Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(35)

“You could be assured that I would respect your privacy,” he said. “Anyway, are there any indications in that book of where your sister might have gone?”

“She has circled a few things, including Hyde Park, so we might as well carry on with our original plan. Besides, she is a country girl at heart and loves nature more than cities. I bet she misses it.”

“There are people who prey on country girls who are innocent to the ways of the city,” he said grimly.

“She is not innocent to the ways of the city, but do tell me all the dangers a young lady faces in London. I’m imagining packs of roving marauders with murderous intent. Don’t the words ‘murderous intent’ just send shivers up and down your spine?”

“No. Men do not get shivers,” he informed her. “On their spine or otherwise.”

“Oh.”

She seemed deflated. Was it the lack of marauders with murderous intent or the fact that men did not feel ridiculous shivers and thrills? Probably both.

“There are pickpockets,” he said, indulging her in listing the dangers that might befall a maiden and trying to, oh, amuse her.

“This dress—-most dresses—-do not have pockets,” Bridget pointed out. “It ruins the line of the gown.”

“To think I have lived my whole life without knowing that,” he said dryly. “They might snatch your reticule, then. It’s easy enough and happens often. There are also men who have little regard for a woman’s virtue.”

She grinned. Oh bloody hell, he thought, mentally kicking himself. He had to introduce that line of conversation.

“Yes, young ladies are warned from an early age to protect our virtue. It is apparently in constant peril and we must protect it at all costs. We are under strict orders to avoid finding ourselves alone with a man. And yet . . .” Her voice trailed off. He glanced over and caught her gazing at him. God, he felt something like a shiver. She dropped her voice to a deliberately dramatic low tone. “Here we are. Alone.”

“You needn’t fear for your virtue now. We are in an open carriage.”

Even if they were married one wouldn’t act intimately in an open carriage. Public displays of affection or emotion were high on the list of things that were Not Done.

“And if we were in a closed carriage? Alone?”

If they were alone in a closed carriage he would find himself in a torturous internal battle, wanting to kiss her senseless and touch her everywhere until she begged for him to take her.

“Obviously, as a gentleman, I would treat you with the utmost respect,” he said. But his voice was a bit rough. He coughed and added, “And this is not an appropriate topic of conversation.”

She sighed. Disappointed. Chastised? Didn’t she realize that he couldn’t, just physically could not, say such thoughts aloud? He was English, for God’s sake.

“Well then we mustn’t speak of it. Let’s consider other dangers. What about being kidnapped and held for ransom?” Bridget’s voice was actually breathless when she asked.

“It’s a possibility.”

“Well, I would pity whoever took Amelia,” she declared.

“You don’t really mean that, do you?”

“Not really. I am beginning to get nervous. Amelia has always embarked on ‘explorations.’ Once she even spent the afternoon at the circus with the lion tamer. Thank God we found her before they set off for their next destination. But she’s never been away this long, or overnight.”

“Are you going to cry?”

“No.” She sniffed. Then she smiled. “Perhaps. Only to distress you.”



Darcy drove the carriage through the park, where they joined the throngs of carriages and riders on Rotten Row. In her opinion, this was one of the more ridiculous habits of the haute ton. Whoever thought that it was a capital idea to cause a buildup of traffic for amusement? If one wanted to go that slowly, one might as well walk.

She hoped Darcy was keeping an eye out for Amelia and Rupert because she was too distracted by the carriages full of lords and ladies who were out only to spy on one another and gossip endlessly. He nodded at some acquaintances as they passed, but she was all too aware of the stares and whispers and the shocking sight of an esteemed earl with one of the Americans. Especially her, the girl who fell first in the ballroom and then into the lake. She watched as they all glanced at her, then Darcy, and then turned to whisper at each other.

I can see you talking about me, she wanted to shout. But perfect ladies did not shout things out at random. She didn’t need Josephine to tell her that.

Perhaps it was even a good thing that she was seen with the stuffy old Darcy. As if his company implicitly endorsed her and would provide some of the approval that had eluded her and her family. They would need all the help they could get if there were rumors about Amelia, roaming the streets of London without a chaperone.

Because it was polite and proper, she and Darcy chatted amiably with many of his acquaintances that they encountered. But the conversations were simply about the weather or other inanities; there were no clues about Amelia or Rupert.

Lady Tunbridge, a buxom, forthright woman of middle age, was the only person who had something interesting to say. Bridget had made her acquaintance at her first London ball, which Lady Tunbridge had hosted.

“Hello, Lord Darcy and . . . Lady Bridget.” She did not conceal her surprise. “What brings you to the park together?”