Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(50)

In particular, he wished to visit with Bridget.

Why she was singled out for his attentions, she knew not. Claire and Amelia could not flee the drawing room fast enough. Even Josephine moved at a brisk pace across the Aubusson carpets.

The doors were scarcely closed behind them—-and closed all the way—-when Mr. Collins made the purpose of his visit clear. He clasped her hands, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.

“I have come to generously bestow my protection upon you and your sisters.”

Bridget gaped. Even though ladies did not gape.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You all must marry,” Collins explained patiently, as if he were speaking to a young child or feebleminded adult. “But there are rumors about your sister Amelia and her mysterious illness. Scandal is so unbecoming in a lady. And your eldest sister is quite the bluestocking, which I think is a deplorable quality in a woman of quality. Don’t you agree?”

“No.”

“Which leaves you, Lady Bridget.”

“Me.”

“You must marry. And you cannot do better than I, the heir to Durham.”

That left her speechless. She glanced around the room, searching for something that would enable her to bash some sense into the man.

“Our marriage will repair your sisters’ reputations,” he continued, oblivious to anything but his own delusions. “And you shall be known as Mrs. Collins instead of the girl who fell.”

Ah, so he read the papers, too.

“Do you really think that is what I am looking for in a marriage?” Bridget asked incredulously. She’d always imagined marrying for love, like her parents. And she didn’t think she was mad for considering love, friendship, and respect as a sound basis for marriage. She certainly wouldn’t commit herself to an idiot for a lifetime just to avoid being known as the girl who fell. In fact, she was now sorry she had ever even complained about it.

“I have a fine house,” Mr. Collins continued, as if she had not spoken. “My position is secure and should only improve with the demise of your brother.”

Bridget choked. “I’m actually fond of my brother.”

“I know every woman fancies being a duchess,” Mr. Collins intoned.

“Actually, I do not care about being a duchess. Not in the slightest. Especially not if it means losing my brother.”

Titles and whatnot were vastly overrated. She now knew this from firsthand, personal experience. Her brother’s title had not made them any happier.

But Mr. Collins didn’t seem to hear her, or register that females spoke and possessed opinions. She watched in horror as he stood, closed his eyes, and leaned forward.

“Let us kiss to seal our engagement.”

He puckered his lips. Waiting.

She pinched him on the arm, hard, even though ladies probably should not pinch gentlemen callers, and he opened his eyes in shock.

“Mr. Collins, I have agreed to nothing!”

“Shall I woo you? I can tell you about the annuity an elderly aunt has provided me, and the pin money I will be able to set aside for you . . .”

“Mr. Collins, I will not marry you.”

“. . . It isn’t much by London standards, but you’ll find things are far more reasonably priced in the village. It’s a lovely little town . . .”

This was unbearable. It had to stop. There was only one thing to do. Channeling Darcy, she declared in her most I--am--Lord--Darcy voice, “Cease talking at once, Mr. Collins.”

He stopped. She was surprised. Behold, the power of Darcy, she thought, not without a surge of pride. She wished to tell Rupert—-he would find it so amusing. No, she wished to tell Darcy. But that would have to wait.

Now that she finally had Mr. Collins’s attention, she proceeded to crush his hopes and dreams as delicately as possible.

“Thank you for your proposal. I am flattered. But I will not marry you.” She thought about adding, I would rather be pecked to death by pigeons a thousand times than be your wife, but it seemed a bit much.

She had shocked him. She knew this because his mouth flapped open and closed a few times. Then he stumbled over his words and her heart broke a little for him, but not nearly enough to reconsider.

“Very well, Lady Bridget. If that is your choice . . . I suppose I must accept. Even though it is a foolish and regrettable decision. But ladies never were blessed with sense or reason.”

She somehow managed to stifle the urge to kick him in the shins. Why, she was becoming more like Darcy by the minute. She ought to tell him.

“Good day, Mr. Collins,” she said firmly, still using her Darcy voice.

He opened the door and a group of ladies—-including her sisters, Miss Green, a downstairs maid, and the duchess herself—-straightened up and tried vainly to appear as if they hadn’t been shamelessly eavesdropping.

The butler had to hand over a bottle of champagne to a footman in order to hand Mr. Collins his hat and cane. It was deuced awkward. But finally her not--future--husband had stepped out of the house and hopefully out of her life forever.

“Don’t bother to open the champagne, Pen-dleton,” the duchess said with a disapproving frown. “It is clear we have nothing to celebrate.”

“Did you honestly think that we would?” Bridget asked her incredulously.

“You must marry. You must all marry!” For once, the duchess actually raised her voice.