It's In His Kiss

Hyacinth looked at them. “What are you talking about?”

“If you don’t know,” Lady Danbury said loftily, “then you haven’t been paying attention, and shame on you for that.”

Hyacinth’s mouth fell open. “Well,” she said, since the alternative was to say nothing, and she never liked to do that. There was nothing more irritating than being left out of a joke. Except, perhaps, being scolded for something one didn’t even understand. She turned back to the stage, watching the cellist more closely. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she twisted again to face her companions and opened her mouth to speak, but they were already deep in a conversation that did not include her.

She hated when that happened.

“Hmmmph.” Hyacinth sat back in her chair and did it again. “Hmmmph.”

“You sound,” came an amused voice from over her shoulder, “exactly like my grandmother.”

Hyacinth looked up. There he was, Gareth St. Clair, inevitably at the moment of her greatest discomfiture. And, of course, the only empty seat was next to her.

“Doesn’t she, though?” Lady Danbury asked, looking up at her grandson as she thumped her cane against the floor. “She’s quickly replacing you as my pride and joy.”

“Tell me, Miss Bridgerton,” Mr. St. Clair asked, one corner of his lips curving into a mocking half smile, “is my grandmother remaking you in her image?”

Hyacinth had no ready retort, which she found profoundly irritating.

“Move over again, Hyacinth,” Lady D barked. “I need to sit next to Gareth.”

Hyacinth turned to say something, but Lady Danbury cut in with, “Someone needs to make sure he behaves.”

Hyacinth let out a noisy exhale and moved over another seat.

“There you go, my boy,” Lady D said, patting the empty chair with obvious glee. “Sit and enjoy.”

He looked at her for a long moment before finally saying, “You owe me for this, Grandmother.”

“Ha!” was her response. “Without me, you wouldn’t exist.”

“A difficult point to refute,” Hyacinth murmured.

Mr. St. Clair turned to look at her, probably only because it enabled him to turn away from his grandmother. Hyacinth smiled at him blandly, pleased with herself for showing no reaction.

He’d always reminded her of a lion, fierce and predatory, filled with restless energy. His hair, too, was tawny, hovering in that curious state between light brown and dark blond, and he wore it rakishly, defying convention by keeping it just long enough to tie in a short queue at the back of his neck. He was tall, although not overly so, with an athlete’s grace and strength and a face that was just imperfect enough to be handsome, rather than pretty.

And his eyes were blue. Really blue. Uncomfortably blue.

Uncomfortably blue? She gave her head a little shake. That had to be quite the most asinine thought that had ever entered her head. Her own eyes were blue, and there was certainly nothing uncomfortable about that.

“And what brings you here, Miss Bridgerton?” he asked. “I hadn’t realized you were such a lover of music.”

“If she loved music,” Lady D said from behind him, “she’d have already fled to France.”

“She does hate to be left out of a conversation, doesn’t she?” he murmured, without turning around. “Ow!”

“Cane?” Hyacinth asked sweetly.

“She’s a threat to society,” he muttered.

Hyacinth watched with interest as he reached behind him, and without even turning his head, wrapped his hand around the cane and wrenched it from his grandmother’s grasp. “Here,” he said, handing it to her, “you will look after this, won’t you? She won’t need it while she’s sitting down.”

Hyacinth’s mouth fell open. Even she had never dared to interfere with Lady Danbury’s cane.

“I see that I have finally impressed you,” he said, sitting back in his chair with the expression of one who is quite pleased with himself.

“Yes,” Hyacinth said before she could stop herself. “I mean, no. I mean, don’t be silly. I certainly haven’t been not impressed by you.”

“How gratifying,” he murmured.

“What I meant,” she said, grinding her teeth together, “was that I haven’t really thought about it one way or the other.”

He tapped his heart with his hand. “Wounded,” he said flippantly. “And right through the heart.”

Hyacinth gritted her teeth. The only thing worse than being made fun of was not being sure if one was being made fun of. Everyone else in London she could read like a book. But with Gareth St. Clair, she simply never knew. She glanced past him to see if Penelope was listening-not that she was sure why that mattered one way or another-but Pen was busy placating Lady Danbury, who was still smarting over the loss of her cane.

Hyacinth fidgeted in her seat, feeling uncommonly closed-in. Lord Somershall-never the slenderest man in the room-was on her left, spilling onto her chair. Which only forced her to scoot a little to the right, which of course put her in even closer proximity to Gareth St. Clair, who was positively radiating heat.

Good God, had the man smothered himself in hot-water bottles before setting out for the evening?

Hyacinth picked up her program as discreetly as she was able and used it to fan herself.

“Is something amiss, Miss Bridgerton?” he inquired, tilting his head as he regarded her with curious amusement.

“Of course not,” she answered. “It’s merely a touch warm in here, don’t you think?”

He eyed her for one second longer than she would have liked, then turned to Lady Danbury. “Are you overheated, Grandmother?” he asked solicitously.

“Not at all,” came the brisk reply.

He turned back to Hyacinth with a tiny shrug. “It must be you,” he murmured.

“It must,” she ground out, facing determinedly forward. Maybe there still was time to escape to the ladies’ retiring room. Penelope would want to have her drawn and quartered, but did it really count as abandonment when there were two people seated between them? Besides, she could surely use Lord Somershall as an excuse. Even now he was shifting in his seat, bumping up against her in a way that Hyacinth wasn’t entirely certain was accidental.

Hyacinth shifted slightly to the right. Just an inch-not even. The last thing she wanted was to be pressed up against Gareth St. Clair. Well, the second-to-last, anyway. Lord Somershall’s portly frame was decidedly worse.

“Is something amiss, Miss Bridgerton?” Mr. St. Clair inquired.

She shook her head, getting ready to push herself up by planting the heels of her hands on the chair on either side of her lap. She couldn’t-

Clap.

Clap clap clap.

Hyacinth nearly groaned. It was one of the Ladies Smythe-Smith, signaling that the concert was about to begin. She’d lost her moment of opportunity. There was no way she could depart politely now.

But at least she could take some solace in the fact that she wasn’t the only miserable soul. Just as the Misses Smythe-Smith lifted their bows to strike their instruments, she heard Mr. St. Clair let out a very quiet groan, followed by a heartfelt, “God help us all.”

Chapter 2

Thirty minutes later, and somewhere not too far away, a small dog is howling in agony. Unfortunately, no one can hear him over the din…

There was only one person in the world for whom Gareth would sit politely and listen to really bad music, and Grandmother Danbury happened to be it.

“Never again,” he whispered in her ear, as something that might have been Mozart assaulted his ears. This,