by Maria Grace
“Calls them … pred … predator … wolves. Wolves! Do you think Richard is a wolf? I … I am not a wolf.”
“Of course not.”
“Do you think she likes me?”
“It is not for me to say.” Elizabeth swallowed back the bitter taste in her mouth.
“Or perhaps … my fortune, my house. Do you like my house?”
“It is a very fine property. But is not a man more than the sum of his property?”
He attempted to cock his head, but his chin fell to his chest. “A nice thought, truly … truly.” He laughed bitingly. “But that is not the way of things … no … no … no …. I am naught but a fortune and estate … a name and connections … no one sees more … cares more than that.”
“That is a very sad philosophy. There is a great deal more to a man than positions and possessions.”
“You are very good, Miss Elizabeth, very good. No one else sees that, you know. Just you. Only you. My wife will not see it that way.”
“How can you be certain?” She looked toward the door—surely someone had to come in soon. Then again, that might only make this even worse.
“Richard wants the Valkyrie for my wife.” He laughed drunkenly. “Do you think it a good idea?”
“I … I …”
“You are a good friend. A great, good friend. I hope she will be like … like … you.” A moment later, he snored.
She tried to shift his foot off her lap, but he moaned and cried out. By all rights, she should leave, should flee this situation. Alone, in a dark room, with a gentleman? Had she been mercenary, she could use the situation to her advantage, to great advantage.
She peered at his sweaty face, bathed in the moonlight. He groaned again. She smoothed her hand along his forehead, just barely in her reach. He sighed and some of the tension eased.
No, she could not treat him that way. His intentions toward her had always been clear and proper. It was right and fitting that he be interested in Miss Garland. Even if he thought of her as a Valkyrie, she would be a fitting mistress for Pemberley.
And since she considered Elizabeth her friend, perhaps Elizabeth could remain a friend to Mr. Darcy as well.
Early morning sun peeked through the window, teasing Elizabeth’s eyes open. She pushed her shoulders up from the fainting couch where she had finally collapsed beside Mr. Darcy, its bright blue upholstery made slightly violet in the rosy morning light. His foot still lay in her lap, heavy and still swollen. She stretched, though it was difficult to manage without disturbing him. Stiff aching joints confirmed she had indeed been there the full night.
Footsteps shuffled at the door. She jumped enough to make Mr. Darcy stir.
His valet hurried to her side. “Let me help you, Miss.” He shifted his master’s leg, and she slipped off the stool.
Her legs and feet tingled; her knees barely straightened.
The valet caught her arm and helped her to her feet. “Can you walk?”
“I believe so.” She limped to the corridor, but the stairs to her chambers, where she might finally get some proper sleep, were far too intimidating. Little chance that her spirits would settle enough for rest, though.
A walk, yes—a marvelous idea! Still hobbling, she trudged to the garden doors. Lovely, inviting rays of sunrise urged her to forget the emptiness that plagued her. Why did her heart ache as much as her back?
Dewy morning air carried the faint, sweet scent of flowers, beckoning her down the garden path. Glittering dewdrops glistened on bluebells that waved at her from beyond the garden walls. Bluebells were always worth visiting. Something about the way they carpeted the woods in humble grandeur—who could resist?
A certain woman had worn a gown that shared a hue with the modest blossoms. What would she do now with what she had learnt about Miss Garland? One should keep a secret, but what harm might be done in keeping that confidence?
More important, what was to be done about the night just spent in Mr. Darcy’s company? Breathe, she must breathe! It would not ruin her. Nothing had taken place. And no one knew.
“Ho there!”
She cringed and squeezed her eyes shut. No, not him! What rummy timing. She looked over her shoulder.
Sir Alexander, jacket and cravat rumpled, trotted into the woods toward her, crushing bluebells with every step. “How delightful to find you here, Miss Bennet.” He doffed his beaver hat and bowed.
If only she shared the sentiment. “You are about quite early this morning.”
“I keep unique hours. Last night’s company proved so stimulating, I spent the rest of the evening at work on a new manuscript. My muse is positively enchanted with the atmosphere here!” He sucked in a deep breath of bluebell-perfumed air and settled his tall hat back into place.
“I have heard a muse can be a very fickle thing, indeed.”
“You have no idea. No idea at all! One moment, I must chase her as a huntsman pursues his prey, over hill and field, running all the way. The next, she is a slave driver lording over me with her whip, demanding I complete whatever task she desires. Then there are those times as last night, that she is a lover who has perfumed the sheets and invited me to her bed.” His gaze raked her from eyes to bosom.
Face burning, she inched back.
“But my fickle lover was not pleased with me last night.” He stepped closer, and his voice dropped heavy with suggestion. “Do you know why?”
“I have no idea.” Nor did she care to have one.
“It was entirely your fault.” His pointing finger nearly touched her collarbone.
“I do not understand.”
“Why have you told no one that we have met before?”
Her belly tightened in a knot more intricate than his cravat. “I do not see how that intelligence might be of use to anyone.”
“But you remember.” His face reformed itself into a wholly new expression, something vulnerable and even sincere. “I was unforgivably rude and unfeeling toward you.”
“It is of no matter. It is long past.” At least that should have been true.
“I might have believed you, save I saw your expression last night.” He slipped closer, uncomfortably close. “When the dancing started and you were without a partner. I saw your face as you left.”
She turned aside. Perhaps if she ran, he might not follow. “I was fatigued. My head hurt.”
“Perhaps, that is true. I believe there was more than that. I have seen that expression before.”
“It is of no matter.” She sidestepped around him and strode off down the path, away from the bluebells and into the woods. What a time for her knees to still hurt.
“It is a very great matter. When a man, a gentleman insults a lady, it is a grave mark against his honor.” Blast! His long legs made it far too easy for him to advance on her.
“It is of no matter. Pray, let it rest.”
He laughed, a full-throated, full-bellied laugh, but devoid of mirth. “You say that, but I have known too many ladies to believe for a moment that it has been laid to rest. You probably remember every foolish word that fell from my mouth like the foaming slaver of a mad dog.”
Her feet rooted in place. His expression, the way he tied his cravat, even the scent he wore as he spoke those words—yes, it was all as fresh as the night it had happened. She balled her fists.
“At a party given by Sir Alfred and some of the other theater patrons. Your aunt and uncle brought you. Your first soiree in London, I was told.”
“Also, my last. I care not to discuss it.”
“I imagine the fault for that is largely mine.”
“Do not take credit you do not deserve.” She forced herself to glare at him. Perhaps that would put an end to this conversation.
“No woman willingly gives up the pleasures of a London Season… unless they have heard a gentleman declare her pert opinions were not offset by her fine eyes … that she was not handsome enough to tempt him … and that he had no need to give consequence to young
ladies slighted by other men.”
How little he understood. “There is no need to recount it. The past is past, and I am quite done with it.”
“You were a perfect lady that night, and I a perfect boor.” He stood so close, his shoulder brushing hers.
If she fled now, he would only catch her arm. She would surely shatter if he touched her.
“I could tell you I was deep in my cups that night and beg you to excuse what I said.” His breath had traces of coffee, not brandy.
“One must never take to heart the words or acts of one suffering from too much wine.”
“Brave words from a woman wounded to her core.”
How dare he talk of her feelings as though he understood them, as though they mattered to him. “It is of no matter. I pray you, forget it.”
“No, I cannot. In the scene I wrote last night, I saw—I finally understood my transgressions. My conscience has tormented me since. Pray forgive me, I spoke unconscionable things to you and wounded your womanly spirit. Forgive me.”
“It is forgotten. Think no more of it.”
“You never spoke a word against me, despite the distasteful way I used you to indulge my ill-humor that night. You are far too kind and thoughtful and good for any of us.”
“You mistake me for my sister Jane.”
“I have heard you intimate such a thing before. It is not pleasing. I think it a rather ill-guided attempt at modesty that neither suits nor does either one of you justice.”
“Exactly how do you see that?” Bother! How had he baited her into this conversation?
“You have grown so accustomed to hearing your sister’s beauty and temperament praised, you ascribe all good things to her in a vain attempt to prove to all that you are not jealous.”
“You understand me so well.” She sneered, unladylike gesture though it was.
“You are so busy proving yourself not jealous that you show yourself quite green with envy.”
“If that is true, it is a wonder that any can stand to be around me.”
“You really can be quite unpleasant. Anyone who dares compliment you is soundly slapped for his impertinence. How dare we pay attention to you when there are women like your sister or Blanche in the world. They are worthy of attention, but not a lowly Elizabeth Bennet, of little beauty and no wit.”
“Thank you for enlightening me. Pray excuse me.” She forced past him and marched away, dry leaves and underbrush crunching under her half boots with each footfall.
“You really must harden yourself to the fact that you are worth looking at.”
“What a fickle creature you are. I am both not handsome enough to tempt you, yet really worth looking at. Next you will be telling me I am the wisest fool you have ever met.” She slapped a low hanging branch out of her way.
“You took the very words from my lips. I have rarely heard as excellent sense as I hear from you, yet, on this one point, you are utterly intractable.”
“Intractable because men such as yourself have assured me of my accuracy. Now if you are finished impugning my beauty and intellect, I will leave, unless you have designs upon my character as well.”
He chuckled, warm and condescending at the same time. “You are quite adorable when you are piqued. I must say I never thought to see a woman who could rival the appeal of my sister in high dudgeon. But you will do quite nicely.”
“I will do? For what?” She whirled on him.
“I should very much like to take you under my protection.” All elements of façade shattered as he faced her with naked, raw emotion.
She backed away, nearly tripping over a tree root.
“You fascinate me, inspire me, body, soul, and muse. Ever since those stupid words tumbled out of my mouth, your fleeing image appears to torment me, to chase away my inspiration and remind me of how undeserving I am.” He licked his lips. “Now I have been fortunate enough to find you again, I do not wish to lose you. I can offer you your own establishment, an allowance. I will even have a solicitor write up an agreement so you can be certain of my intentions.”
“As your mistress.” She could barely force the words out.
“As my inspiration, my muse, my heart, and soul.”
“Your mistress.”
“I cannot marry you. Surely you understand that.”
“I understand that very well.”
“Then you will consent?” His hazel eyes lit.
“You do not know me at all if you believe I would agree to such an arrangement.”
“Of course! Your father—I should have thought. I am certain I can work on him. Darcy will help me, I am sure of it, especially if Blanche applies to him. Blanche will approve, you know. She will be happy for such a sweet, steadying influence upon her Bohemian cousin. You will be the making of me, Elizabeth, dear, the making of me.”
“No, I will not, for that would be the ruin of me.”
“How can you say that? I promise—”
“To use me for a price. What will become of me when you have gotten what you want from me and your muse has found another inspiration?”
“Do not think such unhappy thoughts. I cannot see such a day coming. You need not fear.” He tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away.
“While you may have no concern for tomorrow, a woman must. All I have is my reputation and my few accomplishments. Should my father pass from this world, I might make my way as a companion or governess. But if I trade away my reputation for an uncertain life with you, where am I to go? What is to become of me?”
“You could be courtesan to a nobleman, even a king! Do not underestimate how far you could go. You could travel with me. I will introduce you—”
“To other men to whom I might sell my company?”
“You sound as if you are being sent to a brothel.”
“Is not the only difference the price at which I would sell myself?” Why did he seem so shocked? “I suppose I should acknowledge the compliment you attempt to offer, but I must decline.”
“To hold out for an offer of marriage?” He sneered. “From Darcy? After last night?”
“What happened?” She gulped. What did he know?
“I did not see Darcy drink enough to be in his cups, but I suppose some men cannot hold their brandy. He and my sister seemed to enjoy one another’s company—greatly—last night. They were both—unguarded—shall we say. I expect he will make her an offer soon, and he will not keep another woman.”
“What have his intentions to do with this conversation? Why should I be concerned with someone so wholly unconnected to me?” She pushed past him and ran for the manor.
Chapter 10
Over the next two days, Darcy’s ankle remained inflamed and grew more painful by the hour. The housekeeper and his valet flitted in and out of the parlor with cool compresses, wrappings, and willow bark tea. Miss Garland offered more soothing syrup, but, given the headache and the disquieting dreams he suffered having taken it once, he declined. A glass of brandy addled his mind and spirit much less.
He leaned back into the fainting couch, his head throbbing—the consequences of sleeping too much. With the parlor drapes drawn so tight, the sunrise stood no chance of rousing him at a proper hour. Oh, for a proper bit of activity. How many hours had he spent staring at the ceiling roses now? Long enough to know each one by name as well as the spider that had taken up residence in the corner nearest the fireplace.
Naming spiders surely was not a good sign. Perhaps that soothing syrup still had lingering effects.
Were those memories or dreams of a conversation with Miss Elizabeth? Had she spent the night in the parlor with his foot propped in her lap, reclining awkwardly next to him? The things he might have said to her. Snippets, mortifying snippets teased him, but more substantial memories remained tantalizingly out of reach.
Just as did the lady herself.
He stretched against the fainting couch’s too-firm cushions. When he recovered, he would surely have the piece refit
ted to be more comfortable. Or perhaps simply burnt.
He grumbled. Was there no comfortable attitude on this blasted chair? Why had Miss Elizabeth not been to see him?
Everyone else in the house, including Miss Garland, had been to the parlor to keep company with him. She had been very amusing, whilst she stayed. But her visits had been brief. Miss Elizabeth would have stayed as long as he had wished for her to. She was good company when one was laid up.
A knock—too loud to be Miss Elizabeth’s, sounded at the door frame. He jumped and craned his neck.
“How are you feeling this morning, Darcy?” Bingley sauntered in. How dare he sound so pleased with life.
“Beastly.”
“I though you would have enjoyed a solid excuse to remain away from your noisy party these past two days.” He pulled a chair near and sat, one arm draped casually over the back.
Had Bingley never learned proper posture?
“I am glad you consider my hospitality so pleasing.” Darcy crossed his arms over his chest.
“You do not mean to tell me you have suddenly developed a taste for large parties and loud companions?”
Darcy grumbled under his breath. “Pray open the curtains whilst you are here.”
“That is more like you. You must be feeling better. When do you think you will be up and about again?” Bingley laughed and threw open the drapes. Cool morning sun poured into the room. The walls matched the morning sky.
“I have no idea. Mrs. Reynolds thinks a fortnight before I am fit to even use walking sticks.” Darcy struggled into a sitting position, balancing his ankle on a nearby stool.
“That is a spot of bad luck.”
“Never fear. Richard can accompany you and Garland hunting and fishing if you like.”
“You think me so shallow? That I think of nothing but sport whilst you are injured?”
“I expect you three are in need of respite from constant female companionship.”
“You are too severe on members of the opposite sex. Far too severe.” Bingley snorted.
“You do seem to be enjoying the company here. Some company in particular.”