Lady Bridget's Diary(47)
“Oh, did he propose?”
Dear Lord, please save her from her silly little friends.
“Would that really be a dire situation?” She ground her teeth. “It is Darcy. And he has not proposed. And he seems to have taken a liking to . . . Lady Bridget.”
Both girls made appropriate faces of shock, horror, and disapproval.
“First he asked her to waltz.”
“You waltz with people all the time,” Miss Montague pointed out.
“Yes, but Darcy doesn’t.”
“Oh, right.”
“Then he took her to Rotten Row where anyone—no, everyone—would see them.”
Both girls ooohed appropriately. Then Miss Mulberry said, “Wait, what does this mean?”
“It means we have to do something drastic to make him forget any ridiculous ideas or feelings he might have for Lady Bridget. And then I must get him to propose.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Lady Francesca admitted. “But when I do have an idea, I vow I will act swiftly.”
Chapter 15
Returned sisters: 1
Relieved family members: 4
Explanations of where she has been: 0
Times spent reliving kiss with Darcy: 247
Lady Bridget’s Diary
There were five ladies gathered in the blue drawing room. Claire sat on a chair, reading some mathematical paper whilst sipping tea. Amelia lay on the settee, staring glumly at the ceiling and tormenting them all with her silence. Bridget wrote in her diary. Miss Green embroidered, and the duchess pored over the gossip columns in at least six different newspapers to determine whether Amelia’s escape had been reported.
“The Morning Post reported on your absence at the ball, Amelia,” Josephine said, frowning, holding a copy of the paper. They had to abruptly cancel their appearance at a ball last night, due to Amelia’s absence. They put it about that she had been gravely ill, in her bed, at home. “And The London Weekly is hinting at an exposé,” Josephine said. “I shudder to think what their gossip columnist has dug up. She is ruthless.”
“No one saw me,” Amelia said.
“That you know of,” Josephine said, leveling a stare over the pages of The London Weekly.
“And I didn’t do anything scandalous,” Amelia added.
“Were you out of doors without a chaperone?” Josephine asked, blinking frequently, and they all knew where this was leading.
A staring contest and battle of wills ensued between the duchess and Amelia. It was of more interest than Claire’s mathematical paper or the recording of Bridget’s first real kiss.
“Who do you think will blink first?” Bridget whispered.
“I’m betting on Amelia,” Claire whispered back.
“I don’t know. Josephine has spent decades staring people down,” Bridget whispered.
In the end, it was Amelia who broke. She blinked away a tear or two and turned back to staring at the ceiling. A different Amelia had returned last night: one who was more reserved, more poised, more centered. She had cut her hair. There was an air of something wistful about her.
They were all dying to know where she had been—and with whom, because no one believed that she’d just been on her own—but not a word crossed her lips.
“Claire, what are you reading that has your cheeks positively pink?” the duchess asked.
“Nothing. Just an article from a mathematical journal.”
“Really?” Bridget peered over her shoulder. “Oh. It really is about mathematics. But you have been reading for quite some time and yet you are only on the second page.”
Bridget eyed her sister. Was she woolgathering? Were her daydreams making her blush?
“It is very challenging material,” Claire replied. The duchess just sighed. It was the weary sigh of a woman who had to find husbands for three unconventional and unpolished girls, one of whom was reading a paper on advanced mathematics. For pleasure. “If you are looking for something more interesting, why don’t you ask Bridget what she is writing about in her diary?”
“Her cheeks are also pink,” Amelia noted. “What did you do yesterday, Bridget?”
“I spent the whole afternoon traipsing around London searching for you.”
“In the company of Lord Darcy,” Claire added, with a smug smile.
“Dreadful Loooord Darcy,” Amelia said.
“You know his reputation. You can imagine how tedious the day was. We went to Hyde Park before being caught in a thunderstorm. Then we returned. Nothing remotely interesting occurred.”
This of course was a hideous lie. The most momentous thing had occurred. Darcy had become . . . human. He had become more than a man with a disapproving stare, hurtful words, or the embodiment of propriety. But really, really—and this was what was making her cheeks turn pink—what happened was that she had become aware of him as a man. A tall, dark, and brooding man with pounding heart and a hard chest, who murmured devastating things and kissed her.