It's In His Kiss

Why not?

Why not marry her? Why n-

He pulled back, still holding her face in his hands. Some things needed to be considered with a clear mind, and the Lord knew that his head wasn’t clear when he was kissing Hyacinth.

“Did I do something wrong?” she whispered.

He shook his head, unable to do anything but look at her.

“Then wh-”

He quieted her with a firm finger to her lips.

Why not marry her? Everybody seemed to want them to. His grandmother had been hinting about it for over a year, and her family was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. Furthermore, he actually rather liked Hyacinth, which was more than he could say for most of the women he’d met during his years as a bachelor. Certainly she drove him mad half the time, but even with that, he liked her.

Plus, it was becoming increasingly apparent that he would not be able to keep his hands off her for very much longer. Another afternoon like this, and he’d ruin her.

He could picture it, see it in his mind. Not just the two of them, but all of the people in their lives-her family, his grandmother.

His father.

Gareth almost laughed aloud. What a boon. He could marry Hyacinth, which was shaping up in his mind to be an extremely pleasant endeavor, and at the same time completely show up the baron.

It would kill him. Absolutely kill him.

But, he thought, letting his fingers trail along the line of her jaw as he pulled away, he needed to do this right. He hadn’t always lived his life on the correct side of propriety, but there were some things a man had to do as a gentleman.

Hyacinth deserved no less.

“I have to go,” he murmured, taking one of her hands and lifting it to his mouth in a courtly gesture of farewell.

“Where?” she blurted out, her eyes still dazed with passion.

He liked that. He liked that he befuddled her, left her without her famous self-possession.

“There are a few things I need to think about,” he said, “and a few things I need to do.”

“But…what?”

He smiled down at her. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“When?”

He walked to the door. “You’re a bundle of questions this afternoon, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have to be,” she retorted, clearly regaining her wits, “if you’d actually say something of substance.”

“Until next time, Miss Bridgerton,” he murmured, slipping out into the hall.

“But when?” came her exasperated voice.

He laughed all the way out.

One hour later, in the foyer of Bridgerton House.

Our hero, apparently, doesn’t waste any time.

“The viscount will see you now, Mr. St. Clair.”

Gareth followed Lord Bridgerton’s butler down the hall to a private section of the house, one which he had never seen during the handful of times he had been a guest at Bridgerton House.

“He is in his study,” the butler explained.

Gareth nodded. It seemed the right place for such an interview. Lord Bridgerton would wish to appear in command, in control, and this would be emphasized by their meeting in his private sanctuary.

When Gareth had knocked upon the front door of Bridgerton House five minutes earlier, he had not given the butler any indication as to his purpose there that day, but he had no doubt that Hyacinth’s brother, the almost infamously powerful Viscount Bridgerton, knew his intentions exactly.

Why else would Gareth come calling? He had never had any cause before. And after becoming acquainted with Hyacinth’s family-some of them, at least-he had no doubt that her mother had already met with her brother and discussed the possibility of their making a match.

“Mr. St. Clair,” the viscount said, rising from behind his desk as Gareth entered the room. That was promising. Etiquette did not demand that the viscount come to his feet, and it was a show of respect that he did.

“Lord Bridgerton,” Gareth said, nodding. Hyacinth’s brother possessed the same deep chestnut hair as his sister, although his was just starting to gray at the temples. The faint sign of age did nothing to diminish him, however. He was a tall man, and probably a dozen years Gareth’s senior, but he was still superbly fit and powerful. Gareth would not have wanted to meet him in a boxing ring. Or a dueling field.

The viscount motioned to a large leather chair, positioned opposite to his desk. “Sit,” he said, “please.”

Gareth did so, working fairly hard to hold himself still and keep his fingers from drumming nervously against the arm of the chair. He had never done this before, and damned if it wasn’t the most unsettling thing. He needed to appear calm, his thoughts organized and collected. He didn’t think his suit would be refused, but he’d like to come through the experience with a modicum of dignity. If he did marry Hyacinth, he was going to be seeing the viscount for the rest of his life, and he didn’t need the head of the Bridgerton family thinking him a fool.

“I imagine you know why I am here,” Gareth said.

The viscount, who had resumed his seat behind his large mahogany desk, tilted his head very slightly to the side. He was tapping his fingertips together, his hands making a hollow triangle. “Perhaps,” he said, “to save both of us from possible embarrassment, you could state your intentions clearly.”

Gareth sucked in a breath. Hyacinth’s brother wasn’t going to make this easy on him. But that didn’t matter. He had vowed to do this right, and he would not be cowed.

He looked up, meeting the viscount’s dark eyes with steady purpose. “I would like to marry Hyacinth,” he said. And then, because the viscount did not say anything, because he didn’t even move, Gareth added, “Er, if she’ll have me.”

And then about eight things happened at once. Or perhaps there were merely two or three, and it just seemed like eight, because it was all so unexpected.

First, the viscount exhaled, although that did seem to understate the case. It was more of a sigh, actually-a huge, tired, heartfelt sigh that made the man positively deflate in front of Gareth. Which was astonishing. Gareth had seen the viscount on many occasions and was quite familiar with his reputation. This was not a man who sagged or groaned.

His lips seemed to move through the whole thing, too, and if Gareth were a more suspicious man, he would have thought that the viscount had said, “Thank you, Lord.”

Combined with the heavenward tilt of the viscount’s eyes, it did seem the most likely translation.

And then, just as Gareth was taking all of this in, Lord Bridgerton let the palms of his hands fall against the desk with surprising force, and he looked Gareth squarely in the eye as he said, “Oh, she’ll have you. She will definitely have you.”

It wasn’t quite what Gareth had expected. “I beg your pardon,” he said, since truly, he could think of nothing else.

“I need a drink,” the viscount said, rising to his feet. “A celebration is in order, don’t you think?”

“Er…yes?”

Lord Bridgerton crossed the room to a recessed bookcase and plucked a cut-glass decanter off one of the shelves. “No,” he said to himself, putting it haphazardly back into place, “the good stuff, I think.” He turned to Gareth, his eyes taking on a strange, almost giddy light. “The good stuff, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ehhhh…” Gareth wasn’t quite sure what to make of this.

“The good stuff,” the viscount said firmly. He moved some books to the side and reached behind to pull out what looked to be a very old bottle of cognac. “Have to keep it hidden,” he explained, pouring it liberally into two glasses.

“Servants?” Gareth asked.

“Brothers.” He handed Gareth a glass. “Welcome to the family.”