“I’m not blushing!” Hyacinth fairly yelled.
Lady Danbury smiled, an expression that on anyone else might have been pleasant but on her was diabolical. “Well, you are now,” she said.
“If my cheeks are pink,” Hyacinth ground out, “it is from anger.”
“At me?” Lady D inquired, placing one, oh-so-innocent hand over her heart.
“I’m going to read the book now,” Hyacinth announced.
“If you must,” Lady D said with a sigh. She waited about a second before adding, “I believe Miss Butter-worth was scrambling up the hillside.”
Hyacinth turned her attention resolutely to the book in her hands.
“Well?” Lady Danbury demanded.
“I have to find my place,” Hyacinth muttered. She scanned the page, trying to find Miss Butterworth and the correct hillside (there were more than one, and she’d scrambled up them all), but the words swam before her eyes, and all she saw was Gareth.
Gareth, with those rakish eyes and perfect lips. Gareth, with a dimple she was sure he’d deny if she ever pointed it out to him. Gareth…
Who was making her sound as foolish as Miss Butter-worth. Why would he deny a dimple?
In fact…
Hyacinth flipped back a few pages. Yes, indeed, there it was, right in the middle of chapter sixteen:
His eyes were rakish and his lips perfectly molded. And he possessed a dimple, right above the left corner of his mouth, that he would surely deny if she were ever brave enough to point it out to him.
“Good God,” Hyacinth muttered. She didn’t think Gareth even had a dimple.
“We’re not that lost, are we?” Lady D demanded. “You’ve gone back three chapters, at least.”
“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Hyacinth said. She was going mad. That had to be it. She’d clearly lost her wits if she was now unconsciously quoting from Miss Butterworth.
But then again…
He’d kissed her.
He’d really kissed her. The first time, back in the hall at Bridgerton House—that had been something else entirely. Their lips had touched, and in truth quite a few other things had touched as well, but it hadn’t been a kiss.
Not like this one.
Hyacinth sighed.
“What are you huffing about?” Lady Danbury demanded.
“Nothing.”
Lady D’s mouth clamped into a firm line. “You are not yourself this afternoon, Miss Bridgerton. Not yourself at all.”
Not a point Hyacinth wished to argue. “Miss Butter-worth,” she read with more force than was necessary, “scrambled up the hillside, her fingers digging deeper into the dirt with each step.”
“Can fingers step?” Lady D asked.
“They can in this book.” Hyacinth cleared her throat and continued: “She could hear him behind her. He was closing the distance between them, and soon she would be caught. But for what purpose? Good or evil?”
“Evil, I hope. It’ll keep things interesting.”
“I am in complete agreement,” Hyacinth said. “How would she know?” she read on. “How would she know? How WOULD she know?” She looked up. “Emphasis mine.”