Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(80)

She dared to look at him. She couldn’t look away, really. After all, what she was about to say wasn’t for the benefit of the ballroom, but for him. There just happened to be a few hundred people listening in.

“It turns out that he is not as dreadful as I once thought. In fact, he is not dreadful at all. He is the best man I know. He will do anything for other people’s happiness. But I would like the chance to make him happy.”

It was just as well that Francesca interrupted then, as Bridget really did not know what else to say. She had been counting on Darcy to step forward and declare his everlasting love, or propose, or something that made the risk worthwhile.

“I cannot believe this. You can’t possibly make her your countess.”

The way Francesca said “her” revealed so much more: her, the clumsy girl who fell; her, the woman prone to public displays of mortification; her, the girl who didn’t know the ins and outs and roundabouts of English high society; her, the girl who was always making a cake of herself.

Finally, thank God, finally Darcy said something in that low, powerful I--am--the--lord--and--master voice.

“I can make her my countess. And I will.”

The crowd erupted in noise then—-gasps and aws and “Can you believe it?” And “Did he just say . . . ?” If she weren’t so keen to hear what he would say next, Bridget might have swooned.

“When I first learned that a pack of horse--farming orphans from the colonies would be inheriting one of our finest and most prestigious dukedoms, I shared the same sentiment as many in this room: disappointment, dismay, and a morbid curiosity to watch this family stumble and fall. And indeed, I watched them stumble. And fall.”

Bridget bit her lip.

“And then I watched as Lady Bridget—-and her family—-stood back up, and endeavored to make the best of what must have been a trying situation with hope and humor. The more time I spent with them, the more I was reminded of what truly matters. Family. And love.”

It seemed so very hard to believe that Darcy was standing up and saying such things in front of, oh, the entire haute ton. The man who said very little and certainly nothing about emotions. The man who was always right was confessing that he sometimes made mistakes. And the man spoke to just a few hundred of the finest, most prestigious, and snobby families in the country. Just a gathering of people who had dismissed her and her family out of hand. But Darcy saw her, really saw her, and liked her just as she was and wanted everyone to know it.

“And, while I am demonstrating more emotion than I have in my three and thirty years, allow me to finish with this: I love you, Lady Bridget.”

He smiled slightly, nervously, at her as the crowd in the ballroom burst into applause and cheers. Bridget thought her heart might explode with love for this man. She waited impatiently for him to make his way through the crowd to her.

And just when she hoped the worst was over, there was Lady Francesca before her.

“Are you not forgetting something? About your sister? I’ll tell everyone. I may not be able to make an announcement but I can whisper here or there . . .”

“Can we discuss it later? I am in the middle of a devastatingly romantic moment,” Bridget said. Darcy was standing before her now and she very badly wished to feel his arms around her.

“I shall handle this one, Bridget,” Amelia said, coming to stand beside her. “You go off with your Looord Darcy.”

“And what about your brother?” Lady Francesca challenged, turning to Darcy.

He reluctantly turned to face her and gave her the Darcy stare, the one that would probably cause God to question his own righteousness.

“What about my brother? I daresay you wouldn’t compromise your own reputation to whisper about unfounded rumors of things which proper young ladies oughtn’t know or speak of.”

Francesca was speechless. But then again, Darcy had made it plain that there was nothing more to say. And then Lord Fox was there, linking arms with his sister. “I’m sure my dear sister has nothing to say about our good friend Rupert.”





Chapter 26


Darcy loves me. Darcy. Loves. Me. And everyone knows it.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

The next day, the duke summoned Bridget to an interview. It sounded so dramatic and forbidding. An interview. With the duke. In truth, her dear brother, James, said, “We need to talk,” and she followed him not to his study but down the stairs and into the kitchens.

Luncheon had already been cleaned up and the preparations had not yet begun for dinner, so the place wasn’t overrun with activity. They took seats around the large prep table and availed themselves of the cake Cook had left out. Bridget even made them a pot of tea.

“Darcy was just here,” James said after she had settled in with a cup of strong tea with two sugar cubes and a generous slice of cake. She was ravenous after last night.

“I know,” she replied. “I watched from the window. I also knew he was planning to see you.”

“I presume you also know why.”

James looked at her and she couldn’t help but blush, partly with happiness and partly with embarrassment. God, if her brother knew . . . Best not to think about that and focus on what truly mattered.

“He wishes to marry me,” she said softly. It was so strange and magical to say those words, and even better to know them to be true. Even sweeter because she was happy about it, deliriously so.