Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(25)

I am, yet again, a subject of gossip. My name has been linked with Darcy’s in all of the newspapers. The duchess said it could be worse, but I cannot fathom how.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

It was a truth universally acknowledged that the ton liked to gossip, particularly if the subject contained a lord, a lady, and some hint of scandal. So much the better if it also included a man who never provided fodder for gossip, a lady who was already an object of interest, a dash of impropriety, elements of seduction, hints of a love triangle, and something too outrageous to be believed. The sight of Darcy and Bridget, clinging to each other in a lake at a garden party, satisfied all requirements.

Darcy sought to avoid the gossips—-and indeed, any mention of that event—-at White’s. He was unsuccessful.

“You probably ought to call on Francesca,” Fox had told him, dropping into the chair beside him. “She’s distraught about you and Lady Bridget.”

You and Lady Bridget, clinging to each other like star--crossed lovers. Whilst soaking wet.

“There is no me and Lady Bridget.”

“Well, tell that to everyone in London who thinks there is. Including my sister.”

What was left unsaid: who is expecting a proposal from you, oh, any day now.

“Well, then I suppose I shall pay a visit to your sister.”

“Thank you. There’s nothing worse than a sulking female about the house. Not that you’d know. But I suppose you will know soon enough.”

Most men would probably be livid if their good friend had such an understanding with their sister. But in this instance, it was different. Darcy was a good man with honorable intentions. Francesca and he were well suited. There were no revolting displays of love and affection. Fox, though not known for his deep thinking, recognized how convenient it would be to have his friend as his family. And so, the months and years passed with this understanding that no one was in a particular rush to formalize. Legally. Until now. Darcy risked losing one his best friends if he didn’t.



Darcy promptly went to call upon Lady Francesca. He had but a moment alone with her and her terrifying chaperone, Lady Wych Cross, before the Cavendishes arrived. Francesca smiled like all her plans were falling into place.

“I am so glad you have come,” she said, strolling toward her guests, arms out to greet them. “Look, Darcy is here as well.”

If he’d been paying attention to his intended, he would have seen how closely she watched him to gauge his reaction. As it was, he was arrested by the sight of Lady Bridget. She looked every inch the lady in her dry clothes. But it was too late. He had seen what he had seen. And now he could not stop envisioning her like that . . . in less . . . more wet . . .

The group settled into the polite but barbed conversation that passed as female friendship, and he was glad to have a reputation for scowling and speaking little. His thoughts and attentions kept drifting to Lady Bridget. He didn’t understand why, and he very badly wanted to so he could put a stop to it.

In the midst of the conversation, Lady Claire excused herself to visit the ladies’ retiring room, which he suspected was more a ploy to escape the conversation. Very clever; he wished he’d thought of such a thing. He was about to remember a vitally urgent appointment, but then Lady Francesca gave him reason to stay.

“Lady Bridget, I was so worried you had caught a terrible illness after falling into the lake,” Lady Francesca said.

“Right as rain,” Lady Bridget quipped.

“Speaking of rain, I so detest this weather! I long to stretch my legs. Lady Bridget, would you care to take a stroll about the room with me?”

There was, of course, only one answer to that; very few refused Lady Francesca. Bridget stood; the ladies linked arms and proceeded to stroll about the room at a glacial pace.

“I want to hear all about your beaux,” Lady Francesca said just loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

“Where to begin?” Bridget remarked dryly.

“A girl might have lots of beaux, but only one matters.”

Lady Francesca gazed at him. Darcy understood that was meant to be a subtle comment about her. And him. But it wasn’t very subtle at all. And he wasn’t very interested.

There was the matter of Lady Bridget perplexing him. Fascinating him. Drawing his eye and making him think unwanted thoughts and feel unwanted feelings.

“ ’Tis a pity the weather prevents a stroll outside,” Lady Amelia said from her perch on the settee, next to the duchess. “It seems quite inane to walk in slow circles around the drawing room.”

“Oh no. It is so much better to walk inside,” Lady Francesca exclaimed. “It is all the better to gossip about the gentlemen of our mutual acquaintance,” she drawled, eyeing Darcy. Again, with subtlety. The duchess harrumphed.

But it was Darcy who elucidated upon Lady Francesca’s motives.

“Is that really your motive, Lady Francesca? I thought it was because when one is strolling about the room, it is all the better to show one’s figure to an advantage.”

It was so clear in the way she arched her back, thrust her bosom forward, and preened. She didn’t know that it was Bridget’s figure that had gotten him up and kept him up at night. It was those full breasts, the lush curves . . .

“Comparing our figures, are you? Whatever are you about, Darcy?” Francesca laughed again.