Lady Bridget's Diary (6 page)

A few days later, Rupert availed himself of Darcy's company while he was at his desk, drafting a new bill for Parliament.

“Have I mentioned lately how glad I am that you're my brother?”

Darcy didn't bother looking up. “Yes, just last week when you wanted funds.”

“You are very clever. Sharp. Smart. Charitable. God-­fearing. Kind to women and children.”

Darcy set down his pen and glanced at his younger brother. If it wasn't a trick of the light, he seemed pale, drawn. There were shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept. Something was troubling him. More debts, probably.

“How much, Rupert?”

“Just, oh, a thousand pounds.”

Then he rambled on about “putting it in perspective” and did Darcy know that some other idiot had lost his own late mother's beloved sapphire engagement ring in a wager, and another bloke with a half-­empty brain box managed to lose his sister's dowry in a literal pissing contest.

Whereas Rupert had merely lost a small amount of money during an unlucky card game. It happened to the best from time to time. Darcy resisted pointing out that “from time to time” was now a regularly scheduled occurrence.

Darcy hadn't forgotten that the last time they had this conversation, he said it was the last time he'd provide the money.

“There are other ways of obtaining funds,” Darcy pointed out.

“Is this where you lecture me on marriage?”

“Well, I don't think the army or clergy will pay enough to cover your debts,” Darcy said dryly. It went without saying that actually working in a profession was out of the question. “You should marry.”

“Would you believe me if I said I'd been considering it?”

And for a moment, Darcy was stunned. Speechless. His carefree, sworn-­bachelor little brother beating him to the altar.

“No.”

“Well, I have,” Rupert said.

“Have you been considering it abstractly, or with regards to a particular woman?”

“Lady Bridget.”

“No.”

Darcy's response was swift, immediate, and certain. No. His brother could not marry her. Not at all. Not in this lifetime. No. The force of this no took him by surprise, locked his breath in his lungs, made his heart stumble from its steady rhythm.

He hoped, prayed, and begged God that Rupert thought it was because Darcy was a horrible snob and refused to welcome Americans into their family . . . even though it was an eminently sensible match. She was the sister to a duke; her dowry was probably so large even Rupert couldn't gamble it away. And yet . . . no.

Something inside Darcy rebelled at the notion. No one could know the truth: that Darcy was struck with the mad urge to possess her. To have her himself.

Chapter 5

Lady Bridget Wright?

Mrs. Rupert Wright?

The Right Honorable Mrs. Wright?

Well, this will finally teach me the proper forms of address! Here I am, wishing to write my hoped-­for married name and I have no idea what to write.

Lady Bridget's Diary

L
ady Bridget was in love. Head over heels, stars in her eyes, shout it from the rooftops LOVE. Her heart raced whenever she saw him. The butterflies in her belly stifled her appetite. (Finally seeing results from reducing diet, hurrah!) Sleeping was impossible; when she closed her eyes, there he was in her mind's eye, and her heart started to beat in triple time.

It was impossible not to love Rupert Wright. He was so handsome. Was it the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled? Was it the long, dark lashes framing his warm brown eyes? His nose was noble. His jaw was strong. His dark brown hair, the color of chestnuts, tumbled into his eyes in the most alluring way. She dreamt of gently brushing his hair aside as they gazed into each other's eyes and then he would lean in and kiss her with his sensuous mouth . . . They had yet to kiss, but she dreamt of it often. Too often.

An opportunity for a kiss presented itself during yet another ball. It was another ball at which she trailed along after Lady Francesca, Miss Mulberry, and Miss Montague, and tried to get noticed by all the suitors who crowded around them, and tried not to wince at all the cutting remarks the girls made about everyone else.

When she spied Rupert—­he had given her leave to use his Christian name, an indication of intimacy that thrilled her to no end—­alone on the terrace, she didn't think twice about joining him. As she stepped closer she noticed that he was alone, brooding, and thus looking remarkably like his brother at that moment.

“Hello, Rupert.” She tentatively approached.

“Bridget, hello.” He offered a half smile. She took that as an invitation to join him.

“You seem down. What is troubling you?” She wanted to rest her hand on his arm in an affectionate yet suggestive way. It would have been forward. Did she dare?

“It's nothing.” He smiled at her halfheartedly.

“It's obviously not nothing. You look like your brother, all dark and broody,” she said to make him laugh. It worked.

“I suppose I can confide in my friend,” he said, smiling down at her. “You know, Bridget, I do feel like I could be myself around you.”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. They were friends, weren't they? Now she wanted to be more.

“It's my brother.”

Of course it is, Bridget thought.

“Hmm,” she murmured noncommittally, because Josephine said True Ladies never spoke ill of others (which someone clearly never told Lady Francesca).

Rupert sighed and frowned and said, “I need funds and he will not give them to me.”

“Why ever not? Certainly he can afford it, and you are his brother.” She knew, with bone-­deep certainty, that her own brother would do anything for her, or Amelia or Claire.

“Something about taking responsibility for my own actions. And that it's about time that I stay out of trouble. I feel that he is punishing me because I am not like him.”

“Don't be like him,” she whispered. Rupert was the one person she'd met in London with whom she could just be herself. She couldn't stand if he became distant and disapproving, like Darcy.

“I could not be like him even if I tried. It's hard enough for Darcy to be as he is.” Bridget didn't quite understand that, but decided not to press. “He wasn't always like this, you know,” Rupert continued. “He used to be as mischievous and fun-­loving as the rest of us. But now he feels it is his duty to teach me responsibility. Which may help me in the long term, I grant you, but not presently. In fact, presently, I am doomed.”

Try as she might, she could not imagine Darcy as a mischievous young boy, or a young man who raised hell and caused trouble like all the others. It boggled the mind.

“What do you need the funds for?”

Rupert stared off into the distance for a long moment. Her unease grew; he was in trouble. Real trouble. She wanted to save him.

“I cannot say. But there are threats if I do not pay.”

“Is it gaming debts?” Of course it was; what else could it be? She continued on, vaguely aware that he didn't confirm. “How much do you need? I'm sure James can lend us the money.”

Rupert's head snapped up to look at her, shocked at the offer.

“I could never accept it.”

“Please.” She dared to place her hand on his. “How much?”

After a momentary pause he said, “A thousand pounds.”

“A thousand pounds!” She gasped. “How much is that, really? I still think of everything in dollars.”

“A family of four could live on it in a respectable fashion for a year.”

“Ah. I see. That must have been quite a game.” For a moment, Rupert looked confused. “The gaming debts,” she explained.

“Right.”

His hand was still under hers. Touching hers. It occurred to her that for once she could be the one to save someone from certain disaster. Her heart leapt at the opportunity.

“I'll ask James about the money, Rupert.”

He clasped her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and gazed into her eyes. At this moment, there was nothing, nothing she wouldn't do for him.

“I would never ask you to do that.”

“I know,” she said lightly. “But I want to.”

Because I love you
. The words were there, quivering on the tip of her tongue, ready to take the leap into the world, if she would only just let them out.

“I cannot ever tell you what this means to me, Bridget.”

Rupert lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the back of her hand. Then her palm. And then her wrist.

And then, tragically, he let go.

Things I dislike about Lord Darcy

He does not dance. Once cannot trust a man who does not dance.

He is the sort of man who leaves young ladies standing alone in the middle of a ballroom. Most ungentlemanly.

He refuses to aid his brother in his Hour of Need.

Lady Bridget's Diary

The clock struck midnight when Bridget slipped out of bed, donned her robe, lit a candle, and headed toward the kitchens. It was a long, slightly terrifying journey in a house this massive. But it was worth it, because when she arrived she found James. And cake.

She stood in the doorway and peered into the dimly lit room.

“Your Grace, if I may have an audience?”

She dropped into a little curtsy.

James looked up from where he sat at the large table, with a generous slice of rum cake before him. He eyed her warily.

“Where is my sister and what have you done with her?”

“Whatever do you mean?” As if she didn't know perfectly well.

“Since when do you address me formally? And speak like the duchess?”

She flounced over to him. And the cake.

“I'm trying to conduct myself as befitting our station. One of us must. You are useful to practice on, being a lofty duke and all.”

“Oh, shut up,” he said, in the affectionate way that only a brother could. He mussed her hair as she came close, which made her scowl. To everyone else she was practically a spinster, but he still treated her like a child.

“Well, this is quite ducal of you, illicitly stealing into the kitchens to devour cake.” Lord above, but she was hungry, and that rum cake was calling her name.

“I hope you're not expecting me to share,” James said, evilly.

“Oh please, Your Grace, I beg of you.”

“You know I hate being called that.”

“Oh, I do. You may be a fancy duke, but you are not above some sisterly teasing.”

He muttered something to the effect of “Glad to hear it.”

She served herself a generous slice and took a bite. She closed her eyes, the better to savor it.

“What brings you down to the kitchens at this hour?”

“Would you believe me if I said just cake?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not sure I care for the meaning of that.”

“I hope you're not above a little brotherly teasing now that you are a lady.”

“Oh, I'm not above it,” she said. And then, grinning, added, “But it'll cost you.”

“How much?”

Bridget's heart started to pound. This was the perfect moment to ask him.

“A thousand pounds?”

“You are not joking.”

“No.”

“Are you in trouble?”

Her brother's blue eyes were full of concern and she was lucky, because she knew he would do anything for her. He looked, she thought with a pang, just like their father, who would always say, “My little Bridget, what are we going to do with you?” before lifting her into his arms and whirling her around.

She hesitated, because for a moment she was struck with an overwhelming feeling of homesickness for her parents, and their boisterous house at Duncraven farm, where everything was comfortable and familiar.

But she remembered Rupert, and her love for him. This was her life now.

“It's for Mr. Wright,” she explained, because she didn't want James to worry about her. “He has gaming debts.”

“Can't his own brother help him out?”

“He says Darcy will not. I'm not surprised really. He is such a cold and unfeeling man.”

“I wasn't aware you were so well acquainted with him,” James said, insinuating that she was. As if he had, oh, noticed Darcy staring at her or her staring at Darcy.

“I'm not.”

She wasn't. She just knew that he was the sort of man to leave a young lady standing alone in the midst of a ballroom and the sort of man to refuse to help his own brother.

“But you vehemently dislike him.”

“We're not talking about Lord Darcy.”

“Of course. We are discussing Mr. Rupert Wright, the man of your dreams and fondest yearnings of your heart.”

“It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“Don't lose your sense of humor, Bridge. You don't want to end up like Darcy.”

“Horrors,” she said flatly. Then stuffed her mouth with more cake.

“Are you sure he needs the money for gaming debts? Because I would hate to lend him money that he squanders on gifts for his mistress or because he got another woman in trouble, when you are so obviously in love with him.”

“He would never do such a thing.” She was certain of him. He was good, and kind, and would never take advantage. He was probably just a poor card player. Because he was so nice.

They fell silent for a moment, enjoying each other's company and the informality of eating cake in the kitchens at midnight. She could almost pretend that they were back home in Duncraven and none of this ducal business had ever happened. Almost.

“You know, Bridget, you have one hell of a dowry.”

“Josephine has mentioned something to that effect.”

“The man who marries you will get twenty thousand pounds.”

“Twenty thousand!” Bridget turned to her brother with wide eyes. “No wonder Josephine is always warning us about fortune hunters.”

“I'm just saying there's another way for Rupert to get the money he needs. If his heart were in the right place.”