It's In His Kiss

Gareth’s chest began to feel very, very tight. What was his father saying? That he’d wanted him to marry Hyacinth?

“You went right out and asked her to marry you,” the baron continued. “How long did that take? A day? Two? No more than a week, I’m sure.”

“My proposal to Miss Bridgerton had nothing to do with you,” Gareth said icily.

“Oh, please,” the baron said, with utter disdain. “Everything you do is because of me. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

Gareth stared at him in horror. Was it true? Was it even a little bit true?

“Well, I do believe I shall take myself off to bed,” the baron said, with an affected sigh. “It’s been…entertaining, don’t you think?”

Gareth didn’t know what to think.

“Oh, and before you marry Miss Bridgerton,” the baron said, tossing the remark over his shoulder as he placed his foot on the first step up to Clair House’s front door, “you might want to see about clearing up your other betrothal.”

“What?”

The baron smiled silkily. “Didn’t you know? You’re still betrothed to poor little Mary Winthrop. She never did marry anyone else.”

“That can’t be legal.”

“Oh, I assure you it is.” The baron leaned slightly forward. “I made sure of it.”

Gareth just stood there, his mouth slack, his arms hanging limply at his sides. If his father had yanked down the moon and clocked him on the head with it he couldn’t have been more stunned.

“I’ll see you at the wedding,” the baron called out. “Oh, silly me. Which wedding?” He laughed, taking a few more steps up toward the front door. “Do let me know, once you sort it all out.” He gave a little wave, obviously pleased with himself, and slipped inside the house.

“Dear God,” Gareth said to himself. And then again, because never in his life had the moment more called for blasphemy: “Dear God.”

What sort of mess was he in now? A man couldn’t offer marriage to more than one woman at once. And while he might not have offered it to Mary Winthrop, the baron had done so in his name, and had signed documents to that effect. Gareth had no idea what this meant to his plans with Hyacinth, but it couldn’t be good.

Oh, bloody…Hyacinth.

Dear God, indeed. She’d heard every word.

Gareth started to run for the corner, then stopped himself, glancing up at the house to make sure that his father wasn’t watching for him. The windows were still dark, but that didn’t mean…

Oh, hell. Who cared?

He ran around the corner, skidding to a halt in front of the alley, where he’d left her.

She was gone.

Chapter 16

Still in the alley. Gareth is staring at the spot whereHyacinth should have been standing.

He never wants to feel like this again.

Gareth’s heart stopped.

Where the hell was Hyacinth?

Was she in danger? It was late, and even though they were in one of the most expensive and exclusive areas of London, thieves and cutthroats might still be about, and-

No, she couldn’t have fallen prey to foul play. Not here. He would have heard something. A scuffle. A shout. Hyacinth would never be taken without a fight.

A very loud fight.

Which could only mean…

She must have heard his father talking about Mary Winthrop and run off. Damn the woman. She should have had more sense than that.

Gareth let out an aggravated grunt as he planted his hands on his hips and scanned the area. She could have dashed home any one of eight different ways, probably more if one counted all the alleys and mews, which he hoped she was sensible enough to avoid.

He decided to try the most direct route. It would take her right on Berkeley Street, which was a busy enough thoroughfare that there might be carriages rolling home from the Mottram Ball, but Hyacinth was probably just angry enough that her primary aim would have been to get home as quickly as possible.

Which was just fine with Gareth. He would much rather see her caught by a gossip on the main road than by a thief on a side street.

Gareth took off at a run toward Berkeley Square, slowing down at each intersection to glance up and down the cross streets.

Nothing.

Where the hell had she gone? He knew she was uncommonly athletic for a female, but good God, how fast could she run?

He dashed past Charles Street, onto the square proper. A carriage rolled by, but Gareth paid it no mind. Tomorrow’s gossip would probably be filled with tales of his crazed middle-of-the-night run through the streets of Mayfair, but it was nothing his reputation couldn’t withstand.

He ran along the edge of the square, and then finally he was on Bruton Street passing by Number Sixteen, Twelve, Seven…

There she was, running like the wind, heading around the corner so that she could enter the house from the back.

His body propelled by a strange, furious energy, Gareth took off even faster. His arms were pumping, and his legs were burning, and his shirt would surely be forever soiled with sweat, but he didn’t care. He was going to catch that bloody woman before she entered her house, and when he did…

Hell, he didn’t know what he was going to do with her, but it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Hyacinth skidded around the last corner, slowing down just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her mouth opened as she spied him, and then, her entire body tensed with determination, she took off for the servants’ entrance in the back.

Gareth’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. She was going to have to fumble for the key. She’d never make it now. He slowed a bit, just enough to attempt to catch his breath, then eased his gait into a stalk.

She was in for it now.

But instead of reaching behind a brick for a key, Hyacinth just opened the door.

Bloody hell. They hadn’t locked the door behind them when they left.

Gareth vaulted into another sprint, and he almost made it.

Almost.

He reached the door just as she shut it in his face.

And his hand landed on the knob just in time to hear the lock click into place.

Gareth’s hand formed a fist, and he itched to pound it against the door. More than anything he wanted to bellow her name, propriety be damned. All it would do was force their wedding to be held even sooner, which was his aim, anyway.

But he supposed some things were far too ingrained in a man, and he was, apparently, too much of a gentleman to destroy her reputation in such a public manner.

“Oh, no,” he muttered to himself, striding back to the front of the house, “all destruction shall be strictly in private.”

He planted his hands on his hips and glared up at her bedroom window. He’d got himself in once; he could do it