“I should go,” she blurted out.
“You should.”
“I really should.”
But she just stood there.
He was looking at her the strangest way. His eyes were narrowed—not in that angry way people usually associated with squinty eyes, but rather as if he were thinking exceptionally hard about something.
Pondering. That was it. He was pondering, just as he’d said.
Except that he was pondering her.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked hesitantly. Not that she knew what she might inquire of him when he acknowledged her.
“Do you drink, Lady Lucinda?”
Drink? “I beg your pardon?”
He gave her a sheepish half-smile. “Brandy. I know where my brother keeps the good stuff.”
“Oh.” Goodness. “No, of course not.”
“Pity,” he murmured.
“I really couldn’t,” she added, because, well, she felt as if she had to explain.
Even though of course she did not drink spirits.
And of course he would know that.
He shrugged. “Don’t know why I asked.”
“I should go,” she said.
But he didn’t move.
And neither did she.
She wondered what brandy tasted like.
And she wondered if she would ever know.
“How did you enjoy the party?” he asked.
“The party?”
“Weren’t you forced to go back?”
She nodded, rolling her eyes. “It was strongly suggested.”
“Ah, so then she dragged you.”
To Lucy’s great surprise, she chuckled. “Rather close to it. And I didn’t have my mask, which made me stick out a bit.”
“Like a mushroom?”
“Like a—?”