Lady Bridget's Diary

by Maya Rodale

  But there was Darcy threading his way through the crowd, with his eyes set upon her. Her heart started to pound, hard and slow in her chest. He was something else entirely in his evening clothes—­he was even more Darcy-­ish, if such a thing was possible. Everything was black and white and starched and fitted and perfect.

  It was hard to believe this man had been overcome with passion for her. She couldn’t imagine him overcome with passion for anything and yet . . . She pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering. She almost wanted it to happen again, just so she could be sure. Or did she need it to happen again because she just needed to feel that wanted again?

  Darcy stood before her, gazing down intensely with those dark eyes of his. Making all thought, rational and otherwise, flee.

  “Good evening, Lady Bridget.”

  How had she never noticed how low his voice was? How had she not noticed the way it made her tremble slightly?

  “Good evening, Lord Darcy.”

  Was that the faintest hint of a smile? Rupert laughed so easily, but his brother . . . his expressions might as well have been carved in granite. That faint upturn of his lips was some sort of triumph. She felt elated.

  “How are you enjoying this evening?” she asked, ever the polite hostess.

  “Very well. You and your sisters have done an excellent job planning this affair.”

  Bridget leaned in close to confide in him and caught the scent of his jacket, which reminded her of the time she had worn his coat . . . and then for a moment she forgot what to say. “It was mostly the duchess and myself. Claire couldn’t be bothered, and if Amelia had her way, there would be a tightrope strung up between the chandeliers.”

  “I actually would have liked to see that,” he remarked, glancing up to the ceiling.

  “I as well, though the duchess nearly had an apoplexy when Amelia made the suggestion.”

  “I don’t suppose your sister has revealed anything about her day spent abed whilst gravely ill from a malady from which she has miraculously recovered?”

  She smiled. She and Darcy shared a secret. Two secrets. Whoever thought she would share secrets with a man like him? It made her feel so connected to him.

  “She has not breathed a word. It is highly unusual for her.”

  And then Darcy said something that surprised her. In fact, he leaned in close to whisper in her ear.

  “She was not with Rupert,” he said softly. And suddenly the air between them changed. If it had been charged before, it was positively electric now. She didn’t know what to make of this feeling. She didn’t know what to say.

  She just knew that her heart leapt because Amelia had not been with Rupert, which meant that perhaps she still had a chance with him.

  But then why did she feel a bolt of lust when Darcy approached?

  “Oh, I didn’t know,” she replied. “Will he be here tonight?”

  “He said he would be late.”

  She had been counting on Rupert to be here especially because she was nervous to be hosting her first ball. He made her laugh and feel at ease. He was her friend. She wrote Rupert and Bridget in her diary an embarrassing number of times and fancied marrying him.

  But he had never kissed her. Not once, not even a little, and not at all the way Darcy had done, with all the fierceness of long-­restrained passions finally bursting free.

  Passions that seemed to have been gathered and restrained.

  She couldn’t make sense of this man, or her feelings for him.

  And then he surprised her again.

  Darcy ought to be used to this feeling of war within him: there was the desire to do one thing, cold rationality demanding he do another. Rupert wished to wed her. And Darcy wished to bed her.

  Rupert had gone out and said he would arrive at the ball late. Darcy forced himself not to be the first guest in attendance, forced himself not to make a beeline for Bridget, forced himself again and again to stop thinking about her.

  Her lips. Her sighs.

  Her everything.

  No.

  He should have avoided the ball this evening, but that seemed wrong. For one thing, showing his support for the family after befriending the duke and nearly ravishing Bridget was the least he could do. But the truth was he wanted to see Bridget. And he wanted to test himself.

  Could he be near her and not want her?

  He ought to start thinking of her as Rupert’s, not his. Never his.

  But here he was, standing before her, full of wanting.

  He had complimented the hostess, they had spoken briefly of mutual acquaintances, and now he was free to make his excuses and go find a strong drink and high-­stakes game of cards.

  But he didn’t want to leave her. Not yet. Not because he had seen her standing along the perimeter of the ballroom alone, watching everyone else have a marvelous time at her party.

  Because, if he were being honest, Darcy wanted to feel her in his arms again, and there was only one socially acceptable way to do that.

  “Would you care to dance, Lady Bridget?”

  She appeared shocked. Rightly so.

  “But you do not dance.”

  So this was what it felt like to have a knife wound to the heart. God, and this was the second time he had asked her to dance. And the second time she refused. No wonder he made a habit of avoiding dancing entirely.

  “Right.”

  “But it is the proper thing to ask me,” she remarked, smiling. “And of course you always do the proper thing.”

  “Indeed.”

  He was vastly relieved that she should interpret it that way, was he not? She still knew nothing of his tortured feelings, still thought him a right proper stick-­in-­the-­mud. And he would still, possibly, get to dance with her and hold her in his arms.

  This was perfect, was it not?

  “I would hate to tempt you into behaving improperly,” she said softly, smiling wickedly, and it did things to him. Then she added softly, “Again.”

  Tempt me. He experienced a perverse desire to have a monumental test of his self-­control and personal resolve.

  “My self-­control is legendary,” he told her. And himself.

  “Is it?” She gave him a knowing smile that spoke of what had happened between them in the gazebo in the rain that afternoon . . . Proper English gentlemen didn’t do such things, and they certainly didn’t talk about it if they did.

  “Well, possibly merely mythical,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. A blush stole across her cheeks.

  “Shall we?”

  He swept her into his arms. Darcy gently clasped her gloved hand and placed his other hand on the small of her back. Memories flooded his brain, such as how she felt flush against him. The pressure of his palm must have been too much; he was out of practice. She was right; he did not dance. She stumbled a little, nearly into him. Her gaze flew up to his.

  “My apologies.”

  “It’s all right,” she said softly.

  The orchestra launched into a song, and they began to move in time to the music. Mostly. It was easy enough for a gentleman to lead a waltz; the steps were simple, but it was damn hard to navigate around all the other dancers when one was driven to distraction by his dancing partner, who was, admittedly, not an excellent dancer herself.

  They were a disaster together.

  Her eyes were so very blue.

  That he was fixated on the blueness of her eyes was just one reason they were a disaster together. They had a few near-­miss collisions with other couples on the dance floor. In effort to avoid them, she stepped on his feet. Her skirts tangled around their legs. They stumbled slightly. Her breasts brushed against his chest and she laughed nervously.

  He wanted to die. Not only was this a mockery of dancing, the entire ton was watching this self-­inflicted torture. All because
he wanted to bed her. Bury himself inside her. Lose himself in her. Feel everything until he exploded from the intensity to it. Then, perhaps, he could return to his calm, orderly, unfeeling existence.

  But he could not. That would require marriage. That would interfere with his plans, with Rupert’s plans.

  And this waltz was doing nothing to diminish his desire for her—­quite the contrary, in fact. And it was doing everything to torture and embarrass him, so much so that marrying Lady Bridget seemed like a more reasonable way to hold her.

  “You are quiet,” he said. For once her every thought wasn’t tumbling out of her plump mouth, and it wasn’t obvious what thoughts were jumbling through her head. It was those very qualities that had at first repelled him and now he missed them desperately. Missed her.

  “I am too busy feeling.”

  “What are you, ahem, uh, feeling?”

  “Like I should have practiced waltzing more. But then perhaps not. Is it horribly wanton that I enjoy stumbling against you?”

  “Yes,” he rasped.

  “Do you disapprove, Lord Darcy?”

  Tempting minx. She was deliberately torturing him, he was certain of it. When he spoke, his voice was rough, “I am in no position to judge.”

  Rather than satiate his desire to hold her, he only wanted her more.

  Bloody hell.

  “I’m certain Lady Francesca is an excellent dancer,” Bridget remarked. He followed her gaze and saw the lady in question standing near the windows overlooking the terrace. Lady Francesca was poised, as always. But something was different now, and he saw the anger in her eyes.

  Slowly he became aware of other curious stares and glances. Of course. Lord Darcy did not dance, and everyone knew this, just as they knew the Earth was round, Sunday was the Lord’s day, and spring followed winter.

  But hundreds of them had all borne witness to this violation of natural law. Not only had Lord Darcy danced, but he had done so with one of the Americans.

  Something was happening. Bridget had no clue what it was. But there was something between her and Darcy. She wanted to puzzle out what it was, what made her heart beat faster, what made her feel a jolt of longing, and whether it, whatever it was, meant she should write Lady Bridget Darcy (or whatever the proper form of address would be) in her diary instead of Mrs. Rupert Wright.

  And then they were interrupted. By Mr. Collins.

  “Ahem.”

  Darcy and Bridget stopped suddenly at the interruption, tumbling into each other. She crashed against his chest. His hard, firm, hot chest. His big, strong arms wrapped around her and did not let go immediately. She wasn’t sorry.

  In fact, she thought about feigning a swoon.

  Instead, she turned to face the small little man who had interrupted her something with Lord Darcy.

  “Oh, Mr. Collins. Hello.”

  “I do believe this is my dance, Lady Bridget.” She strongly considered murdering him. In front of five hundred witnesses.

  Mr. Collins looked pointedly at the dance card dangling from her wrist. It was his dance. And she had been all too eager to dance with Darcy instead. For obvious reasons that anyone with a modicum of brain function would understand.

  Bridget glanced up at Darcy. His expression was priceless. It seemed that it wasn’t every day that he was interrupted thusly, especially by a man so, so, so far beneath him socially.

  “It says so, right there on Lady Bridget’s card,” Mr. Collins insisted. Turning to Darcy, he said, “We are cousins, you know.”

  “I did not know. In fact, I do not think I have made your acquaintance.”

  Oh good Lord, she would have to perform introductions. Josephine had spoken to them about this; in fact, it was one of those lessons that Bridget had skipped. She had pleaded a megrim halfway through and retired to her room to read fashion periodicals in bed.

  Was she supposed to present the lower-­ranking person to the higher-­ranking one? Or was it the other way around? If she got this wrong, she would reveal herself to be as socially inept as Mr. Collins, perish the thought.

  Oh, and Josephine had also said to include a little bit of information about the person when performing the introductions. Her mind went blank, except for the most inappropriate things.

  “Lord Darcy, may I present my brother’s heir, Mr. Collins,” she managed to say. He is a plague and a nuisance and I haven’t any clue why he was invited. No, no, mustn’t say that. Instead she said, “He is visiting from his vicarage in, ah, um, a shire.”

  Was that a quirk of Darcy’s lip? Was he finding this amusing?

  “Berkshire, actually,” Mr. Collins corrected. “But we cannot expect women, with their diminutive brains, to have more than a passing knowledge of geography.”

  He elbowed Darcy as if they were chums. Darcy looked down at him as if he had been poked with a stick dipped in horse dung.

  “Mr. Collins, this is Lord Darcy,” Bridget said. His kisses leave a girl breathless. Oh Lord, she could NOT say that aloud. But what to say about him? “He is a very gentlemanly, uh, gentleman.”

  Oh Lord, she was making a cake of herself. Her cheeks felt hot, which meant they were probably a violent shade of pink. Mr. Collins, being obtuse, wouldn’t notice. But Darcy would. She couldn’t imagine what he would think.

  “I shall leave you to your dance,” Darcy said politely.

  “Thank you for the dance, Lord Darcy.” Bridget curtsied, rather elegantly, given how cross and out of sorts she felt.

  He nodded. And walked away. And Bridget was left with Mr. Collins.

  Oh bloody hell, she wanted to mutter. But she did not, because a True Lady did not use such language. Not even in moments like these.

  Darcy turned and walked away. A small part of him was actually relieved for the interruption. Something was happening between Lady Bridget and him and . . . it could not.

  He had to think of Rupert.

  He had to think of the expectations of a man of his station and position. And the intentions he’d indicated toward another woman already.

  Lady Francesca.

  He took a second to ensure that anything he might be feeling was smothered and stuffed into a box deep inside. Then, his expression inscrutable, he made his way to face Lady Francesca. She did not look pleased. They’d known each other for an age, and he’d never seen her like this. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect that she was angry with him. Was she jealous of “one of those provincial Americans,” as she called them? It seemed preposterous.

  “I thought it only polite to waltz with the hostess,” he replied to the accusation in her eyes.

  “Will you waltz with all four of the hostesses, the duchess included?” Lady Francesca inquired. “That I would like to see.” She threw back her head and laughed.

  He heard not the amusement but the bitterness. And it reminded him of his father, laughing at him for making mistakes. That laugh took him back . . . back . . . though he stood in this ballroom as a man of three and thirty, he felt like a thirteen-­year-­old boy, chastised. Nothing was more effective at putting him in his place than mocking laughter—­not beatings, not even nights without supper.

  It went without saying it was not a point in his life he was keen to revisit. It occurred to him that if he married her, he would hear that laugh again and again, for the rest of his life. The prospect made his throat feel tight, as if his valet had tied his cravat too tightly.

  But if he did not care to hear that laugh, if he was not going to wed Lady Francesca . . . Darcy’s heart started to pound as he followed that thought to its logical (illogical?) conclusion: he would be free to marry Lady Bridget.

  That was, if he were to steal her from his brother, who needed her.

  He spied her through the crowds. She was dancing again, and smiling, and laughing. This time she was dancing with Rupert.


  Chapter 17

  Last night I waltzed with Darcy, who does not dance. Of course he was probably being polite. He is nothing if not polite. It certainly couldn’t signify something else, could it?

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  The ball was not quite the smashing success that the duchess had hoped for. Oh, it had been so well attended that the ballroom was at capacity. The guests had nothing but compliments for their hostesses. But the papers the next day did not report on any of that. After all, news of a successful ball paled in comparison to even a hint of scandal.

  “The London Weekly is reporting that Amelia was seen quaffing an excess of champagne,” Josephine said with a frown at Amelia, who, this morning, most certainly did appear to have consumed an inordinate amount the night before. Her complexion was wan and she was not her usual animated self. “When she wasn’t quaffing champagne,” the duchess read, “she was seen shooting daggers with her eyes at Mr. Alistair Finlay-­Jones, the vaguely disreputable heir to Baron Wrotham.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Amelia muttered. “One cannot shoot daggers with their eyes.”

  “It’s not I that am talking about it, but rather The London Weekly and thus the entire town. My only consolation is that they are not speaking about your mysterious illness.”

  “The Morning Post is,” Claire said, peering up from a different newssheet. “The Man About Town says that Lady Amelia appears to have made a remarkable recovery from her grave and sudden illness.” Then she read from the column. “In fact, the lady looked as if she had a spent a day out of doors rather than a day on her deathbed.”

  “If only they could see you now,” Bridget teased. “You look incredibly ill.”

  Amelia halfheartedly swatted at her.

  “Sisters,” James groaned. He, too, seemed to have consumed an inordinate amount of spirits the previous evening. “What did I ever do to deserve three sisters?”

  “Oh, you are not off the hook. Your Grace,” Claire said, smiling devilishly. James scowled; he hated when his sisters addressed him formally. “His Grace crushed the hopes of many a young maiden by waltzing twice with Miss Meredith Green, companion to the duchess, while eligible young ladies languished on the sidelines.”