“Of course I know what you were going to ask. When will you learn that I always know?”
“Now that is not true.”
“It’s more true than it is untrue.”
“You can be quite supercilious, did you know that?”
Hyacinth shrugged. “I’m your mother.”
Isabella’s lips clamped into a line, and Hyacinth enjoyed a full four seconds of peace before she asked, “But this year, do you think we can-”
“We are not traveling.”
Isabella’s lips parted with surprise. Hyacinth fought the urge to let out a triumphant shout.
“How did you kn-”
Hyacinth patted her daughter’s hand. “I told you, I always know. And much as I’m sure we would all enjoy a bit of travel, we will remain in London for the season, and you, my girl, will smile and dance and look for a
husband.”
Cue the bit about becoming her mother.
Hyacinth sighed. Violet Bridgerton was probably laughing about this, this very minute. In fact, she’d been laughing about it for nineteen years. “Just like you,” Violet liked to say, grinning at Hyacinth as she tousled Isabella’s curls. “Just like you.”
“Just like you, Mother,” Hyacinth murmured with a smile, picturing Violet’s face in her mind. “And now I’m just like you.”
An hour or so later. Gareth, too, has grown and changed, although, we soon shall see, not in any of the ways that matter…
Gareth St. Clair leaned back in his chair, pausing to savor his brandy as he glanced around his office. There really was a remarkable sense of satisfaction in a job well done and completed on time. It wasn’t a sensation he’d been used to in his youth, but it was something he’d come to enjoy on a near daily basis now.
It had taken several years to restore the St. Clair fortunes to a respectable level. His father-he’d never quite got ’round to calling him anything else-had stopped his systematic plundering and eased into a vague sort of neglect once he learned the truth about Gareth’s birth. So Gareth supposed it could have been a great deal worse.
But when Gareth had assumed the title, he discovered that he’d inherited debts, mortgages, and houses that had been emptied of almost all valuables. Hyacinth’s dowry, which had increased with prudent investments upon their marriage, went a long way toward fixing the situation, but still, Gareth had had to work harder and with more diligence than he’d ever dreamed possible to wrench his family out of debt.
The funny thing was, he’d enjoyed it.
Who would have thought that he, of all people, would find such satisfaction in hard work? His desk was spotless, his ledgers neat and tidy, and he could put his fingers on any important document in under a minute. His accounts always summed properly, his properties were thriving, and his tenants were healthy and prosperous.
He took another sip of his drink, letting the mellow fire roll down his throat. Heaven.
Life was perfect. Truly. Perfect.
George was finishing up at Cambridge, Isabella would surely choose a husband this year, and Hyacinth…
He chuckled. Hyacinth was still Hyacinth. She’d become a bit more sedate with age, or maybe it was just that motherhood had smoothed off her rough edges, but she was still the same outspoken, delightful, perfectly wonderful Hyacinth.
She drove him crazy half the time, but it was a nice sort of crazy, and even though he sometimes sighed to his friends and nodded tiredly when they all complained about their wives, secretly he knew he was the luckiest man in London. Hell, England even. The World.
He set his drink down, then tapped his fingers against the elegantly wrapped box sitting on the corner of his desk. He’d purchased it that morning at Mme. LaFleur, the dress shop he knew Hyacinth did not frequent, in order to spare her the embarrassment of having to deal with salespeople who knew every piece of lingerie in her wardrobe.
French silk, Belgian lace.
He smiled. Just a little bit of French silk, trimmed with a minuscule amount of Belgian lace.
It would look heavenly on her.
What there was of it.