Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(21)

The intruder revealed himself.

Her eyes narrowed. “Darcy.”

Things I dislike about Dreadful Darcy

He ruins private interludes in which a lady might be kissed for the first time by the man she loves who mentioned publicly that he was considering marriage. This is unforgivable. UNFORGIVABLE.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Darcy had only wanted a moment of solitude. Just a moment away from the idle chatter and gossip. Just a moment to think about what the devil Rupert was about these days. The ever increasing debts, rushing away from a ball, the declaration of his intention to wed. Just a moment to find his equilibrium again.

He never meant to intrude on what was obviously a private moment between his brother and Lady Bridget.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw him. “Darcy.”

There was no small amount of venom in her voice.

He cleared his throat.

“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” Darcy said, glancing from Bridget to Rupert. It was obvious he had.

“Not at all,” Rupert replied hastily. “I was just . . . I’m quite parched. Are you quite parched, Bridget? I shall go fetch us lemonades.”

Darcy watched his brother retreat. Rupert was acting odd—-in this moment, and for the past few days—-and it was a mystery why. This presented a feeling of something like hurt or dismay because they were close. They weren’t just brothers, they were the only members left in their family (distant, possibly fictional, relationship to Lady Winterbourne notwithstanding). And they were friends.

He would have to talk to him later, for Rupert fled.

And with that Darcy found himself alone with Lady Bridget. She was either crestfallen, heartbroken, or furious, or some terrifying combination. He’d never made a study of identifying emotions, especially those of women; after all, he made it a point to stifle his.

“Oh, look,” she remarked, interrupting his silence. “We are without a chaperone. I shall go find one and return approximately never.”

“Lady Bridget.” He hadn’t meant to say anything. But then she whirled around to face him, all the flounces and lace of her dress fluttering in swift movement. She glared up at him fiercely.

All thoughts fled. Except one: I’m sorry. For whatever I’ve done.

“I owe you an apology.”

He would apologize for interrupting her private moment with Rupert. Not that he was sorry to interrupt a proposal, if that’s what had been about to happen.

But then she surprised him.

“Just one?”

“I don’t take your meaning.”

“I’m wondering what, exactly, you wish to apologize for. Do you owe me an apology for being exceedingly rude when we first met? For leaving me standing alone in the middle of a ballroom at my very first London ball where I knew no one?”

He felt the color draining from his face. That had been rude of him. But she had been so . . . shocking.

“Or would you like to apologize for saying that I am not pretty enough or well--mannered enough for you?”

And now he paled, certainly. He remembered saying the words, making a deliberate effort to sound bored as he uttered them. Because no one could know that he had found her so . . . arousing. He hadn’t realized she had overheard.

“Or do you mean to apologize for chastising me when I refused your obligatory offer to dance? We both know it was just a favor for Rupert. I couldn’t possibly have hurt your feelings.”

It took all the self--control he possessed to not look around for someone to save him, to fight the desire to loosen his cravat, to stifle the urge to flee. Because Lady Bridget, enraged, was something else entirely.

His heart started to pound.

He wanted to kiss her, but she obviously wanted to slap him.

“All are lapses in honorable behavior and I apologize for them.” He hoped that would appease her.

“I’m curious, Lord Darcy. Are you sorry that you weren’t a perfect gentleman or are you actually sorry that your behavior might have made a perfectly lovely girl feel badly about herself and her family?” She paused and added, “And by the way, I am the perfectly lovely girl.”

She said this in such a fierce whisper that he couldn’t help but wonder if the words were meant for her more than for him. Because why could she possibly care what he thought of her?

He felt a pang of . . . something resembling a feeling . . . that she felt the need to tell him that.

“On all accounts, I owe you an apology.”

“Yes. Yes you do.”

A moment of silence stretched between them. He was mesmerized by all the emotions he could detect in her eyes—-anger, curiosity, annoyance, determination—-when he was sure she saw nothing in his.

“I am waiting for an apology. I was given to understand that it was rude to keep a lady waiting.”

“Usually, one simply says that one is owed, they don’t actually . . .” His voice trailed off. It was the way of things. Peers of the realm never actually apologized for things. But Lady Bridget didn’t care about that, did she? He promised her an apology and then failed to deliver, digging himself a deeper hole.

Ah, now he could see fury in her eyes and the reddening of her cheeks. He was at once terrified and entranced by her display of emotion. As a result, he didn’t say anything.

“Excuse me,” she said grandly. She gave him the briefest nod before turning on her heel and stalking off.