Their return meant the resurfacing of decades-old gossip—how the duke’s younger brother stole the prize stallion from the Durham stables and absconded to America (horse thief!). Or how he had abandoned his family and his country to marry an American woman he’d fallen in love with during the war (traitor to the crown!). And now his son was the Duke of Durham and his daughters were attempting to infiltrate high society.
“Are we really still discussing such old news?” the duchess said witheringly to her guests.
The topic of conversation shifted immediately.
Darcy meant to have a polite, perfunctory conversation with the new duke and take his leave. Instead he found himself surrounded by women, a cup of tea thrust in his hands. Then Rupert acted like . . . Rupert.
It began innocently enough.
“Lady Bridget, I wanted to inquire as to your welfare after last night.”
Darcy tensed. What the devil was Rupert up to now? The less said about their scene last night, the better.
“What happened last night?” The duchess leveled a sharp stare at Rupert.
“Yes, do tell,” one of the sisters said smugly. She received an elbow in the ribs from the other sister, the one with glasses, and a chilling glance from Lady Bridget.
“Do go on, Mr. Wright,” urged Lady Evelyn Fairfax, voicing the sentiments of at least half the people in the room. Beside her, Miss Eileen, her sister, smiled her encouragement and added, “I do hope it’s something romantic.”
A dozen of the ladies scattered about the room murmured their agreement and faced Rupert expectantly.
And then Rupert, for all he professed to be disinterested in matrimony and terrified of the duchess, launched into an outlandish tale.
“Lady Bridget and I found ourselves trapped in a crush of people trying to make their way into supper,” he lied. “The heat must have overtaxed her, and Lady Bridget swooned. I caught her in my arms, naturally.”
Here he paused to grin at his rapt but skeptical audience. Those who had been gossiping in the foyer about decades-old horse thievery or a social faux pas committed the previous evening were now glancing at Bridget and her siblings differently because one of their own, the universally beloved and constantly charming Mr. Wright, had taken a genuine interest in her.
Darcy noted that Bridget was beaming—at Rupert. But she would. Not. Look. At. Him. No, she was gazing at his brother with starry eyes and drinking up his every word. Not that he cared. Not that he cared in the slightest.
Bloody hell, he was watching her fall in love with Rupert because he was painting such a romantic tale for all of London to gossip about, when the truth was that she slipped and fell and they happened to be there.
Darcy suddenly found the drawing room far too confining.
“And then,” Rupert continued, “she gazed into my eyes and murmured, ‘I don’t think we have been introduced.’ ”
Oh for the love of God. Darcy wanted to roll his eyes. But that was the sort of behavior that had been beaten out of him a long time ago.
“That is not quite how I remember it,” she said, all flustered and flummoxed and delectably pink, “but I far prefer your version of events.”
Darcy could practically see her heart racing and hear the wedding bells chiming in her head. Her every thought and every feeling were so clear for all to see. It made him uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Terrified.
And he remembered, for a heart-stopping second, that he used to be that way.
“I hope there is no cause for alarm,” the duchess said. “Or a wedding.”
“And here I thought you were trying to marry us off,” Durham said dryly. It was the sort of thing everyone knew but no one actually said aloud, in company.
A tense moment of silence followed, and Rupert rescued them all with a laugh and a grin, saying, “But not to rakes like me.”
Lady Bridget thought that calling hours couldn’t possibly improve after Rupert’s visit, and thus they ought to send everyone along so she might go and write Rupert and Bridget in her diary.
She was already halfway in love with him, and not because he was handsome (he was, oh he was) but because he was kind and he knew just what to say, which was one of those life skills she never quite managed to acquire.
But no, the onslaught continued with the arrival of Miss Montague and Miss Mulberry, with Lady Francesca and her aunt and chaperone, Lady Wych Cross.
One recognized girls like these the world over. Their natural beauty—clear skin, pert little noses, hair that never frizzed—was enhanced by their exquisite sense of style. It didn’t hurt either that they possessed the tall, willowy figure upon which even an old bedsheet would look fashionable. They were the sort of girls who never deigned to associate with mere mortals like Bridget and her sisters.