Lady Bridget's Diary (5 page)

Bridget sipped her tea and Claire stifled a yawn. Under her breath, Amelia whispered, “I would love to, but I shall be busy sticking forks in my eye,” which made Bridget laugh, which made her spit out her tea, which made the duchess close her eyes and purse her lips.

“I'll just take that as a yes,” Lady Francesca said dryly.

Chapter 4

On Tuesday we went for ices at Gunther's.

Lady Bridget's Diary

L
ady Francesca was certainly the most beautiful girl in this carriage, not that she would say that aloud to her friends. She glanced out from under her darling new bonnet to see if anyone on the street noticed her and smiled when she made eye contact with a young man, who promptly walked into a lamp pole. She might be on her third season, but she could still turn heads.

“Why did we invite the American girl to join us?” Miss Mulberry asked, confused.

Beside her in the open carriage, Lady Francesca replied, “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Keep your friends close but your enemies closer'?”

“Of course. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“She means, Mabel, that she thinks Lady Bridget might be an enemy. So we invited her to join us for ices,” Miss Montague said.

Her explanation did little to clarify things for Miss Mulberry, but she had the right of it. It all had to do with Darcy. It was one thing to see him conversing alone with Lady Bridget at the ball. Of course he only went to call because good manners dictated he should. But there was no good reason for all those smoldering glances Darcy was giving Bridget during calling hours yesterday. She seemed too taken with Rupert to notice, which Francesca would have to encourage.

Darcy was hers. They'd had an unspoken understanding for years, ever since her brother brought him home during a school holiday. She would not lose him to an American who couldn't even walk across a ballroom without falling flat on her bottom. It was Francesca's turn to be the darling of the season and catch the most eligible bachelor.

The obvious solution to a potential threat was to invite her to ices and to ascertain just how much of a threat she was.

“Is Lady Bridget really an enemy?” Miss Mulberry was still puzzling this out. “But Francesca, you're so much . . .” She paused, tilting her head like a small dog as she thought about it. Finally she settled on “taller.”

Francesca gritted her teeth. “You could have gone with thinner, prettier, or richer but you went with taller?”

“My brother says men like women who have a little padding on them,” Miss Mulberry said, which didn't help anything at all.

“No more speaking of this. We're here.”

Bridget had quickly come to realize a few essential truths: Lady Francesca was a viper. But she was also a popular viper who wielded not a small amount of influence over the collective brain of the haute ton. If, for example, she decided that Bridget should no longer be known as the girl who fell, no one would dare speak of it again.

Or so Bridget hoped.

That was just one of the reasons Bridget had agreed to this outing. Amongst the others: she couldn't think of a good excuse, as Claire and Amelia had done. And there would be ices and she was starving, thanks to the reducing diet.

And there was one other reason: she wanted, very badly, to fit in. And there was no better way to accomplish this than by befriending the most popular young ladies.

Which all brought Lady Bridget here, to this moment: ensconced in the open carriage, nibbling on delicious raspberry ices, and listening to their conversation.

“Did you see what Miss Witherspoon wore last night?” Miss Montague asked.

“That hideous puce dress?” Lady Francesca shuddered. “Yes, I saw it and wished I hadn't.”

A conversation on fashion ensued, in which they ruthlessly critiqued what every woman wore at the ball the previous evening. Lady Something's ruffles were too ruffly. Miss What's-­Her-­Name's hairstyle did her no favors whatsoever. Another woman's gown was an unflattering shade of white—­which begged a question that Bridget didn't dare ask aloud (shades of white, really?).

Bridget decided her best course of action was to remain silent, lest she say the wrong thing, and savor her raspberry ice and generally do her best to seem like she belonged.

Her heart leapt with joy and no small amount of relief when she saw Mr. Wright walking down the street. He was with another gentleman she didn't recognize.

“Oh, look! It's Mr. Wright!” Bridget exclaimed. She did get such a thrill from saying his name. It was too perfect.
Oh, I met Mr. Wright the other night.

She called his name and waved him over.

“Lady Bridget! What a pleasant surprise to see you.” Their eyes met. And she saw what he didn't dare say aloud. He was surprised to see her, here, with these young ladies. She smiled as if to say,
I know!

“Mr. Wright and Mr. Croft,” Francesca said graciously. “So lovely to see you together. Again.”

“It is always a pleasure,” Rupert said stiffly. Mr. Croft just nodded.

“I don't suppose you could tempt your brother to come join us,” Francesca said.

“I daresay only you could manage such a feat, Lady Francesca.”

“But why would you want to?” Bridget asked, pulling a face.

Everyone gasped, but Rupert burst into laughter.

“Darcy is a catch,” Miss Mulberry explained, as if Bridget were a small child of limited intellect.

Bridget shrugged. “I suppose he is, if you like the dark and broody sort.”

“Or if you like the rich, titled, and perfect sort,” Miss Montague said with a little laugh.

Bridget fell silent, thinking about something her mother used to say:
Don't be surprised that if you marry for money, that's all you get.
Bridget knew that money wasn't everything and that titles hardly mattered; she wasn't any happier for having landed both. Bridget was a fervent believer in love.

She had seen true love firsthand: her own parents were wildly, madly, catch-­them-­kissing-­in-­the-­corridor in love. That was what Bridget wanted to find for herself.

And she could hardly imagine Darcy stealing a kiss in the corridor, or a waltz in the rain just because. Ditto for Lady Francesca. And she felt sad for them both. But Mr. Wright, on the other hand . . . He smiled at Bridget and her heart did a little flip. Yes, she could definitely imagine kissing him.

On Wednesdays we are to wear pink.

The Gospel According to Lady Francesca, as recorded in Lady Bridget's Diary

For their visit to Almack's on Wednesday evening, Bridget wore pink because Francesca said that was the done thing. Her sisters could not be persuaded to join her.

“Matching ensembles, Bridge?” Claire asked, wrinkling her nose, causing her spectacles to slide down slightly. “Really?”

“I wasn't aware you had such definite opinions on fashion,” Bridget replied, annoyed.

“I hate pink,” Amelia said to no one in particular.

Thus, Bridget was the only Cavendish to wear pink and she prayed it was the correct shade, whatever that might be, even though there was no shade of pink that flattered her. She decided that it was more important to be seen with the popular girls than to wear the right thing. Francesca eyed her gown and didn't say anything, and Bridget breathed a sigh of relief, or as much of one as possible, given how tightly her corset was laced.

“Bridget, come over here,” Francesca hissed from a mere three feet away. She dutifully stepped three feet to the left.

“That's the Wallflower Corner,” Francesca said loudly. “You do
not
want to be seen there.”

Bridget glanced over at the Wallflower Corner, where an assortment of girls stood about, chattering amongst themselves. Some wore an expression she recognized (and may have, once or twice, practiced in the mirror): it was the look of someone pretending that they hadn't just heard the very mean thing said about them. It was quite similar to the look of appearing interested in dancing (so that someone might ask) but not too interested (so she didn't seem tragic if no one asked).

Bridget suspected that she really belonged with those girls.

The evening wore on. Lady Francesca and her vapid friends wore on Bridget's nerves. Bridget was beginning to—­shudder—­empathize with Darcy. Right now, standing off in the corner alone and not smiling seemed rather appealing after the strain of circulating, keeping up with all the conversations and keeping a smile pasted on one's face.

But then there was Mr. Wright, with that smile of his, bowing before her.

“May I have this dance?”

“Let me check my dance card. Why, yes, I would love to,” Bridget said, not even bothering to check her dance card. If there was a name written there, then the gentleman had her apologies.

He swept her into his arms.

She nearly felt like swooning with pleasure.

The music began and they started to move. Mr. Wright was a far better dancer than her brother, but then again, he'd been raised in this world and had probably been waltzing since he was four.

She stepped on his toes.

“Oh! I'm so sorry.”

“I don't mind.” He smiled genuinely and she believed him.

“I have been led to believe it is a grave faux pas, and that I shall die a spinster if I step on a man's toes during a dance.”

“We're a bit silly, aren't we?” he asked.

She knew he was referring to all the rules of the English high society. Because she felt so at ease with him, because she felt like she could be herself with him, Bridget confided in him.

“I'm finding it very hard to follow all the rules,” she said. “It's quite exhausting, really.”

That was not something she'd dare to say to Francesca or anyone else, other than her sisters.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Mr. Wright asked thoughtfully.

“Of course.”

“Me too,” Mr. Wright said softly.

On Thursday we discussed Dreadful Darcy.

Lady Bridget's Diary

It was another evening, another ball. The duchess was making every effort to find dance partners for her nieces and nephew. James was off waltzing with a young woman who clearly couldn't stop giggling, but who was a daughter of an earl and thus a suitable bride, according to the duchess's strange logic.

“Is it really necessary to dance every dance?” Amelia lamented whilst she took a much needed break to sip lemonade and stand on the sidelines. “My feet are in agonies.”

“Yes. It keeps you out of trouble,” the duchess said crisply. “And it keeps you where I can see you.”

“You are very clever,” Bridget said. The duchess smiled, too polite to say,
I know
, even if she was thinking it.

“We've been trying to keep her out of trouble for years, to no avail,” Claire said.

Bridget then noticed Looord Darcy nearby, doing his best impression of the pillar he stood next to. Which was to stay, he stood straight, tall, and still, as if he were a marble statue. She admitted, privately to herself, that he would be a handsome statue. His expression was equally stony; he stared directly ahead.

“I don't understand why Lord Darcy even bothers to attend parties,” Bridget said. “He doesn't seem to enjoy them.”

“Because it's what one does,” the duchess replied, which was her answer to most of the Cavendish questions about why morning calls were done in the afternoon, or why an earl went in to supper before a viscount.

Bridget looked back at Darcy and wondered what he would do if he didn't have to do the done thing.

He happened to glance at her in that moment, while she was regarding him intensely. Oh, curses! He would think she was interested in him or something to that effect, and she certainly was not.

But then why couldn't she bring herself to look away from those dark eyes? Why did her gaze travel down to his mouth, always so firm and yet . . . No, she did
not
think it was a sensual mouth. And why, then, did she feel a heat start to unfurl in her belly? Why could she feel a telltale blush stealing across her cheeks?

And why wasn't
he
looking away?

By Friday, Darcy had had enough.

The Americans had thoroughly invaded England, the haute ton, and his life, even though Darcy had done his best to avoid them. They were in attendance at nearly every soiree. He saw the ladies at the opera and he frequently saw the duke riding in Hyde Park during the early morning hour when no one was out, save for gentlemen who wanted a good ride and some peace and quiet.

There were endless mentions of them in the newspapers that his butler ironed each morning and placed at the breakfast table.

One American in particular plagued him especially: Lady Bridget. And it was through no fault of her own.

“I quite enjoy the company of Lady Bridget,” Rupert said, apropos of nothing, at the breakfast table one morning.

Darcy barely glanced up from the newspaper. There was an important article on a divisive issue in Parliament. He would need to be prepared to speak at length on it today.

“I really feel that I can be myself with her,” Rupert continued. Darcy had no idea what that even meant. He sipped his coffee. Black. Unsweetened.

A day or two later, Darcy watched as his brother and Bridget waltzed together at a ball. Rupert was an excellent dancer, for he had dancing instruction while Darcy was ensconced in the library with their father, learning how to balance account books.

Bridget was not an excellent dancer, but she seemed to be having more fun than anyone else. She was genuinely smiling, laughing at whatever Rupert was saying, and her cheeks were pink in a way that someone would have deemed pleasant or even fetching if someone were in the habit of using such words.

Even Darcy couldn't stifle certain thoughts that occurred to him. He was a red-­blooded man with a pulse, and so of course he wondered if she would be so unabashedly enthusiastic in bed. If that blush weren't confined to her cheeks, but lower . . . His gaze had dropped, taking in the creamy expanse of skin and the swell of her breasts.

Then he schooled his features into one of his do-­not-­disturb expressions. God forbid anyone have an inkling of the mad thoughts in his brain.