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were earnest. They gave flowers, poetry, candy—one even brought Hermione a puppy (instantly refused by Hermione’s mother, who had informed the poor gentleman that the natural habitat of dogs did not include Aubusson carpets, porcelain from the Orient, or herself).
    But underneath they were all the same. They hung on her every word, they gazed at her as if she were a Greek goddess come down to earth, and they fell over each other in an attempt to offer the cleverest, most romantic compliments ever to rain down upon her pretty ears. And they never seemed to understand how completely unoriginal they all were.
    If Mr. Bridgerton truly wished to pique Hermione’s interest, he was going to need to do something different.
    “More gooseberry pie, Lady Lucinda?” Mr. Berbrooke asked.
    “Yes, please,” Lucy murmured, if only to keep him busy with the slicing as she pondered what to do next. She really didn’t want Hermione to throw her life away on Mr. Edmonds, and truly, Mr. Bridgerton was perfect. He just needed a little help.
    “Oh, look!” Lucy exclaimed. “Hermione doesn’t have any pie.”
    “No pie?” Mr. Berbrooke gasped.
    Lucy batted her eyelashes at him, not a mannerism with which she had much practice or skill. “Would you be so kind as to serve her?”
    As Mr. Berbrooke nodded, Lucy stood up. “I believe I will stretch my legs,” she announced. “There are lovely fl owers on the far side of the field. Mr. Bridgerton, do you know anything about the local fl ora?”
    He looked up, surprised by her question. “A bit.” But he didn’t move.
    Hermione was busy assuring Mr. Berbrooke that she adored gooseberry pie, so Lucy took advantage of the moment 5
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    and jerked her head toward the flowers, giving Mr. Bridgerton the sort of urgent look that generally meant “ Come with me now.”
    For a moment he appeared to be puzzled, but he quickly recovered and rose to his feet. “Will you allow me to tell you a bit about the scenery, Lady Lucinda?”
    “That would be marvelous,” she said, perhaps a touch too enthusiastically. Hermione was staring at her with patent suspicion. But Lucy knew that she would not offer to join them; to do so would encourage Mr. Bridgerton to believe she desired his company.
    So Hermione would be left with Mr. Berbrooke and the pie. Lucy shrugged. It was only fair.
    “That one, I believe, is a daisy,” Mr. Bridgerton said, once they had crossed the field. “And that stalky blue one—
    Actually, I don’t know what it’s called.”
    “Delphinium,” Lucy said briskly, “and you must know that I did not summon you to speak of fl owers.”
    “I had an inkling.”
    She decided to ignore his tone. “I wished to give you some advice.”
    “Really,” he drawled. Except it wasn’t a question.
    “Really.”
    “And what might your advice be?”
    There was really no way to make it sound any better than it was, so she looked him in the eye and said, “You’re going about this all wrong.”
    “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffl y.
    Lucy stifled a groan. Now she’d pricked his pride, and he would surely be insufferable. “If you want to win Hermione,” she said, “you have to do something different.”
    Mr. Bridgerton stared down at her with an expression that almost bordered on contempt. “I am well able to conduct my own courtships.”
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    “I am sure you are . . . with other ladies. But Hermione is different.”
    He remained silent, and Lucy knew that she had made her point. He also thought Hermione different, else he wouldn’t be making such an effort.
    “Everyone does what you do,” Lucy said, glancing over at the picnic to make sure that neither Hermione nor Mr. Berbrooke had got up to join them. “Everyone.”
    “A gentleman does love to be compared to the fl ock,” Mr.
    Bridgerton murmured.
    Lucy had any number of rejoinders for that, but she kept her mind on the task at hand and said, “You cannot act like the