Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(62)

“What is the Darcy thing?” Bridget asked, a hitch in her voice. She suspected she knew.

“Ride in. Issue orders in that lordly, commanding way of his. Save the day. Take care of everyone, except for himself.”

She turned away, to look out the window into the garden, but saw nothing of the scenery outside. If anything, she saw a scene from days, weeks earlier when she had accused him of being cruel to his own brother. If that is what you are determined to believe . . . She had been blind.

She recalled Amelia saying, You don’t know him at all, do you?

So very, very blind.

But then again, he’d never let her see these things.

“But you see, Bridget, I don’t think he put a stop to the blackmail because of the money, which matters little as we have plenty of it,” Rupert continued. “I don’t even think he did it entirely just for me, even though I know he would lay down his life for me unblinkingly. I think he did it for you.”

“I don’t see how this has to do with me.”

“I was going to propose to you,” Rupert said. Her breath caught. “I needed to wed for the sake of my reputation. I care for you greatly. I thought we would get along. But I would never make you happy the way a man ought to make a woman happy.”

“Whatever do you mean?” She had asked James about this and he’d hardly been forthcoming with an answer.

Rupert’s cheeks turned red and he looked away.

“I do not have . . . romantic inclinations toward women.”

She knit her brow, confused.

“It is not something to be spoken of,” he said. “And it was the reason for the blackmail.”

And then her heart broke for him as much as for her. While she had written their names over and over in her diary, he was dealing with grave life or death matters. She had been blind to that, too.

Rupert quit his pacing and dropped into the chair opposite her. He leaned forward, gaze locking with hers.

“Can you imagine what torture it would have been for him to be in love with his sister--in--law? And to know that I wasn’t making you happy? Or how unfortunate for you to be wed to a man who loved you only as a friend?”

She thought to protest that he would have made her happy. But then she thought better of it because if she was understanding him correctly, Rupert would never, say, become overcome with passion for her in a butler’s pantry. Or at a gazebo in a rainstorm in the afternoon. He might love her, but only as a friend. Not the wild, tumultuous, confusing, maddening, yet wonderful, falling--head--over--heels kind of love she wanted . . . the kind of love she might possibly feel for Darcy.

“I care for you deeply,” Rupert continued. “Which is why I am telling you this. And why I will not propose to you, or any woman. You deserve real love and true happiness. And so does my brother.”

“This is . . . unexpected.”

That was the understatement of the year. She found herself shocked, confused, and terrified of the implications of what he was telling her. She might have been gravely wrong about Darcy. And thus, she might have thrown away her chance at true happiness.

“Our father raised him to think only of his duty to the estate and to the family name. There was no Colin, there was just Darcy. If that makes sense.”

He wasn’t pushing her away because he was embarrassed by her, but because of his own desire. His offer of marriage was so tortured because he was, in effect, potentially sacrificing his brother to make it. His battle wasn’t between lust for her and what everyone in the haute ton thought, it was between everything he’d been raised to believe and to value and his love. For her.

“I see,” she said. Two little words. I. See. But it was everything.

“I think he loves you,” Rupert continued. Then, looking into her eyes, and possibly the depths of her heart, he added, “And I think, Bridget, that you might love him, too.”

I have been wrong about Darcy. Here I thought he was [unladylike word crossed out] but it turns out he is a hero. But what am I to do about it? What can I do about it?

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Bridget had half a mind to utterly disregard propriety and dash over to see Darcy and . . . say something. She owed him an apology for misjudging him. She ought to thank him for saving her sister. But then how to explain how her eyes and heart had been opened. I see.

Should she throw herself at him?

What if she apologized and explained and groveled and kissed him passionately and he turned away, coldly? If he did not forgive her, if his love for her was not strong enough, then she had most certainly, well and truly, ruined her life.

But it was their day to receive callers and Josephine wouldn’t hear of Bridget crying off for any reason at all, whatsoever. Especially not if said plan involved a lady calling upon a gentleman. It was not done. She would have to wait and see when—-if?—-Darcy came to call.

He was the sort of gentleman who would feel compelled to issue a marriage proposal to a woman after nearly ravishing her in a pantry and then being caught doing so. And yet, Pen-dleton did not announce his arrival.

It was, as one might imagine, incredibly difficult to maintain a cheerful demeanor after one had quite possibly and very foolishly destroyed one’s best chance at a lifetime of happiness, all while being exposed as a judgmental, silly person whose priorities were not in the correct order.

It was the sort of anxiety that could only be soothed by a declaration of love and a promise of forever from Darcy. Who still had not come to visit. He had not even sent a note.