And he was just a man.

It was annoying, this strange compulsion she felt to impress him. She wanted to do something that would prove her intelligence and wit, something that would force him to look at her with an expression other than vague amusement.

“Allow me to walk you to the door,” Mr. St. Clair said, falling into step beside her.

Hyacinth turned, then felt her breath stop short in surprise. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close. “I…ah…”

It was his eyes, she realized. So blue and clear she ought to have felt she could read his thoughts, but instead she rather thought he could read hers.

“Yes?” he murmured, placing her hand on his elbow.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“Why, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, guiding her into the hall. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words. Except for the other night,” he added, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side.

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes.

“At the musicale,” he supplied helpfully. “It was lovely.” He smiled, most annoyingly. “Wasn’t it lovely?”

Hyacinth clamped her lips together. “You barely know me, Mr. St. Clair,” she said.

“Your reputation precedes you.”

“As does yours.”

“Touché, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, but she didn’t particularly feel she’d won the point.

Hyacinth saw her maid waiting by the door, so she extricated her hand from Mr. St. Clair’s elbow and crossed the foyer. “Until tomorrow, Mr. St. Clair,” she said.

And as the door shut behind her, she could have sworn she heard him reply, “Arrivederci.”

Hyacinth arrives home.

Her mother has been waiting for her.

This is not good.

“Charlotte Stokehurst,” Violet Bridgerton announced, “is getting married.”

“Today?” Hyacinth queried, taking off her gloves.

Her mother gave her a look. “She has become engaged. Her mother told me this morning.”