“No, you wouldn’t.” She turned back to face him, giving her head a little shake. “I don’t know why I was looking. It was some time ago.”
“Longer than one can sip at a drink?”
She chuckled. “No, Hermione can make a glass of lemonade last an entire evening when she needs to. But I think Richard would have lost patience.”
It was Gregory’s opinion that her brother would gladly cut off his right arm just for the chance to gaze upon Miss Watson while she pretended to drink lemonade, but there was little point in trying to convince Lucy of that.
“I imagine they decided to take a stroll,” Lucy said, quite obviously unconcerned.
But Gregory immediately felt an unease. “Outside?”
She shrugged. “I suppose. They are certainly not here in the ballroom. Hermione cannot hide in a crowd. Her hair, you know.”
“But do you think it is wise for them to be off alone?” Gregory pressed.
Lady Lucinda looked at him as if she couldn’t quite understand the urgency in his voice. “They’re hardly off alone,” she said. “There are at least two dozen people outside. I looked out through the French doors.”
Gregory forced himself to stand perfectly still while he considered what to do. Clearly he needed to find Miss Watson, and quickly, before she was subjected to anything that might be considered irrevocable.
Irrevocable.
Jesus.
Lives could turn on a single moment. If Miss Watson really was off with Lucy’s brother…If someone caught them…
A strange heat began to rise within him, something angry and jealous and entirely unpleasant. Miss Watson might be in danger…or she might not. Maybe she welcomed Fennsworth’s advances…
No. No, she did not. He practically forced the thought down his throat. Miss Watson thought she was in love with that ridiculous Mr. Edmonds, whoever he was. She wo
uldn’t welcome advances from Gregory or Lord Fennsworth.
But had Lucy’s brother seized an opportunity that he had missed? It rankled, lodged itself in his chest like a hot cannonball—this feeling, this emotion, this bloody…awful…pissish…
“Mr. Bridgerton?”
Foul. Definitely foul.
“Mr. Bridgerton, is something wrong?”
He moved his head the inch required to face Lady Lucinda, but even so, it took several seconds for him to focus on her features. Her eyes were concerned, her mouth pressed into a worried line.
“You don’t look well,” she said.
“I’m fine,” he ground out.
“But—”
“Fine,” he positively snapped.
She drew back. “Of course you are.”
How had Fennsworth done it? How had he got Miss Watson off alone? He was still wet behind the ears, for God’s sake, barely out of university and never come down to London. And Gregory was…Well, more experienced than that.
He should have been paying more attention.
He should never have allowed this.
“Perhaps I’ll look for Hermione,” Lucy said, inching away. “I can see that you would prefer to be alone.”