Lady Bridget's Diary (15 page)

And this waltz was doing
nothing
to diminish his desire for her—­quite the contrary, in fact. And it was doing everything to torture and embarrass him, so much so that marrying Lady Bridget seemed like a more reasonable way to hold her.

“You are quiet,” he said. For once her every thought wasn't tumbling out of her plump mouth, and it wasn't obvious what thoughts were jumbling through her head. It was those very qualities that had at first repelled him and now he missed them desperately. Missed her.

“I am too busy feeling.”

“What are you, ahem, uh, feeling?”

“Like I should have practiced waltzing more. But then perhaps not. Is it horribly wanton that I enjoy stumbling against you?”

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Do you disapprove, Lord Darcy?”

Tempting minx. She was deliberately torturing him, he was certain of it. When he spoke, his voice was rough, “I am in no position to judge.”

Rather than satiate his desire to hold her, he only wanted her more.

Bloody hell.

“I'm certain Lady Francesca is an excellent dancer,” Bridget remarked. He followed her gaze and saw the lady in question standing near the windows overlooking the terrace. Lady Francesca was poised, as always. But something was different now, and he saw the anger in her eyes.

Slowly he became aware of other curious stares and glances. Of course. Lord Darcy did not dance, and everyone knew this, just as they knew the Earth was round, Sunday was the Lord's day, and spring followed winter.

But hundreds of them had all borne witness to this violation of natural law. Not only had Lord Darcy danced, but he had done so with one of the Americans.

Something was happening. Bridget had no clue what it was. But there was
something
between her and Darcy. She wanted to puzzle out what it was, what made her heart beat faster, what made her feel a jolt of longing, and whether it, whatever it was, meant she should write
Lady Bridget Darcy
(or whatever the proper form of address would be) in her diary instead of
Mrs. Rupert Wright
.

And then they were interrupted. By Mr. Collins.

“Ahem.”

Darcy and Bridget stopped suddenly at the interruption, tumbling into each other. She crashed against his chest. His hard, firm, hot chest. His big, strong arms wrapped around her and did not let go immediately. She wasn't sorry.

In fact, she thought about feigning a swoon.

Instead, she turned to face the small little man who had interrupted her
something
with Lord Darcy.

“Oh, Mr. Collins. Hello.”

“I do believe this is my dance, Lady Bridget.” She strongly considered murdering him. In front of five hundred witnesses.

Mr. Collins looked pointedly at the dance card dangling from her wrist. It was his dance. And she had been all too eager to dance with Darcy instead. For obvious reasons that anyone with a modicum of brain function would understand.

Bridget glanced up at Darcy. His expression was priceless. It seemed that it wasn't every day that he was interrupted thusly, especially by a man so, so, so far beneath him socially.

“It says so, right there on Lady Bridget's card,” Mr. Collins insisted. Turning to Darcy, he said, “We are cousins, you know.”

“I did not know. In fact, I do not think I have made your acquaintance.”

Oh good Lord, she would have to perform introductions. Josephine had spoken to them about this; in fact, it was one of those lessons that Bridget had skipped. She had pleaded a megrim halfway through and retired to her room to read fashion periodicals in bed.

Was she supposed to present the lower-­ranking person to the higher-­ranking one? Or was it the other way around? If she got this wrong, she would reveal herself to be as socially inept as Mr. Collins, perish the thought.

Oh, and Josephine had also said to include a little bit of information about the person when performing the introductions. Her mind went blank, except for the most inappropriate things.

“Lord Darcy, may I present my brother's heir, Mr. Collins,” she managed to say.
He is a plague and a nuisance and I haven't any clue why he was invited.
No, no, mustn't say that. Instead she said, “He is visiting from his vicarage in, ah, um, a shire.”

Was that a quirk of Darcy's lip? Was he finding this amusing?

“Berkshire, actually,” Mr. Collins corrected. “But we cannot expect women, with their diminutive brains, to have more than a passing knowledge of geography.”

He elbowed Darcy as if they were chums. Darcy looked down at him as if he had been poked with a stick dipped in horse dung.

“Mr. Collins, this is Lord Darcy,” Bridget said.
His kisses leave a girl breathless. Oh Lord, she could NOT say that aloud. But what to say about him?
“He is a very gentlemanly, uh, gentleman.”

Oh Lord, she was making a cake of herself. Her cheeks felt hot, which meant they were probably a violent shade of pink. Mr. Collins, being obtuse, wouldn't notice. But Darcy would. She couldn't imagine what he would think.

“I shall leave you to your dance,” Darcy said politely.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Darcy.” Bridget curtsied, rather elegantly, given how cross and out of sorts she felt.

He nodded. And walked away. And Bridget was left with Mr. Collins.

Oh bloody hell,
she wanted to mutter. But she did not, because a True Lady did not use such language. Not even in moments like these.

Darcy turned and walked away. A small part of him was actually relieved for the interruption. Something was happening between Lady Bridget and him and . . . it could not.

He had to think of Rupert.

He had to think of the expectations of a man of his station and position. And the intentions he'd indicated toward another woman already.

Lady Francesca.

He took a second to ensure that anything he might be feeling was smothered and stuffed into a box deep inside. Then, his expression inscrutable, he made his way to face Lady Francesca. She did not look pleased. They'd known each other for an age, and he'd never seen her like this. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect that she was angry with him. Was she jealous of “one of those provincial Americans,” as she called them? It seemed preposterous.

“I thought it only polite to waltz with the hostess,” he replied to the accusation in her eyes.

“Will you waltz with all four of the hostesses, the duchess included?” Lady Francesca inquired. “That I would like to see.” She threw back her head and laughed.

He heard not the amusement but the bitterness. And it reminded him of his father, laughing at him for making mistakes. That laugh took him back . . . back . . . though he stood in this ballroom as a man of three and thirty, he felt like a thirteen-­year-­old boy, chastised. Nothing was more effective at putting him in his place than mocking laughter—­not beatings, not even nights without supper.

It went without saying it was not a point in his life he was keen to revisit. It occurred to him that if he married her, he would hear that laugh again and again, for the rest of his life. The prospect made his throat feel tight, as if his valet had tied his cravat too tightly.

But if he did not care to hear that laugh, if he was not going to wed Lady Francesca . . . Darcy's heart started to pound as he followed that thought to its logical (illogical?) conclusion: he would be free to marry Lady Bridget.

That was, if he were to steal her from his brother, who needed her.

He spied her through the crowds. She was dancing again, and smiling, and laughing. This time she was dancing with Rupert.

Chapter 17

Last night I waltzed with Darcy, who does not dance. Of course he was probably being polite. He is nothing if not polite. It certainly couldn't signify something else, could it?

Lady Bridget's Diary

T
he ball was not quite the smashing success that the duchess had hoped for. Oh, it had been so well attended that the ballroom was at capacity. The guests had nothing but compliments for their hostesses. But the papers the next day did not report on any of that. After all, news of a successful ball paled in comparison to even a hint of scandal.

“
The London Weekly
is reporting that Amelia was seen quaffing an excess of champagne,” Josephine said with a frown at Amelia, who, this morning, most certainly did appear to have consumed an inordinate amount the night before. Her complexion was wan and she was not her usual animated self. “When she wasn't quaffing champagne,” the duchess read, “she was seen shooting daggers with her eyes at Mr. Alistair Finlay-­Jones, the vaguely disreputable heir to Baron Wrotham.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Amelia muttered. “One cannot shoot daggers with their eyes.”

“It's not I that am talking about it, but rather
The London Weekly
and thus the entire town. My only consolation is that they are not speaking about your mysterious illness.”

“
The Morning Post
is,” Claire said, peering up from a different newssheet. “The Man About Town says that Lady Amelia appears to have made a remarkable recovery from her grave and sudden illness.” Then she read from the column. “In fact, the lady looked as if she had a spent a day out of doors rather than a day on her deathbed.”

“If only they could see you now,” Bridget teased. “You look incredibly ill.”

Amelia halfheartedly swatted at her.

“Sisters,” James groaned. He, too, seemed to have consumed an inordinate amount of spirits the previous evening. “What did I ever do to deserve three sisters?”

“Oh, you are not off the hook. Your Grace,” Claire said, smiling devilishly. James scowled; he hated when his sisters addressed him formally. “His Grace crushed the hopes of many a young maiden by waltzing twice with Miss Meredith Green, companion to the duchess, while eligible young ladies languished on the sidelines.”

“I wanted Miss Green to have a pleasant evening,” James said.

Miss Green blushed at the attention and focused on her sewing.

“That is very admirable and I share your sentiment. But might I remind you that you have one job, Duke,” Josephine said sharply. “In fact, all of you have one task. To marry and marry well.”

“Well, perhaps Lady Bridget might do us proud,” Claire said. Then she continued reading from the paper. “Lady Bridget was seen waltzing with Lord Darcy. It would be an excellent match for her, and. . . . oh.”

“What does it say?”

Claire closed the sheet quickly. “Nothing.”

“You are such a liar, Claire. What is it?”

“It says it would be an excellent match for you and a surprising choice for him,” Claire said softly.

“She is the sister to a duke. It wouldn't be surprising at all,” Josephine replied.

“Does it say why?” Bridget asked, even though she suspected she would regret it.

“It just says that it would be surprising if one of England's most refined gentlemen wed the girl who fell,” Claire said with an apologetic smile.

“My thoughts exactly,” she said brightly, though it was an effort to do so.

She could not shake her reputation, even with the “friendship” of Lady Francesca, the attentions of Lord Darcy, and attendance at countless balls where she committed hardly any improprieties. Still, she was known as the girl who fell and considered an unsuitable match for someone as perfect as Darcy. She tried to tell herself it didn't matter, anyway. Rupert had mentioned marriage again last evening and she dared to hope he would ask her soon.

Never mind that she had kissed his brother. And liked it.

“If we'd had the tightrope walker, they wouldn't report on any of this,” Amelia said.

Any further conversation was brought to the halt by the arrival of Mr. Collins, who wished to visit the family before returning to whichever shire he came from.

In particular, he wished to visit with Bridget.

Why she was singled out for his attentions, she knew not. Claire and Amelia could not flee the drawing room fast enough. Even Josephine moved at a brisk pace across the Aubusson carpets.

The doors were scarcely closed behind them—­and closed
all the way—­
when Mr. Collins made the purpose of his visit clear. He clasped her hands, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.

“I have come to generously bestow my protection upon you and your sisters.”

Bridget gaped. Even though ladies did not gape.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You all must marry,” Collins explained patiently, as if he were speaking to a young child or feebleminded adult. “But there are rumors about your sister Amelia and her mysterious illness. Scandal is so unbecoming in a lady. And your eldest sister is quite the bluestocking, which I think is a deplorable quality in a woman of quality. Don't you agree?”

“No.”

“Which leaves you, Lady Bridget.”

“Me.”

“You must marry. And you cannot do better than I, the heir to Durham.”

That left her speechless. She glanced around the room, searching for something that would enable her to bash some sense into the man.

“Our marriage will repair your sisters' reputations,” he continued, oblivious to anything but his own delusions. “And you shall be known as Mrs. Collins instead of the girl who fell.”

Ah, so he read the papers, too.

“Do you really think that is what I am looking for in a marriage?” Bridget asked incredulously. She'd always imagined marrying for love, like her parents. And she didn't think she was mad for considering love, friendship, and respect as a sound basis for marriage. She certainly wouldn't commit herself to an idiot for a lifetime just to avoid being known as the girl who fell. In fact, she was now sorry she had ever even complained about it.

“I have a fine house,” Mr. Collins continued, as if she had not spoken. “My position is secure and should only improve with the demise of your brother.”

Bridget choked. “I'm actually fond of my brother.”

“I know every woman fancies being a duchess,” Mr. Collins intoned.

“Actually, I do not care about being a duchess. Not in the slightest. Especially not if it means losing my brother.”

Titles and whatnot were vastly overrated. She now knew this from firsthand, personal experience. Her brother's title had not made them any happier.

But Mr. Collins didn't seem to hear her, or register that females spoke and possessed opinions. She watched in horror as he stood, closed his eyes, and leaned forward.

“Let us kiss to seal our engagement.”

He puckered his lips. Waiting.

She pinched him on the arm, hard, even though ladies probably should not pinch gentlemen callers, and he opened his eyes in shock.

“Mr. Collins, I have agreed to nothing!”

“Shall I woo you? I can tell you about the annuity an elderly aunt has provided me, and the pin money I will be able to set aside for you . . .”

“Mr. Collins, I will
not
marry you.”

“. . . It isn't much by London standards, but you'll find things are far more reasonably priced in the village. It's a lovely little town . . .”

This was unbearable. It had to stop. There was only one thing to do. Channeling Darcy, she declared in her most I-­am-­Lord-­Darcy voice, “Cease talking at once, Mr. Collins.”

He stopped. She was surprised. Behold, the power of Darcy, she thought, not without a surge of pride. She wished to tell Rupert—­he would find it so amusing. No, she wished to tell Darcy. But that would have to wait.

Now that she
finally
had Mr. Collins's attention, she proceeded to crush his hopes and dreams as delicately as possible.

“Thank you for your proposal. I am flattered. But I will not marry you.” She thought about adding,
I would rather be pecked to death by pigeons a thousand times than be your wife
, but it seemed a bit much.

She had shocked him. She knew this because his mouth flapped open and closed a few times. Then he stumbled over his words and her heart broke a little for him, but not nearly enough to reconsider.

“Very well, Lady Bridget. If that is your choice . . . I suppose I must accept. Even though it is a foolish and regrettable decision. But ladies never were blessed with sense or reason.”

She somehow managed to stifle the urge to kick him in the shins. Why, she was becoming more like Darcy by the minute. She ought to tell him.

“Good day, Mr. Collins,” she said firmly, still using her Darcy voice.

He opened the door and a group of ladies—­including her sisters, Miss Green, a downstairs maid, and the duchess herself—­straightened up and tried vainly to appear as if they hadn't been shamelessly eavesdropping.

The butler had to hand over a bottle of champagne to a footman in order to hand Mr. Collins his hat and cane. It was deuced awkward. But finally her not-­future-­husband had stepped out of the house and hopefully out of her life forever.

“Don't bother to open the champagne, Pen­dleton,” the duchess said with a disapproving frown. “It is clear we have nothing to celebrate.”

“Did you honestly think that we would?” Bridget asked her incredulously.

“You must marry. You must all marry!” For once, the duchess actually raised her voice.

“I do not think we are opposed to marriage,” James said evenly.

“We are just opposed to pledging our troth to cork-­brained men with nothing to recommend them,” Bridget said.

“Well, if you continue to flaunt society, you may only have the likes of Mr. Collins to choose from!” the duchess cried. “And he is not the worst possible person. At least the dukedom would stay in the family. You would be provided for. What if your brother dies and you are all unwed? How will you support yourselves? Who will marry you then, when you have no reputations because you have flaunted the rules at every turn and when you have no dowries because everything has gone to Mr. Collins?”

“James won't die,” Amelia protested.

“People die, Amelia. Look at our parents,” Claire said softly.

“Yes, but people love, too. Look at our parents,” Bridget said. “Don't we all want that?”

Everyone, from the duchess to the butler, fell silent. Thoughtful. Amelia bit her lip. Claire exhaled deeply.

“We want what our mother and father had, Josephine. Love,” James said quietly. “The kind of love you throw a dukedom away for.”