Lady Bridget's Diary by Maya Rodale

duchess’s strange logic.
    â€œIs it really necessary to dance every dance?” Amelia lamented whilst she took a much needed break to sip lemonade and stand on the sidelines. “My feet are in agonies.”
    â€œYes. It keeps you out of trouble,” the duchess said crisply. “And it keeps you where I can see you.”
    â€œYou are very clever,” Bridget said. The duchess smiled, too polite to say, I know , even if she was thinking it.
    â€œWe’ve been trying to keep her out of trouble for years, to no avail,” Claire said.
    Bridget then noticed Looord Darcy nearby, doing his best impression of the pillar he stood next to. Which was to stay, he stood straight, tall, and still, as if he were a marble statue. She admitted, privately to herself, that he would be a handsome statue. His expression was equally stony; he stared directly ahead.
    â€œI don’t understand why Lord Darcy even bothers to attend parties,” Bridget said. “He doesn’t seem to enjoy them.”
    â€œBecause it’s what one does,” the duchess replied, which was her answer to most of the Cavendish questions about why morning calls were done in the afternoon, or why an earl went in to supper before a viscount.
    Bridget looked back at Darcy and wondered what he would do if he didn’t have to do the done thing.
    He happened to glance at her in that moment, while she was regarding him intensely. Oh, curses! He would think she was interested in him or something to that effect, and she certainly was not.
    But then why couldn’t she bring herself to look away from those dark eyes? Why did her gaze travel down to his mouth, always so firm and yet . . . No, she did not think it was a sensual mouth. And why, then, did she feel a heat start to unfurl in her belly? Why could she feel a telltale blush stealing across her cheeks?
    And why wasn’t he looking away?

    By Friday, Darcy had had enough.
    The Americans had thoroughly invaded England, the haute ton, and his life, even though Darcy had done his best to avoid them. They were in attendance at nearly every soiree. He saw the ladies at the opera and he frequently saw the duke riding in Hyde Park during the early morning hour when no one was out, save for gentlemen who wanted a good ride and some peace and quiet.
    There were endless mentions of them in the newspapers that his butler ironed each morning and placed at the breakfast table.
    One American in particular plagued him especially: Lady Bridget. And it was through no fault of her own.
    â€œI quite enjoy the company of Lady Bridget,” Rupert said, apropos of nothing, at the breakfast table one morning.
    Darcy barely glanced up from the newspaper. There was an important article on a divisive issue in Parliament. He would need to be prepared to speak at length on it today.
    â€œI really feel that I can be myself with her,” Rupert continued. Darcy had no idea what that even meant. He sipped his coffee. Black. Unsweetened.
    A day or two later, Darcy watched as his brother and Bridget waltzed together at a ball. Rupert was an excellent dancer, for he had dancing instruction while Darcy was ensconced in the library with their father, learning how to balance account books.
    Bridget was not an excellent dancer, but she seemed to be having more fun than anyone else. She was genuinely smiling, laughing at whatever Rupert was saying, and her cheeks were pink in a way that someone would have deemed pleasant or even fetching if someone were in the habit of using such words.
    Even Darcy couldn’t stifle certain thoughts that occurred to him. He was a red-­blooded man with a pulse, and so of course he wondered if she would be so unabashedly enthusiastic in bed. If that blush weren’t confined to her cheeks, but lower . . . His gaze had dropped, taking in the creamy expanse of skin and the swell of her breasts.
    Then he schooled his features into one of his