Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(67)

“I hope I can still count on your discretion,” she said nervously.

“Of course.” He spoke as if it were that simple. And to him, it was. She knew then that no matter what she did to hurt him, he would never, ever betray her. Because he was good. Because it was the right thing to do. And he always did the right thing. Nothing else mattered.

Her heart cracked open a little then. Was it breaking? Or was that just the love starting to burst out? Whatever it was, it scared her . . . almost as much as the portrait above the mantel that had just caught her eye. Ah, a blessed distraction.

“That is a terrifying portrait,” she remarked, eyeing it warily.

“My father.”

“Oh! I am so sorry for saying he is terrifying,” she said, cursing inwardly. Of course she had to go and say something vaguely insulting when she imposed upon him. “But I do hope that is not his likeness.”

“It is a tame version of it,” Darcy replied dryly. Bridget dared another glance at the furious old lord in the picture.

“Oh my.”

She gazed at Darcy with new eyes now. She could just imagine what it was like growing up with a father who glared menacingly like that. How one would always strive for perfection to avoid that look, to mask one’s feelings, to try to escape notice. Her own father had been laughing and smiling more often than not, and always encouraging his children to think and feel freely. She understood now what Darcy meant when he said he needed her. It hadn’t just been about lust.

“I’m sure you did not come to discuss my art collection or my father,” Darcy said stiffly.

“I just cannot imagine living with that expression staring down at me. It would make me so nervous. It is making me nervous.” She laughed. Nervously.

“I plan to have it removed to the attics. I have tired of looking at it.”

“What shall you replace it with?”

“I haven’t given the matter much thought.”

“Perhaps a nice pastoral. With dogs, and horses . . .”

“Lady Bridget, I suspect that you did not come here to discuss paintings or pastoral landscapes with me,” he said impatiently.

Right, then. To the disaster at hand. Time to explain how the diary of a young woman was about to destroy lives. She sighed and summoned her courage and launched in.

“I need your help,” she said. “My diary has gone missing. And I know you would never say, ‘Who cares about the silly diary of a silly young woman’ but you might be thinking it. And in case you are, I must tell you that the diary could ruin me. Us. Rupert. Amelia. Everyone and everything.”

Darcy was silent, regarding her.

“It will be The Scandal of the Century,” she added in a whisper. It sounded a bit ridiculous when said aloud.

He lifted one brow. “Is that so?”

How dare he mock her now! How dare he make light of this!

“I wrote about Amelia’s mysterious and extended absence.” He frowned and looked down at the carpet. “I wrote about the time you kissed me in the rain. And the butler’s pantry. I wrote the truth about Rupert.”

His head snapped up, eyes flashing.

“How do you know?”

“Between what you said, and what he told me . . . I figured it out. Well, I asked James to explain it and that didn’t exactly go well.” That had been an awkward conversation for both of them, to say the least.

Darcy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and if he tried counting back from ten, he made it only to six or seven. When he finally looked at her again, his eyes were full of sorrow.

“Bridget, Amelia would be cut from society. In fact, none of you would be welcome. And Rupert could be hanged if that were revealed. Or he might have to leave the country. Forever.”

And Darcy would be left alone, with no one. She so badly wanted to say, You will have me. But that wasn’t the same, it wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t the right moment.

“I know. I am so sorry. I thought that the worst that would happen would be Amelia reading it. She’s a snoop, but she doesn’t gossip. I care greatly for Rupert. And my sister. And that is why I’m here seeking your help. I don’t care at all about everyone finding out how many hours I spent practicing the quadrille, or how many desserts I refused over the past few months.”

“Record of your dessert consumption aside, this is indeed a disaster,” he said flatly. And calmly. And that was why she loved him.

He strode across the room and poured himself a glass of brandy.

“Brandy?”

“It’s quite early for that, don’t you think?”

“We are facing a crisis.”

“Ladies don’t drink.”

“Please don’t try to be a perfect lady,” he said softly. He glanced over at her.

She bit her lip. Her efforts to Be a Lady had some good effects: she was no longer confounded by a formal table setting, she knew most of the steps to the quadrille, and she knew how to address most peers. But it had also made her miserable as she tried to fit into some mold that wasn’t her. To please a man who liked her just the way she was. After the other night, she simply didn’t have the patience or the energy to keep trying.

“Oh, that ship has sailed. And I am not on it.”

“Right.” He set the drink down and started pacing. She watched his long legs, long muscular legs, take powerful strides across the carpets. Focus, Bridget.