Lady Bridget's Diary (2 page)

His eyes were dark and intensely focused on
her
. His jaw was set. If his brother was sunshine and cupid, this man was dark clouds, thunderstorms, that feeling of electricity in the air before lightning strikes.

They stood there, staring at each other, in an agonizing silence. In her opinion, extended silences were the worst. The longer they lasted, the harder it was to find something to say. And she often blurted out the first thing on her mind to avoid it. This moment was no exception.

“Do you dance, Mr. Darcy?”

“Lord Darcy,” he corrected. Of course. Everyone here was Lord or Lady or Your Grace or Your Lordship. Not only were there rankings, but also different forms of address, many of which changed depending on whether one was writing or speaking. Bridget remembered Josephine lecturing on this—­and she remembered not paying attention.

She longed, intensely, for America, where everyone was either Mr., Mrs., or Miss, and that was that.

“I'm ever so sorry, Loooord Darcy,” she said, drawing out the sound and imitating his accent. Her attempt at humor was met with more silence. Dreaded silence. “Do you?”

“I do not.” Of course he didn't. Because dancing was
fun
and she could already see that this man was where anything amusing and pleasant went to die.

Most ladies would take the opportunity to flee from a man who obviously had no interest in them. But she was not most ladies.

She accepted this Dreadful Darcy as a personal challenge. She
would
make him laugh, or at least crack a smile, if it was the
last
thing she did. Bridget leaned in closer, as if to whisper something scandalous. He stood still, like a statue. Barely breathing.

“Are you not speaking to me because we haven't been properly introduced?”

“No.”

“Tell me, Lord Darcy, do you find it amusing, this brooding and striking fear into the hearts of innocent young maidens?”

Was that a twitch at his lips? Laughter? She wanted to crow in triumph. But it was too soon. She was emboldened to continue.

“I wonder, Lord Darcy, if we have not been introduced, then has this conversation even happened?”

She lifted one brow, questioning.

He simply stared at her. Was he horrified by her outspokenness or was he actually considering the question? It was a good question, actually. One she would pose to Josephine tomorrow over breakfast. She was actually curious how this disapproving gentleman would answer.

“I think you will agree that it's best we proceed as if this conversation has never taken place. Excuse me,” he said, ever so politely. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her alone in a crowded room.

“Have a good evening,” she muttered to his back. Then quietly under her breath, she added on one of the slang words she'd recently learned from a stable hand.

“Did she just . . .
fall
?” Miss Mabel Mulberry said with a shake of her strawberry blond hair.

“I think she just fell,” Miss Kitty Montague said, mouth agape.

Lady Francesca DeVere just smiled. “She most certainly did.”

When
The London Weekly
broke the news that the new Duke of Durham would be arriving from
America
with not one but three sisters in tow, most of the ton lamented the foreign invasion. A few enterprising mothers began to plot how they might land the duke for their daughters, with the hope that in time his title would trump his past occupation. But Lady Francesca DeVere was nervous about the arrival of three new young ladies.

She had only just vanquished her chief rival and best friend, Lady Katherine Abernathy, who had failed to snare the Duke of Ashbrooke after four seasons of trying. Instead she had married nobody and was now rusticating in the country.

And now Lady Francesca was the reigning beauty of the ton.

Unless those American girls were beautiful, amiable, and charming. They were pretty, but not beautiful. She'd heard they were nice enough. But now that girl had fallen in the middle of the ballroom and nothing else mattered.

Francesca's status as darling of the season would be secured. But wait . . . was that . . . ?

“Is that Darcy and his brother with her?” Miss Mulberry asked.

“Yes,” Lady Francesca admitted through gritted teeth.

“Did he propose yet, Francesca?” Miss Montague asked.

No, he had not. Which was fine. Truly. She was still on schedule—­the first season was for flirting, the second for entertaining suitors, and in the third she would marry her older brother's best friend, Darcy. She was so certain of it that she'd even spent the earlier part of this season with her aunt and chaperone, Lady Wych Cross, taking the waters in Bath.

She turned to face her silly friend.

“If he had proposed, you wouldn't have to ask. I would tell you.”
And the whole bloody town.

“Why is he spending so much time talking to the American girl?” Miss Montague asked.

Francesca sighed. “The question is why is he talking to her at all? He is probably just being polite. You know Darcy, he is nothing if not perfectly polite.”

But she wasn't taking any chances. She would have to go flirt with him immediately. As much as one could flirt with Darcy, anyway.

A short while later, having taken great care when walking through the ballroom, Bridget found her sisters and the duchess.

“Where did you go? We lost you in the crowds,” Claire said.

“I hope you didn't get into any trouble,” the duchess said, giving her a once-­over as if she might detect what Bridget had done and with whom she had done it.

“I took a turn about the room,” Bridget said. “In a manner of speaking. What did I miss?”

“We were introduced. To people. A lot of very English people,” Amelia said, yawning.

“They are the very best of high society.”

“I'm so sorry to have missed that,” Bridget said dryly.

“I said, ‘How do you do' and ‘It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance' approximately six and twenty times,” Amelia added.

“And I thank the Lord that is all you said,” the duchess said with a glance heavenward.

“And then we were asked about Indian attacks and bears,” Claire said, rolling her eyes, which made Josephine cringe. Apparently proper ladies did not roll their eyes. “Amelia, of course, encouraged them in believing the worst.”

“I see I didn't miss anything,” Bridget said. “Where is James?”

It was important that they all stay together in this foreign land.

“There.” Amelia pointed to the dance floor, and the duchess reminded her about pointing (it was yet another thing that was Not Done). Their brother was waltzing with a very long-­faced woman who seemed to smile as much as Loooord Darcy, which was to say, not at all.

James didn't look like he was having much fun either.

“Oh dear,” Bridget murmured.

“She looks like a horse,” Amelia murmured.

“Lady Melinda Cowper would make an excellent duchess. Her bloodlines are perfect and her manners are exquisite.”

“And she is described like a horse,” Claire said under her breath.

“She probably never finds herself flat on her back in a ballroom and speaking with gentlemen to whom she has not been introduced,” Bridget remarked.

Amelia burst out laughing.

“Why am I not surprised?” Claire asked, sighing. Bridget scowled in annoyance at her older sister.

“I certainly hope not,” the duchess said crisply. “And I shudder to think of how such horrific things even cross your mind, Lady Bridget.”

“You don't want to know, Josephine. You really don't.”

She was given A Look that managed to convey her displeasure with being referred to so informally, that she was above actually
saying
anything about it, and that she was well aware that Bridget knew better and ought to apologize.

“I'm very sorry.”

It was an amazing skill, that. One that Bridget would one day like to possess. Perhaps if she stayed with Josephine long enough, and actually paid attention to her lessons, she would pick up the skill by osmorisis or osmosis or whatever it was.

“Come, there are more introductions to be made. Everyone is desperate to make your acquaintance.”

And with that they continued their campaign to win over the haute ton. They paused to speak with Lord and Lady Something near the lemonade table. Bridget failed to pay strict attention to the conversation; instead she noticed Darcy. There was a woman on his arm—­the sort of tall, sleek, beautiful woman that made a regular woman in her best dress feel the most dowdy provincial spinster.

Theirs was a conversation she strained to overhear and she was infuriated by what she overheard him say.

Lord Darcy knew that there was only one thing to do when one's equilibrium was disturbed, and that was to stand very still and patiently wait for the world to right itself. He stood alone on the terrace, sipping a fine brandy and enjoying a respite. As a precaution, he arranged his features into something that could be described as brooding, the better to ward off anyone who might even consider the foolish notion of trying to converse with him. It was better that everyone thought him in a dark mood, rather than the truth.

And the truth was that he found himself flummoxed.

It went without saying that he was never unbalanced, remotely emotional, or disorganized. He was never flummoxed, confused, or any state other than perfectly calm and collected. He had spent his entire life cultivating the particular talent of suppressing every uncomfortable, wayward emotion.

His father would be so proud. This he thought with a small trace of bitterness.

So it was shocking that
he
found himself flummoxed, and it was unthinkable that the cause was an American woman sprawled on the floor of a ballroom.

He didn't know a world where that happened. Where women sprawled upon floors in ballrooms, then stood up and made jokes about it and proceeded to tease him.

No one teased him.

No one spoke to him the way she had done—­informally, as if they were old mates of the same rank. Did she not know that she was supposed to be afraid of him?

Apparently not.

No one ever left him with a tight feeling in his chest either. Like he couldn't breathe. Like she took his breath away.

But that was preposterous.

Darcy sipped his drink and willed his world to rights. The tension in his chest eased and his breathing resumed. A young woman caught his eye and quickly averted her gaze—­ah, that was more like it.

He hadn't seen Rupert since the bounder abandoned him with Lady Bridget—­here he took a sharp intake of breath and refused to consider her further—­and he reluctantly returned to the ballroom in search of him.

But then there was Fox, heading his way and grinning for having found him. His sister was with him, strolling along gracefully. Lady Francesca DeVere was beautiful, clever, and irreproachable. The perfect wife for a man of his station. He would probably marry her.

“Have you seen my brother?” Darcy inquired.

“I think I spotted him in the card room with Croft,” Fox said, referring to an old school friend of theirs. Darcy wasn't surprised; his brother had recently begun racking up gaming debts. “But never mind that. I have made the acquaintance of the new duke,” Fox said, falling in step beside him. Francesca did as well. “He's all right.”

“Glad to hear it.” Darcy would pay call upon the new duke tomorrow—­they were neighbors in London after all—­because civility and manners demanded it. Therefore, he saw no reason to join the hordes seeking his acquaintance this evening.

They had made it as far as the lemonade table when a crush prevented them from walking further. So the trio stood there and carried on their conversation.

“And I saw you made the acquaintance of one of the sisters. The girl who fell,” Lady Francesca said, glancing at him under her thick black lashes.

“Yes. Lady Bridget.”

There was a flicker in her eyes; she was surprised he knew her name.

“It's all anyone is talking about tonight. Poor thing.”

Darcy tensed, then muttered a vague response. It only occurred to him now that if everyone had seen Lady Bridget falling, then they had undoubtedly seen him conversing with her. He would be an object of gossip. Their names would be linked. How distasteful.

Lady Francesca mercifully carried on. “I heard the other one is a bluestocking. And the third mentioned riding astride. Can you just imagine?”

She laughed lightly.

“They're pretty,” Fox said. Again. He wasn't known for the depth or variety of his thoughts. “Darcy, don't you think so?”

“They're not handsome enough to tempt me to overlook their manners,” Darcy said flatly, while his gaze strayed to Lady Bridget in particular.

He didn't miss the smug smile on Francesca's lips. And out of the corner of his eye he saw . . . the woman in question. Standing nearby, within earshot, with her family. Had she heard? What did he care if she did?

“Well, I think they're pretty,” Fox insisted.

“You're engaged,” his sister said.

“So people keep telling me.”

“Why can't you be more refined and dignified, like Darcy?”

Francesca gave him a coy smile as she linked her arm with his. He appreciated that they shared the same values. That was why he would marry her. That, and she would never flail about and fall down in a ballroom and ask him inane questions, such as
If they were conversing without having been introduced, did the conversation even happen?

He wanted to say no. It never happened. But it did. Because he was still thinking about it. And the wicked gleam of amusement in her eyes as she asked.

“There aren't many men like Darcy,” Fox said.

“Isn't that the truth,” Francesca cooed.