Darcy motioned to the footman for more wine.
“Congratulations. Shall we have champagne to celebrate?” Lady Wych Cross inquired. Then, dropping her voice, she asked, “Or were the offers unsuitable?”
“The offer was suitable, though my sister is undecided on the gentleman in question,” James said.
Darcy wouldn’t meet her gaze. This could be interpreted only one way, she thought. He was mortified to have proposed to her and lived in a holy terror that the ton should find out, especially Francesca.
Bridget drained the wine in her glass.
Josephine gave her another look of dismay. True Ladies did not overimbibe at the dinner table.
“And the other one? You made it sound like you had a few.”
“My other offer was unsuitable,” Bridget said.
“Most unsuitable,” Amelia agreed.
“Very unsuitable,” Claire added.
“I think you should have accepted one of your offers,” James said with a pointed look at her, while tipping his head in Darcy’s direction. Gad, her brother had the subtlety of an invading army. She would never confide in him again.
“What is done is done,” Bridget snapped.
Darcy took another sip of wine.
“It is deplorable how long girls are taking to wed these days,” said Lady Wych Cross.
“Is it the fault of the ladies for refusing proposals or the gentlemen for not offering?” Josephine asked, with a pointed look at James.
“Who says the gentlemen do not offer?” James inquired.
“Perhaps they do not make attractive offers,” Amelia said. “Perhaps they natter on about all the wrong things.”
Well, Amelia was reading her diary again. Bridget would probably murder her after supper.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” Lady Wych Cross declared. “It is these newfangled, foolish notions of marrying for love instead of sensible reasons like lineage, connections, or how one will be supported. Far too many girls are led astray by irrational and lofty ideas about romance and whatnot. Now we have young men and women unwed, causing all sorts of trouble.”
“And how happy were you in your marriage, Lady Wych Cross?” Bridget asked.
“Bridget . . .” the duchess warned.
“Oh, Duchess, let the girl ask her impertinent questions,” Lady Wych Cross said. “Marriage is not about happiness, girl. It is for the purpose of accumulating wealth, prestige, and passing it to the next generation. It’s utterly foolish to enter a marriage without considering such things. Happiness has little to do with it. Love, even less.”
Darcy had said as much in his mangled, insulting proposal to her. It was impossible not to glance at him, quickly, though, so he would not catch her looking. She saw that he had developed a sudden fascination with a silver spoon. It so happened that hers was quite interesting as well. She would have to compliment her hostess on her silverware.
“Perhaps some people do not wish a lifetime of misery whilst accumulating wealth they will not even get to enjoy and titles that serve no purpose whatsoever other than to make a parade out of walking in to dinner,” Bridget replied.
“Of course the Americans would say that,” Lady Francesca said dismissively with her sharp little laugh that felt like it could cut glass.
“I may not know all your silly rules, but I do know who won the war,” Bridget said, pointedly, with reddened cheeks. She’d had enough discussion of her prospects—or lack thereof. She’d had enough of being made to feel foolish for who she was: American, interested in love, impertinent. “Excuse me,” she said, and quit the table.
She could not get to the foyer fast enough. From there she would inquire about the ladies’ retiring room. Or perhaps she should just take the carriage home and send it back for her family. She just needed to be alone.
Heavy footfalls sounded behind her, echoing on the marble tiled floor.
“Bridget.”
She knew that voice. That low voice that issued orders, that expected to be obeyed, and that also made heat pool in her belly. She stopped, but required a moment of deep, controlled breathing before she could turn around and face Lord Darcy.
Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.
Darcy still wanted her. Wanted her with yearning that shocked him. And he was finished with trying to fight it.
Bridget had had multiple offers of marriage, both of which were unsuitable and one of which was his. His competitive instincts had flared—and were promptly drowned with wine.
Bridget who, he now realized, cared nothing of wealth, status, duty to one’s title, etc., etc. All the things he had been raised to care for above all else.
She cared only for love.
How modern. How American. How luxurious.