Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(55)

It was shortly after midnight when Bridget found plates, a freshly baked vanilla pound cake, and the company of her brother.

“Has Amelia told you where she went on her big adventure?” James asked, pouring them each a glass of milk.

“Not yet,” she mumbled, having just bitten into a heavenly slice of cake. Vanilla. With lemon frosting. They did not have cakes this good in America. If they returned home, Cook would certainly have to come with them. “Have you?”

He shook his head no. “This is officially the longest she has ever kept a secret.”

“Usually I would think that’s a good thing—-a sign that she’s growing up,” Bridget said between mouthfuls of cake. “Not that I am in any position to speak of growing up. But . . .”

“But . . .”

Bridget took another bite of cake. Yes, they were growing up. The duchess was seeing to that. But to what end? Yes, she had snared a proposal from Darcy but it was one he was obviously reluctant to issue because she didn’t measure up. She and her scandal--plagued family didn’t belong.

“What are we doing here, James?”

“Opportunities like this . . .” He shrugged and waved his hand in the general vicinity of the kitchens, the house, the city of London, the country of England, and all the bits of it that he personally owned.

Funny, that.

“I know, I know. Opportunities like this don’t come along often or ever. Are you happy here? Everyone always does what you say. And you can go out without a chaperone and have as much cake as you like. All the girls fancy you.”

“The dukedom is not without its charms, I’ll grant you that,” he said with a grin. “But they don’t want me here.”

“They don’t want any of us here,” Bridget said.

“But I wonder if we would find more of a welcome if we tried to belong more,” James said.

“Speak for yourself,” Bridget mumbled. “That’s what I thought and I have made every effort to do so and it is not enough. So don’t bother. Even if someone comes to care for us, all they will see is our endless stream of scandals.”

“And what if one of us finds a reason to stay?” James asked, glancing at her, hair falling in his eyes. He was serious. Gravely serious. And he seemed to be holding his breath waiting for her answer. And just when she was about to ask who the lucky girl was, he said, “That Darcy fellow isn’t so bad.”

“I refused him today,” Bridget said. Her voice cracked and she half laughed, half cried. Hours later—-and some tears, and pages upon pages in her diary, and more tears—-and she still wasn’t sure if it was funny or a complete tragedy. She thought he hated her and disapproved of her, but no . . . he might love her.

Well, he did still disapprove of her. He had said as much.

“What? Why?”

“I am not perfect enough. We are not perfect enough. He insulted us, and then declared his love for me.” She took another bite of cake, something sweet to counteract the bitterness.

“Wait—-what is the problem?” James asked, genuinely perplexed, leaving Bridget to wonder if all men were utter fools. “Insults trump love?”

“Yes,” she said resolutely.

“Insults trump a title, heaps of money, and a declaration of love?”

“Obviously.”

“Women.” He rolled his eyes.

“Women! How is this my fault and the fault of my entire sex?”

“He said he loved you, Bridge.” Her brother gave her a sad smile. “I think he was probably trying to say he loved you in spite of all his stupid reasons not to. He was probably trying to convey that love trumps all other considerations.”

She hadn’t thought of that. She had only heard Perfect Lord Darcy fling insult arrows right into her heart, one right after another.

He loved her, but she was embarrassing.

He loved her, but her family was embarrassing.

He loved her, even though he shouldn’t.

And now her brother was suggesting that a simple “I love you” mattered far more than all the grave insults that would make it impossible for them to have any real, equal marriage.

Well, she had always questioned her brother’s wits.

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” she questioned. “Can a girl not count on familial loyalty in a trying time like this?

“Yours, of course.” He reached out, tousled her hair, and gave her another one of those sad smiles that did nothing to soothe her heartache.

“It is lust he feels, not love,” she said, scowling.

“Something every brother wants to hear about his sister,” James said, groaning.

Bridget laughed, a little.

“What am I going to do?”

“Well, obviously you’re not going to plan a wedding,” he said, stealing a bite of her cake while she sighed and glanced heavenward. Ugh, brothers.

“For a minute there you were helping. And now . . . not so much.”

“If you think having a brother is vexing, trying having three sisters.”

“And with that, I bid you, and this cake, good night.”





Chapter 20


I asked James what Darcy meant when he said Rupert would never love me the way a woman ought to be loved. He turned red and said one does not speak of such things, so now I am left to make all sorts of assumptions.