It's In His Kiss

He grinned devilishly. “But I’m going to marry you next week, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Speaking of which,” he murmured.

Hyacinth’s mouth fell open as he dropped down to one knee. “What are you doing?” she squeaked, frantically looking this way and that. Lord St. Clair was surely peeking out at them, and heaven only knew who else was, too. “Someone will see,” she whispered.

He seemed unconcerned. “People will say we’re in love.”

“I-” Good heavens, but how did a woman argue against that?

“Hyacinth Bridgerton,” he said, taking her hand in his, “will you marry me?”

She blinked in confusion. “I already said I would.”

“Yes, but as you said, I did not ask you for the right reasons. They were mostly the right reasons, but not all.”

“I-I-” She was stumbling on the words, choking on the emotion.

He was staring up at her, his eyes glowing clear and blue in the dim light of the streetlamps. “I am asking you to marry me because I love you,” he said, “because I cannot imagine living my life without you. I want to see your face in the morning, and then at night, and a hundred times in between. I want to grow old with you, I want to laugh with you, and I want to sigh to my friends about how managing you are, all the while secretly knowing I am the luckiest man in town.”

“What?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “A man’s got to keep up appearances. I’ll be universally detested if everyone realizes how perfect you are.”

“Oh.” Again, how could a woman argue with that?

And then his eyes grew serious. “I want you to be my family. I want you to be my wife.”

She stared down at him. He was gazing at her with such obvious love and devotion, she hardly knew what to do. It seemed to surround her, embrace her, and she knew that this was poetry, this was music.

This was love.

He smiled up at her, and all she could do was smile back, dimly aware that her cheeks were growing wet.

“Hyacinth,” he said. “Hyacinth.”

And she nodded. Or at least she thought she did.

He squeezed her hands as he rose to his feet. “I never thought I’d have to say this to you, of all people, but for God’s sake, say something, woman!”

“Yes,” she said. And she threw herself into his arms. “Yes!”

Epilogue

A few moments to bring us up to date…

Four days after the end of our tale, Gareth called upon Lord Wrotham, only to find that the earl in no way felt the betrothal was binding, especially after he related Lady Bridgerton’s promise to take one of the younger Wrotham daughters under her wing the following season.

Four days after that, Gareth was informed by Lady Bridgerton, in no uncertain manner, that her youngest child would not be married in haste, and he was forced to wait two months before wedding Hyacinth in an elaborate yet tasteful ceremony at St. George’s, in London.

Eleven months after that, Hyacinth gave birth to a healthy baby boy, christened George.

Two years after that, they were blessed with a daughter, christened Isabella.

Four years after that, Lord St. Clair was thrown from his horse during a fox hunt and instantly killed. Gareth assumed the title, and he and Hyacinth moved to their new town residence at Clair House.

That was six years ago. She has been looking for the jewels ever since…

“Haven’t you already searched this room?”

Hyacinth looked up from her position on the floor of the baroness’s washroom. Gareth was standing in the doorway, gazing down at her with an indulgent expression.

“Not for at least a month,” she replied, testing the baseboards for loose sections-as if she hadn’t yanked and prodded them countless times before.

“Darling,” Gareth said, and she knew from his tone what he was thinking.

She gave him a pointed look. “Don’t.”

“Darling,” he said again.

“No.” She turned back to the baseboards. “I don’t want to hear it. If it takes until the day I die, I will find these bloody jewels.”

“Hyacinth.”

She ignored him, pressing along the seam where the baseboard met the floor.

Gareth watched her for several seconds before remarking, “I’m quite certain you’ve done that before.”

She spared him only the briefest of glances before rising to inspect the window frame.

“Hyacinth,” he said.

She turned so suddenly that she almost lost her balance. “The note said ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and the Kingdom of Heaven is rich indeed.’ ”

“In Slovene,” he said wryly.

“Three Slovenians,” she reminded him. “Three Slovenians read the clue, and they all reached the same translation.”

And it certainly hadn’t been easy to find three Slovenians.

“Hyacinth,” Gareth said, as if he hadn’t already uttered her name twice…and countless times before that, always in the same slightly resigned tone.

“It has to be here,” she said. “It has to.”

Gareth shrugged. “Very well,” he said, “but Isabella has translated a passage from the Italian, and she wishes for you to check her work.”

Hyacinth paused, sighed, then lifted her fingers from the windowsill. At the age of eight, her daughter had announced that she wished to learn the language of her namesake, and Hyacinth and Gareth had hired a tutor to offer instruction three mornings each week. Within a year, Isabella’s fluency had outstripped her mother’s, and Hyacinth was forced to employ the tutor for herself the other two mornings just to keep up.

“Why is it you’ve never studied Italian?” she asked, as Gareth led her through the bedroom and into the hallway.

“I’ve no head for languages,” he said blithely, “and no need for it, with my two ladies at my side.”

Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to tell you any more naughty words,” she warned.

He chuckled. “Then I’m not going to slip Signorina Orsini any more pound notes with instructions to teach you the naughty words.”

Hyacinth turned to him in horror. “You didn’t!”

“I did.”

Her lips pursed. “And you don’t even look the least bit remorseful about it.”

“Remorseful?” He chuckled, deep in his throat, and then leaned down to press his lips against her ear. There were a few words of Italian he bothered to commit to memory; he whispered every one of them to her.

“Gareth!” she squeaked.

“Gareth, yes? Or Gareth, no?”

She sighed. She couldn’t help it. “Gareth, more.”

Isabella St. Clair tapped her pencil against the side of her head as she regarded the words she’d recently written. It was a challenge, translating from one language to another. The literal meaning never read quite right, so one had to choose one’s idioms with the utmost of care. But this-she glanced over at the open page in Galileo’s