On the Way to the Wedding by Julia Quinn Page A

knew.
    “Mr. Bridgerton?” Good heavens, this seemed out of character. Lucy wasn’t quite certain if she ought to be scared.
    “We need to talk,” he said, letting go of her arm. But he locked the door and pocketed the key.
    “Now?” Lucy asked. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she realized they were in the library. “Here?” And then a more pertinent question sprang to mind. “Alone?”
    He scowled. “I’m not going to ravish you, if that’s what worries you.”
    She felt her jaw clench. She hadn’t thought he would, but 7
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    he didn’t need to make his honorable behavior sound so much like an insult.
    “Well, then, what is this about?” she demanded. “If I am caught here in your company, there will be the devil to pay.
    I’m practically engaged, you know.”
    “I know,” he said. In that sort of tone. As if she’d informed him of it ad nauseam, when she knew for a fact she had not mentioned it more than once. Or possibly twice.
    “Well, I am,” she grumbled, just knowing that she would think of the perfect retort two hours later.
    “What,” he demanded, “is going on?”
    “What do you mean?” she asked, even though she knew quite well what he was talking about.
    “Miss Watson,” he ground out.
    “Hermione?” As if there was another Miss Watson. But it did buy her a bit of time.
    “Your advice,” he said, his gaze boring into hers, “was abysmal.”
    He was correct, of course, but she’d been hoping he might not have noticed.
    “Right,” she said, eyeing him warily as he crossed his arms. It wasn’t the most welcoming of gestures, but she had to admit that he carried it off well. She’d heard that his reputation was one of joviality and fun, neither of which was presently in evidence, but, well, hell hath no fury and all that. She supposed one didn’t need to be a woman to feel a tad bit underwhelmed at the prospect of unrequited love.
    And as she glanced hesitantly at his handsome face, it occurred to her that he probably didn’t have much experience with unrequited love. Really, who would say no to this gentleman?
    Besides Hermione. But she said no to everyone. He shouldn’t take it personally.
    “Lady Lucinda?” he drawled, waiting for a response.
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    “Of course,” she stalled, wishing he didn’t seem so very large in the closed room. “Right. Right.”
    He lifted a brow. “Right.”
    She swallowed. His tone was one of vaguely paternal indulgence, as if she were mildly amusing but not quite worthy of notice. She knew that tone well. It was a favorite of older brothers, for use with younger sisters. And any friends they might bring home for school holidays.
    She hated that tone.
    But she plowed on nonetheless and said, “I agree that my plan did not turn out to be the best course of action, but truth-fully, I am not certain that anything else would have been an improvement.”
    This did not appear to be what he wished to hear. She cleared her throat. Twice. And then again. “I’m terribly sorry,”
    she added, because she did feel badly, and it was her experience that apologies always worked when one wasn’t quite certain what to say. “But I really did think—”
    “You told me,” he interrupted, “that if I ignored Miss Watson—”
    “I didn’t tell you to ignore her!”
    “You most certainly did.”
    “No. No, I did not. I told you to back away a bit. To try to be not quite so obvious in your besottedment.”
    It wasn’t a word, but really, Lucy couldn’t be bothered.
    “Very well,” he replied, and his tone shifted from slightly-superior-older-brother to outright condescension. “If I wasn’t meant to ignore her, just what precisely do you think I should have done?”
    “Well . . .” She scratched the back of her neck, which suddenly felt as if it were sprouting the most horrid of hives. Or maybe it was just nerves. She’d almost rather the hives. She didn’t much like this queasy feeling