Lady Bridget's Diary

by Maya Rodale

  The butler Pendleton opened the door. “Lord Darcy is here. Are you at home?”

  Of course he would have such perfect timing.

  The five ladies glanced around the drawing room—­which was strewn with Miss Green’s embroidery things, a thick stack of newssheets, and some pillows on the floor. Claire was slouching in the chair. Amelia was lounging—­languishing—­on the settee with her ankles exposed. Bridget’s hair was a mess, having hastily been pinned up, but then again it always was. A tea tray was on the table, but one that had been devastated by five parched and famished ladies.

  They all glanced at one another, panic wild in their eyes.

  “We shall need a moment, Pendleton,” the duchess said, utterly poised in spite of the mess. “Send a maid for this tray and please bring round a fresh one.”

  The embroidery was shoved in a basket, which was shoved behind a turquoise upholstered chair. Amelia sat up like a lady with a stack of books on her head, Claire put her things away and Bridget shoved her diary under a seat cushion.

  Then she pinched her cheeks.

  “They’re already pink, Bridget,” Claire said with a smirk.

  “Is it because of Loooord Darcy?” Amelia asked, drawing out the oooo’s just to vex her.

  “Do shut up, Amelia.”

  “Language, Lady Bridget,” the duchess admonished.

  Bridget heaved a sigh, the long-­suffering sigh of the sibling who got caught even though the other provoked it.

  Then all the ladies stood and turned their attention to the door.

  And there he was.

  Loooord Darcy.

  Tall, proud, perfect. He paused in the doorway. Was that a flash of panic in his eyes when faced with the prospect of three unruly sisters, the fearsome duchess, and her faithful companion? Five women, five sets of eyes all on him. Waiting. Expecting.

  Bridget suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Their parting had been formal and inconclusive and surrounded by people, so there hadn’t been any secret message exchanged via whispered words or pleading gazes and the like. He was as inscrutable as ever and gave her no clue as to his innermost thoughts and feelings.

  They all sat down. Darcy, of course, took a seat on the chair with Bridget’s diary tucked under the cushion, which caused Amelia to giggle, Bridget to kick her in the ankle, and the duchess to glare at them both.

  “Good day, Lord Darcy,” Claire asked. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Now Bridget’s heart was racing. Would he say that he was calling to see her? Would he ask for a moment alone? Would he apologize for the kiss or would he propose? If so, what would she say? She was still half in love with Rupert, probably.

  “I have come to see how Lady Amelia is faring,” he replied. “I am glad you have returned safely.”

  None of the above. That was the worst.

  “I am quite well, thank you,” Amelia answered. But she wasn’t quite well. She seemed wistful.

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “We are so grateful that you accompanied Bridget on the search yesterday,” Claire said.

  “It was my pleasure,” he murmured, his eyes locked with Bridget’s. The intensity of the look between them left little doubt in her mind that he was thinking of the kiss and speaking of the kiss. She felt warm and she felt an ache of longing for more. Was she blushing? Dear God, she hoped not.

  She bit her lip, wanting to ask approximately 724 questions. Her every heartbeat was a question.

  Ba-­bump, what does this mean?

  Ba-­bump, will it happen again?

  Ba-­bump, what are you thinking, you madly inscrutable man?

  Ba-­bump, why do I even care in the slightest?

  “I do hope we can be assured of your discretion,” Josephine drawled.

  Darcy glanced at her, then to Bridget.

  “Of course. It would be a pity for a lady’s prospects to be tarnished because of unfounded rumors.”

  Bridget felt a prickling sensation along her skin. She had the peculiar feeling he wasn’t speaking just of Lady Amelia’s great adventure, but of their mad kiss in the rain. He must only care about her prospects if he wasn’t going to propose—­which was fine, she supposed, as she had no intention of marrying him just because he once kissed her.

  But still.

  She found herself feeling dismayed.

  “You’re a good man, Darcy. Now how is that scoundrel of a brother of yours?”

  “As much a scoundrel as ever, in spite of my efforts to keep him from the falling over the brink into disaster and ruin.”

  “He is fortunate to have your support,” Josephine said. “But what he really needs is a wife.”

  “He is thinking of marrying, finally,” Darcy said, his eyes locked on hers.

  “Bridget has taken a liking to him,” Claire said, smirking.

  Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. Or was it? There was no measurable difference in his expression. There was no indication that he gave one whit that the woman he had passionately and illicitly kissed in a rainstorm actually preferred his brother.

  There wasn’t even the slightest shift in tone when he said, “I have noticed.”

  She couldn’t quite hold his gaze now. Instead she looked pleadingly at the duchess, who flashed her the briefest and smallest of smiles before turning to their guest.

  “What of your prospects, Darcy? Have you proposed to Lady Francesca yet?”

  Bridget tried to take a page from his book and adopt what she hoped was an inscrutable expression. Darcy and Lady Francesca were perfect together: they knew all the rules of society and had no trouble obeying them. But she wondered what Francesca would think of Darcy visiting with her misfit family. How would Francesca feel if she knew her intended was kissing another woman . . . a girl like her. She probably wouldn’t like it at all.

  “Pardon me if I will refrain from gossiping about my personal affairs,” he said diplomatically, which only fanned the flames of Bridget’s curiosity.

  “I ask only because I have three girls to get married off,” the duchess said, as if it were the cruelest hardship imaginable.

  “I will never marry,” Amelia said dramatically.

  “What happened yesterday?” Claire asked.

  “Nothing,” Amelia declared. “Everything.”

  Well, that summed it up quite nicely, Bridget thought.

  Things I dislike about Dreadful Darcy

  I can never tell what the man is thinking. This is especially vexing after our passionate kiss. But then again, I don’t even know what I am thinking! Why, I’m still in love with Rupert . . . right?

  Rupert, who might have spent the whole day gallivanting and doing God knows what with my sister.

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  Darcy had taken his leave of the ladies when he encountered the duke in the foyer. He’d just been out for a long horseback ride and invited Darcy to join him for a drink.

  They settled into the library, a masculine space with chairs of the proper size, unlike the delicate twigs and pillows called chairs in the drawing room. The late duke had left an excellent whiskey and they enjoyed it now.

  “I came to see how yesterday’s situation resolved,” Darcy began.

  “Amelia returned on her own last night,” Durham answered. “She’s fine. Cut her hair.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I hadn’t either. But all the women did and there was a fit of hysterics about it. Which is something I happen to be used to. It’s why I have aged beyond my years.” The duke took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes. “You don’t have sisters, do you?”

  “Just one brother.”

  “Thank God that you don’t have sisters,” the duke said, though Darcy had the distinct impression he adored his. “They are a plague upon a man’s sanity.”
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  “I can imagine,” Darcy murmured, thinking of how Lady Bridget was a plague upon his sanity and self-­restraint.

  “One minute they are begging you to take them to England so they can wear pretty dresses and be called lady and be fancy. And once you bring them halfway around the world, one of them runs away and all of them want to go back to America.”

  Lady Bridget wanted to leave England? It made sense; she had struggled to fit in, thanks to people like him who had resented their difference because it made him examine his own behavior. Darcy sipped his drink and refused to consider why he felt something that might be labeled alarm at the prospect of her leaving.

  “What does it matter what they want?”

  “Spoken by a man who does not have sisters,” the duke said, laughing. The dukedom might be an awesome responsibility, but he imagined it paled in contrast to shepherding three beautiful, unruly sisters through life.

  “I see that you care greatly for them.”

  “I’d do anything for them.” He sighed. “And that’s the problem.”

  Darcy understood perfectly. Too perfectly.

  He thought of his own brother, and the delicate and dangerous situation he found himself in. Blackmail for unnatural acts was no laughing matter, and it wasn’t something that could be swept aside easily, like trifling gaming debts or arriving drunk to Almack’s.

  They would stop the blackmailer. And they would have to stop any rumors. A wife was the perfect cover. Especially a wife like Lady Bridget, whom Rupert did care for and who adored him.

  Never mind that Darcy was stricken with the urge to say no and slam his fist down when he thought about it. He had kissed her and it had done something to him; it had unlocked the box where he ruthlessly shoved anything like feelings, and now they threatened to burst out, spill over, and wreak havoc on his life.

  And he could not imagine a greater torture than seeing her as his brother’s wife. His brother, who would probably never kiss her the way Darcy had done.

  But he wouldn’t stop the match either.

  From their earliest days, Darcy always looked out for his younger brother. It had always been his role to explain away the problems, or take the punishment for his little brother, or help him in whatever scrapes he got into as a young man. That bond and those roles had only strengthened as the years passed. Rupert was his only family.

  That would not change now.

  “I hope your brother is not as much trouble as my three sisters,” Durham said. He had no idea.

  “Not for lack of trying,” Darcy said dryly. “How are you settling in?”

  “I think you’re the only person to ask me that who is interested in a truthful answer. This duke business is something else. Complaints from tenants I’ve never met, repairs needed on estates I’ve never been to, absurd social rules that I need to know, the pressure to wed—­and not for pleasure but for business. Much more complicated than horses.”

  Darcy had learned to be adept at all facets of being a titled gentleman. His father had spent hours, days, months, years, lecturing him on the duties of managing their vast estates, dragging him along to tenant visits and, upon occasion, using beatings to make sure the information stuck.

  Darcy learned how to stifle his own feelings, to mask his expression, and to put duty to the estate above all else, particularly any personal desire.

  It was only in this moment that he realized that Durham probably had no one to show him how to be Durham, other than the duchess, which only made things worse.

  “Do you have an estate manager?”

  “Crowley or some fellow. And the duchess, of course.”

  Both men drank, because the duchess was the kind of terrifying matron who drove a man to drink. It was either that or admit to being afraid.

  “I am happy to be of assistance if you require it. We can always meet at White’s for a drink as well.”

  “I’ve heard of White’s. Apparently I am a member.”

  “No women allowed,” Darcy said, allowing himself a grin.

  “Just what I need,” the duke said, grinning. “I shall see you there.”

  Chapter 16

  According to the duchess, a True Lady is one who knows how to plan and host a ball for five hundred people. I asked Rupert if that was something he looked for in a wife and he just laughed and said he loved parties.

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  The Cavendish family had spent hours, days, weeks planning their first ball. According to the duchess, it was vitally important that all the sisters become accomplished hostesses so that they might be an asset to the husbands they might one day (soon, please Lord, soon) acquire. Claire couldn’t care less about any of it, though she was helpful with any sums, such as how many bottles of champagne to order if they invited six hundred people and most of them agreed to attend.

  Amelia’s contributions consisted of absurd suggestions for entertainments: Gypsy fortune-­tellers in the ladies’ retiring room or tightrope walkers from Astley’s Amphitheatre.

  But Bridget devoted herself to the planning of everything, from the guest list (Rupert’s was the first name she wrote down), to the menus (“Do you think that is a bit much?” the duchess inquired upon seeing her three-­page list. “You made me write it before lunch,” Bridget explained.). She might not have been able to successfully adhere to her reducing diet, or master French, or sing on key, but being a hostess seemed like a ladylike task that she could do.

  She and her sisters had no help from their brother. James, being a useless male, just said yes to whatever was asked.

  “Would you rather serve ratafia or punch?” Bridget asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Your Grace, do you think we should have silver or gold as part of the color scheme?” the duchess asked, looking down her nose at him.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he murmured, without looking up from the sporting pages of the newssheet.

  “Your Grace, it is vitally important that we throw a ball,” Josephine said, revealing her irritation. It was, she informed them, a crucial part of their ongoing campaign to woo high society. Apparently it was not enough to possess an old and prestigious title, or pots of money. One needed a pristine reputation and the favor of the movers and shakers in the haute ton.

  Just in case, say, they needed to weather a scandal.

  Which, thanks to Amelia, they did.

  Their ball marked their first appearance after they abruptly canceled their attendance at a soiree due to Amelia’s adventure. They had blamed it on a sudden and dire illness. And now it was all anyone wished to discuss.

  An hour after the ball began, it became clear that while everyone accepted the excuse, no one believed it.

  Bridget never thought she’d long to discuss the weather, but after a certain point, she was desperate to discuss anything other than her sister’s “precious health.” No one complimented the décor, or the menu, or the orchestra, or any of the little details she had so carefully attended to. It was maddening.

  The conversations invariably followed the same pattern.

  “Lady Amelia, we are so glad to see you have recovered from your sudden illness,” someone would say.

  “Your very sudden, very mysterious illness,” someone else would say with a sly wink and a knowing smile. “From which you have made a most dramatic recovery.”

  “I am not quite myself again,” Amelia replied, and it was the truth. But no one in the family knew why or where she had been. Or what had changed her. For once, Amelia wasn’t talking, and Claire and Bridget had spent a good hour devising schemes to make her talk, to no avail.

  “You must have been terribly worried for your sister,” someone would invariably say.

  “You cannot imagine how much,” Bridget would answer. And then her thoughts would stray to the day she had spent searching for her sister, which somehow
involved passionately kissing Lord Darcy.

  And then she would think about that kiss . . .

  And then she would wonder what it all meant.

  Did she dare just ask him?

  Perhaps, if he deigned to arrive. Both Darcy and Rupert had agreed to attend, but had yet to make an appearance. She was on tenterhooks waiting for them, and their friendly, familiar faces.

  In fact, there were very few familiar or friendly faces in the crowd.

  “Duchess, have you invited all of our enemies?” Claire inquired after Lord Fox and Lady Francesca made their entrance.

  “ ‘Enemies’ is such a strong word, dear.” But she smiled in that sharp and knowing way of hers.

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Bridget quipped.

  “Precisely. If you are to stay here, you need to win these people over. Simply being Durham is not enough,” Josephine said. And then turning to the next guest, she greeted him warmly. “Ah, Mr. Collins! We are so pleased to have you join us this evening. The ladies cannot express how delighted they are that you could join us.”

  Indeed, they could not.

  “I look forward to dancing with all my cousins. We hardly get such delights as this at the vicarage and I shall be sure to enjoy it.”

  The ladies were less than enthralled with the prospect.

  A few hours later, Bridget found herself lingering along the perimeter of the ballroom, in an endless round of polite chatter with her guests and striving to avoid Mr. Collins. Earlier, he had penciled his name on her dance card (bad) and pinched her cheek (worse) and said he thought women were too slender these days and he was glad she bucked fashion (the very worst).

  She sought out her sisters. Claire was speaking with Lord Fox (!), Amelia was being introduced to a gentleman Bridget didn’t recognize (?), James had disappeared, and Rupert was nowhere to be found, which Bridget found troubling. He had promised he would attend and claim two dances. Here she was, her dance card glaringly empty, save for a few obligatory dances with unappealing prospects. Ahem, Mr. Collins. She had learned the hard way that ladies did not refuse gentlemen’s invitations to dance.