She picked up his grandmother’s diary. She hadn’t done any work on it for a full day. She was only twenty-two pages in; there were at least a hundred more to go.
She looked down at the book, lying unopened on her lap. She supposed she could send it back. In fact, she probably
But she was enjoying the diary. Life didn’t toss very many challenges in the direction of well-bred young ladies. Frankly, it would be nice to be able to say she had translated an entire book from the Italian. And it would probably be nice to actually do it, too.
Hyacinth fingered the small bookmark she’d used to hold her place and opened the book. Isabella had just arrived in England in the middle of the season, and after a mere week in the country, her new husband had dragged her off to London, where she was expected-without the benefit of fluent English-to socialize and entertain as befitted her station.
To make matters worse, Lord St. Clair’s mother was in residence at Clair House and was clearly unhappy about having to give up her position as lady of the house.
Hyacinth frowned as she read on, stopping every now and then to look up an unfamiliar word. The dowager baroness was interfering with the servants, countermanding Isabella’s orders and making it uncomfortable for those who accepted the new baroness as the woman in charge.
It certainly didn’t make marriage look terribly appealing. Hyacinth made a mental note to try to marry a man without a mother.
“Chin up, Isabella,” she muttered, wincing as she read about the latest altercation-something about an addition of mussels to the menu, despite the fact that shellfish made Isabella develop hives.
“You need to make it clear who’s in charge,” Hyacinth said to the book. “You-”
She frowned, looking down at the latest entry. This didn’t make sense. Why was Isabella talking about her
Hyacinth read the words three times before thinking to glance back up at the date at top.
1766? Wait a minute…
She flipped back one page.
1764 .
Isabella had skipped two years. Why would she do that?
Hyacinth looked quickly through the next twenty or so pages.
“You’re not a very dedicated diarist,” Hyacinth murmured. No wonder Isabella had managed to fit decades into one slim volume; she frequently went years between entries.
Hyacinth turned back to the passage about the
“Oh, my goodness,” Hyacinth said, sitting up straight. She flipped the page of the diary, reading it as quickly as she could, her attempts at a written translation all but forgotten.
“Isabella,” she said with admiration. “You sly fox.”
Gareth sucked in a deep breath, summoning the courage to wrap his fingers around the heavy brass knocker that sat on the front door of Number Five, Bruton Street, the elegant little house Hyacinth’s mother had purchased after her eldest son had married and taken over Bridgerton House.
Then he tried not to feel completely disgusted with himself for feeling he needed the courage in the first place. And it wasn’t really courage he needed. For God’s sake, he wasn’t
He groaned. In every life, there were moments a person would do just about anything to put off. And if it meant he was less of a man because he
Frankly, he didn’t know anyone who’d want to deal with Hyacinth Bridgerton at a moment like this.
He rolled his eyes, thoroughly impatient with himself. This shouldn’t be difficult. He shouldn’t feel strained. Hell, it wasn’t as if he had never kissed a female before and had to face her the next day.
Except…
Except he’d never kissed a female like Hyacinth, one who A) hadn’t been kissed before and B) had every reason to expect that a kiss might mean something more.
Not to mention C) was Hyacinth.
Because one really couldn’t discount the magnitude of that. If there was one thing he had learned in this past week, it was that Hyacinth was quite unlike any other woman he’d ever known.
At any rate, he’d sat at home all morning, waiting for the package that would surely arrive, escorted by a liveried footman, returning his grandmother’s diary. Hyacinth couldn’t possibly wish to translate it now, not after he had insulted her so grievously the night before.
Not, he thought, only a little bit defensively, that he’d meant to insult her. In truth, he hadn’t meant anything one way or another. He certainly hadn’t meant to kiss her. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him, and in fact he rather thought it
Right after his father had taunted him about her.
What the hell else was he expected to do?
And it hadn’t meant anything. It was enjoyable-certainly more enjoyable than he would have imagined, but it hadn’t meant a thing.
But women tended to view these things badly, and her expression when she broke it off had not been terribly inviting.
If anything, she had looked horrified.
Which had made him feel a fool. He’d never disgusted a woman with his kiss before.
And it had all been magnified later that night, when he’d overheard someone asking her about him, and she had brushed it off with a laugh, saying that she couldn’t possibly have refused to dance with him; she was far too good friends with his grandmother.
Which was true, and he certainly understood that she was attempting to save face, even if she hadn’t known that he could hear, but all the same, it was too close an echo of his father’s words for him not to feel it.
He let out a sigh. There was no putting it off any longer. He lifted his hand, intending to grasp the knocker-
And then quite nearly lost his balance when the door flew open.
“For heaven’s sake,” Hyacinth said, looking at him through impatient eyes, “were you ever going to knock?”
“Were you watching for me?”
“Of course I was. My bedroom is right above. I can see everyone.”
Why, he wondered, did this not surprise him?
“And I did send you a note,” she added. She stood aside, motioning for him to come in. “Recent behavior notwithstanding,” she continued, “you do seem to possess manners enough not to refuse a direct written request from a lady.”
“Er…yes,” he said. It was all he could seem to think of, faced as he was by the whirlwind of energy and activity standing across from him.
Why wasn’t she angry with him? Wasn’t she
