Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(26)

Bridget reddened and stumbled, tripping over the edge of the carpet. He winced because he realized now how that would sound to her. Good, he tried to tell himself. Make her hate him. This mad desire would pass, she would marry his brother, he would marry Francesca, and they would all live happily ever after. But it did not feel good. In fact, he felt remorse. But not enough to declare that in a competition of figures, Lady Bridget’s was the one that made the blood rush from his brain. The consequences of saying that . . .

“After all that exercise I find myself parched,” Bridget said, making a beeline for the settee.

“I as well,” Lady Francesca said, gracefully lowering herself into a chair.

“Tea?” Lady Amelia offered her.

“Please.”

Lady Amelia poured gracefully; the duchess beamed. And then, as she was handing Lady Francesca the delicate cup and saucer, there was an accident. Or rather, an “accident.”

“Oh my goodness! How horrid of me!” Lady Amelia exclaimed after spilling tea all over the hostess.

Lady Francesca leapt up, eyes flashing, a dark stain spreading across her skirts.

“What a clumsy girl you are!” Lady Wych Cross bellowed to Amelia.

“How clumsy of you, Lady Francesca, to spill tea on yourself like that,” the duchess murmured.

Darcy didn’t miss the glance between the sisters or the gleefully devilish smirks they exchanged. That was no accident. That was family.





Chapter 9


Breakfast: toast, dry

Luncheon: broth and more dry toast

Tea: yes, but no sugar. Ugh.

Supper: minuscule portions.

Desserts: none!

Times I have thought about Lady Francesca’s humiliating scheme to compare our figures: 187

Lady Bridget’s Diary

At breakfast the next morning, Bridget nibbled on toast, wondering why she bothered eating at all. Her reducing diet had been a moderate -success—-if one did not count all her midnight forays to the kitchen to assuage her starvation. She eyed the heap of food on her brother’s plate. Men never had the slightest concern about their figures.

Amelia, who was always the first down to breakfast, was on her second serving and as slender as ever. It just wasn’t fair.

The only thing keeping her from lunging at the sideboard and helping herself to enough food to feed an army was the memory of calling hours yesterday. Particularly when Lady Francesca insisted on displaying how slender she was and how slender Bridget wasn’t. In front of Lord Darcy. How mortifying.

“Tonight we shall dine at home as a family, as we will have a very important guest with us,” the duchess announced from her place at the head of the table.

“Don’t keep us in suspense, Josie,” James drawled from the other end.

She scowled, as she always did when they addressed her as Josie. But she had at least stopped correcting them.

“It is your heir, Your Grace.”

“My heir?” James was alarmed. Bridget giggled as James paled.

“Your cousin, Mr. Peter Collins. It’s very important that you meet him and perhaps take him under your wing.” The duchess took a sip of her tea and said, very pointedly, “Just in case something should happen to you.”

“Is my life in danger?” James inquired. “Did this duke business suddenly become life threatening and thus, interesting?”

“I most certainly hope not,” the duchess said passionately. And when Bridget met Mr. Collins, she knew exactly why.



Upon meeting Mr. Collins that evening Bridget realized quite clearly that any wishes for James’s continued good health might have had as much to do with affection for him as with despair at the prospect of Mr. Collins inheriting Durham.

“It is such a great pleasure to meet my esteemed cousins who have journeyed from such a faraway land,” he declared.

“Are we cousins?” Amelia inquired.

“Actually, I consulted Debrett’s,” Bridget said, and the duchess beamed. “And we are more like second cousins.”

“Then I use the term affectionately,” Mr. Collins said grandly.

“I think it’s fortunate that you are all not so closely related,” Josephine said. “A match between you, Mr. Collins, and one of the sisters is quite possible.”

Josephine promptly received horrified glances from her nieces. Collins was short, portly, and hardly the stuff of any girl’s dreams.

“Perhaps if he were the last man on earth,” Amelia whispered.

“Not even then,” Claire murmured.

“Shh, you don’t want him to hear you,” James said quietly.

“Or do we?” Bridget murmured.

But Mr. Collins obviously appraised each of the sisters in turn. Bridget found it revolting having his eyes—-pale, watery eyes—-appraise her, and it put into perspective the way Darcy’s dark gaze made her feel, whether he was scowling at her from across a ballroom or staring at her breasts in her wet dress.

“A splendid prospect,” Mr. Collins said.

Claire paled and Amelia burst out laughing. Bridget cursed Darcy for interrupting her would--be proposal from Rupert.

“We would want to keep the dukedom in the family,” the duchess said in response to the girls’ looks.

“I’m still here,” James drawled from his spot at the end of the table.