These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Nicole Clarkston

  Her eyes filled with tears again. “Nor, I, meu amor27.” She sniffed and lifted daring fingers to caress his cheek, one last time. “Vou ter saudades tuas28,” she choked. She closed her eyes then, blocking out the pain of seeing him kiss her hand, watching him rise without looking back, and beholding the door as it closed behind him.

  “Amália,” she felt him cup her chin, felt his thumb stroke over her cheekbone, and opened her eyes. The pleading look upon his face nearly shattered her heart. It was too cruel that he should still be there, begging for her blessing in bidding her farewell! Had she not already given it? He cradled her face in both hands now, those soft brown eyes gazing up into her own.

  “Amália, minha flor29—do you remember when I used to call you that?”

  A breath swelled in her bosom, a wistful smile threatened, and she nodded as the tears spilled down her lashes.

  “I would do so again, and every day forever. I have not come to see you depart from me! I came to bring you this.” He bent and withdrew a small box from his coat, then opened it before her eyes. Within was a white band, sprinkled delicately with clear diamonds, and crowned with a golden gem. Its shade was both soft and warm, like the buttercups he had given her the day they had met. Amália stared in wonder. She had never seen another like it.

  “It is a yellow diamond,” he explained. “I know it is not the most valuable I could have chosen, but it made me think of you.”

  She was shaking her head, biting her lips together and blinking away the tears. “I cannot, Richard! We both know I cannot, and nor can you. Your father would never approve.”

  He smiled, that dashing, laughing smile she knew from former days. “This ring,” he lifted it from the box, “is from the Countess of Matlock’s personal collection. It once belonged to Lady Georgina—my great-aunt and Darcy’s grandmother—and upon her death it was returned to the Fitzwilliam family. My mother wore it, and now, I give it to you.”

  “Richard, I do not understand,” she objected softly. “It is impossible, have we not always agreed? Would not your position be threatened by—”

  “Amália, my love, I had determined to speak before I received word of my brother. I planned for us to return to Portugal together, to stay there the rest of our lives.”

  “You… you would do that?” She tilted her head in disbelief, brushing her ear against the hand that caressed her cheek. “But you cannot now. Your family needs you.”

  “I certainly can do so. There is no law compelling me to accept my father’s title. Addington refused an earldom ten years ago.”

  “Not to marry a Catholic widow,” she reminded him quietly.

  “No, certainly not, but it frightened my father enough that he agreed to support me. He has already lost Reginald, and when I told him that I would refuse any lady but you, that the earldom would die with him and that I would remain in the army to my death, he relented. My mother, too, is too grieved to stand against me now. I know it is unjust of me to play against their sympathies so, but it is done, and I do not regret it. Moreover,” he stroked his thumb along the edge of her jaw, “they are most eager to meet the woman who defied their enemies to free Darcy.”

  “But Richard,” she protested, refusing to even look on the ring he held out to her, “you have told me before. There would be… política30. He does have rivals, no? I would bring shame to your house!”

  “It would not be a popular marriage,” he confessed. “I do not pretend we would be without hardship, but nothing could be half so agonising as to lose you again. I have grieved over this for years—I know what you will face in the ton, and it will be brutal. I could never dare to ask it of you before, but perhaps now I shall carry just enough prestige to make it bearable for you. Can you endure it?”

  “It is not for myself that I am concerned. Your family, they will suffer as well, no?”

  “I told you this ring was a gift from my mother, and my father has been arguing for Emancipation for years. They are not best pleased, it is true, but our union is not without its charms for them. Your father is of noble lineage, and I have not yet told you about your dowry.”

  “Dowry? It was spent, long ago—”

  “Not the one given by your father, but the one you won by your own courage. Darcy wishes for you to have that deed that has remained hidden all these years. He thought yours the most proper hands for it to fall into.”

  She shivered. “I do not want it.”

  “Nor do I, but my father, after some reflection, considered it a macabre sort of poetic justice. I thought we could place it in the care of your brother. Oh, my love, I received a letter today!”

  She stiffened. “About Ruy? Oh, Richard, does my father write? Please, you must tell me!”

  “No, it is from General Cotton’s aide. I have my connections,” he smiled, then withdrew the letter from his breast pocket. “He wrote that the charges against your brother were dismissed. There were sufficient witnesses to verify that he defended a lady against an armed assailant, and that your father arrived in time to testify in his favour. It seems that your father then wrote a scathing denouncement of the Vasconcelos family, as well as Pereira, the dead man. Your brother,” he was grinning by now as he re-folded the note, “should already be in Porto to resume his leave.”

  Amália was trembling with joy, relief, and pride. “Ruy! Oh, Richard!” She instinctively sought to hide her tears, to cover her face, and she found her cheek pressed against his shoulder. His gentle hand was stroking her hair, and his soothing voice in her ears.

  “Minha flor,” he murmured, “I will take you back to see them as soon as I may, but promise me that I shall not sail away this time without you. I do not think I could survive it! I beg of you, permit me to remain forever with you, or come back to England with me. Do not permit an ocean to part us again!”

  She drew her arms about his neck and held him—held him near to her heart, as she had yearned for so long. She nodded into his shoulder, the joyous tears wetting his coat. “All the winds in the sails could not tear me from you.”

  She felt him sigh in deepest relief, and his head tipped to rest upon hers as he pulled her closer. “I know we must wait a year,” he continued, his voice thick with regret. “I hope you will spend part of that year here with me in England.”

  A tearful, joyous laugh shook her, and she lifted her head. “Do you think I might attend Senhor Darcy and Senhorita Bennet’s marriage?”

  “I would insist upon it. Elizabeth Darcy will be your first ally in the ton. Though not without her own obstacles, I have faith that there is one lady whose courage will rise to the challenge.” His brow clouded, and he tipped her chin to look into her eyes. “We have not yet settled where we will live. Is it your wish that I remain with you in Portugal? I would, if you desired it. Whom would you marry—the soldier, or the earl’s son? Neither will be an easy man to choose.”

  “I choose Richard, whatever he is.” She drew back enough to gaze into the eyes she had dreamed of for so long, then lifted a possessive, loving hand to that square jaw she had thought never to caress again. “Eu amo-te3130, Richard Fitzwilliam, meu amor. My heart and life are yours.”

  The flesh around his eyes crinkled with delight. “And mine belong to you, my flower!”

  No more words were spoken, for their tender expressions and sweet assurances found voice instead in gentle kisses and a secure, loving embrace. Amália clasped her love close to her heart, safe and cherished at last, and promising to never again let him go.

  71

  London

  The marriage of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet drew a remarkable audience of notables back to London early that summer. While the couple had desired a simple, quick ceremony, the fascination of Mr Darcy of Pemberley, returned from the dead and engaged to a woman of no family, had drawn enough speculation that a formal courtship period, culminating in a full Society event, was deemed necessary.

  The bride was instantly su
spect for not wearing enough lace, but only laughed when this deficiency was pointed out to her by one Miss Caroline Bingley. The groom, it was noted, smiled more readily upon his wedding day than any had before known him to do, and not a few sage heads were shaken over Fitzwilliam Darcy’s questionable state of mind after the mysterious affairs of the previous winter.

  Presiding at the auspicious occasion was the Earl of Matlock, a softer-spoken and less officious gentleman than he had been in former days. The hanging of his son’s murderer seemed to have depleted him, though he had become a tyrant in the House of Lords for certain religious causes of late. The countess, elegant in her mourning attire, demurely graced her husband’s arm and extended every courtesy to the new bride. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, however, frowned censure upon those impudent enough to express joy at the occasion, and was heard to comment once or twice about the great shade trees at Pemberley withering from some pollution.

  Drawing the most attention, however, was the new Viscount Matlock. His name had been linked in whispers with both his fair cousins, and a number of hopeful debutantes looked with admiration on his fine person and generous prospects. The talk of him escalated to a tempest when it was noted that his gaze rested frequently upon a foreign widow; an honoured guest of the wedding party and an apparent intimate of the countess, as well as the bride.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped aside as the wedding breakfast drew to a close, sighing in relief that his official duties were nearly ended. He had not been long from the crush when his cousin found him out, and offered a coffee cup. “To keep you awake,” he teased. “I would imagine you have a long night ahead of you.”

  Darcy refused to be provoked, merely accepting the cup and sipping it mildly. “I hope I shall.”

  “Darcy!” Charles Bingley’s voice reached them a moment before the gentleman himself did. “Good heavens, I thought I would never have an opportunity to congratulate you before you departed. Welcome to the family, Brother!”

  Darcy could not conceal the proud delight shining in his eyes when he thanked his new relation. “I have not yet had the honour of speaking with Mrs Bingley today. Has she recovered well from her recent fatigue?”

  Bingley gestured toward a cluster of ladies surrounding the new Mrs Darcy. “I shall take her home soon, but I think nothing could dampen her spirits today. Her sister is very dear to her, and I think I have seldom seen her so happy as the day I told her you lived and wished to speak to Miss Elizabeth.”

  Darcy made no answer, for his gaze too had fixed upon that same group of ladies—or, rather, the lady at the centre. All the room faded, and there was only her; her rich lips curved to speak his name, her hair softly framing her face. Fine dark eyes flashed with laughter, a brow quirked in invitation, and he resolved to make his excuses as soon as possible.

  “Forget it, Bingley,” Richard was laughing, “he did not hear a word you just said.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Darcy recalled himself.

  “I was asking about Mrs Wickham,” Bingley repeated. “She looks to have recovered well from her confinement, but I have not spoken to her since we arrived in London. How has she borne motherhood and the sentencing of Mr Wickham?”

  As it happened, there were a hundred other subjects on which Darcy might have preferred to speak, but the question was too plain for evasion. “She is a remarkably vigilant mother for one so young. As to her husband, I am certain that she could have wished for better, but she makes few enough protests. After all, a sentence of one year’s confinement is far better than what had been expected, and indeed far more lenient than the law dictates. I believe they trade frequent correspondence.”

  “This is one year that will pass all too quickly for you, eh Darcy?” Bingley laughed.

  “Not for me,” Richard put in with a nostalgic sigh. “I wish Wickham were already free and you had a strapping son to bounce on your knee.”

  “When do you announce your engagement, Fitzwilliam?” Bingley asked.

  “Not for at least six more months,” Richard frowned. “Meanwhile, I shall have to do as Darcy always did. Would you mind very much, Bingley, standing just at my right side? Yes, and Darcy, if you would walk before me as I attempt to leave the room, so that no fainting misses might fall into my path, I would be greatly obliged.”

  “I may not be your wisest choice as a guard.” Bingley flicked a meaningful gaze to the refreshment table, where Caroline Bingley was stalking them with forced smiles and over-loud congratulations.

  Richard shuddered. “Darcy, had you not better take your bride and bid your farewells? I would be eternally grateful if you moved in that direction at once.”

  Darcy sought the eyes of his bride over the heads of the crowd. One glance, one sentiment, and their accord was fixed. He smiled. Elizabeth Darcy belonged to him.

  ~

  Darcy House, London

  Elizabeth Darcy closed her eyes and released a luxuriant breath. William’s strong fingers kneaded the back of her neck, releasing tension she had not known that she carried, and his lips caressed her ear. “William,” she sighed, “do you intend to lull me to sleep at once?”

  The heat shivering over her neck intensified. “If so, I will be forced to carry you to the bed. After that, I make no promises that you will remain asleep.”

  She chuckled and arched round to brush a soft kiss to his lips. “I am all anticipation, sir.”

  He lingered for a deeper kiss, tipping up her head and threading his fingers into the thick cluster of silken ringlets on her crown. Elizabeth felt a prickle race along her skin as pins began to fall.

  She groaned her delight as he teased and tempted, and then gasped in startled pleasure when his other hand began to stroke and explore over her silken nightgown. A moment later, her hair had been fully loosed, and he slipped an arm behind her back to lift her.

  He laid her out upon the bed, pausing for a moment to admire her in all her sultry innocence, then stretched his body beside her. “Elizabeth!” he moaned hoarsely, then captured her lips. One hand stroked over her body, kindling shared desire until he caught his breath and hooked her knee, shifting his weight fully upon her and pressing intimately to her centre.

  Elizabeth cast her head back, arching to his touch and meeting each eager pitch of his body as he kissed her exposed skin. She had known it would be something like this—giving herself freely to the ardour of her beloved, cradling his body to her own and bearing, for these few delicious moments, both the exultant pain and searing pleasure of his passion. She would pass through the flame, would offer to him the very essence of herself, and would rest in his embrace—changed, and forever his.

  A deep, almost feral growl rumbled through his chest, and he coaxed her to raise herself slightly, then her gown slipped over her head. She closed her eyes, resting back against his forearm and waiting for the hot brush of his mouth over her skin, but he had gone still. She blinked.

  He was gazing lovingly over her form, his eyes brimming with feeling and his breath halting. “Elizabeth,” he whispered, as his fingers burned their first, ardent path over her untouched flesh. “Tell me again that I am not dreaming—that this is real. Tell me that I am truly yours, and that when I awake, you will be here. Let it not be sorrow I shall face by the light of day! Let me not love you only in my dreams.”

  She slid her hand up his chest, then beneath the collar of his night shirt, pulling him down near her. “Those dreams, William, they are another life. This life, the real one, I was meant to live with you. Even when torn from you, I could only be yours. So long as I have life in my heart, it beats for you, and so long as my eyes can see, they will search for you. I let you go once, and spent a year lost and alone. I shall never lose my life again to the cold! Nothing will ever take me from your arms, my love.”

  He wrapped her up in his embrace and burrowed his face in her hair, then clasped her to his heart as he trembled with supplanted grief. Tears of blessing and peace filled his eyes, and he
kissed her tenderly. “Elizabeth,” he murmured, “this is not right. One moment, my love.” He slipped from the bed, his fingers grazing her sensitive thigh as he moved from her.

  Elizabeth lay back and closed her eyes. Whatever he was about, she would know soon. She heard the shimmer of fabric, then the room dimmed as one candle, then another, and another were snuffed. She opened her eyes to utter darkness. There was only the distant sound of a faint breeze whispering through the trees behind the townhouse, but a moment later, that too was silenced as he closed the window. Then there was only him, the warmth of his body, the flush of his breath, the scent of his hair and the thrill of his skin—all of him, touching and caressing and claiming her as his own.

  She knew his desire, sensed how to give of herself. She offered him sweet surrender, but before he accepted, he rolled to his back and drew her to his chest. With one hand, he slid a coverlet over her for warmth, and with the other, he teased her hair to fall all round their faces, enveloping them in an intimate cocoon.

  Elizabeth stiffened hesitantly. “William, are you certain?”

  He slid his hands possessively over her curves. “This is as it should be, Elizabeth. Only you, here to sustain me. I have no need for light, or sound, or even for air, for you are my very breath and pulse. My bed was once my prison, but now it shall be my sanctuary. Love me, Elizabeth, and I shall dream of you to the end of my days.”

  And she did.

  Epilogue

  Pemberley

  One Year Later

  Fitzwilliam Darcy fondly caressed the dark curls of his son’s head. The boy slept soundly, his cherubic lips sucking faintly in dreams. That mouth, it was his, as were the thick curls and the brooding forehead, but young Richard’s eyes, when they were opened, belonged entirely to his mother.