Lady Bridget’s Diary
It was another evening and another ball. Another day spent paying calls, practicing the pianoforte, learning more phrases in French (J’ai faim, je suis fatigue, je wish to stay in bed and read fashion periodicals). Hours were spent preparing—hair was curled and styled, dresses pressed, corsets tightened, cheeks pinched.
They had arrived, along with three hundred of England’s finest, and crushed into this ballroom. The scale of the events still impressed her. The ballrooms were large, the chandeliers enormous, the gowns gorgeous.
And then there was Bridget, a horse breeder’s daughter, trying her best to fit in.
Amelia had manufactured some excuse about needing a moment in the ladies’ retiring room, though she was far more likely to be found snooping about the house; the family had yet to attend an event without Amelia causing some incident or minor scandal. Claire had discovered something to amuse her at balls: she spent most the evening in the card room, divesting drunk, idiot lords and ladies of their fortunes. Bridget was torn between pride and distress because it made her sister—and the family—an object of gossip.
The duchess was engaged in a private tête-à-tête with one Lady Esterhazy, her close personal friend and fellow terrifying matron.
Which left Bridget. With Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague. They were the only girls with whom she had become friendly in London. Lady Francesca was dancing with a young handsome lord; how she managed to dance only with them was of particular interest to Bridget, as she, far too often, ended up with invitations she was forbidden to refuse from the old, slightly infirm, or lethally dull men of the ton. Although Rupert had penciled his name on her dance card for the fifth waltz, and thus her entire existence was now counting the minutes until it was time for him to sweep her into his arms and whisk her around the ballroom.
In the meantime, she lingered on the perimeter of the ballroom with her friends.
“Do you think that Lady Francesca actually fancies any of her suitors?” Bridget wondered.
“Oh no,” Miss Mulberry said. “They are just for amusement. Everyone is expecting Darcy to propose to her.”
“Darcy?”
“You know, the one who always looks like he’s perishing of boredom?”
“I know who he is,” Bridget said darkly.
“It’s the funniest thing,” Miss Mulberry continued. “She was concerned you might be a rival for his afflictions.”
“You mean affections,” Bridget corrected. She was not interested in his afflictions or affections.
“That sounds so romantic,” Miss Montague sighed dreamily. “Rival for his afflictions.”
“That is absurd,” Bridget said flatly.
“That’s what I said!” Miss Montague exclaimed. “I said it was absolutely ridiculous that he should fancy you!”
This was of no consolation to Bridget.
“Don’t tell her we told you,” Miss Mulberry said.
“I won’t.” But she had to wonder: if Lady Francesca saw her as a rival for Darcy’s affections, why then befriend her?
It was another night and another ball. Darcy was actually enjoying the evening, having had interesting conversations with his friend the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon about parliamentary concerns; and he spoke to the Duke of Ashbrooke about the man’s new invention. Earlier in the evening, he had spoken with Lady Francesca on the terrace—listened to her gossip, mainly—and then made his excuses when he saw her friends, the vapid Misses Mulberry and Montague, heading their way. And Lady Bridget, trailing behind.
Darcy was about to call for his carriage when Rupert found him. His brother seemed rushed and worried, not at all his usual self.
“Darcy, I need you to do me a favor,” Rupert said impatiently, grabbing on to Darcy’s arm.
“Let me guess,” Darcy said dryly. “More funds?”
For a second, his brother looked wounded. No, he looked truly hurt that Darcy would say such a thing. He immediately regretted the flippant comment and felt guilty to have thought so little of his brother.
“No, actually. I have taken care of that,” Rupert said, straightening up to his full height. “I need you to waltz with Lady Bridget.”
Oh bloody hell. He’d been looking forward to returning home, perhaps having a brandy in his study before retiring. And now he was to go back into the din of the ballroom and dance. With Lady Bridget.
“You know that I—”
“I know, I know, you don’t dance,” Rupert said dismissively, and no small amount of annoyance in his voice. “We all know that Lord Darcy does not dance, and he certainly does not do so with one of the Americans. But I promised her and now I have to leave. Something has come up.”