Lady Bridget's Diary (25 page)

“This is where I belong,” she said softly.

“On the floor of Lord Esterhazy's private study?”

“No, silly. Here. With you. In your arms.”

Chapter 25

No, Amelia or anyone else who is reading this, I will not relate the details of what transpired between Darcy and myself.

Lady Bridget's Diary

B
ridget had done her best to repair her appearance but there was no hiding how Darcy ruined her . . . coiffure. Just as there was no hiding the telltale signs that she'd been kissing someone: reddened, plump lips and pink cheeks. Oh, and that sparkle in her eye; there was no hiding that.

She slipped out of the library—­Darcy would follow in twenty minutes—­and into the ladies' retiring room. It was there, standing in front of the mirror, noticing how ravished she looked, that she realized she did not know what Darcy had intended to do: marry her, or marry Francesca.

A true lady—­or any woman with half a care for her reputation and future—­might have determined that before offering up her virtue. On the floor. Of someone else's library. But she, Lady Bridget Cavendish, was overcome with passion, in love, and didn't regret a thing.

Nevertheless, she rushed back to the ballroom.

She found her family in conversation with Lady Evelyn Fairfax and her sister, Miss Eileen, a pair of sisters who had been kind to the Cavendishes from the beginning. Nearby, of course, was Lady Francesca.

When she caught the entire Cavendish clan, and their friends, looking her way, Lady Francesca's polite smile faded swiftly into a plainly furious expression. She stalked over, leaving a bevy of suitors behind, curious.

“I know what you are doing,” she said sharply.

“Oh? We are just enjoying this lovely soiree,” Bridget said. No one had any idea just how much she had enjoyed it thus far.

“Isn't it lovely? I daresay Lady Esterhazy outdid herself with the decorations,” Claire remarked.

Francesca ignored them.

“You are hoping to ensure that I won't say a word about the contents of your precious diary. You think that if you just hover nearby, then you will prevent me from gossiping about everything that I know.” She dropped her voice. “Everything.”

“Now Lady Francesca . . .”

“Well, you are gravely mistaken, Lady Bridget. Unless Darcy finally proposes to me. Do you know how long I have been waiting?”

“I do not.”

“Years,” she hissed. “I turned down a marquis, two earls, and a few barons. Not that barons truly signify. Now you think you can just come along and steal my intended, and I am quite nearly on the shelf.”

“I didn't want to. I didn't mean to,” Bridget said softly. Oh Lord, did she really need to feel pangs of empathy for this woman who was threatening to ruin her? No. But she felt them anyway. How dreadfully inconvenient. “Say whatever you wish about me, Lady Francesca, but don't drag anyone else into it.”

“It depends on Darcy, does it not?”

Aye, it depended on Darcy, who stomped around being lordly, saving the day and sacrificing his happiness for silly things like reputation. Darcy, whom she loved. Darcy, who was presently nowhere to be found.

Unless it depended on her.

Perhaps she could save the day.

Bridget's heart started pounding at the thought of what she was about to do.

“Actually, Lady Francesca, it does not depend on Lord Darcy. You see, if I were to tell everyone all the secrets in my diary, then you would have no leverage with which to force Darcy's hand.”

The look of shock on her face revealed that she had not considered this. Then she considered it. And scoffed.

“You wouldn't dare,” she said menacingly. “You would ruin your sister.”

“Not necessarily,” Amelia cut in. Bridget caught her eye. What the devil did that mean? Amelia winked, leaving her even more confused.

“You ran away unaccompanied and told the ton you were ill,” Francesca said in a quiet, lethal voice. “I daresay you would be ruined if anyone knew about that. And Bridget, you will also be ruined if everyone knew what you did with Darcy. And I don't see a betrothal ring on your finger and I certainly don't see him by your side, coming to your rescue.”

And then, there he was.

Lord Darcy.

Both she and Lady Francesca sighed and turned to watch him walk through the crush in their direction.

She tried to read his expression: determined? Angry? Ravished? Vexed to be embroiled in a fraught standoff between two gently bred ladies over a diary? It was impossible to tell. She suspected it was all of those things.

And then he smiled at her. The one time he had to smile at her, in public, across a crowded ballroom, and it was a mistake. Lady Francesca understood something in that smile, directed toward Bridget. It meant she had lost. She turned to address the ballroom, clapped her hands for attention, and spoke loudly.

“Attention, everyone. I have an announcement to make.”

Darcy stopped short. The crowd around them fell quiet, and slowly a silence descended upon the ballroom.

“This is so dramatic,” Amelia whispered.

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Claire replied. She had come to stand with her sisters in what by all accounts appeared to be their hour of need.

“Honestly, isn't your heart just racing?” Amelia asked.

“Honestly, I feel like I might cast up my accounts,” Bridget said softly. “On your shoes.”

But she wasn't nervous about what Lady Francesca was about to say. Bridget was nervous about the declaration she was about to make.

Francesca stood there, poised, reveling in having all the attention in the ballroom fixed on her.

“I also have an announcement to make,” Darcy declared. He knew how to speak to make himself heard. His low, strong voice made her heart start to pound. She didn't know what he was going to say. She only knew he loved her. But was that enough?

“Ladies first, Lord Darcy,” Francesca chided him. “Or would you like to make the announcement together?”

There were audible murmurs and gasps in the crowd. Everyone would now be expecting a betrothal announcement. Bridget's heart began to pound in earnest now. Breathing suddenly became an impossible task. And why hadn't she noticed how many people were here? Hundreds and hundreds of people who were standing around, sipping champagne, and about to watch her make an arse of herself. Again.

“And now I feel faint.”

“Don't swoon now, Bridget. Things are just getting interesting,” Claire said.

“You have no idea how interesting,” Bridget said. She took a deep breath, as much as she was able. She stood up straight, as Josephine had instructed her to (or nagged, really). She ignored the pounding of her heart and the dampness of her palms; instead she thought about love and happiness and summoned every last ounce of courage she possessed.

“Actually I have an announcement to make,” Bridget said loudly, which stole all the attention. “And I do believe I outrank you, Lady Francesca, so I shall go first.”

She found Josephine's face in the crowd; the duchess's look of pride and satisfaction gave her the encouragement she needed. Then she looked for Darcy. She saw Rupert with him, too. Both brothers nodded at her.
Go on
, they seemed to say.

“Good evening, everyone. I am Lady Bridget Cavendish, of the American Cavendishes. I am also known as the girl who fell . . . in love.” She paused, as there was a ripple of kind laughter through the room. “I wrote all about it in my diary, as a young lady is wont to do. And it so happens that my diary has fallen into the clutches of a person with . . . unladylike intentions. Someone threatens to reveal all my innermost secrets to embarrass me.”

Here Bridget paused as a shocked, collective murmur stole through the crowd.

“But you see, I may not be very good at walking across a ballroom without falling on my backside, or remaining in a rowboat without crashing into the water, but I am quite good at embarrassing myself in public.”

There was more laughter. Was it friendly or mocking? She could not be sure. This was a terrible idea. This was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. But she could not stop.

But then her gaze found Darcy.

And she felt even more nervous. Because, as usual, he was gazing at her with that dark intensity. Watching her now the way he'd watched her at all the other balls . . . with devotion. Purpose. He hadn't disapproved at all, she realized. He'd been captivated. That realization kept her going.

“I wrote about how I struggled to fit in here: everything from my inability to learn French and the pianoforte to how I didn't know when I was allowed to walk in to supper. I wanted so badly to belong here. I also wrote about falling in love.” Here she paused not just for dramatic effect but to catch her breath. “With Lord Darcy.”

She dared to look at him. She couldn't look away, really. After all, what she was about to say wasn't for the benefit of the ballroom, but for him. There just happened to be a few hundred people listening in.

“It turns out that he is not as dreadful as I once thought. In fact, he is not dreadful at all. He is the best man I know. He will do anything for other people's happiness. But I would like the chance to make him happy.”

It was just as well that Francesca interrupted then, as Bridget really did not know what else to say. She had been counting on Darcy to step forward and declare his everlasting love, or propose, or something that made the risk worthwhile.

“I cannot believe this. You can't possibly make her your countess.”

The way Francesca said “her” revealed so much more: her, the clumsy girl who fell; her, the woman prone to public displays of mortification; her, the girl who didn't know the ins and outs and roundabouts of English high society; her, the girl who was always making a cake of herself.

Finally, thank God, finally Darcy said something in that low, powerful I-­am-­the-­lord-­and-­master voice.

“I can make her my countess. And I will.”

The crowd erupted in noise then—­gasps and aws and “Can you believe it?” And “Did he just say . . . ?” If she weren't so keen to hear what he would say next, Bridget might have swooned.

“When I first learned that a pack of horse-­farming orphans from the colonies would be inheriting one of our finest and most prestigious dukedoms, I shared the same sentiment as many in this room: disappointment, dismay, and a morbid curiosity to watch this family stumble and fall. And indeed, I watched them stumble. And fall.”

Bridget bit her lip.

“And then I watched as Lady Bridget—­and her family—­stood back up, and endeavored to make the best of what must have been a trying situation with hope and humor. The more time I spent with them, the more I was reminded of what truly matters. Family. And love.”

It seemed so very hard to believe that Darcy was standing up and saying such things in front of, oh, the entire haute ton. The man who said very little and certainly nothing about emotions. The man who was always right was confessing that he sometimes made mistakes. And the man spoke to just a few hundred of the finest, most prestigious, and snobby families in the country. Just a gathering of people who had dismissed her and her family out of hand. But Darcy saw her, really saw her, and liked her just as she was and wanted everyone to know it.

“And, while I am demonstrating more emotion than I have in my three and thirty years, allow me to finish with this: I love you, Lady Bridget.”

He smiled slightly, nervously, at her as the crowd in the ballroom burst into applause and cheers. Bridget thought her heart might explode with love for this man. She waited impatiently for him to make his way through the crowd to her.

And just when she hoped the worst was over, there was Lady Francesca before her.

“Are you not forgetting something? About your sister? I'll tell everyone. I may not be able to make an announcement but I can whisper here or there . . .”

“Can we discuss it later? I am in the middle of a devastatingly romantic moment,” Bridget said. Darcy was standing before her now and she very badly wished to feel his arms around her.

“I shall handle this one, Bridget,” Amelia said, coming to stand beside her. “You go off with your Looord Darcy.”

“And what about your brother?” Lady Francesca challenged, turning to Darcy.

He reluctantly turned to face her and gave her the Darcy stare, the one that would probably cause God to question his own righteousness.

“What about my brother? I daresay you wouldn't compromise your own reputation to whisper about unfounded rumors of things which proper young ladies oughtn't know or speak of.”

Francesca was speechless. But then again, Darcy had made it plain that there was nothing more to say. And then Lord Fox was there, linking arms with his sister. “I'm sure my dear sister has nothing to say about our good friend Rupert.”

Chapter 26

Darcy loves me. Darcy. Loves. Me. And everyone knows it.

Lady Bridget's Diary

T
he next day, the duke summoned Bridget to an interview. It sounded so dramatic and forbidding. An interview. With the duke. In truth, her dear brother, James, said, “We need to talk,” and she followed him not to his study but down the stairs and into the kitchens.

Luncheon had already been cleaned up and the preparations had not yet begun for dinner, so the place wasn't overrun with activity. They took seats around the large prep table and availed themselves of the cake Cook had left out. Bridget even made them a pot of tea.

“Darcy was just here,” James said after she had settled in with a cup of strong tea with two sugar cubes and a generous slice of cake. She was ravenous after last night.

“I know,” she replied. “I watched from the window. I also knew he was planning to see you.”

“I presume you also know why.”

James looked at her and she couldn't help but blush, partly with happiness and partly with embarrassment. God, if her brother knew . . . Best not to think about that and focus on what truly mattered.

“He wishes to marry me,” she said softly. It was so strange and magical to say those words, and even better to know them to be true. Even sweeter because she was happy about it, deliriously so.

“And what about you, Bridge?”

“I wish to marry him as well,” she said. Of course after last night, she now had to, but truly, she was well aware of the consequences—­marriage, or spinsterhood—­and she decided he was worth the risk. She wanted to marry him with all her heart.

But James was looking at her intently now, as if trying to discern if she really meant it—­or worse, if he was going to allow it. Or, Lord above, was she supposed to have a talk with her brother about feelings and why she truly must marry Darcy? She'd much rather not. “So now that we have agreed to the match, I best let Josephine know. She'll want to start planning.”

She stood to leave. James grabbed a handful of her skirt.

“Not so fast, little sister.”

She slunk back into her chair and nervously met her brother's gaze.

“Ever since we arrived, you have called him Dreadful Darcy and thought he was the embodiment of everything you despised about England. Amelia said you kept an ongoing list of things you disliked about Dreadful Darcy in your diary.”

“Amelia! It's one thing if she reads my diary, but she's not supposed to gossip about it!”

“Never mind that now. You also fancied his brother. So much so that you asked me to lend him a thousand pounds. I'm just curious; what has changed?”

Very well, that was a fair question.

“It so happens that he is not the worst. Not at all. And I hadn't known until it was almost too late,” Bridget explained. “You know how he went out and found Amelia. He is so protective of his brother. And he helped me find my diary when it was missing. He is so good.”

He was also a good kisser, amongst his other talents, but her brother didn't need to know that.

“And he needs me. And I love teasing him—­I'm the only one who does. It's such a trifling thing, but it isn't really and—­” Fortunately James cut her off. She was rambling, trying to find a way to explain that she and Darcy fit together, and balanced out their strengths and weaknesses.

“You know what this means, don't you?” James asked.

“I'm sure you're going to tell me.”

“We need the rest of the family.”

He found a maid who could go find Amelia and Claire and tell them the duke had summoned them for an emergency meeting in the kitchens. Meanwhile, James and Bridget ate cake and drank tea while she tried to guess What This Means.

Finally, her sisters arrived, stomping loudly down the stairs, bickering over something or other.

“Oh, cake!” Amelia exclaimed.

“Is there any more tea?” Claire inquired.

James cleared his throat. “We have an important matter to discuss.”

“Yes, yes, Your Grace,” Claire said dismissively. “If it's important, then I need some tea.”

“And I need cake or I shall perish,” Amelia replied.

James sighed wearily and did that thing where he gazed toward the heavens (or in this instance, the first floor) and muttered a request for the Lord to save him from his plague of sisters. Finally everyone was seated with slices of cake and hot cups of tea.

“Bridget is in love and wishes to marry,” James declared.

“I think that was made quite clear last evening,” Claire said. “The entirety of English society knows that she is in love and wishes to marry.”

“Darcy was here this morning requesting permission to wed her. Of course I have granted permission because I'm not an ogre. But . . .”

“If she marries, she stays in England,” Claire added.

“And we must stay together,” Amelia finished.

“But I could never choose between you or Darcy,” Bridget cried.

“We wouldn't ask that of you,” Claire said, resting her hand over Bridget's.

“But,” James said, pausing dramatically. “Do we all wish to stay in England, or does someone wish to return home?”

There was a long moment of silence as each one considered it. They had come to England expecting perhaps nothing more than an extended visit, for it was laughable that James would be a duke. But he was growing into the role more and more each day. If they stayed, it meant goodbye to America and hello forever to life in England.

Bridget wanted to be everywhere at once, and she wanted her siblings and Darcy by her side. She did not wish to choose.

She loved him, loved him in a way that was so right and good that nothing else mattered. And no one else would ever love her as Darcy did, completely and just the way she was. And he needed her. They balanced each other out, perfectly so.

“We could always take trips back to visit,” Amelia said in a small voice, breaking the silence.

“That is always an option,” Claire said.

They would stay.

“So it's decided then,” James said, glancing at each of them.

And that was when Josephine arrived, resplendent in a rose silk dress that contrasted greatly with her simple and dim surroundings. Of course the sight of her down here stunned the siblings into silence. With her was Lord Darcy, looking perfectly out of place but determined to fit in, all the same.

“We have a vast house full of proper meeting rooms and I find you all in the kitchens,” she said.

“Cavendish family tradition,” James said. And then to Darcy he stood, offered his hand, and said, “Welcome to the family.”

Darcy gave a half smile and nodded, and was clearly out of sorts to be below stairs. Bridget found it adorable.

“Well you weren't wrong about our informality,” she said to him. “Though we shall see if it is the downfall of civilization.”

He smiled, and took her hand, and kissed her palm. “As long as we're together for it.”

Claire interrupted the moment with an offer of cake.

“Don't mind if I do,” the duchess said grandly. And then to their surprise, Josephine joined them at the table for tea and cake and chatter about wedding plans. In the kitchen. With servants milling about.

“I do believe this occasion calls for champagne,” the duchess declared. James rummaged around and found a bottle and some flutes.

They all toasted to family and love and happily ever after.