Lady Bridget's Diary(86)

“Now tonight,” the duchess began, drawing her charges in closer, “we will abandon our usual plans to mingle with suitors.”

“I never thought you’d say so.” Claire sighed happily.

“We are to ensure that Lady Francesca holds her tongue. James, you’ll need to claim at least two dances with her. We’ll enlist some other gentlemen to keep her similarly occupied. The rest of us will need to hover over her, shamelessly eavesdropping on her conversations and prepared to intervene, if necessary.”

“By any means necessary?” Amelia inquired.

Josephine replied immediately. “Whatever it is you’re thinking—­no. Just no.”

They began with an ambush at the lemonade table, where Lady Francesca stood conversing with Miss Mulberry, Miss Montague, and a few others. Josephine engaged Lady Wych Cross in one of their insult-­laden conversations whilst James enacted the first part of their plan.

“Lady Francesca. May I have the honor of a waltz this evening?”

She looked between him and the rest of the Cavendish clan. She was not stupid and seemed to suspect something. But young, handsome, eligible dukes were never to be refused.

“Of course, Your Grace. I would be honored.”

He penciled in his name on her dance card. Twice.

“Until then,” he said, with a perfunctory bow.

“I am looking forward to it,” she murmured with a devilish smile.

James turned away and muttered to Bridget, “The things I do for my sisters.”

She patted his arm affectionately. “There, there. It is a difficult task being a young, handsome, healthy, wealthy gentleman with a loving family. But somehow you manage, James. Somehow.”

And thus began the second part of their plan: the Great Hovering of 1824.

While Lady Francesca conversed with her friends at the lemonade table, Bridget and her sisters lingered nearby, sipping champagne and obviously eavesdropping on her conversation lambasting the fashion choices of half the ladies of the ton.

When Lady Francesca stepped out for air on the terrace with Lord Ponsonby, there was the Cavendish family, also desperately in need of fresh air. Bridget wondered if it were possible to push them both into the bushes, then discover them in a compromising position, thus forcing them to marry.

“Whatever you are contemplating—­no. Just no,” Josephine said, again.

When Lady Francesca took a trip to the ladies’ retiring room, Bridget and her sisters found they needed to do so as well. Funny, that.

“I daresay this is the most fun I have had at a ball,” Amelia said as they returned to the ballroom at a respectable pace behind Lady Francesca. “If only we had thought of this sooner.”

“Speak for yourself. I am a nervous wreck,” Bridget muttered.

“Have you seen Darcy yet?” Claire asked in a low voice.

“No,” she said darkly, with a Darcy-­esque scowl.

No, she had not seen Darcy yet. And that was causing acute problems in the region of her heart. There were things she needed to say (namely, that she loved him) and things she needed to hear (oh, what choice he made). Their fates would be decided tonight and he wasn’t even here. Anxiety mingled with annoyance, longing tangled with heartache. And so she decided: she would slip away and find him.



Darcy had only just arrived—­late, he hated being late—­and he hadn’t even entered the ballroom when he encountered Bridget in the foyer. She looked beautiful in that blue dress. Breathtaking, really. The minute he laid eyes on her, he knew. He knew what he had to do, what had to happen. A sense of urgency overwhelmed him.

“Come with me,” he said, taking her arm and ushering her away from the ballroom, away from the crowds, away from the scandal that awaited them.

“Good evening to you, too,” she said.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I have to tell you—­”

“Shh.”

Just a few more steps and they were at Lord Esterhazy’s library. Darcy opened the door, ushered in Bridget, and when he was certain they were alone, he shut the door.

And locked it.

“What is—­”

Things gentlemen did not do: interrupt a lady when she was speaking. But he could not wait a second longer to kiss her. He, the master of self-­control, could hold back no longer. He needed to taste her, to feel her, to know her. With her back against the door, and blocking her in with his large frame, he kissed her.

She tasted sweet, like champagne. Her lips were soft. Her body warm and tempting. If he could have one thing, one moment, forever, it would be this one stolen moment.

“I have to tell you something,” she gasped. He paused, heart pounding. “I love you,” she said simply. “I love you just the way you are.”