Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(53)

Darcy had the good fortune to find Lady Bridget alone at Durham House. She was in the garden. She smiled, and seemed happy enough to see him. He dared to exhale the breath he was holding. His heart was pounding in his chest as if he’d sprinted from London to Dover and back again. She, this slip of an American girl, made him, a peer of the realm, nervous and speechless.

“How are you today, Darcy?”

A proper reply would have been “Very well, thank you, and you?” An acceptable answer would have been “Fine.”

He did not say either of those things.

“I cannot stop thinking of you, Lady Bridget. In spite of my struggles, my valiant efforts, my thoughts constantly stray to you.”

Her lips parted. Shock, probably. He was shocked as well. These words. Were being spoken. Aloud. By him. To her.

“You, Lady Bridget, you. I don’t know what it is about you . . .” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts, slow his racing heart. “God knows there are plenty of reasons I shouldn’t want you and yet I have been tormented by desire for you these past weeks. I have fought against my better judgment, expectations for my marriage, Rupert’s interests, the reputation of you and your scandal--plagued family, but I can bear it no longer. I crave you, your kiss, your touch.”

He ached to reach out to her, touch her cheek.

She said nothing. Her lips parted, but still, she didn’t speak. It seemed he had brought this constantly chattering woman to silence and he desperately need her to say something.

Anything.

Or he would.

“I think I might love you, Bridget. You are hardly the kind of woman I had imagined making my wife. But I fear I will never find happiness with anyone else. I beg you to put me out of my agonies. Will you do me the honor of becoming my countess?”

“I . . . I . . . don’t know what to say.”

One thing was becoming abundantly, terribly clear: this was a disaster. Because of this impulsive idea from his lust--addled brain to propose marriage, he was now stuck in this nightmare of a scene, playing the role of absolute idiot.

If she said yes, it would be worth it.

“Say you will be mine. My happiness depends upon it.” And my pride. And my lust.

“And what of my happiness?” she demanded. He was taken aback by the sharpness of her tone.

“I want nothing more than to be the one to make you the happiest woman.”

“You might begin by not insulting me, or my ‘scandal--plagued’ family, or confusing love with lust.”

She might as well have slapped him.

The fog cleared from his brain. Sense and reason returned. She was right; he had insulted her horribly by revealing all the things he was forced to consider, by virtue of his position. But he had to. He wouldn’t be who he was, otherwise.

She could not love him as he was.

Who was he, anyway? Was he this man? Or had his father succeeded in wiping away any trace of Colin Fitzwilliam Wright, who had once loved to laugh, chase girls, and even dance?

“I apologize.”

“For what? For holding yourself and others to impossible standards? For being all lordly, as you are supposed to be? You probably cannot even help it.”

She had it all right. No, all wrong. This was not who he was, deep down. He hoped she could unlock the cage he’d found himself in. But no.

“I apologize for insulting you. That was not my intention. I wished only to give an indication of the turmoil I am experiencing with regard to you.”

“I am sorry for your struggles. But I cannot accept your proposal.”

“Right.” He nodded. Dying. He was dying inside. God, how had this even happened? “This is not how I . . .”

Words. Not available to him at the moment. He started to go. But one question remained. He stopped, and turned.

“Is your refusal because of Rupert?”

“No,” she said, eyes flashing in anger. “It is because you are an ass.”

“Good.” He paused, carefully weighing the words he was about to say. “He will never love you. He will never love any woman the way she ought to be loved,” he said. “Do you understand me, Bridget?”

She nodded yes, but he saw the confusion in her eyes.

“But he will love you, in his own way. I only mention this because I wish you to be happy. And loved. And I regret that I dared to think I was the one who could make you happy.”

There was nothing else to say. He turned and walked back to his house at a much slower pace than when he had rushed headlong into disaster.

He was worried about ruining her, but the truth was she had ruined him. He always said the right thing, until today, when every sentence he uttered was worse than the last. And he had felt nothing until he made the acquaintance of Lady Bridget and he reluctantly had begun to allow himself to feel. And now he felt too damn much.

I have received my second marriage proposal and I can’t quite decide if it’s worse than the first. Darcy—-DARCY!—-asked me to be his wife. Even though I am not what he wants in a wife, which he made ABUNDANTLY CLEAR. Even though my family is “scandal--plagued” in spite of my BEST EFFORTS. Even though marriage to me is against his better judgment. Well. WELL THEN.

I have refused him, naturally.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

The logical thing to do now was to numb all and any feelings of rejection, despair, and self--loathing. Not to mention a physical and mental sensation he might have described as heartsick, if he had been less of an Englishman.