Lady Bridget's Diary (16 page)

Chapter 18

Sometimes I do not know which affects me more: Rupert's charm or the dark and intense way that Darcy looks at me. It reminds me of the moment before our kiss—­which has not been repeated, alas.

Alas?

Lady Bridget's Diary

I
f Bridget had any doubts about Rupert's feelings or intentions for her—­and she did, given that he had been scarce and distracted of late—­this evening assuaged them. And if she had any ideas about the goings-­on of Lord Darcy's heart or mind, this evening brought no clarity.

She and her siblings had only just arrived when Rupert sought her out. He looked so handsome in his evening clothes, especially when he smiled and revealed that charming dimple in his cheek.

Behind him, Lord Darcy glowered.

“Lady Bridget! I was hoping to see you this evening.”

“Hello, Rupert.” She smiled and thought she sounded coy and womanly. Or not.

“Hello, Rupert,” Amelia mimicked softly. Bridget smiled and made a point of stepping on her sister's foot. “Ow!”

“Lord Darcy.” Bridget nodded.

“Lady Bridget.” He did not smile.

“Have you saved a dance or two for me?” Rupert asked, leaning over to glance at her dance card. “I hope so.”

“I daresay I have,” Bridget said.

“If I may have the pleasure . . .” Rupert penciled in his name to not one, but two dances.

He smiled.

She smiled.

Darcy did not smile, not even when Bridget looked at him. For a moment she thought that he might ask her for a dance. A long moment. A long, awkward moment, full of agonies. But there was no offer forthcoming. Well then.

Any hurt feelings were soothed when Rupert lifted her hand to his lips and promised to see her soon. He took a few steps before Darcy joined him, which meant there was a moment when Darcy gazed at Bridget as if he wished to say something.

But he only gave her a perfunctory nod and joined his brother.

That kiss, then, meant nothing. They would never speak of it and it would never happen again. Well then.

Rather than delve into an examination of her innermost thoughts and feelings pertaining to Darcy, Bridget fixated all her attentions on Rupert.

During their first waltz they chattered away . . . except for the moments when she happened to see Darcy. Standing against the wall. Like a wallflower. Glowering. Honestly, she could not understand the man. What did he have to be so morose about? Was life really so difficult for a handsome, wealthy, powerful man who knew how to kiss a woman until she was weak in the knees?

She would be so bold as to ask him, but he kept his distance. Even so, she was still aware of his attentions fixed upon her. He watched her as she muddled her way through the quadrille with Rupert. His gaze was dark as she returned from a stroll on the terrace with Rupert. She was aware of his eyes on her as she and Rupert made their way through the crowds to the lemonade table. She caught his gaze, dark, while taking a sip. Her hand shook and she spilled a little on her dress.

Still, he watched, his expression dark and thunderous. He must disapprove of her . . . with Rupert.

I find myself drawn to Darcy now, ever so curious as to what he is thinking or, dare I say it, feeling.

Lady Bridget's Diary

Darcy had done his best to avoid her all evening. Rupert had received another letter from the blackmailer and thus was more determined than ever to put a stop to it—­and to make any rumors seem absolutely implausible. His life depended on it. So he wooed and courted Bridget.

And Darcy watched, dying.

He saw that they would be happy together. Rupert did genuinely seem to like her. And her adoration of him was all too apparent. They laughed together frequently. Anyone could see how they were at ease in each other's company. If he cared for them both, he would stay away and banish all memories of a heart-­stopping kiss in a rainstorm. He would take his lust and shove it deep down inside, along with the other feelings he refused to feel.

Later, much later in the evening, he found himself standing with her and his brother.

“Is anything the matter, Loooord Darcy?”

He wanted to smile at the way she drawled out his name. But he was only reminded that the one woman who dared to speak to him like a human was going to marry his brother. That wasn't amusing at all.

“No,” he said flatly.

Yes. Everything. You are pretty.

“Because you seem very . . .” Rupert's voice trailed off as he searched for precisely the right word to describe the inner turmoil inadvertently revealed in his expression.

“Morose,” Bridget said.

“I daresay I would go with dour,” Rupert replied, thoughtfully.

“Or perhaps broody,” Bridget said, evaluating him.

“I know! Cantankerous,” Rupert suggested with a little too much glee.

“Only very old men are cantankerous,” Bridget said. “And Darcy isn't quite there. Yet.”

“Good point. Despondent?” Rupert mused. “But then what does my dear brother have to be despondent about?”

“The trials and tribulations of being a wealthy, titled, respected, handsome man,” Bridget said with a sigh.

She thought him handsome. Also, he loved the rise and fall of her breasts when she sighed. Somehow that only made him feel worse.

“I am none of the above,” he snapped.

“You are not wealthy, titled, respected, or handsome?” Bridget asked, being deliberately obtuse.

“I am not morose, dour, broody, or cantankerous.”

But he was. He was tortured with lust for Bridget. He was agonizing over his self-­sacrifice, denying his desires for the sake of his brother's need to take a wife with whom he'd probably enjoy a long, amiable marriage, while Darcy burned with lust for his sister-­in-­law.

Because family came first. None other than Lady Bridget herself said so. And family certainly trumped lust.

Unless it was more than lust.

Unless he put himself first for once.

“On second thought, perhaps he
is
cantankerous,” Bridget mused.

“Perhaps it is none of your concern.” He brushed her aside, ignoring her obvious shock, as he stalked off into the night.

Chapter 19

Just another day of lessons. Just another day of reviewing household accounts with the duchess and the housekeeper. Just another day of practicing sitting up straight, conjugating French verbs, and not having dessert. Being a Lady of Quality is not all it's cracked up to be.

Lady Bridget's Diary

T
he following day, Darcy sat behind his desk with a large stack of papers before him and he found it impossible to concentrate. A mad idea had occurred to him last night: if he desired Bridget so strongly, perhaps he ought to express that desire. Or relieve it. Or do something other than feel massively frustrated by it. Then he could carry on with his perfectly ordered and planned life.

But if he were to do something about it, a marriage proposal and wedding ceremony would have to take place. It was only logical: if he wished to bed her, he would have to marry her. That was the catch with gently bred ladies. Especially ones related to dukes. And most especially ones with the Duchess of Durham as a chaperone.

But it was a mad idea all the same. A mad, insane idea that would not leave his brain. He couldn't drink it away; the three whiskeys he drank last night had proven that. It was there when he went to bed and the first thing on his mind when he opened his eyes this morning.

It would be a terrible match. That was a fact.

A week ago he would have said the match would be terrible—­laughable, even!—­because Lady Bridget was hardly an ideal countess. A countess had to be graceful, refined, polished, reserved. She needed to know just what to say and how to properly address the person to whom she said it.

Lady Bridget was too outspoken, too emotional, too prone to things like a tumble in the lake at a garden party. A man of his position had to consider such things. A man of his position had to consider so much more than himself.

A man had to think of his family as well.

Rupert's blackmailer was still out there, in possession of a secret that would destroy him. Them. Their only prayer was to have enough powerful allies to protect his brother and their reputations. And sadly, Durham and his sisters hadn't quite conquered the ton just yet.

Rupert's plan to save his reputation—­and potentially his life—­through a marriage was the right thing to do. And Darcy was thinking about ruining it.

He ought to marry Francesca as planned; her brother and his best friend was a marquis. Their uncle was a close friend of the king. It would be an excellent connection to have.

But excellent connections did not warm a man's bed, or satisfy his rampant desires, or wink at him across a ballroom. They did not tease a man, or unlock long dormant parts of him.

Darcy stood, frustrated, and began to pace. What if he dared to think of himself, just this once? Desire was a strong and demanding creature, seducing him with such ideas.

As he paced, he occasionally looked up and saw his father's portrait. The damn thing glowered at him in soul-­crushing disapproval as if it knew the direction of his thoughts. Darcy lived under that perpetual frown, that constant glare.

He stopped short. Recognizing that same expression upon his own face. And it wasn't that he hated everything and everyone, or found the world not quite up to his standards. It was because it took such an enormous effort to remember one's place, one's duty, one's Noble Purpose . . . when a pretty girl fell over in front of you and then stood up and cracked jokes.

Darcy called for his hat and gloves. He was going out.

Darcy had the good fortune to find Lady Bridget alone at Durham House. She was in the garden. She smiled, and seemed happy enough to see him. He dared to exhale the breath he was holding. His heart was pounding in his chest as if he'd sprinted from London to Dover and back again. She, this slip of an American girl, made
him,
a peer of the realm, nervous and speechless.

“How are you today, Darcy?”

A proper reply would have been “Very well, thank you, and you?” An acceptable answer would have been “Fine.”

He did not say either of those things.

“I cannot stop thinking of you, Lady Bridget. In spite of my struggles, my valiant efforts, my thoughts constantly stray to you.”

Her lips parted. Shock, probably. He was shocked as well. These words. Were being spoken. Aloud. By him. To her.

“You, Lady Bridget,
you
. I don't know what it is about you . . .” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts, slow his racing heart. “God knows there are plenty of reasons I shouldn't want you and yet I have been tormented by desire for you these past weeks. I have fought against my better judgment, expectations for my marriage, Rupert's interests, the reputation of you and your scandal-­plagued family, but I can bear it no longer. I crave you, your kiss, your touch.”

He ached to reach out to her, touch her cheek.

She said nothing. Her lips parted, but still, she didn't speak. It seemed he had brought this constantly chattering woman to silence and he desperately need her to say something.

Anything.

Or he would.

“I think I might love you, Bridget. You are hardly the kind of woman I had imagined making my wife. But I fear I will never find happiness with anyone else. I beg you to put me out of my agonies. Will you do me the honor of becoming my countess?”

“I . . . I . . . don't know what to say.”

One thing was becoming abundantly, terribly clear: this was a disaster. Because of this impulsive idea from his lust-­addled brain to
propose marriage
, he was now stuck in this nightmare of a scene, playing the role of absolute idiot.

If she said yes, it would be worth it.

“Say you will be mine. My happiness depends upon it.”
And my pride. And my lust.

“And what of my happiness?” she demanded. He was taken aback by the sharpness of her tone.

“I want nothing more than to be the one to make you the happiest woman.”

“You might begin by not insulting me, or my ‘scandal-­plagued' family, or confusing love with lust.”

She might as well have slapped him.

The fog cleared from his brain. Sense and reason returned. She was right; he had insulted her horribly by revealing all the things he was forced to consider, by virtue of his position. But he had to. He wouldn't be who he was, otherwise.

She could not love him as he was.

Who was he, anyway? Was he this man? Or had his father succeeded in wiping away any trace of Colin Fitzwilliam Wright, who had once loved to laugh, chase girls, and even dance?

“I apologize.”

“For what? For holding yourself and others to impossible standards? For being all lordly, as you are supposed to be? You probably cannot even help it.”

She had it all right. No, all wrong. This was not who he was, deep down. He hoped she could unlock the cage he'd found himself in. But no.

“I apologize for insulting you. That was not my intention. I wished only to give an indication of the turmoil I am experiencing with regard to you.”

“I am sorry for your struggles. But I cannot accept your proposal.”

“Right.” He nodded. Dying. He was dying inside. God, how had this even happened? “This is not how I . . .”

Words. Not available to him at the moment. He started to go. But one question remained. He stopped, and turned.

“Is your refusal because of Rupert?”

“No,” she said, eyes flashing in anger. “It is because you are an ass.”

“Good.” He paused, carefully weighing the words he was about to say. “He will never love you. He will never love any woman the way she ought to be loved,” he said. “Do you understand me, Bridget?”

She nodded yes, but he saw the confusion in her eyes.

“But he will love you, in his own way. I only mention this because I wish you to be happy. And loved. And I regret that I dared to think I was the one who could make you happy.”

There was nothing else to say. He turned and walked back to his house at a much slower pace than when he had rushed headlong into disaster.

He was worried about ruining her, but the truth was she had ruined him. He always said the right thing, until today, when every sentence he uttered was worse than the last. And he had felt nothing until he made the acquaintance of Lady Bridget and he reluctantly had begun to allow himself to feel. And now he felt too damn much.

I have received my second marriage proposal and I can't quite decide if it's worse than the first. Darcy—­DARCY!—­asked me to be his wife. Even though I am not what he wants in a wife, which he made ABUNDANTLY CLEAR. Even though my family is “scandal-­plagued” in spite of my BEST EFFORTS. Even though marriage to me is against his better judgment. Well. WELL THEN.

I have refused him, naturally.

Lady Bridget's Diary

The logical thing to do now was to numb all and any feelings of rejection, despair, and self-­loathing. Not to mention a physical and mental sensation he might have described as heartsick, if he had been less of an Englishman.

Darcy proceeded directly to the sideboard in his study and poured a large tumbler of whiskey. The first drink did nothing. He could still recall everything, from the way Bridget tasted when he kissed her that day to the horrified expression on her face when he proposed. After the second whiskey, he could still recall everything, but he didn't feel it as intensely. Everything went to hell after the third.

At some point, Rupert strolled in, took one look at him, and asked, “Who died?”

“My hopes and dreams,” Darcy said flatly.

“Mine as well,” Rupert said grimly. “Read this.”

Rupert tossed a crumpled sheet of paper into Darcy's lap.

He set down his now empty glass, alas, and fumbled with the paper. The words blurred before his eyes.

Two thousand pounds by Tuesday or I'll tell the ton about you and you know who.

“I don't know what to do anymore, Colin.” His brother rubbed his eyes wearily. Pushed his fingers through his hair. Paced around the room before collapsing into a chair.

“This is very vague,” Darcy said, puzzled. “Are you sure this person even has the information with which to blackmail you?”

“Are you suggesting that someone simply goes around sending such letters, assuming everyone has skeletons in their closet they'll pay to hide?”

“Genius, if you ask me.”

“Evil genius. And no, he—­or she—­knows. A lot. The first letter was very detailed and specific.” Rupert paused, debating whether to say more before finally confessing. “It was about Frederick and me, and the times we visited Ivy Cottage.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No, I burned it. I burned them all.”

“Do you remember anything? Were they sealed? Was the handwriting the same?”

“No, I saw nothing but the threats. It was small amounts at first. And then more and more over time. As if they knew I would pay.”

He had paid. Someone had illegally obtained a fortune.

“We have to put a stop to this once and for all. I've been meaning to go to down to Ivy Cottage anyway. There was some trouble with the housekeeper and other things. In the meantime—­”

“—­I'll propose to Lady Bridget.” Rupert thought he was finishing his brother's sentence. But he wasn't. Not at all.

“No.” Darcy said this firmly, but softly. Rupert didn't seem to hear.

“We'll marry and that will ensure any rumors don't gain a foothold if they should emerge. We'll get along, Bridget and I. It could be worse, I suppose.”

God, Darcy would give anything to be able to love Bridget, to marry her, spend his life with her. And here was his brother, thinking it wouldn't be the worst fate, when compared to social ostracization, possible deportation, or death.

Bridget deserved better than that.

“No.” Darcy spoke louder now, but Rupert was lost in his own world. He stood, and started pacing around the room, muttering.

“Frederick won't like it. But
c'est la vie
. If this is what I must do to protect us, well then I must. And I am rather fond of her. She makes me laugh.”

Darcy stood.

“No.”

The match would be one of convenience, but it would make them all miserable.

“What do you mean, no?” Rupert stopped abruptly, having finally heard his brother. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Perhaps. Probably.” Darcy shrugged. And exhaled. “Absolutely.”

“You've been after me for years to wed. And now I've finally decided to settle down with a perfectly amiable girl and—­”

She wasn't a perfectly amiable girl. She was a woman. A complicated, confusing, confounding woman who wanted to be loved for herself, not in spite of stupid, perceived obstacles. She wanted to belong. She was a woman whose kiss made him forget himself—­or find himself, he wasn't sure. He just knew that she was more than merely
amiable.

Darcy couldn't take it anymore. Before he knew what he was about, his punched his brother. In the face. Right in the eye, to be precise.

“What the bloody hell?”

Rather than wait for answers, Rupert retaliated.

A scuffle ensued. Punches were thrown—­and missed their intended target. Or any target, really. Their battle quickly devolved into a juvenile scuffle, complete with slaps, kicks, and hair pulling. Chairs were overturned. At one point, a volume of Shakespeare's tragedies was used as a weapon.

It was utterly undignified.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” Rupert asked, panting.

“Don't speak of her that way,” Darcy replied, breathing hard.

“Why?” Rupert asked, confused and enraged. He held his eye, in pain. Darcy doubled over, trying to catch his breath. But he looked up and saw comprehension dawning in Rupert's eyes. “Oh. Oh my God.”

Marriage proposals: 2

Accepted proposals: 0