Mr. Darcy's Indiscretions

by Valerie Lennox

  Wickham drove his fist into Darcy’s belly.

  Darcy doubled over, staggering.

  “What are you about?” Wickham screamed.

  Darcy swung at Wickham.

  Wickham sidestepped.

  Darcy lost his balance and collided with the fountain.

  Fountain? That was there? How had they gotten to the fountain? He smacked into the water, face first, and it was icy cold in the November night, and he wondered that no one had drained this thing for the winter.

  Behind him, Wickham thrust him the rest of the way in.

  Darcy went under, and it was a thousand freezing needles in his skin. He surfaced, gasping.

  Wickham glared at him. “What is the meaning of all this?”

  Darcy grasped Wickham by the front of his shirt and tugged.

  They toppled into the water together.

  Wickham thrashed, splashing.

  Darcy managed to get above him. He held Wickham’s head under the water, but his fingers were numb from the chill, and he couldn’t keep his hold.

  Wickham was up, pushing him away, sputtering. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “You deserve it,” said Darcy.

  “Why don’t you just challenge me to a duel like a normal person with a grievance instead of trying to drown me?”

  “You want a duel?” Darcy lifted his chin. “You’d need a second. You haven’t got any friends. I doubt Bingley would stand with you.”

  “As if you have any friends,” snapped Wickham.

  “You shouldn’t get to be alive when she’s not.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “You know who.”

  “Clearly I don’t. What is wrong with you?”

  “Amelia,” said Darcy, using Mrs. Fortescue’s first name.

  “What about her?” Wickham looked annoyed.

  “You killed her.”

  “I haven’t laid a hand on her in months.”

  “Your stupid, wretched spawn,” said Darcy. “It was wicked too, having come from your body, and it rose up and killed its mother, and now she’s dead, and you’re here living my damned life, and how is that fair?”

  Wickham was stricken. He stilled, his lips parting. “Amelia is dead?”

  “Yes,” said Darcy.

  “And the babe?”

  “Also dead.”

  Wickham licked his lips.

  Darcy shoved him back into the water.

  Wickham was too stunned to protect himself. He went down and then surfaced a moment later. He looked up at Darcy. “It’s too soon,” he murmured. “If she delivered the babe now, then it couldn’t have been mine.”

  “It was early, you wretch.” Darcy climbed out of the fountain.

  “She could have been spreading her legs for the entire regiment!” Wickham yelled at him.

  Darcy was tired. He was tired, and he was cold, and his whole body hurt, and he suddenly didn’t have the energy or the will to look at Wickham, let alone to fight him. He started to walk away.

  Three footmen were at his side straightaway.

  “You’ll have to leave, sir,” said one, taking his arm.

  “This kind of display, it can’t continue,” said another.

  Darcy sagged into the man. “Yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry.”

  * * *

  “Well,” said Mrs. Bennet, “I certainly can’t believe that sort of spectacle. He seemed like such a nice young man when you were dancing with him, Lizzy.”

  Elizabeth was huddled in her coat in the carriage. It was very, very late, and the Bennet family was finally heading home from the ball. She hadn’t ever come up with a reason why she’d stepped out with a full dance card, but after the fight in the fountain, no one seemed interested in her.

  “Nice?” said Mr. Bennet. “Oh, indeed. While we were all watching him manhandle Lizzy in that wretched dance, my exact thoughts were that he was nice.”

  “Mr. Bennet, of course he was nice.” Mrs. Bennet hit her husband with her fan. “Why, it was quite fortuitous for Lizzy.”

  “Was it?” said Mr. Bennet. “There she was, twirling around with that man’s hands on her waist! I don’t think it sent a good message, and I’m surprised at you Lizzy, that you would do such a thing. It’s utterly unlike you.”

  Lizzy pulled her coat tighter against her shoulders. Oh, yes, this was the reaction she had expected from her parents.

  “Mr. Bennet, how were we to know he was a madman?” said Mrs. Bennet. “Why, if he hadn’t gone after poor Mr. Wickham in such a manner, we should have all thought he was quite a fine gentleman, even a good prospect for Lizzy.”

  Mr. Bennet scoffed.

  “Really, it all was frightfully exciting,” spoke up Lydia.

  “No more,” said Mr. Bennet. “No more from any of you. There is a limit to the silliness I can bear, and this borders on sheer idiocy. I count upon having an ally in you, Lizzy, but you behaved like one of your younger sisters. And, you, Jane, you have spent all your time gazing upon that Mr. Wickham. It is as if a fit of insanity has gone through the entire household. I am lost, and I am exhausted, and we shall not speak at all until I have had some rest.”

  “But Papa!” said Lydia.

  “No,” said her father, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “Silence.”

  Elizabeth bit down on her bottom lip. Her father was rarely thus. He viewed the world from a place of bemused attachment, because nothing too dire ever really happened. When he did get angry, however, it was dreadful. Elizabeth felt awful to have caused her father distress. Truly, she loved him quite dearly.

  But in the scheme of things, her father’s anger was only a small part of her distress.

  She was shattered.

  The news of Mrs. Fortescue’s death had caused her grief, and it had transformed Mr. Darcy. He had been nothing but rage. The way he’d gone after Mr. Wickham…

  Well, she could not unsee the figures of the men grappling together.

  Monstrously, when Darcy had come out of the fountain, his clothes soaked and sticking to his chest, droplets of water dripping off his nose and chin, she had felt some sort of odd stirring inside her, not unlike the way she had felt when they danced together.

  She had wanted one thing in that moment, one impossible thing, to be close to him, to hold him, to warm his body with her own, to comfort him. He was all alone, and he needed her.

  Furthermore, she might be with her family, but she could not talk to them about all of this. She was as good as alone. She was in need as well.

  They ought to be together right now. No one else knew what had happened.

  Everyone had seen the fight, but the things the men had been yelling at each other, she didn’t think anyone had heard it. They had been too far away, and there had been a commotion, everyone jostling each other and talking amongst themselves about what was taking place.

  Yes, Mr. Darcy needed her.

  She needed Mr. Darcy.

  She held onto the thought as the carriage took them home.

  She and Jane went to their room together. The servants were all abed, so they would undress each other, as they often did if it were necessary.

  Elizabeth started to help Jane out of her dress, a lump in her throat. “I suppose you want to tell me how wretched I’ve been to have spent time with Mr. Darcy.”

  Jane looked at her sister over her shoulder, her face concerned. “Not at all. It was a very strange night. I’m only concerned for you, in fact.”

  “You’re concerned for Wickham.”

  “Well, he was beaten! Did you see? He was bleeding. What Mr. Darcy did to him, it was—”

  “He deserved it,” said Elizabeth in a hard voice. “I wish he would have been bleeding more.”

  Jane pulled away, turning to face Elizabeth. “Now, how can you say that?”

  “It is just what I feel,” said Elizabeth. “But it’s impossible that we sleep in the same bed. You are too angry with me for what I feel about Wickham, yo
ur beloved. I must sleep in the library.”

  “What?” said Jane. “Why would you do that?”

  “I simply must,” said Elizabeth, and she ran from the room.

  “Lizzy!” called Jane.

  Elizabeth rushed downstairs and into the library. She found a lantern and lit it.

  Jane was at the doorway. “You can’t sleep here.”

  “I can and I will,” said Elizabeth.

  Jane sighed. “But this is quite mad. I don’t understand why—”

  “Don’t try to talk me out of it,” said Elizabeth. “My mind is quite made up. And I am very tired, so I am going to stretch out here on the couch.” She pointed at it.

  Jane threw up her hands. “Oh, have it your way. I am tired as well. Too tired to argue. I shall fetch you a blanket.”

  “Thank you,” said Elizabeth.

  Jane disappeared and returned moments later with the blanket.

  Elizabeth took it from her. “I shall undress myself, so just go away.”

  “How will you do your stays?”

  “I shall turn them so that they are in the front,” said Elizabeth. “They are not so hard to remove that way.”

  “Oh, fine, then. Good night, Lizzy. I hope you wake in a better mood.”

  “Yes, yes. Now go.”

  Jane left.

  Elizabeth took a breath and waited, and then she threw the blanket over a few pillows on the couch so that it would look as though she was lying there if anyone took a cursory look inside the room. Then she tiptoed out of the library and down the hallway to the back door. She carefully opened it and stole out into the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mr. Darcy stood in Mrs. Fortescue’s bedroom, still in his wet clothes. He was so cold that his very bones felt stiff and frozen.

  Mrs. Fortescue was laid out on the bed. The servants had been in the midst of washing her, but they had not finished when Darcy arrived and roared for them to leave.

  She looked a fright. She was only wearing a shift, and it was barely covering her bloody thighs.

  Darcy wanted to touch her, but he couldn’t.

  He wanted to sob, but he couldn’t seem to manage that either.

  He moved forward stiffly, and he clutched onto the bedpost for support. He stared down at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I failed you.”

  “No,” said a voice.

  He looked up and there was Miss Bennet. He furrowed his brow. “What…? How are you here?”

  “You didn’t fail her,” said Elizabeth. “It wasn’t your fault.” She came to him, and she put her hands on him, and then she was pressing against him, her body warm against his back, her arms around his waist as she held onto him.

  He shut his eyes. He let her.

  A tear spilled out over his cheek, and he didn’t wipe it away.

  He was still.

  * * *

  “I’m getting you wet,” Mr. Darcy said thickly.

  Elizabeth had been holding onto him for some time, and they had both been crying. Mr. Darcy’s was mostly silent, and there weren’t many tears. But his body had shook, and she had held onto him tighter, and she let go, sobbing into him, her face pressed between his shoulder blades.

  “I’m ruining your clothes,” he said. “Not to mention, when you walk home, you’ll catch your death—” He broke off with a groan. “No, I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “My family is all abed,” said Elizabeth. “They will likely sleep until midmorning. They do not know I am here. They will not find out.”

  He turned away from the bed to face her. “Oh, no, what have you risked to come here?”

  “I had to,” she said. “I needed…” She put her palm to his cheek.

  He closed his eyes and covered her hand with his own. “Oh, Miss Bennet, this is all so… so…”

  “Yes,” she whispered. She sniffed. “What should we do? We must see to her.”

  “Yes, she must be moved. The bed is soaked with blood. It will have to be burned. I sent away the servants. They were cleaning her, but it is so late…”

  “We’ll help,” said Elizabeth. “Of course we will.” She considered. “Well, I will. It is a woman’s place to deal with the bodies of the dead.”

  “No, I won’t leave you to do it alone,” he said.

  “Wait here,” said Elizabeth. She left the room and called back the servants, who all looked dead on their feet. She took charge, ushering Darcy out of the room while she and the other women stripped Mrs. Fortescue’s body and wiped it down. They put one of her shifts on her and laid her on the floor.

  Then Elizabeth called Darcy back in to help carry the body to another room, another bed.

  There, they covered her face with a sheet.

  Elizabeth sent the servants to bed. She told them that they could finish in the morning.

  Mr. Darcy was in the doorway of the new room, staring at Mrs. Fortescue’s motionless form.

  Elizabeth touched his arm. “You can’t stay in these soaking clothes. Did Mrs. Fortescue’s husband ever stay in this house? Did he leave behind some clothes?”

  “I…” Darcy shook his head. “I don’t know. Mrs. Fortescue had a room for him, to be sure.”

  “Where? Let us go and look,” she said.

  “You needn’t fuss over me,” Darcy muttered.

  “Someone has to,” said Elizabeth.

  His jaw worked, as if he was trying to say something. But then, he only nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

  They did find some clothing in Mr. Fortescue’s room, and Elizabeth left Mr. Darcy to dress himself while she went to find something of Mrs. Fortescue’s to put on.

  Dressed in a simple morning dress, she padded down the hallway to Mr. Fortescue’s room and knocked on the door.

  Mr. Darcy answered it, and she found him in a pair of trousers and a flowing white shirt. No jacket or vest or cravat. He seemed practically naked. She was struck dumb. He let her into the room and they stood awkwardly there at the side of the bed. She tried not to gape at his uncovered chest.

  “Mr. Fortescue’s upper body seems to have been rather smaller than mine,” Mr. Darcy said, looking down at himself. “I couldn’t wear one of his jackets.”

  “Oh,” said Elizabeth. “Well, then, it does not matter.”

  He rubbed at his jaw, and she realized that there was a bit of growth there. He needed a shave.

  She reached up and touched him there before she could stop herself. She was shocked at the sensation of her fingers on his skin. She had not put on any gloves. She let out a little gasp.

  Mr. Darcy made a noise in the back of his throat.

  She pulled her hand back. “Oh, forgive me, please. I don’t know what I’m about.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” he said, his voice deep and melodic. He took her hand. “Thank you. Truly. If you had not been here…”

  “I came for myself, in all honesty. I could not bear being alone.”

  “But you were with your family.”

  “Yes, but alone still somehow.” She sucked in a trembling breath. “Oh, how can this have happened to Mrs. Fortescue? She was fine yesterday. She was…” She choked, and she could not continue.

  He pulled her into his arms again.

  She had been here before, and it was good, close like this, feeling the heat of his body, smelling his masculine scent. It was comfort. It was right in a way she could not even explain. She had come back for this, even if it was wicked.

  “It happened because of Wickham,” rumbled Darcy. “I should have killed him.”

  “You can’t murder him,” she said into his chest. Only it was different without a vest and a cravat. The fabric between them, it was so thin, and her dress was thin too, and things inside her body leaped and twitched.

  She pulled away, or tried to, but he was holding her fast, so she only pulled back her head and shoulders, and she was looking up at him, and his head was bent down, inches from hers.

  “I could duel him. He said I s
hould. I could ask Denny to stand with me. Maybe even Colonel Forster.”

  “Stop, you’re not going to do that,” she said, her heart going out of rhythm. “What if it goes wrong? What if he shoots you?”

  “But not to attempt it because I’m afraid of that, it’s cowardice. And I’m not—”

  “Stop talking about killing him!” She glared at him. “I won’t let you duel him, and that is that. It’s a mad, horrid thing that men do, and you will never have any part of it as long as I live.”

  “Oh, no?” He let out a surprised laugh. “What makes you think you can order me about, Miss Bennet?”

  “The fact that you’re holding me like this, I suppose. We have things to talk of, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” he said, knitting his brow together. “Yes, I suppose we do.”

  “But not now. Not when she is only a few hours gone. It is not right to speak of…” She swallowed.

  “You know what isn’t right? This. What we are doing now.” He moved one of his hands away from her back, where it had been resting, and brought it up. He brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Being close in this manner, this is wrong.”

  “No,” she said. “It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels the most right of anything that I have ever felt.”

  “But you are a defenseless woman, and I am taking advantage of your feelings for me.”

  “What advantage?”

  “Having you in my arms thus?” He stretched out his fingers. He traced the pattern of her cheekbone.

  She shivered. “It seems to be a bit to my advantage as well.”

  He smiled. His fingers strayed to her lips. “I’m no better than Wickham.”

  “That’s preposterous,” she said.

  “Is it?” he said. “How is this different than the trysts between him and your sister?”

  “Well… you have indicated that you are… that we are…” Why was it so hard to say it out loud? “You wish to marry me, and I wish to marry you.”

  “Yes,” he breathed. Suddenly he propelled them both backward—well, he went forward, she went backward—and then the back of her legs collided with the bed in the room, and they both toppled backwards onto it.

  She let out a cry of surprise.

  He hovered over her. The top button of his shirt wasn’t fastened. There was a gap there, and she could see his skin, his chest, the angles and planes of his muscles.