It's In His Kiss

so deliberate. It was the strangest thing. You gave me a look as if to say, ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’ ”

A little burst of air rushed past Hyacinth’s lips, and she realized it was a laugh. A small one, the kind that takes a body by surprise.

“And then you let out a wail,” Violet said, shaking her head. “My heavens, I thought you were going to shake the paint right off the walls. And I smiled. It was the first time since your father died that I smiled.”

Violet took a breath, then reached for her tea. Hyacinth watched as her mother composed herself, wanting desperately to ask her to continue, but somehow knowing the moment called for silence.

For a full minute Hyacinth waited, and then finally her mother said, softly, “And from that moment on, you were so dear to me. I love all my children, but you…” She looked up, her eyes catching Hyacinth’s. “You saved me.”

Something squeezed in Hyacinth’s chest. She couldn’t quite move, couldn’t quite breathe. She could only watch her mother’s face, listen to her words, and be so very, very grateful that she’d been lucky enough to be her child.

“In some ways I was a little too protective of you,” Violet said, her lips forming the tiniest of smiles, “and at the same time too lenient. You were so exuberant, so completely sure of who you were and how you fit into the world around you. You were a force of nature, and I didn’t want to clip your wings.”

“Thank you,” Hyacinth whispered, but the words were so soft, she wasn’t even sure she’d said them aloud.

“But sometimes I wonder if this left you too unaware of the people around you.”

Hyacinth suddenly felt awful.

“No, no,” Violet said quickly, seeing the stricken expression on Hyacinth’s face. “You are kind, and you’re caring, and you are far more thoughtful than I think anyone realizes. But-oh dear, I don’t know how to explain this.” She took a breath, her nose wrinkling as she searched for the right words. “You are so used to being completely comfortable with yourself and what you say.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Hyacinth asked. Not defensively, just quietly.

“Nothing. I wish more people had that talent.” Violet clasped her hands together, her left thumb rubbing against her right palm. It was a gesture Hyacinth had seen on her mother countless times, always when she was lost in thought.

“But what I think happens,” Violet continued, “is that when you don’t feel that way- when something happens to give you unease-well, you don’t seem to know how to manage it. And you run. Or you decide it isn’t worth it.” She looked at her daughter, her eyes direct and perhaps just a little bit resigned. “And that,” she finally said, “is why I’m afraid you will never find the right man. Or rather, you’ll find him, but you won’t know it. You won’t let yourself know it.”

Hyacinth stared at her mother, feeling very still, and very small, and very unsure of herself. How had this happened? How had she come in here, expecting the usual talk of husbands and weddings and the lack thereof, only to find herself laid bare and open until she wasn’t quite certain who she was anymore.

“I’ll think about that,” she said to her mother.

“That’s all I can ask.”

And it was all she could promise.

Chapter 5

The next evening, in the drawing room of the estimable Lady Pleinsworth. For some strange reason, there are twigs attached to the piano. And a small girl has a horn on her head.

“People will think you’re courting me,” Hyacinth said, when Mr. St. Clair walked directly to her side without any pretense of glancing about the room first.

“Nonsense,” he said, sitting down in the empty chair next to her. “Everyone knows I don’t court respectable women, and besides, I should think it would only enhance your reputation.”

“And here I thought modesty an overrated virtue.”

He flashed her a bland smile. “Not that I wish to give you any ammunition, but the sad fact of it is-most men are sheep. Where one goes, the rest will follow. And didn’t you say you wished to be married?”

“Not to someone who follows you as the lead sheep,” she replied.

He grinned at that, a devilish smile that Hyacinth had a feeling he had used to seduce legions of women. Then he looked about, as if intending to engage in something surreptitious, and leaned in.

Hyacinth couldn’t help it. She leaned in, too. “Yes?” she murmured.

“I am about this close to bleating.”

Hyacinth tried to swallow her laugh, which was a mistake, since it came out as an exceedingly inelegant splutter.

“How fortunate that you weren’t drinking a glass of milk,” Gareth said, sitting back in his chair. He was still the picture of perfect composure, drat the man.

Hyacinth tried to glare at him, but she was fairly certain she wasn’t able to wipe the humor out of her eyes.

“It would have come out your nose,” he said with a shrug.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that’s not the sort of thing you say to impress a woman?” she asked, once she’d regained her voice.

“I’m not trying to impress you,” he replied, glancing up at the front of the room. “Gads,” he said, blinking in surprise. “What is that?”

Hyacinth followed his gaze. Several of the Pleinsworth progeny, one of whom appeared to be costumed as a shepherdess, were milling about.

“Now that’s an interesting coincidence,” Gareth murmured.

“It might be time to start bleating,” she agreed.

“I thought this was meant to be a poetry recitation.”

Hyacinth grimaced and shook her head. “An unexpected change to the program, I’m afraid.”

“From iambic pentameter to Little Bo Peep?” he asked doubtfully. “It does seem a stretch.”

Hyacinth gave him a rueful look. “I think there will still be iambic pentameter.”

His mouth fell open. “From Peep?”

She nodded, holding up the program that had been resting in her lap. “It’s an original composition,” she said, as if that would explain everything. “By Harriet Pleinsworth. The Shepherdess, the Unicorn, and Henry VIII.”

“All of them? At once?”

“I’m not jesting,” she said, shaking her head.

“Of course not. Even you couldn’t have made this up.”

Hyacinth decided to take that as a compliment.

“Why didn’t I receive one of these?” he asked, taking the program from her.

“I believe it was decided not to hand them out to the gentlemen,” Hyacinth said, glancing about the room. “One has to admire Lady Pleinsworth’s foresight, actually. You’d surely flee if you knew what was in store for you.”

Gareth twisted in his seat. “Have they locked the doors yet?”

“No, but your grandmother has already arrived.”

Hyacinth wasn’t sure, but it sounded very much like he groaned.

“She doesn’t seem to be coming this way,” Hyacinth added, watching as Lady Danbury took a seat on the aisle, several rows back.

“Of course not,” Gareth muttered, and Hyacinth knew he was thinking the same thing she was.

Matchmaker.

Well, it wasn’t as if Lady Danbury had ever been especially subtle about it.

Hyacinth started to turn back to the front, then halted when she caught sight of her mother, for whom she’d been holding an empty seat to her right. Violet pretended (rather badly, in Hyacinth’s opinion) not to see her, and