“They are not my rules.”
She gave him an utterly disparaging look.
“The only thing keeping me from storming off is that ladies are not supposed to stroll around the ballroom unaccompanied,” she said. “Actually, no. The only thing keeping me from storming off is that you might then have even more reason to chastise me.”
“I didn’t mean—”
And then the unimaginable happened. She turned away from him, steadfastly refusing to look in his direction. He, Lord Darcy, received the cut direct from Lady Bridget, of the American Cavendishes.
Chapter 7
Kisses from Rupert: 0
Moments for possible kisses with minimal risk of discovery: 4
Hours spent wondering why he hasn’t: embarrassing
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Lady Millicent Winterbourne’s garden party was not to be missed by “her dearest nephews,” even though, to Darcy’s knowledge, they were not in fact blood relations. She had been quite good friends with their dearly departed mother, and apparently that was sufficient basis to claim them as her own family . . . with all the obligations and nagging that entailed.
She bustled over to the brothers upon their arrival.
“There you are, Darcy. I knew you wouldn’t refuse me. Hello, Rupert, I don’t mind if you cause a scandal or are caught kissing behind a hedge.” She patted his cheek affectionately.
“Good afternoon, Lady Winterbourne.”
“Don’t Lady Winterbourne me, Darcy. I held you on my lap when you were just born. Call me auntie.”
He was a grown man and as such would lose his bollocks if he called anyone auntie.
“Aunt Winterbourne,” he offered as a compromise.
“Auntie Millie,” she countered.
“Lady Millicent,” he offered as a compromise.
“Lord, but your father wrecked you.” She sighed.
There was only one possible response to that.
“The weather is very fine today,” he said stiffly.
“Makes me wish I could take off this jacket and jump in the lake,” Rupert added. To be honest, Darcy had half a mind to do the same thing. The sun was actually shining, which meant he felt exceedingly warm under this fitted, dark wool jacket. Between that and the length of starch wrapped around his neck, he felt like he was being strangled.
“As I said, I do not mind if you cause a scandal, so long as it’s at my party.”
“Hostessing is as competitive as ever, I see,” Darcy remarked.
“You have no idea,” she said dramatically. “Look, there is the Duchess of Durham with her new charges. I thank God they are in attendance.”
Do not look. Do not look.
He looked. His gaze strayed immediately to Lady Bridget. Like every other unmarried lady, she was all done up in a bonnet and gloves and a white dress with frills, and ruffles and bits of lace.
And she was beaming at Rupert.
“I was hoping to see them today,” Rupert said brightly.
“I as well,” Lady Winterbourne replied. “While the ton has not quite accepted them yet, a party is considered a failure if they do not attend. What else will we talk about?”
“New initiatives in Parliament, the plight of war widows and orphans, new advances in steam technology.”
“You’re too funny, Darcy.” She laughed. “No, at parties one is to talk of scandals and love matches and judge each other’s dresses. And the Americans. What do you think of them?”
“I do not.” It was a hideous lie.
Lady Bridget intruded upon his thoughts with an alarming frequency. And if that weren’t bad enough, she made him feel things.
Things one would categorize as lust. A lust that would never be satisfied because he was Lord Darcy, one of the most esteemed peers of England, and while she might be sister to a duke, there was no denying her unconventional upbringing. She was not his type.
Which was neither here nor there, given how things were progressing between her and Rupert and the hints he dropped about marrying her.
“Well I quite like them,” Rupert declared. “Particularly Lady Bridget.”
Case. In. Point.
“You know, the duchess is keen to marry them off,” Lady Winterbourne remarked with pointed looks and all the subtlety of an invading army. “She is afraid they will abandon the dukedom and return to the colonies if they do not. God forbid anything should happen to the new duke. The next in line is that horrid Mr. Collins.”
“I cannot imagine what relevance this has to us.”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Darcy,” Lady Winterbourne said. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“It so happens that one of us is considering taking a wife,” Rupert said. Even Darcy couldn’t conceal his shock that he would say such a thing to such a known gossip as their hostess. He might as well have printed an announcement in The London Weekly: “Wealthy bachelor not completely adverse to matrimony. Queue up here.” Even if he was considering marriage, why the devil would he announce it and make things impossible for himself?