by Maya Rodale
He is the sort of man who leaves young ladies standing alone in the middle of a ballroom. Most ungentlemanly.
He refuses to aid his brother in his Hour of Need.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
The clock struck midnight when Bridget slipped out of bed, donned her robe, lit a candle, and headed toward the kitchens. It was a long, slightly terrifying journey in a house this massive. But it was worth it, because when she arrived she found James. And cake.
She stood in the doorway and peered into the dimly lit room.
“Your Grace, if I may have an audience?”
She dropped into a little curtsy.
James looked up from where he sat at the large table, with a generous slice of rum cake before him. He eyed her warily.
“Where is my sister and what have you done with her?”
“Whatever do you mean?” As if she didn’t know perfectly well.
“Since when do you address me formally? And speak like the duchess?”
She flounced over to him. And the cake.
“I’m trying to conduct myself as befitting our station. One of us must. You are useful to practice on, being a lofty duke and all.”
“Oh, shut up,” he said, in the affectionate way that only a brother could. He mussed her hair as she came close, which made her scowl. To everyone else she was practically a spinster, but he still treated her like a child.
“Well, this is quite ducal of you, illicitly stealing into the kitchens to devour cake.” Lord above, but she was hungry, and that rum cake was calling her name.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to share,” James said, evilly.
“Oh please, Your Grace, I beg of you.”
“You know I hate being called that.”
“Oh, I do. You may be a fancy duke, but you are not above some sisterly teasing.”
He muttered something to the effect of “Glad to hear it.”
She served herself a generous slice and took a bite. She closed her eyes, the better to savor it.
“What brings you down to the kitchens at this hour?”
“Would you believe me if I said just cake?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I care for the meaning of that.”
“I hope you’re not above a little brotherly teasing now that you are a lady.”
“Oh, I’m not above it,” she said. And then, grinning, added, “But it’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
Bridget’s heart started to pound. This was the perfect moment to ask him.
“A thousand pounds?”
“You are not joking.”
“No.”
“Are you in trouble?”
Her brother’s blue eyes were full of concern and she was lucky, because she knew he would do anything for her. He looked, she thought with a pang, just like their father, who would always say, “My little Bridget, what are we going to do with you?” before lifting her into his arms and whirling her around.
She hesitated, because for a moment she was struck with an overwhelming feeling of homesickness for her parents, and their boisterous house at Duncraven farm, where everything was comfortable and familiar.
But she remembered Rupert, and her love for him. This was her life now.
“It’s for Mr. Wright,” she explained, because she didn’t want James to worry about her. “He has gaming debts.”
“Can’t his own brother help him out?”
“He says Darcy will not. I’m not surprised really. He is such a cold and unfeeling man.”
“I wasn’t aware you were so well acquainted with him,” James said, insinuating that she was. As if he had, oh, noticed Darcy staring at her or her staring at Darcy.
“I’m not.”
She wasn’t. She just knew that he was the sort of man to leave a young lady standing alone in the midst of a ballroom and the sort of man to refuse to help his own brother.
“But you vehemently dislike him.”
“We’re not talking about Lord Darcy.”
“Of course. We are discussing Mr. Rupert Wright, the man of your dreams and fondest yearnings of your heart.”
“It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”
“Don’t lose your sense of humor, Bridge. You don’t want to end up like Darcy.”
“Horrors,” she said flatly. Then stuffed her mouth with more cake.
“Are you sure he needs the money for gaming debts? Because I would hate to lend him money that he squanders on gifts for his mistress or because he got another woman in trouble, when you are so obviously in love with him.”
“He would never do such a thing.” She was certain of him. He was good, and kind, and would never take advantage. He was probably just a poor card player. Because he was so nice.
They fell silent for a moment, enjoying each other’s company and the informality of eating cake in the kitchens at midnight. She could almost pretend that they were back home in Duncraven and none of this ducal business had ever happened. Almost.
“You know, Bridget, you have one hell of a dowry.”
“Josephine has mentioned something to that effect.”
“The man who marries you will get twenty thousand pounds.”
“Twenty thousand!” Bridget turned to her brother with wide eyes. “No wonder Josephine is always warning us about fortune hunters.”
“I’m just saying there’s another way for Rupert to get the money he needs. If his heart were in the right place.”
Chapter 6
Here’s another curious rule: at a ball, women are not supposed to promenade around the ballroom, unaccompanied. And here’s another ridiculous rule: a lady might refuse a dance but then she is not to accept any other invitations for the rest of the evening.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
It was another evening and another ball. Another day spent paying calls, practicing the pianoforte, learning more phrases in French (J’ai faim, je suis fatigue, je wish to stay in bed and read fashion periodicals). Hours were spent preparing—hair was curled and styled, dresses pressed, corsets tightened, cheeks pinched.
They had arrived, along with three hundred of England’s finest, and crushed into this ballroom. The scale of the events still impressed her. The ballrooms were large, the chandeliers enormous, the gowns gorgeous.
And then there was Bridget, a horse breeder’s daughter, trying her best to fit in.
Amelia had manufactured some excuse about needing a moment in the ladies’ retiring room, though she was far more likely to be found snooping about the house; the family had yet to attend an event without Amelia causing some incident or minor scandal. Claire had discovered something to amuse her at balls: she spent most the evening in the card room, divesting drunk, idiot lords and ladies of their fortunes. Bridget was torn between pride and distress because it made her sister—and the family—an object of gossip.
The duchess was engaged in a private tête-à-tête with one Lady Esterhazy, her close personal friend and fellow terrifying matron.
Which left Bridget. With Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague. They were the only girls with whom she had become friendly in London. Lady Francesca was dancing with a young handsome lord; how she managed to dance only with them was of particular interest to Bridget, as she, far too often, ended up with invitations she was forbidden to refuse from the old, slightly infirm, or lethally dull men of the ton. Although Rupert had penciled his name on her dance card for the fifth waltz, and thus her entire existence was now counting the minutes until it was time for him to sweep her into his arms and whisk her around the ballroom.
In the meantime, she lingered on the perimeter of the ballroom with her friends.
“Do you think that Lady Francesca actually fancies any of her suitors?” Bridget wondered.
“Oh no,” Miss Mulberry said. “They are just for amusement. Everyone is expecting Darcy to propose to her.”
“Darcy?”
“You know, the one who always looks like he’s perishing of boredom?”
“I know who he is,” Bridget said darkly.
“It’s the funniest thing,” Miss Mulberry continued. “She was concerned you might be a rival for his afflictions.”
“You mean affections,” Bridget corrected. She was not interested in his afflictions or affections.
“That sounds so romantic,” Miss Montague sighed dreamily. “Rival for his afflictions.”
“That is absurd,” Bridget said flatly.
“That’s what I said!” Miss Montague exclaimed. “I said it was absolutely ridiculous that he should fancy you!”
This was of no consolation to Bridget.
“Don’t tell her we told you,” Miss Mulberry said.
“I won’t.” But she had to wonder: if Lady Francesca saw her as a rival for Darcy’s affections, why then befriend her?
It was another night and another ball. Darcy was actually enjoying the evening, having had interesting conversations with his friend the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon about parliamentary concerns; and he spoke to the Duke of Ashbrooke about the man’s new invention. Earlier in the evening, he had spoken with Lady Francesca on the terrace—listened to her gossip, mainly—and then made his excuses when he saw her friends, the vapid Misses Mulberry and Montague, heading their way. And Lady Bridget, trailing behind.
Darcy was about to call for his carriage when Rupert found him. His brother seemed rushed and worried, not at all his usual self.
“Darcy, I need you to do me a favor,” Rupert said impatiently, grabbing on to Darcy’s arm.
“Let me guess,” Darcy said dryly. “More funds?”
For a second, his brother looked wounded. No, he looked truly hurt that Darcy would say such a thing. He immediately regretted the flippant comment and felt guilty to have thought so little of his brother.
“No, actually. I have taken care of that,” Rupert said, straightening up to his full height. “I need you to waltz with Lady Bridget.”
Oh bloody hell. He’d been looking forward to returning home, perhaps having a brandy in his study before retiring. And now he was to go back into the din of the ballroom and dance. With Lady Bridget.
“You know that I—”
“I know, I know, you don’t dance,” Rupert said dismissively, and no small amount of annoyance in his voice. “We all know that Lord Darcy does not dance, and he certainly does not do so with one of the Americans. But I promised her and now I have to leave. Something has come up.”
“Is everything all right?” Rupert was definitely not himself tonight; something was obviously wrong.
“It’s Frederick. He’s been hurt. There was a fight.” His brother was clearly anxious to rush off to his old friend.
“Is there anything I can do?” Darcy asked.
“Yes. Dance with Lady Bridget.”
And with that Rupert rushed off.
Darcy found himself doing the unthinkable: entering a ballroom with the intention of seeking out Lady Bridget. He had, in fact, made it a point to do exactly the opposite because the woman did things to him and to his state of equilibrium that he did not care for.
But Rupert had asked him a favor. Feeling guilty for that offhanded comment about the money, and wanting to help his brother in what was clearly a distressing situation, Darcy had found himself agreeing. Well, he hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to disagree, what with Rupert running off like that.
Thus here he was, standing before her.
“Good evening, Lady Bridget,” he said, because it was polite and he was nothing if not polite.
“Good evening, Lord Darcy,” she said graciously. She did not draw out the ooo’s. No, she spoke like the duchess was succeeding in her attempts to turn her into a proper young English lady. “I don’t suppose you have seen Rupert.”
She called him Rupert. Not Mr. Wright. This suggested an intimacy between them that Darcy didn’t care for.
“I have. He had to depart unexpectedly. He sends his regrets.”
Lady Bridget heaved a sigh, which he mainly noted due to the dramatic rise and fall of her breasts. Of course he looked, briefly. He might be a gentleman, but he wasn’t dead. He definitely wasn’t dead, owing to the pulse-pounding way his body reacted to her.
Then she gazed down at the dance card dangling from her wrist.
“He owes you a waltz.”
“He doesn’t owe me anything. But he did promise and I have been looking forward to it.”
The words he uttered next were not spoken lightly. He told himself it was his duty as a gentleman not to leave her idling like a wallflower; he ought to ask her to waltz. If anyone asked, and they would, he would explain that he was simply standing in for his notoriously distracted brother.
He didn’t want to dance—he hated dancing. But even he had a hard time denying the desire to touch her, and he had been presented with the perfect opportunity to do so, without it meaning anything.
“Would you like to dance?”
“Of course I’d like to, but my dance partner is missing.”
He exhaled shortly, frustrated. She misunderstood him. He ground out the words, “Would you like to dance with me?”
“It’s not that I wish to dance for the exercise or because I am bored standing on the sidelines,” she explained, while scanning the room for her desired dance partner. “It’s just that I wish to dance with Rupert.”
“Right.”
Darcy gritted his jaw. He had just been rejected. By Lady Bridget, of the American Cavendishes. The only thing more mortifying was that he had, for a brief, shining moment, looked forward to the prospect of holding her with something like anticipation. This was exactly why feelings of all sorts were to be ruthlessly ignored.
And he had been rejected in favor of Rupert, who was off doing God knew what with God only knew whom.
Maddening, that.
“But it’s very good and honorable of you to offer to stand up in his stead.” She smiled sweetly at him and patted his arm, as if he were a small child. It was so bloody ladylike of her, and that saddened him. They were changing her, from an exuberant creature into one who was polished and refined, and who lauded honorable behavior. It was the same thing they’d done to him. “You are such a gentleman, Lord Darcy.”
Except right now, he didn’t want to be a gentleman. In fact, if he dared to examine the state of his emotions, he would find that what he wanted was to pull her against him, claim her mouth for a deep kiss, sink his hands into her hair. He wanted to thoroughly and utterly ravish her until she would say, breathlessly, Rupert who?
Of course that was completely unacceptable and exactly why he made a point of avoiding her or at the very least avoiding anything that wasn’t a reasoned and rational thought.
And then he spoke in haste, words spoken from a place of hurt and words he regretted the second he gave voice to them.
“I would think that even you are aware that young ladies are not supposed to refuse a gentleman’s offer to dance.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. He might as well have said, Or you would know that if you weren’t raised on a horse farm.
Her cheeks reddened considerably.
“I am very well aware, thank you,” she said so sharply, he almost felt as if he’d been stabbed. “As I am also aware that a lady must honor what is written on her dance card. So you see, I am in an impossible position due to your stupid rules.”
“They are not my rules.”
She gave him an utterly disparaging look.
“The only thing keeping me from storming off is that ladies are not supposed to stroll around the ballroom unaccompanied,” she said. “Actually,
no. The only thing keeping me from storming off is that you might then have even more reason to chastise me.”
“I didn’t mean—”
And then the unimaginable happened. She turned away from him, steadfastly refusing to look in his direction. He, Lord Darcy, received the cut direct from Lady Bridget, of the American Cavendishes.
Chapter 7
Kisses from Rupert: 0
Moments for possible kisses with minimal risk of discovery: 4
Hours spent wondering why he hasn’t: embarrassing
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Lady Millicent Winterbourne’s garden party was not to be missed by “her dearest nephews,” even though, to Darcy’s knowledge, they were not in fact blood relations. She had been quite good friends with their dearly departed mother, and apparently that was sufficient basis to claim them as her own family . . . with all the obligations and nagging that entailed.
She bustled over to the brothers upon their arrival.
“There you are, Darcy. I knew you wouldn’t refuse me. Hello, Rupert, I don’t mind if you cause a scandal or are caught kissing behind a hedge.” She patted his cheek affectionately.
“Good afternoon, Lady Winterbourne.”
“Don’t Lady Winterbourne me, Darcy. I held you on my lap when you were just born. Call me auntie.”
He was a grown man and as such would lose his bollocks if he called anyone auntie.
“Aunt Winterbourne,” he offered as a compromise.
“Auntie Millie,” she countered.
“Lady Millicent,” he offered as a compromise.
“Lord, but your father wrecked you.” She sighed.
There was only one possible response to that.
“The weather is very fine today,” he said stiffly.
“Makes me wish I could take off this jacket and jump in the lake,” Rupert added. To be honest, Darcy had half a mind to do the same thing. The sun was actually shining, which meant he felt exceedingly warm under this fitted, dark wool jacket. Between that and the length of starch wrapped around his neck, he felt like he was being strangled.
“As I said, I do not mind if you cause a scandal, so long as it’s at my party.”
