He was, she realized, everything she’d always told herself she was looking for in a husband.
Good God.
“Are you all right?” he asked, sitting up quite suddenly.
“Fine,” she croaked. “Why?”
“You looked…” He cleared his throat. “Well, you looked…ah…I’m sorry. I can’t say it to a woman.”
“Even one you’re not trying to impress?” Hyacinth quipped. But her voice sounded a little bit strained.
He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Very well. You looked rather like you were going to be sick.”
“I’m never sick,” she said, looking resolutely forward. Gareth St. Clair was not everything she’d ever wanted in a husband. He couldn’t be. “And I don’t swoon, either,” she added. “Ever.”
“Now you look angry,” he murmured.
“I’m not,” she said, and she was rather pleased with how positively sunny she sounded.
He had a terrible reputation, she reminded herself. Did she really wish to align herself with a man who’d had relations with so many women? And unlike most unmarried women, Hyacinth actually knew what “relations” entailed. Not firsthand, of course, but she’d managed to wrench the most basic of details from her older married sisters. And while Daphne, Eloise, and Francesca assured her it was all very enjoyable with the right sort of husband, it stood to reason that the right sort of husband was one who remained faithful to one’s wife. Mr. St. Clair, in contrast, had had relations with scores of women.
Surely such behavior couldn’t be healthy.
And even if “scores” was a bit of an exaggeration, and the true number was much more modest, how could she compete? She knew for a fact that his last mistress had been none other than Maria Bartolomeo, the Italian soprano as famed for her beauty as she was for her voice. Not even her own mother could claim that Hyacinth was anywhere near as beautiful as that.
How horrible that must be, to enter into one’s wedding night, knowing that one would suffer by comparison.
“I think it’s beginning.” She heard Mr. St. Clair sigh.
Footmen were crisscrossing the room, snuffing candles to dim the light. Hyacinth turned, catching sight of Mr. St. Clair’s profile. A candelabrum had been left alive over his shoulder, and in the flickering light his hair appeared almost streaked with gold. He was wearing his queue, she thought idly, the only man in the room to do so.
She liked that. She didn’t know why, but she liked it.
“How bad would it be,” she heard him whisper, “if I ran for the door?”
“Right now?” Hyacinth whispered back, trying to ignore the tingling feeling she got when he leaned in close. “Very bad.”
He sat back with a sad sigh, then focused on the stage, giving every appearance of the polite, and only very slightly bored, gentleman.
But it was only one minute later when Hyacinth heard it. Soft, and for her ears only:
“Baaa.
“Baaaaaaaaa.”
Ninety mind-numbing minutes later, and sadly, our hero was right about the cows.
“Do you drink port, Miss Bridgerton?” Gareth asked, keeping his eyes on the stage as he stood and applauded the Pleinsworth children.
“Of course not, but I’ve always wanted to taste it, why?”
“Because we both deserve a drink.”
He heard her smother a laugh, then say, “Well, the unicorn was rather sweet.”
He snorted. The unicorn couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Which would have been fine, except that Henry VIII had insisted upon taking an unscripted ride. “I’m surprised they didn’t have to call for a surgeon,” he muttered.
Hyacinth winced. “She did seem to be limping a bit.”
“It was all I could do not to whinny in pain on her behalf. Good God, who—Oh! Lady Pleinsworth,” Gareth said, pasting a smile on his face with what he thought was admirable speed. “How nice to see you.”
“Mr. St. Clair,” Lady Pleinsworth said effusively. “I’m so delighted you could attend.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“And Miss Bridgerton,” Lady Pleinsworth said, clearly angling for a bit of gossip. “Do I have you to thank for Mr. St. Clair’s appearance?”
“I’m afraid his grandmother is to blame,” Hyacinth replied. “She threatened him with her cane.”
Lady Pleinsworth didn’t seem to know quite how to respond to this, so she turned back to Gareth, clearing her throat a few times before asking, “Have you met my daughters?”
Gareth managed not to grimace. This was exactly why he tried to avoid these things. “Er, no, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“The shepherdess,” Lady Pleinsworth said helpfully.
Gareth nodded. “And the unicorn?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes,” Lady Pleinsworth replied, blinking in confusion, and quite possibly distress, “but she’s a bit young.”
“I’m sure Mr. St. Clair would be delighted to meet Harriet,” Hyacinth cut in before turning to Gareth with an explanatory, “The shepherdess.”
“Of course,” he said. “Yes, delighted.”
Hyacinth turned back to Lady Pleinsworth with a smile that was far too innocent. “Mr. St. Clair is an expert on all things ovine.”
“Where is my cane when I need it?” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Pleinsworth said, leaning forward.
“I would be honored to meet your daughter,” he said, since it seemed the only acceptable statement at that point.