Lady Bridget's Diary(2)

“Well, this should liven up the season,” Rupert remarked. “Or at the very least, will inspire conversations about how they shall liven up an otherwise dull season.”

Beside him, Lord Fox, a good friend, simply said, “They’re pretty.”

Lord Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said nothing. That one of England’s oldest, most venerated titles was now possessed by a horse breeder from the colonies was surely a harbinger of the downfall of English society. It mattered little if his sisters were pretty when civilization as they knew it was over. It went without saying that as a wealthy, respected, powerful peer of the realm, he was quite fond of civilization just as it was.

“It’s a pity the Durham title is going to an American,” Darcy said, simply repeating sentiments widely shared by the haute ton and printed repeatedly in a majority of the city’s newspapers.

“You’re such a snob,” Rupert said, laughing at his older brother. He was the only one who dared to speak to him that way.

Somehow, Lord Burbrooke had managed to infiltrate their conversation. Darcy noted the man’s red cheeks (from an excess of alcohol, surely) and bright green waistcoat (from a dearth of taste).

“Can’t say I didn’t thumb through Debrett’s to see if there was a chance I’d inherit,” he said jovially. “I heard that if the duchess hadn’t tracked down this fellow, the title would have gone to some distant relation. Pity that.”

“Spare us all from distant relations,” Fox said.

“Yes, it would have gone to a Mr. Collins.” He was one of those distant, imbecilic relations one despaired of. As the head of his own estate, and raised to ensure that it was successfully passed to the next generation, Darcy understood why the duchess had plundered the colonies in search of an heir. Anyone was better than Mr. Collins.

“Say, how do you know that, Darcy?” Burbrooke asked, awed.

“Darcy knows everything,” Rupert said, smirking.

“But Darcy,” Fox drawled, “did you know they were pretty?”

“Says the man who is betrothed to one of the ton’s most sought after young ladies,” Darcy remarked, reminding his friend of his impending wedding.

“And who has also landed London’s most sought after mistress,” Rupert added.

“Right.” Fox straightened and looked around, presumably in search of his intended. Spotting her, he strolled away in her direction.

“Half a mind to marry one of them myself,” Burbrooke said. “I bet they have very fine . . . dowries.” There was no mistaking the direction of his gaze, which was not precisely on their . . . dowries.

“There would be some advantages to wedding one of the American girls,” Rupert said, a little too thoughtfully for Darcy’s taste.

“Don’t get any ideas. I won’t welcome any recalcitrant colonists into the family.”

“Oh look, one of them seems lost,” said Rupert.

Burbrooke wandered off to lose money in the card room while Darcy and his brother stayed to watch the wayward American girl. She had certainly become disconnected from her group. Apparently she had not been informed that ladies did not wander about the ballroom unaccompanied, gawking at this and that. Or perhaps she simply had no regard for etiquette and protocol—­a thought that gave Darcy anxiety. Or perhaps—­

“Oh dear God.” Rupert started forward when he saw what had just happened.

Even Darcy was shocked.

“Did she just . . . ?”

“She did,” Darcy confirmed, mouth set in a grim line.

“Well, we had better go rescue her,” Rupert said. Darcy protested: “I am not in the habit of rescuing young women.”



When they stepped into the ballroom and a hush fell over the crowd, Bridget finally began to understand what the duchess had been trying to prepare them for.

But what could possibly prepare her for this? The ballroom itself was downright palatial (or so she had imagined, not having many palaces lying around in Maryland). And the people within the ballroom . . . a room full of earls and viscounts and countesses, all dressed in the finest, most beautiful clothes, all wearing heaps of glittering diamonds and other jewels, all of them so refined and elegant and . . . staring at the Cavendishes. As if they were some novelty item or the evening’s entertainment.

“We’re not in America anymore,” Amelia murmured.

“Definitely not,” Claire murmured in agreement.

“Remember what I taught you,” the duchess murmured. I don’t remember anything, Bridget thought in a panic. Not true: she remembered sipping chocolate in bed and sneaking into the kitchens at midnight. Not helpful now!