Lady Bridget's Diary(55)
Oh bloody hell, she wanted to mutter. But she did not, because a True Lady did not use such language. Not even in moments like these.
Darcy turned and walked away. A small part of him was actually relieved for the interruption. Something was happening between Lady Bridget and him and . . . it could not.
He had to think of Rupert.
He had to think of the expectations of a man of his station and position. And the intentions he’d indicated toward another woman already.
Lady Francesca.
He took a second to ensure that anything he might be feeling was smothered and stuffed into a box deep inside. Then, his expression inscrutable, he made his way to face Lady Francesca. She did not look pleased. They’d known each other for an age, and he’d never seen her like this. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect that she was angry with him. Was she jealous of “one of those provincial Americans,” as she called them? It seemed preposterous.
“I thought it only polite to waltz with the hostess,” he replied to the accusation in her eyes.
“Will you waltz with all four of the hostesses, the duchess included?” Lady Francesca inquired. “That I would like to see.” She threw back her head and laughed.
He heard not the amusement but the bitterness. And it reminded him of his father, laughing at him for making mistakes. That laugh took him back . . . back . . . though he stood in this ballroom as a man of three and thirty, he felt like a thirteen-year-old boy, chastised. Nothing was more effective at putting him in his place than mocking laughter—not beatings, not even nights without supper.
It went without saying it was not a point in his life he was keen to revisit. It occurred to him that if he married her, he would hear that laugh again and again, for the rest of his life. The prospect made his throat feel tight, as if his valet had tied his cravat too tightly.
But if he did not care to hear that laugh, if he was not going to wed Lady Francesca . . . Darcy’s heart started to pound as he followed that thought to its logical (illogical?) conclusion: he would be free to marry Lady Bridget.
That was, if he were to steal her from his brother, who needed her.
He spied her through the crowds. She was dancing again, and smiling, and laughing. This time she was dancing with Rupert.
Chapter 17
Last night I waltzed with Darcy, who does not dance. Of course he was probably being polite. He is nothing if not polite. It certainly couldn’t signify something else, could it?
Lady Bridget’s Diary
The ball was not quite the smashing success that the duchess had hoped for. Oh, it had been so well attended that the ballroom was at capacity. The guests had nothing but compliments for their hostesses. But the papers the next day did not report on any of that. After all, news of a successful ball paled in comparison to even a hint of scandal.
“The London Weekly is reporting that Amelia was seen quaffing an excess of champagne,” Josephine said with a frown at Amelia, who, this morning, most certainly did appear to have consumed an inordinate amount the night before. Her complexion was wan and she was not her usual animated self. “When she wasn’t quaffing champagne,” the duchess read, “she was seen shooting daggers with her eyes at Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones, the vaguely disreputable heir to Baron Wrotham.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Amelia muttered. “One cannot shoot daggers with their eyes.”
“It’s not I that am talking about it, but rather The London Weekly and thus the entire town. My only consolation is that they are not speaking about your mysterious illness.”
“The Morning Post is,” Claire said, peering up from a different newssheet. “The Man About Town says that Lady Amelia appears to have made a remarkable recovery from her grave and sudden illness.” Then she read from the column. “In fact, the lady looked as if she had a spent a day out of doors rather than a day on her deathbed.”
“If only they could see you now,” Bridget teased. “You look incredibly ill.”
Amelia halfheartedly swatted at her.
“Sisters,” James groaned. He, too, seemed to have consumed an inordinate amount of spirits the previous evening. “What did I ever do to deserve three sisters?”
“Oh, you are not off the hook. Your Grace,” Claire said, smiling devilishly. James scowled; he hated when his sisters addressed him formally. “His Grace crushed the hopes of many a young maiden by waltzing twice with Miss Meredith Green, companion to the duchess, while eligible young ladies languished on the sidelines.”
“I wanted Miss Green to have a pleasant evening,” James said.