Lady Bridget's Diary(81)
“We have known each other for quite some time,” he said. They practically grew up together, in fact. “And we have had an understanding for the past season or two. And it is now time for me to make my intentions clear.”
“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly. God, he’d given her the wrong idea. He was terrible at proposing and at not-proposing. And people thought he was perfect. Ha.
“Lady Francesca, if there are other suitors you admire, I think you should encourage them.”
It took her a moment for the truth to sink in. He had always prided himself on being reliable, and now he was letting down a woman who had been counting on him. Not to mention angering his good friend. He did not want to marry her, but he also did not like having to have this conversation.
“Do you mean to say that I should not expect a proposal from you?”
“I’m afraid not, Lady Francesca.”
“Does Fox know about this?”
“I have not spoken to him, no.” Of course he had not found the time to mention to Fox, an expert swordsman, champion boxer, and crack shot that he would not, after all, marry his sister as planned. “I thought I would speak to you first.”
“Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. You have not seemed yourself lately.”
“Yes, well, I have been doing some thinking.”
“About a certain American girl, I suppose,” she said witheringly.
Speaking of a certain American girl, he saw a flash of something—someone—in the hall. Probably Lady Bridget, in the midst of a scheme that would only make things worse. Fortunately Lady Francesca was angled away from the doors.
Darcy might have felt a flare of panic, not that anyone would ever know because he always took care to appeal inscrutable. He did not wish to discuss any Americans with her, but he was at a loss for what to discuss with Lady Francesca during the most awkward social call in the history of social calls. He had a hunch that he needed to distract her for a little longer while Bridget finished up whatever trouble she was currently engaged in.
“No, nothing like that,” he lied. Then, inspiration struck. “I am very focused on my work in Parliament. Allow me to tell you about it.”
Meanwhile, in the library
Bridget had lingered at the top of the stairs while Miss Mulberry and Miss Montague eavesdropped shamelessly outside the doors to the drawing room.
“Oh, he’s not proposing,” Miss Mulberry said with unconcealed boredom.
“How dreadful. Let us take our leave. We can go buy that cunning little hat we saw on Bond Street yesterday.”
“Let’s! I’ll wear it Tuesdays and Thursdays . . .”
They chattered away, determining a schedule for the sharing of the most cunning little hat while donning their bonnets and gloves. Finally, they left. The butler returned to his pantry, the very same one where she had done wicked things with Darcy. The foyer was empty.
Bridget had managed to dash downstairs undetected. She had sought refuge in the library, with doors just opposite those to the drawing room, but now she was trapped. Trapped! The butler was in the foyer, near the door, doing butler-y things, and blocking her exit. Further complicating matters, the drawing room doors were open and she could see Darcy and Francesca in there. She could hear them. He was droning on about Parliament. She listened for a moment before dismissing it as the dullest thing she’d ever heard.
She examined her options and found a second set of double doors that led to another room, which also opened into the foyer.
Perhaps she could create a distraction that would draw the butler’s attention. Then she could sneak out and resume her place in the carriage and act as if she’d been there all along. It was the perfect plan.
Bridget glanced around and looked for something breakable. She passed over the porcelain figurines on the mantel, or the full decanter of brandy, or the lovely china teacup left out, suggesting that someone would be back soon. Oh my Lord, someone would be here soon!
Bridget looked around wildly and her attention settled on a rather unremarkable and plain vase of flowers. She picked it up and crept into the adjacent room. Then she softly opened the doors to the foyer. Then, after raising the vase high above her head, she brought it crashing down on the marble floor.
Meanwhile, in the drawing room
Francesca managed to appear vaguely interested in his deliberately tedious description of his current reform projects in Parliament. This was why she would make an excellent political wife. But he had since reprioritized.
“Darcy, darling,” she interrupted after a good ten minutes. “If we are being honest with each other, you should know that I haven’t the slightest interest in your work in Parliament.”