Up.
Whatever the case, Fennsworth had grunted and collapsed. Gregory rolled to the side the second the earl’s grip loosened, and he moved fluidly to his feet.
“So sorry,” he’d said to the ladies. “I’m not certain what’s come over him.”
And that, apparently, was that. Miss Watson had apologized to him—after apologizing to first Lucy, then Kate, then Fennsworth, although heaven knew why, as he’d clearly won the evening.
“No apology is needed,” Gregory had said tightly.
“No, but I—” She looked distressed, but Gregory didn’t much care just then.
“I did have a lovely time at breakfast,” she said to him. “I just wanted you to know that.”
Why? Why would she say that? Did she think it would make him feel better?
Gregory hadn’t said a word. He gave her a single nod, and then walked away. The rest of them could sort the details out themselves. He had no ties to the newly affianced couple, no responsibilities to them or to propriety. He didn’t care when or how the families were informed.
It was not his concern. None of it was.
So he left. He had a bottle of brandy to locate.
And now here he was. In his brother’s office, drinking his brother’s liquor, wondering what the hell this all meant. Miss Watson was lost to him now, that much was clear. Unless of course he wanted to kidnap the girl.
Which he did not. Most assuredly. She’d probably squeal like an idiot the whole way. Not to mention the little matter of her possibly having given herself to Fennsworth. Oh, and Gregory destroying his good reputation. There was that. One did not kidnap a gently bred female—especially one affianced to an earl—and expect to emerge with one’s good name intact.
He wondered what Fennsworth had said to get her off alone.
He wondered what Hermione had meant when she’d said she fluttered.
He wondered if they would invite him to the wedding.
Hmmm. Probably. Lucy would insist upon it, wouldn’t she? Stickler for propriety, that one. Good manners all around.
So what now? After so many years of feeling slightly aimless, of waiting waiting waiting for the pieces of his life to fall into place, he’d thought he finally had it all figured out. He’d found Miss Watson and he was ready to move forward and conquer.
The world had been bright and good and shining with promise.
Oh, very well, the world had been perfectly bright and good and shining with promise before. He hadn’t been unhappy in the least. In fact, he hadn’t really minded the waiting. He wasn’t even sure he’d wanted to find his bride so soon. Just because he knew his true love existed didn’t mean he wanted her right away.
He’d had a very pleasant existence before. Hell, most men would give their eyeteeth to trade places.
Not Fennsworth, of course.
Bloody little bugger was probably plotting every last detail of his wedding night that very minute.
Sodding little b—
He tossed back his drink and poured another.
So what did it mean? What did it mean when you met the woman who made you forget how to breathe and she up and married someone else? What was he supposed to do now? Sit and wait until the back of someone else’s neck sent him into raptures?
He took another sip. He’d had it with necks. They were highly overrated.
He sat back, plunking his feet on his brother’s desk. Anthony would hate it, of course, but was he in the room? No. Had he just discovered the woman he’d hoped to marry in the arms of another man? No. More to the immediate point, had his face recently served as a punching bag for a surprisingly fit young earl?
Definitely not.
Gregory gingerly touched his left cheekbone. And his right eye.