Lady Bridget's Diary

by Maya Rodale

  Dedication

  For my readers.

  And for Tony, who won’t let me read his diary.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my editor, Tessa, and the entire team at Avon Books for helping to create this book. I am eternally grateful to Tony Haile for editorial and emotional support and to Lady Miss Penny for being my devoted companion. And most of all, thank you to my readers.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  The London Weekly

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from Chasing Lady Amelia

  About the Author

  By Maya Rodale

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The London Weekly

  Fashionable Intelligence

  By A Lady of Distinction

  All of London is talking about one thing and one thing only: the arrival of the new Duke of Durham. His Grace, we are told, hails from America, of all places in the world, which begs the question of how this came to be.

  Older readers—­or younger readers who bother to visit their aged relatives and actually listen to them speak of scandals from days of yore—­will recollect the Great Scandal of 1784 in which the fifth duke’s brother, the Lord Harry Cavendish, beloved rake, absconded to America with the duke’s prize horse. This horse-­thieving younger brother had done a stint in the army, as second sons are wont to do, especially when they are so obviously unsuited to clergy. Whilst stationed in the colonies, he happened to fall in love with an American woman. It was a love so great that he would forsake family, country, membership at White’s, and a voucher for Almack’s.

  After extensive sleuthing this author has been able to determine that Lord Harry Cavendish established a farm in Maryland where he bred and trained racehorses, raised his family, including a son who followed in his footsteps, and refused to use his title.

  That is, until the fifth duke died without a son, making Lord Harry the next in line. When Her Grace, the duchess of Durham, finally tracked down that horse-­thieving younger brother, it was too late. Unbeknownst to anyone, the dukedom had been passed from one generation to another.

  So yes, dear readers, a horse farmer from the colonies now holds one of the loftiest titles in England. His arrival is expected any day now and this author has it on excellent authority that he is bringing three sisters of marriageable age. Let there be no conversations about a dull season, for this one is sure to be most entertaining . . .

  Prologue

  Oceans crossed: 1

  Sisters who plagued me the entire journey: 2

  Brothers who suddenly became a duke: 1

  Fearsome duchesses: 1

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  London, 1824

  Durham Residence

  The Ballroom

  One would think that having one’s brother inherit a dukedom was a stroke of good fortune that would transform their lives from ho-­hum to utterly fantastic. One would think that until one was on a reducing diet, stuffed into a tightly laced corset, and forced to practice walking backward.

  “Once again, Lady Bridget,” the duchess said crisply.

  She was Lady Bridget Cavendish now. Before she had just been Bridget Cavendish of Duncraven farm in Maryland. But then a letter had arrived one day, with the unexpected news that their late father, God rest his soul, had inherited the title and died without knowing it. James was now a duke and they were all to leave everything behind and travel to England, immediately.

  “Yes Lady Bridget, once more please,” Amelia said with a smirk.

  “Do shut up, Amelia,” Bridget said, under her breath. Younger sisters were quite annoying, on any continent.

  “It’s ‘Do shut up, Lady Amelia,’ ” Claire, the oldest sister, corrected. She found all the formality as ridiculous as the rest of their family, much to the despair of the duchess.

  Somewhere about the massive house—­probably in the stables, even though the duchess made it perfectly clear dukes were above mucking about in the stables—­was her brother, James. Or, as he was now to be known, His Grace, the Duke of Durham. Dukes had many responsibilities, it seemed, but walking backward in a gown with an excessively long train was not one of them.

  Before her, with sharp blue eyes and perfectly coiffed blond hair, was Josephine Marie Elizabeth Cavendish, Her Grace, the Duchess of Durham, widow of the fifth duke, and aunt to the Cavendish siblings.

  One did not call her Josie. Amelia had asked.

  “Remind me why we are learning to do something as ridiculous as walk backward?” Claire asked. From a young age, she had spent her free hours devoted to the study of mathematics, otherwise known as Important Work. Bridget’s head ached just to think about it.

  “It is for your presentation at court,” the duchess replied. “Which is necessary before your debut in society, which you must do in order to find a husband, which a lady must do, lest she become an impoverished spinster.”

  “What if we do not wish for a husband?” Amelia asked.

  “What a silly question,” the duchess replied. “Lady Bridget, once again.”

  At the duchess’s request, Bridget sank into a curtsy. They had practiced this extensively on Tuesday afternoon. Then, with as much grace as she could muster, Bridget rose and began to elegantly glide backward. Or so she tried; feats of grace did not come easily to her (a point upon which their dancing instructor would absolutely agree). Nothing about being a True Lady did. Bridget had daydreamt through lessons on the order of precedence amongst members of the haute ton, how to properly pour a cup of tea, and all the other lessons on etiquette and deportment they endured morning, noon, and night.

  “Now Lady Amelia, it is your turn.”

  While the duchess’s attention was focused on her sisters, Bridget took advantage of her distraction to continue walking backward until she had crossed the length of the ballroom, then she continued through the large double doors and halfway down the corridor, at which point she turned, lifted her skirts, and proceeded to the kitchens. Reducing diet, deportment lessons, and True Lady-­ness be damned.

  Chapter 1

  Tonight is our grand debut in society. I hope I don’t make an ass of myself. I hope that I conduct myself as befitting a lady of my station. (That sounds proper, right?)

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  The Americans had arrived. In fact, they had arrived in London a fortnight earlier but the Duchess of Durham had kept them hidden from the prying eyes of society. Tonight, at Lady Tunbridge’s ball, they made their debut.

  A hush had fallen over the ballroom as the Duchess of Durham appeared for the first time in public with the new Duke of Durham and his sisters, three dark-­haired young ladies of marriageable age. The ton craned their necks for a glimpse of them, eager to see what the newspapers had been speculating about for weeks.

  The haute ton immediately commenced with clamoring
for introductions to the new duke—­the ton had already taken to calling him that—­and gossiping about the sisters. The duchess and her collection of Americans began to circulate the ballroom. Introductions were made. Polite conversations were had. Some fawning ensued.

  Three gentlemen preferred to watch the mayhem from a distance.

  “Well, this should liven up the season,” Rupert remarked. “Or at the very least, will inspire conversations about how they shall liven up an otherwise dull season.”

  Beside him, Lord Fox, a good friend, simply said, “They’re pretty.”

  Lord Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said nothing. That one of England’s oldest, most venerated titles was now possessed by a horse breeder from the colonies was surely a harbinger of the downfall of English society. It mattered little if his sisters were pretty when civilization as they knew it was over. It went without saying that as a wealthy, respected, powerful peer of the realm, he was quite fond of civilization just as it was.

  “It’s a pity the Durham title is going to an American,” Darcy said, simply repeating sentiments widely shared by the haute ton and printed repeatedly in a majority of the city’s newspapers.

  “You’re such a snob,” Rupert said, laughing at his older brother. He was the only one who dared to speak to him that way.

  Somehow, Lord Burbrooke had managed to infiltrate their conversation. Darcy noted the man’s red cheeks (from an excess of alcohol, surely) and bright green waistcoat (from a dearth of taste).

  “Can’t say I didn’t thumb through Debrett’s to see if there was a chance I’d inherit,” he said jovially. “I heard that if the duchess hadn’t tracked down this fellow, the title would have gone to some distant relation. Pity that.”

  “Spare us all from distant relations,” Fox said.

  “Yes, it would have gone to a Mr. Collins.” He was one of those distant, imbecilic relations one despaired of. As the head of his own estate, and raised to ensure that it was successfully passed to the next generation, Darcy understood why the duchess had plundered the colonies in search of an heir. Anyone was better than Mr. Collins.

  “Say, how do you know that, Darcy?” Burbrooke asked, awed.

  “Darcy knows everything,” Rupert said, smirking.

  “But Darcy,” Fox drawled, “did you know they were pretty?”

  “Says the man who is betrothed to one of the ton’s most sought after young ladies,” Darcy remarked, reminding his friend of his impending wedding.

  “And who has also landed London’s most sought after mistress,” Rupert added.

  “Right.” Fox straightened and looked around, presumably in search of his intended. Spotting her, he strolled away in her direction.

  “Half a mind to marry one of them myself,” Burbrooke said. “I bet they have very fine . . . dowries.” There was no mistaking the direction of his gaze, which was not precisely on their . . . dowries.

  “There would be some advantages to wedding one of the American girls,” Rupert said, a little too thoughtfully for Darcy’s taste.

  “Don’t get any ideas. I won’t welcome any recalcitrant colonists into the family.”

  “Oh look, one of them seems lost,” said Rupert.

  Burbrooke wandered off to lose money in the card room while Darcy and his brother stayed to watch the wayward American girl. She had certainly become disconnected from her group. Apparently she had not been informed that ladies did not wander about the ballroom unaccompanied, gawking at this and that. Or perhaps she simply had no regard for etiquette and protocol—­a thought that gave Darcy anxiety. Or perhaps—­

  “Oh dear God.” Rupert started forward when he saw what had just happened.

  Even Darcy was shocked.

  “Did she just . . . ?”

  “She did,” Darcy confirmed, mouth set in a grim line.

  “Well, we had better go rescue her,” Rupert said. Darcy protested: “I am not in the habit of rescuing young women.”

  When they stepped into the ballroom and a hush fell over the crowd, Bridget finally began to understand what the duchess had been trying to prepare them for.

  But what could possibly prepare her for this? The ballroom itself was downright palatial (or so she had imagined, not having many palaces lying around in Maryland). And the people within the ballroom . . . a room full of earls and viscounts and countesses, all dressed in the finest, most beautiful clothes, all wearing heaps of glittering diamonds and other jewels, all of them so refined and elegant and . . . staring at the Cavendishes. As if they were some novelty item or the evening’s entertainment.

  “We’re not in America anymore,” Amelia murmured.

  “Definitely not,” Claire murmured in agreement.

  “Remember what I taught you,” the duchess murmured. I don’t remember anything, Bridget thought in a panic. Not true: she remembered sipping chocolate in bed and sneaking into the kitchens at midnight. Not helpful now!

  Then, arm in arm with His Grace, the Duke of Durham, the duchess led the way forward.

  And so began the endless round of introductions and conversations with what seemed like every lord, lady, and right honorable person God ever made and stuffed into one hot, crowded ballroom. Bridget didn’t quite seem to understand why everything they said was subject to murmurs and laughter. Was it her accent? Well, these stuffy English folks ought to hear themselves, with their Loooord this and thawghts about that.

  Or was it because they weren’t born and raised in a world of privilege? She overheard more than a few snide remarks about the scent of the stables around them, a snub to James’s (former) occupation rather than how they smelled. She hoped. More than once she wanted to turn around and say, I can hear you.

  It couldn’t be because of their attire; the duchess had certainly ensured they were turned out in the most beautiful, sumptuous dresses and she’d even dipped into the Cavendish family jewels to find something sparkly for each of the girls. They certainly looked the part. And yet . . .

  Whatever it was, Bridget was having a devil of a time keeping up and keeping a smile on her face. And then she fell behind. Literally. In the throng of guests, she became separated and cut off from the duchess and her sisters. And then she got lost. Bridget found herself alone in the ballroom, fighting to keep a smile on her face as if she meant to be strolling by herself, all while craning her neck looking for the duchess’s towering hairstyle.

  And then, oh God, then.

  While Bridget admittedly hadn’t been the most diligent student of Josephine’s lessons on deportment and such, she was certain that one was not supposed to find herself flat on her back, gasping for breath, in a ballroom.

  Yet there she was, having slipped and fallen, the wind knocked from her lungs, staring up at the intricately painted ceiling of Lord and Lady Something or Other’s ballroom. There were big, fluffy clouds swarmed by an army of fat babies, armed to the teeth with bows and arrows. Cupid.

  Perhaps if she just squinted a bit and looked very pensive she could pass this off simply as a uniquely American method of art appreciation. In a moment, when she’d caught her breath, she would stand up and declare that the brushstrokes in the clouds were evocative of a wild spirit in the artist, or some other nonsense statement.

  Or not. Perhaps she might just lie here and wait for the floorboards to open up. Perhaps the haute ton would just trample her underfoot with their silk and satin slippers.

  She imagined her tombstone: Here lies Lady Bridget Cavendish. She has fallen to her death.

  It would technically be true.

  Bridget ought to get up. Really. A lady couldn’t just lie there forever, wishing the floorboards would open and shut and whisk her away to a place where corsets didn’t dig into one’s skin, and reducing diets were unnecessary, and people didn’t gawk at her like she was on display at the circus.

  And then a head
popped into view.

  Oh. Hello.

  A head with a handsome face. And, most importantly of all, a friendly face.

  “Admiring the view, are you?” the handsome man inquired, peering down at her.

  “You really cannot appreciate the artwork on the ceiling from any other position.”

  Handsome Man smiled. It was like sunshine. And fireworks.

  She accepted his outstretched hand; he helped lift her to her feet as if she were light as a feather. Once standing, she saw someone with him. Tall, dark-­haired, a bored expression, and one fleeting, dismissive glance at her.

  Well then.

  “I’ve always wondered why cherubs were so plump,” Handsome Man said, and Bridget turned to give him her full attention.

  “No reducing diets for them. I was just wondering why they are always naked,” she added, even though she was quite sure the duchess would frown upon mentioning nudity in mixed company.

  “And is it really the wisest course of action to arm small children with weaponry?” he mused, staring up at the ceiling.

  “It doesn’t seem advisable, does it?” Bridget said, laughing.

  “A disaster, waiting to happen.” Handsome Man demonstrated his possession of the sort of gorgeous smile that made a girl forget her wits.

  His bored, disapproving friend coughed in that discreet way that everyone knows isn’t actually a cough but a gentle, oh-­so-­polite request to cease speaking immediately and quit the scene.

  Bridget spared him a brief glance and saw just enough: he was another stuffy, boorish Englishman. This place was infested with them. He could hardly compete with his handsome, charming, and nice companion for her company.