Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(20)

And she was beaming at Rupert.

“I was hoping to see them today,” Rupert said brightly.

“I as well,” Lady Winterbourne replied. “While the ton has not quite accepted them yet, a party is considered a failure if they do not attend. What else will we talk about?”

“New initiatives in Parliament, the plight of war widows and orphans, new advances in steam technology.”

“You’re too funny, Darcy.” She laughed. “No, at parties one is to talk of scandals and love matches and judge each other’s dresses. And the Americans. What do you think of them?”

“I do not.” It was a hideous lie.

Lady Bridget intruded upon his thoughts with an alarming frequency. And if that weren’t bad enough, she made him feel things.

Things one would categorize as lust. A lust that would never be satisfied because he was Lord Darcy, one of the most esteemed peers of England, and while she might be sister to a duke, there was no denying her unconventional upbringing. She was not his type.

Which was neither here nor there, given how things were progressing between her and Rupert and the hints he dropped about marrying her.

“Well I quite like them,” Rupert declared. “Particularly Lady Bridget.”

Case. In. Point.

“You know, the duchess is keen to marry them off,” Lady Winterbourne remarked with pointed looks and all the subtlety of an invading army. “She is afraid they will abandon the dukedom and return to the colonies if they do not. God forbid anything should happen to the new duke. The next in line is that horrid Mr. Collins.”

“I cannot imagine what relevance this has to us.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Darcy,” Lady Winterbourne said. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“It so happens that one of us is considering taking a wife,” Rupert said. Even Darcy couldn’t conceal his shock that he would say such a thing to such a known gossip as their hostess. He might as well have printed an announcement in The London Weekly: “Wealthy bachelor not completely adverse to matrimony. Queue up here.” Even if he was considering marriage, why the devil would he announce it and make things impossible for himself?

Darcy’s obvious shock made it abundantly clear which brother was considering a wife. And Lady Winterbourne’s smile made it abundantly clear what would happen with such information.



Bridget might have steered Rupert here, behind the hedges. He might not have made it difficult for her to do so.

Her heart beat swiftly, flutteringly, like hummingbird wings. Her gaze searched his for a sign of his true feelings and his intentions. She prayed that they matched hers.

He might be about to kiss her. Dear Lord, she wanted to be kissed. And loved. And by this nice man.

Rupert gazed down at her, lips parted. She closed her eyes, waiting to feel the brush of his lips against hers. Her life might become perfect in three . . . two . . . one . . .

“Nice to get a bit of a respite from the party,” he remarked. She opened her eyes to see him standing a foot away, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.

Or not.

Nevertheless, she agreed with him. “It is. I’ve become so accustomed to everyone watching me to see what disaster will befall me next. You know, I am still known as the girl who fell.”

“I think of you as the girl who has a unique manner of appreciating artwork,” Rupert corrected. “Never mind those old bats.”

And that was why she loved him.

That was why she wanted to marry him.

And she knew for a fact that he had told Lady Winterbourne that he was thinking of marrying, because she told the duchess, who looked the other way when Bridget and Rupert began strolling in the direction of the hedges.

“Well, it is nice to get away from everyone’s prying eyes,” she remarked, hoping to get him to acknowledge that they were alone. Out of sight.

“Indeed.” He seemed pensive.

“I feel that everyone is always watching and waiting for me to make another misstep.”

“Society is a challenge. Even for those of us born and raised for it.”

“You can’t possibly have trouble with society. Everyone adores you.”

“Aye. But I have seen how unforgiving they can be,” he said thoughtfully. This was another side of Rupert, one she hadn’t often seen and suspected that he didn’t often reveal. “Which is why it is so wonderful to have true friends.”

There was no mistaking his meaning by the way he gazed at her, smiled at her. He thought her a true friend. But what about more?

Bridget stood there, experiencing a thousand agonies. Here she was, alone with a handsome rake—-the newspapers all said he was—-and he was making a declaration of friendship. Which was wonderful, and she cherished it and thought him the only true friend she’d made in England (Lady Francesca certainly didn’t count).

But never mind that. Her heart had skipped a beat. And then fell.

Rupert turned to her. He gazed into her eyes and murmured her name. “Bridget.”

Her heart starting beating again, and then it started beating faster and faster.

But then Rupert paused at the sound of footsteps approaching. She turned, furious, to see who could possibly dare to interrupt this moment. Possibly the greatest moment in all of her three and twenty years. The Moment in which the man she loved was about to propose marriage or kiss her or both.