Lady Bridget's Diary(80)

On Francesca’s bedside table she found a stack of issues of La Belle Assemblée with pages folded down, presumably on the pages of beautiful dresses she wished to have and would have. There was a small vase of pink tea roses. There were a few conduct books and collections of sermons; Bridget had a few of the same titles. She found a sheet of paper with names written and crossed out; it seemed to be the guest list from the dinner party the other night and the order in which everyone was to go in to supper. So even Lady Francesca didn’t just know everything off the top of her head. She had to look it up and study ahead of time, just like Bridget.

In the drawer she found more books.

“Well, well, well,” Bridget murmured, picking up The Dreadful Duke and The Mad Baron, along with a few other gothic romances. Who would have thought she and Francesca shared a love of the same titles? If only she’d known; they might have had a real conversation or even a real friendship.

She did not find her diary.

It was not under the bed, under the pillows, or in the armoire. It was clearly not on the vanity table, though Bridget took a moment to note all the creams, potions, and face paints there. There was a pot of red rouge, suggesting that Francesca’s lips weren’t usually so red. There was kohl, suggesting that she darkened her lashes. There were creams to lighten spots and even an ointment for warts.

Even though she really ought to hurry, Bridget paused for a moment, looking down at all the evidence that Lady Francesca didn’t wake up flawless. The perfection was carefully applied with lotions and potions.

That meant that perfection—­or something like it—­was attainable for Bridget after all. She could soothe away her imperfections with ointments and creams or disguise them with powders and paints. A little rose oil here, a tighter corset there . . . She could adhere strictly to her reducing diet.

She could improve her skin by staying inside, out of the sun, and applying goopy moisturizing and lightening creams. She could touch up her lashes, redden her lips, pinken her cheeks.

She could spend hours each day putting herself together, having her hair done just so and her face done just right, so she wouldn’t feel bad about herself when she stood next to Lady Francesca.

Or she could enjoy herself, just as she was. She could eat. And feel the sun on her face. And redden her lips by passionately kissing Lord Darcy.

There was really only one choice.

Certain that the diary was not in the bedchamber, Bridget turned to go. Getting upstairs was one thing; now she had to get back outside.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room

The three women laughed heartily for a good long minute at his admission that he wished to read a young woman’s diary for the purpose of improving his understanding of the fairer sex. Darcy died a thousand deaths knowing that these women were going to dine out on this scene for months—­along with all the revelations in Lady Bridget’s diary.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

The butler interrupted just then, for which Darcy would be eternally grateful. That is, until he heard who was calling.

“A Lady Fogbottom is requesting an audience, Lady Francesca.”

Darcy stifled a groan.

“Who?” Lady Francesca was very perplexed. Naturally.

“Lady Fogbottom,” the butler repeated. That he maintained a straight face whilst saying the name twice was laudable indeed.

“Tell her to leave her card.”

The man nodded and returned to the hall, leaving the drawing room doors open.

Oh bloody hell. Darcy did not believe for a second that Lady Fogbottom was calling. He rather suspected that it was Lady Bridget Cavendish, of the American Cavendishes, up to some sort of scheme that could only go awry and create a bigger mess than the one she was already in.

“Now where were we?” Lady Francesca asked, resting her palm on his forearm and gazing into his eyes. “Ah yes, your educational reading material so that you might better understand the mind of a young woman. I cannot imagine why.”

Rather that meet her eye, he looked around the room, seeking a blue leather volume. Nothing.

“Darcy?”

Darcy looked her in the eye and weighed his words carefully. He would do best to just get this over with.

“Perhaps we might have a moment of privacy?”

“Oooh, I bet he’s going to propose,” Miss Mulberry said.

“We’ll just be in the foyer. Eavesdropping,” Miss Montague added.

“I think that we should be clear with one another,” he started, once they were gone. He shifted in his chair. Damn, this seat was uncomfortable.

“You are here for a serious conversation.”

“Am I known for any other kind?”

“Touché,” she replied, unsmiling.