Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(15)

A few days later, Rupert availed himself of Darcy’s company while he was at his desk, drafting a new bill for Parliament.

“Have I mentioned lately how glad I am that you’re my brother?”

Darcy didn’t bother looking up. “Yes, just last week when you wanted funds.”

“You are very clever. Sharp. Smart. Charitable. God--fearing. Kind to women and children.”

Darcy set down his pen and glanced at his younger brother. If it wasn’t a trick of the light, he seemed pale, drawn. There were shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. Something was troubling him. More debts, probably.

“How much, Rupert?”

“Just, oh, a thousand pounds.”

Then he rambled on about “putting it in perspective” and did Darcy know that some other idiot had lost his own late mother’s beloved sapphire engagement ring in a wager, and another bloke with a half--empty brain box managed to lose his sister’s dowry in a literal pissing contest.

Whereas Rupert had merely lost a small amount of money during an unlucky card game. It happened to the best from time to time. Darcy resisted pointing out that “from time to time” was now a regularly scheduled occurrence.

Darcy hadn’t forgotten that the last time they had this conversation, he said it was the last time he’d provide the money.

“There are other ways of obtaining funds,” Darcy pointed out.

“Is this where you lecture me on marriage?”

“Well, I don’t think the army or clergy will pay enough to cover your debts,” Darcy said dryly. It went without saying that actually working in a profession was out of the question. “You should marry.”

“Would you believe me if I said I’d been considering it?”

And for a moment, Darcy was stunned. Speechless. His carefree, sworn--bachelor little brother beating him to the altar.

“No.”

“Well, I have,” Rupert said.

“Have you been considering it abstractly, or with regards to a particular woman?”

“Lady Bridget.”

“No.”

Darcy’s response was swift, immediate, and certain. No. His brother could not marry her. Not at all. Not in this lifetime. No. The force of this no took him by surprise, locked his breath in his lungs, made his heart stumble from its steady rhythm.

He hoped, prayed, and begged God that Rupert thought it was because Darcy was a horrible snob and refused to welcome Americans into their family . . . even though it was an eminently sensible match. She was the sister to a duke; her dowry was probably so large even Rupert couldn’t gamble it away. And yet . . . no.

Something inside Darcy rebelled at the notion. No one could know the truth: that Darcy was struck with the mad urge to possess her. To have her himself.





Chapter 5


Lady Bridget Wright?

Mrs. Rupert Wright?

The Right Honorable Mrs. Wright?



Well, this will finally teach me the proper forms of address! Here I am, wishing to write my hoped--for married name and I have no idea what to write.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Lady Bridget was in love. Head over heels, stars in her eyes, shout it from the rooftops LOVE. Her heart raced whenever she saw him. The butterflies in her belly stifled her appetite. (Finally seeing results from reducing diet, hurrah!) Sleeping was impossible; when she closed her eyes, there he was in her mind’s eye, and her heart started to beat in triple time.

It was impossible not to love Rupert Wright. He was so handsome. Was it the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled? Was it the long, dark lashes framing his warm brown eyes? His nose was noble. His jaw was strong. His dark brown hair, the color of chestnuts, tumbled into his eyes in the most alluring way. She dreamt of gently brushing his hair aside as they gazed into each other’s eyes and then he would lean in and kiss her with his sensuous mouth . . . They had yet to kiss, but she dreamt of it often. Too often.

An opportunity for a kiss presented itself during yet another ball. It was another ball at which she trailed along after Lady Francesca, Miss Mulberry, and Miss Montague, and tried to get noticed by all the suitors who crowded around them, and tried not to wince at all the cutting remarks the girls made about everyone else.

When she spied Rupert—-he had given her leave to use his Christian name, an indication of intimacy that thrilled her to no end—-alone on the terrace, she didn’t think twice about joining him. As she stepped closer she noticed that he was alone, brooding, and thus looking remarkably like his brother at that moment.

“Hello, Rupert.” She tentatively approached.

“Bridget, hello.” He offered a half smile. She took that as an invitation to join him.

“You seem down. What is troubling you?” She wanted to rest her hand on his arm in an affectionate yet suggestive way. It would have been forward. Did she dare?

“It’s nothing.” He smiled at her halfheartedly.

“It’s obviously not nothing. You look like your brother, all dark and broody,” she said to make him laugh. It worked.

“I suppose I can confide in my friend,” he said, smiling down at her. “You know, Bridget, I do feel like I could be myself around you.”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. They were friends, weren’t they? Now she wanted to be more.