Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(63)

In the meantime: pastries. Bridget helped herself to one and then, ignoring Josephine’s raised eyebrow, another.

She no longer cared about trying to emulate Lady Francesca or any woman like her. No matter how many lumps of sugar she refused or biscuits she didn’t eat, she would never grow five inches taller and find herself lighter with a willowy figure. It was a hopeless endeavor and she might as well enjoy food and drink and sunshine on her face, freckles be damned.

She was American born and bred, raised by a father who fled the life in the haute ton and married for love. She would never reorganize the priorities she’d been raised with. And if that meant she never quite fit in with all the fancy English people? So be it.

She had her siblings. And, if she hadn’t lost it, she had the love of a good man. No longer would she try to be something, or someone, she was not.

“Put your diary away, Bridget,” the duchess said.

“Yes, Your Grace.” She set the blue leather volume on a side table.

They had barely taken their seats when the first callers, who were not Lord Darcy, were announced. The Duchess of Ashbrooke and her friends had called; Claire had become friendly with the Duke of Ashbrooke over some mathematical whatnot that made her head spin. Bridget actually liked the duchess and her friends, particularly Lady Radcliffe. She liked them far more so than their other callers who mostly consisted of fortune--hunting third sons or marriage--minded mothers desperate to foist their daughters onto James, who was not interested in the slightest.

Pendleton announced the arrival of more guests, who were not Lord Darcy. Bridget was dismayed to see the calling cards of Lady Wych Cross and Lady Francesca.

“I don’t suppose we can tell them we are not at home,” Bridget muttered.

“We are not cowards, Lady Bridget,” Josephine told her.

“So you admit this is a battle.”

“If so, then it is also war. And the outcome of one battle matters little if one ultimately wins the war.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are unbelievably terrifying?”

“All the time.” She smiled, patting Bridget’s hand. “I take it as a compliment.”

She was glad to have the duchess on her side when facing Lady Wych Cross, whom she had probably gravely insulted and irritated terribly at dinner. That was to say nothing of the terror she felt facing Lady Francesca, who had caught her emerging from the butler’s pantry with Darcy and who had, surprisingly, not said anything.

But why should she? Then Darcy would have to marry Bridget, and she knew Francesca had been waiting for his proposal for some time now. Her secret was safe, was it not? For some reason, Bridget was far from relieved by the silence.

“Lady Wych Cross, it’s excellent to see you,” said the duchess. “And you are looking well, Lady Francesca.”

“As always,” she quipped with a little laugh.

“Modesty is such an overrated virtue,” Amelia remarked.

“So is self--righteousness, my dear,” Lady Wych Cross said. “Anyway, we have come to call and thank you for attending our dinner party the other evening. What stimulating conversation you all provided.”

“Yes, our guests were certainly stimulated,” Lady Francesca said with a pointed look at Bridget.

“Well someone must provide the stimulation,” she replied, holding Francesca’s gaze.

“What are we talking about?” Claire asked. “I find myself terribly confused.”

“Why, the dinner party, of course,” Lady Francesca said, with a wicked smile. “Unless you were speaking of something else, Lady Bridget?”

“Of course not,” she murmured.

The conversation then turned to focus on the weather, Lady Benton’s upcoming ball, the latest opera, and other things Bridget did not pay attention to. Because, Lord above, Lady Francesca had information that could ruin her, especially given that oh--so--proper Darcy had not come to propose again after kissing her.

She was now the sort of woman who dallied with lords in butler’s pantries and did not receive proposals after. She would be ruined if word got out. Oh bloody hell, Bridget thought. Suddenly her fate and future happiness were held in the hands of a viper like Lady Francesca.

She could hardly expect Darcy to come to her rescue with another proposal. Or could she? The butler interrupted just then to announce more callers who were not Lord Darcy.

“It was lovely to see you all, but we must be going,” Lady Wych Cross said. “We have an appointment at the modiste.”

“For my trousseau,” Lady Francesca said, smirking.

Bridget felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Trousseau meant marriage, which meant someone had proposed or was about to. It had to be Darcy. And if he was marrying Francesca, then he wasn’t marrying Bridget, which meant that she had lost the love of a good man and had no other prospects and would die alone, a spinster, in a cottage by the sea.

“Please do come call again. It is always a pleasure to see you both,” Josephine said, lying through her teeth.

After they left, an influx of new callers, none of whom were Lord Darcy, arrived. And then Bridget endured another hour of company, the tedium and torment eased by an appalling number of biscuits. The duchess even gave up with the chastising looks, as they obviously had no effect. Finally, calling hours came to an end. Darcy hadn’t called. Bridget had ruined everything.