Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(75)

Darcy sipped his drink and winced. Or winced and sipped his drink. He wasn’t sure what burned more—-the whiskey or the memory of Bridget’s -rejection. While he thought that her feelings might have changed, he had no proof. And he knew that she would want to protect her sister and Rupert above all else.

He knew what he had to do.

There are no words to describe the utter despair I feel in my present state.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Bridget set down her pen. She closed her diary. Her cursed, wretched diary that had ruined everything for everyone. She had half a mind to throw it across the room. Or burn it.

But there was no point now. Lady Francesca had so much devastating information—-and was the sort of mean--spirited person who would deliberately use such information or share it with the biggest gossip of London. Bridget wouldn’t be at all surprised to read about it in The London Weekly tomorrow morning.

Or to have it all flung in her face at the ball tonight.

There was only one thing to do. Bridget threw herself on her bed, and stared up at the canopy. She closed her eyes. She could not go out tonight.

She could not go out ever again. She would have to return to America, in disgrace. Just when she had found a reason to stay.

She opened her eyes at the sound of a maid entering the room.

“Good afternoon, Lady Bridget,” her maid said. “Which dress would you like me to press for this evening?”

“None of them. I will not be going out.”

“Of course,” her maid agreed, and quietly left the room.

But there was no “of course” about it.

A moment later, Josephine entered the room in a swish of silk skirts and closed the door behind her.

“What is this nonsense about not attending the ball tonight?” she demanded.

“It is not nonsense,” Bridget said, still lying on her bed, staring at the canopy, still desolate. “I am ruined. In fact, I have ruined us all. I’m very sorry, Josephine. I did try to be a True Lady. I tried to follow the reducing diet and to learn whether the third son of a duke outranks the firstborn of an earl. I meant to practice the pianoforte and learn French. I want to know how to do things with a certain air, but I have no idea what that even means. I shall never be an accomplished woman. And because I wrote about my struggles to be one and to fit in here, I have ruined myself and everyone I hold dear.”

“Bridget.”

“Yes?”

“Shush.” Josephine gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed and arranged her skirts. She gently, and a bit awkwardly, to be honest, stroked Bridget’s hair. Bridget remembered her mother doing this when Bridget was in a fit of despair over a fight with her sisters, or upset about something in school. She found it comforting now.

“As you know, I never had children, which meant that I have never given one of these consoling and encouraging speeches before. Bear with me.” The duchess paused. Gathered her thoughts. Cleared her throat. “You are a lovely young woman. I have been impressed and heart warmed by your efforts to fit in here when it cannot have been easy for you. Now why are you so convinced that we are all ruined? You have your diary back. And I understand Lord Darcy helped you.”

“I do have it back. But it doesn’t matter. Lady Francesca already read it. She already possesses the information to humiliate me and, worst of all, ruin the lives of people I love.”

“I see,” Josephine said calmly. She was silent for a long moment. Then, matter--of--factly, she said, “Well, everyone has their price.”

“Hers is Darcy.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Bridget sat up to explain.

“She issued the most dreadful ultimatum. If Darcy doesn’t marry her, she will tell everyone everything.”

“Well, she and Darcy had been meaning to wed for some time now. It’s about time he came up to scratch with her. Your secrets will be safe. See, there is nothing to worry about at all. Now which dress would you like to wear tonight? Perhaps the pink?”

“We both know that I look terrible in pink. But that is beside the point.”

Bridget sighed a mighty, heartfelt, aching sigh. She flung herself back against the pillows. And then Josephine finally understood.

“Ah. I see. You are in love with him.”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is a wretched dilemma,” Josephine mused. “Destroy those you love or lose the man you love.”

“If it were up to me . . .” Bridget began. But then she stopped because it wasn’t up to her. The choice was Darcy’s and she knew what he would do. He would sacrifice himself to protect those he cared about. She wanted to hate him for that, but she found she loved him for it instead.

But the duchess, that clever, sharp, terrifying duchess, had other ideas. “Who says it isn’t?”





Chapter 24


The duchess and I have a plan . . . I would write more, if I weren’t so terrified that this volume will fall into The Wrong Hands. Again.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Bridget was informed in no uncertain terms that ladies—-especially Cavendish ladies—-did not hide in their bedchambers whenever something went the slightest bit wrong. While she hardly thought the situation counted as the slightest bit—-she truly believed it was The Scandal of the Century, even if she felt silly saying it aloud—-she was nevertheless done up and on her way to the ball.