Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(7)

Josephine took one sip of sherry, then another, before she could bring herself to speak of the evening they had all barely survived. She’d been so certain of success; how wild could her American nieces and nephew be? Surely if anyone could turn them into darlings of the ton, it was she, the esteemed and feared Duchess of Durham.

“How was the ball?” Miss Green asked.

“It was a disaster.”

“It could not have been that bad.”

Josephine gave her A Look in the mirror, even though it was a requirement of Miss Green’s position to say things like that.

“Lady Bridget fell and lay sprawled upon the floor. Lady Claire could not hide her boredom if her life depended on it, which it does, though I cannot seem to impress it upon her. She already has a reputation as a bluestocking, which will hardly serve her well. Lady Amelia mentioned riding astride on their farm, so now everyone thinks her a hoyden at best. That one will be the death of me, I am sure of it. And the duke . . .”

“What about the duke?”

The duchess watched Miss Green closely in the mirror. Had her breath hitched at the mention of the duke?

“You’d think he was being led to the gallows, not waltzing with the finest young women in England.”

“And how was the dancing?”

Together they had watched the lessons Monsieur Bellini had been hired to provide. The sisters had eventually grasped the waltz, thank the Lord, with its three simple steps. The steps of the quadrille and other dances had eluded them thus far. Was it really too much to ask that one dance with a modicum of grace?

The duchess took another sip of her sherry.

“They were adequate. They were not ready for society, but if we delayed their debut, everyone would think the worst.” At least, that had been her rationale. It pained her to admit even privately to herself that she might have been mistaken. “Of course now they already know the worst.”

“They still must be better than Mr. Collins.”

“The less said about Mr. Collins, the better.”

But the man was never far from her mind, for until James had a son or two, there was a chance that Durham could fall into the hands of a bumbling provincial clergyman who possessed neither wit, taste, nor self--awareness. It was a ghastly combination.

But more importantly, he lacked what it took to run an estate like Durham. And too many good people were dependent upon a duke with his wits about him and heart in the right place.

Which was why she had searched high and low for her late husband’s younger brother, only to learn that he’d died in the Americas some years earlier. But he had a son—-an heir—-and she had, by the grace of God, managed to persuade him to leave the dirt and dust of the stables and assume his rightful place in England.

Now she just needed to ensure that he stayed.

“There is always tomorrow for more lessons with the girls. And there is always you to teach them.”

“Thank you, Miss Green. If anyone can mold them into perfect lords and ladies, it is I. Though I fear for the future of the dukedom if even I cannot manage it. I have had one task in life and it was to secure the Durham dukedom for another generation. Failure is simply not an option I shall consider.”

After this disastrous evening, I am resolved harder to become the Woman of Quality the duchess wishes me to be—-whom I wish to be. I shall adhere to my reducing diet, become an expert in the order of precedence, distinguish between all the forks at the dinner table, and learn how to waltz without stepping on my partner’s feet.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

After their debut in society, each Cavendish sibling quietly retired to his or her bedchamber in the monstrous Durham residence. But one by one, after the maids were dismissed for the evening, the sisters made their way to Claire’s bedroom and climbed onto her four--poster bed. It was a habit of theirs from back home. Bridget needed to know that this, at least, had not changed. She had a feeling her sisters did, too.

“Tonight was a disaster,” Bridget said flatly. She didn’t want to talk about it, but she could not not talk about it.

“I wouldn’t say that—-” Claire began diplomatically.

“Claire, I fell. On the floor.”

“And apparently I am not supposed to refuse offers to dance,” Amelia said. “Even from decrepit old gentlemen with lecherous grins. That sort should not be allowed out near young ladies.”

“Apparently I already have a reputation as a bluestocking,” Claire said flatly. “All because I wear spectacles. And possess a modicum of intelligence.”

“You also asked a few ladies which subjects they liked to study and mentioned that you looked forward to meeting the Duke of Ashbrooke to discuss mathematical theories,” Amelia pointed out. “Apparently we are only supposed to discuss the weather.”

“Well, at least you’re not known as the girl who fell.”

Amelia giggled. Then Claire. Sisters.

Bridget glared at them. She pretended she was Josephine—-no, that dreadful Darcy—-and gave them her best death--to--you--insect look.

“Are you ill, Bridget?”

“No.”

“Because you were making an odd face.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, heaving a sigh and thinking back again to what she’d overheard the Despicable Darcy say. She is not handsome enough to tempt me to overlook her manners. He thought her ugly and ill--mannered. A tragic peasant, trussed up in fancy clothes. And he was, in all likelihood, merely echoing the sentiments of everyone they’d met tonight. While Bridget didn’t care what he thought, as he was a dreadful human, she did care what the rest of the ton thought of her and her family.