Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(68)

“Where did you last see it?”

“Yesterday, in the drawing room. Before calling hours. We have searched the house all last night.”

“That explains it,” he muttered. And then, “I told him it wasn’t tuberculosis.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Do continue.”

“I am afraid that Lady Francesca stole it during calling hours.”

He stopped short and turned to face her, his dark gaze narrowing. It occurred to her now that Lady Francesca was having her trousseau made and Darcy hadn’t proposed to her. She did not like what those two things added up to.

“That is a bold accusation.”

“This is true. Any one of our dozen callers yesterday could have picked it up and walked off with it. But I am not oblivious. I know she doesn’t like me. I would not be surprised if she wished to ruin me.”

“Why?”

Bridget sighed. “I’m given to understand that she has been expecting a proposal from you for quite some time. And then the other night . . .”

“Right. I see.”

If he wished to roll his eyes and groan, Women! he gave no indication of it.

“I am asking for your help because I know you care about Rupert, if not me. I would hate for something to happen to him. And I know you have already assisted Amelia—-yes, she finally told us you had encouraged her to return to us and we cannot thank you enough—-so I wonder if you might perhaps help protect her again. I am not concerned with anything else, not even that I will be ruined if everyone learns that I am the sort of girl that kisses men in rainstorms and closets. I’m not worried about myself at all, although it will be tremendously embarrassing to have the haute ton know how desperate I was to fit in. Why, I kept track of my sugar cube consumption and the number of dance invitations I received . . .”



Darcy stood there for a moment, willing his pounding heart to slow down. She rambled on, as she was wont to do, about this and that and God only knew what. And he loved her. Loved the sound of her voice and her strange American accent. He loved all the ways she endeavored to be better, each and every day. Even though she was lovely just as she was. He loved that she was facing utter ruin and tremendous ridicule, but her concerns were focused upon others. He loved that she had come to him, because he wanted to save the day.

Because that was what he did.

There was no denying that this was a disaster.

“I wrote about Rupert’s blackmail and the reason for it,” she said in a strangled whisper and horrified expression. “I wrote all about Amelia’s disappearance. I mentioned how long she had been gone, and that we did not know with who, so everyone will assume the very worst.”

He did not deny that this was a disaster. One of epic, unprecedented proportions.

“Oh God, I called Lady Wych Croft Lady Witchcraft.” She fumbled to sit down in a chair by the fireplace. “Oh, she will never give me a voucher for Almack’s. Which shan’t matter because I will be ruined.”

It was a disaster, but it was also his chance to save her and to show her that he loved her, and that was all that mattered. He had no expectations of his success or, should he succeed in locating the diary and keeping its contents confidential, that it would change anything between them. But there was no way he wouldn’t try.

He ought to recoil from her company now but that was the last emotion he felt as he gazed down at her, flung back in the chair, wincing as she recalled what she had written.

“And Darcy?”

“Hmm.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

“For calling you Dreadful Darcy, and writing about that proposal, and my refusal. And how we kissed in the butler’s pantry and how we are not betrothed.”

Oh God. So this was what it felt like to have the blood drain from one’s face. His reputation would be damaged as well.

“You’ll be wrecked and it will be all my fault. Though I did mention how pleasurable it was.”

Oh God. Were those tears in her eyes? He could handle anything—-except for a woman’s tears. In all his training, this was never dealt with. He dropped to his knee before her.

“What good are years of perfect behavior and a spotless reputation if I can’t cause a scandal every once in a while?” He gave a slight smile. She looked at him curiously.

“And for the rest of us?”

“I will find the diary, Bridget,” he vowed. “And furthermore, I will ensure that no one is ruined by this potential scandal.”

“How?”

“This is what I do, Bridget,” he said. “Saving everyone from total ruination and certain disaster is one of those lordly things I do all day.”

A little laugh escaped her.

“You should return home. I will take care of everything.” He rang for Danvers and requested his hat and carriage.

“Darcy, wait . . .”

He turned, and she lingered there nervously, and impatiently. As if she wanted to say something but was being held back. Which was unusual. Even more unusual—-he knew, without speaking, what she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

And he knew how to answer without saying a word.

Darcy closed the distance between them in two quick steps. He cradled her face in his palms and lowered his mouth to hers. This kiss was not enough, no, but it was promise of more.