Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(43)

The butler Pendleton opened the door. “Lord Darcy is here. Are you at home?”

Of course he would have such perfect timing.

The five ladies glanced around the drawing room—-which was strewn with Miss Green’s embroidery things, a thick stack of newssheets, and some pillows on the floor. Claire was slouching in the chair. Amelia was lounging—-languishing—-on the settee with her ankles exposed. Bridget’s hair was a mess, having hastily been pinned up, but then again it always was. A tea tray was on the table, but one that had been devastated by five parched and famished ladies.

They all glanced at one another, panic wild in their eyes.

“We shall need a moment, Pendleton,” the duchess said, utterly poised in spite of the mess. “Send a maid for this tray and please bring round a fresh one.”

The embroidery was shoved in a basket, which was shoved behind a turquoise upholstered chair. Amelia sat up like a lady with a stack of books on her head, Claire put her things away and Bridget shoved her diary under a seat cushion.

Then she pinched her cheeks.

“They’re already pink, Bridget,” Claire said with a smirk.

“Is it because of Loooord Darcy?” Amelia asked, drawing out the oooo’s just to vex her.

“Do shut up, Amelia.”

“Language, Lady Bridget,” the duchess admonished.

Bridget heaved a sigh, the long--suffering sigh of the sibling who got caught even though the other provoked it.

Then all the ladies stood and turned their attention to the door.

And there he was.

Loooord Darcy.

Tall, proud, perfect. He paused in the doorway. Was that a flash of panic in his eyes when faced with the prospect of three unruly sisters, the fearsome duchess, and her faithful companion? Five women, five sets of eyes all on him. Waiting. Expecting.

Bridget suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Their parting had been formal and inconclusive and surrounded by people, so there hadn’t been any secret message exchanged via whispered words or pleading gazes and the like. He was as inscrutable as ever and gave her no clue as to his innermost thoughts and feelings.

They all sat down. Darcy, of course, took a seat on the chair with Bridget’s diary tucked under the cushion, which caused Amelia to giggle, Bridget to kick her in the ankle, and the duchess to glare at them both.

“Good day, Lord Darcy,” Claire asked. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Now Bridget’s heart was racing. Would he say that he was calling to see her? Would he ask for a moment alone? Would he apologize for the kiss or would he propose? If so, what would she say? She was still half in love with Rupert, probably.

“I have come to see how Lady Amelia is faring,” he replied. “I am glad you have returned safely.”

None of the above. That was the worst.

“I am quite well, thank you,” Amelia answered. But she wasn’t quite well. She seemed wistful.

“I am glad to hear it.”

“We are so grateful that you accompanied Bridget on the search yesterday,” Claire said.

“It was my pleasure,” he murmured, his eyes locked with Bridget’s. The intensity of the look between them left little doubt in her mind that he was thinking of the kiss and speaking of the kiss. She felt warm and she felt an ache of longing for more. Was she blushing? Dear God, she hoped not.

She bit her lip, wanting to ask approximately 724 questions. Her every heartbeat was a question.

Ba--bump, what does this mean?

Ba--bump, will it happen again?

Ba--bump, what are you thinking, you madly inscrutable man?

Ba--bump, why do I even care in the slightest?

“I do hope we can be assured of your discretion,” Josephine drawled.

Darcy glanced at her, then to Bridget.

“Of course. It would be a pity for a lady’s prospects to be tarnished because of unfounded rumors.”

Bridget felt a prickling sensation along her skin. She had the peculiar feeling he wasn’t speaking just of Lady Amelia’s great adventure, but of their mad kiss in the rain. He must only care about her prospects if he wasn’t going to propose—-which was fine, she supposed, as she had no intention of marrying him just because he once kissed her.

But still.

She found herself feeling dismayed.

“You’re a good man, Darcy. Now how is that scoundrel of a brother of yours?”

“As much a scoundrel as ever, in spite of my efforts to keep him from the falling over the brink into disaster and ruin.”

“He is fortunate to have your support,” Josephine said. “But what he really needs is a wife.”

“He is thinking of marrying, finally,” Darcy said, his eyes locked on hers.

“Bridget has taken a liking to him,” Claire said, smirking.

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. Or was it? There was no measurable difference in his expression. There was no indication that he gave one whit that the woman he had passionately and illicitly kissed in a rainstorm actually preferred his brother.

There wasn’t even the slightest shift in tone when he said, “I have noticed.”

She couldn’t quite hold his gaze now. Instead she looked pleadingly at the duchess, who flashed her the briefest and smallest of smiles before turning to their guest.

“What of your prospects, Darcy? Have you proposed to Lady Francesca yet?”