Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(4)

“So happy to oblige,” she replied, smiling, because she made Rupert laugh with her instead of at her.

But her smile faded when she caught Darcy staring. Under his gaze, she became intensely aware of her dress, her hair, whether she was standing straight enough, and she involuntarily wondered if he liked what he saw or why she cared if he did. He made her skin feel hot.

Why this man should have such an effect on her was not something she was inclined to dwell on. Not when she could banter with his handsome and friendly brother. Rupert and Bridget did have such a ring to it.

“Oh, is that a waltz starting?” Rupert asked, groaning slightly. “I promised our hostess that I would dance with her daughter, and I live in fear of Lady Tunbridge’s wrath if I don’t comply. Lady Bridget, it has been lovely not officially making your acquaintance and discussing art. I hope to see you soon. Do take care for the rest of the evening.”

And with that, Rupert flashed her a grin and ventured off in search of Lady Tunbridge and her daughter.

She was left alone with his brother.

His eyes were dark and intensely focused on her. His jaw was set. If his brother was sunshine and cupid, this man was dark clouds, thunderstorms, that feeling of electricity in the air before lightning strikes.

They stood there, staring at each other, in an agonizing silence. In her opinion, extended silences were the worst. The longer they lasted, the harder it was to find something to say. And she often blurted out the first thing on her mind to avoid it. This moment was no exception.

“Do you dance, Mr. Darcy?”

“Lord Darcy,” he corrected. Of course. Everyone here was Lord or Lady or Your Grace or Your Lordship. Not only were there rankings, but also different forms of address, many of which changed depending on whether one was writing or speaking. Bridget remembered Josephine lecturing on this—-and she remembered not paying attention.

She longed, intensely, for America, where everyone was either Mr., Mrs., or Miss, and that was that.

“I’m ever so sorry, Loooord Darcy,” she said, drawing out the sound and imitating his accent. Her attempt at humor was met with more silence. Dreaded silence. “Do you?”

“I do not.” Of course he didn’t. Because dancing was fun and she could already see that this man was where anything amusing and pleasant went to die.

Most ladies would take the opportunity to flee from a man who obviously had no interest in them. But she was not most ladies.

She accepted this Dreadful Darcy as a personal challenge. She would make him laugh, or at least crack a smile, if it was the last thing she did. Bridget leaned in closer, as if to whisper something scandalous. He stood still, like a statue. Barely breathing.

“Are you not speaking to me because we haven’t been properly introduced?”

“No.”

“Tell me, Lord Darcy, do you find it amusing, this brooding and striking fear into the hearts of innocent young maidens?”

Was that a twitch at his lips? Laughter? She wanted to crow in triumph. But it was too soon. She was emboldened to continue.

“I wonder, Lord Darcy, if we have not been introduced, then has this conversation even happened?”

She lifted one brow, questioning.

He simply stared at her. Was he horrified by her outspokenness or was he actually considering the question? It was a good question, actually. One she would pose to Josephine tomorrow over breakfast. She was actually curious how this disapproving gentleman would answer.

“I think you will agree that it’s best we proceed as if this conversation has never taken place. Excuse me,” he said, ever so politely. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her alone in a crowded room.

“Have a good evening,” she muttered to his back. Then quietly under her breath, she added on one of the slang words she’d recently learned from a stable hand.



“Did she just . . . fall?” Miss Mabel Mulberry said with a shake of her strawberry blond hair.

“I think she just fell,” Miss Kitty Montague said, mouth agape.

Lady Francesca DeVere just smiled. “She most certainly did.”

When The London Weekly broke the news that the new Duke of Durham would be arriving from America with not one but three sisters in tow, most of the ton lamented the foreign invasion. A few enterprising mothers began to plot how they might land the duke for their daughters, with the hope that in time his title would trump his past occupation. But Lady Francesca DeVere was nervous about the arrival of three new young ladies.

She had only just vanquished her chief rival and best friend, Lady Katherine Abernathy, who had failed to snare the Duke of Ashbrooke after four seasons of trying. Instead she had married nobody and was now rusticating in the country.

And now Lady Francesca was the reigning beauty of the ton.

Unless those American girls were beautiful, amiable, and charming. They were pretty, but not beautiful. She’d heard they were nice enough. But now that girl had fallen in the middle of the ballroom and nothing else mattered.

Francesca’s status as darling of the season would be secured. But wait . . . was that . . . ?

“Is that Darcy and his brother with her?” Miss Mulberry asked.

“Yes,” Lady Francesca admitted through gritted teeth.

“Did he propose yet, Francesca?” Miss Montague asked.

No, he had not. Which was fine. Truly. She was still on schedule—-the first season was for flirting, the second for entertaining suitors, and in the third she would marry her older brother’s best friend, Darcy. She was so certain of it that she’d even spent the earlier part of this season with her aunt and chaperone, Lady Wych Cross, taking the waters in Bath.