Lady Bridget's Diary

by Maya Rodale

  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 wit
h 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.

  A few days later, Rupert availed himself of Darcy’s company while he was at his desk, drafting a new bill for Parliament.

  “Have I mentioned lately how glad I am that you’re my brother?”

  Darcy didn’t bother looking up. “Yes, just last week when you wanted funds.”

  “You are very clever. Sharp. Smart. Charitable. God-­fearing. Kind to women and children.”

  Darcy set down his pen and glanced at his younger brother. If it wasn’t a trick of the light, he seemed pale, drawn. There were shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. Something was troubling him. More debts, probably.

  “How much, Rupert?”

  “Just, oh, a thousand pounds.”

  Then he rambled on about “putting it in perspective” and did Darcy know that some other idiot had lost his own late mother’s beloved sapphire engagement ring in a wager, and another bloke with a half-­empty brain box managed to lose his sister’s dowry in a literal pissing contest.

  Whereas Rupert had merely lost a small amount of money during an unlucky card game. It happened to the best from time to time. Darcy resisted pointing out that “from time to time” was now a regularly scheduled occurrence.

  Darcy hadn’t forgotten that the last time they had this conversation, he said it was the last time he’d provide the money.

  “There are other ways of obtaining funds,” Darcy pointed out.

  “Is this where you lecture me on marriage?”

  “Well, I don’t think the army or clergy will pay enough to cover your debts,” Darcy said dryly. It went without saying that actually working in a profession was out of the question. “You should marry.”

  “Would you believe me if I said I’d been considering it?”

  And for a moment, Darcy was stunned. Speechless. His carefree, sworn-­bachelor little brother beating him to the altar.

  “No.”

  “Well, I have,” Rupert said.

  “Have you been considering it abstractly, or with regards to a particular woman?”

  “Lady Bridget.”

  “No.”

  Darcy’s response was swift, immediate, and certain. No. His brother could not marry her. Not at all. Not in this lifetime. No. The force of this no took him by surprise, locked his breath in his lungs, made his heart stumble from its steady rhythm.

  He hoped, prayed, and begged God that Rupert thought it was because Darcy was a horrible snob and refused to welcome Americans into their family . . . even though it was an eminently sensible match. She was the sister to a duke; her dowry was probably so large even Rupert couldn’t gamble it away. And yet . . . no.

  Something inside Darcy rebelled at the notion. No one could know the truth: that Darcy was struck with the mad urge to possess her. To have her himself.

  Chapter 5

  Lady Bridget Wright?

  Mrs. Rupert Wright?

  The Right Honorable Mrs. Wright?

  Well, this will finally teach me the proper forms of address! Here I am, wishing to write my hoped-­for married name and I have no idea what to write.

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  Lady Bridget was in love. Head over heels, stars in her eyes, shout it from the rooftops LOVE. Her heart raced whenever she saw him. The butterflies in her belly stifled her appetite. (Finally seeing results from reducing diet, hurrah!) Sleeping was impossible; when she closed her eyes, there he was in her mind’s eye, and her heart started to beat in triple time.

  It was impossible not to love Rupert Wright. He was so handsome. Was it the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled? Was it the long, dark lashes framing his warm brown eyes? His nose was noble. His jaw was strong. His dark brown hair, the color of chestnuts, tumbled into his eyes in the most alluring way. She dreamt of gently brushing his hair aside as they gazed into each other’s eyes and then he would lean in and kiss her with his sensuous mouth . . . They had yet to kiss, but she dreamt of it often. Too often.

  An opportunity for a kiss presented itself during yet another ball. It was another ball at which she trailed along after Lady Francesca, Miss Mulberry, and Miss Montague, and tried to get noticed by all the suitors who crowded around them, and tried not to wince at all the cutting remarks the girls made about everyone else.

  When she spied Rupert—­he had given her leave to use his Christian name, an indication of intimacy that thrilled her to no end—­alone on the terrace, she didn’t think twice about joining him. As she stepped closer she noticed that he was alone, brooding, and thus looking remarkably like his brother at that moment.

  “Hello, Rupert.” She tentatively approached.

  “Bridget, hello.” He offered a half smile. She took that as an invitation to join him.

  “You seem down. What is troubling you?” She wanted to rest her hand on his arm in an affectionate yet suggestive way. It would have been forward. Did she dare?

  “It’s nothing.” He smiled at her halfheartedly.

  “It’s obviously not nothing. You look like your brother, all dark and broody,” she said to make him laugh. It worked.

  “I suppose I can confide in my friend,” he said, smiling down at her. “You know, Bridget, I do feel like I could be myself around you.”

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly. They were friends, weren’t they? Now she wanted to be more.

  “It’s my brother.”

  Of course it is, Bridget thought.

  “Hmm,” she murmured noncommittally, because Josephine said True Ladies never spoke ill of others (which someone clearly never told Lady Francesca).

  Rupert sighed and frowned and said, “I need funds and he will not give them to me.”

  “Why ever not? Certainly he can afford it, and you are his brother.” She knew, with bone-­deep certainty, that her own brother would do anything for her, or Amelia or Claire.

  “Something about taking responsibility for my own actions. And that it’s about time that I stay out of trouble. I feel that he is punishing me because I am not like him.”

  “Don’t be like him,” she whispered. Rupert was the one person she’d met in London with whom she could just be herself. She couldn’t stand if he became distant and disapproving, like Darcy.

  “I could not be like him even if I tried. It’s hard enough for Darcy to be as he is.” Bridget didn’t quite understand that, but decided not to press. “He wasn’t always like this, you know,” Rupert continued. “He used to be as mischievous and fun-­loving as the rest of us. But now he feels it is his duty to teach me responsibility. Which may help me in the long term, I grant you, but not presently. In fact, presently, I am doomed.”

  Try as she might, she could not imagine Darcy as a mischievous young boy, or a young man who raised hell and caused trouble like all the others. It boggled the
mind.

  “What do you need the funds for?”

  Rupert stared off into the distance for a long moment. Her unease grew; he was in trouble. Real trouble. She wanted to save him.

  “I cannot say. But there are threats if I do not pay.”

  “Is it gaming debts?” Of course it was; what else could it be? She continued on, vaguely aware that he didn’t confirm. “How much do you need? I’m sure James can lend us the money.”

  Rupert’s head snapped up to look at her, shocked at the offer.

  “I could never accept it.”

  “Please.” She dared to place her hand on his. “How much?”

  After a momentary pause he said, “A thousand pounds.”

  “A thousand pounds!” She gasped. “How much is that, really? I still think of everything in dollars.”

  “A family of four could live on it in a respectable fashion for a year.”

  “Ah. I see. That must have been quite a game.” For a moment, Rupert looked confused. “The gaming debts,” she explained.

  “Right.”

  His hand was still under hers. Touching hers. It occurred to her that for once she could be the one to save someone from certain disaster. Her heart leapt at the opportunity.

  “I’ll ask James about the money, Rupert.”

  He clasped her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and gazed into her eyes. At this moment, there was nothing, nothing she wouldn’t do for him.

  “I would never ask you to do that.”

  “I know,” she said lightly. “But I want to.”

  Because I love you. The words were there, quivering on the tip of her tongue, ready to take the leap into the world, if she would only just let them out.

  “I cannot ever tell you what this means to me, Bridget.”

  Rupert lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the back of her hand. Then her palm. And then her wrist.

  And then, tragically, he let go.

  Things I dislike about Lord Darcy

  He does not dance. Once cannot trust a man who does not dance.