Lady Bridget's Diary

by Maya Rodale

  “Aunt Winterbourne,” the brothers said flatly, in unison, which made the sisters laugh.

  “Ah, now I understand, Mr. Darcy.”

  “It’s Loooord Darcy, Amelia,” her sister corrected. “And he is a stickler for propriety and won’t let you forget it.”

  She leveled him with another sharp glance from her blue eyes.

  “I humbly beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

  “The proper form of address for him is my lord,” Lady Bridget corrected. He heard the waver in her voice betraying that she wasn’t quite sure.

  “It’s actually Lord Dreadful Darcy,” he said. She glared at him murderously.

  “Oh, have you been reading her diary, too?” Lady Amelia asked with a laugh. Lady Bridget turned red.

  And then, because his temper still hadn’t quite cooled, he said, “Tell me again how important family is to you, Lady Bridget?”

  “I shall. In a few days’ time when I think of a devastatingly cutting remark,” she said sharply. Then she turned away from him, nose in the air, determined to ignore him even when they were in a bloody rowboat together.

  He dipped his oars in the water and thrust, launching the boat forward. Rupert matched his pace.

  Tension welled up inside him. The starch in his shirt and cravat suddenly seemed excessive. He would have to speak to his valet about it later. Everything was altogether too damn confining. But that was being a gentleman.

  “She walks in beauty, like the night,” Rupert declared grandly. Of course he had to recite poetry while rowing.

  “Of cloudless climes and starry skies,” Amelia added. The pair of them were trouble.

  “And all that’s best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes.” After Rupert’s line, Amelia clamored to her feet, standing in the unsteady rowboat, and recited the next line:

  “Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”

  “Amelia, sit down! You are causing a scene,” Bridget hissed. She glanced at him. He could see that she was embarrassed by her sister’s behavior. And Lady Amelia was oblivious to it.

  “Exactly! No, we are acting a scene. It is a slight difference. One is outrageous, the other is artistic.”

  “Both are going to get you in trouble. You’re going to get all of us in trouble! This will be in the papers . . .”

  Bridget closed her eyes and groaned. In that moment, he empathized with her: trying to do the right thing, with an exuberant younger sibling determined to cause a scandal anyway.

  “My dear sister, when did you start to sound like Loooord Darcy? What happened to the girl who wrote and performed plays with me when we were young?”

  Bridget reddened once more. He didn’t think it was just the sunlight. “I do not sound like Lord Darcy,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair’d the nameless grace,” Rupert carried on, beaming. Then, grinning, he said, “You take the next line, Lady Bridget!”

  Oh God, Darcy saw her soften a little. Even more when Rupert smiled at her. He wanted to roll his eyes. But gentlemen did not roll their eyes.

  “Oh very well,” Bridget muttered. She rose to stand as well, while the boat rocked precariously. “Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o’er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-­place.”

  “You’re rocking the boat,” Darcy pointed out. Indeed, it was swaying side to side, as she was unsteady on her feet.

  “Let’s go faster!” Rupert shouted. “Race you, Darcy!”

  “It’s ‘Race you, Loooord Darcy,’ ” Amelia corrected, still standing, still wobbly on her feet.

  It was just the excuse he needed to thrust the oars in the water and pull with all his strength. Aye, he would race his little brother all the way back to shore so he could get out of this damn situation of lovesick girls and grown men spouting poetry, of brothers with secrets, and of a woman who had the perfect knack for bringing out the worst in him.

  He didn’t quite see how it happened; there was a collision between their two boats and then there was a splash as they were all launched into the water.

  Darcy did not rush to the surface. Under water it was dark, quiet, and cool. There was no hot sun beating down on him, no conversation to annoy him, no Lady Bridget to at once tempt him and infuriate him. He lingered under the water as long as he could stand it, taking advantage of the much needed respite. There was only so much a man could take before he broke.

  When his lungs felt like bursting, he broke the surface of the water. He saw Rupert and Amelia a few steps ahead, laughing. A crowd had gathered on the shore to watch the spectacle. And nearby, a creature was thrashing about in the water.

  Darcy reached over, wrapped his arm around her waist, and hauled her up. She gasped when she broke the surface, and took in big, heaving gulps of air.

  Funny, as he also found himself unable to breathe.

  He gazed down at her, past the shock and fury in her eyes, straight down her dress. Her wet dress. Her wet white dress that clung to her every curve the way she currently clung to him. God, her breasts were amazing. Full, luscious, more than a handful. He could see the stiff peak of her nipples through the dress (thank you, Lord, for cold water), and could just faintly detect the dusky pink centers, and for one maddening second when he took leave of his wits, Darcy considered taking one in his mouth, teasing her until she moaned his name.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, as if she wasn’t the one clinging to him for dear life, holding on to fistfuls of his wet shirt.

  “I’m saving you from drowning. You’re welcome.”

  “I wasn’t drowning. I can swim.”

  “Then you are the worst swimmer I have ever seen.”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”

  “No.”

  He did not like this. He did not like this.

  Certain parts of him liked this very much. Too much. Would dream about this later too much. Would take himself in hand tonight—­though he could stand to do so now—­just thinking about her too much. He didn’t want her to know that, so he took a few steps through the water, holding her, until they reached a place where she could likely stand.

  He let go and stepped away. Something in him howled at the loss of her warmth, of just the feeling of her body pressed against his, of the feeling of holding her in his arms. Darcy stood very still, and willed the howling to cease.

  Lord Darcy, when soaking wet, was something else entirely. Lord Darcy, when holding her firmly against his hard chest with just one arm, left her breathless. She hoped he thought those gasps were because of water in her lungs or something like that, anything but the truth: Darcy, when wet and holding her, took her breath away.

  The water was freezing, so she ought to be cold.

  She followed his gaze down, to where her nipples had hardened, visible through the wet fabric of her dress. She ought to be outraged to have a man so blatantly look at her breasts with such intensity.

  She ought to do a lot of things she didn’t do.

  Something tightened in her belly, and a marvelous heat pulsed through her.

  She wasn’t cold. Not in the slightest.

  Lord Darcy, when soaking wet, didn’t look so lordly at all. With his hair wet and tousled he almost looked boyishly handsome. Bridget watched, transfixed, as a water drop slid down his cheek. She had the mad urge to lick it off. What would he do if she dared?

  Before she had the chance, they were bickering and then he pushed through the water until it was shallow enough for her to stand. Then he thrust her aside as if she were too hot to the touch.

  But it was too late. She had seen the way he looked at her. And she had discovered how it made her feel. And it
was not what she expected at all.

  Chapter 8

  Times I have thought about Darcy in his wet shirt: 27

  Times I have felt something resembling lust when I think about Darcy in his wet shirt: 27

  Times I have written Rupert and Bridget in my diary since Lady Winterbourne’s garden party: 0

  I am dreadfully confused.

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  Two days after the garden party, the outrageous behavior of the Cavendish sisters was still being discussed in the papers and in drawing rooms all over town. This time they had done the unthinkable: they had dragged the unimpeachable Darcy and his universally beloved brother down with them.

  Bridget had been hoping to lie low until the scandal died down. But the duchess, as usual, had other ideas.

  “Your friend Lady Francesca has called and left her card,” the duchess said while she and the sisters took tea in the drawing room on a rainy afternoon. “We owe her a return visit.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll see her at a ball or soiree or garden party,” Bridget said. “If we’re ever invited to one of those again.”

  “Certainly not if there is a body of water nearby,” Claire said.

  “Etiquette requires that we call upon her,” the duchess instructed. “Besides, are you not friendly with her? I’m sure she is merely concerned with your health after that ill-­advised spill in the lake.”

  The duchess had not been happy about that spill in the lake. She’d been more unhappy than either Bridget or Amelia, who had to sit in wet dresses for the long carriage ride home.

  She also made it sound like Francesca and Bridget were actually friends. But Bridget wasn’t so sure. They might have gone for ices at Gunther’s and coordinated their ensembles to Almack’s, but she suspected Francesca was more concerned with discerning Bridget’s intentions toward Darcy.

  I am, yet again, a subject of gossip. My name has been linked with Darcy’s in all of the newspapers. The duchess said it could be worse, but I cannot fathom how.

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  It was a truth universally acknowledged that the ton liked to gossip, particularly if the subject contained a lord, a lady, and some hint of scandal. So much the better if it also included a man who never provided fodder for gossip, a lady who was already an object of interest, a dash of impropriety, elements of seduction, hints of a love triangle, and something too outrageous to be believed. The sight of Darcy and Bridget, clinging to each other in a lake at a garden party, satisfied all requirements.

  Darcy sought to avoid the gossips—­and indeed, any mention of that event—­at White’s. He was unsuccessful.

  “You probably ought to call on Francesca,” Fox had told him, dropping into the chair beside him. “She’s distraught about you and Lady Bridget.”

  You and Lady Bridget, clinging to each other like star-­crossed lovers. Whilst soaking wet.

  “There is no me and Lady Bridget.”

  “Well, tell that to everyone in London who thinks there is. Including my sister.”

  What was left unsaid: who is expecting a proposal from you, oh, any day now.

  “Well, then I suppose I shall pay a visit to your sister.”

  “Thank you. There’s nothing worse than a sulking female about the house. Not that you’d know. But I suppose you will know soon enough.”

  Most men would probably be livid if their good friend had such an understanding with their sister. But in this instance, it was different. Darcy was a good man with honorable intentions. Francesca and he were well suited. There were no revolting displays of love and affection. Fox, though not known for his deep thinking, recognized how convenient it would be to have his friend as his family. And so, the months and years passed with this understanding that no one was in a particular rush to formalize. Legally. Until now. Darcy risked losing one his best friends if he didn’t.

  Darcy promptly went to call upon Lady Francesca. He had but a moment alone with her and her terrifying chaperone, Lady Wych Cross, before the Cavendishes arrived. Francesca smiled like all her plans were falling into place.

  “I am so glad you have come,” she said, strolling toward her guests, arms out to greet them. “Look, Darcy is here as well.”

  If he’d been paying attention to his intended, he would have seen how closely she watched him to gauge his reaction. As it was, he was arrested by the sight of Lady Bridget. She looked every inch the lady in her dry clothes. But it was too late. He had seen what he had seen. And now he could not stop envisioning her like that . . . in less . . . more wet . . .

  The group settled into the polite but barbed conversation that passed as female friendship, and he was glad to have a reputation for scowling and speaking little. His thoughts and attentions kept drifting to Lady Bridget. He didn’t understand why, and he very badly wanted to so he could put a stop to it.

  In the midst of the conversation, Lady Claire excused herself to visit the ladies’ retiring room, which he suspected was more a ploy to escape the conversation. Very clever; he wished he’d thought of such a thing. He was about to remember a vitally urgent appointment, but then Lady Francesca gave him reason to stay.

  “Lady Bridget, I was so worried you had caught a terrible illness after falling into the lake,” Lady Francesca said.

  “Right as rain,” Lady Bridget quipped.

  “Speaking of rain, I so detest this weather! I long to stretch my legs. Lady Bridget, would you care to take a stroll about the room with me?”

  There was, of course, only one answer to that; very few refused Lady Francesca. Bridget stood; the ladies linked arms and proceeded to stroll about the room at a glacial pace.

  “I want to hear all about your beaux,” Lady Francesca said just loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

  “Where to begin?” Bridget remarked dryly.

  “A girl might have lots of beaux, but only one matters.”

  Lady Francesca gazed at him. Darcy understood that was meant to be a subtle comment about her. And him. But it wasn’t very subtle at all. And he wasn’t very interested.

  There was the matter of Lady Bridget perplexing him. Fascinating him. Drawing his eye and making him think unwanted thoughts and feel unwanted feelings.

  “ ’Tis a pity the weather prevents a stroll outside,” Lady Amelia said from her perch on the settee, next to the duchess. “It seems quite inane to walk in slow circles around the drawing room.”

  “Oh no. It is so much better to walk inside,” Lady Francesca exclaimed. “It is all the better to gossip about the gentlemen of our mutual acquaintance,” she drawled, eyeing Darcy. Again, with subtlety. The duchess harrumphed.

  But it was Darcy who elucidated upon Lady Francesca’s motives.

  “Is that really your motive, Lady Francesca? I thought it was because when one is strolling about the room, it is all the better to show one’s figure to an advantage.”

  It was so clear in the way she arched her back, thrust her bosom forward, and preened. She didn’t know that it was Bridget’s figure that had gotten him up and kept him up at night. It was those full breasts, the lush curves . . .

  “Comparing our figures, are you? Whatever are you about, Darcy?” Francesca laughed again.

  Bridget reddened and stumbled, tripping over the edge of the carpet. He winced because he realized now how that would sound to her. Good, he tried to tell himself. Make her hate him. This mad desire would pass, she would marry his brother, he would marry Francesca, and they would all live happily ever after. But it did not feel good. In fact, he felt remorse. But not enough to declare that in a competition of figures, Lady Bridget’s was the one that made the blood rush from his brain. The consequences of saying that . . .

  “After all that exercise I find myself parched,” Bridget said, making a beeline for the settee.

  “I as well,” Lady Francesca said
, gracefully lowering herself into a chair.

  “Tea?” Lady Amelia offered her.

  “Please.”

  Lady Amelia poured gracefully; the duchess beamed. And then, as she was handing Lady Francesca the delicate cup and saucer, there was an accident. Or rather, an “accident.”

  “Oh my goodness! How horrid of me!” Lady Amelia exclaimed after spilling tea all over the hostess.

  Lady Francesca leapt up, eyes flashing, a dark stain spreading across her skirts.

  “What a clumsy girl you are!” Lady Wych Cross bellowed to Amelia.

  “How clumsy of you, Lady Francesca, to spill tea on yourself like that,” the duchess murmured.

  Darcy didn’t miss the glance between the sisters or the gleefully devilish smirks they exchanged. That was no accident. That was family.

  Chapter 9

  Breakfast: toast, dry

  Luncheon: broth and more dry toast

  Tea: yes, but no sugar. Ugh.

  Supper: minuscule portions.

  Desserts: none!

  Times I have thought about Lady Francesca’s humiliating scheme to compare our figures: 187

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  At breakfast the next morning, Bridget nibbled on toast, wondering why she bothered eating at all. Her reducing diet had been a moderate ­success—­if one did not count all her midnight forays to the kitchen to assuage her starvation. She eyed the heap of food on her brother’s plate. Men never had the slightest concern about their figures.

  Amelia, who was always the first down to breakfast, was on her second serving and as slender as ever. It just wasn’t fair.

  The only thing keeping her from lunging at the sideboard and helping herself to enough food to feed an army was the memory of calling hours yesterday. Particularly when Lady Francesca insisted on displaying how slender she was and how slender Bridget wasn’t. In front of Lord Darcy. How mortifying.

  “Tonight we shall dine at home as a family, as we will have a very important guest with us,” the duchess announced from her place at the head of the table.