Lady Bridget's Diary (26 page)
Read Lady Bridget's Diary Online
Authors: Maya Rodale
I
t was the morning after their wedding and, as one would expect, Darcy and Bridget were to be found in bed. Tangled up in soft white sheets, tangled up in each other. There were kisses and soft sighs, quiet moans and gasps as they made love in the lazy, leisurely way of a couple who had the promise of a lifetime together and no need to rush.
It was only when the sun was high in the sky that husband and wife deigned to leave their bed, dress, and go down to breakfast. There were freshly ironed newspapers by Darcy's place at the table, and a present near Bridget's.
“What is this?” She glanced over at him and smiled in that mischievous way of hers.
“It is a present for you,” Darcy answered, nervously. He wanted to give her something that would not only please her, but demonstrate that he loved her, just the way she was. Needless to say, he'd agonized over finding exactly the right thing. “A wedding present, to be precise.”
“What is it?”
“I should have known,” he said, shaking his head, closing his newspaper, and setting it aside.
“What should you have known?”
“I should have known that you are the sort of person who asks what is in a present rather than just opening it.” He couldn't help it. He grinned.
She laughed. “And I suppose you are the sort of person who oh-Âso-Âslowly and oh-Âso-Âcarefully unwraps gifts so as not to wreck the wrapping. As if
you
needed to save it or economize.”
“You say that as if there were something wrong with that method. It is a very dignified way of unwrapping a gift.”
“Ha! I knew it.”
“Are you going to open it?” he asked impatiently.
She unwrapped in a manner that was the opposite of his, which was to say not neatly or carefully at all. She dropped the crumpled paper by her place at the table.
“Oooh,” she sighed. “It's beautiful.”
It was a book. To be specific, it was a book full of empty pages, waiting to be filled with Bridget's thoughts, feelings, and observations. It was a thick, leather-Âbound volume in “the prettiest shade of lilac,” according to the shopkeeper. The thick pages had silver edges, and a silver filigree design was stamped into the leather.
“And look at this, it has a lock,” Bridget said, smiling. She glanced up at him and batted her dark lashes. “Are you tempted to see what I shall write?”
“Not in the slightest. I would never read the private writings of another person.”
“I suppose it is in the event that my diary once again falls into the clutches of a nefarious creature with malicious intentions. Don't those words just give you shivers?”
“No. I told you grown men don't get shivers,” he replied. “I thought a lock would be appropriate for the times when Amelia is here for a visit.”
She laughed. “How well you know the Cavendishes now! It is perfect, Darcy, I love it. I love
you.
Thank you.”
She swept over to him, leaned over, and kissed him. He tugged her down into his lap, dismissed the servants, and they did things at the breakfast table that gentlemen did not discuss.
Later that afternoon Bridget sat at the delicate writing desk in her private drawing room at Darcy's house. Correction: the home she shared with him. She traced her fingers along the leather cover of her new diary, thinking of all the wonderful things with which she hoped to fill up the pages.
On the first page she wrote:
Lady Bridget's Diary, Volume the Second
But that didn't seem quite right. This was her first day as a married woman, the first day of the rest of her life. This wasn't another volume about her trying to fit in, but what she would do now that she found the place where she belonged. Oh, there was so much she could do now that she wasn't fretting over silly little things, like how her hair didn't hold a curl or whether she had too many sugars in her tea.
So she crossed out the words
Lady Bridget's Diary, Volume the Second
And instead she wrote
Lady Darcy's Diary
She turned the page and began to write.
Things I love about my Dear Darcy
I love that I can say MY dear Darcy.
I love the way he always does the right thing and protects those he loves.
I love the way he kisses me.
I love the way he would become adorably embarrassed if I were to write any more about that.
Bridget caught herself staring into space with a dreamy smile on her lips and wicked thoughts in her head. Thoughts of kisses and more than that.
I love that when I have thoughts of kisses and more than that, he is just downstairs and I only need to go knock on his door . . .
She set down her pen. That would do for now; she had a whole lifetime with him to add to the list and a desperate need to go kiss him, immediately, because she could. But before she shut the book she flipped through the pages and noticed somethingâÂthere was writing on a random page in the middle. It was not her handwriting. In fact, it looked like . . . Darcy's.
Things I love about my wife
I always know what she is thinking.
I love that she stands back up when she falls.
I love that she makes me feel alive and reminds me what is important.
I love things that I am too much of a stuffy English gentleman to put into words, but she knows what they are . . .
With that, Bridget laughed, closed the diary, locked it, and put it away. Then she went off in search of Darcy, to interrupt whatever vital work he was doing, with something far more important: a kiss.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
the next title in bestselling author
Maya Rodale's hilarious
Keeping Up with the Cavendishes series,
Available July 2016
In which our hero and heroine should not be meeting like this
I
t was a warm summer night in Mayfair and Alistair Finlay-ÂJones sang an old drinking song as he walked back to his flat after a night pleasantly spent drinking and wagering with his old friends at White's.
At this late hour, the streets were empty.
Except for . . . a woman?
He slowed his pace and observed.
She strolled slowly and stumbled slightly. As he drew closer, he heard something like singing, but she was slurring her words and it was hard to discern what she was saying. Or singing. But she did have a lovely voice.
A lovely figure, too, from what he could glimpse from behind. Women with lovely figures and voices oughtn't be strolling the streets of London, not even in Mayfair, at this late hour.
He caught up with her.
“Madame.”
She whirled to face him, nearly falling flat on her face as she did so.
“Good evening, sir. Or is it lord? Or mister or right honorable? I do apologize for not knowing.” She tried to curtsy, which was a terrible idea, given her difficulty standing. He propped her up. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. You must be the man with the song.”
In the moonlight, he could see that she was young. Far too young and far too female to be out on the streets alone, never mind that she was out at night. Never mind that she was clearly three, possibly five sheets to the wind.
Given that this was Mayfair, a neighborhood populated by the marriage minded mamas, the most dangerous subset of human for the common rake, Alistair had half a mind to rush away from her, in the event that this was some marriage trap.
But then he looked into the dark pools of her eyes, fringed with dark lashes and thought
it could be worse
.
He put the thought out of his mind.
Madness, that.
“I have been looking for you,” she told him. At least, that's what it sounded like.
“May I escort you home?” Better him than, oh, anyone else she might encounter. Besides, it's not as if he needed to be up in a few hours for an interview so important he was summoned from another continent for it.
“No, thank you. But it is so kind of you to offer.”
She tried to dip into another curtsy and thought better of it. She swayed slightly, leaning in toward him.
“May I escort you elsewhere?”
“No, thank you. I prefer to walk.”
“It is not safe for a lady on the streets alone, especially at night.”
“It isn't safe for a lady anywhere, ever. But now I have you to protect me from the dangers.” She nestled up to him, resting her cheek on his chest. Then she yawned. “You will, won't you?”
“Yes,” he said softly. Because honestly, what else could he say when a lovely young woman pressed against him like that?
“Let us walk,” she said, quickly stepping away from him and pitching forward. He quickly darted forward and linked arms. She leaned heavily against him and they took a few slow steps. “And do carry on with your song. It tempted me to come out. Like the sires.”
“The sires?”
“You know, from the odessisseusness.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Greek story.”
“Ah,” he said, comprehension dawning. “The sirens. From the Odyssey.”
“That's the one! That's you.”
“I can assure you, I'm not luring you to your death. Quite the contrary, I would like to see you home safely. Where do you live?”
“America.”
Wrong. Impossible. Try again.
“Where do you live?”
“One of these big old drafty houses.” She waved her hand in the general vicinity of the approximately twenty houses lining the street.
If he had stayed in England, he would know who she was, who she belonged to, and which house was hers. She was obviously a person of quality if she was referencing The Odyssey and lived in a drafty old Mayfair house. Or perhaps she was merely a governess. Either way, the last he checked, the young ladies of England of any social class were not encouraged to drink themselves into a stupor and wander the streets alone.
The girl was leaning more and more heavily upon him. Her footsteps were slowing. He probably had precious few moments before she blacked out entirely.
“Miss, where do you live?”
She slumped against him. Yawned loudly. She rested her cheek against the wool of his jacket and her hands slid against his chest.
“Oh bloody hell,” he muttered.
She mumbled something that sounded like, “Ladies mustn't use such language.”
“Good thing I'm not a lady.”
“Wish I wasn't.”
She nestled even closer against him. He could feel that she was very much a lady.
He suddenly, keenly regretted not accepting Darcy's offer of a ride. At this very moment he could be back in his lodgings, loosening his cravat, removing his boots, and falling into bed to snatch a few precious hours of sleep before the baron told him why he'd been summoned back after six years abroad.
But no, he was on Bruton Street in the middle of the night, in a hellish predicament. Somehow, he was in possession of a drunk or drugged woman who probably had rich and powerful relatives who would make him pay for his role in this farce.
Alistair considered his options. He could knock on each door and make inquiries: “Does this girl belong to you? No? Do you know whom she belongs to?”
He couldn't just leave her on the street.
Perhaps he could leave her on a doorstep of one of these houses, ring the bell, and run, thus making her someone else's problem. A butler would know what to do with her. Butlers always knew what to do.
But that would certainly ruin the girl.
And she seemed like such a sweet girl, with her dark eyes and tumble of curls and mentions of ancient Greek literature. Drunken, unchaperoned, slightly flirtatious antics notwithstanding. He wanted no part in her ruination.
But Alistair didn't exactly want the responsibility of saving her from such ruination either. He wanted to collapse in his own bed and snatch a few precious hours of sleep before what promised to be a life altering interview with the baron. And to do that, he needed to get rid of this girl.
Alistair grabbed her and shook her warm, limp shoulders.
“Where do you live?”
Her head lolled to the side, dark curls tumbled out of her coiffure. She muttered something completely unintelligible. Oh, bloody hell.
Alistair glanced around at the dark night and desolate streets. There was only one thing to do: he would have to take her home.
MAYA RODALE began reading romance novels in college at her mother's insistence. She is now the bestselling and award-winning author of smart and sassy romances. She lives in New York City with her darling dog and a rogue of her own.
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www.mayarodale.com
.
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