“Don’t you wish to hear about your grandmother’s diary?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Shall we dance?” she suggested.
“You’re asking me?” He rather liked this.
She scowled at him.
“Ah, there is the real Miss Bridgerton,” he teased. “Shining through like a surly—”
“Would you care to dance with me?” she ground out, and he realized with surprise that this wasn’t easy for her. Hyacinth Bridgerton, who almost never gave the impression of being at odds with anything she did, was scared to ask him to dance.
How fun.
“I’d be delighted,” he said immediately. “May I guide you onto the floor, or is that a privilege reserved for the one doing the asking?”
“You may lead,” she said, with all the hauteur of a queen.
But when they reached the floor, she seemed a little less sure of herself. And though she hid it quite well, her eyes were flicking around the room.
“Who are you looking for?” Gareth asked, letting out an amused snuff of air as he realized he was echoing Jane’s exact words to him.
“No one,” Hyacinth said quickly. She snapped her gaze back to his with a suddenness that almost made him dizzy. “What is so amusing?”
“Nothing,” he countered, “and you were most certainly looking for someone, although I will compliment you on your ability to make it seem like you weren’t.”
“That’s because I wasn’t,” she said, dipping into an elegant curtsy as the orchestra began the first strains of a waltz.
“You’re a good liar, Hyacinth Bridgerton,” he murmured, taking her into his arms, “but not quite as good as you think you are.”
Music began to float through the air, a soft, delicate tune in three-four time. Gareth had always enjoyed dancing, particularly with an attractive partner, but it became apparent with the first—no, one must be fair, probably not until the sixth—step that this would be no ordinary waltz.
Hyacinth Bridgerton, he was quite amused to note, was a clumsy dancer.
Gareth couldn’t help but smile.
He didn’t know why he found this so entertaining. Maybe it was because she was so capable in everything else she did; he’d heard that she’d recently challenged a young man to a horse race in Hyde Park and won. And he was quite certain that if she ever found someone willing to teach her to fence, she’d soon be skewering her opponents through the heart.
But when it came to dancing…
He should have known she’d try to lead.
“Tell me, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, hoping that a spot of conversation might distract her, since it always seemed that one danced with more grace when one wasn’t thinking quite so hard about it. “How far along are you with the diary?”
“I’ve only managed ten pages since we last spoke,” she said. “It might not seem like much—”
“It seems like quite a lot,” he said, exerting a bit more pressure on the small of her back. A little more, and maybe he could force…her…to turn…
Left.
Phew.
It was quite the most exerting waltz he’d ever danced.
“Well, I’m not fluent,” she said. “As I told you. So it’s taking me much longer than if I could just sit down and read it like a book.”
“You don’t need to make excuses,” he said, wrenching her to the right.
She stepped on his toe, which he ordinarily would have taken as retaliation, but under the present circumstances, he rather thought it was accidental.
“Sorry,” she muttered, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”
He bit his lip. He couldn’t possibly laugh at her. It would break her heart. Hyacinth Bridgerton, he was coming to realize, didn’t like to do anything if she didn’t do it well. And he suspected that she had no idea that she was such an abysmal dancer, not if she took the toe-stomping as such an aberration.
It also explained why she felt the need to continually remind him that she wasn’t fluent in Italian. She couldn’t possibly bear for him to think she was slow without a good reason.
“I’ve had to make a list of words I don’t know,” she said. “I’m going to send them by post to my former governess. She still resides in Kent, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to translate them for me. But even so—”
She grunted slightly as he swung her to the left, somewhat against her will.
“Even so,” she continued doggedly, “I’m able to work out most of the meaning. It’s remarkable what you can deduce with only three-quarters of the total.”
“I’m sure,” he commented, mostly because some sort of agreement seemed to be required. Then he asked, “Why don’t you purchase an Italian dictionary? I will assume the expense.”
“I have one,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s very good. Half the words are missing.”
“Half?”
“Well, some,” she amended. “But truly, that’s not the problem.”
He blinked, waiting for her to continue.
She did. Of course. “I don’t think Italian is the author’s native tongue,” she said.
“The author of the dictionary?” he queried.
“Yes. It’s not terribly idiomatic.” She paused, apparently deep in whatever odd thoughts were racing through her mind. Then she gave a little shrug—which caused her to miss a step in the waltz, not that she noticed—and continued with, “It’s really of no matter. I’m making fair progress, even if it is a bit slow. I’m already up to her arrival in England.”