Lady Bridget's Diary (23 page)

“Perhaps we might have a moment of privacy?”

“Oooh, I bet he's going to propose,” Miss Mulberry said.

“We'll just be in the foyer. Eavesdropping,” Miss Montague added.

“I think that we should be clear with one another,” he started, once they were gone. He shifted in his chair. Damn, this seat was uncomfortable.

“You are here for a serious conversation.”

“Am I known for any other kind?”

“Touché,” she replied, unsmiling.

“We have known each other for quite some time,” he said. They practically grew up together, in fact. “And we have had an understanding for the past season or two. And it is now time for me to make my intentions clear.”

“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly. God, he'd given her the wrong idea. He was terrible at proposing
and
at not-­proposing. And people thought he was perfect. Ha.

“Lady Francesca, if there are other suitors you admire, I think you should encourage them.”

It took her a moment for the truth to sink in. He had always prided himself on being reliable, and now he was letting down a woman who had been counting on him. Not to mention angering his good friend. He did not want to marry her, but he also did not like having to have this conversation.

“Do you mean to say that I should not expect a proposal from you?”

“I'm afraid not, Lady Francesca.”

“Does Fox know about this?”

“I have not spoken to him, no.” Of course he had not found the time to mention to Fox, an expert swordsman, champion boxer, and crack shot that he would not, after all, marry his sister as planned. “I thought I would speak to you first.”

“Well, I can't say that I'm surprised. You have not seemed yourself lately.”

“Yes, well, I have been doing some thinking.”

“About a certain American girl, I suppose,” she said witheringly.

Speaking of a certain American girl, he saw a flash of something—­someone—­in the hall. Probably Lady Bridget, in the midst of a scheme that would only make things worse. Fortunately Lady Francesca was angled away from the doors.

Darcy might have felt a flare of panic, not that anyone would ever know because he always took care to appeal inscrutable. He did not wish to discuss any Americans with her, but he was at a loss for what to discuss with Lady Francesca during the most awkward social call in the history of social calls. He had a hunch that he needed to distract her for a little longer while Bridget finished up whatever trouble she was currently engaged in.

“No, nothing like that,” he lied. Then, inspiration struck. “I am very focused on my work in Parliament. Allow me to tell you about it.”

Meanwhile, in the library

Bridget had lingered at the top of the stairs while Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague eavesdropped shamelessly outside the doors to the drawing room.

“Oh, he's not proposing,” Miss Mulberry said with unconcealed boredom.

“How dreadful. Let us take our leave. We can go buy that cunning little hat we saw on Bond Street yesterday.”

“Let's! I'll wear it Tuesdays and Thursdays . . .”

They chattered away, determining a schedule for the sharing of the most cunning little hat while donning their bonnets and gloves. Finally, they left. The butler returned to his pantry, the very same one where she had done wicked things with Darcy. The foyer was empty.

Bridget had managed to dash downstairs undetected. She had sought refuge in the library, with doors just opposite those to the drawing room, but now she was trapped. Trapped! The butler was in the foyer, near the door, doing ­butler-­y things, and blocking her exit. Further complicating matters, the drawing room doors were open and she could see Darcy and Francesca in there. She could hear them. He was droning on about Parliament. She listened for a moment before dismissing it as the dullest thing she'd ever heard.

She examined her options and found a second set of double doors that led to another room, which also opened into the foyer.

Perhaps she could create a distraction that would draw the butler's attention. Then she could sneak out and resume her place in the carriage and act as if she'd been there all along. It was the perfect plan.

Bridget glanced around and looked for something breakable. She passed over the porcelain figurines on the mantel, or the full decanter of brandy, or the lovely china teacup left out, suggesting that someone would be back soon.
Oh my Lord, someone would be here soon!

Bridget looked around wildly and her attention settled on a rather unremarkable and plain vase of flowers. She picked it up and crept into the adjacent room. Then she softly opened the doors to the foyer. Then, after raising the vase high above her head, she brought it crashing down on the marble floor.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room

Francesca managed to appear vaguely interested in his deliberately tedious description of his current reform projects in Parliament. This was why she would make an excellent political wife. But he had since reprioritized.

“Darcy, darling,” she interrupted after a good ten minutes. “If we are being honest with each other, you should know that I haven't the slightest interest in your work in Parliament.”

Oh thank God. He was beginning to bore himself and he actually enjoyed his work.

“I do apologize, Lady Francesca.”

“I know why you are here.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

The awkward silence that ensued was abruptly halted by the sound of glass shattering in the foyer. Wordlessly they both ventured to see what the commotion was.

Darcy stepped into the hall only to find a broken vase of flowers at one end, with the butler staring down at it, puzzled. Darcy just happened to look at the opposite end of the foyer—­at the front door. He just happened to see Bridget dramatically creeping out. She made a show of shaking her head:
I'm not here.
She lifted her finger to her lips:
Silence. Say nothing.

Lady Bridget would be the death of him.

He turned back to the scene of the crime.

“How odd,” he murmured, pretending to be fascinated by the shards of glass, spill of water, and stems of roses in a mess on the floor.

“Hardly,” Francesca scoffed. “Lady Bridget, I can see you.”

Francesca, Darcy, and the butler all turned to see Bridget right by the door with her hand on the knob. Caught.

“Oh, hello! I was just arriving. I saw Lord Darcy's carriage outside and thought I'd pop in to say hello.” She paused and, turning to him, said, “Hello.”

“Spare us all the tall tales,” Francesca said with a wave of her hand. “I've had enough ridiculous stories for one morning. I know why you are here.”

“Oh?”

“You're right, Bridget. I do have your diary,” Francesca said smugly.

“Oh! Funny that,” Bridget said. “I wondered if it got misplaced. Into your possession. Though it doesn't belong to you. How careless of me.”

Francesca just shrugged.

“Actually I'd like to have it back, if you don't mind,” Bridget said. “That is, if you're finished reading it.”

What Francesca said next surprised them all.

“Of course. Come with me.”

They followed her into the drawing room and she pulled the book from under a chair cushion. In fact, it was the chair he'd been sitting in. No wonder it was so deuced uncomfortable.

“You need only to have asked,” Francesca said, making them feel foolish for the lengths they went to in order to retrieve it.

“You already read it, didn't you,” Darcy said flatly. It was not a question.

“Shall I recite from the ongoing list of things Bridget hates about Dreadful Darcy?”

“Well I hope you found it entertaining and edifying,” Bridget said sharply. He saw tears in her eyes. As always, it was so easy to read her: embarrassment, frustration, fear.

Francesca was either oblivious or unconcerned with her distress. “Oh, I learned all sorts of things that I suppose you both would rather I didn't know.”

“We would appreciate your discretion,” Darcy said, which was akin to a baby gazelle telling a starving lion it would prefer not to be eaten.

“There is one way you can be certain that I won't say a word.” She paused for dramatic effect, knowing they were in no position to decline her request. She knew too much. Not one but two families would be destroyed by the revelations.

“Marry me, Darcy.”

Francesca smiled.

Bridget gasped.

His heart stopped.

He had only just determined that he desperately did
not
want to marry her. He had only just decided to consider his own desires, and not put everyone else first, second, and third. But protecting those he loved was something he did, like breathing. He'd die if he didn't.

“Marry me, or I shall tell all my friends about Amelia's unchaperoned escapade and I will whisper rumors about your dear brother's proclivities. Marry me, and I won't breathe a word about how you've compromised Lady Bridget, twice. Marry me, and all your secrets will be safe. Tell me what you decide, Darcy. Tell me at Lady Esterhazy's ball tonight.”

Chapter 23

Lady Francesca is devious and has issued an impossible ultimatum. My heart aches to consider the choice Darcy must make. Actually, my heart aches because I know the decision he will make.

Lady Bridget's Diary

D
arcy needed to think. And he needed to drink. And he needed to be in public, where he would never allow himself to fall to pieces. Because there was a good chance he might fall to pieces. Thus, he went to White's and ordered a whiskey and took a seat in the back corner.

But then Rupert showed up and Darcy reconsidered the virtues of solitude when a man needed to brood.

“Ah, my dear brother Darcy. Brooding, as always. Honestly, I have no idea what you have to be so morose about. You are young, in good health, wealthy beyond belief, don't have the ugliest face I've ever laid eyes on, you are fairly intelligent . . .”

“Are you finished?”

“I could go on about your charmed life, if that would cheer you up. The multiple country houses, the bevy of servants to see to your every need, the love of a wonderful woman . . .”

“It would not. And it is no longer charmed.”

“Well, now I'm intrigued.”

Rupert pulled up a chair, collapsed into it, and motioned for a drink. Darcy didn't know where to begin. He decided there was no time to beat around the bush.

“My life is ruined. Or yours is. I must decide.”

“I'm so grateful for the consideration. You might want to start at the beginning.”

“Lady Bridget's diary was stolen.”

“Let me guess. You recovered it for her, because you do the Darcy thing where you ride in and save the day. But then even you could not resist snooping through it and you discovered that she called you Dreadful Darcy and made lists of things she disliked about you and now you are heartbroken.”

Did everyone know about that? Good God. He took a sip of his drink.

“It is far worse than that, I'm afraid.” Darcy dropped his voice very low. “She wrote about you, intimating exactly what we'd hoped to keep quiet.” Rupert paled. Darcy continued, “She wrote about her sister not being ill at all; she was out in the city for four and twenty hours. And Bridget wrote about how I have compromised her.”

“You? Compromising a gently bred young lady? I am shocked.” Rupert gasped dramatically. Darcy scowled. “Truly,” Rupert said, seriously, “I am indeed shocked. When did this happen? And where?”

“You needn't be so surprised. I'm as red-­blooded as the next man. Even I have moments of weakness, apparently. And she is very . . . desirable.” This was a vast understatement. “I would marry her except Lady Francesca has obtained the diary, read it, and threatened to reveal everything unless I marry her.”

“You mean unless you do the thing that you've been meaning to do for years now?”

“Things have changed.”

They had changed so drastically he hardly recognized himself. While he wasn't happier all the time, he certainly felt more alive because of all the feelings Bridget unlocked with him. He knew joy, and heartache, and the pleasure of a passionate kiss in the rain. And that was everything.

A lifetime of matrimony with Francesca now seemed like a death sentence. He didn't know if he could stuff all those feelings back into the box, buried deep. And he would have to if he were to wed her.

“I might have become aware of a certain feeling of devotion to Lady Bridget and a fondness for her. As such, I am no longer inclined to marry Lady Francesca.”

Rupert burst out laughing. He threw his head back and howled. Slapped his knee. Heads turned in their direction. Heads belonging to peers of the realm, who were discussing gravely important matters of state and such until they were distracted by Rupert laughing. At Darcy, in his hour of need.

Brothers.

“Do shut up. This isn't funny and you're causing a scene. You know how I detest scenes.”

“You could just say that you are in love with her. Like a human.”

He could. Maybe. But things had gone very badly the last time he said those three little words, and he was terrified of repeating that scene.

And in the event Darcy thought things couldn't get worse, Alistair Finlay-­Jones showed up, settling into an empty chair, also looking morose.

“What is so funny?” he asked.

“Darcy attempting to express his feelings,” Rupert told him. “It's like a baby bird, trying to fly.”

“I should like to see that,” Jones said. “And what feelings? Hunger, thirst, annoyance, and a vague sense of disappointment with the entire world?”

“Love,” Rupert said proudly. “He is in love.”

“Have you not heard anything I said?” Darcy asked, indeed annoyed. “We could all be ruined. We shall be cast out of society.”

He gave a sharp look to his brother, who finally seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation.

“All of us?” Jones questioned.

“Lady Bridget. Rupert. Myself. Her sister.”

Jones's eyes flashed. “Which sister?”

“Lady Amelia.”

And then Jones swore under his breath. Darcy gave him A Look.

And then Fox showed up, because apparently this situation could indeed become worse.

“What are we discussing? I hesitate to ask, because it looks very serious and you know how I feel about serious things,” he said, pulling up a chair and settling in.

“We are discussing whether Darcy will marry your sister or not,” Rupert answered with a distinct lack of subtlety or tact.

“I thought this was decided ages ago,” Fox asked, yawning. “Have you still not popped the question? Gad, Darcy, what are you waiting for?”

“She proposed to him. In a manner of speaking,” Rupert said.

“When is the wedding?” Jones asked.

“That's the thing. He would rather there wasn't a wedding,” Rupert explained uneasily.

Fox turned and leveled a stare at Darcy. “Are you saying that you've strung along my sister for years and now you aren't going to marry her?”

“Yes. Precisely that.”

Fox stood, drawing himself up to his full height of well over six feet. Darcy sighed and stood as well, not at all eager for what was about to happen but knowing it was inevitable and his duty as a gentleman to take it.

Fox promptly punched him in the face. Darcy stumbled back, clutching the side of his face where he'd been hit. Fox shook out his hand.

“I deserve that,” Darcy muttered. “But bloody hell, you can throw a punch.”

“Apologies mate, but I had to do that. Family honor, etc., etc. I could use a drink while you tell me what she has done now.”

“She is blackmailing Darcy,” Rupert said.

“God she's devious,” Fox said, grinning. “Got all the brains in our family.”

No one contradicted this.

“Well, there goes my plan to enlist your help,” Darcy said dryly.

“Could you explain the problem? I'm confused,” Fox said.

“Francesca is threatening to expose information that would ruin Amelia, myself, and Bridget unless he marries her,” Rupert explained. “But he no longer wishes to marry her, as he discovered that he does in fact possess a heart and it yearns for Bridget.”

Darcy rolled his eyes at such a treacly way of phrasing it.

“That's quite the dilemma.”

“Thank you, Fox, for bringing that to my attention.”

“We can do something. We can fix this,” Jones said. “After all, it is not every day that Darcy admits to feelings, especially of the romantic variety. Rupert, was there concrete information about you? Whatever it is about you?”

“It was just rumors,” Rupert said dismissively. “There isn't really any proof. Not anymore. Thanks to Darcy.”

“Well if there is no proof, then I would think that between the lot of us, we'd be able to dismiss any rumors. Should they surface,” Jones said.

“What kind of rumors?” Fox asked.

“Nothing,” Darcy and Rupert said at the same time.

“I will only say this,” Rupert continued. “Lady Francesca would damage her own reputation should she speak of it.”

“Now I'm intrigued,” Jones said. And Fox said, “I as well.”

“You shall have to live with your curiosity,” Rupert said. “Besides, we have more important matters to attend to at the moment. Such as my dear brother's future happiness.”

“Right,” Jones said. “I may have been out of society for some time, but won't Lady Amelia and Lady Bridget's reputations be protected if they are wed?”

“Yes.”

“I should think the solution is damn obvious,” Jones said. “We marry them.”

“Clever . . .” Fox mused.

“It seems too easy,” Darcy said.

“Have you proposed and been accepted?” Jones asked, with a lift of his brow and a distinct rise in his voice. “Have you tried to convince one of those women to pledge her troth to you?”

Darcy sipped his drink and winced. Or winced and sipped his drink. He wasn't sure what burned more—­the whiskey or the memory of Bridget's ­rejection. While he thought that her feelings might have changed, he had no proof. And he knew that she would want to protect her sister and Rupert above all else.

He knew what he had to do.

There are no words to describe the utter despair I feel in my present state.

Lady Bridget's Diary

Bridget set down her pen. She closed her diary. Her cursed, wretched diary that had ruined everything for everyone. She had half a mind to throw it across the room. Or burn it.

But there was no point now. Lady Francesca had so much devastating information—­and was the sort of mean-­spirited person who would deliberately use such information or share it with the biggest gossip of London. Bridget wouldn't be at all surprised to read about it in
The London Weekly
tomorrow morning.

Or to have it all flung in her face at the ball tonight.

There was only one thing to do. Bridget threw herself on her bed, and stared up at the canopy. She closed her eyes. She could not go out tonight.

She could not go out ever again. She would have to return to America, in disgrace. Just when she had found a reason to stay.

She opened her eyes at the sound of a maid entering the room.

“Good afternoon, Lady Bridget,” her maid said. “Which dress would you like me to press for this evening?”

“None of them. I will not be going out.”

“Of course,” her maid agreed, and quietly left the room.

But there was no “of course” about it.

A moment later, Josephine entered the room in a swish of silk skirts and closed the door behind her.

“What is this nonsense about not attending the ball tonight?” she demanded.

“It is not nonsense,” Bridget said, still lying on her bed, staring at the canopy, still desolate. “I am ruined. In fact, I have ruined us all. I'm very sorry, Josephine. I did try to be a True Lady. I tried to follow the reducing diet and to learn whether the third son of a duke outranks the firstborn of an earl. I meant to practice the pianoforte and learn French. I want to know how to do things with a certain air, but I have no idea what that even means. I shall never be an accomplished woman. And because I wrote about my struggles to be one and to fit in here, I have ruined myself and everyone I hold dear.”

“Bridget.”

“Yes?”

“Shush.” Josephine gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed and arranged her skirts. She gently, and a bit awkwardly, to be honest, stroked Bridget's hair. Bridget remembered her mother doing this when Bridget was in a fit of despair over a fight with her sisters, or upset about something in school. She found it comforting now.

“As you know, I never had children, which meant that I have never given one of these consoling and encouraging speeches before. Bear with me.” The duchess paused. Gathered her thoughts. Cleared her throat. “You are a lovely young woman. I have been impressed and heart warmed by your efforts to fit in here when it cannot have been easy for you. Now why are you so convinced that we are all ruined? You have your diary back. And I understand Lord Darcy helped you.”

“I do have it back. But it doesn't matter. Lady Francesca already read it. She already possesses the information to humiliate me and, worst of all, ruin the lives of people I love.”

“I see,” Josephine said calmly. She was silent for a long moment. Then, matter-­of-­factly, she said, “Well, everyone has their price.”

“Hers is Darcy.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Bridget sat up to explain.

“She issued the most dreadful ultimatum. If Darcy doesn't marry her, she will tell everyone everything.”

“Well, she and Darcy had been meaning to wed for some time now. It's about time he came up to scratch with her. Your secrets will be safe. See, there is nothing to worry about at all. Now which dress would you like to wear tonight? Perhaps the pink?”

“We both know that I look terrible in pink. But that is beside the point.”

Bridget sighed a mighty, heartfelt, aching sigh. She flung herself back against the pillows. And then Josephine finally understood.

“Ah. I see. You are in love with him.”

“Yes.”

“Well, this
is
a wretched dilemma,” Josephine mused. “Destroy those you love or lose the man you love.”

“If it were up to me . . .” Bridget began. But then she stopped because it wasn't up to her. The choice was Darcy's and she knew what he would do. He would sacrifice himself to protect those he cared about. She wanted to hate him for that, but she found she loved him for it instead.

But the duchess, that clever, sharp, terrifying duchess, had other ideas. “Who says it isn't?”