Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(49)

He heard not the amusement but the bitterness. And it reminded him of his father, laughing at him for making mistakes. That laugh took him back . . . back . . . though he stood in this ballroom as a man of three and thirty, he felt like a thirteen--year--old boy, chastised. Nothing was more effective at putting him in his place than mocking laughter—-not beatings, not even nights without supper.

It went without saying it was not a point in his life he was keen to revisit. It occurred to him that if he married her, he would hear that laugh again and again, for the rest of his life. The prospect made his throat feel tight, as if his valet had tied his cravat too tightly.

But if he did not care to hear that laugh, if he was not going to wed Lady Francesca . . . Darcy’s heart started to pound as he followed that thought to its logical (illogical?) conclusion: he would be free to marry Lady Bridget.

That was, if he were to steal her from his brother, who needed her.

He spied her through the crowds. She was dancing again, and smiling, and laughing. This time she was dancing with Rupert.





Chapter 17


Last night I waltzed with Darcy, who does not dance. Of course he was probably being polite. He is nothing if not polite. It certainly couldn’t signify something else, could it?

Lady Bridget’s Diary

The ball was not quite the smashing success that the duchess had hoped for. Oh, it had been so well attended that the ballroom was at capacity. The guests had nothing but compliments for their hostesses. But the papers the next day did not report on any of that. After all, news of a successful ball paled in comparison to even a hint of scandal.

“The London Weekly is reporting that Amelia was seen quaffing an excess of champagne,” Josephine said with a frown at Amelia, who, this morning, most certainly did appear to have consumed an inordinate amount the night before. Her complexion was wan and she was not her usual animated self. “When she wasn’t quaffing champagne,” the duchess read, “she was seen shooting daggers with her eyes at Mr. Alistair Finlay--Jones, the vaguely disreputable heir to Baron Wrotham.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Amelia muttered. “One cannot shoot daggers with their eyes.”

“It’s not I that am talking about it, but rather The London Weekly and thus the entire town. My only consolation is that they are not speaking about your mysterious illness.”

“The Morning Post is,” Claire said, peering up from a different newssheet. “The Man About Town says that Lady Amelia appears to have made a remarkable recovery from her grave and sudden illness.” Then she read from the column. “In fact, the lady looked as if she had a spent a day out of doors rather than a day on her deathbed.”

“If only they could see you now,” Bridget teased. “You look incredibly ill.”

Amelia halfheartedly swatted at her.

“Sisters,” James groaned. He, too, seemed to have consumed an inordinate amount of spirits the previous evening. “What did I ever do to deserve three sisters?”

“Oh, you are not off the hook. Your Grace,” Claire said, smiling devilishly. James scowled; he hated when his sisters addressed him formally. “His Grace crushed the hopes of many a young maiden by waltzing twice with Miss Meredith Green, companion to the duchess, while eligible young ladies languished on the sidelines.”

“I wanted Miss Green to have a pleasant evening,” James said.

Miss Green blushed at the attention and focused on her sewing.

“That is very admirable and I share your sentiment. But might I remind you that you have one job, Duke,” Josephine said sharply. “In fact, all of you have one task. To marry and marry well.”

“Well, perhaps Lady Bridget might do us proud,” Claire said. Then she continued reading from the paper. “Lady Bridget was seen waltzing with Lord Darcy. It would be an excellent match for her, and. . . . oh.”

“What does it say?”

Claire closed the sheet quickly. “Nothing.”

“You are such a liar, Claire. What is it?”

“It says it would be an excellent match for you and a surprising choice for him,” Claire said softly.

“She is the sister to a duke. It wouldn’t be surprising at all,” Josephine replied.

“Does it say why?” Bridget asked, even though she suspected she would regret it.

“It just says that it would be surprising if one of England’s most refined gentlemen wed the girl who fell,” Claire said with an apologetic smile.

“My thoughts exactly,” she said brightly, though it was an effort to do so.

She could not shake her reputation, even with the “friendship” of Lady Francesca, the attentions of Lord Darcy, and attendance at countless balls where she committed hardly any improprieties. Still, she was known as the girl who fell and considered an unsuitable match for someone as perfect as Darcy. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, anyway. Rupert had mentioned marriage again last evening and she dared to hope he would ask her soon.

Never mind that she had kissed his brother. And liked it.

“If we’d had the tightrope walker, they wouldn’t report on any of this,” Amelia said.

Any further conversation was brought to the halt by the arrival of Mr. Collins, who wished to visit the family before returning to whichever shire he came from.