And judging by his face, it was the most she was likely to receive.
She nodded regally. It seemed the best course of action. Act like a queen and maybe she would be treated like one.
“Have you any other brilliant ideas?”
Or not.
“Well,” she said, pretending that he’d actually sounded as if he cared about the answer, “I don’t think it’s so much a question of what to do as why what you did didn’t work.”
He blinked.
“No one has ever given up on Hermione,” Lucy said with a touch of impatience. She hated when people did not understand her meaning immediately. “Her disinterest only makes them redouble their efforts. It’s embarrassing, really.”
He looked vaguely affronted. “I beg your pardon.”
“Not you,” Lucy said quickly.
“My relief is palpable.”
Lucy should have taken offense at his sarcasm, but his sense of humor was so like her own she couldn’t help but enjoy it. “As I was saying,” she continued, because she always did like to remain on the topic at hand, “no one ever seems to admit defeat and move on to a more attainable lady. Once everyone realizes that everyone else wants her, they seem to go mad. It’s as if she’s nothing but a prize to be won.”
“Not to me,” he said quietly.
Her eyes snapped to his face, and she realized instantly that he meant that Hermione was more than a prize. He cared for her. He truly cared for her. Lucy wasn’t sure why, or even how, as he had barely made her friend’s acquaintance. And Hermione hadn’t been terribly forthcoming in her conversations, not that she ever was with the gentlemen who pursued her. But Mr. Bridgerton cared for the woman inside, not just the perfect face. Or at least he thought he did.
She nodded slowly, letting all this sink in. “I thought that perhaps if someone actually stopped dancing attendance on her, she might find it intriguing. Not,” she hastened to assure him, “that Hermione sees all of this gentlemanly attention as her due. Quite to the contrary. To be honest, for the most part it’s a nuisance.”
“Your flattery knows no bounds.” But he was smiling—just a little bit—as he said it.
“I’ve never been very skilled at flattery,” she admitted.
“Apparently not.”
She smiled wryly. He hadn’t meant his words as an insult, and she wasn’t going to take them as such. “She will come around.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do. She will have to. Hermione is a romantic, but she understands how the world works. Deep down she knows she cannot marry Mr. Edmonds. It simply cannot be done. Her parents will disown her, or at the very least they will threaten to, and she is not the sort to risk that.”
“If she really loved someone,” he said softly, “she would risk anything.”
Lucy froze. There was something in his voice. Something rough, something powerful. It shivered across her skin, raising goosebumps, leaving her strangely unable to move.
And she had to ask. She had to. She had to know. “Would you?” she whispered. “Would you risk anything?”
He didn’t move, but his eyes burned. And he didn’t hesitate. “Anything.”
Her lips parted. With surprise? Awe? Something else?
“Would you?” he countered.
“I . . . I’m not sure.” She shook her head, and she had the queerest feeling that she didn’t quite know herself any longer. Because it ought to have been an easy question. It would have been, just a few days ago. She would have said of course not, and she would have said she was far too practical for that sort of nonsense.
And most of all, she would have said that that sort of love did not exist, anyway.
But something had changed, and she didn’t know what. Something had shifted within her, leaving her off-balance.
Unsure.