“I’m heartbroken,” Gareth said.
Hyacinth looked at him with a slightly peeved expression, then turned to her brother with a hissed, “Stop it.”
“Won’t you have tea, Mr. St. Clair?” Lady Bridgerton asked, glossing right over her children’s squabbling as if it wasn’t occurring right across from her. “It is a special blend of which I am particularly fond.”
“I would be delighted.” Gareth sat in the same chair he had chosen last time, mostly because it put the most room between him and Gregory, although in truth, he didn’t know which Bridgerton was most likely to accidentally spill scalding tea on his lap.
But it was an odd position. He was at the short end of the low, center table, and with all the Bridgertons on the sofas, it almost felt as if he were seated at its head.
“Milk?” Lady Bridgerton asked.
“Thank you,” Gareth replied. “No sugar, if you please.”
“Hyacinth takes hers with three,” Gregory said, reaching for a piece of shortbread.
“Why,” Hyacinth ground out, “would he care?”
“Well,” Gregory replied, taking a bite and chewing, “he is your special friend.”
“He’s not—” She turned to Gareth. “Ignore him.”
There was something rather annoying about being condescended to by a man of lesser years, but at the same time Gregory seemed to be doing an excellent job of vexing Hyacinth, an endeavor of which Gareth could only approve.
So he decided to stay out of it and instead turned back to Lady Bridgerton, who was, as it happened, the closest person to him, anyway. “And how are you this afternoon?” he asked.
Lady Bridgerton gave him a very small smile as she handed him his cup of tea. “Smart man,” she murmured.
“It’s self-preservation, really,” he said noncommittally.
“Don’t say that. They wouldn’t hurt you.”
“No, but I’m sure to be injured in the cross fire.”
Gareth heard a little gasp. When he looked over at Hyacinth, she was glaring daggers in his direction. Her brother was grinning.
“Sorry,” he said, mostly because he thought he should. He certainly didn’t mean it.
“You don’t come from a large family, do you, Mr. St. Clair?” Lady Bridgerton asked.
“No,” he said smoothly, taking a sip of his tea, which was of excellent quality. “Just myself and my brother.” He stopped, blinking against the rush of sadness that washed over him every time he thought of George, then finished with: “He passed on late last year.”
“Oh,” Lady Bridgerton said, her hand coming to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten completely. Please forgive me. And accept my deepest sympathies.”
Her apology was so artless, and her condolences so sincere, that Gareth almost felt the need to comfort her. He looked at her, right into her eyes, and he realized that she understood.
Most people hadn’t. His friends had all patted him awkwardly on the back and said they were sorry, but they hadn’t understood. Grandmother Danbury had, perhaps—she’d grieved for George, too. But that was somehow different, probably because he and his grandmother were
so close. Lady Bridgerton was almost a stranger, and yet, she cared.
It was touching, and almost disconcerting. Gareth couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said something to him and meant it.
Except for Hyacinth, of course. She always meant what she said. But at the same time, she never laid herself bare, never made herself vulnerable.
He glanced over at her. She was sitting up straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, watching him with a curious expression.
He couldn’t fault her, he supposed. He was the exact same way.
“Thank you,” he said, turning back to Lady Bridgerton. “George was an exceptional brother, and the world is poorer for his loss.”