Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(6)

No one teased him.

No one spoke to him the way she had done—-informally, as if they were old mates of the same rank. Did she not know that she was supposed to be afraid of him?

Apparently not.

No one ever left him with a tight feeling in his chest either. Like he couldn’t breathe. Like she took his breath away.

But that was preposterous.

Darcy sipped his drink and willed his world to rights. The tension in his chest eased and his breathing resumed. A young woman caught his eye and quickly averted her gaze—-ah, that was more like it.

He hadn’t seen Rupert since the bounder abandoned him with Lady Bridget—-here he took a sharp intake of breath and refused to consider her further—-and he reluctantly returned to the ballroom in search of him.

But then there was Fox, heading his way and grinning for having found him. His sister was with him, strolling along gracefully. Lady Francesca DeVere was beautiful, clever, and irreproachable. The perfect wife for a man of his station. He would probably marry her.

“Have you seen my brother?” Darcy inquired.

“I think I spotted him in the card room with Croft,” Fox said, referring to an old school friend of theirs. Darcy wasn’t surprised; his brother had recently begun racking up gaming debts. “But never mind that. I have made the acquaintance of the new duke,” Fox said, falling in step beside him. Francesca did as well. “He’s all right.”

“Glad to hear it.” Darcy would pay call upon the new duke tomorrow—-they were neighbors in London after all—-because civility and manners demanded it. Therefore, he saw no reason to join the hordes seeking his acquaintance this evening.

They had made it as far as the lemonade table when a crush prevented them from walking further. So the trio stood there and carried on their conversation.

“And I saw you made the acquaintance of one of the sisters. The girl who fell,” Lady Francesca said, glancing at him under her thick black lashes.

“Yes. Lady Bridget.”

There was a flicker in her eyes; she was surprised he knew her name.

“It’s all anyone is talking about tonight. Poor thing.”

Darcy tensed, then muttered a vague response. It only occurred to him now that if everyone had seen Lady Bridget falling, then they had undoubtedly seen him conversing with her. He would be an object of gossip. Their names would be linked. How distasteful.

Lady Francesca mercifully carried on. “I heard the other one is a bluestocking. And the third mentioned riding astride. Can you just imagine?”

She laughed lightly.

“They’re pretty,” Fox said. Again. He wasn’t known for the depth or variety of his thoughts. “Darcy, don’t you think so?”

“They’re not handsome enough to tempt me to overlook their manners,” Darcy said flatly, while his gaze strayed to Lady Bridget in particular.

He didn’t miss the smug smile on Francesca’s lips. And out of the corner of his eye he saw . . . the woman in question. Standing nearby, within earshot, with her family. Had she heard? What did he care if she did?

“Well, I think they’re pretty,” Fox insisted.

“You’re engaged,” his sister said.

“So people keep telling me.”

“Why can’t you be more refined and dignified, like Darcy?”

Francesca gave him a coy smile as she linked her arm with his. He appreciated that they shared the same values. That was why he would marry her. That, and she would never flail about and fall down in a ballroom and ask him inane questions, such as If they were conversing without having been introduced, did the conversation even happen?

He wanted to say no. It never happened. But it did. Because he was still thinking about it. And the wicked gleam of amusement in her eyes as she asked.

“There aren’t many men like Darcy,” Fox said.

“Isn’t that the truth,” Francesca cooed.

“I would enjoy this topic of conversation more if I were less modest.”

“The perfect gentleman, aren’t you?” Lady Francesca laughed and brushed a speck of lint from the lapel of his evening jacket. Except he was Darcy, and so never did something as mundane as having lint on his jacket.

“Not always,” he replied, thinking about his conversation with Lady Bridget. He’d been aloof to the point of being rude. He’d practically given her the cut direct. And why? An Englishman is never rude by accident. But his wits and thoughts had been so tangled up by a woman who fell to the floor, then stood up and proceeded to make conversation and tease him as if no one had informed her that he was to be feared.

“Not always a perfect gentleman?” Francesca laughed. “Pray tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Too much of a gentleman, I suppose?”

Hardly, if his thoughts and behavior this evening were any indication. He again became aware of the Americans nearby . . . of Lady Bridget . . . and a disturbance to his equilibrium. Suddenly, he’d had enough of this ball and enough of this evening. Already he’d had enough of her.





Chapter 2


Lessons in proper etiquette avoided: 27

Lessons I should not have avoided: 27

Reception in English society: dreadful

Lady Bridget’s Diary

The duchess sat at her dressing table, sipping a glass of sherry while her companion, Miss Green, painstakingly removed all the hairpins holding up her elegant coiffure. It was their evening ritual, ever since Miss Green had come to act as companion and occasional lady’s maid to the duchess, taking over the position her mother had filled before her.