by Maya Rodale
“I hope no one is ill,” Rupert said, worried.
“No one is ill.”
“Miss Comte came down with the tuberculosis just last week. And I saw her and Lady Claire speaking close together. What if she has contracted it?”
“Your imagination is running away with you.”
“What if all the sisters get it?” Rupert asked in a horrified whisper. Darcy didn’t miss his sidelong glance and emphasis on all. He might as well have just asked, What if Bridget is dying?
“I’m sure that in the unlikely event that one sister has contracted tuberculosis, they will take every precaution to prevent its spread,” he said in his calm, measured tone that did not belie his true feelings inside.
“Are you not worried about Lady Bridget at all?”
Yes. No. Yes. Darcy sighed. Set down his pen. He would have to do that Darcy thing, where he pretended to ignore his feelings to death.
“Why would I be worried about Lady Bridget?”
“Because you are in love with her,” Rupert said flatly. He raised his glass in cheers. Darcy only scowled at him. Then he downed the contents of his glass in one sip, setting the glass heavily on the desk.
“You do not deny it,” Rupert pointed out. Was that a note of glee is his voice? Was this torturous state of unrequited love somehow amusing to him?
“Lady Bridget has made it perfectly clear that she has a low opinion of me and is not interested in furthering our acquaintance.”
“Lady Bridget might have revised her opinion,” Rupert said cryptically.
Darcy was certain she had done no such thing. She was trying so hard to be a lady and he had not treated her thusly last night, in the butler’s pantry of all the places in the world. Good God, he had gone after her as if he were a panting schoolboy and she was a lovely milkmaid known to be generous with her favors. He hadn’t given the slightest care for her reputation; he had cared only for her soft sigh of pleasure when he kissed her.
And then today, he did not call on her. Did not speak to her brother about his intentions and marriage contracts. Did not even send a note saying, I shall take care of this situation. Yours, Darcy.
It turned out that he wasn’t perfect after all; he was just a man in love, tortured by lust and terrified of being refused by the woman he loved. Again. For the second bloody time.
He expected to be refused. In fact, he was so certain that she had not revised her opinion that he was shocked to find her on his doorstep at an ungodly early hour the next morning.
Chapter 22
I’m afraid only Darcy can save me now.
Lady Bridget’s innermost thoughts
Bridget had spent a sleepless night in a state of acute heart-pounding, stomach-aching anxiety. Her diary was missing, and after a thorough search of the house with the assistance of twelve maids, eight footmen, two sisters, one duke, and even the duchess—there was no denying it.
Worst of all, she knew what had happened to it. Well, she didn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt but she had her suspicions. And if she was right . . . they would all be ruined. She and her siblings would have to return to America, failures. The duchess wouldn’t be able to face society and would have to retreat to one of her six country estates to live out her days in shame.
With a disaster of this magnitude, Bridget would need help, beyond what her family could provide. There was only one man to turn to. Only one man would certainly just resolve the matter with a minimum of fuss. Only one man could do the Darcy thing where he rode in and issued commands until everything was sorted.
He just so happened to be the last person in the known universe that she wished to ask for help right now. She hadn’t had an opportunity to apologize for misjudging him or to thank him, and now she would have to beg for a favor. But if she didn’t . . . and if the contents of her diary were known . . . she did not think it an overreaction to already deem it The Scandal of the Century.
To be clear, Bridget did not care one whit about everyone knowing the embarrassing things she recorded about herself. No, she was thinking of the things that could ruin the reputations of people she cared about deeply. Amelia. Rupert. Darcy. And for them she would have to swallow her pride and call upon Lord Darcy (even though young unmarried ladies did not call upon gentlemen) and request his assistance in Saving Them All from The Scandal of the Century (even though it was all her fault).
Early the next morning. Very early.
If the butler was shocked to see a young lady on the doorstep, he did not give any indication. It was impressive, that.
Her fears that Darcy would not be at home to her were quickly assuaged. The butler showed her into his study. Though it was early, Darcy was already impeccably dressed and seated at his desk. She noted a cup of coffee near his left hand, along with neatly organized stacks of papers and a small mountain of correspondence.
So this was where he spent his time, being lordly. Stepping into his private chambers—without a chaperone—felt so intimate, almost as much as a kiss.
He stood when she entered, and stepped in front of the desk. She searched his gaze for a clue about his feelings but he was as inscrutable as ever. Drat the man.
“Lady Bridget, this is most unusual.”
“But hardly surprising,” she said.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said softly. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and given that they hadn’t a moment to waste, she decided to get right to the matter at hand.
“I hope I can still count on your discretion,” she said nervously.
“Of course.” He spoke as if it were that simple. And to him, it was. She knew then that no matter what she did to hurt him, he would never, ever betray her. Because he was good. Because it was the right thing to do. And he always did the right thing. Nothing else mattered.
Her heart cracked open a little then. Was it breaking? Or was that just the love starting to burst out? Whatever it was, it scared her . . . almost as much as the portrait above the mantel that had just caught her eye. Ah, a blessed distraction.
“That is a terrifying portrait,” she remarked, eyeing it warily.
“My father.”
“Oh! I am so sorry for saying he is terrifying,” she said, cursing inwardly. Of course she had to go and say something vaguely insulting when she imposed upon him. “But I do hope that is not his likeness.”
“It is a tame version of it,” Darcy replied dryly. Bridget dared another glance at the furious old lord in the picture.
“Oh my.”
She gazed at Darcy with new eyes now. She could just imagine what it was like growing up with a father who glared menacingly like that. How one would always strive for perfection to avoid that look, to mask one’s feelings, to try to escape notice. Her own father had been laughing and smiling more often than not, and always encouraging his children to think and feel freely. She understood now what Darcy meant when he said he needed her. It hadn’t just been about lust.
“I’m sure you did not come to discuss my art collection or my father,” Darcy said stiffly.
“I just cannot imagine living with that expression staring down at me. It would make me so nervous. It is making me nervous.” She laughed. Nervously.
“I plan to have it removed to the attics. I have tired of looking at it.”
“What shall you replace it with?”
“I haven’t given the matter much thought.”
“Perhaps a nice pastoral. With dogs, and horses . . .”
“Lady Bridget, I suspect that you did not come here to discuss paintings or pastoral landscapes with me,” he said impatiently.
Right, then. To the disaster at hand. Time to explain how the diary of a young woman was about to destroy lives. She sighed and summoned her courage and launched in.
“I need your help,” she said. “My diary has gone missing. And I k
now you would never say, ‘Who cares about the silly diary of a silly young woman’ but you might be thinking it. And in case you are, I must tell you that the diary could ruin me. Us. Rupert. Amelia. Everyone and everything.”
Darcy was silent, regarding her.
“It will be The Scandal of the Century,” she added in a whisper. It sounded a bit ridiculous when said aloud.
He lifted one brow. “Is that so?”
How dare he mock her now! How dare he make light of this!
“I wrote about Amelia’s mysterious and extended absence.” He frowned and looked down at the carpet. “I wrote about the time you kissed me in the rain. And the butler’s pantry. I wrote the truth about Rupert.”
His head snapped up, eyes flashing.
“How do you know?”
“Between what you said, and what he told me . . . I figured it out. Well, I asked James to explain it and that didn’t exactly go well.” That had been an awkward conversation for both of them, to say the least.
Darcy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and if he tried counting back from ten, he made it only to six or seven. When he finally looked at her again, his eyes were full of sorrow.
“Bridget, Amelia would be cut from society. In fact, none of you would be welcome. And Rupert could be hanged if that were revealed. Or he might have to leave the country. Forever.”
And Darcy would be left alone, with no one. She so badly wanted to say, You will have me. But that wasn’t the same, it wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t the right moment.
“I know. I am so sorry. I thought that the worst that would happen would be Amelia reading it. She’s a snoop, but she doesn’t gossip. I care greatly for Rupert. And my sister. And that is why I’m here seeking your help. I don’t care at all about everyone finding out how many hours I spent practicing the quadrille, or how many desserts I refused over the past few months.”
“Record of your dessert consumption aside, this is indeed a disaster,” he said flatly. And calmly. And that was why she loved him.
He strode across the room and poured himself a glass of brandy.
“Brandy?”
“It’s quite early for that, don’t you think?”
“We are facing a crisis.”
“Ladies don’t drink.”
“Please don’t try to be a perfect lady,” he said softly. He glanced over at her.
She bit her lip. Her efforts to Be a Lady had some good effects: she was no longer confounded by a formal table setting, she knew most of the steps to the quadrille, and she knew how to address most peers. But it had also made her miserable as she tried to fit into some mold that wasn’t her. To please a man who liked her just the way she was. After the other night, she simply didn’t have the patience or the energy to keep trying.
“Oh, that ship has sailed. And I am not on it.”
“Right.” He set the drink down and started pacing. She watched his long legs, long muscular legs, take powerful strides across the carpets. Focus, Bridget.
“Where did you last see it?”
“Yesterday, in the drawing room. Before calling hours. We have searched the house all last night.”
“That explains it,” he muttered. And then, “I told him it wasn’t tuberculosis.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Do continue.”
“I am afraid that Lady Francesca stole it during calling hours.”
He stopped short and turned to face her, his dark gaze narrowing. It occurred to her now that Lady Francesca was having her trousseau made and Darcy hadn’t proposed to her. She did not like what those two things added up to.
“That is a bold accusation.”
“This is true. Any one of our dozen callers yesterday could have picked it up and walked off with it. But I am not oblivious. I know she doesn’t like me. I would not be surprised if she wished to ruin me.”
“Why?”
Bridget sighed. “I’m given to understand that she has been expecting a proposal from you for quite some time. And then the other night . . .”
“Right. I see.”
If he wished to roll his eyes and groan, Women! he gave no indication of it.
“I am asking for your help because I know you care about Rupert, if not me. I would hate for something to happen to him. And I know you have already assisted Amelia—yes, she finally told us you had encouraged her to return to us and we cannot thank you enough—so I wonder if you might perhaps help protect her again. I am not concerned with anything else, not even that I will be ruined if everyone learns that I am the sort of girl that kisses men in rainstorms and closets. I’m not worried about myself at all, although it will be tremendously embarrassing to have the haute ton know how desperate I was to fit in. Why, I kept track of my sugar cube consumption and the number of dance invitations I received . . .”
Darcy stood there for a moment, willing his pounding heart to slow down. She rambled on, as she was wont to do, about this and that and God only knew what. And he loved her. Loved the sound of her voice and her strange American accent. He loved all the ways she endeavored to be better, each and every day. Even though she was lovely just as she was. He loved that she was facing utter ruin and tremendous ridicule, but her concerns were focused upon others. He loved that she had come to him, because he wanted to save the day.
Because that was what he did.
There was no denying that this was a disaster.
“I wrote about Rupert’s blackmail and the reason for it,” she said in a strangled whisper and horrified expression. “I wrote all about Amelia’s disappearance. I mentioned how long she had been gone, and that we did not know with who, so everyone will assume the very worst.”
He did not deny that this was a disaster. One of epic, unprecedented proportions.
“Oh God, I called Lady Wych Croft Lady Witchcraft.” She fumbled to sit down in a chair by the fireplace. “Oh, she will never give me a voucher for Almack’s. Which shan’t matter because I will be ruined.”
It was a disaster, but it was also his chance to save her and to show her that he loved her, and that was all that mattered. He had no expectations of his success or, should he succeed in locating the diary and keeping its contents confidential, that it would change anything between them. But there was no way he wouldn’t try.
He ought to recoil from her company now but that was the last emotion he felt as he gazed down at her, flung back in the chair, wincing as she recalled what she had written.
“And Darcy?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“What for?”
“For calling you Dreadful Darcy, and writing about that proposal, and my refusal. And how we kissed in the butler’s pantry and how we are not betrothed.”
Oh God. So this was what it felt like to have the blood drain from one’s face. His reputation would be damaged as well.
“You’ll be wrecked and it will be all my fault. Though I did mention how pleasurable it was.”
Oh God. Were those tears in her eyes? He could handle anything—except for a woman’s tears. In all his training, this was never dealt with. He dropped to his knee before her.
“What good are years of perfect behavior and a spotless reputation if I can’t cause a scandal every once in a while?” He gave a slight smile. She looked at him curiously.
“And for the rest of us?”
“I will find the diary, Bridget,” he vowed. “And furthermore, I will ensure that no one is ruined by this potential scandal.”
“How?”
“This is what I do, Bridget,” he said. “Saving everyone from total ruination and certain disaster is one of those lordly things I do all day.”
A little laugh escaped her.
“You should return home. I will take care of everything.” He rang for Danvers
and requested his hat and carriage.
“Darcy, wait . . .”
He turned, and she lingered there nervously, and impatiently. As if she wanted to say something but was being held back. Which was unusual. Even more unusual—he knew, without speaking, what she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
And he knew how to answer without saying a word.
Darcy closed the distance between them in two quick steps. He cradled her face in his palms and lowered his mouth to hers. This kiss was not enough, no, but it was promise of more.
As Bridget started to walk home, she foresaw a day of sitting in the drawing room, in a state of anxiety, eating loads of biscuits and pastries, and regretting everything. She wouldn’t even have her diary to write in, to help soothe her. That was the thing about men dashing off to save the day: it left one little to do other than sit home and fret. This was hardly appealing, especially when one was in an advanced state of emotional agitation.
Besides, perhaps he would need help. Two heads were better than one, weren’t they? They had a history of searching for lost things together. First her sister, now her diary.
Oh, whom was she kidding? Bridget just wanted to be with him. So she turned and dashed back, where Darcy was waiting for his carriage to be brought around.
“Darcy, wait!”
He turned. If he was surprised that she would dash after him in public, hollering his name, he did not show it. He was probably not surprised in the slightest. He didn’t even seem embarrassed by her display.
“I’ll go with you,” she said, slightly out of breath from having run. Corsets were not helpful in such endeavors (running or breathing).
“Where?”
“Wherever you are going.”
“I am planning to visit Lady Francesca. If what you said is true, do you really think it will help your cause if you were to call on her with me?”
“I’ll just wait in the carriage whilst you go in to see her,” she said, preparing to climb into the carriage.
