The irony of the evening was not lost on Lucy as she made her way back to her room.

Alone.

After Mr. Bridgerton’s panic over Hermione’s disappearance…after Lucy had been thoroughly scolded for running off by herself in the middle of what was turning out to be a somewhat raucous evening…after one couple had been forced to become engaged, for heaven’s sake—no one had noticed when Lucy left the masked ball by herself.

She still couldn’t believe that Lady Bridgerton had insisted upon returning her to the party. She had practically led Lucy back by the collar, depositing her in the care of someone or other’s maiden aunt before retrieving Hermione’s mother, who, it must be presumed, had no idea of the excitement that lay in wait for her.

And so Lucy had stood at the edge of the ballroom like a fool, staring at the rest of the guests, wondering how they could possibly not be aware of the events of the evening. It seemed inconceivable that three lives could be upended so completely, and the rest of the world was carrying on as usual.

No, she thought, rather sadly, actually—it was four; there was Mr. Bridgerton to be considered. His plans for the future had been decidedly different at the outset of the evening.

But no, everyone else appeared perfectly normal. They danced, they laughed, they ate sandwiches that were still distressingly mixed up on a single serving platter.

It was the strangest sight. Shouldn’t something seem different? Shouldn’t someone come up to Lucy and say, eyes quizzical—You look somewhat altered. Ah, I know. Your brother must have seduced your closest friend.

No one did, of course, and when Lucy caught sight of herself in a mirror, she was startled to see that she appeared entirely unchanged. A little tired, perhaps, maybe a little pale, but other than that, the same old Lucy.

Blond hair, not too blond. Blue eyes—again, not too blue. Awkwardly shaped mouth that never quite held still the way she wanted it to, and the same nondescript nose with the same seven freckles, including the one close to her eye that no one ever noticed but her.

It looked like Ireland. She didn’t know why that interested her, but it always had.

She sighed. She’d never been to Ireland, and she probably never would. It seemed silly that this would suddenly bother her, as she didn’t even want to go to Ireland.

But if she did wish to, she’d have to ask Lord Haselby, wouldn’t she? It wasn’t much different from having to ask Uncle Robert for permission to do, well, anything, but somehow…

She shook her head. Enough. It had been a strange night, and now she was in a strange mood, stuck in all her strangeness in the middle of a masked ball.

Clearly what she needed to do was go to bed.

And so, after thirty minutes of trying to look as if she were enjoying herself, it finally became apparent that the maiden aunt entrusted with her care did not quite understand the scope of the assignment. It wasn’t difficult to deduce; when Lucy had attempted to speak to her, she had squinted through her mask and screeched, “Lift your chin, gel! Do I know you?”

Lucy decided that this was not an opportunity to be wasted, and so she had replied, “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else,” and walked right out of the ballroom.

Alone.

Really, it was almost funny.

Almost.

She wasn’t foolish, however, and she’d traversed enough of the house that evening to know that while the guests had spilled to the west and south of the ballroom, they had not ventured to the north wing, where the family kept their private rooms. Strictly speaking, Lucy ought not to go that way, either, but after what she’d been through in the past few hours, she rather thought she deserved a bit of latitude.

But when she reached the long hall that led to the north, she saw a closed door. Lucy blinked with surprise; she’d never noticed a door there before. She supposed the Bridger-tons normally left it open. Then her heart sank. Surely it would be locked—what was the purpose of a closed door if not to keep people out?

But the doorknob turned with ease. Lucy carefully shut the door behind her, practically melting with relief. She couldn’t face going back to the party. She just wanted to crawl into bed, curl up under the covers, close her eyes, and sleep sleep sleep.

It sounded like heaven. And with any luck, Hermione would not yet have returned. Or better yet, her mother would insist upon her remaining overnight in her room.

Yes, privacy sounded extremely appealing just then.

It was dark as she walked, and quiet, too. After a minute or so, Lucy’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. There were no lanterns or candles to illuminate the way, but a few doors had been left open, allowing pale shafts of moonlight to make parallelograms on the carpet. She walked slowly, and with an odd sort of deliberation, each step carefully measured and aimed, as if she were balancing on a thin line, stretching right down the center of the hall.

One, two…

Nothing out of the ordinary. She frequently counted her steps. And always on the stairs. She’d been surprised when she got to school and realized that other people did not.

…three, four…

The runner carpet looked monochromatic in the moonlight, but Lucy knew that the big diamonds were red, and the smaller ones were gold. She wondered if it were possible to step only on gold.

…five, six…

Or maybe red. Red would be easier. This wasn’t a night to challenge herself.

…seven, eight, n—

“Oomph!”

She crashed into something. Or dear heaven, someone. She’d been looking down, following the red diamonds, and she hadn’t seen…but shouldn’t the other person have seen her?

Strong hands caught her by the arms and steadied her. And then—“Lady Lucinda?”

She froze. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

His voice was low and smooth in the darkness. “Now this is a coincidence.”

She carefully disentangled herself—he had grabbed her by the arms to keep her from falling—and stepped back. He seemed very large in the close confines of the hall. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

He offered her a suspiciously easy grin. “What’re you doing here?”

“Going to bed. This hallway seemed the best route,” she explained, then added with a wry expression, “given my state of unaccompaniment.”

He cocked his head. Scrunched his brow. Blinked. And finally: “Is that a word?”

For some reason that made her smile. Not her lips, exactly, but on the inside, where it counted. “I don’t think so,” she replied, “but really, I can’t be bothered.”

He smiled faintly, then motioned with his head to the room he must have just exited. “I was in my brother’s office. Pondering.”

“Pondering?”

“Quite a bit to ponder this evening, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes.” She looked around the hall. Just in case there was someone else about, even though she was quite certain there was not. “I really shouldn’t be here alone with you.”

He nodded gravely. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your practical engagement.”

Lucy hadn’t even been thinking of that. “I meant after what happened with Hermione and—” And then it seemed somehow insensitive to spell it out. “Well, I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Indeed.”

She swallowed, then tried to make it appear as if she weren’t looking at his face to see if he was upset.

He just blinked, then he shrugged, and his expression was…

Nonchalant?

She chewed on her lip. No, that couldn’t be. She must have misread him. He had been a man in love. He had told her so.

But this was none of her business. This required a certain measure of self-remindering (to add another word to her rapidly growing collection), but there it was. It was none of her business. Not one bit.

Well, except for the part about her brother and her best friend. No one could say that that didn’t concern her. If it had just been Hermione, or just been Richard, there might have been an argument that she should keep her nose out of it, but with the both of them—well, clearly she was involved.

As regarded Mr. Bridgerton, however…none of her business.

She looked at him. His shirt collar was loosened, and she could see a tiny scrap of skin where she knew she ought not look.

None. None! Business. Of hers. None of it.

“Right,” she said, ruining her determined tone with a decidedly involuntary cough. Spasm. Coughing spasm. Vaguely punctuated by: “Should be going.”

But it came out more like…Well, it came out like something that she was quite certain could not be spelled with the twenty-six letters of the English language. Cyrillic might do it. Or possibly Hebrew.

“Are you all right?” he queried.

“Perfectly well,” she gasped, then realized she was back to looking at that spot that wasn’t even his neck. It was more his chest, which meant that it was more someplace decidedly unsuitable.

She yanked her eyes away, then coughed again, this time on purpose. Because she had to do something. Otherwise her eyes would be right back where they ought not be.

He watched her, almost a bit owlish in his regard, as she recovered. “Better?”

She nodded.

“I’m glad.”

Glad? Glad? What did that mean?

He shrugged. “I hate it when that happens.”

Just that he is a human being, Lucy you dolt. One who knows what a scratchy throat feels like.

She was going mad. She was quite certain of it.

“I should go,” she blurted out.

“You should.”

“I really should.”

But she just stood there.

He was looking at her the strangest way. His eyes were narrowed—not in that angry way people usually associated with squinty eyes, but rather as if he were thinking exceptionally hard about something.

Pondering. That was it. He was pondering, just as he’d said.

Except that he was pondering her.

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked hesitantly. Not that she knew what she might inquire of him when he acknowledged her.

“Do you drink, Lady Lucinda?”

Drink? “I beg your pardon?”

He gave her a sheepish half-smile. “Brandy. I know where my brother keeps the good stuff.”

“Oh.” Goodness. “No, of course not.”

“Pity,” he murmured.

“I really couldn’t,” she added, because, well, she felt as if she had to explain.

Even though of course she did not drink spirits.

And of course he would know that.

He shrugged. “Don’t know why I asked.”

“I should go,” she said.

But he didn’t move.

And neither did she.

She wondered what brandy tasted like.

And she wondered if she would ever know.

“How did you enjoy the party?” he asked.

“The party?”

“Weren’t you forced to go back?”

She nodded, rolling her eyes. “It was strongly suggested.”

“Ah, so then she dragged you.”

To Lucy’s great surprise, she chuckled. “Rather close to it. And I didn’t have my mask, which made me stick out a bit.”

“Like a mushroom?”

“Like a—?”

He looked at her dress and nodded at the color. “A blue mushroom.”

She glanced at herself and then at him. “Mr. Bridgerton, are you intoxicated?”

He leaned forward with a sly and slightly silly smile. He held up his hand, his thumb and index finger measuring an inch between them. “Just a little bit.”

She eyed him dubiously. “Really?”

He looked down at his fingers with a furrowed brow, then added another inch or so to the space between them. “Well, perhaps this much.”

Lucy didn’t know much about men or much about spirits, but she knew enough about the two of them together to ask, “Isn’t that always the case?”

“No.” He lifted his brows and stared down his nose at her. “I usually know exactly how drunk I am.”

Lucy had no idea what to say to that.

“But do you know, tonight I’m not sure.” And he sounded surprised at that.

“Oh.” Because she was at her articulate best this evening.

He smiled.

Her stomach felt strange.

She tried to smile back. She really should be going.

So naturally, she did not move.

His head tilted to the side and he let out a thoughtful exhale, and it occurred to her that he was doing exactly what he’d said he’d been doing—pondering. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that given the events of the evening…”

She leaned forward expectantly. Why did people always let their voices trail off just when they were about to say something meaningful? “Mr. Bridgerton?” she nudged, because now he was just staring at some painting on the wall.

His lips twisted thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t you think I ought to be a bit more upset?”

Her lips parted with surprise. “You’re not upset?” How was that possible?

He shrugged. “Not as much as I should be, given that my heart practically stopped beating the first time I saw Miss Watson.”

Lucy smiled tightly.

His head went back to vertical, and he looked at her and blinked—perfectly clear-eyed, as if he had just reached an obvious conclusion. “Which is why I suspect the brandy.”

“I see.” She didn’t, of course, but what else could she say? “You…ah…you certainly seemed upset.”

“I was cross,” he explained.

“You’re not any longer?”

He thought about that. “Oh, I’m still cross.”

And Lucy felt the need to apologize. Which she knew was ridiculous, because none of this was her fault. But it was so ingrained in her, this need to apologize for everything. She couldn’t help it. She wanted everyone to be happy. She always had. It was neater that way. More orderly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about my brother,” she said. “I didn’t know. Truly, I didn’t know.”

He looked down at her, and his eyes were kind. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, because a moment ago, he’d been flip and nonchalant. But now…he was different.

“I know you didn’t,” he said. “And there is no need to apologize.”

“I was just as startled when we found them as you were.”

“I wasn’t very startled,” he said. Gently, as if he were trying to spare her feelings. Make her feel not such a dunce for not seeing the obvious.

She nodded. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have been. You realized what was happening, and I did not.” And truly, she did feel like a half-wit. How could she have been so completely unaware? It was Hermione and her brother, for heaven’s sake. If anyone were to detect a budding romance, it ought to have been she.

There was a pause—an awkward one—and then he said, “I will be well.”

“Oh, of course you will,” Lucy said reassuringly. And then she felt reassured, because it felt so lovely and normal to be the one trying to make everything right. That’s what she did. She scurried about. She made sure everyone was happy and comfortable.

That was who she was.

But then he asked—oh why did he ask—“Will you?”

She said nothing.

“Be well,” he clarified. “Will you be well”—he paused, then shrugged—“as well?”

“Of course,” she said, a little too quickly.

She thought that was the end of it, but then he said, “Are you certain? Because you seemed a little…”

She swallowed, waiting uncomfortably for his assessment.

“…overset,” he finished.

“Well, I was surprised,” she said, glad to have an answer. “And so naturally I was somewhat disconcerted.” But she heard a slight stammer in her voice, and she was wondering which one of them she was trying convince.

He didn’t say anything.

She swallowed. It was uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable, and yet she kept talking, kept explaining it all. And she said, “I’m not entirely certain what happened.”

Still, he did not speak.

“I felt a little…Right here…” Her hand went to her chest, to the spot where she had felt so paralyzed. She looked up at him, practically begging him with her eyes to say something, to change the subject and end the conversation.

But he didn’t. And the silence made her explain.

If he’d asked a question, said even one comforting word, she wouldn’t have told him. But the silence was too much. It had to be filled.

“I couldn’t move,” she said, testing out the words as they left her lips. It was as if by speaking, she was finally confirming what had happened. “I reached the door, and I couldn’t open it.”

She looked up at him, searching for answers. But of course he did not have any.

“I—I don’t know why I was so overcome.” Her voice sounded breathy, nervous even. “I mean—it was Hermione. And my brother. I—I’m sorry for your pain, but this is all rather tidy, really. It’s nice. Or at least it should be. Hermione will be my sister. I have always wanted a sister.”

“They are occasionally entertaining.” He said it with a half-smile, and it did make Lucy feel better. It was remarkable how much it did. And it was just enough to cause her words to spill out, this time without hesitation, without even a stammer.

“I could not believe they had gone off together. They should have said something. They should have told me that they cared for one another. I shouldn’t have had to discover it that way. It’s not right.” She grabbed his arm and looked up at him, her eyes earnest and urgent. “It’s not right, Mr. Bridgerton. It’s not right.”

He shook his head, but only slightly. His chin barely moved, and neither did his lips as he said, “No.”

“Everything is changing,” she whispered, and she wasn’t talking about Hermione any longer. But it didn’t matter, except that she didn’t want to think anymore. Not about that. Not about the future. “It’s all changing,” she whispered, “and I can’t stop it.”

Somehow his face was closer as he said, again, “No.”

“It’s too much.” She couldn’t stop looking at him, couldn’t move her eyes from his, and she was still whispering it—“It’s all too much”—when there was no more distance between them.

And his lips…they touched hers.

It was a kiss.

She had been kissed.

Her. Lucy. For once it was about her. She was at the center of her world. It was life. And it was happening to her.

It was remarkable, because it all felt so big, so transforming. And yet it was just a little kiss—soft, just a brush, so light it almost tickled. She felt a rush, a shiver, a tingly lightness in her chest. Her body seemed to come alive, and at the same time freeze into place, as if afraid that the wrong movement might make it all go away.

But she didn’t want it to go away. God help her, she wanted this. She wanted this moment, and she wanted this memory, and she wanted…

She just wanted.

Everything. Anything she could get.

Anything she could feel.

His arms came around her, and she leaned in, sighing against his mouth as her body came into contact with his. This was it, she thought dimly. This was the music. This was a symphony.

This was a flutter. More than a flutter.

His mouth grew more urgent, and she opened to him, reveling in the warmth of his kiss. It spoke to her, called to her soul. His hands were holding her tighter, tighter, and her own snaked around him, finally resting where his hair met his collar.

She hadn’t meant to touch him, hadn’t even thought about it. Her hands seemed to know where to go, how to find him, bring him closer. Her back arched, and the heat between them grew.

And the kiss went on…and on.

She felt it in her belly, she felt it in her toes. This kiss seemed to be everywhere, all across her skin, straight down to her soul.

“Lucy,” he whispered, his lips finally leaving hers to blaze a hot trail along her jaw to her ear. “My God, Lucy.”

She didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to do anything to break the moment. She didn’t know what to call him, couldn’t quite say Gregory, but Mr. Bridgerton was no longer right.

He was more than that now. More to her.

She’d been right earlier. Everything was changing. She didn’t feel the same. She felt…

Awakened.

Her neck arched as he nipped at her earlobe, and she moaned—soft, incoherent sounds that slid from her lips like a song. She wanted to sink into him. She wanted to slide to the carpet and take him with her. She wanted the weight of him, the heat of him, and she wanted to touch him—she wanted to do something. She wanted to act. She wanted to be daring.

She moved her hands to his hair, sinking her fingers into the silky strands. He let out a little groan, and just the sound of his voice was enough to make her heart beat faster. He was doing remarkable things to her neck—his lips, his tongue, his teeth—she didn’t know which, but one of them was setting her on fire.

His lips moved down the column of her throat, raining fire along her skin. And his hands—they had moved. They were cupping her, pressing her against him, and everything felt so urgent.

This was no longer about what she wanted. It was about what she needed.

Was this what had happened to Hermione? Had she innocently gone for a stroll with Richard and then…this?

Lucy understood it now. She understood what it meant to want something you knew was wrong, to allow it to happen even though it could lead to scandal and—

And then she said it. She tried it. “Gregory,” she whispered, testing the name on her lips. It felt like an endearment, an intimacy, almost as if she could change the world and everything around her with one single word.

If she said his name, then he could be hers, and she could forget everything else, she could forget—

Haselby.

Dear God, she was engaged. It was not just an understanding any longer. The papers had been signed. And she was—

“No,” she said, pressing her hands on his chest. “No, I can’t.”

He allowed her to push him away. She turned her head, afraid to look at him. She knew…if she saw his face…

She was weak. She wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Lucy,” he said, and she realized that the sound of him was just as hard to bear as his face would have been.

“I can’t do this.” She shook her head, still not looking at him. “It’s wrong.”

“Lucy.” And this time she felt his fingers on her chin, gently urging her to face him.

“Please allow me to escort you upstairs,” he said.

“No!” It came out too loud, and she stopped, swallowing uncomfortably. “I can’t risk it,” she said, finally allowing her eyes to meet his.

It was a mistake. The way he was looking at her—His eyes were stern, but there was more. A hint of softness, a touch of warmth. And curiosity. As if…As if he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. As if he were looking at her for the very first time.

Dear heaven, that was the part she couldn’t bear. She wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was because he was looking at her. Maybe it was because the expression was so…him. Maybe it was both.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

But it terrified her all the same.

“I will not be deterred,” he said. “Your safety is my responsibility.”

Lucy wondered what had happened to the slightly intoxicated, rather jolly man with whom she’d been conversing just moments earlier. In his place was someone else entirely. Someone quite in charge.

“Lucy,” he said, and it wasn’t exactly a question, more of a reminder. He would have his way in this, and she would have to acknowledge it.

“My room isn’t far,” she said, trying one last time, anyway. “Truly, I don’t need your assistance. It’s just up those stairs.”

And down the hall and around a corner, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I will walk you to the stairs, then.”

Lucy knew better than to argue. He would not relent. His voice was quiet, but it had an edge she wasn’t quite certain she’d heard there before.

“And I will remain there until you reach your room.”

“That’s not necessary.”

He ignored her. “Knock three times when you do so.”

“I’m not going to—”

“If I don’t hear your knock, I will come upstairs and personally assure myself of your welfare.”

He crossed his arms, and as she looked at him she wondered if he’d have been the same man had he been the firstborn son. There was an unexpected imperiousness to him. He would have made a fine viscount, she decided, although she wasn’t certain she would have liked him so well. Lord Bridgerton quite frankly terrified her, although he must have had a softer side, adoring his wife and children as he so obviously did.

Still…

“Lucy.”

She swallowed and grit her teeth, hating to have to admit that she’d lied. “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “If you wish to hear my knock, you had better come to the top of the stairs.”

He nodded and followed her, all the way to the top of the seventeen steps.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he said.

Lucy said nothing. She had a feeling that would be unwise.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he repeated.

She nodded, since it seemed to be required, and she didn’t see how she was meant to avoid him, anyway.

And she wanted to see him. She shouldn’t want to, and she knew she shouldn’t do it, but she couldn’t help herself.

“I suspect we will be leaving,” she said. “I’m meant to return to my uncle, and Richard…Well, he will have matters to attend to.”

But her explanations did not change his expression. His face was still resolute, his eyes so firmly fixed on hers that she shivered.

“I will see you in the morning,” was all he said.

She nodded again, and then left, as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. She rounded the corner and finally saw her room, just three doors down.

But she stopped. Right there at the corner, just out of his sight.

And she knocked three times.

Just because she could.