Lady Bridget's Diary(75)

It turned out that he wasn’t perfect after all; he was just a man in love, tortured by lust and terrified of being refused by the woman he loved. Again. For the second bloody time.

He expected to be refused. In fact, he was so certain that she had not revised her opinion that he was shocked to find her on his doorstep at an ungodly early hour the next morning.





Chapter 22


I’m afraid only Darcy can save me now.

Lady Bridget’s innermost thoughts

Bridget had spent a sleepless night in a state of acute heart-­pounding, stomach-­aching anxiety. Her diary was missing, and after a thorough search of the house with the assistance of twelve maids, eight footmen, two sisters, one duke, and even the duchess—­there was no denying it.

Worst of all, she knew what had happened to it. Well, she didn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt but she had her suspicions. And if she was right . . . they would all be ruined. She and her siblings would have to return to America, failures. The duchess wouldn’t be able to face society and would have to retreat to one of her six country estates to live out her days in shame.

With a disaster of this magnitude, Bridget would need help, beyond what her family could provide. There was only one man to turn to. Only one man would certainly just resolve the matter with a minimum of fuss. Only one man could do the Darcy thing where he rode in and issued commands until everything was sorted.

He just so happened to be the last person in the known universe that she wished to ask for help right now. She hadn’t had an opportunity to apologize for misjudging him or to thank him, and now she would have to beg for a favor. But if she didn’t . . . and if the contents of her diary were known . . . she did not think it an overreaction to already deem it The Scandal of the Century.

To be clear, Bridget did not care one whit about everyone knowing the embarrassing things she recorded about herself. No, she was thinking of the things that could ruin the reputations of people she cared about deeply. Amelia. Rupert. Darcy. And for them she would have to swallow her pride and call upon Lord Darcy (even though young unmarried ladies did not call upon gentlemen) and request his assistance in Saving Them All from The Scandal of the Century (even though it was all her fault).

Early the next morning. Very early.

If the butler was shocked to see a young lady on the doorstep, he did not give any indication. It was impressive, that.

Her fears that Darcy would not be at home to her were quickly assuaged. The butler showed her into his study. Though it was early, Darcy was already impeccably dressed and seated at his desk. She noted a cup of coffee near his left hand, along with neatly organized stacks of papers and a small mountain of correspondence.

So this was where he spent his time, being lordly. Stepping into his private chambers—­without a chaperone—­felt so intimate, almost as much as a kiss.

He stood when she entered, and stepped in front of the desk. She searched his gaze for a clue about his feelings but he was as inscrutable as ever. Drat the man.

“Lady Bridget, this is most unusual.”

“But hardly surprising,” she said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said softly. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and given that they hadn’t a moment to waste, she decided to get right to the matter at hand.

“I hope I can still count on your discretion,” she said nervously.

“Of course.” He spoke as if it were that simple. And to him, it was. She knew then that no matter what she did to hurt him, he would never, ever betray her. Because he was good. Because it was the right thing to do. And he always did the right thing. Nothing else mattered.

Her heart cracked open a little then. Was it breaking? Or was that just the love starting to burst out? Whatever it was, it scared her . . . almost as much as the portrait above the mantel that had just caught her eye. Ah, a blessed distraction.

“That is a terrifying portrait,” she remarked, eyeing it warily.

“My father.”

“Oh! I am so sorry for saying he is terrifying,” she said, cursing inwardly. Of course she had to go and say something vaguely insulting when she imposed upon him. “But I do hope that is not his likeness.”

“It is a tame version of it,” Darcy replied dryly. Bridget dared another glance at the furious old lord in the picture.

“Oh my.”

She gazed at Darcy with new eyes now. She could just imagine what it was like growing up with a father who glared menacingly like that. How one would always strive for perfection to avoid that look, to mask one’s feelings, to try to escape notice. Her own father had been laughing and smiling more often than not, and always encouraging his children to think and feel freely. She understood now what Darcy meant when he said he needed her. It hadn’t just been about lust.