Lady Bridget's Diary (17 page)

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.”

“Your best friend,” Bridget said.

“So we are attending,” Claire said.

“And arch enemy,” Amelia added with a wicked grin.

“So we are not attending,” Claire replied.

“Oh, we are most certainly attending,” Josephine said. “I don't suppose one of you will make a match in the next few hours? Otherwise, Lady Wych Cross will have something to gloat over.”

Bridget sipped her tea and eyed her siblings. James shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Amelia pushed food around on her plate and took a small bite from a piece of toast. Claire's cheeks were pink.

“Has Lady Francesca made a match?” Bridget inquired, trying very hard to sound utterly disinterested in the answer.

Josephine gazed shrewdly at her.

“Are you asking if Darcy has proposed to her?”

“No?”

“That means yes,” Amelia replied.

“I would not be surprised if they did invite us over to announce the news.” What Josephine said next surprised Bridget. “She has seen you as a rival from the beginning.”

“Oh, the drama,” Claire said.

Shortly thereafter, everyone except the duchess left the breakfast room, but Bridget remained. She reached over and, etiquette be damned, took a piece of bacon from Amelia's plate.

“You cannot be serious,” Bridget said, eyeing the duchess. “There is no way that Lady Francesca—­beautiful, elegant, sleek-­haired, and perfect—­has seen me, the girl who fell, as a rival.”

“Have you known me to jest?”

Bridget sighed. That was such a Darcy thing to say.

“Lady Francesca has been counting on a proposal from Darcy since her debut; longer perhaps. And then you arrive and slip and fall right into his heart.”

“That's very poetic of you.”

“The study of poetry is one we haven't had time for yet. But that is neither here nor there at the moment,” the duchess said with an elegantly dismissive wave of her hand. “She has done everything right . . .”

“. . . And I have done everything wrong, I know.”

“Oh hush! Lady Francesca may walk with a certain air, know all the finer points of etiquette, but she is also mean-­spirited. And you, Bridget, are a kindhearted girl. And that is what makes a true lady.” The duchess clasped her hand and Bridget blinked away tears. “Don't lose that,” she continued. “Don't let me crowd it out with rules and dancing lessons, and don't lose it trying to fit in with the likes of Lady Francesca.”

Gah, she felt something like tears in her eyes at the duchess's kind words and at the thought of what it would be like to stop trying so hard to fit in or to impress people who did not wish to be impressed. What if she could just . . . be?

Tonight we shall dine with Lady Witchcraft and Lady Francesca and I am looking forward to this evening as much as one would look forward to having their teeth pulled out, one by one, without so much as a splash of whiskey or laudanum to ease the pain.

Lady Bridget's Diary

Of course
she
would be here. Darcy was standing by the mantel, bored by Lady Francesca's conversation, when Lady Bridget walked in with her family. When he'd been invited to an intimate dinner party, he'd never imagined that Francesca would invite the Americans. If he had known . . .

. . . he would still be here. There was no denying the way his breath caught when he saw her, like he'd been caught unawares and punched in the gut.

He'd been away for a fortnight, traveling between his estates, tending to matters at each one, avoiding Bridget and tracking down Rupert's blackmailer. The problematic housekeeper at Ivy Cottage, one of their smaller properties, gave her notice, saying she had come into a fortune. Given that middle-­aged housekeepers rarely came into fortunes, Darcy made some inquiries. In a short conversation he had made her aware of the punishment for blackmailing a peer of the realm and mentioned the option of returning the money. He also mentioned that Australia was lovely this time of year. He said these things in his I-­am-­Darcy-­do-­as-­I-­say voice. Mrs. Keyes was on a ship in the Atlantic at this very moment, and Rupert's secret was safe.

Darcy had come to realize that his motives were not purely altruistic, either. Of course he thought of the family's reputation, his brother's life, the wealth of the estate, etc., etc. But if this threat of discovery were removed, then Rupert would have no reason to wed Bridget.

The threat of discovery had been removed.

Now there was nothing stopping Darcy's marriage to her, other than the fact that she didn't love him and he had insulted her so tremendously that it would be impossible that she should forgive him, let alone love him.

“I've missed you,” Lady Francesca cooed, resting her hand on his arm. He glanced at her; she was gorgeous. And he hadn't thought of her once. But the woman on the other side of the drawing room, obviously talking about him with her brother, he'd thought about her constantly.

I simply do not know if I can carry on in my quest to be a True and Perfect Lady. I wonder what would happen if I threw caution and polite manners to the wind and said whatever was on my mind.

Lady Bridget's Diary

Dinner was a disaster. There was not one particular moment that was horrendous; it was simply an onslaught of tiny indignities, one right after the other. Bridget was miserable by the time they arrived at the soup course and had a difficult time concealing it. Matters only became worse.

“And how are your prospects, Lady Bridget?” Lady Wych Cross asked. Bellowed, really, from the other end of the table.

Bridget paused, halfway through lifting a spoonful of turtle soup to her lips.

Of course she was acutely aware that one of her rejected prospects was seated at this very table, avoiding her gaze.

“Yes, Bridget, do tell us,” James said, and she kicked him under the table.

“My prospects are fine, thank you for asking,” Bridget replied. The polite thing, the done thing would be to leave it at that. She could go back to her soup and count the minutes until they could leave. But she could see her and Lady Francesca smirking—­in a ladylike way, of course—­as they tried to embarrass her. In front of Darcy. Because they thought her a rival.

Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn't. There was really nothing she or Lady Francesca could do about that; it was up to Darcy. All she could do was be herself.

Bridget decided then and there that she was finished with trying to shrink herself so that she might fit in and gain the approval of the likes of Lady Francesca. Or even Darcy.

And so, because she saw where this conversation was going if she played along, she decided to turn the tables. “And how are your prospects, Lady Wych Cross?”

Josephine gave Bridget A Look.

For a moment, the old woman looked shocked.

“Dead,” she said bluntly.

“I overheard Lord Burbrooke say that he thought you amusing, Bridget,” Lady Francesca said. Lord Burbrooke was a slow-­witted fellow who monopolized most conversations with stories of his pack of hounds.

“I am so charmed to have attracted the notice of someone who exemplifies the English aristocrats I have met thus far.”

“It would be a pity if such lovely girls were left too long on the shelf,” Lady Wych Cross said, her voice tinged with sarcasm, glancing from Bridget to Amelia to Claire before settling on the duchess.

“Indeed. My girls are only on their first season, though. Perhaps Lady Francesca can tell them about the plight of women who have had three seasons without wedding.”

“But not for lack of offers,” Lady Francesca said with a sharp smile.

Darcy took a sip of wine. Bridget did the same.

“And what makes you think my girls haven't had any offers?” The duchess smiled a catlike smile.

Darcy took a long swallow of his wine. Bridget took another sip of soup. Oh, she did
not
like where this was going.

“Quite a few offers, in fact,” James drawled.

Darcy motioned to the footman for more wine.

“Congratulations. Shall we have champagne to celebrate?” Lady Wych Cross inquired. Then, dropping her voice, she asked, “Or were the offers unsuitable?”

“The offer was suitable, though my sister is undecided on the gentleman in question,” James said.

Darcy wouldn't meet her gaze. This could be interpreted only one way, she thought. He was mortified to have proposed to her and lived in a holy terror that the ton should find out, especially Francesca.

Bridget drained the wine in her glass.

Josephine gave her another look of dismay. True Ladies did not overimbibe at the dinner table.

“And the other one? You made it sound like you had a few.”

“My other offer was unsuitable,” Bridget said.

“Most unsuitable,” Amelia agreed.

“Very unsuitable,” Claire added.

“I think you should have accepted one of your offers,” James said with a pointed look at her, while tipping his head in Darcy's direction. Gad, her brother had the subtlety of an invading army. She would never confide in him again.

“What is done is done,” Bridget snapped.

Darcy took another sip of wine.

“It is deplorable how long girls are taking to wed these days,” said Lady Wych Cross.

“Is it the fault of the ladies for refusing proposals or the gentlemen for not offering?” Josephine asked, with a pointed look at James.

“Who says the gentlemen do not offer?” James inquired.

“Perhaps they do not make attractive offers,” Amelia said. “Perhaps they natter on about all the wrong things.”

Well, Amelia was reading her diary again. Bridget would probably murder her after supper.

“I'll tell you what the problem is,” Lady Wych Cross declared. “It is these newfangled, foolish notions of marrying for love instead of sensible reasons like lineage, connections, or how one will be supported. Far too many girls are led astray by irrational and lofty ideas about romance and whatnot. Now we have young men and women unwed, causing all sorts of trouble.”

“And how happy were you in your marriage, Lady Wych Cross?” Bridget asked.

“Bridget . . .” the duchess warned.

“Oh, Duchess, let the girl ask her impertinent questions,” Lady Wych Cross said. “Marriage is not about happiness, girl. It is for the purpose of accumulating wealth, prestige, and passing it to the next generation. It's utterly foolish to enter a marriage without considering such things. Happiness has little to do with it. Love, even less.”

Darcy had said as much in his mangled, insulting proposal to her. It was impossible not to glance at him, quickly, though, so he would not catch her looking. She saw that he had developed a sudden fascination with a silver spoon. It so happened that hers was quite interesting as well. She would have to compliment her hostess on her silverware.

“Perhaps some people do not wish a lifetime of misery whilst accumulating wealth they will not even get to enjoy and titles that serve no purpose whatsoever other than to make a parade out of walking in to dinner,” Bridget replied.

“Of course the Americans would say that,” Lady Francesca said dismissively with her sharp little laugh that felt like it could cut glass.

“I may not know all your silly rules, but I do know who won the war,” Bridget said, pointedly, with reddened cheeks. She'd had enough discussion of her prospects—­or lack thereof. She'd had enough of being made to feel foolish for who she was: American, interested in love, impertinent. “Excuse me,” she said, and quit the table.

She could not get to the foyer fast enough. From there she would inquire about the ladies' retiring room. Or perhaps she should just take the carriage home and send it back for her family. She just needed to be alone.

Heavy footfalls sounded behind her, echoing on the marble tiled floor.

“Bridget.”

She knew that voice. That low voice that issued orders, that expected to be obeyed, and that also made heat pool in her belly. She stopped, but required a moment of deep, controlled breathing before she could turn around and face Lord Darcy.

Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

Darcy still wanted her. Wanted her with yearning that shocked him. And he was finished with trying to fight it.

Bridget had had multiple offers of marriage, both of which were unsuitable and one of which was his. His competitive instincts had flared—­and were promptly drowned with wine.

Bridget who, he now realized, cared nothing of wealth, status, duty to one's title, etc., etc. All the things he had been raised to care for above all else.

She cared only for love.

How modern. How American. How luxurious.

How
that
made him jealous.

He did not know what mad force propelled him to follow her from the dinner table. It would be commented upon, probably. But in spite of her refusal, his time away, he still craved her.