Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(48)

“I’m certain Lady Francesca is an excellent dancer,” Bridget remarked. He followed her gaze and saw the lady in question standing near the windows overlooking the terrace. Lady Francesca was poised, as always. But something was different now, and he saw the anger in her eyes.

Slowly he became aware of other curious stares and glances. Of course. Lord Darcy did not dance, and everyone knew this, just as they knew the Earth was round, Sunday was the Lord’s day, and spring followed winter.

But hundreds of them had all borne witness to this violation of natural law. Not only had Lord Darcy danced, but he had done so with one of the Americans.



Something was happening. Bridget had no clue what it was. But there was something between her and Darcy. She wanted to puzzle out what it was, what made her heart beat faster, what made her feel a jolt of longing, and whether it, whatever it was, meant she should write Lady Bridget Darcy (or whatever the proper form of address would be) in her diary instead of Mrs. Rupert Wright.

And then they were interrupted. By Mr. Collins.

“Ahem.”

Darcy and Bridget stopped suddenly at the interruption, tumbling into each other. She crashed against his chest. His hard, firm, hot chest. His big, strong arms wrapped around her and did not let go immediately. She wasn’t sorry.

In fact, she thought about feigning a swoon.

Instead, she turned to face the small little man who had interrupted her something with Lord Darcy.

“Oh, Mr. Collins. Hello.”

“I do believe this is my dance, Lady Bridget.” She strongly considered murdering him. In front of five hundred witnesses.

Mr. Collins looked pointedly at the dance card dangling from her wrist. It was his dance. And she had been all too eager to dance with Darcy instead. For obvious reasons that anyone with a modicum of brain function would understand.

Bridget glanced up at Darcy. His expression was priceless. It seemed that it wasn’t every day that he was interrupted thusly, especially by a man so, so, so far beneath him socially.

“It says so, right there on Lady Bridget’s card,” Mr. Collins insisted. Turning to Darcy, he said, “We are cousins, you know.”

“I did not know. In fact, I do not think I have made your acquaintance.”

Oh good Lord, she would have to perform introductions. Josephine had spoken to them about this; in fact, it was one of those lessons that Bridget had skipped. She had pleaded a megrim halfway through and retired to her room to read fashion periodicals in bed.

Was she supposed to present the lower--ranking person to the higher--ranking one? Or was it the other way around? If she got this wrong, she would reveal herself to be as socially inept as Mr. Collins, perish the thought.

Oh, and Josephine had also said to include a little bit of information about the person when performing the introductions. Her mind went blank, except for the most inappropriate things.

“Lord Darcy, may I present my brother’s heir, Mr. Collins,” she managed to say. He is a plague and a nuisance and I haven’t any clue why he was invited. No, no, mustn’t say that. Instead she said, “He is visiting from his vicarage in, ah, um, a shire.”

Was that a quirk of Darcy’s lip? Was he finding this amusing?

“Berkshire, actually,” Mr. Collins corrected. “But we cannot expect women, with their diminutive brains, to have more than a passing knowledge of geography.”

He elbowed Darcy as if they were chums. Darcy looked down at him as if he had been poked with a stick dipped in horse dung.

“Mr. Collins, this is Lord Darcy,” Bridget said. His kisses leave a girl breathless. Oh Lord, she could NOT say that aloud. But what to say about him? “He is a very gentlemanly, uh, gentleman.”

Oh Lord, she was making a cake of herself. Her cheeks felt hot, which meant they were probably a violent shade of pink. Mr. Collins, being obtuse, wouldn’t notice. But Darcy would. She couldn’t imagine what he would think.

“I shall leave you to your dance,” Darcy said politely.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Darcy.” Bridget curtsied, rather elegantly, given how cross and out of sorts she felt.

He nodded. And walked away. And Bridget was left with Mr. Collins.

Oh bloody hell, she wanted to mutter. But she did not, because a True Lady did not use such language. Not even in moments like these.



Darcy turned and walked away. A small part of him was actually relieved for the interruption. Something was happening between Lady Bridget and him and . . . it could not.

He had to think of Rupert.

He had to think of the expectations of a man of his station and position. And the intentions he’d indicated toward another woman already.

Lady Francesca.

He took a second to ensure that anything he might be feeling was smothered and stuffed into a box deep inside. Then, his expression inscrutable, he made his way to face Lady Francesca. She did not look pleased. They’d known each other for an age, and he’d never seen her like this. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect that she was angry with him. Was she jealous of “one of those provincial Americans,” as she called them? It seemed preposterous.

“I thought it only polite to waltz with the hostess,” he replied to the accusation in her eyes.

“Will you waltz with all four of the hostesses, the duchess included?” Lady Francesca inquired. “That I would like to see.” She threw back her head and laughed.