Gareth opened his mouth to retort, “But I was,” but he managed to bite off the comment. He would do this right. He had to do this right. Hyacinth was at his side, and suddenly his angry ways seemed callow, immature. He didn’t want her to see him like that. He didn’t want to be like that.
“Miss Bridgerton has some knowledge of Italian,” Gareth continued, keeping his voice even. “She has assisted me in its translation.”
The baron looked at Hyacinth, his piercing eyes studying her for a moment before turning back to Gareth.
“Isabella knew who my father was,” Gareth said softly. “It was Uncle Edward.”
The baron said nothing, not a word. Except for the slight parting of his lips, he was so still that Gareth wondered if he was even breathing.
Had he known? Had he suspected?
As Gareth and Hyacinth stood in silence, the baron turned and looked down the street, his eyes settling on some far-off point. When he turned back, he was as white as a sheet.
He cleared his throat and nodded. Just once, as an acknowledgment. “You should marry that girl,” he said, motioning with his head toward Hyacinth. “The Lord knows you’re going to need her dowry.”
And then he walked up the rest of the steps, let himself into his home, and shut the door.
“That’s all?” Hyacinth said, after a moment of just standing there with her mouth agape. “That’s all he’s going to say?”
Gareth felt himself begin to shake. It was laughter, he realized, almost as an aside. He was laughing.
“He can’t do that,” Hyacinth protested, her eyes flashing with indignation. “You just revealed the biggest secret of both of your lives, and all he does is—are you laughing?”
Gareth shook his head, even though it was clear that he was.
“What’s so funny?” Hyacinth asked suspiciously.
And her expression was so…her. It made him laugh even harder.
“What’s so funny?” she asked again, except this time she looked as if she might smile, too. “Gareth,” she persisted, tugging on his sleeve. “Tell me.”
He shrugged helplessly. “I’m happy,” he said, and he realized it was true. He’d enjoyed himself in his life, and he’d certainly had many happy moments, but it had been so long since he’d felt this—happiness, complete and whole. He’d almost forgotten the sensation.
She placed her hand abruptly on his brow. “Are you feverish?” she muttered.
“I’m fine.” He pulled her into his arms. “I’m better than fine.”
“Gareth!” she gasped, ducking away as he swooped down for a kiss. “Are you mad? We’re in the middle of Dover Street, and it’s—”
He cut her off with a kiss.
“It’s the middle of the night,” she spluttered.
He grinned devilishly. “But I’m going to marry you next week, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“Speaking of which,” he murmured.
Hyacinth’s mouth fell open as he dropped down to one knee. “What are you doing?” she squeaked, frantically looking this way and that. Lord St. Clair was surely peeking out at them, and heaven only knew who else was, too. “Someone will see,” she whispered.
He seemed unconcerned. “People will say we’re in love.”
“I—” Good heavens, but how did a woman argue against that?
“Hyacinth Bridgerton,” he said, taking her hand in his, “will you marry me?”
She blinked in confusion. “I already said I would.”