“You have no idea how interesting,” Bridget said. She took a deep breath, as much as she was able. She stood up straight, as Josephine had instructed her to (or nagged, really). She ignored the pounding of her heart and the dampness of her palms; instead she thought about love and happiness and summoned every last ounce of courage she possessed.
“Actually I have an announcement to make,” Bridget said loudly, which stole all the attention. “And I do believe I outrank you, Lady Francesca, so I shall go first.”
She found Josephine’s face in the crowd; the duchess’s look of pride and satisfaction gave her the encouragement she needed. Then she looked for Darcy. She saw Rupert with him, too. Both brothers nodded at her. Go on, they seemed to say.
“Good evening, everyone. I am Lady Bridget Cavendish, of the American Cavendishes. I am also known as the girl who fell . . . in love.” She paused, as there was a ripple of kind laughter through the room. “I wrote all about it in my diary, as a young lady is wont to do. And it so happens that my diary has fallen into the clutches of a person with . . . unladylike intentions. Someone threatens to reveal all my innermost secrets to embarrass me.”
Here Bridget paused as a shocked, collective murmur stole through the crowd.
“But you see, I may not be very good at walking across a ballroom without falling on my backside, or remaining in a rowboat without crashing into the water, but I am quite good at embarrassing myself in public.”
There was more laughter. Was it friendly or mocking? She could not be sure. This was a terrible idea. This was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. But she could not stop.
But then her gaze found Darcy.
And she felt even more nervous. Because, as usual, he was gazing at her with that dark intensity. Watching her now the way he’d watched her at all the other balls . . . with devotion. Purpose. He hadn’t disapproved at all, she realized. He’d been captivated. That realization kept her going.
“I wrote about how I struggled to fit in here: everything from my inability to learn French and the pianoforte to how I didn’t know when I was allowed to walk in to supper. I wanted so badly to belong here. I also wrote about falling in love.” Here she paused not just for dramatic effect but to catch her breath. “With Lord Darcy.”
She dared to look at him. She couldn’t look away, really. After all, what she was about to say wasn’t for the benefit of the ballroom, but for him. There just happened to be a few hundred people listening in.
“It turns out that he is not as dreadful as I once thought. In fact, he is not dreadful at all. He is the best man I know. He will do anything for other people’s happiness. But I would like the chance to make him happy.”
It was just as well that Francesca interrupted then, as Bridget really did not know what else to say. She had been counting on Darcy to step forward and declare his everlasting love, or propose, or something that made the risk worthwhile.
“I cannot believe this. You can’t possibly make her your countess.”
The way Francesca said “her” revealed so much more: her, the clumsy girl who fell; her, the woman prone to public displays of mortification; her, the girl who didn’t know the ins and outs and roundabouts of English high society; her, the girl who was always making a cake of herself.
Finally, thank God, finally Darcy said something in that low, powerful I-am-the-lord-and-master voice.
“I can make her my countess. And I will.”
The crowd erupted in noise then—gasps and aws and “Can you believe it?” And “Did he just say . . . ?” If she weren’t so keen to hear what he would say next, Bridget might have swooned.
“When I first learned that a pack of horse-farming orphans from the colonies would be inheriting one of our finest and most prestigious dukedoms, I shared the same sentiment as many in this room: disappointment, dismay, and a morbid curiosity to watch this family stumble and fall. And indeed, I watched them stumble. And fall.”
Bridget bit her lip.
“And then I watched as Lady Bridget—and her family—stood back up, and endeavored to make the best of what must have been a trying situation with hope and humor. The more time I spent with them, the more I was reminded of what truly matters. Family. And love.”
It seemed so very hard to believe that Darcy was standing up and saying such things in front of, oh, the entire haute ton. The man who said very little and certainly nothing about emotions. The man who was always right was confessing that he sometimes made mistakes. And the man spoke to just a few hundred of the finest, most prestigious, and snobby families in the country. Just a gathering of people who had dismissed her and her family out of hand. But Darcy saw her, really saw her, and liked her just as she was and wanted everyone to know it.