Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(17)

He muttered something to the effect of “Glad to hear it.”

She served herself a generous slice and took a bite. She closed her eyes, the better to savor it.

“What brings you down to the kitchens at this hour?”

“Would you believe me if I said just cake?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I care for the meaning of that.”

“I hope you’re not above a little brotherly teasing now that you are a lady.”

“Oh, I’m not above it,” she said. And then, grinning, added, “But it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

Bridget’s heart started to pound. This was the perfect moment to ask him.

“A thousand pounds?”

“You are not joking.”

“No.”

“Are you in trouble?”

Her brother’s blue eyes were full of concern and she was lucky, because she knew he would do anything for her. He looked, she thought with a pang, just like their father, who would always say, “My little Bridget, what are we going to do with you?” before lifting her into his arms and whirling her around.

She hesitated, because for a moment she was struck with an overwhelming feeling of homesickness for her parents, and their boisterous house at Duncraven farm, where everything was comfortable and familiar.

But she remembered Rupert, and her love for him. This was her life now.

“It’s for Mr. Wright,” she explained, because she didn’t want James to worry about her. “He has gaming debts.”

“Can’t his own brother help him out?”

“He says Darcy will not. I’m not surprised really. He is such a cold and unfeeling man.”

“I wasn’t aware you were so well acquainted with him,” James said, insinuating that she was. As if he had, oh, noticed Darcy staring at her or her staring at Darcy.

“I’m not.”

She wasn’t. She just knew that he was the sort of man to leave a young lady standing alone in the midst of a ballroom and the sort of man to refuse to help his own brother.

“But you vehemently dislike him.”

“We’re not talking about Lord Darcy.”

“Of course. We are discussing Mr. Rupert Wright, the man of your dreams and fondest yearnings of your heart.”

“It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“Don’t lose your sense of humor, Bridge. You don’t want to end up like Darcy.”

“Horrors,” she said flatly. Then stuffed her mouth with more cake.

“Are you sure he needs the money for gaming debts? Because I would hate to lend him money that he squanders on gifts for his mistress or because he got another woman in trouble, when you are so obviously in love with him.”

“He would never do such a thing.” She was certain of him. He was good, and kind, and would never take advantage. He was probably just a poor card player. Because he was so nice.

They fell silent for a moment, enjoying each other’s company and the informality of eating cake in the kitchens at midnight. She could almost pretend that they were back home in Duncraven and none of this ducal business had ever happened. Almost.

“You know, Bridget, you have one hell of a dowry.”

“Josephine has mentioned something to that effect.”

“The man who marries you will get twenty thousand pounds.”

“Twenty thousand!” Bridget turned to her brother with wide eyes. “No wonder Josephine is always warning us about fortune hunters.”

“I’m just saying there’s another way for Rupert to get the money he needs. If his heart were in the right place.”





Chapter 6


Here’s another curious rule: at a ball, women are not supposed to promenade around the ballroom, unaccompanied. And here’s another ridiculous rule: a lady might refuse a dance but then she is not to accept any other invitations for the rest of the evening.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

It was another evening and another ball. Another day spent paying calls, practicing the pianoforte, learning more phrases in French (J’ai faim, je suis fatigue, je wish to stay in bed and read fashion periodicals). Hours were spent preparing—-hair was curled and styled, dresses pressed, corsets tightened, cheeks pinched.

They had arrived, along with three hundred of England’s finest, and crushed into this ballroom. The scale of the events still impressed her. The ballrooms were large, the chandeliers enormous, the gowns gorgeous.

And then there was Bridget, a horse breeder’s daughter, trying her best to fit in.

Amelia had manufactured some excuse about needing a moment in the ladies’ retiring room, though she was far more likely to be found snooping about the house; the family had yet to attend an event without Amelia causing some incident or minor scandal. Claire had discovered something to amuse her at balls: she spent most the evening in the card room, divesting drunk, idiot lords and ladies of their fortunes. Bridget was torn between pride and distress because it made her sister—-and the family—-an object of gossip.

The duchess was engaged in a private tête--à--tête with one Lady Esterhazy, her close personal friend and fellow terrifying matron.

Which left Bridget. With Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague. They were the only girls with whom she had become friendly in London. Lady Francesca was dancing with a young handsome lord; how she managed to dance only with them was of particular interest to Bridget, as she, far too often, ended up with invitations she was forbidden to refuse from the old, slightly infirm, or lethally dull men of the ton. Although Rupert had penciled his name on her dance card for the fifth waltz, and thus her entire existence was now counting the minutes until it was time for him to sweep her into his arms and whisk her around the ballroom.