Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(60)

“Yes,” she whispered.

As they kissed, his fingers pressed upon her secret place and she moaned softly. He knew just what to do, just how to touch her, to fuel her desire, to make that maddening tension within become tighter and tighter. Here, just as she was, bare to him, there were no rules to follow. She gave in to instinct and surrendered to her desire for this man.

And then it was all a blur of sensations: the feeling of his soft hair between her fingers; his lips upon hers; his fingers, there, driving her mad in the most wonderful way; the sound of her skirts rustling as she moved; the sound of his breath; the pounding of her heart.

And then she could take it no more. She cried out in pleasure; he captured the sound with a kiss.

Bridget melted against him, breathing hard, trying to comprehend what had just happened to her. Something had changed. Everything had changed.

“Bridget . . .”

Desire for his touch, his kiss, for him was making her lose her wits. Gone was the woman who demanded love. Gone was the woman who had tried to hold herself to higher standards, and who played by the rules, even if she didn’t understand them. This potent kiss, that exquisite pleasure, made her forget herself, but it couldn’t just change everything.

That he loved her mouth didn’t change the fact that he didn’t think she would make a good countess. A good wife.

Bridget broke away.

“You cannot just kiss me in the butler’s pantry and expect . . .” She didn’t know what else to say. And it was more than just kissing that they had done.

“I have no expectations. I just . . .” He stepped away from her and pushed his fingers through his hair. Then, slowly, he turned. “You have an effect on me, Bridget.”

“My apologies.”

“Don’t apologize. I think you are what I need.”

She needed to catch her breath. She needed her heart to slow down. She needed to think. And she could not do any of these things while he was so close, so bare to her.

“We should return to the others.”

She turned and opened the door and stepped out into the foyer. Darcy did not stop her.

The good thing about having hair that never looked quite done was that if someone were to mess it up in the throes of a passionate encounter in a closet, no one would be any wiser.

Or so Bridget hoped.

Lady Francesca was standing there, in all her elegant glory. She tilted her head curiously.

“I should be surprised to see one my guests emerge from the butler’s pantry,” she said. “But with you, Lady Bridget, I’m not surprised at all.”

Gad, now she would have to lie about trying to steal the silver—-anything was better than the truth.

“Bridget, wait—-” Darcy said, having thrown open the door and rushed through it. He stopped suddenly as well. Bridget didn’t need to turn and look at him to know that.

Lady Francesca’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth but closed it quickly, for once at a loss for words. Well, there was one guest she was shocked to see emerge from the butler’s pantry in the middle of the dinner party.

Bridget held her breath, waiting for a reaction. Then Lady Francesca, having collected herself, smiled. Oh, this was terrible.

“Don’t worry Lady Bridget. You can be assured that I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Come, Darcy, the gentlemen are having their port. Bridget, all the ladies are in the drawing room for tea, wondering what has become of you.”



The carriage ride home was agony. While their carriage was large, luxurious, and well sprung, it was also packed with the family, all of whom had burning, unspoken questions about the state of her coiffure (a mess), her lengthy disappearance during dinner (no comment), her silence (Darcy had left her speechless. Still.).

Finally, it was Amelia who broke the silence.

“What did Darcy want with you, Bridge?”

Oh, just to ravish me in a closet. Just to bring me to such pleasure as I have never known. As one does.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, staring out the window, not that she could see very much at this late hour. She hoped, desperately, that no one could see the hot blush on her cheeks as she thought about what Darcy had wanted with her. Just the way she was.

It was Claire who explained, patiently. “You left the table. And then he left the table. And then time passed. And then you were both out of sorts and, dare I say, slightly disheveled, for the rest of the evening. Everyone noticed.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Bridget repeated.

“Darcy would be an excellent match for you,” Josephine said. But she also thought Mr. Collins would be a good match.

“Except that it wouldn’t be,” Bridget replied. And she could not explain that while he might love to kiss her and do other wickedly wonderful things with her, he would be embarrassed to call her his wife. He might value family, but he would be embarrassed by hers, scandal--plagued as they were. He lusted after her, and would come to regret it. “I could not be happy married to a man who valued reputation and wealth and estates above all else.”

“You don’t know him at all, do you?” Amelia asked softly. Amelia! Bridget turned to her, incredulous.

“And you do? I have not seen you exchange more than a few sentences with him.”

“He is the reason I returned home after I ran away.”