Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(11)

“Lady Bridget and I found ourselves trapped in a crush of people trying to make their way into supper,” he lied. “The heat must have overtaxed her, and Lady Bridget swooned. I caught her in my arms, naturally.”

Here he paused to grin at his rapt but skeptical audience. Those who had been gossiping in the foyer about decades--old horse thievery or a social faux pas committed the previous evening were now glancing at Bridget and her siblings differently because one of their own, the universally beloved and constantly charming Mr. Wright, had taken a genuine interest in her.

Darcy noted that Bridget was beaming—-at Rupert. But she would. Not. Look. At. Him. No, she was gazing at his brother with starry eyes and drinking up his every word. Not that he cared. Not that he cared in the slightest.

Bloody hell, he was watching her fall in love with Rupert because he was painting such a romantic tale for all of London to gossip about, when the truth was that she slipped and fell and they happened to be there.

Darcy suddenly found the drawing room far too confining.

“And then,” Rupert continued, “she gazed into my eyes and murmured, ‘I don’t think we have been introduced.’ ”

Oh for the love of God. Darcy wanted to roll his eyes. But that was the sort of behavior that had been beaten out of him a long time ago.

“That is not quite how I remember it,” she said, all flustered and flummoxed and delectably pink, “but I far prefer your version of events.”

Darcy could practically see her heart racing and hear the wedding bells chiming in her head. Her every thought and every feeling were so clear for all to see. It made him uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Terrified.

And he remembered, for a heart--stopping second, that he used to be that way.

“I hope there is no cause for alarm,” the duchess said. “Or a wedding.”

“And here I thought you were trying to marry us off,” Durham said dryly. It was the sort of thing everyone knew but no one actually said aloud, in company.

A tense moment of silence followed, and Rupert rescued them all with a laugh and a grin, saying, “But not to rakes like me.”



Lady Bridget thought that calling hours couldn’t possibly improve after Rupert’s visit, and thus they ought to send everyone along so she might go and write Rupert and Bridget in her diary.

She was already halfway in love with him, and not because he was handsome (he was, oh he was) but because he was kind and he knew just what to say, which was one of those life skills she never quite managed to acquire.

But no, the onslaught continued with the arrival of Miss Montague and Miss Mulberry, with Lady Francesca and her aunt and chaperone, Lady Wych Cross.

One recognized girls like these the world over. Their natural beauty—-clear skin, pert little noses, hair that never frizzed—-was enhanced by their exquisite sense of style. It didn’t hurt either that they possessed the tall, willowy figure upon which even an old bedsheet would look fashionable. They were the sort of girls who never deigned to associate with mere mortals like Bridget and her sisters.

So what the devil where they doing here?

“I was hoping to be one of the first to welcome you to London but I see everyone beat me to it,” Lady Francesca said with a smile. “Why, even my dear friend Lord Darcy is here.”

Bridget recognized her as such a close friend of Darcy’s that he would tell her that Bridget was not handsome enough to tempt him to overlook her manners.

It still stung, that.

But today her manners were very fine. For example, she hadn’t accidentally on purpose spilled her tea on him or informed him that he needn’t waste his time with the formality of a social call because she already thought he was the worst and nothing he could ever say or do would cause her to revise her opinion.

“I hope you all enjoyed the ball last night,” Lady Francesca said. “And Lady Bridget, I hope you have sufficiently recovered from your . . .” And here everyone in the room held their breaths. Would she say it aloud? “. . . excitement.”

In approximately thirty--six hours Bridget would think of the perfectly polite yet cutting retort. But all she could think to say at the moment was I do hope you have recovered from being an ass. She glanced at the duchess, who, apparently able to read her thoughts, simply shook her head no.

“What was so exciting about last night’s ball?” Miss Mulberry wondered. Lady Montague whispered in her ear, loudly, that Bridget had fallen.

“You are of course talking about the excitement of Bridget and I meeting,” Rupert cut in, saying just the right thing at the just the right moment. “My heart is still racing.”

Bridget smiled and glanced around because was anyone else noticing the romance? Her brother lifted his brow. Darcy’s expression had darkened, if such a thing was even possible.

It was a mistake to look at him, because then their gazes locked. She didn’t know why she couldn’t look away or why breathing suddenly seemed hard.

“Always such a charmer, aren’t you, Mr. Wright?” Lady Francesca said with a laugh.

“It runs in the family,” Darcy said dryly. It took a moment for everyone to realize Darcy had made a joke, and they all burst into laughter.

Who was this man? Just when Bridget thought she had him figured out as a bore, he went and surprised her. She regarded him for a moment, noting the spark in his eyes in spite of the mouth that refused to curve up into a smile.