On the Way to the Wedding by Julia Quinn Page B

have been easy enough to ring for bacon.
    Hermione let out a pent-up breath. “I shall return soon.”
    She regarded Lucy with a slightly suspicious expression.
    “Don’t overexert yourself.”
    “I won’t,” Lucy promised. She smiled at the door as it closed behind Hermione. She counted to ten, then hopped out of bed and ran to the wardrobe to straighten her slippers. Once that was done to her satisfaction, she snatched On the Way to the Wedding
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    up a book and crawled back in to settle down and read.
    All in all, it was turning out to be a lovely morning.
    By the time Gregory entered the breakfast room, he was feeling much better. What had happened the night before—
    it was nothing. Practically forgotten.
    It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to kiss Lady Lucinda. He’d merely wondered about it, which was worlds apart.
    He was just a man, after all. He’d wondered about hundreds of women, most of the time without any intention of even speaking to them. Everybody wondered. It was whether one acted upon it that made the difference.
    What was that his brothers—his happily married brothers, he might add—had once said? Marriage didn’t render them blind. They might not be looking for other women, but that didn’t mean they didn’t notice what was standing right in front of them. Whether it was a barmaid with extremely large bosoms or a proper young lady with a—well, with a pair of lips—one couldn’t very well not see the body part in question.
    And if one saw, then of course one would wonder, and—
    And nothing. It all added up to nothing.
    Which meant Gregory could eat his breakfast with a clear head.
    Eggs were good for the soul, he decided. Bacon, too.
    The only other occupant of the breakfast room was the fiftyish and perpetually starchy Mr. Snowe, who was thankfully more interested in his newspaper than in conversation.
    After the obligatory grunts of greeting, Gregory sat down at the opposite end of the table and began to eat.
    Excellent sausage this morning. And the toast was exceptional as well. Just the right amount of butter. A bit of salt needed for the eggs, but other than that they were rather tasty.
    He tried the salted cod. Not bad. Not bad at all.
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    He took another bite. Chewed. Enjoyed himself. Thought very deep thoughts about politics and agriculture.
    Moved on determinedly to Newtonian physics. He really should have paid more attention at Eton, because he couldn’t quite recall the difference between force and work.
    Let’s see, work was that bit with the foot-pounds, and force was . . .
    It wasn’t even really wondering. Honestly, it could all be blamed on a trick of the light. And his mood. He’d been feeling a bit off. He’d been looking at her mouth because she’d been talking, for heaven’s sake. Where else was he meant to look?
    He picked up his fork with renewed vigor. Back to the cod. And his tea. Nothing washed everything away like tea.
    He took a long sip, peering over the edge of his cup as he heard someone coming down the hall.
    And then she filled the doorway.
    He blinked with surprise, then glanced over her shoulder.
    She’d come without her extra appendage.
    Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think he’d ever seen Miss Watson without Lady Lucinda.
    “Good morning,” he called out, in precisely the right tone.
    Friendly enough so as not to sound bored, but not too friendly. A man never wanted to sound desperate.
    Miss Watson looked over at him as he stood, and her face registered absolutely no emotion whatsoever. Not happiness, not ire, nothing but the barest flicker of acknowledgment. It was quite remarkable, really.
    “Good morning,” she murmured.
    Then, hell, why not. “Will you join me?” he asked.
    Her lips parted and she paused, as if not quite sure what she wished to do. And then, as if to offer perverse proof that they did in fact share some sort of higher connection, he read her mind.
    Truly. He knew exactly what she was