by Maya Rodale
As he paced, he occasionally looked up and saw his father’s portrait. The damn thing glowered at him in soul-crushing disapproval as if it knew the direction of his thoughts. Darcy lived under that perpetual frown, that constant glare.
He stopped short. Recognizing that same expression upon his own face. And it wasn’t that he hated everything and everyone, or found the world not quite up to his standards. It was because it took such an enormous effort to remember one’s place, one’s duty, one’s Noble Purpose . . . when a pretty girl fell over in front of you and then stood up and cracked jokes.
Darcy called for his hat and gloves. He was going out.
Darcy had the good fortune to find Lady Bridget alone at Durham House. She was in the garden. She smiled, and seemed happy enough to see him. He dared to exhale the breath he was holding. His heart was pounding in his chest as if he’d sprinted from London to Dover and back again. She, this slip of an American girl, made him, a peer of the realm, nervous and speechless.
“How are you today, Darcy?”
A proper reply would have been “Very well, thank you, and you?” An acceptable answer would have been “Fine.”
He did not say either of those things.
“I cannot stop thinking of you, Lady Bridget. In spite of my struggles, my valiant efforts, my thoughts constantly stray to you.”
Her lips parted. Shock, probably. He was shocked as well. These words. Were being spoken. Aloud. By him. To her.
“You, Lady Bridget, you. I don’t know what it is about you . . .” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts, slow his racing heart. “God knows there are plenty of reasons I shouldn’t want you and yet I have been tormented by desire for you these past weeks. I have fought against my better judgment, expectations for my marriage, Rupert’s interests, the reputation of you and your scandal-plagued family, but I can bear it no longer. I crave you, your kiss, your touch.”
He ached to reach out to her, touch her cheek.
She said nothing. Her lips parted, but still, she didn’t speak. It seemed he had brought this constantly chattering woman to silence and he desperately need her to say something.
Anything.
Or he would.
“I think I might love you, Bridget. You are hardly the kind of woman I had imagined making my wife. But I fear I will never find happiness with anyone else. I beg you to put me out of my agonies. Will you do me the honor of becoming my countess?”
“I . . . I . . . don’t know what to say.”
One thing was becoming abundantly, terribly clear: this was a disaster. Because of this impulsive idea from his lust-addled brain to propose marriage, he was now stuck in this nightmare of a scene, playing the role of absolute idiot.
If she said yes, it would be worth it.
“Say you will be mine. My happiness depends upon it.” And my pride. And my lust.
“And what of my happiness?” she demanded. He was taken aback by the sharpness of her tone.
“I want nothing more than to be the one to make you the happiest woman.”
“You might begin by not insulting me, or my ‘scandal-plagued’ family, or confusing love with lust.”
She might as well have slapped him.
The fog cleared from his brain. Sense and reason returned. She was right; he had insulted her horribly by revealing all the things he was forced to consider, by virtue of his position. But he had to. He wouldn’t be who he was, otherwise.
She could not love him as he was.
Who was he, anyway? Was he this man? Or had his father succeeded in wiping away any trace of Colin Fitzwilliam Wright, who had once loved to laugh, chase girls, and even dance?
“I apologize.”
“For what? For holding yourself and others to impossible standards? For being all lordly, as you are supposed to be? You probably cannot even help it.”
She had it all right. No, all wrong. This was not who he was, deep down. He hoped she could unlock the cage he’d found himself in. But no.
“I apologize for insulting you. That was not my intention. I wished only to give an indication of the turmoil I am experiencing with regard to you.”
“I am sorry for your struggles. But I cannot accept your proposal.”
“Right.” He nodded. Dying. He was dying inside. God, how had this even happened? “This is not how I . . .”
Words. Not available to him at the moment. He started to go. But one question remained. He stopped, and turned.
“Is your refusal because of Rupert?”
“No,” she said, eyes flashing in anger. “It is because you are an ass.”
“Good.” He paused, carefully weighing the words he was about to say. “He will never love you. He will never love any woman the way she ought to be loved,” he said. “Do you understand me, Bridget?”
She nodded yes, but he saw the confusion in her eyes.
“But he will love you, in his own way. I only mention this because I wish you to be happy. And loved. And I regret that I dared to think I was the one who could make you happy.”
There was nothing else to say. He turned and walked back to his house at a much slower pace than when he had rushed headlong into disaster.
He was worried about ruining her, but the truth was she had ruined him. He always said the right thing, until today, when every sentence he uttered was worse than the last. And he had felt nothing until he made the acquaintance of Lady Bridget and he reluctantly had begun to allow himself to feel. And now he felt too damn much.
I have received my second marriage proposal and I can’t quite decide if it’s worse than the first. Darcy—DARCY!—asked me to be his wife. Even though I am not what he wants in a wife, which he made ABUNDANTLY CLEAR. Even though my family is “scandal-plagued” in spite of my BEST EFFORTS. Even though marriage to me is against his better judgment. Well. WELL THEN.
I have refused him, naturally.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
The logical thing to do now was to numb all and any feelings of rejection, despair, and self-loathing. Not to mention a physical and mental sensation he might have described as heartsick, if he had been less of an Englishman.
Darcy proceeded directly to the sideboard in his study and poured a large tumbler of whiskey. The first drink did nothing. He could still recall everything, from the way Bridget tasted when he kissed her that day to the horrified expression on her face when he proposed. After the second whiskey, he could still recall everything, but he didn’t feel it as intensely. Everything went to hell after the third.
At some point, Rupert strolled in, took one look at him, and asked, “Who died?”
“My hopes and dreams,” Darcy said flatly.
“Mine as well,” Rupert said grimly. “Read this.”
Rupert tossed a crumpled sheet of paper into Darcy’s lap.
He set down his now empty glass, alas, and fumbled with the paper. The words blurred before his eyes.
Two thousand pounds by Tuesday or I’ll tell the ton about you and you know who.
“I don’t know what to do anymore, Colin.” His brother rubbed his eyes wearily. Pushed his fingers through his hair. Paced around the room before collapsing into a chair.
“This is very vague,” Darcy said, puzzled. “Are you sure this person even has the information with which to blackmail you?”
“Are you suggesting that someone simply goes around sending such letters, assuming everyone has skeletons in their closet they’ll pay to hide?”
“Genius, if you ask me.”
“Evil genius. And no, he—or she—knows. A lot. The first letter was very detailed and specific.” Rupert paused, debating whether to say more before finally confessing. “It was about Frederick and me, and the times we visited Ivy Cottage.”
“Do you still have it?”
“
No, I burned it. I burned them all.”
“Do you remember anything? Were they sealed? Was the handwriting the same?”
“No, I saw nothing but the threats. It was small amounts at first. And then more and more over time. As if they knew I would pay.”
He had paid. Someone had illegally obtained a fortune.
“We have to put a stop to this once and for all. I’ve been meaning to go to down to Ivy Cottage anyway. There was some trouble with the housekeeper and other things. In the meantime—”
“—I’ll propose to Lady Bridget.” Rupert thought he was finishing his brother’s sentence. But he wasn’t. Not at all.
“No.” Darcy said this firmly, but softly. Rupert didn’t seem to hear.
“We’ll marry and that will ensure any rumors don’t gain a foothold if they should emerge. We’ll get along, Bridget and I. It could be worse, I suppose.”
God, Darcy would give anything to be able to love Bridget, to marry her, spend his life with her. And here was his brother, thinking it wouldn’t be the worst fate, when compared to social ostracization, possible deportation, or death.
Bridget deserved better than that.
“No.” Darcy spoke louder now, but Rupert was lost in his own world. He stood, and started pacing around the room, muttering.
“Frederick won’t like it. But c’est la vie. If this is what I must do to protect us, well then I must. And I am rather fond of her. She makes me laugh.”
Darcy stood.
“No.”
The match would be one of convenience, but it would make them all miserable.
“What do you mean, no?” Rupert stopped abruptly, having finally heard his brother. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Perhaps. Probably.” Darcy shrugged. And exhaled. “Absolutely.”
“You’ve been after me for years to wed. And now I’ve finally decided to settle down with a perfectly amiable girl and—”
She wasn’t a perfectly amiable girl. She was a woman. A complicated, confusing, confounding woman who wanted to be loved for herself, not in spite of stupid, perceived obstacles. She wanted to belong. She was a woman whose kiss made him forget himself—or find himself, he wasn’t sure. He just knew that she was more than merely amiable.
Darcy couldn’t take it anymore. Before he knew what he was about, his punched his brother. In the face. Right in the eye, to be precise.
“What the bloody hell?”
Rather than wait for answers, Rupert retaliated.
A scuffle ensued. Punches were thrown—and missed their intended target. Or any target, really. Their battle quickly devolved into a juvenile scuffle, complete with slaps, kicks, and hair pulling. Chairs were overturned. At one point, a volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies was used as a weapon.
It was utterly undignified.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” Rupert asked, panting.
“Don’t speak of her that way,” Darcy replied, breathing hard.
“Why?” Rupert asked, confused and enraged. He held his eye, in pain. Darcy doubled over, trying to catch his breath. But he looked up and saw comprehension dawning in Rupert’s eyes. “Oh. Oh my God.”
Marriage proposals: 2
Accepted proposals: 0
The hour: late
Cake: lots
Lady Bridget’s Diary
The duchess would undoubtedly be horrified to learn that the duke and his sisters were frequently in the habit of sneaking down to the kitchens in the middle of the night. The cook, however, had reluctantly accepted the practice and had taken to leaving out plates of cakes, pastries, and the like, where hungry Cavendish siblings might find them without too much fussing around in her kitchen.
It was shortly after midnight when Bridget found plates, a freshly baked vanilla pound cake, and the company of her brother.
“Has Amelia told you where she went on her big adventure?” James asked, pouring them each a glass of milk.
“Not yet,” she mumbled, having just bitten into a heavenly slice of cake. Vanilla. With lemon frosting. They did not have cakes this good in America. If they returned home, Cook would certainly have to come with them. “Have you?”
He shook his head no. “This is officially the longest she has ever kept a secret.”
“Usually I would think that’s a good thing—a sign that she’s growing up,” Bridget said between mouthfuls of cake. “Not that I am in any position to speak of growing up. But . . .”
“But . . .”
Bridget took another bite of cake. Yes, they were growing up. The duchess was seeing to that. But to what end? Yes, she had snared a proposal from Darcy but it was one he was obviously reluctant to issue because she didn’t measure up. She and her scandal-plagued family didn’t belong.
“What are we doing here, James?”
“Opportunities like this . . .” He shrugged and waved his hand in the general vicinity of the kitchens, the house, the city of London, the country of England, and all the bits of it that he personally owned.
Funny, that.
“I know, I know. Opportunities like this don’t come along often or ever. Are you happy here? Everyone always does what you say. And you can go out without a chaperone and have as much cake as you like. All the girls fancy you.”
“The dukedom is not without its charms, I’ll grant you that,” he said with a grin. “But they don’t want me here.”
“They don’t want any of us here,” Bridget said.
“But I wonder if we would find more of a welcome if we tried to belong more,” James said.
“Speak for yourself,” Bridget mumbled. “That’s what I thought and I have made every effort to do so and it is not enough. So don’t bother. Even if someone comes to care for us, all they will see is our endless stream of scandals.”
“And what if one of us finds a reason to stay?” James asked, glancing at her, hair falling in his eyes. He was serious. Gravely serious. And he seemed to be holding his breath waiting for her answer. And just when she was about to ask who the lucky girl was, he said, “That Darcy fellow isn’t so bad.”
“I refused him today,” Bridget said. Her voice cracked and she half laughed, half cried. Hours later—and some tears, and pages upon pages in her diary, and more tears—and she still wasn’t sure if it was funny or a complete tragedy. She thought he hated her and disapproved of her, but no . . . he might love her.
Well, he did still disapprove of her. He had said as much.
“What? Why?”
“I am not perfect enough. We are not perfect enough. He insulted us, and then declared his love for me.” She took another bite of cake, something sweet to counteract the bitterness.
“Wait—what is the problem?” James asked, genuinely perplexed, leaving Bridget to wonder if all men were utter fools. “Insults trump love?”
“Yes,” she said resolutely.
“Insults trump a title, heaps of money, and a declaration of love?”
“Obviously.”
“Women.” He rolled his eyes.
“Women! How is this my fault and the fault of my entire sex?”
“He said he loved you, Bridge.” Her brother gave her a sad smile. “I think he was probably trying to say he loved you in spite of all his stupid reasons not to. He was probably trying to convey that love trumps all other considerations.”
She hadn’t thought of that. She had only heard Perfect Lord Darcy fling insult arrows right into her heart, one right after another.
He loved her, but she was embarrassing.
He loved her, but her family was embarrassing.
He loved her, even though he shouldn’t.
And now her brother was suggesting that a simple “I love you” mattered far more than all the grave insults that would make it impossible for them to have any
real, equal marriage.
Well, she had always questioned her brother’s wits.
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” she questioned. “Can a girl not count on familial loyalty in a trying time like this?
“Yours, of course.” He reached out, tousled her hair, and gave her another one of those sad smiles that did nothing to soothe her heartache.
“It is lust he feels, not love,” she said, scowling.
“Something every brother wants to hear about his sister,” James said, groaning.
Bridget laughed, a little.
“What am I going to do?”
“Well, obviously you’re not going to plan a wedding,” he said, stealing a bite of her cake while she sighed and glanced heavenward. Ugh, brothers.
“For a minute there you were helping. And now . . . not so much.”
“If you think having a brother is vexing, trying having three sisters.”
“And with that, I bid you, and this cake, good night.”
Chapter 20
I asked James what Darcy meant when he said Rupert would never love me the way a woman ought to be loved. He turned red and said one does not speak of such things, so now I am left to make all sorts of assumptions.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
A fortnight had passed since Darcy proposed. A fortnight had passed since he left London and presumably took Rupert with him—she had learned this from her lady’s maid, who heard it from a downstairs maid, who heard it from a footman. Bridget’s life carried on; a mixture of deportment lessons, trips to the modiste, and an endless round of balls and soirees. On Wednesdays she wore pink and trailed after Lady Francesca, Miss Mulberry, and Miss Montague, but it wasn’t quite the same. Her friends, if they were ever really her friends, seemed distant. Bridget found she lacked the heart to fret over it.
At the breakfast table, a fortnight after Darcy had proposed, Bridget was perusing the shipping timetables in the newspaper, searching for the next ship to America, when the duchess cleared her throat, requesting everyone’s attention.
“Lady Wych Cross has invited us to dine.”
