In which Our Hero tries very, very hard.
The following morning was bright and clear, and as Gregory helped himself to breakfast, his sister-in-law appeared at his side, smiling faintly, clearly up to something.
“Good morning,” she said, far too breezy and cheerful.
Gregory nodded his greeting as he heaped eggs on his plate. “Kate.”
“I thought, with the weather so fine, that we might organize an excursion to the village.”
“To buy ribbons and bows?”
“Exactly,” she replied. “I do think it is important to support the local shopkeepers, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he murmured, “although I have not recently found myself in great need of ribbons and bows.”
Kate appeared not to notice his sarcasm. “All of the young ladies have a bit of pin money and nowhere to spend it. If I do not send them to town they are liable to start a gaming establishment in the rose salon.”
Now that was something he’d like to see.
“And,” Kate continued quite determinedly, “if I send them to town, I will need to send them with escorts.”
When Gregory did not respond quickly enough, she repeated, “With escorts.”
Gregory cleared his throat. “Might I assume you are asking me to walk to the village this afternoon?”
“This morning,” she clarified, “and, since I thought to match everyone up, and, since you are a Bridgerton and thus my favorite gentleman of the bunch, I thought I might inquire if there happened to be anyone with whom you might prefer to be paired.”
Kate was nothing if not a matchmaker, but in this case Gregory decided he ought to be grateful for her meddling tendencies. “As a matter of fact,” he began, “there is—”
“Excellent!” Kate interrupted, clapping her hands together. “Lucy Abernathy it is.”
Lucy Aber—“Lucy Abernathy?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “The Lady Lucinda?”
“Yes, the two of you seemed so well-matched last evening, and I must say, Gregory, I like her tremendously. She says she is practically engaged, but it is my opinion that—”
“I’m not interested in Lady Lucinda,” he cut in, deciding it would be too dangerous to wait for Kate to draw breath.
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m not. I—” He leaned in, even though they were the only two people in the breakfast room. Somehow it seemed odd, and yes, a little bit embarrassing to shout it out. “Hermione Watson,” he said quietly. “I would like to be paired with Miss Watson.”
“Really?” Kate didn’t look disappointed exactly, but she did look slightly resigned. As if she’d heard this before. Repeatedly.
Damn.
“Yes,” Gregory responded, and he felt a rather sizable surge of irritation washing over him. First at Kate, because, well, she was right there, and he’d fallen desperately in love and all she could do was say, “Really?” But then he realized he’d been rather irked all morning. He hadn’t slept well the night before; he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Hermione and the slope of her neck, the green of her eyes, the soft lilt of her voice. He had never—never—reacted to a woman like this, and while he was in some way relieved to have finally found the woman he planned to make his wife, it was a bit disconcerting that she had not had the same reaction to him.
Heaven knew he’d dreamed of this moment before. Whenever he’d thought about finding his true love, she had always been fuzzy in his thoughts—nameless, faceless. But she had always felt the same grand passion. She hadn’t sent him off dancing with her best friend, for God’s sake.
“Hermione Watson it is, then,” Kate said, exhaling in that way females did when they meant to tell you something you couldn’t possibly begin to understand even if they had chosen to convey it in English, which, of course they did not.
Hermione Watson it was. Hermione Watson it would be.
Soon.
Maybe even that morning.
“Do you suppose there is anything to purchase in the village aside from bows and ribbons?” Hermione asked Lucy as they pulled on their gloves.