Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(78)

Gentlemen did not ravish young women on flimsy bits of furniture. So Darcy pulled Bridget down to the plush carpet with him. He pulled her into his arms. There were kisses. The soft rustle of fabric being pushed out of the way. There were moments he just breathed her in. And then there was the way her hips rocked against him. She arched her back, pressing her hips against his hard cock.

Never mind where they were and all the rules they were breaking. They were in love. And when she said things like “I want you, make me yours,” even his self--control shattered.

When her hand brushed against his breeches and fumbled with the buttons, even he could not restrain himself. He touched her and found her wet, ready.

“Bridget . . .”

She kissed him. And whispered one word. “Yes.”



Bridget looked up at him in the dark, recognizing the intensity of his gaze and the depths of his wanting. His blatant desire for her sparked a surge of her own. Yes, Darcy. More, Darcy. Cannot get enough, Darcy.

Stupid bits of fabric were moved out of the way—-his breeches, her skirts—-and she longed to feel his bare skin against her own. Perhaps another time . . . when they weren’t at risk of discovery . . .

She sighed at the sensation of his weight bearing down on her. But that was nothing compared to the feeling of him, hard and hot, there. She felt him slide inside her, inch by tantalizing inch, giving her time to adjust. But she didn’t want to wait and she didn’t want to go slow. Darcy then began to move inside her and the whole world was reduced to her, to him, and to this moment when they became one.



Oh God. He thrust into her once, twice, then he lost count, lost his head completely and just allowed himself to feel. There was lust, burning--up--need--more--more--more lust. But there was also love . . . like a profound connection, like . . . like he didn’t even know. It just felt right. And intense. And everything.

Heart pounding. Moving inside her. Frantic, fumbling kisses.

A cry. A shout. A sigh.

A kiss. His heart was slowly beginning to resume something like a normal pace. She lay in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest. His cravat was . . . somewhere. His attire would be wrinkled, to say nothing of the damage he had done to her hair and gown.

“This is where I belong,” she said softly.

“On the floor of Lord Esterhazy’s private study?”

“No, silly. Here. With you. In your arms.”





Chapter 25


No, Amelia or anyone else who is reading this, I will not relate the details of what transpired between Darcy and myself.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Bridget had done her best to repair her appearance but there was no hiding how Darcy ruined her . . . coiffure. Just as there was no hiding the telltale signs that she’d been kissing someone: reddened, plump lips and pink cheeks. Oh, and that sparkle in her eye; there was no hiding that.

She slipped out of the library—-Darcy would follow in twenty minutes—-and into the ladies’ retiring room. It was there, standing in front of the mirror, noticing how ravished she looked, that she realized she did not know what Darcy had intended to do: marry her, or marry Francesca.

A true lady—-or any woman with half a care for her reputation and future—-might have determined that before offering up her virtue. On the floor. Of someone else’s library. But she, Lady Bridget Cavendish, was overcome with passion, in love, and didn’t regret a thing.

Nevertheless, she rushed back to the ballroom.

She found her family in conversation with Lady Evelyn Fairfax and her sister, Miss Eileen, a pair of sisters who had been kind to the Cavendishes from the beginning. Nearby, of course, was Lady Francesca.

When she caught the entire Cavendish clan, and their friends, looking her way, Lady Francesca’s polite smile faded swiftly into a plainly furious expression. She stalked over, leaving a bevy of suitors behind, curious.

“I know what you are doing,” she said sharply.

“Oh? We are just enjoying this lovely soiree,” Bridget said. No one had any idea just how much she had enjoyed it thus far.

“Isn’t it lovely? I daresay Lady Esterhazy outdid herself with the decorations,” Claire remarked.

Francesca ignored them.

“You are hoping to ensure that I won’t say a word about the contents of your precious diary. You think that if you just hover nearby, then you will prevent me from gossiping about everything that I know.” She dropped her voice. “Everything.”

“Now Lady Francesca . . .”

“Well, you are gravely mistaken, Lady Bridget. Unless Darcy finally proposes to me. Do you know how long I have been waiting?”

“I do not.”

“Years,” she hissed. “I turned down a marquis, two earls, and a few barons. Not that barons truly signify. Now you think you can just come along and steal my intended, and I am quite nearly on the shelf.”

“I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to,” Bridget said softly. Oh Lord, did she really need to feel pangs of empathy for this woman who was threatening to ruin her? No. But she felt them anyway. How dreadfully inconvenient. “Say whatever you wish about me, Lady Francesca, but don’t drag anyone else into it.”

“It depends on Darcy, does it not?”

Aye, it depended on Darcy, who stomped around being lordly, saving the day and sacrificing his happiness for silly things like reputation. Darcy, whom she loved. Darcy, who was presently nowhere to be found.