Darcy’s obvious shock made it abundantly clear which brother was considering a wife. And Lady Winterbourne’s smile made it abundantly clear what would happen with such information.
Bridget might have steered Rupert here, behind the hedges. He might not have made it difficult for her to do so.
Her heart beat swiftly, flutteringly, like hummingbird wings. Her gaze searched his for a sign of his true feelings and his intentions. She prayed that they matched hers.
He might be about to kiss her. Dear Lord, she wanted to be kissed. And loved. And by this nice man.
Rupert gazed down at her, lips parted. She closed her eyes, waiting to feel the brush of his lips against hers. Her life might become perfect in three . . . two . . . one . . .
“Nice to get a bit of a respite from the party,” he remarked. She opened her eyes to see him standing a foot away, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.
Or not.
Nevertheless, she agreed with him. “It is. I’ve become so accustomed to everyone watching me to see what disaster will befall me next. You know, I am still known as the girl who fell.”
“I think of you as the girl who has a unique manner of appreciating artwork,” Rupert corrected. “Never mind those old bats.”
And that was why she loved him.
That was why she wanted to marry him.
And she knew for a fact that he had told Lady Winterbourne that he was thinking of marrying, because she told the duchess, who looked the other way when Bridget and Rupert began strolling in the direction of the hedges.
“Well, it is nice to get away from everyone’s prying eyes,” she remarked, hoping to get him to acknowledge that they were alone. Out of sight.
“Indeed.” He seemed pensive.
“I feel that everyone is always watching and waiting for me to make another misstep.”
“Society is a challenge. Even for those of us born and raised for it.”
“You can’t possibly have trouble with society. Everyone adores you.”
“Aye. But I have seen how unforgiving they can be,” he said thoughtfully. This was another side of Rupert, one she hadn’t often seen and suspected that he didn’t often reveal. “Which is why it is so wonderful to have true friends.”
There was no mistaking his meaning by the way he gazed at her, smiled at her. He thought her a true friend. But what about more?
Bridget stood there, experiencing a thousand agonies. Here she was, alone with a handsome rake—the newspapers all said he was—and he was making a declaration of friendship. Which was wonderful, and she cherished it and thought him the only true friend she’d made in England (Lady Francesca certainly didn’t count).
But never mind that. Her heart had skipped a beat. And then fell.
Rupert turned to her. He gazed into her eyes and murmured her name. “Bridget.”
Her heart starting beating again, and then it started beating faster and faster.
But then Rupert paused at the sound of footsteps approaching. She turned, furious, to see who could possibly dare to interrupt this moment. Possibly the greatest moment in all of her three and twenty years. The Moment in which the man she loved was about to propose marriage or kiss her or both.
The intruder revealed himself.
Her eyes narrowed. “Darcy.”
Things I dislike about Dreadful Darcy
He ruins private interludes in which a lady might be kissed for the first time by the man she loves who mentioned publicly that he was considering marriage. This is unforgivable. UNFORGIVABLE.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
Darcy had only wanted a moment of solitude. Just a moment away from the idle chatter and gossip. Just a moment to think about what the devil Rupert was about these days. The ever increasing debts, rushing away from a ball, the declaration of his intention to wed. Just a moment to find his equilibrium again.
He never meant to intrude on what was obviously a private moment between his brother and Lady Bridget.
Her eyes narrowed when she saw him. “Darcy.”
There was no small amount of venom in her voice.
He cleared his throat.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” Darcy said, glancing from Bridget to Rupert. It was obvious he had.
“Not at all,” Rupert replied hastily. “I was just . . . I’m quite parched. Are you quite parched, Bridget? I shall go fetch us lemonades.”
Darcy watched his brother retreat. Rupert was acting odd—in this moment, and for the past few days—and it was a mystery why. This presented a feeling of something like hurt or dismay because they were close. They weren’t just brothers, they were the only members left in their family (distant, possibly fictional, relationship to Lady Winterbourne notwithstanding). And they were friends.