Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(36)
“We thought it would be lovely to spend some time out of doors,” Darcy replied. Just then, at that exact moment, there was a rumble of thunder. As if God was punishing them for the lie.
“Indeed.” Lady Tunbridge looked from one to the other, as if she suspected that something suspicious was underfoot. Which it was. Which Bridget could not say. Which made her want to say it.
“I had gone to visit with the new duke over the matter of a shared border property line,” Darcy said. She was quite sure that he was lying. The notion of Darcy lying was oddly thrilling. “I stayed for tea and then in the course of conversation over tea, Lady Bridget and I agreed that it might be nice to visit the park.” There was another rumble of thunder. “Before the rain.”
Lady Tunbridge appeared skeptical, even though Bridget thought Darcy was doing an admirable job with this fictitious story. This, oddly, raised her opinion of him. Perhaps he wasn’t such a stuck--up, self--righteous man after all. Who knew such a common vice as lying could make a man more attractive?
“In America, it is far less rainy and unpredictable,” she volunteered. “Here, it is so rare for it not to be raining, one must venture forth when one can.”
She and Darcy were allied in a lie against Lady Tunbridge and they had a secret to keep from the whole world. How intimate. It was thrilling enough to give her a shiver down her spine (she got shivers). This was a far, far better way to spend the day than practicing her penmanship or helping with preparations for the ball.
“And how are your sisters, Lady Bridget?”
“Why do you ask?”
Darcy coughed.
“Because it is the sort of benign question one asks when making polite conversation with an acquaintance on the street,” Lady Tunbridge answered sharply. “Good Lord, what do they teach you in America? I daresay I have no wish to know.”
“My sisters are very well, thank you.”
“And Darcy, your brother . . .” She sighed, and both Darcy and Bridget straightened with interest. “I suppose you’ve heard the latest.”
Beside her, Darcy tensed. She felt the muscles in his arm and leg go positively rigid and she was sure he was clenching his jaw . . . and yet somehow managing to speak.
“I have not.”
“Well,” Lady Tunbridge huffed. “I don’t know if I can even say.”
“And I’m sure I do not wish to know,” he said stiffly.
“I wish to know,” Bridget said, and everyone ignored her.
“Suit yourself, Lord Darcy. But you will find soon enough what your brother has been up to—-and who he has been with.”
It didn’t seem possible, but Bridget felt the moment Darcy became positively stiff. And yet, by all outer appearances, he seemed exactly the same as always. She only knew this because they were sitting side by side and very close in this carriage. So close they were touching. When had that happened? She realized that, although he might always appear so calm, cool, and collected, perhaps he was not. Perhaps he got as flummoxed as the rest of them and only hid it better. Perhaps, if he lied so adeptly, he wasn’t so perfect after all. The notion that he had feelings and flaws was surprisingly . . . intriguing.
“A good day to you both.” Lady Tunbridge nodded firmly. “Lady Bridget, I look forward to the ball you’re hosting with your sisters.”
“What is this ball Lady Tunbridge mentioned?” Darcy asked as the carriage rolled away.
“Oh, just a little soiree we are planning for five hundred of our closest friends. And by friends I mean people we are desperately trying to impress.”
“I think I recall seeing the invitation.”
“You ought to attend, though it might be a disaster, in spite of all our best efforts. The duchess says planning and hosting a ball is an important skill every lady must possess. Thus, we are learning to plan and host a ball.”
The duchess was right. A man of his position, especially given his political ambitions, required a wife who could be an asset socially. She would have to cultivate the right relationships, impress the right people, behave so impeccably that nothing bad could be said about her or, by extension, him. Lady Francesca fit the bill perfectly, which was why he had every intention of proposing to her.
This was why, even if he did lust after Lady Bridget, he could never act upon it. He could never propose to her. She and her family were regularly gossiped about for all the wrong reasons, and it was likely to become worse if this business with Amelia got out.
“This is, of course, in addition to our daily regimen of acquiring all the other essential qualities of a True Lady,” she continued.
“And how does an aspiring true lady spend her day?”
Honestly, he wasn’t entirely interested. But he found her chatter not altogether unpleasant—-she did have a lovely voice—-while he concentrated on driving the carriage and scanning the faces of everyone they passed, hoping to see Rupert or Amelia or both. He also noted the ever darkening clouds and low rumbles of thunder in the distance. A rainstorm was imminent.
“Well, for example, I must practice my pianoforte and singing for an hour each morning, in the event that we are called upon to perform at a musicale. This happens to coincide with the duchess’s constitutional walk. I do not think that is a coincidence. After that, but before luncheon, we memorize pages of Debrett’s. Did you know your great--grandfather was related to the Marquis of Wyndham? You and Lady Francesca are practically related.”