Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(13)

Which all brought Lady Bridget here, to this moment: ensconced in the open carriage, nibbling on delicious raspberry ices, and listening to their conversation.

“Did you see what Miss Witherspoon wore last night?” Miss Montague asked.

“That hideous puce dress?” Lady Francesca shuddered. “Yes, I saw it and wished I hadn’t.”

A conversation on fashion ensued, in which they ruthlessly critiqued what every woman wore at the ball the previous evening. Lady Something’s ruffles were too ruffly. Miss What’s--Her--Name’s hairstyle did her no favors whatsoever. Another woman’s gown was an unflattering shade of white—-which begged a question that Bridget didn’t dare ask aloud (shades of white, really?).

Bridget decided her best course of action was to remain silent, lest she say the wrong thing, and savor her raspberry ice and generally do her best to seem like she belonged.

Her heart leapt with joy and no small amount of relief when she saw Mr. Wright walking down the street. He was with another gentleman she didn’t recognize.

“Oh, look! It’s Mr. Wright!” Bridget exclaimed. She did get such a thrill from saying his name. It was too perfect. Oh, I met Mr. Wright the other night.

She called his name and waved him over.

“Lady Bridget! What a pleasant surprise to see you.” Their eyes met. And she saw what he didn’t dare say aloud. He was surprised to see her, here, with these young ladies. She smiled as if to say, I know!

“Mr. Wright and Mr. Croft,” Francesca said graciously. “So lovely to see you together. Again.”

“It is always a pleasure,” Rupert said stiffly. Mr. Croft just nodded.

“I don’t suppose you could tempt your brother to come join us,” Francesca said.

“I daresay only you could manage such a feat, Lady Francesca.”

“But why would you want to?” Bridget asked, pulling a face.

Everyone gasped, but Rupert burst into laughter.

“Darcy is a catch,” Miss Mulberry explained, as if Bridget were a small child of limited intellect.

Bridget shrugged. “I suppose he is, if you like the dark and broody sort.”

“Or if you like the rich, titled, and perfect sort,” Miss Montague said with a little laugh.

Bridget fell silent, thinking about something her mother used to say: Don’t be surprised that if you marry for money, that’s all you get. Bridget knew that money wasn’t everything and that titles hardly mattered; she wasn’t any happier for having landed both. Bridget was a fervent believer in love.

She had seen true love firsthand: her own parents were wildly, madly, catch--them--kissing--in--the--corridor in love. That was what Bridget wanted to find for herself.

And she could hardly imagine Darcy stealing a kiss in the corridor, or a waltz in the rain just because. Ditto for Lady Francesca. And she felt sad for them both. But Mr. Wright, on the other hand . . . He smiled at Bridget and her heart did a little flip. Yes, she could definitely imagine kissing him.

On Wednesdays we are to wear pink.

The Gospel According to Lady Francesca, as recorded in Lady Bridget’s Diary

For their visit to Almack’s on Wednesday evening, Bridget wore pink because Francesca said that was the done thing. Her sisters could not be persuaded to join her.

“Matching ensembles, Bridge?” Claire asked, wrinkling her nose, causing her spectacles to slide down slightly. “Really?”

“I wasn’t aware you had such definite opinions on fashion,” Bridget replied, annoyed.

“I hate pink,” Amelia said to no one in particular.

Thus, Bridget was the only Cavendish to wear pink and she prayed it was the correct shade, whatever that might be, even though there was no shade of pink that flattered her. She decided that it was more important to be seen with the popular girls than to wear the right thing. Francesca eyed her gown and didn’t say anything, and Bridget breathed a sigh of relief, or as much of one as possible, given how tightly her corset was laced.

“Bridget, come over here,” Francesca hissed from a mere three feet away. She dutifully stepped three feet to the left.

“That’s the Wallflower Corner,” Francesca said loudly. “You do not want to be seen there.”

Bridget glanced over at the Wallflower Corner, where an assortment of girls stood about, chattering amongst themselves. Some wore an expression she recognized (and may have, once or twice, practiced in the mirror): it was the look of someone pretending that they hadn’t just heard the very mean thing said about them. It was quite similar to the look of appearing interested in dancing (so that someone might ask) but not too interested (so she didn’t seem tragic if no one asked).

Bridget suspected that she really belonged with those girls.

The evening wore on. Lady Francesca and her vapid friends wore on Bridget’s nerves. Bridget was beginning to—-shudder—-empathize with Darcy. Right now, standing off in the corner alone and not smiling seemed rather appealing after the strain of circulating, keeping up with all the conversations and keeping a smile pasted on one’s face.

But then there was Mr. Wright, with that smile of his, bowing before her.

“May I have this dance?”

“Let me check my dance card. Why, yes, I would love to,” Bridget said, not even bothering to check her dance card. If there was a name written there, then the gentleman had her apologies.