Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(18)

In the meantime, she lingered on the perimeter of the ballroom with her friends.

“Do you think that Lady Francesca actually fancies any of her suitors?” Bridget wondered.

“Oh no,” Miss Mulberry said. “They are just for amusement. Everyone is expecting Darcy to propose to her.”

“Darcy?”

“You know, the one who always looks like he’s perishing of boredom?”

“I know who he is,” Bridget said darkly.

“It’s the funniest thing,” Miss Mulberry continued. “She was concerned you might be a rival for his afflictions.”

“You mean affections,” Bridget corrected. She was not interested in his afflictions or affections.

“That sounds so romantic,” Miss Montague sighed dreamily. “Rival for his afflictions.”

“That is absurd,” Bridget said flatly.

“That’s what I said!” Miss Montague exclaimed. “I said it was absolutely ridiculous that he should fancy you!”

This was of no consolation to Bridget.

“Don’t tell her we told you,” Miss Mulberry said.

“I won’t.” But she had to wonder: if Lady Francesca saw her as a rival for Darcy’s affections, why then befriend her?



It was another night and another ball. Darcy was actually enjoying the evening, having had interesting conversations with his friend the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon about parliamentary concerns; and he spoke to the Duke of Ashbrooke about the man’s new invention. Earlier in the evening, he had spoken with Lady Francesca on the terrace—-listened to her gossip, mainly—-and then made his excuses when he saw her friends, the vapid Misses Mulberry and Montague, heading their way. And Lady Bridget, trailing behind.

Darcy was about to call for his carriage when Rupert found him. His brother seemed rushed and worried, not at all his usual self.

“Darcy, I need you to do me a favor,” Rupert said impatiently, grabbing on to Darcy’s arm.

“Let me guess,” Darcy said dryly. “More funds?”

For a second, his brother looked wounded. No, he looked truly hurt that Darcy would say such a thing. He immediately regretted the flippant comment and felt guilty to have thought so little of his brother.

“No, actually. I have taken care of that,” Rupert said, straightening up to his full height. “I need you to waltz with Lady Bridget.”

Oh bloody hell. He’d been looking forward to returning home, perhaps having a brandy in his study before retiring. And now he was to go back into the din of the ballroom and dance. With Lady Bridget.

“You know that I—-”

“I know, I know, you don’t dance,” Rupert said dismissively, and no small amount of annoyance in his voice. “We all know that Lord Darcy does not dance, and he certainly does not do so with one of the Americans. But I promised her and now I have to leave. Something has come up.”

“Is everything all right?” Rupert was definitely not himself tonight; something was obviously wrong.

“It’s Frederick. He’s been hurt. There was a fight.” His brother was clearly anxious to rush off to his old friend.

“Is there anything I can do?” Darcy asked.

“Yes. Dance with Lady Bridget.”

And with that Rupert rushed off.



Darcy found himself doing the unthinkable: entering a ballroom with the intention of seeking out Lady Bridget. He had, in fact, made it a point to do exactly the opposite because the woman did things to him and to his state of equilibrium that he did not care for.

But Rupert had asked him a favor. Feeling guilty for that offhanded comment about the money, and wanting to help his brother in what was clearly a distressing situation, Darcy had found himself agreeing. Well, he hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to disagree, what with Rupert running off like that.

Thus here he was, standing before her.

“Good evening, Lady Bridget,” he said, because it was polite and he was nothing if not polite.

“Good evening, Lord Darcy,” she said graciously. She did not draw out the ooo’s. No, she spoke like the duchess was succeeding in her attempts to turn her into a proper young English lady. “I don’t suppose you have seen Rupert.”

She called him Rupert. Not Mr. Wright. This suggested an intimacy between them that Darcy didn’t care for.

“I have. He had to depart unexpectedly. He sends his regrets.”

Lady Bridget heaved a sigh, which he mainly noted due to the dramatic rise and fall of her breasts. Of course he looked, briefly. He might be a gentleman, but he wasn’t dead. He definitely wasn’t dead, owing to the pulse--pounding way his body reacted to her.

Then she gazed down at the dance card dangling from her wrist.

“He owes you a waltz.”

“He doesn’t owe me anything. But he did promise and I have been looking forward to it.”

The words he uttered next were not spoken lightly. He told himself it was his duty as a gentleman not to leave her idling like a wallflower; he ought to ask her to waltz. If anyone asked, and they would, he would explain that he was simply standing in for his notoriously distracted brother.

He didn’t want to dance—-he hated dancing. But even he had a hard time denying the desire to touch her, and he had been presented with the perfect opportunity to do so, without it meaning anything.