by Maya Rodale
“I wanted Miss Green to have a pleasant evening,” James said.
Miss Green blushed at the attention and focused on her sewing.
“That is very admirable and I share your sentiment. But might I remind you that you have one job, Duke,” Josephine said sharply. “In fact, all of you have one task. To marry and marry well.”
“Well, perhaps Lady Bridget might do us proud,” Claire said. Then she continued reading from the paper. “Lady Bridget was seen waltzing with Lord Darcy. It would be an excellent match for her, and. . . . oh.”
“What does it say?”
Claire closed the sheet quickly. “Nothing.”
“You are such a liar, Claire. What is it?”
“It says it would be an excellent match for you and a surprising choice for him,” Claire said softly.
“She is the sister to a duke. It wouldn’t be surprising at all,” Josephine replied.
“Does it say why?” Bridget asked, even though she suspected she would regret it.
“It just says that it would be surprising if one of England’s most refined gentlemen wed the girl who fell,” Claire said with an apologetic smile.
“My thoughts exactly,” she said brightly, though it was an effort to do so.
She could not shake her reputation, even with the “friendship” of Lady Francesca, the attentions of Lord Darcy, and attendance at countless balls where she committed hardly any improprieties. Still, she was known as the girl who fell and considered an unsuitable match for someone as perfect as Darcy. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, anyway. Rupert had mentioned marriage again last evening and she dared to hope he would ask her soon.
Never mind that she had kissed his brother. And liked it.
“If we’d had the tightrope walker, they wouldn’t report on any of this,” Amelia said.
Any further conversation was brought to the halt by the arrival of Mr. Collins, who wished to visit the family before returning to whichever shire he came from.
In particular, he wished to visit with Bridget.
Why she was singled out for his attentions, she knew not. Claire and Amelia could not flee the drawing room fast enough. Even Josephine moved at a brisk pace across the Aubusson carpets.
The doors were scarcely closed behind them—and closed all the way—when Mr. Collins made the purpose of his visit clear. He clasped her hands, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.
“I have come to generously bestow my protection upon you and your sisters.”
Bridget gaped. Even though ladies did not gape.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You all must marry,” Collins explained patiently, as if he were speaking to a young child or feebleminded adult. “But there are rumors about your sister Amelia and her mysterious illness. Scandal is so unbecoming in a lady. And your eldest sister is quite the bluestocking, which I think is a deplorable quality in a woman of quality. Don’t you agree?”
“No.”
“Which leaves you, Lady Bridget.”
“Me.”
“You must marry. And you cannot do better than I, the heir to Durham.”
That left her speechless. She glanced around the room, searching for something that would enable her to bash some sense into the man.
“Our marriage will repair your sisters’ reputations,” he continued, oblivious to anything but his own delusions. “And you shall be known as Mrs. Collins instead of the girl who fell.”
Ah, so he read the papers, too.
“Do you really think that is what I am looking for in a marriage?” Bridget asked incredulously. She’d always imagined marrying for love, like her parents. And she didn’t think she was mad for considering love, friendship, and respect as a sound basis for marriage. She certainly wouldn’t commit herself to an idiot for a lifetime just to avoid being known as the girl who fell. In fact, she was now sorry she had ever even complained about it.
“I have a fine house,” Mr. Collins continued, as if she had not spoken. “My position is secure and should only improve with the demise of your brother.”
Bridget choked. “I’m actually fond of my brother.”
“I know every woman fancies being a duchess,” Mr. Collins intoned.
“Actually, I do not care about being a duchess. Not in the slightest. Especially not if it means losing my brother.”
Titles and whatnot were vastly overrated. She now knew this from firsthand, personal experience. Her brother’s title had not made them any happier.
But Mr. Collins didn’t seem to hear her, or register that females spoke and possessed opinions. She watched in horror as he stood, closed his eyes, and leaned forward.
“Let us kiss to seal our engagement.”
He puckered his lips. Waiting.
She pinched him on the arm, hard, even though ladies probably should not pinch gentlemen callers, and he opened his eyes in shock.
“Mr. Collins, I have agreed to nothing!”
“Shall I woo you? I can tell you about the annuity an elderly aunt has provided me, and the pin money I will be able to set aside for you . . .”
“Mr. Collins, I will not marry you.”
“. . . It isn’t much by London standards, but you’ll find things are far more reasonably priced in the village. It’s a lovely little town . . .”
This was unbearable. It had to stop. There was only one thing to do. Channeling Darcy, she declared in her most I-am-Lord-Darcy voice, “Cease talking at once, Mr. Collins.”
He stopped. She was surprised. Behold, the power of Darcy, she thought, not without a surge of pride. She wished to tell Rupert—he would find it so amusing. No, she wished to tell Darcy. But that would have to wait.
Now that she finally had Mr. Collins’s attention, she proceeded to crush his hopes and dreams as delicately as possible.
“Thank you for your proposal. I am flattered. But I will not marry you.” She thought about adding, I would rather be pecked to death by pigeons a thousand times than be your wife, but it seemed a bit much.
She had shocked him. She knew this because his mouth flapped open and closed a few times. Then he stumbled over his words and her heart broke a little for him, but not nearly enough to reconsider.
“Very well, Lady Bridget. If that is your choice . . . I suppose I must accept. Even though it is a foolish and regrettable decision. But ladies never were blessed with sense or reason.”
She somehow managed to stifle the urge to kick him in the shins. Why, she was becoming more like Darcy by the minute. She ought to tell him.
“Good day, Mr. Collins,” she said firmly, still using her Darcy voice.
He opened the door and a group of ladies—including her sisters, Miss Green, a downstairs maid, and the duchess herself—straightened up and tried vainly to appear as if they hadn’t been shamelessly eavesdropping.
The butler had to hand over a bottle of champagne to a footman in order to hand Mr. Collins his hat and cane. It was deuced awkward. But finally her not-future-husband had stepped out of the house and hopefully out of her life forever.
“Don’t bother to open the champagne, Pendleton,” the duchess said with a disapproving frown. “It is clear we have nothing to celebrate.”
“Did you honestly think that we would?” Bridget asked her incredulously.
“You must marry. You must all marry!” For once, the duchess actually raised her voice.
“I do not think we are opposed to marriage,” James said evenly.
“We are just opposed to pledging our troth to cork-brained men with nothing to recommend them,” Bridget said.
“Well, if you continue to flaunt society, you may only have the likes of Mr. Collins to choose from!” the duchess cried. “And he is not the worst possible person. At least the dukedom would stay in the family. Y
ou would be provided for. What if your brother dies and you are all unwed? How will you support yourselves? Who will marry you then, when you have no reputations because you have flaunted the rules at every turn and when you have no dowries because everything has gone to Mr. Collins?”
“James won’t die,” Amelia protested.
“People die, Amelia. Look at our parents,” Claire said softly.
“Yes, but people love, too. Look at our parents,” Bridget said. “Don’t we all want that?”
Everyone, from the duchess to the butler, fell silent. Thoughtful. Amelia bit her lip. Claire exhaled deeply.
“We want what our mother and father had, Josephine. Love,” James said quietly. “The kind of love you throw a dukedom away for.”
Chapter 18
Sometimes I do not know which affects me more: Rupert’s charm or the dark and intense way that Darcy looks at me. It reminds me of the moment before our kiss—which has not been repeated, alas.
Alas?
Lady Bridget’s Diary
If Bridget had any doubts about Rupert’s feelings or intentions for her—and she did, given that he had been scarce and distracted of late—this evening assuaged them. And if she had any ideas about the goings-on of Lord Darcy’s heart or mind, this evening brought no clarity.
She and her siblings had only just arrived when Rupert sought her out. He looked so handsome in his evening clothes, especially when he smiled and revealed that charming dimple in his cheek.
Behind him, Lord Darcy glowered.
“Lady Bridget! I was hoping to see you this evening.”
“Hello, Rupert.” She smiled and thought she sounded coy and womanly. Or not.
“Hello, Rupert,” Amelia mimicked softly. Bridget smiled and made a point of stepping on her sister’s foot. “Ow!”
“Lord Darcy.” Bridget nodded.
“Lady Bridget.” He did not smile.
“Have you saved a dance or two for me?” Rupert asked, leaning over to glance at her dance card. “I hope so.”
“I daresay I have,” Bridget said.
“If I may have the pleasure . . .” Rupert penciled in his name to not one, but two dances.
He smiled.
She smiled.
Darcy did not smile, not even when Bridget looked at him. For a moment she thought that he might ask her for a dance. A long moment. A long, awkward moment, full of agonies. But there was no offer forthcoming. Well then.
Any hurt feelings were soothed when Rupert lifted her hand to his lips and promised to see her soon. He took a few steps before Darcy joined him, which meant there was a moment when Darcy gazed at Bridget as if he wished to say something.
But he only gave her a perfunctory nod and joined his brother.
That kiss, then, meant nothing. They would never speak of it and it would never happen again. Well then.
Rather than delve into an examination of her innermost thoughts and feelings pertaining to Darcy, Bridget fixated all her attentions on Rupert.
During their first waltz they chattered away . . . except for the moments when she happened to see Darcy. Standing against the wall. Like a wallflower. Glowering. Honestly, she could not understand the man. What did he have to be so morose about? Was life really so difficult for a handsome, wealthy, powerful man who knew how to kiss a woman until she was weak in the knees?
She would be so bold as to ask him, but he kept his distance. Even so, she was still aware of his attentions fixed upon her. He watched her as she muddled her way through the quadrille with Rupert. His gaze was dark as she returned from a stroll on the terrace with Rupert. She was aware of his eyes on her as she and Rupert made their way through the crowds to the lemonade table. She caught his gaze, dark, while taking a sip. Her hand shook and she spilled a little on her dress.
Still, he watched, his expression dark and thunderous. He must disapprove of her . . . with Rupert.
I find myself drawn to Darcy now, ever so curious as to what he is thinking or, dare I say it, feeling.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Darcy had done his best to avoid her all evening. Rupert had received another letter from the blackmailer and thus was more determined than ever to put a stop to it—and to make any rumors seem absolutely implausible. His life depended on it. So he wooed and courted Bridget.
And Darcy watched, dying.
He saw that they would be happy together. Rupert did genuinely seem to like her. And her adoration of him was all too apparent. They laughed together frequently. Anyone could see how they were at ease in each other’s company. If he cared for them both, he would stay away and banish all memories of a heart-stopping kiss in a rainstorm. He would take his lust and shove it deep down inside, along with the other feelings he refused to feel.
Later, much later in the evening, he found himself standing with her and his brother.
“Is anything the matter, Loooord Darcy?”
He wanted to smile at the way she drawled out his name. But he was only reminded that the one woman who dared to speak to him like a human was going to marry his brother. That wasn’t amusing at all.
“No,” he said flatly.
Yes. Everything. You are pretty.
“Because you seem very . . .” Rupert’s voice trailed off as he searched for precisely the right word to describe the inner turmoil inadvertently revealed in his expression.
“Morose,” Bridget said.
“I daresay I would go with dour,” Rupert replied, thoughtfully.
“Or perhaps broody,” Bridget said, evaluating him.
“I know! Cantankerous,” Rupert suggested with a little too much glee.
“Only very old men are cantankerous,” Bridget said. “And Darcy isn’t quite there. Yet.”
“Good point. Despondent?” Rupert mused. “But then what does my dear brother have to be despondent about?”
“The trials and tribulations of being a wealthy, titled, respected, handsome man,” Bridget said with a sigh.
She thought him handsome. Also, he loved the rise and fall of her breasts when she sighed. Somehow that only made him feel worse.
“I am none of the above,” he snapped.
“You are not wealthy, titled, respected, or handsome?” Bridget asked, being deliberately obtuse.
“I am not morose, dour, broody, or cantankerous.”
But he was. He was tortured with lust for Bridget. He was agonizing over his self-sacrifice, denying his desires for the sake of his brother’s need to take a wife with whom he’d probably enjoy a long, amiable marriage, while Darcy burned with lust for his sister-in-law.
Because family came first. None other than Lady Bridget herself said so. And family certainly trumped lust.
Unless it was more than lust.
Unless he put himself first for once.
“On second thought, perhaps he is cantankerous,” Bridget mused.
“Perhaps it is none of your concern.” He brushed her aside, ignoring her obvious shock, as he stalked off into the night.
Chapter 19
Just another day of lessons. Just another day of reviewing household accounts with the duchess and the housekeeper. Just another day of practicing sitting up straight, conjugating French verbs, and not having dessert. Being a Lady of Quality is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
The following day, Darcy sat behind his desk with a large stack of papers before him and he found it impossible to concentrate. A mad idea had occurred to him last night: if he desired Bridget so strongly, perhaps he ought to express that desire. Or relieve it. Or do something other than feel massively frustrated by it. Then he could carry on with his perfectly ordered and planned life.
But if he were to do something about it, a marriage proposal and wedding ceremony would have to take place. I
t was only logical: if he wished to bed her, he would have to marry her. That was the catch with gently bred ladies. Especially ones related to dukes. And most especially ones with the Duchess of Durham as a chaperone.
But it was a mad idea all the same. A mad, insane idea that would not leave his brain. He couldn’t drink it away; the three whiskeys he drank last night had proven that. It was there when he went to bed and the first thing on his mind when he opened his eyes this morning.
It would be a terrible match. That was a fact.
A week ago he would have said the match would be terrible—laughable, even!—because Lady Bridget was hardly an ideal countess. A countess had to be graceful, refined, polished, reserved. She needed to know just what to say and how to properly address the person to whom she said it.
Lady Bridget was too outspoken, too emotional, too prone to things like a tumble in the lake at a garden party. A man of his position had to consider such things. A man of his position had to consider so much more than himself.
A man had to think of his family as well.
Rupert’s blackmailer was still out there, in possession of a secret that would destroy him. Them. Their only prayer was to have enough powerful allies to protect his brother and their reputations. And sadly, Durham and his sisters hadn’t quite conquered the ton just yet.
Rupert’s plan to save his reputation—and potentially his life—through a marriage was the right thing to do. And Darcy was thinking about ruining it.
He ought to marry Francesca as planned; her brother and his best friend was a marquis. Their uncle was a close friend of the king. It would be an excellent connection to have.
But excellent connections did not warm a man’s bed, or satisfy his rampant desires, or wink at him across a ballroom. They did not tease a man, or unlock long dormant parts of him.
Darcy stood, frustrated, and began to pace. What if he dared to think of himself, just this once? Desire was a strong and demanding creature, seducing him with such ideas.