On the Way to the Wedding (Bridgertons 8)

And fight for it.

And he would. As God was his witness, he would. Lucy had only to signal, and he would retrieve her.

He was a man in love.

Nothing could stop him.

“This is not, you realize, how I had intended to spend my Saturday morning.”

Gregory answered only with a nod. His brother had arrived four hours earlier, greeting him with a characteristically understated “This is interesting.”

Gregory had told Colin everything, even down to the events of the night before. He did not like telling tales of Lucy, but one really could not ask one’s brother to sit in a tree for hours without explaining why. And Gregory had found a certain comfort in unburdening himself to Colin. He had not lectured. He had not judged.

In fact, he had understood.

When Gregory had finished his tale, tersely explaining why he was waiting outside Fennsworth House, Colin had simply nodded and said, “I don’t suppose you have something to eat.”

Gregory shook his head and grinned.

It was good to have a brother.

“Rather poor planning on your part,” Colin muttered. But he was smiling, too.

They turned back to the house, which had long since begun to show signs of life. Curtains had been pulled back, candles lit and then snuffed as dawn had given way to morning.

“Shouldn’t she have come out by now?” Colin asked, squinting at the door.

Gregory frowned. He had been wondering the same thing. He had been telling himself that her absence boded well. If her uncle were going to force her to marry Haselby, wouldn’t she have left for the church by now? By his pocket watch, which admittedly wasn’t the most accurate of timepieces, the ceremony was due to begin in less than an hour.

But she had not signaled for his help, either.

And that did not sit well with him.

Suddenly Colin perked up.

“What is it?”

Colin motioned to the right with his head. “A carriage,” he said, “being brought ’round from the mews.”

Gregory’s eyes widened with horror as the front

door to Fennsworth House opened. Servants spilled out, laughing and cheering as the vehicle came to a stop in front of Fennsworth House.

It was white, open, and festooned with perfectly pink flowers and wide rosy ribbons, trailing behind, fluttering in the light breeze.

It was a wedding carriage.

And no one seemed to find that odd.

Gregory’s skin began to tingle. His muscles burned.

“Not yet,” Colin said, placing a restraining hand on Gregory’s arm.

Gregory shook his head. His peripheral vision was beginning to fade from view, and all he could see was that damned carriage.

“I have to get her,” he said. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” Colin instructed. “Wait to see what happens. She might not come out. She might—”