On The Way To The Wedding

Anthony liked to pester him about, but he knew what was right, and he knew what was wrong, and he’d known-he had absolutely known-that his life would play out on a happy and contented canvas.

He was simply that sort of person.

He wasn’t melancholy. He wasn’t given to fits of temper.

And he’d never had to work very hard.

He looked up at the window, thoughtfully.

He’d grown complacent. So sure of his own happy ending that he hadn’t believed-he still couldn’t quite believe-that he might not get what he wanted.

He had proposed. She had accepted. True, she had been promised to Haselby, and still was, for that matter.

But wasn’t true love supposed to triumph? Hadn’t it done so for all his brothers and sisters? Why the hell was he so unlucky?

He thought about his mother, remembered the look on her face when she had so skillfully dissected his character. She had got most everything right, he realized.

But only most.

It was true that he had never had to work very hard at anything. But that was only part of the story. He was not indolent. He would work his fingers to the very bone if only…

If only he had a reason.

He stared at the window.

He had a reason now.

He’d been waiting, he realized. Waiting for Lucy to convince her uncle to release her from her engagement. Waiting for the puzzle pieces that made up his life to fall into position so that he could fit the last one in its place with a triumphant “Aha!”

Waiting.

Waiting for love. Waiting for a calling.

Waiting for clarity, for that moment when he would know exactly how to proceed.

It was time to stop waiting, time to forget about fate and destiny.

It was time to act. To work.

Hard.

No one was going to hand him that second-to-last piece of the puzzle; he had to find it for himself.

He needed to see Lucy. And it had to be now, since it appeared he was forbidden to call upon her in a more conventional manner.

He crossed the street, then slipped around the corner to the back of the house. The ground floor windows were tightly shut, and all was dark. Higher on the facade, a few curtains fluttered in the breeze, but there was no way Gregory could scale the building without killing himself.

He took stock of his surroundings. To the left, the street. To the right, the alley and mews. And in front of him…

The servants’ entrance.

He regarded it thoughtfully. Well, why not?

He stepped forward and placed his hand on the knob.

It turned.

Gregory almost laughed with delight. At the very least, he went back to believing-well, perhaps just a little- about fate and destiny and all that rot. Surely this was not a usual occurrence. A servant must have sneaked out, perhaps to make his own assignation. If the door was unlocked, then clearly Gregory was meant to go inside.

Or he was mad in the head.

He decided to believe in fate.

Gregory shut the door quietly behind him, then gave his eyes a minute to become accustomed to the dark. He appeared to be in a large pantry, with the kitchen off to the right. There was a decent chance that some of the lower servants slept nearby, so he removed his boots, carrying them in one hand as he ventured deeper into the house.

His stockinged feet were silent as he crept up the back stairs, making his way to the second floor-the one he thought housed Lucy’s bedchamber. He paused on the landing, stopping for a brief moment of sanity before stepping out into the hall.

What was he thinking? He hadn’t the slightest clue what might happen if he were caught here. Was he breaking a law? Probably. He couldn’t imagine how he might not be. And while his position as brother to a viscount would keep him from the gallows, it would not wipe his slate clean when the home he’d chosen to invade belonged to an earl.

But he had to see Lucy. He was done with waiting.

He took a moment on the landing to orient himself, then walked toward the front of the house. There were two doors at the end. He paused, painting a picture of the house’s facade in his mind, then reached for the one on the left. If Lucy had indeed been in her own room when he’d seen her, then this was the correct door. If not…

Well, then, he hadn’t a clue. Not a clue. And here he was, prowling in the Earl of Fennsworth’s house after midnight.

Good God.

He turned the knob slowly, letting out a relieved breath when it made no clicks or squeaks. He opened the door just far enough to fit his body through the opening, then carefully shut it behind him, only then taking the time to examine the room.

It was dark, with scarcely any moonlight filtering in around the window coverings. His eyes had already adjusted to the dimness, however, and he could make out various pieces of furniture-a dressing table, a wardrobe…

A bed.

It was a heavy, substantial thing, with a canopy and full drapes that closed around it. If there was indeed someone inside, she slept quietly-no snoring, no rustling, nothing.

That’s how Lucy would sleep, he suddenly thought. Like the dead. She was no delicate flower, his Lucy, and she would not tolerate anything less than a perfectly restful night. It seemed odd that he would be so certain of this, but he was.

He knew her, he realized. He truly knew her. Not just the usual things. In fact, he didn’t know the usual things. He did not know her favorite color. Nor could he guess her favorite animal or food.

But somehow it didn’t matter if he didn’t know if she preferred pink or blue or purple or black. He knew her heart. He wanted her heart.

And he could not allow her to marry someone else.

Carefully, he drew back the curtains.

There was no one there.

Gregory swore under his breath, until he realized that the sheets were mussed, the pillow with a fresh indent of someone’s head.

He whirled around just in time to see a candlestick swinging wildly through the air at him.

Letting out a surprised grunt, he ducked, but not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow to his temple. He swore again, this time in full voice, and then he heard-

“Gregory?”

He blinked. “Lucy?”

She rushed forward. “What are you doing here?”

He motioned impatiently toward the bed. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Because I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here.”

She stared at him dumbly, as if his presence was so unexpected that she could not muster the correct reaction. “I thought you were an intruder,” she finally said, motioning to the candlestick.

He allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he murmured, “but I am.”

For a moment it looked as if she might return the smile. But instead she hugged her arms to her chest and