“My sisters are very well, thank you.”
“And Darcy, your brother . . .” She sighed, and both Darcy and Bridget straightened with interest. “I suppose you’ve heard the latest.”
Beside her, Darcy tensed. She felt the muscles in his arm and leg go positively rigid and she was sure he was clenching his jaw . . . and yet somehow managing to speak.
“I have not.”
“Well,” Lady Tunbridge huffed. “I don’t know if I can even say.”
“And I’m sure I do not wish to know,” he said stiffly.
“I wish to know,” Bridget said, and everyone ignored her.
“Suit yourself, Lord Darcy. But you will find soon enough what your brother has been up to—and who he has been with.”
It didn’t seem possible, but Bridget felt the moment Darcy became positively stiff. And yet, by all outer appearances, he seemed exactly the same as always. She only knew this because they were sitting side by side and very close in this carriage. So close they were touching. When had that happened? She realized that, although he might always appear so calm, cool, and collected, perhaps he was not. Perhaps he got as flummoxed as the rest of them and only hid it better. Perhaps, if he lied so adeptly, he wasn’t so perfect after all. The notion that he had feelings and flaws was surprisingly . . . intriguing.
“A good day to you both.” Lady Tunbridge nodded firmly. “Lady Bridget, I look forward to the ball you’re hosting with your sisters.”
“What is this ball Lady Tunbridge mentioned?” Darcy asked as the carriage rolled away.
“Oh, just a little soiree we are planning for five hundred of our closest friends. And by friends I mean people we are desperately trying to impress.”
“I think I recall seeing the invitation.”
“You ought to attend, though it might be a disaster, in spite of all our best efforts. The duchess says planning and hosting a ball is an important skill every lady must possess. Thus, we are learning to plan and host a ball.”
The duchess was right. A man of his position, especially given his political ambitions, required a wife who could be an asset socially. She would have to cultivate the right relationships, impress the right people, behave so impeccably that nothing bad could be said about her or, by extension, him. Lady Francesca fit the bill perfectly, which was why he had every intention of proposing to her.
This was why, even if he did lust after Lady Bridget, he could never act upon it. He could never propose to her. She and her family were regularly gossiped about for all the wrong reasons, and it was likely to become worse if this business with Amelia got out.
“This is, of course, in addition to our daily regimen of acquiring all the other essential qualities of a True Lady,” she continued.
“And how does an aspiring true lady spend her day?”
Honestly, he wasn’t entirely interested. But he found her chatter not altogether unpleasant—she did have a lovely voice—while he concentrated on driving the carriage and scanning the faces of everyone they passed, hoping to see Rupert or Amelia or both. He also noted the ever darkening clouds and low rumbles of thunder in the distance. A rainstorm was imminent.
“Well, for example, I must practice my pianoforte and singing for an hour each morning, in the event that we are called upon to perform at a musicale. This happens to coincide with the duchess’s constitutional walk. I do not think that is a coincidence. After that, but before luncheon, we memorize pages of Debrett’s. Did you know your great-grandfather was related to the Marquis of Wyndham? You and Lady Francesca are practically related.”
“I did not,” he said. “And we are not.”
“You’re welcome for the family history lesson. After that, my sisters and I are supposed to learn French, which is a hopeless and pointless prospect. The lessons are only livened up by our efforts to persuade our tutor to teach us grossly indelicate language, which he refuses to do. In the afternoon, we have dancing lessons because one must not only waltz, but know the steps to at least a dozen strange and intricate country dances. Through it all, I’m bloody starving.”
Darcy had really heard only the last thing she said, and he responded to that.
“Why don’t you eat something?” Darcy asked.
“Have you tried to fit into ladies’ dresses these days?”
“I cannot say that I have,” he said dryly.
“Then you would know why one must be in a constant state of starvation.”
Darcy sensed that he had broached a sensitive subject and was all the more sure of it when he saw her shoulders shaking. Oh bloody hell, had he made her cry?