Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(66)
“I hope no one is ill,” Rupert said, worried.
“No one is ill.”
“Miss Comte came down with the tuberculosis just last week. And I saw her and Lady Claire speaking close together. What if she has contracted it?”
“Your imagination is running away with you.”
“What if all the sisters get it?” Rupert asked in a horrified whisper. Darcy didn’t miss his sidelong glance and emphasis on all. He might as well have just asked, What if Bridget is dying?
“I’m sure that in the unlikely event that one sister has contracted tuberculosis, they will take every precaution to prevent its spread,” he said in his calm, measured tone that did not belie his true feelings inside.
“Are you not worried about Lady Bridget at all?”
Yes. No. Yes. Darcy sighed. Set down his pen. He would have to do that Darcy thing, where he pretended to ignore his feelings to death.
“Why would I be worried about Lady Bridget?”
“Because you are in love with her,” Rupert said flatly. He raised his glass in cheers. Darcy only scowled at him. Then he downed the contents of his glass in one sip, setting the glass heavily on the desk.
“You do not deny it,” Rupert pointed out. Was that a note of glee is his voice? Was this torturous state of unrequited love somehow amusing to him?
“Lady Bridget has made it perfectly clear that she has a low opinion of me and is not interested in furthering our acquaintance.”
“Lady Bridget might have revised her opinion,” Rupert said cryptically.
Darcy was certain she had done no such thing. She was trying so hard to be a lady and he had not treated her thusly last night, in the butler’s pantry of all the places in the world. Good God, he had gone after her as if he were a panting schoolboy and she was a lovely milkmaid known to be generous with her favors. He hadn’t given the slightest care for her reputation; he had cared only for her soft sigh of pleasure when he kissed her.
And then today, he did not call on her. Did not speak to her brother about his intentions and marriage contracts. Did not even send a note saying, I shall take care of this situation. Yours, Darcy.
It turned out that he wasn’t perfect after all; he was just a man in love, tortured by lust and terrified of being refused by the woman he loved. Again. For the second bloody time.
He expected to be refused. In fact, he was so certain that she had not revised her opinion that he was shocked to find her on his doorstep at an ungodly early hour the next morning.
Chapter 22
I’m afraid only Darcy can save me now.
Lady Bridget’s innermost thoughts
Bridget had spent a sleepless night in a state of acute heart--pounding, stomach--aching anxiety. Her diary was missing, and after a thorough search of the house with the assistance of twelve maids, eight footmen, two sisters, one duke, and even the duchess—-there was no denying it.
Worst of all, she knew what had happened to it. Well, she didn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt but she had her suspicions. And if she was right . . . they would all be ruined. She and her siblings would have to return to America, failures. The duchess wouldn’t be able to face society and would have to retreat to one of her six country estates to live out her days in shame.
With a disaster of this magnitude, Bridget would need help, beyond what her family could provide. There was only one man to turn to. Only one man would certainly just resolve the matter with a minimum of fuss. Only one man could do the Darcy thing where he rode in and issued commands until everything was sorted.
He just so happened to be the last person in the known universe that she wished to ask for help right now. She hadn’t had an opportunity to apologize for misjudging him or to thank him, and now she would have to beg for a favor. But if she didn’t . . . and if the contents of her diary were known . . . she did not think it an overreaction to already deem it The Scandal of the Century.
To be clear, Bridget did not care one whit about everyone knowing the embarrassing things she recorded about herself. No, she was thinking of the things that could ruin the reputations of people she cared about deeply. Amelia. Rupert. Darcy. And for them she would have to swallow her pride and call upon Lord Darcy (even though young unmarried ladies did not call upon gentlemen) and request his assistance in Saving Them All from The Scandal of the Century (even though it was all her fault).
Early the next morning. Very early.
If the butler was shocked to see a young lady on the doorstep, he did not give any indication. It was impressive, that.
Her fears that Darcy would not be at home to her were quickly assuaged. The butler showed her into his study. Though it was early, Darcy was already impeccably dressed and seated at his desk. She noted a cup of coffee near his left hand, along with neatly organized stacks of papers and a small mountain of correspondence.
So this was where he spent his time, being lordly. Stepping into his private chambers—-without a chaperone—-felt so intimate, almost as much as a kiss.
He stood when she entered, and stepped in front of the desk. She searched his gaze for a clue about his feelings but he was as inscrutable as ever. Drat the man.
“Lady Bridget, this is most unusual.”
“But hardly surprising,” she said.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said softly. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and given that they hadn’t a moment to waste, she decided to get right to the matter at hand.