Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(28)

“Worse than Looord Darcy?” Claire teased. Bridget did not want to think about him now. Or, oddly, discuss him with her sisters. So the obvious reply to that was to hit her in the face with a pillow, which made Claire laugh. There was a time and place to be true lady and it was not when one’s older sister was being vexing.

“Sisters,” Bridget lamented, looking heavenward, much in the way James had done at least thrice a day for as long as she could remember.

“If anyone is to lament about sisters, it is I,” James said, having just joined the group. He pulled up a chair next to the bed, sat down, and stretched out his legs.

“We thought you might be having drinks in the library with your heir,” Claire said. James just grinned.

“There was a pressing estate matter that required my immediate attention,” he said, and they all knew there was no such thing. “And then I had to deliver a stern lecture to my sisters about . . . something.”

“Well, do go on. We are all here.” Bridget gave him an attentive smile.

“I am sorry you all had to endure that man,” James said, pulling a face. He was genuinely sorry.

“It’s not your fault, James,” Bridget said softly.

“But it is. The duchess is trying to impress upon me how much I am needed here. And how I am able to be duke,” he said, with a pause, revealing that he’d doubted it. “I have refused to recognize it. Mr. Collins was a way to show me that I could do it, that I must do it.”

The sisters fell silent. Bridget knew that the only way Mr. Collins would inherit was if James died. Even if he boarded the next ship to America, there was no relinquishing the title. But there was the not--small matter of him deciding to accept all the responsibility and trying to succeed at it.

“And she is trying to make our other suitors seem more . . . suitable,” Claire said thoughtfully. “So that we marry, and stay here.”

“And keep me here,” James said, glancing up at them.

“She is so devious,” Bridget murmured.

“Is it wrong that I am quite in awe of her?” Amelia asked.

“Lord help us all,” Claire muttered. And then she tossed a pillow at her.





Chapter 10


If only Rupert would propose! I have no idea why he hasn’t. He always seeks me out for a dance (or two!) and we have the best time together. I swear he was about to kiss me at the garden party, if Dreadful Darcy hadn’t interrupted.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

The following evening, while Lady Bridget was wearing pink and trailing after Lady Francesca, Miss Mulberry, and Miss Montague at Almack’s, Darcy was at a far more exclusive haunt: White’s, an aristocratic men’s haven from women, society, and anything that wasn’t friends, a game of cards, and an endless supply of food, drink, and cigars. Cravats were loosened and inevitably lost, jackets hung sloppily on the backs of chairs, no valets present to despair over the state of their attire.

The group that evening included Darcy and Rupert, who probably shouldn’t be joining the game of cards given his recent propensity for racking up gaming debts, as well as Mr. Alistair Finlay--Jones, their longtime friend, who had recently and unexpectedly returned from a six--year tour of the Continent.

“Ah, so this is where the party is,” Fox said as he strolled in, late, and pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “I was at Almack’s earlier, dying of boredom. And sobriety.”

“Were you expecting otherwise?” Darcy inquired.

“Touché. I had promised Francesca I would escort her.” He turned to Darcy. “I noticed you weren’t there.”

“I had an urgent matter to attend to,” he murmured. The urgent matter was playing cards, having a stiff drink, and doing his best to forget about matters of Parliament, estate management, and certain American women. Or rather, a woman.

“Still drying off from your spill in the lake?” Fox asked.

“What did I miss?” Alistair asked.

“You won’t believe it,” Rupert said, and he proceeded to explain. There was little detail given to the rowboats, the race, and the collision, and far too much information regarding the aftermath.

“Fancied a swim, did you?” Alistair quipped.

“If that’s what we’re calling it these days,” Rupert replied.

“I overheard Fran and her friends gossiping about it,” Fox said. Only an older brother could get away with calling the Lady Francesca something as plain as Fran. “They were going on and on about Darcy here, in his wet shirt. Giggling like schoolgirls. It was horrifying.”

“It has been said by some that Lady Bridget swooned right into Darcy’s waiting arms,” Rupert said, laughing. Darcy merely lifted one brow. Should his brother, who had essentially declared his intentions to wed her, be laughing about this? Or did that just prove how ludicrous it was that Lady Bridget should swoon. Over him.

“She wasn’t swooning. She was thrashing about in the water, attempting to swim.” Darcy did his best to sound bored.

“And then you clutched her to your chest . . .” Fox said dramatically, mockingly.

“And she gazed into your eyes . . .” Rupert added.

“I couldn’t very well let her drown,” Darcy said.

Alistair was laughing heartily. “Let me guess. She swooned in your arms once you rescued her from an untimely demise.”