Lady Bridget's Diary (18 page)

He found her in the foyer.

“Bridget.”

It was a moment before she turned around.

“If you have come to chastise me for being rude to the hostess, or drinking too much wine with supper, or otherwise forgetting my manners, you needn't bother. I already know that.”

“That is not what I came to say at all.”

In truth, he had no idea what he had come to say. This business of speaking of one's feelings was foreign to him.

“I enjoyed your conversation at the table,” he said, finally.

“Did you?”

“Enjoyed is perhaps not the right word. It was . . . enlightening,” he admitted. It had made him see where he had gone wrong and it made him see how he could possibly, maybe make things go right. “It was interesting. And admirable that you challenged old, tired, ingrained notions.”

She looked at him with disbelief.

“And here I thought that my outspokenness was one of my lamentable qualities that you were willing to overlook,” she replied. “I thought my foreign values were incompatible with the world you live and breathe in.”

He took a few steps to be closer to her.

“I have made a wreck of things, haven't I?” Darcy said softly.

“No, Lord Darcy. There was never anything to wreck,” she said, and he wondered just how much pain a man could take. Funny, that he should have spent his whole life trying to avoid this feeling. Or any feeling. And that was precisely what led him to this agonizing moment.

“I have hurt you, and that was not my intention. I have said some foolish things about your family's reputation, your tendency to speak too much, and how you are not what I had always looked for in a countess.”

“Do go on,” she said dryly. “I love that you think that I am unaware of all my faults when you, Josephine, the gossip columns, and the likes of Lady Wych Cross and even Lady Francesca have spelled them out so clearly. Repeatedly.”

“I am one of the best orators in Parliament. But you would never know that, given how inarticulate I become around a pretty American girl who drives me to distraction. What I mean to say, Bridget, is that I like you just the way you are.”

“That is very polite of you to say, but you really needn't worry about me, Lord Darcy. It is very clear that I do not belong in English society. Perhaps I shall convince my family to return home with all the heathens and savages where we belong.”

She turned to walk away. He grabbed her wrist. She stopped and looked down at the sight of her gloved wrist in his hand. She lifted her gaze to his, curious. He ought to apologize and release her.

He did not.

He did no such thing.

Darcy pulled them into the butler's pantry, just off the foyer, and shut the door behind them.

Oh my Lord. Oh my
Lord.
Bridget's heart started to beat at a frantic pace. The room was empty; a candle burned, provided the barest hint of illumination. Her back was against the hard wooden door and Darcy stood before her. Tall, proud, proper Darcy.

She could barely see his expression but she knew it wouldn't matter if she could; he was always so inscrutable. He must have gone mad, to pull her into a closet at a dinner party.
This
was all kinds of impropriety and he was the King of Proper Behavior.

Or was he?

“Don't go,” he whispered fiercely. “Please do not run away.”

And then his mouth claimed hers for a kiss that was rough with pent-­up passion, frustration, and longing. She felt her knees buckle beneath her, but his strong arms held her up.

His scent enveloped her and she breathed him in deeply. She ought to protest. How dare he just drag her into a darkened closest and proceed to kiss her senseless! Just because everyone did his bidding and bowed down to him, he thought he could simply ravish her with kisses in a butler's pantry!

It was positively barbaric.

It was also devastatingly romantic.

It was hardly the behavior she expected of the tightly reined in Lord Darcy, who was now pressing hot kisses along her neck. But it was wonderful all the same. His hands skimmed along her hips, and he pressed against her, as if he could not get enough. Of
her.

“I love your mouth. The way you kiss, the way you taste, all the shocking things you say,” he whispered.

“Oh.” She had nothing to say now, shocking or otherwise. Her head and heart were a tangled knot of feelings. There was surprise, and there was something like her heart breaking open, and then there was desire. Hot, wicked desire. Certain parts of her had not received the message that she loathed him.

“I love how you feel against me,” he whispered, skimming his hands along her waist, her hips, everywhere. She felt just how much he loved it. And she felt herself lean into his every touch.

Then he pressed another hot kiss along her neck. Sparks. She felt sparks.

“I'm too plump,” she mumbled. “I'm too . . .” She was going to list all the reasons he couldn't possibly want to do this with her.

Darcy pulled away from her. Held her face in his hands. Looked her in the eye.

“No, you are not,” he said in his I-­am-­a-­lord-­I-­am-­right voice.

“Oh,” she sighed. Oh, why hadn't anyone ever said that to her before? Oh, why hadn't she known? Oh, why did it have to mean so much to hear
him
say it? Oh, why did he have to make her feel like this?

Like she couldn't remember why she had refused him, even though she'd had very good reasons, she was certain of it.

“I have longed to kiss you here,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the delicate skin just above the line of her bodice. Sparks. She felt more sparks. In a hoarse whisper he continued, “I long to kiss you everywhere.”

She felt his words. Everywhere.

“Bridget . . .” Her name was a plea, a question, in a voice laden with longing.

Then he kissed her.

She could taste how much he wanted her. He was confounding. Maddening. But dear Lord above, did the man know how to kiss a woman. The more he kissed her, the more she forgot about slights, perceived or real. She forgot about ladylike rules of behavior. Nothing mattered anymore except this strange, new wonderful feeling of his lips against hers. A tingling of her skin. A heat in her belly. A feeling of being wanted, desperately wanted. She couldn't get enough of it.

She kissed him back. She touched him, feeling his hard chest beneath her palms. His heart pounded. He wanted her and there was no pretending otherwise. Thinking soon became impossible, save for one thought:
Yes. More.
Bridget felt hot inside. She wanted more, and yet the more he kissed her, the more she wanted.

Then he gently pushed aside the sleeves to her gown and dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. Sparks. His hands rested on her shoulders, slowly sliding the silk away, moving lower. Smolder.

There was just enough light to see him gaze up her, asking with his eyes for permission. She sighed. That was all, just a little sigh of pleasure.

“I wanted to do this ever since that day in the lake.”

He teased the centers of her breasts with his thumb, lightly, back and forth. She sucked in her breath as her nipples stiffened under his touch and the cool air.

Then when he did the same with his mouth, she gasped, and something in her core tightened. She moaned in pleasure. And forgot to breathe. She'd had no idea that he had wanted her like this, and had wanted her for so long.

And that was
almos
t as arousing as that wicked thing he was doing with his mouth. To her breast. In the butler's pantry. How so very un-­Darcy.

“Bridget . . .”

He kissed her again. She pulled him in close, savoring the sensation of his body against hers. She felt him, hard, pressing into the vee of her thighs. She couldn't help but move against him, driven by instinct and desire. “Yes . . .” he rasped. “Please . . .”

His hands skimmed up her thighs; she felt his hands pause where her silk stockings ended and her bare skin began. This was dangerous territory now, wicked territory, unknown territory. Whatever it was, every nerve in her body was aching for more of his touch.

“Yes,” she whispered.

As they kissed, his fingers pressed upon her secret place and she moaned softly. He knew just what to do, just how to touch her, to fuel her desire, to make that maddening tension within become tighter and tighter. Here, just as she was, bare to him, there were no rules to follow. She gave in to instinct and surrendered to her desire for this man.

And then it was all a blur of sensations: the feeling of his soft hair between her fingers; his lips upon hers; his fingers, there, driving her mad in the most wonderful way; the sound of her skirts rustling as she moved; the sound of his breath; the pounding of her heart.

And then she could take it no more. She cried out in pleasure; he captured the sound with a kiss.

Bridget melted against him, breathing hard, trying to comprehend what had just happened to her. Something had changed. Everything had changed.

“Bridget . . .”

Desire for his touch, his kiss, for
him
was making her lose her wits. Gone was the woman who demanded love. Gone was the woman who had tried to hold herself to higher standards, and who played by the rules, even if she didn't understand them. This potent kiss, that exquisite pleasure, made her forget herself, but it couldn't just change everything.

That he loved her mouth didn't change the fact that he didn't think she would make a good countess. A good
wife.

Bridget broke away.

“You cannot just kiss me in the butler's pantry and expect . . .” She didn't know what else to say. And it was more than just kissing that they had done.

“I have no expectations. I just . . .” He stepped away from her and pushed his fingers through his hair. Then, slowly, he turned. “You have an effect on me, Bridget.”

“My apologies.”

“Don't apologize. I think you are what I need.”

She needed to catch her breath. She needed her heart to slow down. She needed to think. And she could not do any of these things while he was so close, so bare to her.

“We should return to the others.”

She turned and opened the door and stepped out into the foyer. Darcy did not stop her.

The good thing about having hair that never looked quite done was that if someone were to mess it up in the throes of a passionate encounter in a closet, no one would be any wiser.

Or so Bridget hoped.

Lady Francesca was standing there, in all her elegant glory. She tilted her head curiously.

“I should be surprised to see one my guests emerge from the butler's pantry,” she said. “But with you, Lady Bridget, I'm not surprised at all.”

Gad, now she would have to lie about trying to steal the silver—­anything was better than the truth.

“Bridget, wait—­” Darcy said, having thrown open the door and rushed through it. He stopped suddenly as well. Bridget didn't need to turn and look at him to know that.

Lady Francesca's eyes widened. She opened her mouth but closed it quickly, for once at a loss for words. Well, there was
one
guest she was shocked to see emerge from the butler's pantry in the middle of the dinner party.

Bridget held her breath, waiting for a reaction. Then Lady Francesca, having collected herself, smiled. Oh, this was terrible.

“Don't worry Lady Bridget. You can be assured that I won't breathe a word of this to anyone. Come, Darcy, the gentlemen are having their port. Bridget, all the ladies are in the drawing room for tea, wondering what has become of you.”

The carriage ride home was agony. While their carriage was large, luxurious, and well sprung, it was also packed with the family, all of whom had burning, unspoken questions about the state of her coiffure (a mess), her lengthy disappearance during dinner (no comment), her silence (Darcy had left her speechless. Still.).

Finally, it was Amelia who broke the silence.

“What did Darcy want with you, Bridge?”

Oh, just to ravish me in a closet. Just to bring me to such pleasure as I have never known. As one does.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she replied, staring out the window, not that she could see very much at this late hour. She hoped, desperately, that no one could see the hot blush on her cheeks as she thought about what Darcy had wanted with her. Just the way she was.

It was Claire who explained, patiently. “You left the table. And then he left the table. And then time passed. And then you were both out of sorts and, dare I say, slightly disheveled, for the rest of the evening. Everyone noticed.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Bridget repeated.

“Darcy would be an excellent match for you,” Josephine said. But she also thought Mr. Collins would be a good match.

“Except that it wouldn't be,” Bridget replied. And she could not explain that while he might love to kiss her and do other wickedly wonderful things with her, he would be embarrassed to call her his wife. He might value family, but he would be embarrassed by hers, scandal-­plagued as they were. He lusted after her, and would come to regret it. “I could not be happy married to a man who valued reputation and wealth and estates above all else.”

“You don't know him at all, do you?” Amelia asked softly.
Amelia!
Bridget turned to her, incredulous.

“And you do? I have not seen you exchange more than a few sentences with him.”

“He is the reason I returned home after I ran away.”

The silence had gone from awkward to stunned with this revelation. This was the first Amelia had spoken of her great escape since she returned.

“He's not the
only
reason but he did find me, and reminded me what I was missing, should I not return soon. He did not speak of what the ton would say or what a lady ought to do. He spoke of love, Bridget. You all ought to thank him.”