He didn’t say anything, but that never stopped Hyacinth. “I saw your father,” she said softly. “Down the hall. He looked angry, and then he saw me, and he laughed.”

Gareth’s fingernails bit into his palms.

“Why would he laugh?” Hyacinth asked. “I hardly know the man, and—”

He had been staring at a spot past her shoulder, but her silence made his eyes snap back to her face.

“Mr. St. Clair?” she asked softly. “Are you sure there is nothing wrong?” Her brow was crinkled with concern, the kind one couldn’t fake, then she added, more softly, “Did he say something to upset you?”

His father was right about one thing. Hyacinth Bridgerton was good. She may have been vexing, managing, and often annoying as hell, but inside, where it counted, she was good.

And he heard his father’s voice.

You’ll never have her.

You’re not good enough for her.

You’ll never—

Mongrel. Mongrel. Mongrel.

He looked at her, really looked at her, his eyes sweeping from her face to her shoulders, laid bare by the seductive décolletage of her dress. Her breasts weren’t large, but they’d been pushed up, surely by some contraption meant to tease and entice, and he could see the barest hint of her cleavage, peeking out at the edge of the midnight blue silk.

“Gareth?” she whispered.

She’d never called him by his given name before. He’d told her she could, but she hadn’t yet done so. He was quite certain of that.

He wanted to touch her.

No, he wanted to consume her.

He wanted to use her, to prove to himself that he was every bit as good and worthy as she was, and maybe just to show his father that he did belong, that he wouldn’t corrupt every soul he touched.

But more than that, he just plain wanted her.

Her eyes widened as he took a step toward her, halving the distance between them.

She didn’t move away. Her lips parted, and he could hear the soft rush of her breath, but she didn’t move.

She might not have said yes, but she didn’t say no.

He reached out, snaking his arm around her back, and in an instant she was pressed against him. He wanted her. God, how he wanted her. He needed her, for more than just his body.

And he needed her now.

His lips found hers, and he was none of the things one should be the first time. He wasn’t gentle, and he wasn’t sweet. He did no seductive dance, idly teasing her until she couldn’t say no.

He just kissed her. With everything he had, with every ounce of desperation coursing through his veins.

His tongue parted her lips, swooped inside, tasting her, seeking her warmth. He felt her hands at the back of his neck, holding on for all she was worth, and he felt her heart racing against chest.

She wanted him. She might not understand it, she might not know what to do with it, but she wanted him.

And it made him feel like a king.

His heart pounded harder, and his body began to tighten. Somehow they were against a wall, and he could barely breathe as his hand crept up and around, skimming over her ribs until he reached the soft fullness of her breast. He squeezed—softly, so as not to scare her, but with just enough strength to memorize the shape of her, the feel, the weight in his hand.

It was perfect, and he could feel her reaction through her dress.

He wanted to take her into his mouth, to peel the dress from her body and do a hundred wicked things to her.

He felt the resistance slip from her body, heard her sigh against his mouth. She’d never been kissed before; he was quite certain of that. But she was eager, and she was aroused. He could feel it in the way her body pressed against his, the way her fingers clutched desperately at his shoulders.

“Kiss me back,” he murmured, nibbling at her lips.

“I am,” came her muffled reply.

He drew back, just an inch. “You need a lesson or two,” he said with a smile. “But don’t worry, we’ll get you good at this.”

He leaned in to kiss her once more—dear God, he was enjoying this—but she wriggled away.

“Hyacinth,” he said huskily, catching her hand in his. He tugged, intending to pull her back against him, but she yanked her hand free.

Gareth raised his brows, waiting for her to say something.

This was Hyacinth, after all. Surely she’d say something.

But she just looked stricken, sick with herself.

And then she did the one thing he never would have thought she’d do.

She ran away.

Chapter 8

The next morning. Our heroine is sitting on her bed, perched against her pillows. The Italian diary is at her side, but she has not picked it up.

She has relived the kiss in her mind approximately forty-two times.

In fact, she is reliving it right now:

Hyacinth would have liked to think that she would be the sort of woman who could kiss with aplomb, then carry on for the rest of the evening as if nothing had happened. She’d have liked to think when the time came to treat a gentleman with well-deserved disdain, that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, her eyes would be perfect chips of ice, and she would manage a cut direct with style and flair.

And in her imagination, she did all of that and more.

Reality, however, had not been so sweet.

Because when Gareth had said her name and tried to tug her back to him for another kiss, the only thing she could think to do was run.

Which was not, she had assured herself, for what had to be the forty-third time since his lips had touched hers, in keeping with her character.

It couldn’t be. She couldn’t let it be. She was Hyacinth Bridgerton.