No.
No, he told himself, trying to force his feet in the other direction. This was madness. He should leave. He should leave right now.
But he couldn’t. Even with every rational corner of his soul screaming at him to turn around and walk away, he was rooted to the spot, waiting for her to turn.
Praying for her to turn.
And then she did.
And she was—
Lucy.
He stumbled as if struck.
Lucy?
No. It couldn’t be possible. He knew Lucy.
She did not do this to him.
He had seen her dozens of times, kissed her even, and never once felt like this, as if the world might swallow him whole if he did not reach her side and take her hand in his.
There had to be an explanation. He had felt this way before. With Hermione.
But this time—it wasn’t quite the same. With Hermione it had been dizzying, new. There had been the thrill of discovery, of conquest. But this was Lucy.
It was Lucy, and—
It all came flooding back. The tilt of her head as she explained why sandwiches ought to be properly sorted. The delightfully peeved look on her face when she had tried to explain to him why he was doing everything wrong in his courtship of Miss Watson.
The way it had felt so right simply to sit on a bench with her in Hyde Park and throw bread at the pigeons.
And the kiss. Dear God, the kiss.
He still dreamed about that kiss.
And he wanted her to dream about it, too.
He took a step. Just one—slightly forward and to the side so that he could better see her profile. It was all so familiar now—the tilt of her head, the way her lips moved when she spoke. How could he not have recognized her instantly, even from the back? The memories had been there, tucked away in the recesses of his mind, but he hadn’t wanted—no he hadn’t allowed himself—to acknowledge his presence.
And then she saw him. Lucy saw him. He saw it first in her eyes, which widened and sparkled, and then in the curve of her lips.
She smiled. For him.
It filled him. To near bursting, it filled him. It was just one smile, but it was all he needed.
He began to walk. He could barely feel his feet, had almost no conscious control over his body. He simply moved, knowing from deep within that he had to reach her.
“Lucy,” he said, once he was next to her, forgetting that they were surrounded by strangers, and worse, friends, and he should not presume to use her given name.
But nothing else felt right on his lips.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, but her eyes said, Gregory.
And he knew.
He loved her.