It's In His Kiss

“Your father.” She would have yelled it, if it hadn’t been the middle of the night.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he swore. “Is that what you think? This has nothing to do with him.”

Hyacinth gave him a pitying look.

“I don’t do anything because of him,” Gareth hissed, furious that she would even suggest it. “He means nothing to me.”

She shook her head. “You are deluding yourself, Gareth. Everything you do, you do because of him. I didn’t realize it until he said it, but it’s true.”

“You’d take his word over mine?”

“This isn’t about someone’s word,” she said, sounding tired, and frustrated, and maybe just a little bit bleak. “It’s just about the way things are. And you…you asked me to marry you because you wanted to show him you could. It had nothing to do with me.”

Gareth held himself very still. “That is not true.”

“Isn’t it?” She smiled, but her face looked sad, almost resigned. “I know that you wouldn’t ask me to marry you if you believed yourself promised to another woman, but I also know that you would do anything to show up your father. Including marrying me.”

Gareth gave his head a slow shake. “You have it all wrong,” he said, but inside, his certitude was beginning to slip. He had thought, more than once and with an unbecoming gleefulness, that his father must be livid over Gareth’s marital success. And he’d enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed knowing that in the chess game that was his relationship with Lord St. Clair, he had finally delivered the killing move.

Checkmate.

It had been exquisite.

But it wasn’t why he had asked Hyacinth to marry him. He’d asked her because-Well, there had been a hundred different reasons. It had been complicated.

He liked her. Wasn’t that important? He even liked her family. And she liked his grandmother. He couldn’t possibly marry a woman who couldn’t deal well with Lady Danbury.

And he’d wanted her. He’d wanted her with an intensity that had taken his breath away.

It had made sense to marry Hyacinth. It still made sense.

That was it. That was what he needed to articulate. He just needed to make her understand. And she would. She was no foolish girl. She was Hyacinth.

It was why he liked her so well.

He opened his mouth, motioning with his hand before any words actually emerged. He had to get this right. Or if not right, then at least not completely wrong. “If you look at this sensibly,” he began.

“I am looking at it sensibly,” she shot back, cutting him off before he could complete the thought. “Good heavens, if I weren’t so bloody sensible, I would have cried off.” Her jaw went rigid, and she swallowed.

And he thought to himself-My God, she’s going to cry.

“I knew what I was doing earlier this evening,” she said, her voice painfully quiet. “I knew what it meant, and I knew that it was irrevocable.” Her lower lip quivered, and she looked away as she said, “I just never expected to regret it.”

It was like a punch to the gut. He’d hurt her. He’d really hurt her. He hadn’t meant to, and he wasn’t certain that she wasn’t overreacting, but he’d hurt her.

And he was stunned to realize how much that hurt him.

For a moment they did nothing, just stood there, warily watching the other.

Gareth wanted to say something, thought perhaps that he should say something, but he had no idea. The words just weren’t there.

“Do you know how it feels to be someone’s pawn?” Hyacinth asked.

“Yes,” he whispered.

The corners of her mouth tightened. She didn’t look angry, just…sad. “Then you will understand why I’m asking you to leave.”

There was something primal within him that cried out to stay, something primitive that wanted to grab her and make her understand. He could use his words or he could use his body. It didn’t really matter. He just wanted to make her understand.

But there was something else within him-something sad and something lonely that knew what it was to hurt. And somehow he knew that if he stayed, if he tried to force her to understand, he would not succeed. Not this night.

And he’d lose her.

So he nodded. “We will discuss this later,” he said.

She said nothing.

He walked back to the window. It seemed a bit ludicrous and anticlimactic, making his exit that way, but really, who the hell cared?

“This Mary person,” Hyacinth said to his back, “whatever the problem is with her, I am certain it can be resolved. My family will pay hers, if necessary.”

She was trying to gain control of herself, to tamp down her pain by focusing on practicalities. Gareth recognized this tactic; he had employed it himself, countless times.

He turned around, meeting her gaze directly. “She is the daughter of the Earl of Wrotham.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Well, that does change things, but I’m sure if it was a long time ago…”

“It was.”

She swallowed before asking, “Is it the cause of your estrangement? The betrothal?”

“You’re asking a rather lot of questions for someone who has demanded that I leave.”

“I’m going to marry you,” she said. “I will learn eventually.”

“Yes, you will,” he said. “But not tonight.”

And with that, he swung himself through the window.

He looked up when he reached the ground, desperate for one last glimpse of her. Anything would have been nice, a silhouette, perhaps, or even just her shadowy form, moving behind the curtains.

But there was nothing.

She was gone.

Chapter 17

Teatime at Number Five. Hyacinth is alone in the drawing room with her mother, always a dangerous proposition when one is in possession of a secret.

“Is Mr. St. Clair out of town?”

Hyacinth looked up from her rather sloppy embroidery for just long enough to say, “I don’t believe so, why?”

Her mother’s lips tightened fleetingly before she said, “He hasn’t called in several days.”

Hyacinth affixed a bland expression onto her face as she said, “I believe he is busy with something or other relating to his property in Wiltshire.”

It was a lie, of course. Hyacinth didn’t think he possessed any property, in Wiltshire or anywhere else. But with any luck, her mother would be distracted by some other matter before she got around to inquiring about Gareth’s nonexistent estates.

“I see,” Violet murmured.

Hyacinth stabbed her needle into the fabric with perhaps a touch more vigor than was necessary, then looked down at her handiwork with a bit of a snarl. She was an abysmal needlewoman. She’d never had the patience or the eye for detail that it required, but she always kept an embroidery hoop going in the drawing room. One never knew when one would need it to provide an acceptable distraction from conversation.

The ruse had worked quite well for years. But now that Hyacinth was the only Bridgerton daughter living at home, teatime often consisted of just her and her mother. And unfortunately, the needlework that had kept her so