Or the way both had stormed off to separate exits.
Hyacinth watched as Lord St. Clair glanced around the room. His eyes settled on his son, and his entire face hardened.
“What are you going to do?” Felicity whispered.
Do? Hyacinth’s lips parted as she glanced from Gareth to his father. Lord St. Clair, still unaware of her regard, turned on his heel and walked out, possibly in the direction of the card room.
But there was no guarantee he wouldn’t be back.
“You’re going to do something, aren’t you?” Felicity pressed. “You have to.”
Hyacinth was fairly certain that wasn’t true. She had never done anything before. But now it was different. Gareth was…Well, she supposed he was her friend, in a strange, unsettling sort of way. And she did need to speak with him. She’d spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon in her room, translating his grandmother’s diary. Surely he would wish to know what she had learned.
And if she managed to prevent an altercation in the process…Well, she was always happy to be the heroine of the day, even if no one but Felicity would be aware of it.
“I will ask him to dance,” Hyacinth announced.
“You will?” Felicity asked, eyes bugging out. Hyacinth was certainly known as An Original, but even she had never dared to ask a gentleman to dance.
“I shan’t make a big scene about it,” Hyacinth said. “No one will know but Mr. St. Clair. And you.”
“And whoever happens to be standing next to him. And whomever they tell, and whoever—”
“Do you know what is nice about friendships as longstanding as ours?” Hyacinth interrupted.
Felicity shook her head.
“You won’t take permanent offense when I turn my back and walk away.”
And then Hyacinth did just that.
But the drama of her exit was considerably diminished when she heard Felicity chuckle and say, “Good luck!”
Thirty seconds later. It doesn’t take very long to cross a ballroom, after all.
Gareth had always liked Jane Hotchkiss. Her sister was married to his cousin, and as a result they saw each other from time to time at Grandmother Danbury’s house. More importantly, he knew he could ask her to dance without her wondering if there was some sort of ulterior matrimonial purpose.
But on the other hand—she knew him well. Or at least well enough to know when he was acting out of character.
“What are you looking for?” she asked, as their quadrille was drawing to a close.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“Very well,” she said, her pale blond brows coming together in a slightly exasperated expression. “Who are you looking for, then? And don’t say no one, because you have been craning your neck throughout the dance.”
He swung his head around so that his gaze was firmly fixed on her face. “Jane,” he said, “your imagination knows no bounds.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
She was right, of course. He’d been looking for Hyacinth Bridgerton since he had walked through the door twenty minutes earlier. He’d thought he caught sight of her before he’d stumbled upon Jane, but it had turned out to be one of her numerous sisters. All the Bridgertons looked devilishly alike. From across the room, they were practically indistinguishable.
As the orchestra played the last notes of their dance, Gareth took Jane’s arm and led her to the side of the room. “I would never lie to you, Jane,” he said, giving her a jaunty half smile.
“Of course you would,” she returned. “And anyway, it’s as obvious as day. Your eyes give you away. The only time they ever look serious is when you’re lying.”
“That can’t be—”
“It’s true,” she said. “Trust me. Oh, good evening, Miss Bridgerton.”