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delicious fare.
    “We should have a picnic,” Lady Lucinda suggested.
    “Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”
    “Capital idea,” Neville exclaimed, gazing at her as if she 5
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    were a goddess. Gregory was a little startled by the fervor of his expression, but Lady Lucinda seemed not to notice.
    “What is your opinion, Miss Watson?” Gregory asked.
    But the lady in question was lost in thought, her eyes unfocused even as they remained fixed on a painting on the wall.
    “Miss Watson?” he repeated, and then when he fi nally had her attention, he said, “Would you care to take a picnic?”
    “Oh. Yes, that would be lovely.” And then she went back to staring off into space, her perfect lips curved into a wistful, almost longing expression.
    Gregory nodded, tamping down his disappointment, and set out making arrangements. The innkeeper, who knew his family well, gave him two clean bedsheets to lay upon the grass and promised to bring out a hamper of food when it was ready.
    “Excellent work, Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Lucinda said.
    “Don’t you agree, Hermione?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Hope he brings pie,” Neville said as he held the door open for the ladies. “I can always eat pie.”
    Gregory tucked Miss Watson’s hand in the crook of his arm before she could escape. “I asked for a selection of foods,” he said quietly to her. “I hope there is something that meets your cravings.”
    She looked up at him and he felt it again, the air swoosh-ing from his body as he lost himself in her eyes. And he knew she felt it, too. She had to. How could she not, when he felt as if his own legs might give out beneath him?
    “I am sure that it will be delightful,” she said.
    “Are you in possession of a sweet tooth?”
    “I am,” she admitted.
    “Then you are in luck,” Gregory told her. “Mr. Gladdish has promised to include some of his wife’s gooseberry pie, which is quite famous in this district.”
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    “Pie?” Neville visibly perked up. He turned to Lady Lucinda. “Did he say we were getting pie?”
    “I believe he did,” she replied.
    Neville sighed with pleasure. “Do you like pie, Lady Lucinda?”
    The barest hint of exasperation washed over her features as she asked, “What sort of pie, Mr. Berbrooke?”
    “Oh, any pie. Sweet, savory, fruit, meat.”
    “Well . . .” She cleared her throat, glancing about as if the buildings and trees might offer some guidance. “I . . . ah . . . I suppose I like most pies.”
    And it was in that minute that Gregory was quite certain Neville had fallen in love.
    Poor Lady Lucinda.
    They walked across the main thoroughfare to a grassy field, and Gregory swept open the sheets, laying them fl at upon the ground. Lady Lucinda, clever girl that she was, sat first, then patted a spot for Neville that would guarantee that Gregory and Miss Watson would be forced to share the other patch of cloth.
    And then Gregory set about winning her heart.
    $
    Four
    In which Our Heroine offers advice,
    Our Hero takes it, and everyone eats too much pie.
    He was going about it all wrong.
    Lucy glanced over Mr. Berbrooke’s shoulder, trying not to frown. Mr. Bridgerton was making a valiant attempt to win Hermione’s favor, and Lucy had to admit that under normal circumstances, with a different female, he would have succeeded handily. Lucy thought of the many girls she knew from school—any one of them would be head over heels in love with him by now. Every one of them, as a matter of fact.
    But not Hermione.
    He was trying too hard. Being too attentive, too focused, too . . . too . . . Well, too in love, quite frankly, or at least too infatuated.
    Mr. Bridgerton was charming, and he was handsome, and obviously quite intelligent as well, but Hermione had seen all this before. Lucy could not even begin to count the number of gentlemen who had pursued her friend in much the On the Way to the Wedding
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    same manner. Some were witty, some