“Gregory.”
Hyacinth’s voice came first. She was standing next to Lucy, who looked…
Stricken.
What had Hyacinth done to her?
“Lucy?” he asked, rushing forward. “Is something wrong?”
Lucy shook her head. “It is of no account.”
He turned to his sister with accusing eyes.
Hyacinth shrugged. “I will be in the next room.”
“Listening at the door?”
“I shall wait at Daphne’s escritoire,” she said. “It is halfway across the room, and before you make an objection, I cannot go farther. If someone comes you will need me to rush in to make everything respectable.”
Her point was a valid one, loath as Gregory was to admit it, so he gave her a curt nod and watched her leave the room, waiting for the click of the door latch before speaking.
“Did she say something unkind?” he asked Lucy. “She can be disgracefully tactless, but her heart is usually in the right place.”
Lucy shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I think she might have said exactly the right thing.”
“Lucy?” He stared at her in question.
Her eyes, which had seemed so cloudy, appeared to focus. “What was it you needed to tell me?” she asked.
“Lucy,” he said, wondering how best to approach this. He’d been rehearsing speeches in his mind the entire time he’d been dancing downstairs, but now that he was here, he didn’t know what to say.
Or rather, he did. But he didn’t know the order, and he didn’t know the tone. Did he tell her he loved her? Bare his heart to a woman who intended to marry another? Or did he opt for the safer route and explain why she could not marry Haselby?
A month ago, the choice would have been obvious. He was a romantic, fond of grand gestures. He would have declared his love, certain of a happy reception. He would have taken her hand. Dropped to his knees.
He would have kissed her.
But now…
He was no longer quite so certain. He trusted Lucy, but he did not trust fate.
“You can’t marry Haselby,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t marry him,” he replied, avoiding the question. “It will be a disaster. It will…You must trust me. You must not marry him.”
She shook her head. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because…because…” He fought for words. “Because you have become my friend. And I wish for your happiness. He will not be a good husband to you, Lucy.”
“Why not?” Her voice was low, hollow, and heartbreakingly unlike her.
“He…” Dear God, how did he say it? Would she even understand what he meant?
“He doesn’t…” He swallowed. There had to be a gentle way to say it. “He doesn’t…Some people…”
He looked at her. Her lower lip was quivering.
“He prefers men,” he said, getting the words out as quickly as he was able. “To women. Some men are like that.”
And then he waited. For the longest moment she made no reaction, just stood there like a tragic statue. Every now and then she would blink, but beyond that, nothing. And then finally-
“Why?”
Why? He didn’t understand. “Why is he-”
“No,” she said forcefully. “Why did you tell me? Why would you say it?”
“I told you-”
“No, you didn’t do it to be kind. Why did you tell me? Was it just to be cruel? To make me feel the way you feel, because Hermione married my brother and not you?”
“No!” The word burst out of him, and he was holding her, his hands wrapped around her upper arms. “No, Lucy,” he said again. “I would never. I want you to be happy. I want…”
“I could have been happy with him,” she whispered.
“No. No, you couldn’t. You don’t understand, he-”
“Yes, I could,” she cried out. “Maybe I wouldn’t have loved him, but I could have been happy. It was what I expected. Do you understand, it was what I was prepared for. And you…you…” She wrenched herself away, turning until he could no longer see her face. “You ruined it.”
“How?”
She raised her eyes to his, and the look in them was so stark, so deep, he could not breathe. And she said, “Because you made me want you instead.”
His heart slammed in his chest. “Lucy,” he said, because he could not say anything else. “Lucy.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed.
“Kiss me.” He took her face in his hands. “Just kiss me.”
This time, when he kissed her, it was different. She was the same woman in his arms, but
He loved her.
He kissed her with everything he had, every breath, every last beat of his heart. His lips found her cheek, her brow, her ears, and all the while, he whispered her name like a prayer-
He wanted her. He needed her.
She was like air.
Food.
Water.
His mouth moved to her neck, then down to the lacy edge of her bodice. Her skin burned hot beneath him, and as his fingers slid the gown from one of her shoulders, she gasped-
But she did not stop him.
“Gregory,” she whispered, her fingers digging into his hair as his lips moved along her collarbone. “Gregory, oh my G-Gregory.”
His hand moved reverently over the curve of her shoulder. Her skin glowed pale and milky smooth in the candlelight, and he was struck by an intense sense of possession. Of pride.
No other man had seen her thus, and he prayed that no other man ever would.
“You can’t marry him, Lucy,” he whispered urgently, his words hot against her skin.
“Gregory, don’t,” she moaned.
“You can’t.” And then, because he knew he could not allow this to go any further, he straightened, pressing one last kiss against her lips before setting her back, forcing her to look him in the eye.
“You cannot marry him,” he said again.
“Gregory, what can I-”
He gripped her arms. Hard. And he said it.
Her lips parted. She could not speak.
“I love you,” he said again.
Lucy had suspected-she’d hoped-but she hadn’t really allowed herself to believe. And so, when she finally found words of her own, they were: “You do?”
He smiled, and then he laughed, and then he rested his forehead on hers. “With all of my heart,” he vowed. “I only just realized it. I’m a fool. A blind man. A-”
“No,” she cut in, shaking her head. “Do not berate yourself. No one ever notices me straightaway when
