Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(24)

Darcy did not rush to the surface. Under water it was dark, quiet, and cool. There was no hot sun beating down on him, no conversation to annoy him, no Lady Bridget to at once tempt him and infuriate him. He lingered under the water as long as he could stand it, taking advantage of the much needed respite. There was only so much a man could take before he broke.

When his lungs felt like bursting, he broke the surface of the water. He saw Rupert and Amelia a few steps ahead, laughing. A crowd had gathered on the shore to watch the spectacle. And nearby, a creature was thrashing about in the water.

Darcy reached over, wrapped his arm around her waist, and hauled her up. She gasped when she broke the surface, and took in big, heaving gulps of air.

Funny, as he also found himself unable to breathe.

He gazed down at her, past the shock and fury in her eyes, straight down her dress. Her wet dress. Her wet white dress that clung to her every curve the way she currently clung to him. God, her breasts were amazing. Full, luscious, more than a handful. He could see the stiff peak of her nipples through the dress (thank you, Lord, for cold water), and could just faintly detect the dusky pink centers, and for one maddening second when he took leave of his wits, Darcy considered taking one in his mouth, teasing her until she moaned his name.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, as if she wasn’t the one clinging to him for dear life, holding on to fistfuls of his wet shirt.

“I’m saving you from drowning. You’re welcome.”

“I wasn’t drowning. I can swim.”

“Then you are the worst swimmer I have ever seen.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”

“No.”

He did not like this. He did not like this.

Certain parts of him liked this very much. Too much. Would dream about this later too much. Would take himself in hand tonight—-though he could stand to do so now—-just thinking about her too much. He didn’t want her to know that, so he took a few steps through the water, holding her, until they reached a place where she could likely stand.

He let go and stepped away. Something in him howled at the loss of her warmth, of just the feeling of her body pressed against his, of the feeling of holding her in his arms. Darcy stood very still, and willed the howling to cease.



Lord Darcy, when soaking wet, was something else entirely. Lord Darcy, when holding her firmly against his hard chest with just one arm, left her breathless. She hoped he thought those gasps were because of water in her lungs or something like that, anything but the truth: Darcy, when wet and holding her, took her breath away.

The water was freezing, so she ought to be cold.

She followed his gaze down, to where her nipples had hardened, visible through the wet fabric of her dress. She ought to be outraged to have a man so blatantly look at her breasts with such intensity.

She ought to do a lot of things she didn’t do.

Something tightened in her belly, and a marvelous heat pulsed through her.

She wasn’t cold. Not in the slightest.

Lord Darcy, when soaking wet, didn’t look so lordly at all. With his hair wet and tousled he almost looked boyishly handsome. Bridget watched, transfixed, as a water drop slid down his cheek. She had the mad urge to lick it off. What would he do if she dared?

Before she had the chance, they were bickering and then he pushed through the water until it was shallow enough for her to stand. Then he thrust her aside as if she were too hot to the touch.

But it was too late. She had seen the way he looked at her. And she had discovered how it made her feel. And it was not what she expected at all.





Chapter 8


Times I have thought about Darcy in his wet shirt: 27

Times I have felt something resembling lust when I think about Darcy in his wet shirt: 27

Times I have written Rupert and Bridget in my diary since Lady Winterbourne’s garden party: 0

I am dreadfully confused.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Two days after the garden party, the outrageous behavior of the Cavendish sisters was still being discussed in the papers and in drawing rooms all over town. This time they had done the unthinkable: they had dragged the unimpeachable Darcy and his universally beloved brother down with them.

Bridget had been hoping to lie low until the scandal died down. But the duchess, as usual, had other ideas.

“Your friend Lady Francesca has called and left her card,” the duchess said while she and the sisters took tea in the drawing room on a rainy afternoon. “We owe her a return visit.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll see her at a ball or soiree or garden party,” Bridget said. “If we’re ever invited to one of those again.”

“Certainly not if there is a body of water nearby,” Claire said.

“Etiquette requires that we call upon her,” the duchess instructed. “Besides, are you not friendly with her? I’m sure she is merely concerned with your health after that ill--advised spill in the lake.”

The duchess had not been happy about that spill in the lake. She’d been more unhappy than either Bridget or Amelia, who had to sit in wet dresses for the long carriage ride home.

She also made it sound like Francesca and Bridget were actually friends. But Bridget wasn’t so sure. They might have gone for ices at Gunther’s and coordinated their ensembles to Almack’s, but she suspected Francesca was more concerned with discerning Bridget’s intentions toward Darcy.