Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(2)

“It’s a pity the Durham title is going to an American,” Darcy said, simply repeating sentiments widely shared by the haute ton and printed repeatedly in a majority of the city’s newspapers.

“You’re such a snob,” Rupert said, laughing at his older brother. He was the only one who dared to speak to him that way.

Somehow, Lord Burbrooke had managed to infiltrate their conversation. Darcy noted the man’s red cheeks (from an excess of alcohol, surely) and bright green waistcoat (from a dearth of taste).

“Can’t say I didn’t thumb through Debrett’s to see if there was a chance I’d inherit,” he said jovially. “I heard that if the duchess hadn’t tracked down this fellow, the title would have gone to some distant relation. Pity that.”

“Spare us all from distant relations,” Fox said.

“Yes, it would have gone to a Mr. Collins.” He was one of those distant, imbecilic relations one despaired of. As the head of his own estate, and raised to ensure that it was successfully passed to the next generation, Darcy understood why the duchess had plundered the colonies in search of an heir. Anyone was better than Mr. Collins.

“Say, how do you know that, Darcy?” Burbrooke asked, awed.

“Darcy knows everything,” Rupert said, smirking.

“But Darcy,” Fox drawled, “did you know they were pretty?”

“Says the man who is betrothed to one of the ton’s most sought after young ladies,” Darcy remarked, reminding his friend of his impending wedding.

“And who has also landed London’s most sought after mistress,” Rupert added.

“Right.” Fox straightened and looked around, presumably in search of his intended. Spotting her, he strolled away in her direction.

“Half a mind to marry one of them myself,” Burbrooke said. “I bet they have very fine . . . dowries.” There was no mistaking the direction of his gaze, which was not precisely on their . . . dowries.

“There would be some advantages to wedding one of the American girls,” Rupert said, a little too thoughtfully for Darcy’s taste.

“Don’t get any ideas. I won’t welcome any recalcitrant colonists into the family.”

“Oh look, one of them seems lost,” said Rupert.

Burbrooke wandered off to lose money in the card room while Darcy and his brother stayed to watch the wayward American girl. She had certainly become disconnected from her group. Apparently she had not been informed that ladies did not wander about the ballroom unaccompanied, gawking at this and that. Or perhaps she simply had no regard for etiquette and protocol—-a thought that gave Darcy anxiety. Or perhaps—-

“Oh dear God.” Rupert started forward when he saw what had just happened.

Even Darcy was shocked.

“Did she just . . . ?”

“She did,” Darcy confirmed, mouth set in a grim line.

“Well, we had better go rescue her,” Rupert said. Darcy protested: “I am not in the habit of rescuing young women.”



When they stepped into the ballroom and a hush fell over the crowd, Bridget finally began to understand what the duchess had been trying to prepare them for.

But what could possibly prepare her for this? The ballroom itself was downright palatial (or so she had imagined, not having many palaces lying around in Maryland). And the people within the ballroom . . . a room full of earls and viscounts and countesses, all dressed in the finest, most beautiful clothes, all wearing heaps of glittering diamonds and other jewels, all of them so refined and elegant and . . . staring at the Cavendishes. As if they were some novelty item or the evening’s entertainment.

“We’re not in America anymore,” Amelia murmured.

“Definitely not,” Claire murmured in agreement.

“Remember what I taught you,” the duchess murmured. I don’t remember anything, Bridget thought in a panic. Not true: she remembered sipping chocolate in bed and sneaking into the kitchens at midnight. Not helpful now!

Then, arm in arm with His Grace, the Duke of Durham, the duchess led the way forward.

And so began the endless round of introductions and conversations with what seemed like every lord, lady, and right honorable person God ever made and stuffed into one hot, crowded ballroom. Bridget didn’t quite seem to understand why everything they said was subject to murmurs and laughter. Was it her accent? Well, these stuffy English folks ought to hear themselves, with their Loooord this and thawghts about that.

Or was it because they weren’t born and raised in a world of privilege? She overheard more than a few snide remarks about the scent of the stables around them, a snub to James’s (former) occupation rather than how they smelled. She hoped. More than once she wanted to turn around and say, I can hear you.

It couldn’t be because of their attire; the duchess had certainly ensured they were turned out in the most beautiful, sumptuous dresses and she’d even dipped into the Cavendish family jewels to find something sparkly for each of the girls. They certainly looked the part. And yet . . .

Whatever it was, Bridget was having a devil of a time keeping up and keeping a smile on her face. And then she fell behind. Literally. In the throng of guests, she became separated and cut off from the duchess and her sisters. And then she got lost. Bridget found herself alone in the ballroom, fighting to keep a smile on her face as if she meant to be strolling by herself, all while craning her neck looking for the duchess’s towering hairstyle.