by Maya Rodale
“Hostessing is as competitive as ever, I see,” Darcy remarked.
“You have no idea,” she said dramatically. “Look, there is the Duchess of Durham with her new charges. I thank God they are in attendance.”
Do not look. Do not look.
He looked. His gaze strayed immediately to Lady Bridget. Like every other unmarried lady, she was all done up in a bonnet and gloves and a white dress with frills, and ruffles and bits of lace.
And she was beaming at Rupert.
“I was hoping to see them today,” Rupert said brightly.
“I as well,” Lady Winterbourne replied. “While the ton has not quite accepted them yet, a party is considered a failure if they do not attend. What else will we talk about?”
“New initiatives in Parliament, the plight of war widows and orphans, new advances in steam technology.”
“You’re too funny, Darcy.” She laughed. “No, at parties one is to talk of scandals and love matches and judge each other’s dresses. And the Americans. What do you think of them?”
“I do not.” It was a hideous lie.
Lady Bridget intruded upon his thoughts with an alarming frequency. And if that weren’t bad enough, she made him feel things.
Things one would categorize as lust. A lust that would never be satisfied because he was Lord Darcy, one of the most esteemed peers of England, and while she might be sister to a duke, there was no denying her unconventional upbringing. She was not his type.
Which was neither here nor there, given how things were progressing between her and Rupert and the hints he dropped about marrying her.
“Well I quite like them,” Rupert declared. “Particularly Lady Bridget.”
Case. In. Point.
“You know, the duchess is keen to marry them off,” Lady Winterbourne remarked with pointed looks and all the subtlety of an invading army. “She is afraid they will abandon the dukedom and return to the colonies if they do not. God forbid anything should happen to the new duke. The next in line is that horrid Mr. Collins.”
“I cannot imagine what relevance this has to us.”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Darcy,” Lady Winterbourne said. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“It so happens that one of us is considering taking a wife,” Rupert said. Even Darcy couldn’t conceal his shock that he would say such a thing to such a known gossip as their hostess. He might as well have printed an announcement in The London Weekly: “Wealthy bachelor not completely adverse to matrimony. Queue up here.” Even if he was considering marriage, why the devil would he announce it and make things impossible for himself?
Darcy’s obvious shock made it abundantly clear which brother was considering a wife. And Lady Winterbourne’s smile made it abundantly clear what would happen with such information.
Bridget might have steered Rupert here, behind the hedges. He might not have made it difficult for her to do so.
Her heart beat swiftly, flutteringly, like hummingbird wings. Her gaze searched his for a sign of his true feelings and his intentions. She prayed that they matched hers.
He might be about to kiss her. Dear Lord, she wanted to be kissed. And loved. And by this nice man.
Rupert gazed down at her, lips parted. She closed her eyes, waiting to feel the brush of his lips against hers. Her life might become perfect in three . . . two . . . one . . .
“Nice to get a bit of a respite from the party,” he remarked. She opened her eyes to see him standing a foot away, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.
Or not.
Nevertheless, she agreed with him. “It is. I’ve become so accustomed to everyone watching me to see what disaster will befall me next. You know, I am still known as the girl who fell.”
“I think of you as the girl who has a unique manner of appreciating artwork,” Rupert corrected. “Never mind those old bats.”
And that was why she loved him.
That was why she wanted to marry him.
And she knew for a fact that he had told Lady Winterbourne that he was thinking of marrying, because she told the duchess, who looked the other way when Bridget and Rupert began strolling in the direction of the hedges.
“Well, it is nice to get away from everyone’s prying eyes,” she remarked, hoping to get him to acknowledge that they were alone. Out of sight.
“Indeed.” He seemed pensive.
“I feel that everyone is always watching and waiting for me to make another misstep.”
“Society is a challenge. Even for those of us born and raised for it.”
“You can’t possibly have trouble with society. Everyone adores you.”
“Aye. But I have seen how unforgiving they can be,” he said thoughtfully. This was another side of Rupert, one she hadn’t often seen and suspected that he didn’t often reveal. “Which is why it is so wonderful to have true friends.”
There was no mistaking his meaning by the way he gazed at her, smiled at her. He thought her a true friend. But what about more?
Bridget stood there, experiencing a thousand agonies. Here she was, alone with a handsome rake—the newspapers all said he was—and he was making a declaration of friendship. Which was wonderful, and she cherished it and thought him the only true friend she’d made in England (Lady Francesca certainly didn’t count).
But never mind that. Her heart had skipped a beat. And then fell.
Rupert turned to her. He gazed into her eyes and murmured her name. “Bridget.”
Her heart starting beating again, and then it started beating faster and faster.
But then Rupert paused at the sound of footsteps approaching. She turned, furious, to see who could possibly dare to interrupt this moment. Possibly the greatest moment in all of her three and twenty years. The Moment in which the man she loved was about to propose marriage or kiss her or both.
The intruder revealed himself.
Her eyes narrowed. “Darcy.”
Things I dislike about Dreadful Darcy
He ruins private interludes in which a lady might be kissed for the first time by the man she loves who mentioned publicly that he was considering marriage. This is unforgivable. UNFORGIVABLE.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Darcy had only wanted a moment of solitude. Just a moment away from the idle chatter and gossip. Just a moment to think about what the devil Rupert was about these days. The ever increasing debts, rushing away from a ball, the declaration of his intention to wed. Just a moment to find his equilibrium again.
He never meant to intrude on what was obviously a private moment between his brother and Lady Bridget.
Her eyes narrowed when she saw him. “Darcy.”
There was no small amount of venom in her voice.
He cleared his throat.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” Darcy said, glancing from Bridget to Rupert. It was obvious he had.
“Not at all,” Rupert replied hastily. “I was just . . . I’m quite parched. Are you quite parched, Bridget? I shall go fetch us lemonades.”
Darcy watched his brother retreat. Rupert was acting odd—in this moment, and for the past few days—and it was a mystery why. This presented a feeling of something like hurt or dismay because they were close. They weren’t just brothers, they were the only members left in their family (distant, possibly fictional, relationship to Lady Winterbourne notwithstanding). And they were friends.
He would have to talk to him later, for Rupert fled.
And with that Darcy found himself alone with Lady Bridget. She was either crestfallen, heartbroken, or furious, or some terrifying combination. He’d never made a study of identifying emotions, especially those of women; after all, he made it a point to stifle his.
“Oh, look,” she remarked, interrupting his silence. “We are without a c
haperone. I shall go find one and return approximately never.”
“Lady Bridget.” He hadn’t meant to say anything. But then she whirled around to face him, all the flounces and lace of her dress fluttering in swift movement. She glared up at him fiercely.
All thoughts fled. Except one: I’m sorry. For whatever I’ve done.
“I owe you an apology.”
He would apologize for interrupting her private moment with Rupert. Not that he was sorry to interrupt a proposal, if that’s what had been about to happen.
But then she surprised him.
“Just one?”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“I’m wondering what, exactly, you wish to apologize for. Do you owe me an apology for being exceedingly rude when we first met? For leaving me standing alone in the middle of a ballroom at my very first London ball where I knew no one?”
He felt the color draining from his face. That had been rude of him. But she had been so . . . shocking.
“Or would you like to apologize for saying that I am not pretty enough or well-mannered enough for you?”
And now he paled, certainly. He remembered saying the words, making a deliberate effort to sound bored as he uttered them. Because no one could know that he had found her so . . . arousing. He hadn’t realized she had overheard.
“Or do you mean to apologize for chastising me when I refused your obligatory offer to dance? We both know it was just a favor for Rupert. I couldn’t possibly have hurt your feelings.”
It took all the self-control he possessed to not look around for someone to save him, to fight the desire to loosen his cravat, to stifle the urge to flee. Because Lady Bridget, enraged, was something else entirely.
His heart started to pound.
He wanted to kiss her, but she obviously wanted to slap him.
“All are lapses in honorable behavior and I apologize for them.” He hoped that would appease her.
“I’m curious, Lord Darcy. Are you sorry that you weren’t a perfect gentleman or are you actually sorry that your behavior might have made a perfectly lovely girl feel badly about herself and her family?” She paused and added, “And by the way, I am the perfectly lovely girl.”
She said this in such a fierce whisper that he couldn’t help but wonder if the words were meant for her more than for him. Because why could she possibly care what he thought of her?
He felt a pang of . . . something resembling a feeling . . . that she felt the need to tell him that.
“On all accounts, I owe you an apology.”
“Yes. Yes you do.”
A moment of silence stretched between them. He was mesmerized by all the emotions he could detect in her eyes—anger, curiosity, annoyance, determination—when he was sure she saw nothing in his.
“I am waiting for an apology. I was given to understand that it was rude to keep a lady waiting.”
“Usually, one simply says that one is owed, they don’t actually . . .” His voice trailed off. It was the way of things. Peers of the realm never actually apologized for things. But Lady Bridget didn’t care about that, did she? He promised her an apology and then failed to deliver, digging himself a deeper hole.
Ah, now he could see fury in her eyes and the reddening of her cheeks. He was at once terrified and entranced by her display of emotion. As a result, he didn’t say anything.
“Excuse me,” she said grandly. She gave him the briefest nod before turning on her heel and stalking off.
He deserved that.
He suspected that there was a good chance she was fighting a grin as she stalked away, and the thought brought the faintest smile to his lips, and a very troubling thought to his brain. Why was he already thinking like he knew her?
“Lady Bridget—wait. Please.” She stopped and turned around, curiosity getting the better of her, no doubt. “I was rude when we first met. Your unusual behavior caught me off guard.”
“Are you saying this is somehow my fault?”
“Not at all.”
“We do not have a chaperone,” she said in an overdramatic stage whisper. “We should not be speaking.”
She stalked off again.
Oh dear God. He would have to chase her. Through crowds. Crowds full of gossips. He never chased women.
He caught up with her in just a few strides.
“You don’t want to ask for a chaperone,” he said, falling in step beside her. “Because I will have to request it—it would be too forward for a lady to ask. Then people will talk. They will say that I am interested in you. That we are interested in each other. Then, at every opportunity, we will be thrust together—all under the watchful eye of the biggest gossips in England. Is that what you wish?”
“Perish the thought.”
“I have no doubt that you wish to be free of me. Which is why I beg you to accept my apology now. And we shall go our separate ways. I am sorry that I was an arse.”
He needed his conscience clear. He needed to make things right before Rupert proposed. The last thing he needed was Lady Bridget glaring at him over Christmas dinner for the next fifty years.
“Very well, I accept. Good day, Dreadful Darcy.”
“What was that?” He caught her wrist.
She looked down at the unexpected sight of his hand clasped around her wrist. He did as well. Then he felt a surge of heat—embarrassment? desire? confusion?—and let go.
“Oh, just a little name I have for you in my diary,” she said meekly.
“Your diary. You write about me in your diary.”
This struck terror into his heart. And something else, too, that he couldn’t or wouldn’t identify.
“Indeed,” she said, mustering her courage. “I have an ongoing list of all the dreadful things about you.”
Of course she did. He could see it now: Bridget, bent over her desk at night, writing furiously of her hatred of him. The lone candle would lend a soft glow to her skin, revealing her cheeks red with anger as she detailed her loathing for him. Perhaps her wrapper would fall open, revealing . . .
Bloody hell.
“Such as?” He spoke sharply, more angry with this absurd direction of his thoughts than at her.
“Shouldn’t we be speaking of the weather? Or gossiping about mutual acquaintances?”
“No.”
“It’s very sad that you won’t help your brother.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“You wouldn’t help him with his debts.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Obviously. Who else would I have heard it from?”
So Rupert had confided in her—to an extent. He wondered if she had given him the funds. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Rupert had been despondent one day and back to his cheerful self the next. He had obviously come up with the money. But how? Darcy began to get an idea.
The answer was staring him in the face. Lady Bridget, to the rescue.
Perhaps things were more serious between her and Rupert than he thought. This was a good thing, was it not? His brother should marry, though Darcy wished he would marry someone a bit more . . . English. Or perhaps a bit less prone to inciting unwanted lustful thoughts in him.
He wondered what else she knew. Darcy had made some inquiries, discreetly of course, and learned that Rupert didn’t have any significant debts, but perhaps they had been paid off quietly. He had no stupid wagers in the betting books at White’s. Whom, then, did he owe the money to? And why?
“Thank you for helping my brother,” he said. “But it is not your place.”
“Someone has to do it, especially if you will not. It’s one thing if you’re so high and mighty as to look down at me for slipping and falling or forgetting the proper way to address a marquis. I can’t fault you for sharing the same st
upid, judgmental sentiments as the rest of the ton. But refusing to help your own brother is honestly the worst thing I have ever heard.”
Her eyes flashed accusingly. He found himself unable to breathe.
Apparently Rupert had not told her of all the money Darcy had given him over the years for other debts. Apparently he had not told her of all the punishments Darcy had endured on behalf of his mischievous little brother—their father would never hurt his heir too badly. But his spare . . . well, he could spare him. And Darcy didn’t mind, not one bit, because in Rupert he had one person who would treat him like a boy, or a man, or a human. Not an heir, or an earl.
He lived to protect his brother, and her accusations that he was failing hit like a fist to his gut. But she didn’t know the half of it and she never would. There was no reason for her to be privy to their private family matters. There was no reason he had to prove himself to her.
“It seems you are determined to think ill of me, and given the facts you have, I cannot blame you for it. I shall now endeavor to stay out of your way.”
Someone thought it would be a splendid idea to have row boat races on the lake. By some revolting stroke of ill fortune, Darcy found himself in a boat with Lady Bridget, who was looking longingly at the boat just beside theirs, bearing Rupert and her sister Lady Amelia.
She seemed vexed to be with him. Well, he didn’t wish to be here either.
The only saving grace was that rowing provided an excuse to remove his confining jacket. Darcy dug the oars into the water and pushed off. Rupert did as well, keeping his rowboat right alongside.
“Mr. Wright, is something the matter with your brother?” Lady Amelia asked loud enough for him to hear.
“With Darcy? No, he’s just the brooding sort,” Rupert answered with a laugh. “I haven’t seen him crack a smile since Christmas morning in 1808.”
“I am not ‘the brooding sort.’ I am merely thinking of other things with which I could occupy my time instead of this frivolous activity.”
For example: He could be balancing account books. Or sticking a hot poker in his eye.
“Why did you even attend?” Lady Amelia asked.