Lady Bridget's Diary(58)

“Hello, Rupert.” She smiled and thought she sounded coy and womanly. Or not.

“Hello, Rupert,” Amelia mimicked softly. Bridget smiled and made a point of stepping on her sister’s foot. “Ow!”

“Lord Darcy.” Bridget nodded.

“Lady Bridget.” He did not smile.

“Have you saved a dance or two for me?” Rupert asked, leaning over to glance at her dance card. “I hope so.”

“I daresay I have,” Bridget said.

“If I may have the pleasure . . .” Rupert penciled in his name to not one, but two dances.

He smiled.

She smiled.

Darcy did not smile, not even when Bridget looked at him. For a moment she thought that he might ask her for a dance. A long moment. A long, awkward moment, full of agonies. But there was no offer forthcoming. Well then.

Any hurt feelings were soothed when Rupert lifted her hand to his lips and promised to see her soon. He took a few steps before Darcy joined him, which meant there was a moment when Darcy gazed at Bridget as if he wished to say something.

But he only gave her a perfunctory nod and joined his brother.

That kiss, then, meant nothing. They would never speak of it and it would never happen again. Well then.

Rather than delve into an examination of her innermost thoughts and feelings pertaining to Darcy, Bridget fixated all her attentions on Rupert.

During their first waltz they chattered away . . . except for the moments when she happened to see Darcy. Standing against the wall. Like a wallflower. Glowering. Honestly, she could not understand the man. What did he have to be so morose about? Was life really so difficult for a handsome, wealthy, powerful man who knew how to kiss a woman until she was weak in the knees?

She would be so bold as to ask him, but he kept his distance. Even so, she was still aware of his attentions fixed upon her. He watched her as she muddled her way through the quadrille with Rupert. His gaze was dark as she returned from a stroll on the terrace with Rupert. She was aware of his eyes on her as she and Rupert made their way through the crowds to the lemonade table. She caught his gaze, dark, while taking a sip. Her hand shook and she spilled a little on her dress.

Still, he watched, his expression dark and thunderous. He must disapprove of her . . . with Rupert.

I find myself drawn to Darcy now, ever so curious as to what he is thinking or, dare I say it, feeling.

Lady Bridget’s Diary

Darcy had done his best to avoid her all evening. Rupert had received another letter from the blackmailer and thus was more determined than ever to put a stop to it—­and to make any rumors seem absolutely implausible. His life depended on it. So he wooed and courted Bridget.

And Darcy watched, dying.

He saw that they would be happy together. Rupert did genuinely seem to like her. And her adoration of him was all too apparent. They laughed together frequently. Anyone could see how they were at ease in each other’s company. If he cared for them both, he would stay away and banish all memories of a heart-­stopping kiss in a rainstorm. He would take his lust and shove it deep down inside, along with the other feelings he refused to feel.

Later, much later in the evening, he found himself standing with her and his brother.

“Is anything the matter, Loooord Darcy?”

He wanted to smile at the way she drawled out his name. But he was only reminded that the one woman who dared to speak to him like a human was going to marry his brother. That wasn’t amusing at all.

“No,” he said flatly.

Yes. Everything. You are pretty.

“Because you seem very . . .” Rupert’s voice trailed off as he searched for precisely the right word to describe the inner turmoil inadvertently revealed in his expression.

“Morose,” Bridget said.

“I daresay I would go with dour,” Rupert replied, thoughtfully.

“Or perhaps broody,” Bridget said, evaluating him.

“I know! Cantankerous,” Rupert suggested with a little too much glee.

“Only very old men are cantankerous,” Bridget said. “And Darcy isn’t quite there. Yet.”

“Good point. Despondent?” Rupert mused. “But then what does my dear brother have to be despondent about?”

“The trials and tribulations of being a wealthy, titled, respected, handsome man,” Bridget said with a sigh.

She thought him handsome. Also, he loved the rise and fall of her breasts when she sighed. Somehow that only made him feel worse.

“I am none of the above,” he snapped.

“You are not wealthy, titled, respected, or handsome?” Bridget asked, being deliberately obtuse.

“I am not morose, dour, broody, or cantankerous.”

But he was. He was tortured with lust for Bridget. He was agonizing over his self-­sacrifice, denying his desires for the sake of his brother’s need to take a wife with whom he’d probably enjoy a long, amiable marriage, while Darcy burned with lust for his sister-­in-­law.