He was not going to look attractive tomorrow, that was for sure.
But neither would Fennsworth, he thought happily.
Happily? He was happy? Who’d have thought?
He let out a long sigh, attempting to assess his sobriety. It had to be the brandy. Happiness was not on the agenda for the evening.
Although…
Gregory stood. Just as a test. Bit of scientific inquiry. Could he stand?
He could.
Could he walk?
Yes!
Ah, but could he walk straight?
Almost.
Hmmm. He wasn’t nearly as foxed as he’d thought.
He might as well go out. No sense in wasting an unexpectedly fine mood.
He made his way to the door and put his hand on the knob. He stopped, cocking his head in thought.
It had to be the brandy. Really, there was no other explanation for it.
Eleven
In which Our Hero does the one thing he would never have anticipated.
The irony of the evening was not lost on Lucy as she made her way back to her room.
Alone.
After Mr. Bridgerton’s panic over Hermione’s disappearance…after Lucy had been thoroughly scolded for running off by herself in the middle of what was turning out to be a somewhat raucous evening…after one couple had been forced to become engaged, for heaven’s sake—
no one had noticed when Lucy left the masked ball by herself.
She still couldn’t believe that Lady Bridgerton had insisted upon returning her to the party. She had practically led Lucy back by the collar, depositing her in the care of someone or other’s maiden aunt before retrieving Hermione’s mother, who, it must be presumed, had no idea of the excitement that lay in wait for her.
And so Lucy had stood at the edge of the ballroom like a fool, staring at the rest of the guests, wondering how they could possibly not be aware of the events of the evening. It seemed inconceivable that three lives could be upended so completely, and the rest of the world was carrying on as usual.
No, she thought, rather sadly, actually—it was four; there was Mr. Bridgerton to be considered. His plans for the future had been decidedly different at the outset of the evening.
But no, everyone else appeared perfectly normal. They danced, they laughed, they ate sandwiches that were still distressingly mixed up on a single serving platter.
It was the strangest sight. Shouldn’t something seem different? Shouldn’t someone come up to Lucy and say, eyes quizzical—You look somewhat altered. Ah, I know. Your brother must have seduced your closest friend.
No one did, of course, and when Lucy caught sight of herself in a mirror, she was startled to see that she appeared entirely unchanged. A little tired, perhaps, maybe a little pale, but other than that, the same old Lucy.
Blond hair, not too blond. Blue eyes—again, not too blue. Awkwardly shaped mouth that never quite held still the way she wanted it to, and the same nondescript nose with the same seven freckles, including the one close to her eye that no one ever noticed but her.
It looked like Ireland. She didn’t know why that interested her, but it always had.
She sighed. She’d never been to Ireland, and she probably never would. It seemed silly that this would suddenly bother her, as she didn’t even want to go to Ireland.