Chapter 8
The next morning. Our heroine is sitting on her bed, perched against her pillows. The Italian diary is at her side, but she has not picked it up.
She has relived the kiss in her mind approximately forty-two times.
In fact, she is reliving it right now:
Hyacinth would have liked to think that she would be the sort of woman who could kiss with aplomb, then carry on for the rest of the evening as if nothing had happened. She’d have liked to think when the time came to treat a gentleman with well-deserved disdain, that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, her eyes would be perfect chips of ice, and she would manage a cut direct with style and flair.
And in her imagination, she did all of that and more.
Reality, however, had not been so sweet.
Because when Gareth had said her name and tried to tug her back to him for another kiss, the only thing she could think to do was run.
Which was not, she had assured herself, for what had to be the forty-third time since his lips had touched hers, in keeping with her character.
It couldn’t be. She couldn’t let it be. She was Hyacinth Bridgerton.
Hyacinth.
Bridgerton.
Surely that had to mean something. One kiss could not turn her into a senseless ninny.
And besides, it wasn’t the kiss. The kiss hadn’t bothered her. The kiss had, in fact, been rather nice. And, to be honest, long overdue.
One would think, in her world, among her society, that she would have taken pride in her untouched, never-been-kissed status. After all, the mere hint of impropriety was enough to ruin a woman’s reputation.
But one did not reach the age of two-and-twenty, or one’s fourth London season, without feeling the littlest bit rejected that no one had thus far attempted a kiss.
And no one had. Hyacinth wasn’t asking to be ravished, for heaven’s sake, but no one had even leaned in, or dropped a heavy gaze to her lips, as if he was thinking about it.
Not until last night. Not until Gareth St. Clair.
Her first instinct had been to jump with surprise. For all Gareth’s rakish ways, he hadn’t shown any interest in extending his reputation as a rogue in her direction. The man had an opera singer tucked away in Bloomsbury, after all. What on earth would he need with her?
But then…
Well, good heavens, she still didn’t know how it had all come about. One moment she was asking him if he was unwell—he’d looked very odd, after all, and it was obvious he’d had some sort of altercation with his father, despite her efforts to separate the two—and then the next he was staring at her with an intensity that had made her shiver. He’d looked possessed, consumed.
He’d looked as if he wanted to consume her.
And yet Hyacinth couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t really meant to kiss her. That maybe any woman happening across him in the hall would have done just as well.
Especially after he’d laughingly told her that she needed improvement.
She didn’t think he had meant to be cruel, but still, his words had stung.
“Kiss me back,” she said to herself, her voice a whiny mimic of his. “Kiss me back.”
She flopped back against her pillows. “I did.” Good heavens, what did it say about her if a man couldn’t even tell when she was trying to kiss him back?
And even if she hadn’t been doing such a good job of it—and Hyacinth wasn’t quite ready to admit to that—it seemed the sort of thing that ought to come naturally, and certainly the sort of thing that ought to have come naturally to her. Well, still, what on eart
h was she expected to do? Wield her tongue like a sword? She’d put her hands on his shoulders. She hadn’t struggled in his arms. What else was she supposed to have done to indicate that she was enjoying herself?
It seemed a wretchedly unfair conundrum to her. Men wanted their women chaste and untouched, then they mocked them for their lack of experience.