Chapter Text
Gregory knew something was wrong the moment he walked into Lucy’s apartment. It was that feeling, accompanied by the fact there was no music playing. Lucy always had something on in the background. So he would have known even without Hermione’s warning text.
It’s the Great Report Freakout all over again, she’d written. And since it’s your wedding this time, it’s your problem to fix. Have fun!
Lucy was sitting cross-legged on the sage-green rug, her fingers twisting through the tassels as she glared down at a coffee table buried in papers. Sheets of calculations, venue quotes, and guest lists were scattered like battlefield debris. A half-melted bowl of ice cream perched dangerously close to the edge. She’s tried and possibly failed to use it as a stress reliever.
“Luce?” Gregory said gently, settling onto the couch behind her.
“This is never going to work,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, already bracing for it.
“Too many people. Too many prices. Do you know how expensive this wedding is turning out to be? And the house—what were we thinking? Every time we start something another problem appears. We’re going to be in debt up to our eyeballs. My contract ends in June. If I don’t get something lined up, then this whole thing is hopeless.”
Gregory leaned forward and picked up one of the pages from the chaos. Venue estimates, colour-coded and kind of grim-looking.
“Luce, what is all this?”
She turned to him, frustration flickering in her eyes. “Every venue we’ve looked at. Every single one. Do you even know how many people we’re trying to invite?”
He opened his mouth, hesitated. “Ninety?” he guessed.
Lucy stared at him. “Gregory. Just from your siblings we’re already at thirty-six people.”
“Oh,” he said, blinking.
“We’re close to two hundred, Greg. Two hundred! We can’t afford that. Every venue big enough might as well be Westminster Abbey—with a reception in Buckingham Palace.”
Gregory gave her a hopeful grin. “Now that would be a day to remember.”
She didn’t even crack a smile. “I don’t think there’s any way we can do this.”
“Then we cut down,” he said, like it was that simple. He slid on to the floor beside her.
“And how do you suggest we do that?” Lucy snapped—then immediately she sighed and pulled off her glasses to rub at her eyes. “Sorry. I just… I don’t want to disappoint anyone. I want everyone we care about to be there. But it’s a lot.”
Gregory reached for her hand and threaded his fingers gently through hers. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Let’s break it down. Where’s the guest list?”
She pointed wordlessly to the laptop, and he reached for it, flipping open the lid and tapping at the keyboard. It sprang to life instantly—of course it did; Lucy never let it sleep for long.
“It’s in the spreadsheets folder?” he asked.
She nodded, still rubbing her temples. “Second tab.”
Gregory scrolled, then found what he was looking for. “Okay then,” he said, rubbing his chin as he squinted at the screen. “Guest list version... four-point-eight. That sounds promising.”
“Don’t mock my system.”
“I would never.” His smile made her feel a little lighter already.
He scanned the names. “You know, my family’s done enough weddings by now. We could just cut all of them,” he offered cheerfully.
Lucy shot him a look. “Your mother would hunt us down with a cake knife.”
“True. A monogrammed one,” he agreed. “Fine. So they stay. Even Amy?”
“She’s already sent me five links to flower girl dresses,” Lucy said with a sigh. “Apparently she wants to match the colour scheme to the cake tiers.”
“She’s twelve,” Gregory said, raising a brow. But she was also Daphne’s daughter.
“I know. I was thinking someone younger—Violet or Jane maybe—but how do you say no to Amy without triggering full betrayal?”
“You don’t,” Gregory said. “She inherited the Bridgerton flair for drama. And you are her favourite teacher.” Lucy blushed at the compliment that she heard from most of the Bridgerton children – she was pretty sure they were biased.
He clicked to scroll further. “Alright, let’s keep going. Agatha and Marcus?”
“If we don’t invite Marcus, your mum will just bring him anyway,” Lucy replied.
“Right. Other Bridgertons and Rokesbys… they probably won’t all come, so that’ll naturally trim the list a bit.”
“Then we’ve got Hermione and Richard, her parents, my uncle, and my grandparents,” Lucy added, counting off on her fingers.
Gregory gave a slow nod. “So that’s all family.”
“Exactly,” Lucy said. “Hard to cut people when they’ve known you since you were in nappies.”
Gregory scrolled again. “Uncle Robert?” he asked, naming him specifically. He didn’t like the man.
Lucy hesitated. “He won’t come. He never goes anywhere.”
“Then let’s save the postage and skip the invite.”
“I still have to send it. He technically raised me.” If what he did could really be considered raising.
Gregory paused, then nodded with understanding. “Fair enough,” he said gently. “We’ll keep him on the list.”
He clicked over to the next column: Friends.
Names filled the screen—Lucy’s university friends, her netball team, colleagues from the school where she taught. Then his football mates, a couple of school friends he still saw on occasion, and a generous sprinkle of people they just sort of knew but liked enough to feel awkward not inviting.
Gregory scanned the page and whistled. “You’ve given everyone a plus one,” he said, eyebrows lifting. “That’s, like… an extra fifty people. So cut them and we’re good.”
Lucy shook her head without hesitation. “No. Everyone deserves to have someone with them. I wouldn’t want to be the person sitting alone at a table, surrounded by couples. It’s awful.”
Gregory sighed—but he understood. It was such a Lucy thing to say. Always thoughtful, always inclusive, always thinking about how other people felt, even at the expense of her own peace.
“Fair,” he admitted. “But a lot of them will know people already. Like your choir group—they’re practically a cult. Stick them at the same table and they’ll be harmonising by the starter.”
Lucy pursed her lips. “I suppose…”
He scrolled a bit further. “Okay, what about Lydia?”
Lucy groaned. “Oh, Lydia,” she muttered.
“You complain about her every week,” Gregory pointed out, tapping her name on the spreadsheet. “Loud, irritating voice, keeps interrupting you in group chat, never passes you the bowl. Flirts with me at every opportunity.”
Lucy bristled a little, especially his last point but
“Yes, but I can’t not invite her if I’m inviting the rest of the team,” she said helplessly. “Can I?”
Gregory leaned back, folding his arms. “Yeah, you can.”
But even as he said it, he knew she wouldn’t. And she knew he wouldn’t either.
Because this was the exact problem Hyacinth had warned him about last month:
“You’re too nice, Greg. You’re both too nice.”
She was right. Neither of them had a ruthless bone in their body.