Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(40)

“You are still a lady, even though I took a liberty.”

“It wasn’t a liberty! It was a devastatingly romantic kiss in a rainstorm. When Amelia reads about it in my diary she will accuse me of making it up, it’s so perfect. And you cannot go back to being all proper and stuffy after that.”

“Very well, Bridget.” Devastatingly romantic and perfect kiss. Well done, man.

“Lord Darcy.”

“Now, Bridget you can’t be all proper and stuffy after that.”

She quirked a smile. “Are you teasing me?”

“It seems so. I am as shocked as you.”

“We kissed and I don’t even know your Christian name.”

“Colin Fitzwilliam Wright, Lord Darcy.” And then he bowed. And she laughed. And he wanted to kiss her again. Her hair was a wreck and her lips were swollen from his kiss. And he was sorry to note that the rain had lessened to a misty drizzle and this moment was coming to a close.

“We ought to go,” he said reluctantly. “I fear the wrath of the duchess. And we do not want anyone to suspect anything untoward.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Bridget replied. He didn’t miss the sharpness in her voice. He had clearly said the wrong thing and ruined the moment. He told himself it was for the best.





Chapter 14


HE KISSED ME.

Darcy. Kissed. Me.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

After seeing Lady Bridget home, and learning that Lady Amelia was still at large, Darcy returned to his own residence, having matters to attend to there. Matters such as pouring a large glass of brandy and trying to make sense of the fact that he had kissed Bridget. And liked it. More than liked it.

Out of habit, he looked up at the portrait of his father. He left that glaring, scowling portrait as a reminder to always do his duty toward the estate and the family name. Nothing like a father’s anger and disappointment to keep a son in line.

But if his father only knew that his younger son didn’t care for women and that his distinguished heir had done something so common as to nearly ravish a woman in a park, he would probably drop dead from an apoplexy all over again.

Darcy couldn’t say he regretted it, though. And that was the problem he was contemplating when Rupert returned.

He strolled in, poured himself a brandy as well, and took a seat.

“Where have you been?” Darcy asked. His voice was calm and measured and somehow did not reveal the turmoil within. Or so he hoped.

“Out,” Rupert said flatly.

“I figured that much.”

“I just walked through London . . . getting lost . . . thinking . . . Trying to find a way to solve this problem,” Rupert said. He sighed.

“You know I will help you.”

“I know. But you always solve everyone’s problems. And I should start taking care of my own. And I think I know a way out. It was my original plan and I think it’s the best.”

“What is it?”

“I should marry. If the blackmailer does reveal the truth, I shall at least have the sort of cover that makes the story implausible.”

“An excellent plan. And I suppose a wife’s dowry will also give you funds to pay that blackmailer.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” Rupert said, his mouth in a grim line. He clearly did not like this plan, but he was clearly resigned to it.

“Who did you have in mind to be the lucky woman?” No, he couldn’t keep the note of sarcasm out of his voice. But Rupert didn’t seem to detect it.

“Lady Bridget.”

But of course. Darcy’s heart stopped, paused really, for just a moment. Of course his brother was plotting a marriage of convenience with the woman he’d just lost all self--control with. And liked it. That was the worst part. Holidays were going to be torture if Rupert married her.

“Well?”

“Does it matter what I think?”

“Of course it does! You’re my brother. And I know you were concerned about welcoming Americans to the family. I believe you did echo the popular sentiment that their presence here marked the downfall of civilization.”

“Why Lady Bridget then?”

Because of the way she kisses. Because of the way she feels. Because of the way she teases and laughs and makes me feel human again.

“She and I get along. I do quite like her and I think she fancies me.”

“It is a sound plan,” Darcy said, his voice only a little bit strangled. He drained the last of his brandy, immediately refilled his glass, and changed the subject.

“I don’t suppose you saw Lady Amelia while you were out?”

“American Amelia? No, why do you ask?”

“It is nothing.”

“It is not nothing for you to inquire about the Americans whom you so loathe,” Rupert pointed out.

But Darcy was now growing even more concerned. It was one thing when Lady Amelia might have been gallivanting around with Rupert, and he realized he had convinced himself that they were together. It would have been bad, but not disastrous.

But now the hour was growing late and Lady Amelia was at large, presumably without a protector.

“A gently bred lady is lost in the city of London, presumably alone. I have spent the whole day searching for her. And for you.”