On the Way to the Wedding (Bridgertons 8)

Lucy’s uncle jumped back, wildly pointing his gun at the lot of them. “Stay away,” he yelled. “Get out! All of you!” His eyes flashed like those of a cornered animal, and his arm waved back and forth, leaving no one untargeted.

But Richard stepped forward. “You bastard,” he hissed. “I will see you in—”

A gun fired.

Gregory watched in horror as Lucy fell to the ground. A guttural cry ripped from his throat; his own gun rose.

He aimed.

He fired.

And for the first time in his life, he hit his mark.

Well, almost.

Lucy’s uncle was not a large man, but nonetheless, when he landed on top of her, it hurt. The air was forced completely from her lungs, leaving her gasping and choking, her eyes squeezed shut from the pain.

“Lucy!”

It was Gregory, tearing her uncle from atop her.

“Where are you hurt?” he demanded, and his hands were everywhere, frantic in their motions as he searched for a wound.

“I didn’t—” She fought for breath. “He didn’t—” She managed to look at her chest. It was covered with blood. “Oh my heavens.”

“I can’t find it,” Gregory said. He took her chin, positioning her face so that she was looking directly into his eyes.

And she almost didn’t recognize him.

His eyes…his beautiful hazel eyes…they looked lost, nearly empty. And it almost seemed to take away whatever it was that made him…him.

“Lucy,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, “please. Speak to me.”

“I’m not hurt,” she finally got out.

His hands froze. “The blood.”

“It’s not mine.” She looked up at him and brought her hand to his cheek. He was shaking. Oh dear God, he was shaking. She had never seen him thus, never imagined he could be brought to this point.

The look in his eyes—She realized it now. It had been terror.

“I’m not hurt,” she whispered. “Please…don’t…it’s all right, darling.” She didn’t know what she was saying; she only wanted to comfort him.

His breath was ragged, and when he spoke, his words were broken, unfinished. “I thought I’d—I don’t know what I thought.”

Something wet touched her finger, and she brushed it gently away. “It’s over now,” she said. “It’s over now, and—”

And suddenly she became aware of the rest of the people in the room. “Well, I think it’s over,” she said hesitantly, pushing herself into a seated position. Was her uncle dead? She knew he’d been shot. By Gregory or Richard, she did not know which. Both had fired their weapons.

But Uncle Robert had not been mortally wounded. He had pulled himself to the side of the room and was propped up against the wall, clutching his shoulder and staring ahead with a defeated expression.

Lucy scowled at him. “You’re lucky he’s not a better shot.”

Gregory made a rather strange, snorting sound.

Over in the corner, Richard and Hermione were clutching each other, but they both appeared unharmed. Lord Davenport was bellowing about something, she wasn’t sure what, and Lord Haselby—good God, her husband—was leaning idly against the doorjamb, watching the scene.

He caught her eye and smiled. Just a bit. No teeth, of course; he never smiled quite so broadly.