Hadn’t she told Gregory that she didn’t want a violent, overwhelming love? That she just wasn’t the sort?
She wasn’t that kind of person. She wasn’t. When her governess had made line drawings for her to fill, she had always colored between the lines.
“I don’t think I can do it,” Lucy whispered.
Hyacinth held her gaze for an agonizingly long moment before turning back to her sewing. “I misjudged you,” she said softly.
It hit Lucy like a slap in the face.
“Wh . . . wh . . .”
What did you say?
But Lucy’s lips would not form the words. She did not wish to hear the answer. And Hyacinth was back to her brisk self, looking up with an irritated expression as she said, “Don’t fidget so much.”
“Sorry,” Lucy mumbled. And she thought—I’ve said it again. I am so predictable, so utterly conventional and unimaginative.
“You’re still moving.”
“Oh.” Good God, could she do nothing right this evening? “Sorry.”
Hyacinth jabbed her with the needle. “You’re still moving.”
“I am not!” Lucy almost yelled.
Hyacinth smiled to herself. “That’s better.”
Lucy looked down and scowled. “Am I bleeding?”
“If you are,” Hyacinth said, rising to her feet, “it’s nobody’s fault but your own.”
“I beg your pardon.”
But Hyacinth was already standing, a satisfied smile on her face. “There,” she announced, motioning to her handiwork. “Certainly not as good as new, but it will pass any inspection this evening.”
Lucy knelt to inspect her hem. Hyacinth had been generous in her self-praise. The stitching was a mess.
“I’ve never been gifted with a needle,” Hyacinth said with an unconcerned shrug.
Lucy stood, fighting the impulse to rip the stitches out and fix them herself. “You might have told me,” she muttered.
Hyacinth’s lips curved into a slow, sly smile. “My, my,” she said, “you’ve turned prickly all of a sudden.”
And then Lucy shocked herself by saying, “You’ve been hurtful.”
“Possibly,” Hyacinth replied, sounding as if she didn’t much care one way or the other. She glanced toward the door with a quizzical expression. “He ought to have been here by now.”
Lucy’s heart thumped strangely in her chest. “You still plan to help me?” she whispered.
Hyacinth turned back. “I am hoping,” she replied, her eyes meeting Lucy’s with cool assessment, “that you have misjudged yourself.”
Gregory was ten minutes late to the assignation. It couldn’t be helped; once he had danced with one young lady, it had become apparent that he was required to repeat the favor for a half-dozen others. And although it was difficult to keep his attention on the conversations he was meant to be conducting, he did not mind the delay. It meant that Lucy and Hyacinth were well gone before he slipped out the door. He intended to find some way to make Lucy his wife, but there was no need to go looking for scandal.
He made his way to his sister’s bedchamber; he had spent countless hours at Hastings House and knew his way around. When he reached his destination, he entered without knocking, the well-oiled hinges of the door giving way without a sound.
“Gregory.”
Hyacinth’s voice came first. She was standing next to Lucy, who looked . . .