“I want to hear all about your beaux,” Lady Francesca said just loud enough for the rest of them to hear.
“Where to begin?” Bridget remarked dryly.
“A girl might have lots of beaux, but only one matters.”
Lady Francesca gazed at him. Darcy understood that was meant to be a subtle comment about her. And him. But it wasn’t very subtle at all. And he wasn’t very interested.
There was the matter of Lady Bridget perplexing him. Fascinating him. Drawing his eye and making him think unwanted thoughts and feel unwanted feelings.
“ ’Tis a pity the weather prevents a stroll outside,” Lady Amelia said from her perch on the settee, next to the duchess. “It seems quite inane to walk in slow circles around the drawing room.”
“Oh no. It is so much better to walk inside,” Lady Francesca exclaimed. “It is all the better to gossip about the gentlemen of our mutual acquaintance,” she drawled, eyeing Darcy. Again, with subtlety. The duchess harrumphed.
But it was Darcy who elucidated upon Lady Francesca’s motives.
“Is that really your motive, Lady Francesca? I thought it was because when one is strolling about the room, it is all the better to show one’s figure to an advantage.”
It was so clear in the way she arched her back, thrust her bosom forward, and preened. She didn’t know that it was Bridget’s figure that had gotten him up and kept him up at night. It was those full breasts, the lush curves . . .
“Comparing our figures, are you? Whatever are you about, Darcy?” Francesca laughed again.
Bridget reddened and stumbled, tripping over the edge of the carpet. He winced because he realized now how that would sound to her. Good, he tried to tell himself. Make her hate him. This mad desire would pass, she would marry his brother, he would marry Francesca, and they would all live happily ever after. But it did not feel good. In fact, he felt remorse. But not enough to declare that in a competition of figures, Lady Bridget’s was the one that made the blood rush from his brain. The consequences of saying that . . .
“After all that exercise I find myself parched,” Bridget said, making a beeline for the settee.
“I as well,” Lady Francesca said, gracefully lowering herself into a chair.
“Tea?” Lady Amelia offered her.
“Please.”
Lady Amelia poured gracefully; the duchess beamed. And then, as she was handing Lady Francesca the delicate cup and saucer, there was an accident. Or rather, an “accident.”
“Oh my goodness! How horrid of me!” Lady Amelia exclaimed after spilling tea all over the hostess.
Lady Francesca leapt up, eyes flashing, a dark stain spreading across her skirts.
“What a clumsy girl you are!” Lady Wych Cross bellowed to Amelia.
“How clumsy of you, Lady Francesca, to spill tea on yourself like that,” the duchess murmured.
Darcy didn’t miss the glance between the sisters or the gleefully devilish smirks they exchanged. That was no accident. That was family.
Chapter 9
Breakfast: toast, dry
Luncheon: broth and more dry toast
Tea: yes, but no sugar. Ugh.
Supper: minuscule portions.
Desserts: none!
Times I have thought about Lady Francesca’s humiliating scheme to compare our figures: 187
Lady Bridget’s Diary
At breakfast the next morning, Bridget nibbled on toast, wondering why she bothered eating at all. Her reducing diet had been a moderate success—if one did not count all her midnight forays to the kitchen to assuage her starvation. She eyed the heap of food on her brother’s plate. Men never had the slightest concern about their figures.
Amelia, who was always the first down to breakfast, was on her second serving and as slender as ever. It just wasn’t fair.
The only thing keeping her from lunging at the sideboard and helping herself to enough food to feed an army was the memory of calling hours yesterday. Particularly when Lady Francesca insisted on displaying how slender she was and how slender Bridget wasn’t. In front of Lord Darcy. How mortifying.
“Tonight we shall dine at home as a family, as we will have a very important guest with us,” the duchess announced from her place at the head of the table.
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Josie,” James drawled from the other end.
She scowled, as she always did when they addressed her as Josie. But she had at least stopped correcting them.
“It is your heir, Your Grace.”
“My heir?” James was alarmed. Bridget giggled as James paled.
“Your cousin, Mr. Peter Collins. It’s very important that you meet him and perhaps take him under your wing.” The duchess took a sip of her tea and said, very pointedly, “Just in case something should happen to you.”