Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(27)

James clenched his jaw. Josephine smiled like a queen.

“I see what you did there,” Bridget whispered.

“Mmm.” Josephine murmured, refusing to confirm, deny, or engage in a private conversation at the dinner table.

“I say, is this the good silver or the everyday silver?” Mr. Collins inquired, selecting a fork and holding it up to the light of the chandelier.

“Only the best for the duke and his heir,” Josephine replied. She gave the tight smile Bridget was coming to recognize as The One Where I Am Too Ladylike to Point Out How Ghastly Your Behavior Is.

“Lady Bridget, I understand you are on a regimen of self--improvement,” Mr. Collins said.

“Why and how have you come to understand that?” Bridget asked. Surely this could not be proper dinner table conversation.

“I spoke with Lady Amelia about all of your lessons.”

“Ah. Did Lady Amelia tell you her fondest wish is to live simply as a vicar’s wife?” Bridget inquired, in spite of her sister’s glare.

“She did not,” Mr. Collins said. “I think it’s so important for a lady to strive to better herself and to become accomplished in the ladylike arts.”

“And which ones do you think are most important?” Bridget asked. “Needlework? The pianoforte? Simpering?”

“Smiling demurely at idiotic comments?” Claire asked innocently.

“Well, a woman’s duty is to support a man in all things and be a respite at home for a gentleman made weary from his dealings with the greater world,” Mr. Collins replied.

“How fortunate for you,” Claire said. “And gentlemen everywhere.”

“Indeed. It’s only fitting, as men are the stronger and more intelligent sex.”

“Is that so?” Claire inquired coolly. Claire, who was certainly more intelligent than at least half the men they met.

Mr. Collins then carried on the conversation for the rest of the meal entirely by himself. He elucidated, at length, upon what he believed were the most important of the feminine arts: tending to one’s husband, bearing children, maintaining a good reputation, and singing sweetly whilst playing the harp after supper.

If that was all a woman could aspire to with marriage, then Bridget began to wonder . . . was it really worth suffering through a reducing diet for? Or biting her tongue or cultivating friendships with influential but despicable ladies? Spinsterhood began to sound appealing. She could have a cottage by the sea and eat cake for breakfast.

As he rambled on about the Perfect Lady, Bridget pushed food around on her plate, took small sips of wine, and wondered why she bothered. Why was she trying to shrink herself, anyway? She had no desire to impress Mr. Collins or men like him. She did not want to starve herself or restrain her speech, learn to play the harp or keep her spine straight all the time just so an arse like Mr. Collins might think favorably of her. It wasn’t just Mr. Collins. It was the whole haute ton. She’d been trying and trying to earn their favor but she never stopped to wonder why.

Was it because she wished to marry well? Did she want their stamp of approval so badly?

She realized, with some alarm, that the one she really wanted to impress was Lord Darcy. Not the likes of Lord Darcy, as she had been supposing all along, but the man himself. He was the one she saw in her mind’s eye, judging her.

The man who didn’t wish to speak to her because they hadn’t been introduced. The man who did not dance but then reprimanded her for refusing his grudging invitation. The man who told her to remember her reputation. The man whose dark eyes had looked at her, really looked at her, that day in the lake. And in that one moment, she hadn’t felt wanting . . . she had felt wanted.

I daresay we have made the acquaintance of someone worse than Dreadful Darcy. In fact, he’s not so dreadful at all in comparison to Mr. Collins.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Later that night, the Cavendish sisters found their way to Claire’s bedchamber one by one. They had not planned on it, not even in hushed whispers or secret signals. It was simply understood that the events of the evening needed to be discussed and that the place to do it was in Claire’s bed.

“Well, that was ghastly,” Claire said, falling back against the pillows.

“Though in its own way, it was sort of amusing,” Amelia said, pulling the covers up around her.

“Which part was so funny, Amelia? When he questioned whether women needed to learn how to read or when he droned on and on and on about his patroness at the vicarage?” Claire asked.

“Just . . . all of it,” Amelia said, waving her hand. “He’s a ridiculous man.”

“You have a twisted sense of humor,” Bridget replied.

“But you have to love me anyway.” Amelia grinned. “Because we are family.”

The obvious reply to that was to hit her in the face with a pillow, which made Amelia laugh. There was a time and place to be a true lady, and it was not when little sisters were being vexing.

“Why did you have to mention my improving regimen?” Bridget demanded.

“What does it matter?” Amelia shrugged. Then, with a sly glance, she added, “Unless you are trying to impress Mr. Collins?”

“Obviously not.” Bridget made a face of disgust. “He is the worst gentleman we have met thus far.”