Lady Bridget's Diary(46)
“Of course it does! You’re my brother. And I know you were concerned about welcoming Americans to the family. I believe you did echo the popular sentiment that their presence here marked the downfall of civilization.”
“Why Lady Bridget then?”
Because of the way she kisses. Because of the way she feels. Because of the way she teases and laughs and makes me feel human again.
“She and I get along. I do quite like her and I think she fancies me.”
“It is a sound plan,” Darcy said, his voice only a little bit strangled. He drained the last of his brandy, immediately refilled his glass, and changed the subject.
“I don’t suppose you saw Lady Amelia while you were out?”
“American Amelia? No, why do you ask?”
“It is nothing.”
“It is not nothing for you to inquire about the Americans whom you so loathe,” Rupert pointed out.
But Darcy was now growing even more concerned. It was one thing when Lady Amelia might have been gallivanting around with Rupert, and he realized he had convinced himself that they were together. It would have been bad, but not disastrous.
But now the hour was growing late and Lady Amelia was at large, presumably without a protector.
“A gently bred lady is lost in the city of London, presumably alone. I have spent the whole day searching for her. And for you.”
“I honestly do not know anything. I didn’t see her,” Rupert said. “How is Lady Bridget handling it?”
“She is fine. We spent a few hours looking for you both.”
“Did you now?” Rupert asked, that familiar, teasing glint in his eye. “You. And Lady Bridget. Alone. How was it?”
Wonderful. Horrible. Full of angst, lust, and . . .
fun. Yes, that was the word he was looking for. Even when she was driving him mad with her curious notions of chivalry or ridiculous image of him in a dress, he had . . . fun. And it was wrong to feel thusly when beloved family members were in trouble. And when there were estate matters to attend to and he hadn’t yet solved all the problems in the world. It was wrong, all of it.
“It was fine.”
“She doesn’t like you, I’m afraid,” Rupert said. “Did you know she calls you Dreadful Darcy in her diary?”
“Yes, actually.”
“You don’t find that funny?”
“I’m not known for my sense of humor.”
“Anyone would find it funny. Unless . . .” Rupert’s eyes widened. “Unless it hurts your feelings. Because you like her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Rupert just grinned. As if he didn’t have massive, life-ruining problems to deal with. Darcy was glad to see his brother have a reason to smile. But he was vastly relieved when Danvers, the butler, interrupted.
“My Lord, this was left in the carriage.”
It was Amelia’s London guidebook, presented on a silver tray. He took one look at it and knew how he would spend the rest of the day and evening and it would not be discussing his feelings regarding Lady Bridget with anyone, least of all Rupert. Who planned to marry her.
I daresay everyone is gossiping about the inconceivable sight of Darcy and myself out for a pleasant outing in the park today. As long as they are not gossiping about Amelia. Who has still not returned!
To say we are worried about her is a vast understatement of epic proportions.
Lady Bridget’s Diary
In a drawing room across town, Lady Francesca closed the drawing room door and turned to her guests.
Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague were pouring tea and eating cakes and chattering away as if they had no idea of the gravity of the situation. No idea that her world was collapsing.
“I have a dire situation,” Lady Francesca said, taking a seat and commanding the attention of her guests, er, friends. They immediately gave her their attention.
“Were you ruined?” Miss Mulberry asked breathlessly.
“Don’t be silly. I would never allow that to happen,” she scoffed at her friend’s stupid idea. Unless it wasn’t a stupid idea at all, and she made it happen. Being caught in a compromising position was the swiftest way to the altar, especially when caught with a man as upstanding and honorable as Darcy. She tucked the idea away in the back of her mind.
“Is it your hair?” Miss Montague asked, concerned.
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Francesca’s hand flew up to gently touch the elegant coiffure her maid had done. It was a new style, the very latest from the French magazines.
“Nothing,” both girls chimed quickly.
Francesca scowled, then remembered how that caused wrinkles, and immediately composed herself.
“It’s Darcy.”