Lady Bridget's Diary (12 page)

“And I'm sure I do not wish to know,” he said stiffly.

“I wish to know,” Bridget said, and everyone ignored her.

“Suit yourself, Lord Darcy. But you will find soon enough what your brother has been up to—­and who he has been with.”

It didn't seem possible, but Bridget felt the moment Darcy became positively stiff. And yet, by all outer appearances, he seemed exactly the same as always. She only knew this because they were sitting side by side and very close in this carriage. So close they were touching. When had that happened? She realized that, although he might always appear so calm, cool, and collected, perhaps he was not. Perhaps he got as flummoxed as the rest of them and only hid it better. Perhaps, if he lied so adeptly, he wasn't so perfect after all. The notion that he had feelings and flaws was surprisingly . . . intriguing.

“A good day to you both.” Lady Tunbridge nodded firmly. “Lady Bridget, I look forward to the ball you're hosting with your sisters.”

“What is this ball Lady Tunbridge mentioned?” Darcy asked as the carriage rolled away.

“Oh, just a little soiree we are planning for five hundred of our closest friends. And by friends I mean people we are desperately trying to impress.”

“I think I recall seeing the invitation.”

“You ought to attend, though it might be a disaster, in spite of all our best efforts. The duchess says planning and hosting a ball is an important skill every lady must possess. Thus, we are learning to plan and host a ball.”

The duchess was right. A man of his position, especially given his political ambitions, required a wife who could be an asset socially. She would have to cultivate the right relationships, impress the right people, behave so impeccably that nothing bad could be said about her or, by extension, him. Lady Francesca fit the bill perfectly, which was why he had every intention of proposing to her.

This was why, even if he did lust after Lady Bridget, he could never act upon it. He could never propose to her. She and her family were regularly gossiped about for all the wrong reasons, and it was likely to become worse if this business with Amelia got out.

“This is, of course, in addition to our daily regimen of acquiring all the other essential qualities of a True Lady,” she continued.

“And how does an aspiring true lady spend her day?”

Honestly, he wasn't entirely interested. But he found her chatter not altogether unpleasant—­she did have a lovely voice—­while he concentrated on driving the carriage and scanning the faces of everyone they passed, hoping to see Rupert or Amelia or both. He also noted the ever darkening clouds and low rumbles of thunder in the distance. A rainstorm was imminent.

“Well, for example, I must practice my pianoforte and singing for an hour each morning, in the event that we are called upon to perform at a musicale. This happens to coincide with the duchess's constitutional walk. I do not think that is a coincidence. After that, but before luncheon, we memorize pages of
Debrett's
. Did you know your great-­grandfather was related to the Marquis of Wyndham? You and Lady Francesca are practically related.”

“I did not,” he said. “And we are not.”

“You're welcome for the family history lesson. After that, my sisters and I are supposed to learn French, which is a hopeless and pointless prospect. The lessons are only livened up by our efforts to persuade our tutor to teach us grossly indelicate language, which he refuses to do. In the afternoon, we have dancing lessons because one must not only waltz, but know the steps to at least a dozen strange and intricate country dances. Through it all, I'm bloody starving.”

Darcy had really heard only the last thing she said, and he responded to that.

“Why don't you eat something?” Darcy asked.

“Have you tried to fit into ladies' dresses these days?”

“I cannot say that I have,” he said dryly.

“Then you would know why one must be in a constant state of starvation.”

Darcy sensed that he had broached a sensitive subject and was all the more sure of it when he saw her shoulders shaking. Oh bloody hell, had he made her
cry
?

“I apologize if . . .” He paused, looking over at her. “Are you
laughing
?”

And with that she burst out laughing. And then he just knew what caused her such amusement.

“You're imagining me in a dress, aren't you?” he asked grimly.

“Perhaps,” she said, still laughing. “You look rather fetching. I think a dark blue silk would suit you tremendously. It would go well with your complexion.”

Darcy just stared at her. The things that went on in her head . . . And the things that came out of her mouth. It was always so unexpected. He found it oddly intriguing and even arousing.

“People don't tease you very much, do they?” she said.

“No,” he said flatly. No one dared risk insulting him, an esteemed earl and valued member of Parliament. He knew he didn't exactly encourage such informality either. And then he added, “Rupert does, occasionally.”

Lady Bridget surprised him once more. She placed her hand on his arm and said, “I think, Looord Darcy, that you might
need
me.”

It was then that he took a wrong turn.

Chapter 13

We have not yet had a lesson on what to do if one finds oneself alone with a gentleman. We have only been instructed to avoid it at all costs.

Lady Bridget's Diary

L
ady Bridget didn't say anything and neither did he. A silence ensued. A long, tortuous silence in which he became acutely aware of their surroundings: the birds in the trees, the wind rustling through the leaves, the distant rumble of thunder. He noticed the way her leg was pressed against his, the way her entire body, in fact, was pressed against his. It was because the curricle was small, he told himself, knowing better deep down.

Darcy also noticed that the sky was darkening and they had definitely taken a wrong turn. The wide fields and broad avenues full of people had given way to quiet paths through the forest.

“It seems that we might have taken a wrong turn,” Bridget said. “But then again, I can't imagine that Looord Darcy would ever take a wrong turn.”

“I know exactly where we are.” He did; they were in Hyde Park. In the remote corner where, as Bridget might say, Danger Might Befall Them. But the dangers he had in mind had nothing to do with gangs of marauders with murderous intent. No, he feared being alone with her, and his desire for her, away from the watchful eye of the public.

There, he admitted it. He desired her. Wanted to lay her down and have his way with her.

“I don't suppose this is all part of an elaborate plot to abscond with me?”

“Do I strike you as the sort of man who absconds with gently bred young ladies?”

“No,” she said glumly. As if she wanted him to abscond with her. He slowly exhaled.

“Rain seems imminent. We should turn back soon,” he said, wondering if she detected the reluctance in his voice. If she did, would it even matter? Darcy reminded himself that she was in love with his brother. Who would never love her.

“Do you think we'll make it home before the storm?”

“Doubtful. I heard of a gazebo in this area where we might wait out the storm.”

“I wonder if Amelia has returned. Perhaps she'll be there when we get back. Then I shall curl up with a pot of tea and a shawl and listen to her adventures.” Bridget paused. “Gah, that makes me sound like an aged spinster.”

He cracked a smile at that.

“Are you cold? Would you like my jacket?”

“I shall be fine, thank you.”

“Suit yourself. I am only being chivalrous.”

“That's the thing about chivalry. For a second you think it's about you and then you realize it's just how a gentleman treats all women. Which is a very good thing—­manners, respect, not absconding with females against their will, etc., etc. But a woman wants to feel special, I suppose. Like she's the only one.”

“I had never thought of it that way. It's how I was raised to behave. It's like breathing.” He declined to mention that it was beaten into him by his tutors, his father, and the headmasters at Eton.

“Your instinct is to always be chivalrous?”

Not when you look at me like that. Not when you lean into me so close that I can breathe you in.

“Yes.”

She just gave him a wicked smile that suggested she knew he was lying.

“Well, my instinct is not to be chivalrous or ladylike or well behaved at all,” she said. He thought that she shouldn't say such things. Especially not when they were alone like this. “You may have noticed, but I regularly find myself doing the wrong thing. Why, I forget the correct forms of address, or when it's my turn to go in to supper, or all the steps to the quadrille, and I don't always walk with a certain air.”

“I imagine the duchess is trying to remedy all that.”

And it was a pity. Because a perfect lady would be simpering instead of treating him to wicked grins. A perfect lady would have spoken only of the weather. And a perfect lady would never tease him and call him Looord Darcy.

“She is. But that's not why I'm trying.” He didn't say anything, afraid of what was coming next. “It was what you said at my first ball.”

His throat tightened. He'd said something awful. But he could not explain to her that she had surprised him, aroused him, sent his world spinning off its axis. That he could not let anyone, least of all, Lady Francesca, suspect as much.

But now he bore some responsibility for a lively, engaging, and interesting young woman trying to shrink herself to fit into a little perfect box. So stuck-­up gents like him and the rest of the haute ton would approve or, at the very least, have less to gossip about.

“Lady Bridget, I do apologize . . .”

“You already apologized.”

“But then it was merely to mollify you. Now I know you better and I am sorry if you are trying to change yourself because of some stupid, idle chatter.”

Spoken by a man who lusts after you and is afraid to acknowledge it. Because what will people say?

“Now that, Lord Darcy, is an apology.”

They exchanged smiles. Nervous but kind smiles.

“Now I suppose I owe you an apology,” she confessed. “I am sorry that I have called you Dreadful Darcy in my diary.”

“You have wounded me terribly, but I'm certain I shall survive,” he deadpanned. She laughed. He delighted in the sound.

And storm clouds loomed ahead.

It was about to rain. The air was thick with the possibility of it, the promise of it. Low rumbles of thunder foreshadowed the looming storm.

For the first time since Amelia left, Bridget started to fear for her sister. There had been no sign of her on the streets of Mayfair or in the park. No one they had spoken to provided even a hint of clue. And now their search would be hindered by the weather.

They had traveled far from the populated areas of the park into some remote corner. If Bridget hadn't been with Lord Darcy, Earl of Chivalry and Protector of Virtue, she might have been nervous to be here alone with a man.

But she was safe with him. Of course she was. She glanced over at the man beside her. He was tall, dark, strong, and inscrutable. Until a few hours earlier, he'd been a stranger at best. More often she considered him her nemesis, for he embodied everything about England and the haute ton that made her feel worthless. But the man she'd been with today was harder to hate. He was almost becoming . . . human.

“This will probably be a quick storm. We'll seek shelter in the gazebo,” he said, gesturing toward the structure looming ahead. It was built in a classical style and impossible to discern if it was new or a hundred years old. “You go ahead while I cover the carriage,” he said. Then he jumped down and went around to help her alight.

She placed her hand in his.

Her gaze locked with his.

There was a rumble of thunder.

Neither of them hurried.

“And Lady Bridget—­take my jacket. I insist.”

He shrugged out of the gray wool coat and draped it around her shoulders. As he did, his fingers brushed against her skin. He might not feel shivers of desire and pleasure but she certainly did in that moment.

She dashed for the cover of the gazebo and glanced over her shoulder at him; he stood there, just in his white shirt and waistcoat, watching her with his dark eyes.

There was a strange fluttering in her stomach. She clung to his coat with one hand, wrapping it around her, and inhaled deeply. It carried his scent—­like expensive wool, expensive soap, and something indescribably masculine. It affected her strangely, making her want to envelop herself in the jacket . . . or his arms.

There was another rumble of thunder, then an unholy crack of lightning, and the heavens exploded with a deluge of plump raindrops just as she reached shelter. She turned to watch Darcy as he rushed to cover the carriage, becoming soaked in the process.

When he was finished he walked toward her at a slow, steady pace; he didn't rush, not even in the downpour, as if he were impervious to the rain. So she had ample time to notice his long strides, and the way the wet breeches clung to his very muscular legs. Ladies weren't supposed to notice such things, probably, but she couldn't tear her gaze away—­except to take note of the broad expanse of his chest, plain as day underneath his wet shirt. White linen was plastered against his arms, revealing the significant curve of his biceps and the broad outline of his shoulders.

His hair, usually brushed back, fell into his eyes, rakishly.

She had seen this before . . . that day at the garden party, more particularly during that unforgettable moment when she clung to him in the lake. But this was different because they were alone.

This was different because at some point during the day, she had been wounded by Rupert and the possibility that he'd run off with her sister. More to the point, she had ceased to loathe Darcy. Little by little, as the moments passed, he had lost some of his reserve. And now the look he gave her was raw, wanting.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It made her nervous. In an attempt to defuse the moment she gave a little laugh and said, “You look almost like Rupert with your hair like that. A bit more rakish, a bit more dashing.”

His eyes flashed. Had she angered him? How could that have angered him? He took a step toward her.

“I'm nothing like Rupert,” he said in a low voice.

“I know,” she said in a whisper.

He took another step closer. His chest was inches from hers. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. She had to, for his gaze had locked with hers, mesmerizing her, and she could not look away.

“You don't know,” he said in a fierce whisper. Her heart began to pound, hard. “
You don't know
.”

He placed one finger under her chin, tilting her face, her mouth, up to him. “Rupert will never do this.”

And then he kissed her.

His mouth was firm on hers; yielding was the only option. There was no question of teasing or resisting. Because he was right: she didn't know
anything.
The world as she knew it had tipped upside down, spun around, all her truths were now in question.

Because Darcy was kissing her.

Never had she imagined that she would kiss him and that he would kiss like this. A toe-­curling, knees-­weakening, breathtaking kiss as the rain fell around them. All these feelings were new and wonderful and brought on by
Darcy.

She placed her palm on his chest as if to stop him. Or brace herself. His shirt was wet under her palm and she could feel his heart pounding. Oh God, he was feeling this as intensely as she. And that took her breath away.

And still, he kissed her. His mouth firm on hers, urging her to yield and open to him. And she did. Oh, she did.

There was thunder. There was lightning. And there was Darcy. Kissing her.

The world spun around her, whirling out of control, so she did the only sensible thing: she clung to him and kissed him back with a fervor that surprised her because this desire was intense and he was awakening it within her with every second of this kiss.

Good God, he had kissed her.

It was inevitable, he supposed. A man could take only so much of her wicked smiles and the feeling of her curvy little body, warm up against his. A man could take only so many quick glances at a woman's breasts before he needed to feel them.

She kept going on and on about Rupert, who would never desire her the way Darcy did, at this moment. He was consumed with it, possessed by it.

And he just broke.

Apparently there were only so many feelings and desires he could shove into a small ball, bury in the pit of his stomach, and ignore. He had reached his limit.

So he kissed her. And he took his time about it, too. No longer fighting his desires, he just gave in and enjoyed his downfall.

But sense and reason, rude little bastards, intruded.

She is a lady.

You are an unfeeling gentleman of honor. Get a bloody mistress, not a proper virgin.

Darcy broke away, suddenly, and she stumbled into his chest. He caught her and held her there and kissed her again.

Her hands slid up to his neck, fingers twining in his hair, then she clasped his jaw in her small hands. He needed to feel her, feel her skin, and so he clasped her face in his hands and then, like a fool, he moved lower until he felt her breast beneath his palm. He groaned softly, because to touch her was better than he imagined, because his cock was unbelievably hard and he wanted to explode with desire for this woman, and because they were kissing and they shouldn't be.

He actually started to entertain thoughts of taking her on the stone floor of the gazebo. In public.

What kind of Englishman was he? What kind of peer of the realm behaved so scandalously?

So much for his infamous self-­control. What had he been thinking? One did not kiss gently bred ladies, especially if they were sisters to a duke and especially if the lady in question fancied his brother.

He hadn't been thinking. Correction: He was thinking . . . about her breasts under his palm, and desperately wanting to close the small distance between them. And nothing else.

He stopped. He had to.

Darcy opened his mouth to say,
I beg your pardon
, or something to that effect. But the words never crossed his lips. He wasn't sorry.

He wasn't sorry
at all.

And then he smiled. A roguish smile even. For a moment there, he had cast off
Lord Darcy
and all its attendant responsibilities and was just a man, kissing a pretty girl in a rainstorm. For a second he felt like . . . lightning or something powerful, and uncontainable. And he felt . . . light.

“You . . .” Bridget said, breathlessly.
He had left her breathless. Good.

“Yes.”

“. . . just kissed me?”
He had addled her wits. Good.

“You did not imagine it,” he confirmed. His heart was still pounding.