Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(5)

She turned to face her silly friend.

“If he had proposed, you wouldn’t have to ask. I would tell you.” And the whole bloody town.

“Why is he spending so much time talking to the American girl?” Miss Montague asked.

Francesca sighed. “The question is why is he talking to her at all? He is probably just being polite. You know Darcy, he is nothing if not perfectly polite.”

But she wasn’t taking any chances. She would have to go flirt with him immediately. As much as one could flirt with Darcy, anyway.



A short while later, having taken great care when walking through the ballroom, Bridget found her sisters and the duchess.

“Where did you go? We lost you in the crowds,” Claire said.

“I hope you didn’t get into any trouble,” the duchess said, giving her a once--over as if she might detect what Bridget had done and with whom she had done it.

“I took a turn about the room,” Bridget said. “In a manner of speaking. What did I miss?”

“We were introduced. To people. A lot of very English people,” Amelia said, yawning.

“They are the very best of high society.”

“I’m so sorry to have missed that,” Bridget said dryly.

“I said, ‘How do you do’ and ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance’ approximately six and twenty times,” Amelia added.

“And I thank the Lord that is all you said,” the duchess said with a glance heavenward.

“And then we were asked about Indian attacks and bears,” Claire said, rolling her eyes, which made Josephine cringe. Apparently proper ladies did not roll their eyes. “Amelia, of course, encouraged them in believing the worst.”

“I see I didn’t miss anything,” Bridget said. “Where is James?”

It was important that they all stay together in this foreign land.

“There.” Amelia pointed to the dance floor, and the duchess reminded her about pointing (it was yet another thing that was Not Done). Their brother was waltzing with a very long--faced woman who seemed to smile as much as Loooord Darcy, which was to say, not at all.

James didn’t look like he was having much fun either.

“Oh dear,” Bridget murmured.

“She looks like a horse,” Amelia murmured.

“Lady Melinda Cowper would make an excellent duchess. Her bloodlines are perfect and her manners are exquisite.”

“And she is described like a horse,” Claire said under her breath.

“She probably never finds herself flat on her back in a ballroom and speaking with gentlemen to whom she has not been introduced,” Bridget remarked.

Amelia burst out laughing.

“Why am I not surprised?” Claire asked, sighing. Bridget scowled in annoyance at her older sister.

“I certainly hope not,” the duchess said crisply. “And I shudder to think of how such horrific things even cross your mind, Lady Bridget.”

“You don’t want to know, Josephine. You really don’t.”

She was given A Look that managed to convey her displeasure with being referred to so informally, that she was above actually saying anything about it, and that she was well aware that Bridget knew better and ought to apologize.

“I’m very sorry.”

It was an amazing skill, that. One that Bridget would one day like to possess. Perhaps if she stayed with Josephine long enough, and actually paid attention to her lessons, she would pick up the skill by osmorisis or osmosis or whatever it was.

“Come, there are more introductions to be made. Everyone is desperate to make your acquaintance.”

And with that they continued their campaign to win over the haute ton. They paused to speak with Lord and Lady Something near the lemonade table. Bridget failed to pay strict attention to the conversation; instead she noticed Darcy. There was a woman on his arm—-the sort of tall, sleek, beautiful woman that made a regular woman in her best dress feel the most dowdy provincial spinster.

Theirs was a conversation she strained to overhear and she was infuriated by what she overheard him say.



Lord Darcy knew that there was only one thing to do when one’s equilibrium was disturbed, and that was to stand very still and patiently wait for the world to right itself. He stood alone on the terrace, sipping a fine brandy and enjoying a respite. As a precaution, he arranged his features into something that could be described as brooding, the better to ward off anyone who might even consider the foolish notion of trying to converse with him. It was better that everyone thought him in a dark mood, rather than the truth.

And the truth was that he found himself flummoxed.

It went without saying that he was never unbalanced, remotely emotional, or disorganized. He was never flummoxed, confused, or any state other than perfectly calm and collected. He had spent his entire life cultivating the particular talent of suppressing every uncomfortable, wayward emotion.

His father would be so proud. This he thought with a small trace of bitterness.

So it was shocking that he found himself flummoxed, and it was unthinkable that the cause was an American woman sprawled on the floor of a ballroom.

He didn’t know a world where that happened. Where women sprawled upon floors in ballrooms, then stood up and made jokes about it and proceeded to tease him.