “So am I.”

They moved back to their original places and held still as a different couple began to process. Lucy looked up. At him. At his eyes.

They never moved from her face.

And even in the flickering light of the night—the hundreds of candles and torches that lit the glittering ballroom—she could see the gleam there. The way he was looking at her—it was hot and possessive and proud.

It made her shiver.

It made her doubt her ability to stand.

And then the music was done, and Lucy realized that some things must truly be ingrained because she was curtsying and smiling and nodding at the woman next to her as if her entire life had not been altered in the course of the previous dance.

Gregory took her hand and led her to the side of the ballroom, back to where the chaperones milled about, watching their charges over the rims of their glasses of lemonade. But before they reached their destination, he leaned down and whispered in her ear.

“I need to speak with you.”

Her eyes flew to his.

“Privately,” he added.

She felt him slow their pace, presumably to allow them more time to speak before she was returned to Aunt Harriet. “What is it?” she asked. “Is something amiss?”

He shook his head. “Not any longer.”

And she let herself hope. Just a little, because she could not bear to ponder the heartbreak if she was wrong, but maybe…Maybe he loved her. Maybe he wished to marry her. Her wedding was less than a week away, but she had not said her vows.

Maybe there was a chance. Maybe there was a way.

She searched Gregory’s face for clues, for answers. But when she pressed him for more information, he just shook his head and whispered, “The library. It is two doors down from the ladies’ retiring room. Meet me there in thirty minutes.”

“Are you mad?”

He smiled. “Just a little.”

“Gregory, I—”

He gazed into her eyes, and it silenced her. The way he was looking at her—

It took her breath away.

“I cannot,” she whispered, because no matter what they might feel for each other, she was still engaged to another man. And even if she were not, such behavior could only lead to scandal. “I can’t be alone with you. You know that.”

“You must.”

She tried to shake her head, but she could not make herself move.

“Lucy,” he said, “you must.”

She nodded. It was probably the biggest mistake she would ever make, but she could not say no.

“Mrs. Abernathy,” Gregory said, his voice sounding overly loud as he greeted her aunt Harriet. “I return Lady Lucinda to your care.”

Aunt Harriet nodded, even though Lucy suspected she had no idea what Gregory had said to her, and then she turned to Lucy and yelled, “I’m sitting down!”

Gregory chuckled, then said, “I must dance with others.”

“Of course,” Lucy replied, even though she rather suspected she was not wholly cognizant of the various intricacies involved in scheduling an illicit meeting. “I see someone I know,” she lied, and then, to her great relief, she actually did see someone she knew—an acquaintance from school. Not a good friend, but still, a familiar enough face to offer greetings.

But before Lucy could even flex her foot, she heard a female voice call out Gregory’s name.

Lucy could not see who it was, but she could see Gregory. He had shut his eyes and looked quite pained.

“Gregory!”

The voice had drawn close, and so Lucy turned to her left to see a young woman who could only be one of Gregory’s sisters. The younger one, most probably, else she was remarkably well-preserved.

“This must be Lady Lucinda,” the woman said. Her hair, Lucy noted, was the precise shade of Gregory’s—a rich, warm chestnut. But her eyes were blue, sharp and acute.

“Lady Lucinda,” Gregory said, sounding a bit like a man with a chore, “may I present my sister, Lady St. Clair.”

“Hyacinth,” she said firmly. “We must dispense with the formalities. I am certain we shall be great friends. Now then, you must tell me all about yourself. And then I wish to hear about Anthony and Kate’s party last month. I had wished to go, but we had a previous engagement. I heard it was vastly entertaining.”

Startled by the human whirlwind in front of her, Lucy looked to Gregory for advice, but he just shrugged and said, “This would be the one I am fond of torturing.”

Hyacinth turned to him. “I beg your pardon.”

Gregory bowed. “I must go.”

And then Hyacinth Bridgerton St. Clair did the oddest thing. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked from her brother to Lucy and back again. And then again. And then one more time. And then she said, “You’ll need my help.”

“Hy—” Gregory began.

“You will,” she cut in. “You have plans. Do not try to deny it.”

Lucy could not believe that Hyacinth had deduced all that from one bow and an I must go. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but all she got out was, “How—” before Gregory cut her off with a warning look.

“I know that you have something up your sleeve,” Hyacinth said to Gregory. “Else you would not have gone to such lengths to secure her attendance this evening.”

“He was just being kind,” Lucy tried to say.

“Don’t be silly,” Hyacinth said, giving her a reassuring pat on the arm. “He would never do that.”

“That’s not true,” Lucy protested. Gregory might be a bit of a devil, but his heart was good and true, and she would not countenance anyone—even his sister—saying otherwise.

Hyacinth regarded her with a delighted smile. “I like you,” she said slowly, as if she were deciding upon it right then and there. “You are wrong, of course, but I like you, anyway.” She turned to her brother. “I like her.”

“Yes, you’ve said as much.”

“And you need my help.”

Lucy watched as brother and sister exchanged a glance that she couldn’t begin to understand.

“You will need my help,” Hyacinth said softly. “Tonight, and later, too.”

Gregory stared at his sister intently, and then he said, in a voice so quiet that Lucy had to lean forward to hear it, “I need to speak with Lady Lucinda. Alone.”

Hyacinth smiled. Just a touch. “I can arrange that.”

Lucy had a feeling she could do anything.

“When?” Hyacinth asked.

“Whenever is easiest,” Gregory replied.

Hyacinth glanced around the room, although for the life of her, Lucy could not imagine what sort of information she was gleaning that could possibly be pertinent to the decision at hand.

“One hour,” she announced, with all the precision of a military general. “Gregory, you go off and do whatever it is you do at these affairs. Dance. Fetch lemonade. Be seen with that Whitford girl whose parents have been dangling after you for months.

“You,” Hyacinth continued, turning to Lucy with an authoritarian gleam in her eye, “shall remain with me. I shall introduce you to everyone you need to know.”

“Who do I need to know?” Lucy asked.

“I’m not sure yet. It really doesn’t matter.”

Lucy could only stare at her in awe.

“In precisely fifty-five minutes,” Hyacinth said, “Lady Lucinda will tear her dress.”

“I will?”

“I will,” Hyacinth replied. “I’m good at that sort of thing.”

“You’re going to tear her dress?” Gregory asked doubtfully. “Right here in the ballroom?”

“Don’t worry over the details,” Hyacinth said, waving him off dismissively. “Just go and do your part, and meet her in Daphne’s dressing room in one hour.”

“In the duchess’s bedchamber?” Lucy croaked. She couldn’t possibly.

“She’s Daphne to us,” Hyacinth said. “Now then, everyone, off with you.”

Lucy just stared at her and blinked. Wasn’t she meant to stay at Hyacinth’s side?

“That means him,” Hyacinth said.

And then Gregory did the most startling thing. He took Lucy’s hand. Right there, in the middle of the ballroom where anyone might see, he took her hand and kissed it. “I leave you in good hands,” he told her, stepping back with a polite nod. He gave his sister a look of warning before adding, “As difficult as that might be to believe.”

Then he went off, presumably to dote on some poor unsuspecting female who had no idea she was nothing but an innocent pawn in his sister’s master plan.

Lucy looked back at Hyacinth, somewhat exhausted by the entire encounter. Hyacinth was beaming at her.

“Well done,” she said, although to Lucy it sounded more like she was congratulating herself. “Now then,” she continued, “why does my brother need to speak with you? And don’t say that you have no idea, because I will not believe you.”

Lucy pondered the wisdom of various replies and finally decided upon “I have no idea.” It wasn’t precisely the truth, but she wasn’t about to divulge her most secret hopes and dreams to a woman she’d met only minutes earlier, no matter whose sister she might be.

And it made her feel as if she might have won the point.

“Really?” Hyacinth looked suspicious.

“Really.”

Hyacinth was clearly unconvinced. “Well, you’re clever, at least. I shall grant you that.”

Lucy decided she would not be cowed. “Do you know,” she said, “I thought I was the most organized and managing person I knew, but I think you’re worse.”

Hyacinth laughed. “Oh, I am not at all organized. But I am managing. And we shall get on famously.” She looped her arm through Lucy’s. “Like sisters.”

One hour later, Lucy had realized three things about Hyacinth, Lady St. Clair.

First, she knew everyone. And everything about everyone.

Second, she was a wealth of information about her brother. Lucy had not needed to ask a single question, but by the time they left the ballroom, she knew Gregory’s favorite color (blue) and food (cheese, any sort), and that as a child he had spoken with a lisp.

Lucy had also learned that one should never make the mistake of underestimating Gregory’s younger sister. Not only had Hyacinth torn Lucy’s dress, she had carried it out with enough flair and cunning so that four people were aware of the mishap (and the need for repair). And she had done all her damage to the hem, so as to conveniently preserve Lucy’s modesty.

It was really quite impressive.

“I’ve done this before,” Hyacinth confided as she guided her out of the ballroom.

Lucy was unsurprised.

“It’s a useful talent,” Hyacinth added, sounding utterly serious. “Here, this way.”

Lucy followed her up a back staircase.

“There are very few excuses available to women who wish to leave a social function,” Hyacinth continued, displaying a remarkable talent for sticking to her chosen topic like glue. “It behooves us to master every weapon in our arsenal.”

Lucy was beginning to believe that she’d led a very sheltered life.

“Ah, here we are.” Hyacinth pushed open a door. She peered in. “He’s not here yet. Good. That gives me time.”

“For what?”

“To mend your dress. I confess I forgot that detail when I formulated my plan. But I know where Daphne keeps needles.”

Lucy watched as Hyacinth strode to a dressing table and opened a drawer.

“Right where I thought they were,” Hyacinth said with a triumphant smile. “I do love it when I am right. It makes life so much more convenient, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lucy nodded, but her mind was on her own question. And then she asked it—“Why are you helping me?”

Hyacinth looked at her as if she were daft. “You can’t go back in with a torn dress. Not after we told everyone we’d gone off to mend it.”

“No, not that.”

“Oh.” Hyacinth held up a needle and regarded it thoughtfully. “This will do. What color thread, do you think?”

“White, and you did not answer my question.”

Hyacinth ripped a piece of thread off a spool and slid it through the eye of the needle. “I like you,” she said. “And I love my brother.”

“You know that I am engaged to be married,” Lucy said quietly.

“I know.” Hyacinth knelt at Lucy’s feet, and with quick, sloppy stitches began to sew.

“In a week. Less than a week.”

“I know. I was invited.”

“Oh.” Lucy supposed she ought to have known that. “Erm, do you plan to attend?”

Hyacinth looked up. “Do you?”

Lucy’s lips parted. Until that moment, the idea of not marrying Haselby was a wispy, far-fetched thing, more of a oh-how-I-wish-I-did-not-have-to-marry-him sort of feeling. But now, with Hyacinth watching her so carefully, it began to feel a bit more firm. Still impossible, of course, or at least…

Well, maybe…

Maybe not quite impossible. Maybe only mostly impossible.

“The papers are signed,” Lucy said.

Hyacinth turned back to her sewing. “Are they?”

“My uncle chose him,” Lucy said, wondering just who she was trying to convince. “It has been arranged for ages.”

“Mmmm.”

Mmmm? What the devil did that mean?

“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.”

“Possibly,” Hyacinth replied, sounding as if she didn’t much care one way or the other. She glanced toward the door with a quizzical expression. “He ought to have been here by now.”

Lucy’s heart thumped strangely in her chest. “You still plan to help me?” she whispered.

Hyacinth turned back. “I am hoping,” she replied, her eyes meeting Lucy’s with cool assessment, “that you have misjudged yourself.”

Gregory was ten minutes late to the assignation. It couldn’t be helped; once he had danced with one young lady, it had become apparent that he was required to repeat the favor for a half-dozen others. And although it was difficult to keep his attention on the conversations he was meant to be conducting, he did not mind the delay. It meant that Lucy and Hyacinth were well gone before he slipped out the door. He intended to find some way to make Lucy his wife, but there was no need to go looking for scandal.

He made his way to his sister’s bedchamber; he had spent countless hours at Hastings House and knew his way around. When he reached his destination, he entered without knocking, the well-oiled hinges of the door giving way without a sound.

“Gregory.”

Hyacinth’s voice came first. She was standing next to Lucy, who looked…

Stricken.

What had Hyacinth done to her?

“Lucy?” he asked, rushing forward. “Is something wrong?”

Lucy shook her head. “It is of no account.”

He turned to his sister with accusing eyes.

Hyacinth shrugged. “I will be in the next room.”

“Listening at the door?”

“I shall wait at Daphne’s escritoire,” she said. “It is halfway across the room, and before you make an objection, I cannot go farther. If someone comes you will need me to rush in to make everything respectable.”

Her point was a valid one, loath as Gregory was to admit it, so he gave her a curt nod and watched her leave the room, waiting for the click of the door latch before speaking.

“Did she say something unkind?” he asked Lucy. “She can be disgracefully tactless, but her heart is usually in the right place.”

Lucy shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I think she might have said exactly the right thing.”

“Lucy?” He stared at her in question.

Her eyes, which had seemed so cloudy, appeared to focus. “What was it you needed to tell me?” she asked.

“Lucy,” he said, wondering how best to approach this. He’d been rehearsing speeches in his mind the entire time he’d been dancing downstairs, but now that he was here, he didn’t know what to say.

Or rather, he did. But he didn’t know the order, and he didn’t know the tone. Did he tell her he loved her? Bare his heart to a woman who intended to marry another? Or did he opt for the safer route and explain why she could not marry Haselby?

A month ago, the choice would have been obvious. He was a romantic, fond of grand gestures. He would have declared his love, certain of a happy reception. He would have taken her hand. Dropped to his knees.

He would have kissed her.

But now…

He was no longer quite so certain. He trusted Lucy, but he did not trust fate.

“You can’t marry Haselby,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t marry him,” he replied, avoiding the question. “It will be a disaster. It will…You must trust me. You must not marry him.”

She shook her head. “Why are you telling me this?”

Because I want you for myself.

“Because…because…” He fought for words. “Because you have become my friend. And I wish for your happiness. He will not be a good husband to you, Lucy.”

“Why not?” Her voice was low, hollow, and heartbreakingly unlike her.

“He…” Dear God, how did he say it? Would she even understand what he meant?

“He doesn’t…” He swallowed. There had to be a gentle way to say it. “He doesn’t…Some people…”

He looked at her. Her lower lip was quivering.

“He prefers men,” he said, getting the words out as quickly as he was able. “To women. Some men are like that.”

And then he waited. For the longest moment she made no reaction, just stood there like a tragic statue. Every now and then she would blink, but beyond that, nothing. And then finally—

“Why?”

Why? He didn’t understand. “Why is he—”

“No,” she said forcefully. “Why did you tell me? Why would you say it?”

“I told you—”

“No, you didn’t do it to be kind. Why did you tell me? Was it just to be cruel? To make me feel the way you feel, because Hermione married my brother and not you?”

“No!” The word burst out of him, and he was holding her, his hands wrapped around her upper arms. “No, Lucy,” he said again. “I would never. I want you to be happy. I want…”

Her. He wanted her, and he didn’t know how to say it. Not then, not when she was looking at him as if he’d broken her heart.

“I could have been happy with him,” she whispered.

“No. No, you couldn’t. You don’t understand, he—”

“Yes, I could,” she cried out. “Maybe I wouldn’t have loved him, but I could have been happy. It was what I expected. Do you understand, it was what I was prepared for. And you…you…” She wrenched herself away, turning until he could no longer see her face. “You ruined it.”

“How?”

She raised her eyes to his, and the look in them was so stark, so deep, he could not breathe. And she said, “Because you made me want you instead.”

His heart slammed in his chest. “Lucy,” he said, because he could not say anything else. “Lucy.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed.

“Kiss me.” He took her face in his hands. “Just kiss me.”

This time, when he kissed her, it was different. She was the same woman in his arms, but he was not the same man. His need for her was deeper, more elemental.

He loved her.

He kissed her with everything he had, every breath, every last beat of his heart. His lips found her cheek, her brow, her ears, and all the while, he whispered her name like a prayer—

Lucy Lucy Lucy.

He wanted her. He needed her.

She was like air.

Food.

Water.

His mouth moved to her neck, then down to the lacy edge of her bodice. Her skin burned hot beneath him, and as his fingers slid the gown from one of her shoulders, she gasped—

But she did not stop him.

“Gregory,” she whispered, her fingers digging into his hair as his lips moved along her collarbone. “Gregory, oh my G—Gregory.”

His hand moved reverently over the curve of her shoulder. Her skin glowed pale and milky smooth in the candlelight, and he was struck by an intense sense of possession. Of pride.

No other man had seen her thus, and he prayed that no other man ever would.

“You can’t marry him, Lucy,” he whispered urgently, his words hot against her skin.

“Gregory, don’t,” she moaned.

“You can’t.” And then, because he knew he could not allow this to go any further, he straightened, pressing one last kiss against her lips before setting her back, forcing her to look him in the eye.

“You cannot marry him,” he said again.

“Gregory, what can I—”

He gripped her arms. Hard. And he said it.

“I love you.”

Her lips parted. She could not speak.

“I love you,” he said again.

Lucy had suspected—she’d hoped—but she hadn’t really allowed herself to believe. And so, when she finally found words of her own, they were: “You do?”

He smiled, and then he laughed, and then he rested his forehead on hers. “With all of my heart,” he vowed. “I only just realized it. I’m a fool. A blind man. A—”

“No,” she cut in, shaking her head. “Do not berate yourself. No one ever notices me straightaway when Hermione is about.”

His fingers gripped her all the tighter. “She does not hold a candle to you.”

A warm feeling began to spread through her bones. Not desire, not passion, just pure, unadulterated happiness. “You really mean it,” she whispered.

“Enough to move heaven and earth to make sure you do not go through with your wedding to Haselby.”

She blanched.

“Lucy?”

No. She could do it. She would do it. It was almost funny, really. She had spent three years telling Hermione that she had to be practical, follow the rules. She’d scoffed when Hermione had gone on about love and passion and hearing music. And now…

She took a deep, fortifying breath. And now she was going to break her engagement.

That had been arranged for years.

To the son of an earl.

Five days before the wedding.

Dear God, the scandal.

She stepped back, lifting her chin so that she could see Gregory’s face. His eyes were watching her with all the love she herself felt.

“I love you,” she whispered, because she had not yet said it. “I love you, too.”

For once she was going to stop thinking about everyone else. She wasn’t going to take what she was given and make the best of it. She was going to reach for her own happiness, make her own destiny.

She was not going to do what was expected.

She was going to do what she wanted.

It was time.

She squeezed Gregory’s hands. And she smiled. It was no tentative thing, but wide and confident, full of her hopes, full of her dreams—and the knowledge that she would achieve them all.

It would be difficult. It would be frightening.

But it would be worth it.

“I will speak with my uncle,” she said, the words firm and sure. “Tomorrow.”

Gregory pulled her against him for one last kiss, quick and passionate with promise. “Shall I accompany you?” he asked. “Call upon him so that I might reassure him of my intentions?”

The new Lucy, the daring and bold Lucy, asked, “And what are your intentions?”

Gregory’s eyes widened with surprise, then approval, and then his hands took hers.

She felt what he was doing before she realized it by sight. His hands seemed to slide along hers as he descended…

Until he was on one knee, looking up at her as if there could be no more beautiful woman in all creation.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she realized she was shaking.

“Lady Lucinda Abernathy,” he said, his voice fervent and sure, “will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

She tried to speak. She tried to nod.

“Marry me, Lucy,” he said. “Marry me.”

And this time she did. “Yes.” And then, “Yes! Oh, yes!”

“I will make you happy,” he said, standing to embrace her. “I promise you.”

“There is no need to promise.” She shook her head, blinking back the tears. “There is no way you could not.”

He opened his mouth, presumably to say more, but he was cut off by a knock at the door, soft but quick.

Hyacinth.

“Go,” Gregory said. “Let Hyacinth take you back to the ballroom. I will follow later.”

Lucy nodded, tugging at her gown until everything was back in its proper place. “My hair,” she whispered, her eyes flying to his.

“It’s lovely,” he assured her. “You look perfect.”

She hurried to the door. “Are you certain?”

I love you, he mouthed. And his eyes said the same.

Lucy pulled open the door, and Hyacinth rushed in. “Good heavens, the two of you are slow,” she said. “We need to be getting back. Now.”

She strode to the door to the corridor, then stopped, looking first at Lucy, then at her brother. Her gaze settled on Lucy, and she lifted one brow in question.

Lucy held herself tall. “You did not misjudge me,” she said quietly.

Hyacinth’s eyes widened, and then her lips curved. “Good.”

And it was, Lucy realized. It was very good, indeed.