Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(52)

“No,” he said flatly.

Yes. Everything. You are pretty.

“Because you seem very . . .” Rupert’s voice trailed off as he searched for precisely the right word to describe the inner turmoil inadvertently revealed in his expression.

“Morose,” Bridget said.

“I daresay I would go with dour,” Rupert replied, thoughtfully.

“Or perhaps broody,” Bridget said, evaluating him.

“I know! Cantankerous,” Rupert suggested with a little too much glee.

“Only very old men are cantankerous,” Bridget said. “And Darcy isn’t quite there. Yet.”

“Good point. Despondent?” Rupert mused. “But then what does my dear brother have to be despondent about?”

“The trials and tribulations of being a wealthy, titled, respected, handsome man,” Bridget said with a sigh.

She thought him handsome. Also, he loved the rise and fall of her breasts when she sighed. Somehow that only made him feel worse.

“I am none of the above,” he snapped.

“You are not wealthy, titled, respected, or handsome?” Bridget asked, being deliberately obtuse.

“I am not morose, dour, broody, or cantankerous.”

But he was. He was tortured with lust for Bridget. He was agonizing over his self--sacrifice, denying his desires for the sake of his brother’s need to take a wife with whom he’d probably enjoy a long, amiable marriage, while Darcy burned with lust for his sister--in--law.

Because family came first. None other than Lady Bridget herself said so. And family certainly trumped lust.

Unless it was more than lust.

Unless he put himself first for once.

“On second thought, perhaps he is cantankerous,” Bridget mused.

“Perhaps it is none of your concern.” He brushed her aside, ignoring her obvious shock, as he stalked off into the night.





Chapter 19


Just another day of lessons. Just another day of reviewing household accounts with the duchess and the housekeeper. Just another day of practicing sitting up straight, conjugating French verbs, and not having dessert. Being a Lady of Quality is not all it’s cracked up to be.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

The following day, Darcy sat behind his desk with a large stack of papers before him and he found it impossible to concentrate. A mad idea had occurred to him last night: if he desired Bridget so strongly, perhaps he ought to express that desire. Or relieve it. Or do something other than feel massively frustrated by it. Then he could carry on with his perfectly ordered and planned life.

But if he were to do something about it, a marriage proposal and wedding ceremony would have to take place. It was only logical: if he wished to bed her, he would have to marry her. That was the catch with gently bred ladies. Especially ones related to dukes. And most especially ones with the Duchess of Durham as a chaperone.

But it was a mad idea all the same. A mad, insane idea that would not leave his brain. He couldn’t drink it away; the three whiskeys he drank last night had proven that. It was there when he went to bed and the first thing on his mind when he opened his eyes this morning.

It would be a terrible match. That was a fact.

A week ago he would have said the match would be terrible—-laughable, even!—-because Lady Bridget was hardly an ideal countess. A countess had to be graceful, refined, polished, reserved. She needed to know just what to say and how to properly address the person to whom she said it.

Lady Bridget was too outspoken, too emotional, too prone to things like a tumble in the lake at a garden party. A man of his position had to consider such things. A man of his position had to consider so much more than himself.

A man had to think of his family as well.

Rupert’s blackmailer was still out there, in possession of a secret that would destroy him. Them. Their only prayer was to have enough powerful allies to protect his brother and their reputations. And sadly, Durham and his sisters hadn’t quite conquered the ton just yet.

Rupert’s plan to save his reputation—-and potentially his life—-through a marriage was the right thing to do. And Darcy was thinking about ruining it.

He ought to marry Francesca as planned; her brother and his best friend was a marquis. Their uncle was a close friend of the king. It would be an excellent connection to have.

But excellent connections did not warm a man’s bed, or satisfy his rampant desires, or wink at him across a ballroom. They did not tease a man, or unlock long dormant parts of him.

Darcy stood, frustrated, and began to pace. What if he dared to think of himself, just this once? Desire was a strong and demanding creature, seducing him with such ideas.

As he paced, he occasionally looked up and saw his father’s portrait. The damn thing glowered at him in soul--crushing disapproval as if it knew the direction of his thoughts. Darcy lived under that perpetual frown, that constant glare.

He stopped short. Recognizing that same expression upon his own face. And it wasn’t that he hated everything and everyone, or found the world not quite up to his standards. It was because it took such an enormous effort to remember one’s place, one’s duty, one’s Noble Purpose . . . when a pretty girl fell over in front of you and then stood up and cracked jokes.

Darcy called for his hat and gloves. He was going out.