Darcy and Diamonds

by Caitlin Marie Carrington

  “I doubt that—not that I care!” Elizabeth said quickly.

  “And he’s taken an interest in you. And you in him…Lizzy, darling, don’t look so tortured, now. Is it so bad, that you might be taken with a fine gentleman? And he with you?”

  “It’s just—it’s just.” Elizabeth shook her head, unable to find the words. Or perhaps she was just unwilling. “I married Daniel so soon after Papa passed away. I think—I think I’d been in a fog. And when I woke up, suddenly, there I was, far from home, with a man who was—he was very set in his routines, Mrs. Greyson.”

  “I remember. Not very exciting.”

  Elizabeth smiled sadly. “Well, excitement is not a requisite for a happy marriage.”

  “No, it isn’t. Though one’s got to have a bit of it, now and again.”

  At Elizabeth’s lost look, Mrs. Blank let out a cackling laugh. “Dearie, I don’t envy you. I don’t envy the youth, except for that I’m sure your knees don’t hurt when you climb the stairs.”

  “He was very set in his ways, and very angry if I didn’t follow them,” Elizabeth whispered. She had never quite admitted that, out loud. To anyone.

  Mrs. Greyson’s gnarled hand reached across the table, and she grabbed Elizabeth’s. “Darling girl, I rather suspected. Your Mrs. Ashe isn’t a fool, and she wasn’t fond of Mr. Allerton.”

  “He—he could have been worse,” Elizabeth hastened to say. “He was not violent, or cruel. But he could become terribly cold, when one did not follow his directions exactly.”

  “You were a young girl who married an older man, and he’d never had a wife before. He had no clue what he was doing! Pardon me, not to speak ill of the dead. Even when they were trifling, clueless men.”

  “I would never say I was happy when Daniel died,” Elizabeth said, squeezing Mrs. Greyson’s hand. “But—perhaps now, after time has passed—I have been quite content.”

  Mrs. Greyson squeezed her hand, then withdrew to cup her tea. “And now Mr. Darcy has come crashing in—well, no, you did the crashing, when you fell off the horse—”

  “Yes, thank you for your clarification,” Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

  “And now your quiet contentment is all a-flutter. Smashed to bits. And you miss it?”

  “No, it’s just that I’m afrai—” Elizabeth shut her mouth. Was that what it was? She was afraid?

  “And now yer afraid another man will boss you this way and that, now that you’ve had a taste of independence?”

  Elizabeth met Mrs. Greyson’s eyes. “Well. Yes.”

  Mrs. Greyson nodded and got heavily to her feet. “I can understand that, my dear. But what you must ask yourself if quiet contentment is enough for ye? You’re older. Wiser. D’ya think you are the same as ye were when you first married? And do ye think Mr. Darcy is the same as Mr. Allerton?”

  Elizabeth stood and collected their empty cups. “You are as wise as ever.”

  “The Lizzy Bennet I knew was never one to shy away from a risk,” Mrs. Greyson said. Now it was her turn to walk up to Elizabeth and wrap her arm around her shoulder. She squeezed lightly. “We all get beat down in life, now and again, my dear.”

  “Or fall off our horses?”

  “That’s the spirit!” Mrs. Greyson took a lantern from the side table and handed it to Elizabeth. “You’ve already fallen once today. What’s the worst that could happen if you try it again—with your fancy Mr. Darcy?”

  Elizabeth kissed nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Greyson. Where would we be without you?”

  “Hungry,” she grumbled, waving Elizabeth away.

  Elizabeth bid her goodnight and walked slowly through the silent halls, her thoughts as heavy as the inky blackness on the edge of the candle’s light. Guilt floated through her, like the faint smoke remains after you blow out a candle. I had always said I would marry for love. Did I want to escape Papa’s death—and my own grief—so very badly that I convinced myself I was in love with Daniel?

  And was I too proud to admit that, in truth, I had been deeply unhappy?

  She didn’t want to be too proud, now, to miss a chance at love. Real love.

  No matter how terrifying it was, to think of opening her heart again.

  Has fear clouded my judgement? Is—is love with Mr. Darcy worth the risk?

  “Yes,” she whispered as she reached the foot of the stairs that led up to the family’s bedrooms. Yes. She smiled, placing her foot on the first step and raising her lantern—only to shriek as she discovered a man in the shadows, standing directly above her on the stairs.

  18

  Darcy

  Bingley had gone to bed an hour ago, leaving Darcy alone in Netherfield’s library. It was smaller than his, and after perusing the shelves, Darcy realized that no one had read—or dusted—most of these books in a quite some time.

  But it didn’t matter. He’d been sitting, staring at the same page for fifty minutes. What he’d truly been thinking about was Elizabeth. When he’d seen the horse throw her, he’d felt his stomach—and his world—drop.

  Hullo. Your eyes match the sky.

  He’d almost kissed her, kneeling there on a muddy forest floor. Holding an injured woman in his arms. He’d obviously lost his mind. But she had leaned toward him as well, be it ever so slightly. He’d been filled with hope, and then they’d gotten into a ridiculous argument. Why had he attempted to reprimand her?

  Because you were scared out of your wits.

  And why had she been so instantly, insistently angry that he had pointed out the obvious—like the fact that it was dangerous for a woman to ride alone?

  You ride alone all the time.

  “Shut up,” he told himself, turning another unread page.

  He wished Georgiana were here. He could ask her how women’s minds worked. But at the back of his, what tugged on a worrying string that led to a mass of unruly, knotted-together thoughts, was the fact that perhaps Elizabeth’s husband had—

  Had what?

  Had done something to make her fear another marriage.

  He knew they had a connection. He knew she felt it. Perhaps not to the same extent that he did, but she felt something.

  Your eyes match the sky.

  If Daniel Allerton were still alive, Darcy would ride to his house—yes, alone, most likely—and demand a duel. At least, that was the image that floated through his mind. He would do anything to protect Elizabeth. But—how could one fight a dead man?

  “Hullo.”

  For one crazed moment, Darcy heard Elizabeth’s voice. But when he turned, it was most assuredly not the object of his desires.

  “Caroline,” Darcy said, closing his book and sitting up straight. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s nice to see you, as well,” she said, stepping into the room and pulling the door shut. It didn’t latch, swinging back open just slightly, but Darcy was glad of it. He didn’t want to be alone in a room with Caroline, again.

  “I was just going to my chambers,” he said. He stood up and began to walk toward the door.

  She was in his path and didn’t move, her chin tilted high as if she were about to go into battle. How different her pose was now as opposed to just two nights ago, when she had propositioned him in Jane’s parlor.

  “Caroline,” he said heavily, stopping a few feet from her. “I don’t want to replay the same scene from two nights ago.”

  During his first night at Netherfield, he had come down for dinner and found Caroline lingering near the stairs. Obviously, she’d been waiting for him. And although this was unusual, they’d spent enough time together through the years that he looked at her almost like a sister or a distant cousin.

  Especially if one didn’t get on particularly well with one’s distant relations.

  But Caroline had been intent upon a “brief, private conversation” in a back parlor. Darcy had agreed, his mind distracted; he had not yet seen Elizabeth and was anxious to do so. Darcy had hardly noticed how Caroline had walked in front of him, her hips
swaying from side to side as she strode on ahead, her smile devious as she’d peeked back at him over her shoulder.

  She had been flirting. He’d realized it too late—only after they were alone, the door closed by his own hand. It had been then, when Caroline had arranged herself on a settee—and patted the area next to her, as if calling a dog—that he had begun to understand her intentions.

  She had trailed her long fingers across her bare collarbone.

  She had stared deep into his eyes.

  And she had told him she was deeply unhappy in her marriage. That her husband was much older—which Darcy had known—but also that they were no longer intimate.

  And that Mr. Doughton had given her freedom, as long as she practiced discretion.

  Darcy had swiftly but firmly rejected the idea. He had struggled to maintain his gentlemanly composure, but he had. Then he had left the room swiftly, only to discover Elizabeth in the halls.

  How he wished he had never gone into that room with Caroline.

  At least now, tonight, he had his defenses at the ready.

  But it appeared as if Caroline did not.

  She stood on a red rug at the edge of the library. Her arms hung limp by her sides, and her green eyes were brilliantly set off by the reddened skin surrounding them. She had been crying, he realized with a start. It seemed so very unlike Caroline, to give in to mere human emotion.

  “Is it such a sacrifice, to spare five minutes of your time for me?” she said.

  “It is no sacrifice, but surely you must understand my reticence to be alone with you,” Darcy replied, keeping his voice low in case any passing maids or footmen might overhear what was sure to be an argument—if she had decided to pursue him further. “I gave you my answer on Thursday evening, and expressed my feelings quite clearly, I believe.”

  “Yes,” Caroline replied, her voice quiet and wavering, as if more tears might overtake her at any moment. She suddenly exhaled and past him to sit in one of the chairs by the empty hearth. She fell into the chair without her usual contrived elegance. “You expressed yourself most decidedly—both in terms of my proposition and my own character. And as we all know, your good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”

  She appeared so broken and tragic that Darcy found himself taking a step toward her. He had always wanted Caroline to be happy. She had been—was—his best friend’s sister. He had guessed that what the world took for snobbery in her youngers years was, in fact, insecurity. She had money, but her family’s background was in a trade. She had education, but not the type accepted by the Ton. And she had been a young woman when her parents had both died too soon; in that, they had shared a common grief.

  And although she had never opened her heart to him, on many occasions Charles had shared stories about what a fierce, formidable and yet loving man their father had been. The elder Mr. Bingley had but one goal in life: the betterment of his family, and financially, he had succeeded. But at what cost? Darcy sometimes wondered. One could spend years amassing wealth, but where did it leave you? Darcy himself was now eight-and-thirty, and where was he? Wealthy, vastly wealthy. Cultured, traveled, educated.

  And alone.

  And although Caroline had married Gregor Doughton, gaining wealth and status and a fine home of her own, Darcy knew she was not happy. She was lonely. She had to be—or else why would she have propositioned him?

  Still, he couldn’t ignore her silent tears. He knew that years ago Caroline had hoped to marry him. He had never been attracted to her, but that did not mean he wanted to be cruel. Darcy gritted his teeth and returned to his chair, sitting opposite her.

  “Caroline,” he said softly.

  She sniffled and looked up. She looked so much younger when she cried.

  “Caroline, you cannot be so upset over me not wanting to begin an affair.”

  “Oh!” she cried, suddenly angry. With him? He could not tell. Her moods were too quicksilver and violent. “How dare you? Must everything revolve around you? Do you think I would want to lie with you now?”

  “Please keep your voice down,” Darcy growled. “The house is full of guests and servants.”

  She laughed. She laughed in his face.

  “Guests? Servants? Mr. Darcy, I have known you for many years and had many and varying opinions about you—but I never suspected you were a hypocrite.”

  “Excuse me.” He was through with this conversation and stood. “Explain yourself quickly, or I shall leave.”

  “I called you a hypocrite because I saw you carrying Mrs. Allerton through the fields. I’m sure all the others believe you acted with pure, gentlemanly disinterest. But I saw the truth. You never did get over your fanciful attraction to little Lizzy Bennet, did you? And our dear Eliza was quite flustered, was she not? I wonder what else happened out in the woods, between the two of you?”

  Darcy froze, a slow, cold dread stealing over him. He did not like the heated malice in Caroline’s green eyes.

  “You do not deny it,” she hissed. “Well, at least there’s that. Yet when I, two days ago, offered a discrete and mutually beneficial arrangement between the two of us—you turn me down. You acted appalled, as if you’d never been to a gentleman’s club. As if every man you know—yourself included—doesn’t have a mistress secreted away in a house or apartment!”

  “I do not keep a mistress,” he replied coldly. “And I do not see your point. Why do you wish to speak with me now?”

  “How high and mighty. Always so high and mighty.” The anger suddenly drained out of her face and she now stared beyond him, out the windows at the midnight sky. “I wished to speak to you because—it does not matter. I have changed my mind. I thought I could come to you for help, but you treat me with such disdain. I, who have stood by you for so long.”

  “Stood by me?” Darcy said. He was beginning to think she was mad.

  “Yes,” Caroline said softly, turning to face him again. “I know you tried to prevent Charles from marrying Jane. And I supported you—I worked so hard, doing things you never knew!—to try and achieve those same ends.”

  Darcy could not hide the look of shock that came across his face. Yes, he had enlisted Caroline in helping move Charles from Netherfield to London. But…things he never knew?

  “And I thanked you at the time, but you know that I came to regret my actions. I apologized to Charles and did everything I could to encourage him in his affections. I am overjoyed that he and Jane now share a happy life together.”

  “And there is the other matter,” she said, staring straight at him.

  Darcy shook his head. “I am at a loss.”

  “Your sister Georgiana…and Mr. Wickham.”

  A pulsing, pounding noise began in Darcy’s mind, like the beat of drums before war. What in blazes was she talking about? “What do you know of that particular man?”

  She shifted in her chair, her practiced feline grace returning. Caroline smiled, but the emotion did not reach her eyes. “Oh, I know everything. Georgiana was young and foolish and so, so broken. In an idiotic attempt to win your affections, I encouraged her intimacy. I was so convincing in my sisterly love—” She placed a delicate hand over her heart and fluttered her eyes, “—that she told me the entire, awful story. Things perhaps you do not even know, my dear Mr. Darcy.”

  Darcy clenched his fists and attempted to stay calm. But how dare she threaten Georgianna…if that was what she was doing?

  “And you have aided me for years by what—not telling the world of a youthful error that was not her fault?” Darcy said. “Are you now threatening to blackmail me?”

  She laughed again, a cold, dead sound. “You are pathetic. You have nothing I want—well, perhaps there was one thing I wanted from you. But it does not matter. I do not need it now.”

  And with that her eyes welled with tears and she began to truly cry.

  “Caroline!” he exclaimed, his anger there but diffused. “You are distraught. Perhaps you do not know what you are saying. I am still
confused as to why you needed so desperately to speak with me?”

  “Elizabeth,” she whispered, ignoring his questions. “Why her? Why would you choose her and not me? She isn’t even—she isn’t even pretty. Oh, oh I see the truth now! You have been engaged in a relationship with her for much longer than this house party. Yes, of course, it’s all so clear. You could never marry her. It’s fine for my brother to marry one of those reprehensible Bennets. But not a Darcy. She’s not good enough for your name, just your bed. Do you pretend to still have morals, is that it? You turn me down so that you’re only bedding one mistress? Perhaps, as you have grown older, you lack the stamina for two?”

  “That’s quite enough.” Darcy stared down at the woman he once had considered almost family. “I am going to call a maid to escort you to your rooms. You are distraught. When you can be calm once more, please let me know how I may be of service.”

  He gave her a short bow and walked swiftly toward the doors.

  Then he paused and turned back to find Caroline staring at him, her face frozen in a hateful mask.

  “And let us be clear,” Darcy growled. “Elizabeth Allerton is not and never has been my mistress. If at one point in my life I considered her family beneath me and my station, I have grown to see I was wrong. She is not my mistress—but I do intend to make her my wife.”

  At that, Caroline surprised him by laughing—throwing her head back and laughing hysterically.

  “Of course,” she said, standing and opening her arms wide. “Naturally you will propose to her. After everything I did—” She broke off, her laughter turning to tears. Then she wiped her eyes and stormed toward him, furious.

  “Caro—”

  “Don’t call me that. Don’t call me by our old, affectionate nicknames.” Her voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “You have no right to those anymore.”

  She took a step closer, coming almost face to face with him.

  “Caroline, you know me. I would never have an affair with a married woman—”

  “No, just a widow!” she shrieked.

  “Keep your voice down,” Darcy ordered. “I am not engaged in an affair with Mrs. Allerton.”