Lady Bridget's Diary (24 page)

Chapter 24

The duchess and I have a plan . . . I would write more, if I weren't so terrified that this volume will fall into The Wrong Hands. Again.

Lady Bridget's Diary

B
ridget was informed in no uncertain terms that ladies—­especially Cavendish ladies—­did not hide in their bedchambers whenever something went the slightest bit wrong. While she hardly thought the situation counted as the slightest bit—­she truly believed it was The Scandal of the Century, even if she felt silly saying it aloud—­she was nevertheless done up and on her way to the ball.

“You look beautiful, Bridget,” Claire said, smiling at her younger sister. The duchess had insisted on the blue silk, and it really did flatter her. The color of the silk highlighted the blue of her eyes, and the cut of the dress did marvelous things for her figure.

Even James said she “cleaned up well,” which was high praise from an older brother.

She was glad to be looking her best when facing Lady Francesca, the haute ton, and Darcy. It was only now, at this impossibly late hour, when they were arriving at the ball, that she realized she had never told him “I love you.” He would be making a decision that would influence the course of their entire lives and she hadn't given him that crucial bit of information. She loved him, just as he was.

“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.”

“I know.”

“Modesty, much?”

He grinned. And kissed her again. And wanted
this
to be the moment that lasted forever. Because someone loved him not for his station or status, or any favor he could bestow. It wasn't about money or manners or popularity . . . none of that. She encountered the raw, flawed, aching parts of him and loved him anyway. He knew that she also saw the sacrifices he'd made for those he loved. And accepted them.

It made his heart pound hard in his chest.

Darcy slid his fingers though her hair, cradling her head and kissing her deeply. And she sighed and wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close so that he was hard against her soft, luscious curves, and then he forget about what else might transpire this evening. There was only this moment, with the woman he loved in his arms, sighing with pleasure.

Bridget had said it once:
I love you
. She had said it again:
I love you just the way you are
. She wanted to say it again and again—­but later. Because this kiss . . . oh, this kiss! A girl could get lost in this moment. She could forget the impossible bargain, forget that hundreds of people were just down the hall, forget that this could ruin her.

It would be worth it. This kiss, the feel of his hands caressing her, the heat in her belly, the weakness in her knees . . . it was all worth it.

“I want you to know, no matter what happens tonight . . .” he said, and her heartbeat slowed. It pounded in her breast, heavy and slow, as if bracing itself for bad news. “. . . I think you are beautiful.”

Oh
, she sighed. He kissed her neck.
Oh
, she moaned.

“You are kind, and funny and wonderful. You are just what I need.” His voice was rough. Bridget started to worry that this wasn't a romantic speech but
goodbye.
She tightened her grip on him, grabbing a handful of his shirt fabric. It would be wrinkled horribly and everyone would see it.
Good.
She didn't want to let him go, not even a little, not at all, and especially not when he whispered, “I love you.”

In the dark, they fumbled, finding each other for another kiss.

This kiss was fierce and urgent from the very first second their lips touched. She just knew, from the way he gasped and tasted her and pulled her against him, that he had wanted this, and wanted her, for a long time now. That feeling of being so
wanted
set her afire.

“I love you,” she gasped. “I wish I could tell you all the time.”

What a gift that would be, to be able to tell someone that you loved them any time, whenever the mood struck: at the breakfast table, in the afternoon, late at night, and later still, then early in the morning. And stealing kisses here and there, in the corridor or in the carriage, before calling hours or late at night after a ball.
That
was what she wanted.

And if she couldn't have it—­even now, she still feared she couldn't have it—­then she would revel in this moment when the whole world was shut away and there was nothing but her and the man she loved. She knew him to be a good man, but it so happened that he was more than a little bit wicked after all.

God, he had her up against a
door.
A public door with a few hundred people on the other side of it. In a house that didn't belong to him. Darcy was reminded of this when the sound of someone twisting the knob interrupted them. Even though he had locked it, he pulled Bridget away, darker in the shadows. She tripped on the carpet and stumbled into his chest. Her hands curved around his biceps. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her flush against him.

She writhed a little against his hard cock and he groaned. From there it was the matter of a few stumbling steps before she was lying on the settee and he was gazing down at her.

One more kiss, just on her lips, turned into a dozen more, each one lower and lower. He kept waiting for her to say no, or stop, or some nonsense about ladylike behavior. But the only sounds she made were soft sighs of pleasure.

He tugged down her bodice. She threaded her fingers though his hair, holding him close. Her breasts were gorgeous, full and . . . That was the first crack of his self-­control. He teased the centers of her breasts until they were stiff peaks and then he teased her with his tongue until she was writhing and whispering,
Darcy yes, Darcy more.

His self-­control cracked a little more.

He shifted lower still, pushing aside blasted skirts and petticoats, skimming his hands along silk stockings, past her garters and higher still. And then he kissed her at the soft part between her thighs. She gasped. Then she moaned. And then he kept going.

Oh God. Oh my
God
. Bridget had never imagined this pleasure. With his tongue he teased her, taunted her. Darcy—­Darcy!—­was doing the most wicked things with his mouth to her most achingly sensitive place.

He slid one finger inside; her core tightened and her breath caught. She couldn't breathe. Yes, this. She wanted so much, so badly. Her hips moved of their own volition, finding a rhythm and moving with him. And the sounds she made—­she didn't recognize them.

None of it compared to sensations building within her. There was the heat in her belly, an unrelenting tension. There was pressure—­ever increasing, spiraling almost out of control pressure. The things he did with his mouth . . . his hands . . . his fingers . . . She arched up off the settee, crying out.

And that was only the beginning.

Gentlemen did not ravish young women on flimsy bits of furniture. So Darcy pulled Bridget down to the plush carpet with him. He pulled her into his arms. There were kisses. The soft rustle of fabric being pushed out of the way. There were moments he just breathed her in. And then there was the way her hips rocked against him. She arched her back, pressing her hips against his hard cock.

Never mind where they were and all the rules they were breaking. They were in love. And when she said things like “I want you, make me yours,” even
his
self-­control shattered.

When her hand brushed against his breeches and fumbled with the buttons, even he could not restrain himself. He touched her and found her wet, ready.

“Bridget . . .”

She kissed him. And whispered one word. “Yes.”

Bridget looked up at him in the dark, recognizing the intensity of his gaze and the depths of his wanting. His blatant desire for her sparked a surge of her own.
Yes, Darcy. More, Darcy. Cannot get enough, Darcy.

Stupid bits of fabric were moved out of the way—­his breeches, her skirts—­and she longed to feel his bare skin against her own. Perhaps another time . . . when they weren't at risk of discovery . . .

She sighed at the sensation of his weight bearing down on her. But that was nothing compared to the feeling of him, hard and hot, there. She felt him slide inside her, inch by tantalizing inch, giving her time to adjust. But she didn't want to wait and she didn't want to go slow. Darcy then began to move inside her and the whole world was reduced to her, to him, and to this moment when they became one.

Oh God. He thrust into her once, twice, then he lost count, lost his head completely and just allowed himself to feel. There was lust, burning-­up-­need-­more-­more-­more lust. But there was also love . . . like a profound connection, like . . . like he didn't even know. It just felt right. And intense. And everything.

Heart pounding. Moving inside her. Frantic, fumbling kisses.

A cry. A shout. A sigh.

A kiss. His heart was slowly beginning to resume something like a normal pace. She lay in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest. His cravat was . . . somewhere. His attire would be wrinkled, to say nothing of the damage he had done to her hair and gown.