“In just ten pages?”
“Twenty-two in total,” Hyacinth corrected, “but she doesn’t make entries every day. In fact, she often skips several weeks at a time. She only devoted one paragraph to the sea crossing—just enough to express her delight that your grandfather was afflicted by seasickness.”
“One must take one’s happiness where one can,” Gareth murmured.
Hyacinth nodded. “And also, she, ah, declined to mention her wedding night.”
“I believe we may consider that a small blessing,” Gareth said. The only wedding night he wanted to hear about less than Grandmother St. Clair’s would have to be Grandmother Danbury’s.
Good God, that would send him right over the edge.
“What has you looking so pained?” Hyacinth asked.
He just shook his head. “There are some things one should never know about one’s grandparents.”
Hyacinth grinned at that.
Gareth’s breath caught for a moment, then he found himself grinning back. There was something infectious about Hyacinth’s smiles, something that forced her companions to stop what they were doing, even what they were thinking, and just smile back.
When Hyacinth smiled—when she really smiled, not one of those faux half smiles she did when she was trying to be clever—it transformed her face. Her eyes lit, her cheeks seemed to glow, and—
And she was beautiful.
Funny how he’d never noticed it before. Funny how no one had noticed it. Gareth had been out and about in London since she’d made her nod several years earlier, and while he’d never heard anyone speak of her looks in an uncomplimentary manner, nor had he heard anyone call her beautiful.
He wondered if perhaps everyone was so busy trying to keep up with whatever it was she was saying to stop and actually look at her face.
“Mr. St. Clair? Mr. St. Clair?”
He glanced down. She was looking up at him with an impatient expression, and he wondered how many times she’d uttered his name.
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “you might as well use my given name.”
She nodded approvingly. “A fine idea. You may of course use mine as well.”
“Hyacinth,” he said. “It suits you.”
“It was my father’s favorite flower,” she explained. “Grape hyacinths. They bloom like mad in spring near our home in Kent. The first to show color every year.”
“And the exact color of your eyes,” Gareth said.
“A happy coincidence,” she admitted.
“He must have been delighted.”
“He never knew,” she said, looking away. “He died before my birth.”
“I’m sorry,” Gareth said quietly. He did not know the Bridgertons well, but unlike the St. Clairs, they seemed to actually like each other. “I knew he had passed on some time ago, but I was not aware that you never knew him.”
“It shouldn’t matter,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t miss what I never had, but sometimes…I must confess…Ido.”
He chose his words carefully. “It’s difficult…I think, not to know one’s father.”
She nodded, looking down, then over his shoulder. It was odd, he thought, but still somewhat endearing that she didn’t wish to look at him during such a moment. Thus far their conversations had been all sly jokes and gossip. This was the first time they had ever said anything of substance, anything that truly revealed the person beneath the ready wit and easy smile.
She kept her eyes fixed on something behind him, even after he’d expertly twirled her to the left. He couldn’t help but smile. She was a much better dancer now that she was distracted.
And then she turned back, her gaze settling on his face with considerable force and determination. She was ready for a change of subject. It was clear.
“Would you like to hear the remainder of what I’ve translated?” she inquired.
“Of course,” he said.
“I believe the dance is ending,” she said. “But it looks as if there is a bit of room over there.” Hyacinth motioned with her head to the far corner of the ballroom, where several chairs had been set up for those with weary feet. “I am sure we could manage a few moments of privacy without anyone intruding.”
The waltz drew to a close, and Gareth took a step back and gave her a small bow. “Shall we?” he murmured, holding out his arm so that she might settle her hand in the crook of his elbow.
She nodded, and this time, he let her lead.
Chapter 7
Ten minutes later, and our scene has moved to the hall.
Gareth generally had little use for large balls; they were hot and crowded, and much as he enjoyed dancing, he’d found that he usually spent the bulk of his time making idle conversation with people in whom he wasn’t particularly interested. But, he thought as he made his way into the side hall of Bridgerton House, he was having a fine time this evening.
After his dance with Hyacinth, they had moved to the corner of the ballroom, where she’d informed him of her work with the diary. Despite her excuses, she had made good progress, and had in fact just reached the point of Isabella’s arrival in England. It had not been auspicious. His grandmother had slipped while exiting the small dinghy that had carried her to shore, and thus her first connection with British soil had been her bottom against the wet sludge of the Dover shore.
Her new husband, of course, hadn’t lifted a hand to help her.
Gareth shook his head. It was a wonder she hadn’t turned tail and run back to Italy right then. Of course, according to Hyacinth, there wasn’t much waiting for her there, either. Isabella had repeatedly begged her parents not to make her marry an Englishman, but they had insisted, and it did not sound as if they would have been particularly welcoming if she had run back home.