It's In His Kiss

But still, if Gareth had learned one thing over the years, it was that his grandmother was a shrewd judge of character. And besides, the diary was written in Italian. Even if it did contain some indiscreet secret, Miss Bridgerton would hardly know.

His decision made, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the book.

Chapter 4

At which point Hyacinth’s life finally becomes almost as exciting as Priscilla Butterworth’s. Minus the cliffs, of course…

Hyacinth watched with interest as Mr. St. Clair appeared to hesitate. He glanced over at her, his clear blue eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before he turned back to his grandmother. Hyacinth tried not to look too interested; he was obviously trying to decide if he should mention his business in her presence, and she suspected that any interference on her part would cause him to keep his counsel.

But apparently she passed muster, because after a brief moment of silence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small, leather-bound book.

“What is this?” Lady Danbury asked, taking it into her hands.

“Grandmother St. Clair’s diary,” he replied. “Caroline brought it over this afternoon. She found it among George’s effects.”

“It’s in Italian,” Lady D said.

“Yes, I was aware.”

“I meant, why did you bring it to me?” she asked, somewhat impatiently.

Mr. St. Clair gave her a lazy half smile. “You are always telling me you know everything, or if not everything, then everyone.”

“You said that to me earlier this afternoon,” Hyacinth put in helpfully.

Mr. St. Clair turned to her with a vaguely patronizing, “Thank you,” which arrived at precisely the same moment as Lady Danbury’s glare.

Hyacinth squirmed. Not at Lady D’s glare-she was quite impervious to those. But she hated this feeling that Mr. St. Clair thought her deserving of condescension.

“I was hoping,” he said to his grandmother, “that you might know of a reputable translator.”

“For Italian?”

“It would seem to be the required language.”

“Hmmph.” Lady D tap tap tapped her cane against the carpet, much the way a normal person would drum fingers atop a table. “Italian? Not nearly as ubiquitous as French, which of course any decent person would-”

“I can read Italian,” Hyacinth interrupted.

Two identical pairs of blue eyes swung her direction.

“You’re joking,” Mr. St. Clair said, coming in a mere half second before his grandmother barked, “You can?”

“You don’t know everything about me,” Hyacinth said archly. To Lady Danbury, of course, since Mr. St. Clair could hardly make that claim.

“Well, yes, of course,” Lady D blustered, “but Italian?”

“I had an Italian governess when I was small,” Hyacinth said with a shrug. “It amused her to teach me. I’m not fluent,” she allowed, “but given a page or two, I can make out the general meaning.”

“This is quite more than a page or two,” Mr. St. Clair said, tilting his head toward the diary, which still rested in his grandmother’s hands.

“Clearly,” Hyacinth replied peevishly. “But I’m not likely to read more than a page or two at a time. And she didn’t write it in the style of the ancient Romans, did she?”

“That would be Latin,” Mr. St. Clair drawled.

Hyacinth clamped her teeth together. “Nevertheless,” she ground out.

“For the love of God, boy,” Lady Danbury cut in, “give her the book.”

Mr. St. Clair forbore to point out that she was still holding it, which Hyacinth thought showed remarkable restraint on his part. Instead, he rose to his feet, plucked the slim volume from his grandmother’s hands, and turned toward Hyacinth. He hesitated then-just for a moment, and Hyacinth would have missed it had she been looking anywhere but directly at his face.

He brought the book to her then, holding it out with a softly murmured, “Miss Bridgerton.”

Hyacinth accepted it, shivering against the odd feeling that she had just done something far more powerful than merely taking a book into her hands.

“Are you cold, Miss Bridgerton?” Mr. St. Clair murmured.

She shook her head, using the book as a means to avoid looking at him. “The pages are slightly brittle,” she said, carefully turning one.

“What does it say?” Mr. St. Clair asked.

Hyacinth gritted her teeth. It was never fun to be forced to perform under pressure, and it was nigh near impossible with Gareth St. Clair breathing down her neck.

“Give her some room!” Lady D barked.

He moved, but not enough to make Hyacinth feel any more at ease.

“Well?” he demanded.

Hyacinth’s head bobbed slightly back and forth as she worked out the meaning. “She’s writing about her upcoming wedding,” she said. “I think she’s due to marry your grandfather in”-she bit her lip as she scanned down the page for the appropriate words-“three weeks. I gather the ceremony was in Italy.”

Mr. St. Clair nodded once before prodding her with, “And?”

“And…” Hyacinth wrinkled her nose, as she always did when she was thinking hard. It wasn’t a terribly attractive expression, but the alternative was simply not to think, which she didn’t find appealing.

“What did she say?” Lady Danbury urged.

“Orrendo orrendo…,” Hyacinth murmured. “Oh, right.” She looked up. “She’s not very happy about it.”

“Who would be?” Lady D put in. “The man was a bear, apologies to those in the room sharing his blood.”

Mr. St. Clair ignored her. “What else?”

“I told you I’m not fluent,” Hyacinth finally snapped. “I need time to work it out.”

“Take it home,” Lady Danbury said. “You’ll be seeing him tomorrow night, anyway.”

“I am?” Hyacinth asked, at precisely the moment Mr. St. Clair said, “She will?”

“You’re accompanying me to the Pleinsworth poetry reading,” Lady D told her grandson. “Or have you forgotten?”

Hyacinth sat back, enjoying the sight of Gareth St. Clair’s mouth opening and closing in obvious distress. He looked a bit like a fish, she decided. A fish with the features of a Greek god, but still, a fish.

“I really…” he said. “That is to say, I can’t-”

“You can, and you will be there,” Lady D said. “You promised.”

He regarded her with a stern expression. “I cannot imagine-”

“Well, if you didn’t promise, you should have done, and ifyou love me…”

Hyacinth coughed to cover her laugh, then tried not to smirk when Mr. St. Clair shot a dirty look in her direction.

“When I die,” he said, “surely my epitaph will read, ‘He loved his grandmother when no one else would.’”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Lady Danbury asked.

“I’ll be there,” he sighed.

“Bring wool for your ears,” Hyacinth advised.

He looked aghast. “It cannot possibly be worse than last night’s musicale.”

Hyacinth couldn’t quite keep one corner of her mouth from tilting up. “Lady Pleinsworth used to be a Smythe-Smith.”