Darcy's Quest

by Marianne Lewis

  A dashed nuisance, this business of securing a wife. And what an aloof wife. So proper, so dignified, so...unreceptive. It almost gave him cause to think she didn't much care for the thought of marrying him. Was it possible she might refuse his offer?

  His stomach muscles constricted at the thought. He had sent a note to his sister yesterday, requesting she remove herself to Netherfield Park with all haste to set preparations in order for his wedding. And he'd already applied for a special license. Getting rather ahead of yourself, are you not, Darcy? he silently admonished himself.

  But, Darcy consoled himself, she wouldn't refuse. Her parents' reaction had been more than positive, relaying the certain message that his suit was highly acceptable. He hadn't spent years on the Town, being sought after by every grasping mama the ton offered, to remain innocent of his consequence, and what it meant.

  It was a bitter thought, but one he could most times effectively banish. He'd learned some years ago that he would never be accepted and loved for who he was, but rather for what he had to give. That knowledge led him to choose a wife with extra care, for if he had to buy a wife, he expected a fair deal in return.

  And Miss Elizabeth Bennet was certainly that. Exceedingly fair. He only wished he were confident enough to prolong their courtship, giving them both a chance to further their acquaintance. But such a diamond would be besieged with suitors and offers, and he wasn't about to take the chance that one of those might be more handsome or more desirable than he. Besides, he couldn't outguess Fate or be certain he'd have a full lifetime in which to sire an heir. He was in need of a wife right now and in his estimation, Miss Bennet was a prime candidate.

  He cast a sidelong glance at her. Hands clasped before her, she hadn't once looked his way. What occupied her silent thoughts? Why hadn't she engaged him in inane, mindless chatter? She was nervous to be walking with him in the dimly lit, small garden.

  While applauding her modesty and decorum, he still wondered if there was a warm, spontaneous woman beneath her cool facade. It had seemed so, that first night he'd seen her standing across the assembly room, laughing at a comment made by one of her gawky admirers. She seemed a different person now, distant and reserved.

  His afternoon calls had been met with a reticent politeness. He was thanked prettily for his bouquet of flowers, but otherwise, the short visits had done little to further their acquaintance. Indeed, she had seemed rather contrary, in a purposeful and quiet way. She had neither encroached nor encouraged, and he had found, despite her family's embarrassing behavior at times, he rather enjoyed their company.

  The next promising beauty in line, Jane, was practical, yet full of laughter. Lydia and Kitty were the epitome of mischief, and not at all concerned about their behavior before Society. It showed a freedom of spirit he hoped for in his own children, should he be blessed with such. It only left for Elizabeth to acknowledge his presence, and he would feel perfectly well satisfied in his choice of mate.

  They had now taken two turns about the tiny garden without so much as a cough issued between them. He glanced at Elizabeth's lovely face. Her fine green eyes stared expressionlessly straight ahead. They were as well as engaged. Why must he speak the words? It was a mere formality...and a nasty business which must be done.

  "May we sit?" He indicated a small bench nestled between two rose bushes. Reading the small inclination of her head as agreement, he drew her down beside him. Pulling in a deep, rose-scented breath, he forced the reluctant words off his tongue.

  "Miss Bennet, I would be honored if you will be my wife." He groaned inwardly, closing his eyes for a brief second. That didn't sound in the least as he had planned. It was no question at all. Surely he could have employed a tad more finesse, he thought with derision. What a fool he'd become. He might have even thrown himself to his knees before her.

  He discarded the notion instantly, certain that she would deplore such an act of devotion as much as he. He tried once more. "Will you be my wife?" he asked softly.

  Elizabeth's lashes dropped of their own volition, and she drew in air between her teeth. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her head, she looked him directly in the eyes. "Mr. Darcy," she said, her words steady, though quiet, "I am perplexed as to why you should have chosen me when I've offered you no encouragement. Do you not desire even a modicum of affection from your spouse?"

  Twin black brows rose and fell in rapid succession. One corner of his finely etched mouth turned up in wry derision. "No, Miss Bennet, I do not," he said, his cultured tones soft yet firm. "It's been my experience that false affection is more destructive than no affection at all. I would have neither of us feel it necessary to perpetrate a lie. I rather think people deal more honestly with one another when nothing of that sort is expected of them."

  He took her hand in both of his, playing with her fingers in an abstracted manner. "Miss Bennet, I've chosen you because you possess several qualities I admire. I feel it possible we might deal tolerably well together."

  She didn't flinch as his cool gray gaze appraised her face, searching her eyes in the gloom. Indeed, she held his look, delving as deeply into his eyes as he did hers, until some infinitesimal emotion—fear? Certainly not attraction stirred within. She lowered her lashes and whispered, "Then I've been selected simply because I've been found acceptable?"

  The realization of her worst fears was difficult to own. He truly was cold and bloodless. Wickham's note tickled her breast, a constant and forceful reminder of the man who loved her for who she was. She concentrated on Darcy's hands, which still idly caressed her fingers, noticing for the first time the long and slender strength of them.

  "I should not have offered for you had I found you unacceptable,” came his enigmatic acknowledgment. "I'm aware we haven't had much time to come to know each other. I'm also certain there are many adjustments to be made in a marriage. I will endeavor to accustom myself to your character, and I hope I may expect the same from you. If, that is, you agree to be my wife."

  Elizabeth stared across the garden, feeling a certain sadness, a wistfulness or melancholy which threatened to cause her lower lip to tremble. Silently, she bade goodbye to all her hopes for the future. Goodbye to loving arms. Goodbye to laughing blue eyes. She turned to him, with her head held high. "Yes," she murmured. "I will be your wife."

  "You've made me a happy man, Miss Bennet."

  And you, sir, she thought with burning resentment, have made me the most wretched of all women.

  Chapter Three

  Darcy felt like a new man. Certainly one having discharged the last of his burdens, and pleased at having made an excellent business venture. He strode down the stairs at the main entrance of Mr. Bennet's home, glad he'd elected to walk off this night's task.

  While having to propose and await acceptance was onerous, the past two hours spent in the library with his future father-in-law were pleasurable. Drinking fine brandy, a treat he suspected was purchased for just such an occasion, they'd drawn up preliminary settlements to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. Mr. Bennet had agreed without hesitation to the special license, not knowing it had already been applied for. The sooner the wedding, he'd said, the happier he'd be. And they needn't wait for a wedding gown as Elizabeth would wear the one her mother and grandmother had married in.

  Darcy's quiet sigh was relieved and happy. All was in order and running smoothly. A few more necessary arrangements, and all that would be left was to say "I do." He felt remarkably lighthearted and free of worry.

  Extending a hand to throw back the latch of the wrought-iron gate, he caught a slight movement from the corner of his eye. His gloved fingers stilled on the cool metal. Peering through the dark night, lit only marginally by the sparse lamps, he saw the slender figure of a woman, slipping furtively from the mews behind his host's house. She was draped from head to toe in a dark cloak, the hood pulled tightly about her head, shrouding her face. A maid, no doubt, and judging by her secretive manner, stealing the household silver.
Waiting but a moment, he quietly lifted the latch to follow her.

  The hooded figure hurried past the row of darkened houses and another figure disengaged itself from the shadows, following her at a short distance. More and more intriguing, thought Darcy, setting off in silent pursuit. A nattily dressed young man, one certainly not of the serving orders, dogging the heels of a housemaid? What mischief was afoot?

  He crouched beside a manicured hedge, glad of his dark attire and the nearby lamp's weak illumination bypassing his nook. The maid cast herself into the man's arms. Her hood fell back, feeble fingers of light caressing her face.

  Darcy nearly gasped with incredulity. Elizabeth! His betrothed! Slipping away for an assignation with her lover! Shock rooted him to the spot, preventing him from confronting the illicit pair.

  "Oh, Wickham," sighed Elizabeth, "I was so afraid it wasn't you behind me. I feared I would turn to find a highwayman!"

  George Wickham chuckled, squeezing her tightly. "Of course it was me. I assured you I'd be right behind you." He combed his fingers through her unbound hair. "Elizabeth, darling...relieve my heart and say it's a lie!" he said with hushed emotion. "Tell me you haven't pledged yourself to another!"

  Elizabeth's nerves were at razor's edge. Betrothed barely hours before, she couldn't accept with equanimity the impropriety of coming here. She allowed him to hold her a moment longer, then gently eased away.

  "You shouldn't have asked me to come, Wickham. It's highly improper, so I mustn't stay. I've come only to say goodbye...and to tell you I shall never forget you." Only the ragged sigh escaping her lips gave evidence of her inner heartbreak.

  "Elizabeth..." Her name fell lightly from his lips. "You mustn't marry him. Marry me! Come with me tonight. We shall elope to Gretna Green. If your betrothal hasn't yet been announced, no one save your family will be the wiser. Say you'll come with me now."

  His voice pleaded urgently, and for an instant, as she beheld the fevered light in his eyes, Elizabeth came near to accepting. She wanted nothing more than to return to his arms, to rest her head against his shoulder, to have him soothe away the agony of duty and her fear of the future with a strong, sun-bronzed hand. But she stepped away, shaking her head.

  "Wickham, I feel sure you haven't given proper consideration to such a suggestion. I have given my word. And I could never do that to my family, nor to my fiance."

  "Hang them!" expostulated Wickham, his blue eyes narrowing with determination. "What about us, Elizabeth? You and I? Do you sell yourself for love or money?"

  Her head snapped back as if she'd been slapped. "You've no right to speak such things to me," she said, a betraying quaver trembling in her voice. "I bid you goodbye, Mr. Wickham."

  She made to sweep past him, but he caught her shoulders and pulled her into his arms. "Forgive me, forgive me," he murmured. "I cannot bear the thought of you wedding Darcy."

  "It has to be," she said woodenly, her anger melting.

  "Why does it have to be? Have you no choice?" He sighed raggedly at the tiny shake of her head. "Ah, Elizabeth, why him?"

  His muscles bunched in sudden tension, as if he'd said something he'd regretted. "Why do you say that?" she asked.

  "May I kiss you, Elizabeth?"

  "Wickham, I am betrothed," she protested, at wit's end. What was he about? "I can't. And you didn't—"

  "You can! Who will know?"

  "I will! I should hate to live with my conscience."

  "Perhaps I should steal one, then." His warm fingers moved beneath her chin, lifting her head, raising her lips to his.

  "Not if you value your life, you won't." The voice growled like thunder, threatening from directly behind them.

  Startled, Elizabeth ripped herself from Wickham's arms. He muttered an oath and whirled on his heel.

  "I can't say I appreciate you holding my fiancee so closely, Wickham," Darcy grated savagely. "Will you say goodbye, or must I ask you to secure your seconds?"

  Wickham stepped back a few paces, regarding his assailant with a wariness tinged with anger. He spared a glance for Elizabeth, and his rigid stance relaxed a small degree. "No need for such measures," he muttered.

  "Perhaps it won't come to that, then," agreed Darcy, his voice slashing like a deadly rapier. "I might inform you I have witnessed all that has transpired here. I suggest the incident be forgotten. I shan't want to hear of it again, by any means—" The unspoken threat was unmistakable.

  Wickham's eyes glittered in the feeble light of a waning moon and shadowed lamp. He executed a slight bow to Elizabeth, and raised her hand, his lips grazing her fingertips. “Goodbye, Miss Bennet."

  "Goodbye." Her voice was but the merest whisper. He turned and melted into the darkness. She watched, miserable.

  She stared at the trees behind which he disappeared, not daring a glance at her betrothed. Never had she felt so trapped. She begged God to open the ground and swallow her up. Chagrin warred with shame, and had she not cautioned herself to discipline, she might have indulged in a fit of temper. Instead, she summoned her voice, "How came you to be here?"

  "I was leaving your father's house, having just finished drawing up marriage settlements, when I saw what I thought was a thieving maid sneak away."

  Elizabeth heard the tightly leashed rage in his voice, the disgust and contempt, and inwardly flinched.

  "Tell me, Miss Bennet," he continued, his tone inflexible, "will I be taking a maiden to wife?"

  She gasped, her gaze snapping to his face, to his rock-hard jaw and the icy slits of his eyes. "Sir," she choked out in a strangled voice, "I have never once even kissed him!"

  "That doesn't precisely answer my question."

  She searched his face, hoping to find some softening. Seeing none, she wondered what she might say to soothe the hackles of this ruffled beast. "Yes," she stated with a resigned sigh. Then, lest he misconstrue her answer and find cause to take umbrage, she felt compelled to add, "I have not yet known a man."

  She was thankful of the dim light, for her face grew very hot indeed.

  "Have you ever conducted an assignation of this nature before?''

  She hung her head, her words a whisper in the night. "No."

  "Come, I shall escort you home."

  He offered his arm. After a moment's hesitation, her fingers touched the fine material of his coat and settled on the rigid muscles beneath. He was angry, incredibly so, and she dared not speak a word of either explanation or apology.

  They walked several blocks in a heavy, breath-crushing silence. She sensed his considerable effort to control his wrath, while she was busy fighting dismay. Caught red-handed, with Wickham summarily dismissed from her life. And Mr. Darcy would he break off their engagement? If he did, she would be ruined. Darcy would have to tell her father why, lest he be sued for breach of contract. She squeezed her eyes tight, banishing the picture of her parents' dismay at the news of her iniquity. She doubted she would be able to bear looking them in the face again.

  The streets were eerie, deserted, not a carriage disturbing the calm. For the first time, Elizabeth was glad of Darcy's presence. He stood quite six feet tall, and she had little doubt that his lithe physique contained the promise of raw power. She was even thankful of his supporting arm; her legs were weak.

  He came to a sudden halt beneath a lamp and faced her. His warm breath blew across her cheek, and his finger touched her chin, tilting her face upwards. He studied her for some moments. Her gaze met his in a searching question, refusing to shy away. His other hand abstractedly smoothed her hair away from her face. His fingers entwined in the silken strands, until it apparently dawned on him what he was doing. He abruptly dropped his hands, linking them together behind his back.

  “You understand,” he said slowly, a thread of anger still rippling through his voice, "I question whether I should continue this engagement. It's not a matter to be lightly considered. However, before I commit my energies, I should like to know if you are of a mind to break it."

 
Elizabeth gulped, but still refused to cower before him. “No," she said, looking him directly in the eye, "I am not."

  “And if I elect to continue, do I have your word that you'll stay faithful to our pledge?" he rasped.

  Her gaze locked with his icy one. Again that unsettling tremor of emotion, certainly fear, coursed through Elizabeth. She drew a deep breath. "You have my word. I promise."

  “Very well. I shall call on you tomorrow afternoon with my decision. Be prepared to go driving. I daresay we'll need some privacy."

  * * *

  Darcy tapped on the roof of the hired hackney and instructed the driver to let him down. Skirting the light of a lamp, he passed a generous amount of coin into the old man's hand and sent him on his way. He doubted Colonel Forester would be pleased he was late for their meeting, but dared to hope the man would be glad to see him, anyway. And that he'd be willing to give George Wickham marching orders.

  That, thought Darcy, was of paramount importance. And far more preferable than meeting the man on the dueling field—which, in the heat of his anger, was precisely what he'd wanted to do. But no, there were more civilized ways to accomplish his aim. Besides, Miss Bennet would hardly thank him if he spilled her lover's blood. However, should Wickham choose to talk, he would face him over dueling pistols, and civilized ways be damned.

  Darcy spared a glance down the quiet street, noting the stillness of the night before slipping into an alley beyond. Had he not guessed sooner, Miss Bennet's escapade assured him he was taking an unwilling bride. Rather famous, he thought with a certain cynicism, that he should choose the one lady who found the idea of marriage to him repugnant. It was a surprising and even unsettling realization: he was engaged to a woman who wanted neither him nor his money.

  Amazing, too, that she should be forced to marry him. His hours with Mr. Bennet had given him a fair idea of how their finances lay. Now he realized she must feel honor-bound to do her duty by her family. Noble of her, but it made him angrier still. Once again his money, not the person, had paved his way. He sighed, slipping silently inside an open gate. What else had he expected? He'd bought a wife...not her affection.