Lady Bridget's Diary

by Maya Rodale

  He actually started to entertain thoughts of taking her on the stone floor of the gazebo. In public.

  What kind of Englishman was he? What kind of peer of the realm behaved so scandalously?

  So much for his infamous self-­control. What had he been thinking? One did not kiss gently bred ladies, especially if they were sisters to a duke and especially if the lady in question fancied his brother.

  He hadn’t been thinking. Correction: He was thinking . . . about her breasts under his palm, and desperately wanting to close the small distance between them. And nothing else.

  He stopped. He had to.

  Darcy opened his mouth to say, I beg your pardon, or something to that effect. But the words never crossed his lips. He wasn’t sorry.

  He wasn’t sorry at all.

  And then he smiled. A roguish smile even. For a moment there, he had cast off Lord Darcy and all its attendant responsibilities and was just a man, kissing a pretty girl in a rainstorm. For a second he felt like . . . lightning or something powerful, and uncontainable. And he felt . . . light.

  “You . . .” Bridget said, breathlessly. He had left her breathless. Good.

  “Yes.”

  “. . . just kissed me?” He had addled her wits. Good.

  “You did not imagine it,” he confirmed. His heart was still pounding.

  “And it was. . . .”

  He lifted one brow.

  “. . . not what I expected.”

  “Lady Bridget—­”

  “You cannot call me lady at a time like this,” she cried.

  And then Lord Darcy returned, bringing back common sense. He straightened, and he was sure his expression sobered.

  “You are still a lady, even though I took a liberty.”

  “It wasn’t a liberty! It was a devastatingly romantic kiss in a rainstorm. When Amelia reads about it in my diary she will accuse me of making it up, it’s so perfect. And you cannot go back to being all proper and stuffy after that.”

  “Very well, Bridget.” Devastatingly romantic and perfect kiss. Well done, man.

  “Lord Darcy.”

  “Now, Bridget you can’t be all proper and stuffy after that.”

  She quirked a smile. “Are you teasing me?”

  “It seems so. I am as shocked as you.”

  “We kissed and I don’t even know your Christian name.”

  “Colin Fitzwilliam Wright, Lord Darcy.” And then he bowed. And she laughed. And he wanted to kiss her again. Her hair was a wreck and her lips were swollen from his kiss. And he was sorry to note that the rain had lessened to a misty drizzle and this moment was coming to a close.

  “We ought to go,” he said reluctantly. “I fear the wrath of the duchess. And we do not want anyone to suspect anything untoward.”

  “No, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Bridget replied. He didn’t miss the sharpness in her voice. He had clearly said the wrong thing and ruined the moment. He told himself it was for the best.

  Chapter 14

  HE KISSED ME.

  Darcy. Kissed. Me.

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  After seeing Lady Bridget home, and learning that Lady Amelia was still at large, Darcy returned to his own residence, having matters to attend to there. Matters such as pouring a large glass of brandy and trying to make sense of the fact that he had kissed Bridget. And liked it. More than liked it.

  Out of habit, he looked up at the portrait of his father. He left that glaring, scowling portrait as a reminder to always do his duty toward the estate and the family name. Nothing like a father’s anger and disappointment to keep a son in line.

  But if his father only knew that his younger son didn’t care for women and that his distinguished heir had done something so common as to nearly ravish a woman in a park, he would probably drop dead from an apoplexy all over again.

  Darcy couldn’t say he regretted it, though. And that was the problem he was contemplating when Rupert returned.

  He strolled in, poured himself a brandy as well, and took a seat.

  “Where have you been?” Darcy asked. His voice was calm and measured and somehow did not reveal the turmoil within. Or so he hoped.

  “Out,” Rupert said flatly.

  “I figured that much.”

  “I just walked through London . . . getting lost . . . thinking . . . Trying to find a way to solve this problem,” Rupert said. He sighed.

  “You know I will help you.”

  “I know. But you always solve everyone’s problems. And I should start taking care of my own. And I think I know a way out. It was my original plan and I think it’s the best.”

  “What is it?”

  “I should marry. If the blackmailer does reveal the truth, I shall at least have the sort of cover that makes the story implausible.”

  “An excellent plan. And I suppose a wife’s dowry will also give you funds to pay that blackmailer.”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Rupert said, his mouth in a grim line. He clearly did not like this plan, but he was clearly resigned to it.

  “Who did you have in mind to be the lucky woman?” No, he couldn’t keep the note of sarcasm out of his voice. But Rupert didn’t seem to detect it.

  “Lady Bridget.”

  But of course. Darcy’s heart stopped, paused really, for just a moment. Of course his brother was plotting a marriage of convenience with the woman he’d just lost all self-­control with. And liked it. That was the worst part. Holidays were going to be torture if Rupert married her.

  “Well?”

  “Does it matter what I think?”

  “Of course it does! You’re my brother. And I know you were concerned about welcoming Americans to the family. I believe you did echo the popular sentiment that their presence here marked the downfall of civilization.”

  “Why Lady Bridget then?”

  Because of the way she kisses. Because of the way she feels. Because of the way she teases and laughs and makes me feel human again.

  “She and I get along. I do quite like her and I think she fancies me.”

  “It is a sound plan,” Darcy said, his voice only a little bit strangled. He drained the last of his brandy, immediately refilled his glass, and changed the subject.

  “I don’t suppose you saw Lady Amelia while you were out?”

  “American Amelia? No, why do you ask?”

  “It is nothing.”

  “It is not nothing for you to inquire about the Americans whom you so loathe,” Rupert pointed out.

  But Darcy was now growing even more concerned. It was one thing when Lady Amelia might have been gallivanting around with Rupert, and he realized he had convinced himself that they were together. It would have been bad, but not disastrous.

  But now the hour was growing late and Lady Amelia was at large, presumably without a protector.

  “A gently bred lady is lost in the city of London, presumably alone. I have spent the whole day searching for her. And for you.”

  “I honestly do not know anything. I didn’t see her,” Rupert said. “How is Lady Bridget handling it?”

  “She is fine. We spent a few hours looking for you both.”

  “Did you now?” Rupert asked, that familiar, teasing glint in his eye. “You. And Lady Bridget. Alone. How was it?”

  Wonderful. Horrible. Full of angst, lust, and . . .

  fun. Yes, that was the word he was looking for. Even when she was driving him mad with her curious notions of chivalry or ridiculous image of him in a dress, he had . . . fun. And it was wrong to feel thusly when beloved family members were in trouble. And when there were estate matters to attend to and he hadn’t yet solved all the problems in the world. It was wrong, all of it.

  “It was fine.”

  “She doesn’t like you, I’m afraid,�
� Rupert said. “Did you know she calls you Dreadful Darcy in her diary?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “You don’t find that funny?”

  “I’m not known for my sense of humor.”

  “Anyone would find it funny. Unless . . .” Rupert’s eyes widened. “Unless it hurts your feelings. Because you like her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Rupert just grinned. As if he didn’t have massive, life-­ruining problems to deal with. Darcy was glad to see his brother have a reason to smile. But he was vastly relieved when Danvers, the butler, interrupted.

  “My Lord, this was left in the carriage.”

  It was Amelia’s London guidebook, presented on a silver tray. He took one look at it and knew how he would spend the rest of the day and evening and it would not be discussing his feelings regarding Lady Bridget with anyone, least of all Rupert. Who planned to marry her.

  I daresay everyone is gossiping about the inconceivable sight of Darcy and myself out for a pleasant outing in the park today. As long as they are not gossiping about Amelia. Who has still not returned!

  To say we are worried about her is a vast understatement of epic proportions.

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  In a drawing room across town, Lady Francesca closed the drawing room door and turned to her guests.

  Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague were pouring tea and eating cakes and chattering away as if they had no idea of the gravity of the situation. No idea that her world was collapsing.

  “I have a dire situation,” Lady Francesca said, taking a seat and commanding the attention of her guests, er, friends. They immediately gave her their attention.

  “Were you ruined?” Miss Mulberry asked breathlessly.

  “Don’t be silly. I would never allow that to happen,” she scoffed at her friend’s stupid idea. Unless it wasn’t a stupid idea at all, and she made it happen. Being caught in a compromising position was the swiftest way to the altar, especially when caught with a man as upstanding and honorable as Darcy. She tucked the idea away in the back of her mind.

  “Is it your hair?” Miss Montague asked, concerned.

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” Francesca’s hand flew up to gently touch the elegant coiffure her maid had done. It was a new style, the very latest from the French magazines.

  “Nothing,” both girls chimed quickly.

  Francesca scowled, then remembered how that caused wrinkles, and immediately composed herself.

  “It’s Darcy.”

  “Oh, did he propose?”

  Dear Lord, please save her from her silly little friends.

  “Would that really be a dire situation?” She ground her teeth. “It is Darcy. And he has not proposed. And he seems to have taken a liking to . . . Lady Bridget.”

  Both girls made appropriate faces of shock, horror, and disapproval.

  “First he asked her to waltz.”

  “You waltz with people all the time,” Miss Montague pointed out.

  “Yes, but Darcy doesn’t.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Then he took her to Rotten Row where ­anyone—­no, everyone—­would see them.”

  Both girls ooohed appropriately. Then Miss Mulberry said, “Wait, what does this mean?”

  “It means we have to do something drastic to make him forget any ridiculous ideas or feelings he might have for Lady Bridget. And then I must get him to propose.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Lady Francesca admitted. “But when I do have an idea, I vow I will act swiftly.”

  Chapter 15

  Returned sisters: 1

  Relieved family members: 4

  Explanations of where she has been: 0

  Times spent reliving kiss with Darcy: 247

  Lady Bridget’s Diary

  There were five ladies gathered in the blue drawing room. Claire sat on a chair, reading some mathematical paper whilst sipping tea. Amelia lay on the settee, staring glumly at the ceiling and tormenting them all with her silence. Bridget wrote in her diary. Miss Green embroidered, and the duchess pored over the gossip columns in at least six different newspapers to determine whether Amelia’s escape had been reported.

  “The Morning Post reported on your absence at the ball, Amelia,” Josephine said, frowning, holding a copy of the paper. They had to abruptly cancel their appearance at a ball last night, due to Amelia’s absence. They put it about that she had been gravely ill, in her bed, at home. “And The London Weekly is hinting at an exposé,” Josephine said. “I shudder to think what their gossip columnist has dug up. She is ruthless.”

  “No one saw me,” Amelia said.

  “That you know of,” Josephine said, leveling a stare over the pages of The London Weekly.

  “And I didn’t do anything scandalous,” Amelia added.

  “Were you out of doors without a chaperone?” Josephine asked, blinking frequently, and they all knew where this was leading.

  A staring contest and battle of wills ensued between the duchess and Amelia. It was of more interest than Claire’s mathematical paper or the recording of Bridget’s first real kiss.

  “Who do you think will blink first?” Bridget whispered.

  “I’m betting on Amelia,” Claire whispered back.

  “I don’t know. Josephine has spent decades staring people down,” Bridget whispered.

  In the end, it was Amelia who broke. She blinked away a tear or two and turned back to staring at the ceiling. A different Amelia had returned last night: one who was more reserved, more poised, more centered. She had cut her hair. There was an air of something wistful about her.

  They were all dying to know where she had been—­and with whom, because no one believed that she’d just been on her own—­but not a word crossed her lips.

  “Claire, what are you reading that has your cheeks positively pink?” the duchess asked.

  “Nothing. Just an article from a mathematical journal.”

  “Really?” Bridget peered over her shoulder. “Oh. It really is about mathematics. But you have been reading for quite some time and yet you are only on the second page.”

  Bridget eyed her sister. Was she woolgathering? Were her daydreams making her blush?

  “It is very challenging material,” Claire replied. The duchess just sighed. It was the weary sigh of a woman who had to find husbands for three unconventional and unpolished girls, one of whom was reading a paper on advanced mathematics. For pleasure. “If you are looking for something more interesting, why don’t you ask Bridget what she is writing about in her diary?”

  “Her cheeks are also pink,” Amelia noted. “What did you do yesterday, Bridget?”

  “I spent the whole afternoon traipsing around London searching for you.”

  “In the company of Lord Darcy,” Claire added, with a smug smile.

  “Dreadful Loooord Darcy,” Amelia said.

  “You know his reputation. You can imagine how tedious the day was. We went to Hyde Park before being caught in a thunderstorm. Then we returned. Nothing remotely interesting occurred.”

  This of course was a hideous lie. The most momentous thing had occurred. Darcy had become . . . human. He had become more than a man with a disapproving stare, hurtful words, or the embodiment of propriety. But really, really—­and this was what was making her cheeks turn pink—­what happened was that she had become aware of him as a man. A tall, dark, and brooding man with pounding heart and a hard chest, who murmured devastating things and kissed her.

  Her. Bridget Cavendish, the girl who fell.

  This paragon of virtue and English gentlemanliness had desired her. Even though she wasn’t sure whether a marchioness or a viscountess would go in to dinner first, and she didn’t know all the steps to the quadrille, and she ha
d to look up the proper form of address for an earl when writing a letter. Not that she wrote letters to earls. But that was beside the point.

  For one shimmering, sparkling, raining moment, Darcy desired her.

  And yet she was in love with his brother. Why, just three pages earlier in her diary, she had ­written:

  Mrs. Rupert Wright

  Mrs. Rupert Wright

  Mrs. Rupert Wright

  Mrs. Rupert Wright

  But she had not heard from Rupert—­or Darcy, for that matter, since yesterday. Amelia refused to say whom she had spent the day with, so Bridget couldn’t help but wonder if her sister had been with the man Bridget was in love with.

  Or loved?

  Verb tenses. Not trifling things. So very significant.

  She wondered what Darcy thought of the events of yesterday. Or rather, the kiss. Their kiss. Who cared in the slightest what he thought of anything other than their devastatingly romantic kiss? She knew, deep in her bones, that a man like Darcy did not kiss a woman like her lightly.

  Was he horrified by his sudden lack of self-­restraint?

  Did he care for her, or had she just vexed him into kissing her?

  Was the kiss a momentary lapse of good judgment?

  Did he regret behaving like a dashing rogue and kissing her until her knees were weak?

  Did he think less of her because she did not refuse him?

  And now she might have ruined everything because she was quite certain that a True Lady would not allow liberties with a gentleman to whom she was not wed or betrothed, and they ought not act so wantonly in public. Or at all.

  And then there was the matter of her feelings. Complicated, utterly uncertain, completely confused feelings.

  Bridget flipped through the previous pages of her diary, words jumping out at her: “crashing bore,” “he’s the worst,” “Rupert makes my pulse quicken,” “dreadful, dull, Darcy.” And then in more recent pages, with the ink still fresh: “HE KISSED ME.”

  A kiss complicated everything. She no longer knew how to think of Darcy or Rupert in her head . . . or in her heart, to be honest.

  And she would have to live with all these questions and confusion because she couldn’t possibly call on him herself, and who knew when he might deign to call upon her?