On the Way to the Wedding: The 2nd Epilogue (Bridgertons 8.5)
“What,” he demanded, “is going on?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, even though she knew quite well what he was talking about.
“Miss Watson,” he ground out.
“Hermione?” As if there was another Miss Watson. But it did buy her a bit of time.
“Your advice,” he said, his gaze boring into hers, “was abysmal.”
He was correct, of course, but she’d been hoping he might not have noticed.
“Right,” she said, eyeing him warily as he crossed his arms. It wasn’t the most welcoming of gestures, but she had to admit that he carried it off well. She’d heard that his reputation was one of joviality and fun, neither of which was presently in evidence, but, well, hell hath no fury and all that. She supposed one didn’t need to be a woman to feel a tad bit underwhelmed at the prospect of unrequited love.
And as she glanced hesitantly at his handsome face, it occurred to her that he probably didn’t have much experience with unrequited love. Really, who would say no to this gentleman?
Besides Hermione. But she said no to everyone. He shouldn’t take it personally.
“Lady Lucinda?” he drawled, waiting for a response.
“Of course,” she stalled, wishing he didn’t seem so very large in the closed room. “Right. Right.”
He lifted a brow. “Right.”
She swallowed. His tone was one of vaguely paternal indulgence, as if she were mildly amusing but not quite worthy of notice. She knew that tone well. It was a favorite of older brothers, for use with younger sisters. And any friends they might bring home for school holidays.
She hated that tone.
But she plowed on nonetheless and said, “I agree that my plan did not turn out to be the best course of action, but truthfully, I am not certain that anything else would have been an improvement.”
This did not appear to be what he wished to hear. She cleared her throat. Twice. And then again. “I’m terribly sorry,” she added, because she did feel badly, and it was her experience that apologies always worked when one wasn’t quite certain what to say. “But I really did think—”
“You told me,” he interrupted, “that if I ignored Miss Watson—”
“I didn’t tell you to ignore her!”
“You most certainly did.”
“No. No, I did not. I told you to back away a bit. To try to be not quite so obvious in your besottedment.”
It wasn’t a word, but really, Lucy couldn’t be bothered.
“Very well,” he replied, and his tone shifted from slightly-superior-older-brother to outright condescension. “If I wasn’t meant to ignore her, just what precisely do you think I should have done?”
“Well . . .” She scratched the back of her neck, which suddenly felt as if it were sprouting the most horrid of hives. Or maybe it was just nerves. She’d almost rather the hives. She didn’t much like this queasy feeling growing in her stomach as she tried to think of something reasonable to say.
“Other than what I did, that is,” he added.
“I’m not sure,” she ground out. “I haven’t oceans of exp
erience with this sort of thing.”
“Oh, now you tell me.”
“Well, it was worth a try,” she shot back. “Heaven knows, you certainly weren’t succeeding on your own.”
His mouth clamped into a line, and she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile for hitting a nerve. She wasn’t normally a mean-spirited person, but the occasion did seem to call for just a little bit of self-congratulation.
“Very well,” he said tightly, and while she would have preferred that he apologized and then said—explicitly—that she was right and he was wrong, she supposed that in some circles, “Very well” might pass for an acknowledgment of error.