For some reason that made her smile. Not her lips, exactly, but on the inside, where it counted. “I don’t think so,” she replied, “but really, I can’t be bothered.”
He smiled faintly, then motioned with his head to the room he must have just exited. “I was in my brother’s office. Pondering.”
“Pondering?”
“Quite a bit to ponder this evening, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes.” She looked around the hall. Just in case there was someone else about, even though she was quite certain there was not. “I really shouldn’t be here alone with you.”
He nodded gravely. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your practical engagement.”
Lucy hadn’t even been thinking of that. “I meant after what happened with Hermione and—” And then it seemed somehow insensitive to spell it out. “Well, I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Indeed.”
She swallowed, then tried to make it appear as if she weren’t looking at his face to see if he was upset.
He just blinked, then he shrugged, and his expression was…
Nonchalant?
She chewed on her lip. No, that couldn’t be. She must have misread him. He had been a man in love. He had told her so.
But this was none of her business. This required a certain measure of self-remindering (to add another word to her rapidly growing collection), but there it was. It was none of her business. Not one bit.
Well, except for the part about her brother and her best friend. No one could say that that didn’t concern her. If it had just been Hermione, or just been Richard, there might have been an argument that she should keep her nose out of it, but with the both of them—well, clearly she was involved.
As regarded Mr. Bridgerton, however…none of her business.
She looked at him. His shirt collar was loosened, and she could see a tiny scrap of skin where she knew she ought not look.
None. None! Business. Of hers. None
of it.
“Right,” she said, ruining her determined tone with a decidedly involuntary cough. Spasm. Coughing spasm. Vaguely punctuated by: “Should be going.”
But it came out more like…Well, it came out like something that she was quite certain could not be spelled with the twenty-six letters of the English language. Cyrillic might do it. Or possibly Hebrew.
“Are you all right?” he queried.
“Perfectly well,” she gasped, then realized she was back to looking at that spot that wasn’t even his neck. It was more his chest, which meant that it was more someplace decidedly unsuitable.
She yanked her eyes away, then coughed again, this time on purpose. Because she had to do something. Otherwise her eyes would be right back where they ought not be.
He watched her, almost a bit owlish in his regard, as she recovered. “Better?”
She nodded.
“I’m glad.”
Glad? Glad? What did that mean?
He shrugged. “I hate it when that happens.”
Just that he is a human being, Lucy you dolt. One who knows what a scratchy throat feels like.
She was going mad. She was quite certain of it.