Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(47)

Rupert had gone out and said he would arrive at the ball late. Darcy forced himself not to be the first guest in attendance, forced himself not to make a beeline for Bridget, forced himself again and again to stop thinking about her.

Her lips. Her sighs.

Her everything.

No.

He should have avoided the ball this evening, but that seemed wrong. For one thing, showing his support for the family after befriending the duke and nearly ravishing Bridget was the least he could do. But the truth was he wanted to see Bridget. And he wanted to test himself.

Could he be near her and not want her?

He ought to start thinking of her as Rupert’s, not his. Never his.

But here he was, standing before her, full of wanting.

He had complimented the hostess, they had spoken briefly of mutual acquaintances, and now he was free to make his excuses and go find a strong drink and high--stakes game of cards.

But he didn’t want to leave her. Not yet. Not because he had seen her standing along the perimeter of the ballroom alone, watching everyone else have a marvelous time at her party.

Because, if he were being honest, Darcy wanted to feel her in his arms again, and there was only one socially acceptable way to do that.

“Would you care to dance, Lady Bridget?”

She appeared shocked. Rightly so.

“But you do not dance.”

So this was what it felt like to have a knife wound to the heart. God, and this was the second time he had asked her to dance. And the second time she refused. No wonder he made a habit of avoiding dancing entirely.

“Right.”

“But it is the proper thing to ask me,” she remarked, smiling. “And of course you always do the proper thing.”

“Indeed.”

He was vastly relieved that she should interpret it that way, was he not? She still knew nothing of his tortured feelings, still thought him a right proper stick--in--the--mud. And he would still, possibly, get to dance with her and hold her in his arms.

This was perfect, was it not?

“I would hate to tempt you into behaving improperly,” she said softly, smiling wickedly, and it did things to him. Then she added softly, “Again.”

Tempt me. He experienced a perverse desire to have a monumental test of his self--control and personal resolve.

“My self--control is legendary,” he told her. And himself.

“Is it?” She gave him a knowing smile that spoke of what had happened between them in the gazebo in the rain that afternoon . . . Proper English gentlemen didn’t do such things, and they certainly didn’t talk about it if they did.

“Well, possibly merely mythical,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. A blush stole across her cheeks.

“Shall we?”

He swept her into his arms. Darcy gently clasped her gloved hand and placed his other hand on the small of her back. Memories flooded his brain, such as how she felt flush against him. The pressure of his palm must have been too much; he was out of practice. She was right; he did not dance. She stumbled a little, nearly into him. Her gaze flew up to his.

“My apologies.”

“It’s all right,” she said softly.

The orchestra launched into a song, and they began to move in time to the music. Mostly. It was easy enough for a gentleman to lead a waltz; the steps were simple, but it was damn hard to navigate around all the other dancers when one was driven to distraction by his dancing partner, who was, admittedly, not an excellent dancer herself.

They were a disaster together.

Her eyes were so very blue.

That he was fixated on the blueness of her eyes was just one reason they were a disaster together. They had a few near--miss collisions with other couples on the dance floor. In effort to avoid them, she stepped on his feet. Her skirts tangled around their legs. They stumbled slightly. Her breasts brushed against his chest and she laughed nervously.

He wanted to die. Not only was this a mockery of dancing, the entire ton was watching this self--inflicted torture. All because he wanted to bed her. Bury himself inside her. Lose himself in her. Feel everything until he exploded from the intensity to it. Then, perhaps, he could return to his calm, orderly, unfeeling existence.

But he could not. That would require marriage. That would interfere with his plans, with Rupert’s plans.

And this waltz was doing nothing to diminish his desire for her—-quite the contrary, in fact. And it was doing everything to torture and embarrass him, so much so that marrying Lady Bridget seemed like a more reasonable way to hold her.

“You are quiet,” he said. For once her every thought wasn’t tumbling out of her plump mouth, and it wasn’t obvious what thoughts were jumbling through her head. It was those very qualities that had at first repelled him and now he missed them desperately. Missed her.

“I am too busy feeling.”

“What are you, ahem, uh, feeling?”

“Like I should have practiced waltzing more. But then perhaps not. Is it horribly wanton that I enjoy stumbling against you?”

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Do you disapprove, Lord Darcy?”

Tempting minx. She was deliberately torturing him, he was certain of it. When he spoke, his voice was rough, “I am in no position to judge.”

Rather than satiate his desire to hold her, he only wanted her more.

Bloody hell.