Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(79)

Unless it depended on her.

Perhaps she could save the day.

Bridget’s heart started pounding at the thought of what she was about to do.

“Actually, Lady Francesca, it does not depend on Lord Darcy. You see, if I were to tell everyone all the secrets in my diary, then you would have no leverage with which to force Darcy’s hand.”

The look of shock on her face revealed that she had not considered this. Then she considered it. And scoffed.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said menacingly. “You would ruin your sister.”

“Not necessarily,” Amelia cut in. Bridget caught her eye. What the devil did that mean? Amelia winked, leaving her even more confused.

“You ran away unaccompanied and told the ton you were ill,” Francesca said in a quiet, lethal voice. “I daresay you would be ruined if anyone knew about that. And Bridget, you will also be ruined if everyone knew what you did with Darcy. And I don’t see a betrothal ring on your finger and I certainly don’t see him by your side, coming to your rescue.”

And then, there he was.

Lord Darcy.

Both she and Lady Francesca sighed and turned to watch him walk through the crush in their direction.

She tried to read his expression: determined? Angry? Ravished? Vexed to be embroiled in a fraught standoff between two gently bred ladies over a diary? It was impossible to tell. She suspected it was all of those things.

And then he smiled at her. The one time he had to smile at her, in public, across a crowded ballroom, and it was a mistake. Lady Francesca understood something in that smile, directed toward Bridget. It meant she had lost. She turned to address the ballroom, clapped her hands for attention, and spoke loudly.

“Attention, everyone. I have an announcement to make.”

Darcy stopped short. The crowd around them fell quiet, and slowly a silence descended upon the ballroom.

“This is so dramatic,” Amelia whispered.

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Claire replied. She had come to stand with her sisters in what by all accounts appeared to be their hour of need.

“Honestly, isn’t your heart just racing?” Amelia asked.

“Honestly, I feel like I might cast up my accounts,” Bridget said softly. “On your shoes.”

But she wasn’t nervous about what Lady Francesca was about to say. Bridget was nervous about the declaration she was about to make.

Francesca stood there, poised, reveling in having all the attention in the ballroom fixed on her.

“I also have an announcement to make,” Darcy declared. He knew how to speak to make himself heard. His low, strong voice made her heart start to pound. She didn’t know what he was going to say. She only knew he loved her. But was that enough?

“Ladies first, Lord Darcy,” Francesca chided him. “Or would you like to make the announcement together?”

There were audible murmurs and gasps in the crowd. Everyone would now be expecting a betrothal announcement. Bridget’s heart began to pound in earnest now. Breathing suddenly became an impossible task. And why hadn’t she noticed how many people were here? Hundreds and hundreds of people who were standing around, sipping champagne, and about to watch her make an arse of herself. Again.

“And now I feel faint.”

“Don’t swoon now, Bridget. Things are just getting interesting,” Claire said.

“You have no idea how interesting,” Bridget said. She took a deep breath, as much as she was able. She stood up straight, as Josephine had instructed her to (or nagged, really). She ignored the pounding of her heart and the dampness of her palms; instead she thought about love and happiness and summoned every last ounce of courage she possessed.

“Actually I have an announcement to make,” Bridget said loudly, which stole all the attention. “And I do believe I outrank you, Lady Francesca, so I shall go first.”

She found Josephine’s face in the crowd; the duchess’s look of pride and satisfaction gave her the encouragement she needed. Then she looked for Darcy. She saw Rupert with him, too. Both brothers nodded at her. Go on, they seemed to say.

“Good evening, everyone. I am Lady Bridget Cavendish, of the American Cavendishes. I am also known as the girl who fell . . . in love.” She paused, as there was a ripple of kind laughter through the room. “I wrote all about it in my diary, as a young lady is wont to do. And it so happens that my diary has fallen into the clutches of a person with . . . unladylike intentions. Someone threatens to reveal all my innermost secrets to embarrass me.”

Here Bridget paused as a shocked, collective murmur stole through the crowd.

“But you see, I may not be very good at walking across a ballroom without falling on my backside, or remaining in a rowboat without crashing into the water, but I am quite good at embarrassing myself in public.”

There was more laughter. Was it friendly or mocking? She could not be sure. This was a terrible idea. This was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. But she could not stop.

But then her gaze found Darcy.

And she felt even more nervous. Because, as usual, he was gazing at her with that dark intensity. Watching her now the way he’d watched her at all the other balls . . . with devotion. Purpose. He hadn’t disapproved at all, she realized. He’d been captivated. That realization kept her going.

“I wrote about how I struggled to fit in here: everything from my inability to learn French and the pianoforte to how I didn’t know when I was allowed to walk in to supper. I wanted so badly to belong here. I also wrote about falling in love.” Here she paused not just for dramatic effect but to catch her breath. “With Lord Darcy.”