Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(71)

She did not find her diary.

It was not under the bed, under the pillows, or in the armoire. It was clearly not on the vanity table, though Bridget took a moment to note all the creams, potions, and face paints there. There was a pot of red rouge, suggesting that Francesca’s lips weren’t usually so red. There was kohl, suggesting that she darkened her lashes. There were creams to lighten spots and even an ointment for warts.

Even though she really ought to hurry, Bridget paused for a moment, looking down at all the evidence that Lady Francesca didn’t wake up flawless. The perfection was carefully applied with lotions and potions.

That meant that perfection—-or something like it—-was attainable for Bridget after all. She could soothe away her imperfections with ointments and creams or disguise them with powders and paints. A little rose oil here, a tighter corset there . . . She could adhere strictly to her reducing diet.

She could improve her skin by staying inside, out of the sun, and applying goopy moisturizing and lightening creams. She could touch up her lashes, redden her lips, pinken her cheeks.

She could spend hours each day putting herself together, having her hair done just so and her face done just right, so she wouldn’t feel bad about herself when she stood next to Lady Francesca.

Or she could enjoy herself, just as she was. She could eat. And feel the sun on her face. And redden her lips by passionately kissing Lord Darcy.

There was really only one choice.

Certain that the diary was not in the bedchamber, Bridget turned to go. Getting upstairs was one thing; now she had to get back outside.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room

The three women laughed heartily for a good long minute at his admission that he wished to read a young woman’s diary for the purpose of improving his understanding of the fairer sex. Darcy died a thousand deaths knowing that these women were going to dine out on this scene for months—-along with all the revelations in Lady Bridget’s diary.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

The butler interrupted just then, for which Darcy would be eternally grateful. That is, until he heard who was calling.

“A Lady Fogbottom is requesting an audience, Lady Francesca.”

Darcy stifled a groan.

“Who?” Lady Francesca was very perplexed. Naturally.

“Lady Fogbottom,” the butler repeated. That he maintained a straight face whilst saying the name twice was laudable indeed.

“Tell her to leave her card.”

The man nodded and returned to the hall, leaving the drawing room doors open.

Oh bloody hell. Darcy did not believe for a second that Lady Fogbottom was calling. He rather suspected that it was Lady Bridget Cavendish, of the American Cavendishes, up to some sort of scheme that could only go awry and create a bigger mess than the one she was already in.

“Now where were we?” Lady Francesca asked, resting her palm on his forearm and gazing into his eyes. “Ah yes, your educational reading material so that you might better understand the mind of a young woman. I cannot imagine why.”

Rather that meet her eye, he looked around the room, seeking a blue leather volume. Nothing.

“Darcy?”

Darcy looked her in the eye and weighed his words carefully. He would do best to just get this over with.

“Perhaps we might have a moment of privacy?”

“Oooh, I bet he’s going to propose,” Miss Mulberry said.

“We’ll just be in the foyer. Eavesdropping,” Miss Montague added.

“I think that we should be clear with one another,” he started, once they were gone. He shifted in his chair. Damn, this seat was uncomfortable.

“You are here for a serious conversation.”

“Am I known for any other kind?”

“Touché,” she replied, unsmiling.

“We have known each other for quite some time,” he said. They practically grew up together, in fact. “And we have had an understanding for the past season or two. And it is now time for me to make my intentions clear.”

“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly. God, he’d given her the wrong idea. He was terrible at proposing and at not--proposing. And people thought he was perfect. Ha.

“Lady Francesca, if there are other suitors you admire, I think you should encourage them.”

It took her a moment for the truth to sink in. He had always prided himself on being reliable, and now he was letting down a woman who had been counting on him. Not to mention angering his good friend. He did not want to marry her, but he also did not like having to have this conversation.

“Do you mean to say that I should not expect a proposal from you?”

“I’m afraid not, Lady Francesca.”

“Does Fox know about this?”

“I have not spoken to him, no.” Of course he had not found the time to mention to Fox, an expert swordsman, champion boxer, and crack shot that he would not, after all, marry his sister as planned. “I thought I would speak to you first.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. You have not seemed yourself lately.”

“Yes, well, I have been doing some thinking.”

“About a certain American girl, I suppose,” she said witheringly.

Speaking of a certain American girl, he saw a flash of something—-someone—-in the hall. Probably Lady Bridget, in the midst of a scheme that would only make things worse. Fortunately Lady Francesca was angled away from the doors.