Lady Bridget's Diary (7 page)

Chapter 6

Here's another curious rule: at a ball, women are not supposed to promenade around the ballroom, unaccompanied. And here's another ridiculous rule: a lady might refuse a dance but then she is not to accept any other invitations for the rest of the evening.

Lady Bridget's Diary

I
t was another evening and another ball. Another day spent paying calls, practicing the pianoforte, learning more phrases in French (
J'ai faim, je suis fatigue, je
wish to stay in bed and read fashion periodicals). Hours were spent preparing—­hair was curled and styled, dresses pressed, corsets tightened, cheeks pinched.

They had arrived, along with three hundred of England's finest, and crushed into this ballroom. The scale of the events still impressed her. The ballrooms were large, the chandeliers enormous, the gowns gorgeous.

And then there was Bridget, a horse breeder's daughter, trying her best to fit in.

Amelia had manufactured some excuse about needing a moment in the ladies' retiring room, though she was far more likely to be found snooping about the house; the family had yet to attend an event without Amelia causing some incident or minor scandal. Claire had discovered something to amuse her at balls: she spent most the evening in the card room, divesting drunk, idiot lords and ladies of their fortunes. Bridget was torn between pride and distress because it made her sister—­and the family—­an object of gossip.

The duchess was engaged in a private tête-­à-­tête with one Lady Esterhazy, her close personal friend and fellow terrifying matron.

Which left Bridget. With Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague. They were the only girls with whom she had become friendly in London. Lady Francesca was dancing with a young handsome lord; how she managed to dance only with them was of particular interest to Bridget, as she, far too often, ended up with invitations she was forbidden to refuse from the old, slightly infirm, or lethally dull men of the ton. Although Rupert had penciled his name on her dance card for the fifth waltz, and thus her entire existence was now counting the minutes until it was time for him to sweep her into his arms and whisk her around the ballroom.

In the meantime, she lingered on the perimeter of the ballroom with her friends.

“Do you think that Lady Francesca actually fancies any of her suitors?” Bridget wondered.

“Oh no,” Miss Mulberry said. “They are just for amusement. Everyone is expecting Darcy to propose to her.”

“Darcy?”

“You know, the one who always looks like he's perishing of boredom?”

“I know who he is,” Bridget said darkly.

“It's the funniest thing,” Miss Mulberry continued. “She was concerned you might be a rival for his afflictions.”

“You mean affections,” Bridget corrected. She was not interested in his afflictions or affections.

“That sounds so romantic,” Miss Montague sighed dreamily. “Rival for his afflictions.”

“That is absurd,” Bridget said flatly.

“That's what I said!” Miss Montague exclaimed. “I said it was absolutely ridiculous that he should fancy you!”

This was of no consolation to Bridget.

“Don't tell her we told you,” Miss Mulberry said.

“I won't.” But she had to wonder: if Lady Francesca saw her as a rival for Darcy's affections, why then befriend her?

It was another night and another ball. Darcy was actually enjoying the evening, having had interesting conversations with his friend the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon about parliamentary concerns; and he spoke to the Duke of Ashbrooke about the man's new invention. Earlier in the evening, he had spoken with Lady Francesca on the terrace—­listened to her gossip, mainly—­and then made his excuses when he saw her friends, the vapid Misses Mulberry and Montague, heading their way. And Lady Bridget, trailing behind.

Darcy was about to call for his carriage when Rupert found him. His brother seemed rushed and worried, not at all his usual self.

“Darcy, I need you to do me a favor,” Rupert said impatiently, grabbing on to Darcy's arm.

“Let me guess,” Darcy said dryly. “More funds?”

For a second, his brother looked wounded. No, he looked truly hurt that Darcy would say such a thing. He immediately regretted the flippant comment and felt guilty to have thought so little of his brother.

“No, actually. I have taken care of that,” Rupert said, straightening up to his full height. “I need you to waltz with Lady Bridget.”

Oh bloody hell. He'd been looking forward to returning home, perhaps having a brandy in his study before retiring. And now he was to go back into the din of the ballroom and dance. With Lady Bridget.

“You know that I—­”

“I know, I know, you don't dance,” Rupert said dismissively, and no small amount of annoyance in his voice. “We all know that Lord Darcy does not dance, and he certainly does not do so with one of the Americans. But I promised her and now I have to leave. Something has come up.”

“Is everything all right?” Rupert was definitely not himself tonight; something was obviously wrong.

“It's Frederick. He's been hurt. There was a fight.” His brother was clearly anxious to rush off to his old friend.

“Is there anything I can do?” Darcy asked.

“Yes. Dance with Lady Bridget.”

And with that Rupert rushed off.

Darcy found himself doing the unthinkable: entering a ballroom with the intention of seeking out Lady Bridget. He had, in fact, made it a point to do exactly the opposite because the woman did things to him and to his state of equilibrium that he did not care for.

But Rupert had asked him a favor. Feeling guilty for that offhanded comment about the money, and wanting to help his brother in what was clearly a distressing situation, Darcy had found himself agreeing. Well, he hadn't exactly had an opportunity to disagree, what with Rupert running off like that.

Thus here he was, standing before her.

“Good evening, Lady Bridget,” he said, because it was polite and he was nothing if not polite.

“Good evening, Lord Darcy,” she said graciously. She did not draw out the
ooo
's. No, she spoke like the duchess was succeeding in her attempts to turn her into a proper young
English
lady. “I don't suppose you have seen Rupert.”

She called him Rupert. Not Mr. Wright. This suggested an intimacy between them that Darcy didn't care for.

“I have. He had to depart unexpectedly. He sends his regrets.”

Lady Bridget heaved a sigh, which he mainly noted due to the dramatic rise and fall of her breasts. Of course he looked, briefly. He might be a gentleman, but he wasn't dead. He definitely wasn't dead, owing to the pulse-­pounding way his body reacted to her.

Then she gazed down at the dance card dangling from her wrist.

“He owes you a waltz.”

“He doesn't
owe
me anything. But he did promise and I have been looking forward to it.”

The words he uttered next were not spoken lightly. He told himself it was his duty as a gentleman not to leave her idling like a wallflower; he ought to ask her to waltz. If anyone asked, and they would, he would explain that he was simply standing in for his notoriously distracted brother.

He didn't want to dance—­he hated dancing. But even he had a hard time denying the desire to touch her, and he had been presented with the perfect opportunity to do so, without it meaning anything.

“Would you like to dance?”

“Of course I'd like to, but my dance partner is missing.”

He exhaled shortly, frustrated. She misunderstood him. He ground out the words, “Would you like to dance with me?”

“It's not that I wish to dance for the exercise or because I am bored standing on the sidelines,” she explained, while scanning the room for her desired dance partner. “It's just that I wish to dance with Rupert.”

“Right.”

Darcy gritted his jaw. He had just been rejected. By Lady Bridget, of the American Cavendishes. The only thing more mortifying was that he had, for a brief, shining moment, looked forward to the prospect of holding her with something like anticipation. This was exactly why feelings of all sorts were to be ruthlessly ignored.

And he had been rejected in favor of Rupert, who was off doing God knew what with God only knew whom.

Maddening, that.

“But it's very good and honorable of you to offer to stand up in his stead.” She smiled sweetly at him and patted his arm, as if he were a small child. It was so bloody
ladylike
of her, and that saddened him. They were changing her, from an exuberant creature into one who was polished and refined, and who lauded honorable behavior. It was the same thing they'd done to him. “You are such a gentleman, Lord Darcy.”

Except right now, he didn't want to be a gentleman. In fact, if he dared to examine the state of his emotions, he would find that what he wanted was to pull her against him, claim her mouth for a deep kiss, sink his hands into her hair. He wanted to thoroughly and utterly ravish her until she would say, breathlessly,
Rupert who?

Of course that was completely unacceptable and exactly why he made a point of avoiding her or at the very least avoiding anything that wasn't a reasoned and rational thought.

And then he spoke in haste, words spoken from a place of hurt and words he regretted the second he gave voice to them.

“I would think that even you are aware that young ladies are not supposed to refuse a gentleman's offer to dance.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. He might as well have said,
Or you would know that if you weren't raised on a horse farm.

Her cheeks reddened considerably.

“I am very well aware, thank you,” she said so sharply, he almost felt as if he'd been stabbed. “As I am also aware that a lady must honor what is written on her dance card. So you see, I am in an impossible position due to your stupid rules.”

“They are not my rules.”

She gave him an utterly disparaging look.

“The only thing keeping me from storming off is that ladies are not supposed to stroll around the ballroom unaccompanied,” she said. “Actually, no. The only thing keeping me from storming off is that you might then have even more reason to chastise me.”

“I didn't mean—­”

And then the unimaginable happened. She turned away from him, steadfastly refusing to look in his direction. He, Lord Darcy, received the cut direct from Lady Bridget, of the American Cavendishes.

Chapter 7

Kisses from Rupert: 0

Moments for possible kisses with minimal risk of discovery: 4

Hours spent wondering why he hasn't: embarrassing

Lady Bridget's Diary

L
ady Millicent Winterbourne's garden party was not to be missed by “her dearest nephews,” even though, to Darcy's knowledge, they were not in fact blood relations. She had been quite good friends with their dearly departed mother, and apparently that was sufficient basis to claim them as her own family . . . with all the obligations and nagging that entailed.

She bustled over to the brothers upon their arrival.

“There you are, Darcy. I knew you wouldn't refuse me. Hello, Rupert, I don't mind if you cause a scandal or are caught kissing behind a hedge.” She patted his cheek affectionately.

“Good afternoon, Lady Winterbourne.”

“Don't Lady Winterbourne me, Darcy. I held you on my lap when you were just born. Call me auntie.”

He was a grown man and as such would lose his bollocks if he called anyone auntie.

“Aunt Winterbourne,” he offered as a compromise.

“Auntie Millie,” she countered.

“Lady Millicent,” he offered as a compromise.

“Lord, but your father wrecked you.” She sighed.

There was only one possible response to that.

“The weather is very fine today,” he said stiffly.

“Makes me wish I could take off this jacket and jump in the lake,” Rupert added. To be honest, Darcy had half a mind to do the same thing. The sun was actually shining, which meant he felt exceedingly warm under this fitted, dark wool jacket. Between that and the length of starch wrapped around his neck, he felt like he was being strangled.

“As I said, I do not mind if you cause a scandal, so long as it's at my party.”

“Hostessing is as competitive as ever, I see,” Darcy remarked.

“You have no idea,” she said dramatically. “Look, there is the Duchess of Durham with her new charges. I thank God they are in attendance.”

Do not look. Do not look.

He looked. His gaze strayed immediately to Lady Bridget. Like every other unmarried lady, she was all done up in a bonnet and gloves and a white dress with frills, and ruffles and bits of lace.

And she was beaming at Rupert.

“I was hoping to see them today,” Rupert said brightly.

“I as well,” Lady Winterbourne replied. “While the ton has not quite accepted them yet, a party is considered a failure if they do not attend. What else will we talk about?”

“New initiatives in Parliament, the plight of war widows and orphans, new advances in steam technology.”

“You're too funny, Darcy.” She laughed. “No, at parties one is to talk of scandals and love matches and judge each other's dresses. And the Americans. What do you think of them?”

“I do not.” It was a hideous lie.

Lady Bridget intruded upon his thoughts with an alarming frequency. And if that weren't bad enough, she made him feel things.

Things one would categorize as lust. A lust that would never be satisfied because he was Lord Darcy, one of the most esteemed peers of England, and while she might be sister to a duke, there was no denying her unconventional upbringing. She was not his type.

Which was neither here nor there, given how things were progressing between her and Rupert and the hints he dropped about marrying her.

“Well I quite like them,” Rupert declared. “Particularly Lady Bridget.”

Case. In. Point.

“You know, the duchess is keen to marry them off,” Lady Winterbourne remarked with pointed looks and all the subtlety of an invading army. “She is afraid they will abandon the dukedom and return to the colonies if they do not. God forbid anything should happen to the new duke. The next in line is that horrid Mr. Collins.”

“I cannot imagine what relevance this has to us.”

“Don't be deliberately obtuse, Darcy,” Lady Winterbourne said. “It doesn't suit you.”

“It so happens that one of us is considering taking a wife,” Rupert said. Even Darcy couldn't conceal his shock that he would say such a thing to such a known gossip as their hostess. He might as well have printed an announcement in
The London Weekly
: “Wealthy bachelor not completely adverse to matrimony. Queue up here.” Even if he was considering marriage, why the devil would he announce it and make things impossible for himself?

Darcy's obvious shock made it abundantly clear which brother was considering a wife. And Lady Winterbourne's smile made it abundantly clear what would happen with such information.

Bridget might have steered Rupert here, behind the hedges. He might not have made it difficult for her to do so.

Her heart beat swiftly, flutteringly, like hummingbird wings. Her gaze searched his for a sign of his true feelings and his intentions. She prayed that they matched hers.

He might be about to kiss her. Dear Lord, she wanted to be kissed. And loved. And by this
nice
man.

Rupert gazed down at her, lips parted. She closed her eyes, waiting to feel the brush of his lips against hers. Her life might become perfect in three . . . two . . . one . . .

“Nice to get a bit of a respite from the party,” he remarked. She opened her eyes to see him standing a foot away, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.

Or not.

Nevertheless, she agreed with him. “It is. I've become so accustomed to everyone watching me to see what disaster will befall me next. You know, I am still known as the girl who fell.”

“I think of you as the girl who has a unique manner of appreciating artwork,” Rupert corrected. “Never mind those old bats.”

And that was why she loved him.

That was why she wanted to marry him.

And she knew for a fact that he had told Lady Winterbourne that he was thinking of marrying, because she told the duchess, who looked the other way when Bridget and Rupert began strolling in the direction of the hedges.

“Well, it is nice to get away from everyone's prying eyes,” she remarked, hoping to get him to acknowledge that they were alone. Out of sight.

“Indeed.” He seemed pensive.

“I feel that everyone is always watching and waiting for me to make another misstep.”

“Society is a challenge. Even for those of us born and raised for it.”

“You can't possibly have trouble with society. Everyone adores you.”

“Aye. But I have seen how unforgiving they can be,” he said thoughtfully. This was another side of Rupert, one she hadn't often seen and suspected that he didn't often reveal. “Which is why it is so wonderful to have true friends.”

There was no mistaking his meaning by the way he gazed at her, smiled at her. He thought her a true friend. But what about
more
?

Bridget stood there, experiencing a thousand agonies. Here she was, alone with a handsome rake—­the newspapers all said he was—­and he was making a declaration of friendship. Which was wonderful, and she cherished it and thought him the only true friend she'd made in England (Lady Francesca certainly didn't count).

But never mind that. Her heart had skipped a beat. And then fell.

Rupert turned to her. He gazed into her eyes and murmured her name. “Bridget.”

Her heart starting beating again, and then it started beating faster and faster.

But then Rupert paused at the sound of footsteps approaching. She turned, furious, to see who could possibly dare to interrupt this moment. Possibly the greatest moment in all of her three and twenty years. The Moment in which the man she loved was about to propose marriage or kiss her or both.

The intruder revealed himself.

Her eyes narrowed. “Darcy.”

Things I dislike about Dreadful Darcy

He ruins private interludes in which a lady might be kissed for the first time by the man she loves who mentioned publicly that he was considering marriage. This is unforgivable. UNFORGIVABLE.

Lady Bridget's Diary

Darcy had only wanted a moment of solitude. Just a moment away from the idle chatter and gossip. Just a moment to think about what the devil Rupert was about these days. The ever increasing debts, rushing away from a ball, the declaration of his intention to wed. Just a moment to find his equilibrium again.

He never meant to intrude on what was obviously a private moment between his brother and Lady Bridget.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw him. “Darcy.”

There was no small amount of venom in her voice.

He cleared his throat.

“I hope I'm not interrupting something,” Darcy said, glancing from Bridget to Rupert. It was obvious he had.

“Not at all,” Rupert replied hastily. “I was just . . . I'm quite parched. Are you quite parched, Bridget? I shall go fetch us lemonades.”

Darcy watched his brother retreat. Rupert was acting odd—­in this moment, and for the past few days—­and it was a mystery why. This presented a feeling of something like hurt or dismay because they were close. They weren't just brothers, they were the only members left in their family (distant, possibly fictional, relationship to Lady Winterbourne notwithstanding). And they were friends.

He would have to talk to him later, for Rupert fled.

And with that Darcy found himself alone with Lady Bridget. She was either crestfallen, heartbroken, or furious, or some terrifying combination. He'd never made a study of identifying emotions, especially those of women; after all, he made it a point to stifle his.

“Oh, look,” she remarked, interrupting his silence. “We are without a chaperone. I shall go find one and return approximately never.”

“Lady Bridget.” He hadn't meant to say anything. But then she whirled around to face him, all the flounces and lace of her dress fluttering in swift movement. She glared up at him fiercely.

All thoughts fled. Except one:
I'm sorry. For whatever I've done.

“I owe you an apology.”

He would apologize for interrupting her private moment with Rupert. Not that he was sorry to interrupt a proposal, if that's what had been about to happen.

But then she surprised him.

“Just one?”

“I don't take your meaning.”

“I'm wondering what, exactly, you wish to apologize for. Do you owe me an apology for being exceedingly rude when we first met? For leaving me standing alone in the middle of a ballroom at my very first London ball where I knew no one?”

He felt the color draining from his face. That
had
been rude of him. But she had been so . . . shocking.

“Or would you like to apologize for saying that I am not pretty enough or well-­mannered enough for you?”

And now he paled, certainly. He remembered saying the words, making a deliberate effort to sound bored as he uttered them. Because no one could know that he had found her so . . . arousing. He hadn't realized she had overheard.

“Or do you mean to apologize for chastising me when I refused your obligatory offer to dance? We both know it was just a favor for Rupert. I couldn't possibly have hurt your
feelings
.”

It took all the self-­control he possessed to not look around for someone to save him, to fight the desire to loosen his cravat, to stifle the urge to flee. Because Lady Bridget, enraged, was something else entirely.

His heart started to pound.

He wanted to kiss her, but she obviously wanted to slap him.

“All are lapses in honorable behavior and I apologize for them.” He hoped that would appease her.

“I'm curious, Lord Darcy. Are you sorry that you weren't a perfect gentleman or are you actually sorry that your behavior might have made a perfectly lovely girl feel badly about herself and her family?” She paused and added, “And by the way, I am the perfectly lovely girl.”

She said this in such a fierce whisper that he couldn't help but wonder if the words were meant for
her
more than for him. Because why could she possibly care what he thought of her?

He felt a pang of . . . something resembling a feeling . . . that she felt the need to tell him that.

“On all accounts, I owe you an apology.”

“Yes. Yes you do.”

A moment of silence stretched between them. He was mesmerized by all the emotions he could detect in her eyes—­anger, curiosity, annoyance, determination—­when he was sure she saw nothing in his.

“I am waiting for an apology. I was given to understand that it was rude to keep a lady waiting.”

“Usually, one simply says that one is owed, they don't actually . . .” His voice trailed off. It was the way of things. Peers of the realm never actually apologized for things. But Lady Bridget didn't care about that, did she? He promised her an apology and then failed to deliver, digging himself a deeper hole.

Ah, now he could see fury in her eyes and the reddening of her cheeks. He was at once terrified and entranced by her display of emotion. As a result, he didn't say anything.

“Excuse me,” she said grandly. She gave him the briefest nod before turning on her heel and stalking off.

He deserved that.

He suspected that there was a good chance she was fighting a grin as she stalked away, and the thought brought the faintest smile to his lips, and a very troubling thought to his brain. Why was he already thinking like he
knew
her?

“Lady Bridget—­wait. Please.” She stopped and turned around, curiosity getting the better of her, no doubt. “I was rude when we first met. Your unusual behavior caught me off guard.”

“Are you saying this is somehow my fault?”

“Not at all.”

“We do not have a chaperone,” she said in an overdramatic stage whisper. “We should not be speaking.”

She stalked off again.

Oh dear God. He would have to chase her. Through crowds. Crowds full of gossips. He never chased women.