Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(58)

“And how happy were you in your marriage, Lady Wych Cross?” Bridget asked.

“Bridget . . .” the duchess warned.

“Oh, Duchess, let the girl ask her impertinent questions,” Lady Wych Cross said. “Marriage is not about happiness, girl. It is for the purpose of accumulating wealth, prestige, and passing it to the next generation. It’s utterly foolish to enter a marriage without considering such things. Happiness has little to do with it. Love, even less.”

Darcy had said as much in his mangled, insulting proposal to her. It was impossible not to glance at him, quickly, though, so he would not catch her looking. She saw that he had developed a sudden fascination with a silver spoon. It so happened that hers was quite interesting as well. She would have to compliment her hostess on her silverware.

“Perhaps some people do not wish a lifetime of misery whilst accumulating wealth they will not even get to enjoy and titles that serve no purpose whatsoever other than to make a parade out of walking in to dinner,” Bridget replied.

“Of course the Americans would say that,” Lady Francesca said dismissively with her sharp little laugh that felt like it could cut glass.

“I may not know all your silly rules, but I do know who won the war,” Bridget said, pointedly, with reddened cheeks. She’d had enough discussion of her prospects—-or lack thereof. She’d had enough of being made to feel foolish for who she was: American, interested in love, impertinent. “Excuse me,” she said, and quit the table.

She could not get to the foyer fast enough. From there she would inquire about the ladies’ retiring room. Or perhaps she should just take the carriage home and send it back for her family. She just needed to be alone.

Heavy footfalls sounded behind her, echoing on the marble tiled floor.

“Bridget.”

She knew that voice. That low voice that issued orders, that expected to be obeyed, and that also made heat pool in her belly. She stopped, but required a moment of deep, controlled breathing before she could turn around and face Lord Darcy.



Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

Darcy still wanted her. Wanted her with yearning that shocked him. And he was finished with trying to fight it.

Bridget had had multiple offers of marriage, both of which were unsuitable and one of which was his. His competitive instincts had flared—-and were promptly drowned with wine.

Bridget who, he now realized, cared nothing of wealth, status, duty to one’s title, etc., etc. All the things he had been raised to care for above all else.

She cared only for love.

How modern. How American. How luxurious.

How that made him jealous.

He did not know what mad force propelled him to follow her from the dinner table. It would be commented upon, probably. But in spite of her refusal, his time away, he still craved her.

He found her in the foyer.

“Bridget.”

It was a moment before she turned around.

“If you have come to chastise me for being rude to the hostess, or drinking too much wine with supper, or otherwise forgetting my manners, you needn’t bother. I already know that.”

“That is not what I came to say at all.”

In truth, he had no idea what he had come to say. This business of speaking of one’s feelings was foreign to him.

“I enjoyed your conversation at the table,” he said, finally.

“Did you?”

“Enjoyed is perhaps not the right word. It was . . . enlightening,” he admitted. It had made him see where he had gone wrong and it made him see how he could possibly, maybe make things go right. “It was interesting. And admirable that you challenged old, tired, ingrained notions.”

She looked at him with disbelief.

“And here I thought that my outspokenness was one of my lamentable qualities that you were willing to overlook,” she replied. “I thought my foreign values were incompatible with the world you live and breathe in.”

He took a few steps to be closer to her.

“I have made a wreck of things, haven’t I?” Darcy said softly.

“No, Lord Darcy. There was never anything to wreck,” she said, and he wondered just how much pain a man could take. Funny, that he should have spent his whole life trying to avoid this feeling. Or any feeling. And that was precisely what led him to this agonizing moment.

“I have hurt you, and that was not my intention. I have said some foolish things about your family’s reputation, your tendency to speak too much, and how you are not what I had always looked for in a countess.”

“Do go on,” she said dryly. “I love that you think that I am unaware of all my faults when you, Josephine, the gossip columns, and the likes of Lady Wych Cross and even Lady Francesca have spelled them out so clearly. Repeatedly.”

“I am one of the best orators in Parliament. But you would never know that, given how inarticulate I become around a pretty American girl who drives me to distraction. What I mean to say, Bridget, is that I like you just the way you are.”

“That is very polite of you to say, but you really needn’t worry about me, Lord Darcy. It is very clear that I do not belong in English society. Perhaps I shall convince my family to return home with all the heathens and savages where we belong.”

She turned to walk away. He grabbed her wrist. She stopped and looked down at the sight of her gloved wrist in his hand. She lifted her gaze to his, curious. He ought to apologize and release her.