Lady Bridget's Diary(3)

Then, arm in arm with His Grace, the Duke of Durham, the duchess led the way forward.

And so began the endless round of introductions and conversations with what seemed like every lord, lady, and right honorable person God ever made and stuffed into one hot, crowded ballroom. Bridget didn’t quite seem to understand why everything they said was subject to murmurs and laughter. Was it her accent? Well, these stuffy English folks ought to hear themselves, with their Loooord this and thawghts about that.

Or was it because they weren’t born and raised in a world of privilege? She overheard more than a few snide remarks about the scent of the stables around them, a snub to James’s (former) occupation rather than how they smelled. She hoped. More than once she wanted to turn around and say, I can hear you.

It couldn’t be because of their attire; the duchess had certainly ensured they were turned out in the most beautiful, sumptuous dresses and she’d even dipped into the Cavendish family jewels to find something sparkly for each of the girls. They certainly looked the part. And yet . . .

Whatever it was, Bridget was having a devil of a time keeping up and keeping a smile on her face. And then she fell behind. Literally. In the throng of guests, she became separated and cut off from the duchess and her sisters. And then she got lost. Bridget found herself alone in the ballroom, fighting to keep a smile on her face as if she meant to be strolling by herself, all while craning her neck looking for the duchess’s towering hairstyle.

And then, oh God, then.

While Bridget admittedly hadn’t been the most diligent student of Josephine’s lessons on deportment and such, she was certain that one was not supposed to find herself flat on her back, gasping for breath, in a ballroom.

Yet there she was, having slipped and fallen, the wind knocked from her lungs, staring up at the intricately painted ceiling of Lord and Lady Something or Other’s ballroom. There were big, fluffy clouds swarmed by an army of fat babies, armed to the teeth with bows and arrows. Cupid.

Perhaps if she just squinted a bit and looked very pensive she could pass this off simply as a uniquely American method of art appreciation. In a moment, when she’d caught her breath, she would stand up and declare that the brushstrokes in the clouds were evocative of a wild spirit in the artist, or some other nonsense statement.

Or not. Perhaps she might just lie here and wait for the floorboards to open up. Perhaps the haute ton would just trample her underfoot with their silk and satin slippers.

She imagined her tombstone: Here lies Lady Bridget Cavendish. She has fallen to her death.

It would technically be true.

Bridget ought to get up. Really. A lady couldn’t just lie there forever, wishing the floorboards would open and shut and whisk her away to a place where corsets didn’t dig into one’s skin, and reducing diets were unnecessary, and people didn’t gawk at her like she was on display at the circus.

And then a head popped into view.

Oh. Hello.

A head with a handsome face. And, most importantly of all, a friendly face.

“Admiring the view, are you?” the handsome man inquired, peering down at her.

“You really cannot appreciate the artwork on the ceiling from any other position.”

Handsome Man smiled. It was like sunshine. And fireworks.

She accepted his outstretched hand; he helped lift her to her feet as if she were light as a feather. Once standing, she saw someone with him. Tall, dark-­haired, a bored expression, and one fleeting, dismissive glance at her.

Well then.

“I’ve always wondered why cherubs were so plump,” Handsome Man said, and Bridget turned to give him her full attention.

“No reducing diets for them. I was just wondering why they are always naked,” she added, even though she was quite sure the duchess would frown upon mentioning nudity in mixed company.

“And is it really the wisest course of action to arm small children with weaponry?” he mused, staring up at the ceiling.

“It doesn’t seem advisable, does it?” Bridget said, laughing.

“A disaster, waiting to happen.” Handsome Man demonstrated his possession of the sort of gorgeous smile that made a girl forget her wits.

His bored, disapproving friend coughed in that discreet way that everyone knows isn’t actually a cough but a gentle, oh-­so-­polite request to cease speaking immediately and quit the scene.

Bridget spared him a brief glance and saw just enough: he was another stuffy, boorish Englishman. This place was infested with them. He could hardly compete with his handsome, charming, and nice companion for her company.

“How remiss of me,” Handsome Man said. “We must find someone to introduce us.”