Lady Bridget's Diary (14 page)

“Just one brother.”

“Thank God that you don't have sisters,” the duke said, though Darcy had the distinct impression he adored his. “They are a plague upon a man's sanity.”

“I can imagine,” Darcy murmured, thinking of how Lady Bridget was a plague upon his sanity and self-­restraint.

“One minute they are begging you to take them to England so they can wear pretty dresses and be called lady and be fancy. And once you bring them halfway around the world, one of them runs away and all of them want to go back to America.”

Lady Bridget wanted to leave England?
It made sense; she had struggled to fit in, thanks to people like him who had resented their difference because it made him examine his own behavior. Darcy sipped his drink and refused to consider why he felt something that might be labeled alarm at the prospect of her leaving.

“What does it matter what they want?”

“Spoken by a man who does not have sisters,” the duke said, laughing. The dukedom might be an awesome responsibility, but he imagined it paled in contrast to shepherding three beautiful, unruly sisters through life.

“I see that you care greatly for them.”

“I'd do anything for them.” He sighed. “And that's the problem.”

Darcy understood perfectly. Too perfectly.

He thought of his own brother, and the delicate and dangerous situation he found himself in. Blackmail for unnatural acts was no laughing matter, and it wasn't something that could be swept aside easily, like trifling gaming debts or arriving drunk to Almack's.

They
would
stop the blackmailer. And they would have to stop any rumors. A wife was the perfect cover. Especially a wife like Lady Bridget, whom Rupert did care for and who adored him.

Never mind that Darcy was stricken with the urge to say no and slam his fist down when he thought about it. He had kissed her and it had done something to him; it had unlocked the box where he ruthlessly shoved anything like feelings, and now they threatened to burst out, spill over, and wreak havoc on his life.

And he could not imagine a greater torture than seeing her as his brother's wife. His brother, who would probably never kiss her the way Darcy had done.

But he wouldn't stop the match either.

From their earliest days, Darcy always looked out for his younger brother. It had always been his role to explain away the problems, or take the punishment for his little brother, or help him in whatever scrapes he got into as a young man. That bond and those roles had only strengthened as the years passed. Rupert was his only family.

That would not change now.

“I hope your brother is not as much trouble as my three sisters,” Durham said. He had no idea.

“Not for lack of trying,” Darcy said dryly. “How are you settling in?”

“I think you're the only person to ask me that who is interested in a truthful answer. This duke business is something else. Complaints from tenants I've never met, repairs needed on estates I've never been to, absurd social rules that I need to know, the pressure to wed—­and not for pleasure but for business. Much more complicated than horses.”

Darcy had learned to be adept at all facets of being a titled gentleman. His father had spent hours, days, months, years, lecturing him on the duties of managing their vast estates, dragging him along to tenant visits and, upon occasion, using beatings to make sure the information stuck.

Darcy learned how to stifle his own feelings, to mask his expression, and to put duty to the estate above all else, particularly any personal desire.

It was only in this moment that he realized that Durham probably had no one to show him how to be Durham, other than the duchess, which only made things worse.

“Do you have an estate manager?”

“Crowley or some fellow. And the duchess, of course.”

Both men drank, because the duchess was the kind of terrifying matron who drove a man to drink. It was either that or admit to being afraid.

“I am happy to be of assistance if you require it. We can always meet at White's for a drink as well.”

“I've heard of White's. Apparently I am a member.”

“No women allowed,” Darcy said, allowing himself a grin.

“Just what I need,” the duke said, grinning. “I shall see you there.”

Chapter 16

According to the duchess, a True Lady is one who knows how to plan and host a ball for five hundred people. I asked Rupert if that was something he looked for in a wife and he just laughed and said he loved parties.

Lady Bridget's Diary

T
he Cavendish family had spent hours, days, weeks planning their first ball. According to the duchess, it was vitally important that all the sisters become accomplished hostesses so that they might be an asset to the husbands they might one day (soon, please Lord, soon) acquire. Claire couldn't care less about any of it, though she was helpful with any sums, such as how many bottles of champagne to order if they invited six hundred people and most of them agreed to attend.

Amelia's contributions consisted of absurd suggestions for entertainments: Gypsy fortune-­tellers in the ladies' retiring room or tightrope walkers from Astley's Amphitheatre.

But Bridget devoted herself to the planning of everything, from the guest list (Rupert's was the first name she wrote down), to the menus (“Do you think that is a bit much?” the duchess inquired upon seeing her three-­page list. “You made me write it before lunch,” Bridget explained.). She might not have been able to successfully adhere to her reducing diet, or master French, or sing on key, but being a hostess seemed like a ladylike task that she could do.

She and her sisters had no help from their brother. James, being a useless male, just said yes to whatever was asked.

“Would you rather serve ratafia or punch?” Bridget asked.

“Yes.”

“Your Grace, do you think we should have silver or gold as part of the color scheme?” the duchess asked, looking down her nose at him.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he murmured, without looking up from the sporting pages of the newssheet.

“Your Grace, it is vitally important that we throw a ball,” Josephine said, revealing her irritation. It was, she informed them, a crucial part of their ongoing campaign to woo high society. Apparently it was not enough to possess an old and prestigious title, or pots of money. One needed a pristine reputation and the favor of the movers and shakers in the haute ton.

Just in case, say, they needed to weather a scandal.

Which, thanks to Amelia, they did.

Their ball marked their first appearance after they abruptly canceled their attendance at a soiree due to Amelia's adventure. They had blamed it on a sudden and dire illness. And now it was all anyone wished to discuss.

An hour after the ball began, it became clear that while everyone accepted the excuse, no one believed it.

Bridget never thought she'd long to discuss the weather, but after a certain point, she was desperate to discuss anything other than her sister's “precious health.” No one complimented the décor, or the menu, or the orchestra, or any of the little details she had so carefully attended to. It was maddening.

The conversations invariably followed the same pattern.

“Lady Amelia, we are so glad to see you have recovered from your sudden illness,” someone would say.

“Your very sudden, very mysterious illness,” someone else would say with a sly wink and a knowing smile. “From which you have made a most dramatic recovery.”

“I am not quite myself again,” Amelia replied, and it was the truth. But no one in the family knew why or where she had been. Or what had changed her. For once, Amelia wasn't talking, and Claire and Bridget had spent a good hour devising schemes to make her talk, to no avail.

“You must have been terribly worried for your sister,” someone would invariably say.

“You cannot imagine how much,” Bridget would answer. And then her thoughts would stray to the day she had spent searching for her sister, which somehow involved passionately kissing Lord Darcy.

And then she would think about that kiss . . .

And then she would wonder what it all meant.

Did she dare just ask him?

Perhaps, if he deigned to arrive. Both Darcy and Rupert had agreed to attend, but had yet to make an appearance. She was on tenterhooks waiting for them, and their friendly, familiar faces.

In fact, there were very few familiar or friendly faces in the crowd.

“Duchess, have you invited all of our enemies?” Claire inquired after Lord Fox and Lady Francesca made their entrance.

“
‘Enemies' is such a strong word, dear.” But she smiled in that sharp and knowing way of hers.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Bridget quipped.

“Precisely. If you are to stay here, you need to win these people over. Simply being Durham is not enough,” Josephine said. And then turning to the next guest, she greeted him warmly. “Ah, Mr. Collins! We are so pleased to have you join us this evening. The ladies cannot express how delighted they are that you could join us.”

Indeed, they could not.

“I look forward to dancing with all my cousins. We hardly get such delights as this at the vicarage and I shall be sure to enjoy it.”

The ladies were less than enthralled with the prospect.

A few hours later, Bridget found herself lingering along the perimeter of the ballroom, in an endless round of polite chatter with her guests and striving to avoid Mr. Collins. Earlier, he had penciled his name on her dance card (bad) and pinched her cheek (worse) and said he thought women were too slender these days and he was glad she bucked fashion (the very worst).

She sought out her sisters. Claire was speaking with Lord Fox (!), Amelia was being introduced to a gentleman Bridget didn't recognize (?), James had disappeared, and Rupert was nowhere to be found, which Bridget found troubling. He had promised he would attend and claim two dances. Here she was, her dance card glaringly empty, save for a few obligatory dances with unappealing prospects. Ahem, Mr. Collins. She had learned the hard way that ladies did not refuse gentlemen's invitations to dance.

But there was Darcy threading his way through the crowd, with his eyes set upon her. Her heart started to pound, hard and slow in her chest. He was something else entirely in his evening clothes—­he was even more Darcy-­ish, if such a thing was possible. Everything was black and white and starched and fitted and perfect.

It was hard to believe this man had been overcome with passion for her. She couldn't imagine him overcome with passion for anything and yet . . . She pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering. She almost wanted it to happen again, just so she could be sure. Or did she need it to happen again because she just
needed
to feel that wanted again?

Darcy stood before her, gazing down intensely with those dark eyes of his. Making all thought, rational and otherwise, flee.

“Good evening, Lady Bridget.”

How had she never noticed how low his voice was? How had she not noticed the way it made her tremble slightly?

“Good evening, Lord Darcy.”

Was that the faintest hint of a smile? Rupert laughed so easily, but his brother . . . his expressions might as well have been carved in granite. That faint upturn of his lips was some sort of triumph. She felt elated.

“How are you enjoying this evening?” she asked, ever the polite hostess.

“Very well. You and your sisters have done an excellent job planning this affair.”

Bridget leaned in close to confide in him and caught the scent of his jacket, which reminded her of the time she had worn his coat . . . and then for a moment she forgot what to say. “It was mostly the duchess and myself. Claire couldn't be bothered, and if Amelia had her way, there would be a tightrope strung up between the chandeliers.”

“I actually would have liked to see that,” he remarked, glancing up to the ceiling.

“I as well, though the duchess nearly had an apoplexy when Amelia made the suggestion.”

“I don't suppose your sister has revealed anything about her day spent abed whilst gravely ill from a malady from which she has miraculously recovered?”

She smiled. She and Darcy shared a secret. Two secrets. Whoever thought she would share secrets with a man like him? It made her feel so connected to him.

“She has not breathed a word. It is highly unusual for her.”

And then Darcy said something that surprised her. In fact, he leaned in close to whisper in her ear.

“She was not with Rupert,” he said softly. And suddenly the air between them changed. If it had been charged before, it was positively electric now. She didn't know what to make of this feeling. She didn't know what to say.

She just knew that her heart leapt because Amelia had not been with Rupert, which meant that perhaps she still had a chance with him.

But then why did she feel a bolt of lust when Darcy approached?

“Oh, I didn't know,” she replied. “Will he be here tonight?”

“He said he would be late.”

She had been counting on Rupert to be here especially because she was nervous to be hosting her first ball. He made her laugh and feel at ease. He was her friend. She wrote
Rupert and Bridget
in her diary an embarrassing number of times and fancied marrying him.

But he had never kissed her. Not once, not even a little, and not at all the way Darcy had done, with all the fierceness of long-­restrained passions finally bursting free.

Passions that seemed to have been gathered and restrained.

She couldn't make sense of this man, or her feelings for him.

And then he surprised her again.

Darcy ought to be used to this feeling of war within him: there was the desire to do one thing, cold rationality demanding he do another. Rupert wished to wed her. And Darcy wished to bed her.

Rupert had gone out and said he would arrive at the ball late. Darcy forced himself not to be the first guest in attendance, forced himself not to make a beeline for Bridget, forced himself again and again to stop thinking about her.

Her lips. Her sighs.

Her everything.

No.

He should have avoided the ball this evening, but that seemed wrong. For one thing, showing his support for the family after befriending the duke and nearly ravishing Bridget was the least he could do. But the truth was he wanted to see Bridget. And he wanted to test himself.

Could he be near her and not want her?

He ought to start thinking of her as Rupert's, not his. Never his.

But here he was, standing before her, full of wanting.

He had complimented the hostess, they had spoken briefly of mutual acquaintances, and now he was free to make his excuses and go find a strong drink and high-­stakes game of cards.

But he didn't want to leave her. Not yet. Not because he had seen her standing along the perimeter of the ballroom alone, watching everyone else have a marvelous time at her party.

Because, if he were being honest, Darcy wanted to feel her in his arms again, and there was only one socially acceptable way to do that.

“Would you care to dance, Lady Bridget?”

She appeared shocked. Rightly so.

“But you do not dance.”

So this was what it felt like to have a knife wound to the heart. God, and this was the second time he had asked her to dance. And the second time she refused. No wonder he made a habit of avoiding dancing entirely.

“Right.”

“But it is the proper thing to ask me,” she remarked, smiling. “And of course you always do the proper thing.”

“Indeed.”

He was vastly relieved that she should interpret it that way, was he not? She still knew nothing of his tortured feelings, still thought him a right proper stick-­in-­the-­mud. And he would still, possibly, get to dance with her and hold her in his arms.

This was perfect, was it not?

“I would hate to tempt you into behaving improperly,” she said softly, smiling wickedly, and it did things to him. Then she added softly, “Again.”

Tempt me.
He experienced a perverse desire to have a monumental test of his self-­control and personal resolve.

“My self-­control is legendary,” he told her. And himself.

“Is it?” She gave him a knowing smile that spoke of what had happened between them in the gazebo in the rain that afternoon . . . Proper English gentlemen didn't do such things, and they certainly didn't talk about it if they did.

“Well, possibly merely mythical,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. A blush stole across her cheeks.

“Shall we?”

He swept her into his arms. Darcy gently clasped her gloved hand and placed his other hand on the small of her back. Memories flooded his brain, such as how she felt flush against him. The pressure of his palm must have been too much; he was out of practice. She was right; he did not dance. She stumbled a little, nearly into him. Her gaze flew up to his.

“My apologies.”

“It's all right,” she said softly.

The orchestra launched into a song, and they began to move in time to the music. Mostly. It was easy enough for a gentleman to lead a waltz; the steps were simple, but it was damn hard to navigate around all the other dancers when one was driven to distraction by his dancing partner, who was, admittedly, not an excellent dancer herself.

They were a disaster together.

Her eyes were so very blue.

That he was fixated on the blueness of her eyes was just one reason they were a disaster together. They had a few near-­miss collisions with other couples on the dance floor. In effort to avoid them, she stepped on his feet. Her skirts tangled around their legs. They stumbled slightly. Her breasts brushed against his chest and she laughed nervously.

He wanted to die. Not only was this a mockery of dancing, the entire ton was watching this self-­inflicted torture. All because he wanted to bed her. Bury himself inside her. Lose himself in her. Feel everything until he exploded from the intensity to it. Then, perhaps, he could return to his calm, orderly, unfeeling existence.

But he could not. That would require marriage. That would interfere with his plans, with Rupert's plans.