Darcy's Quest

by Marianne Lewis

  "Don't you care for love, sister dear?" Elizabeth asked, her heart regretful that she herself hadn't any choice but to marry money.

  "Love?" scoffed Lydia. "Really, Lizzy, I should hope not. Why, in one romance story I read, the silly heroine spurned the richest man for some poor farmer, which I thought foolish above half. Why ever should you settle for a cottage instead of a mansion?"

  "Lydia," said Kitty, "I would have been furious had she not married the farmer! I vow I shouldn't want to marry some old man just because he has money. Really!"

  "Kitty," Lydia returned, "I have no intentions of marrying an old man. I daresay I can find someone young, as well as rich. Lizzy did. At least, I suppose Darcy is young to her, though I rather think he's too old for me. But when I'm old enough to marry, I imagine the men will seem younger. Don't you agree? And Kitty, we must be sure to dress exactly alike. Think of the fun we'll have setting the village on its ear, wondering which of us is which!"

  "You'll get yourselves in a great deal of trouble," Jane warned.

  "Oh, but it will be so worth it!" laughed Kitty.

  Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, well knowing her sisters' mischievous natures and how likely they would be to pull off such a stunt. "It's to be hoped," she said in a dry aside to Jane, "that they'll grow up before they're presented."

  "Indeed," Jane agreed.

  "Lizzy," Kitty said in a awestruck whisper, indicating a fashion plate. "You must have this gown. I vow you'd look stunning!'

  "Oh, no, she must have this,one," cried Lydia, pointing to another.

  "She shall have both," proclaimed Georgiana, joining them with Mrs. Bennet and the modiste in tow.

  "Elizabeth, madame should like to take your measurements, then we shall get to the task of choosing. Let's see...you shall need a traveling costume, a ball gown made up in that silver gauze and a riding habit."

  Elizabeth allowed the modiste to lead her off to a fitting room. Afterwards, patterns and material flew at her from all angles. Never before had she seen such finery, and never before had she such a free hand to spend so much money! She laughingly exclaimed that Darcy would rue the day he set eyes on her. A bit of the devil took her at the private thought that he'd bought her for a wife, so he might as well pay for the privilege.

  The morning passed in a whirl, as did the next seven days. All the bustle made it easy to push Darcy from her mind, until the night before her wedding. As she sank into bed, the reality of her situation struck her. Tomorrow she would marry him. She shuddered at the thought and wrapped the blankets more closely about her. Miss Darcy was a dear, making it hard to believe Darcy was her brother.

  An image of Mr. Darcy swam before her closed eyes. Tomorrow was soon enough; indeed, far too soon to become the bride of a man who hadn't the decency to acknowledge her presence by a single note. At a time when most grooms would dance attendance on their ladies, hers had left the scene, showing all the world how little he considered her feelings. Was this the type of behavior she could expect from him? He couldn't have demonstrated more clearly just how coldblooded a contract they entered.

  She couldn't agree with Georgiana. His disappearance to Pemberley wasn't at all silly. There was but one thing which could have taken him from her side during this crucial period before their wedding. She had given him a disgust of herself, and he couldn't abide her presence.

  Then why is he marrying you? The question came from nowhere, demanding an answer. She rolled over, giving her pillow a smart rap with her fist. Oh, how should she know? But what other explanation was there for his manner? She couldn't accept his story of setting his estate in order.

  And what about Georgiana's disclosure of his sad affair? He knew she married him solely for his money, so how was it so different from his first love? And after her tryst with Wickham, he'd had every reason to break their betrothal. Did he want her for herself? The idea died an instant death. No, he needed that heir—but why all the haste? Something just didn't fit.

  She sighed. She'd plague herself no longer with these unanswered questions. The worst part about it was that no matter what his reasons, she was still beholden to him. It would have been worse not to marry him than to marry him. He was bestowing upon her the favor now.

  She thought wryly that there was a definite parallel between them. His gold had bought him a wife; her countenance had snared a rich husband. Surely this knowledge of one's value, based solely on outer trappings, was as galling to him as it was to her. Would he find her worth the price?

  She rolled over again, wrapping herself deeply in the blankets. She would think no more of Darcy. She squeezed her eyes tight, and with a jolt, realized she'd hardly thought of Wickham for more than a week. Deciding all the activity had left no room for anything else, she tried to conjure up his face, thinking to dwell on it just one more night. But as she sank into sleep, it wasn't Wickham's face dancing before her, it was Darcy's.

  Chapter Six

  Elizabeth's hand trembled in the crook of her father's arm. "Papa," she whispered, "I'm so frightened."

  Mr. Bennet patted her hand, an encouraging smile replacing his grin. "Of course you are, Lizzy. It is natural. I'd be worried if you weren't."

  Elizabeth remained unconsoled. Her legs were weak, and her stomach jumped about in a most unsettling manner. The strains of the organ screeched in her ears, and she rather thought she was suffering a severe attack of the nerves.

  "There's our cue, daughter. Now hold your head high, and remember, you've done me and your mama proud. I daresay a bride never looked so lovely."

  "Thank you, Papa," Elizabeth said, grateful for his attempt to bolster her courage. Her steps automatically fell in with his, and she kept her head high, as he had bidden her. Faces and bonnets blurred before her in a colorful array, and for a brief moment, she wondered if she would manage to reach the altar.

  For there stood Darcy, straight and tall, and looking more formidable than she remembered. Black hair, immaculately styled, curled in crisp waves about his face, which appealed leaner and stronger. He looked remote, self-poised. She found herself arrested, however, by the expression in his eyes, which appraised her coolly.

  Her chin tilted a touch higher, though her gaze skittered away. The sight of Georgiana, her hands clasped rapturously before her, the picture of perfect bliss, restored Elizabeth's confidence. At least his sister liked her.

  Darcy watched his bride's progress. An odd sensation suffused his internals. She looked more beautiful than he remembered. The white gown, embroidered with tiny silver roses, fit her figure to perfection. A gauze veil, pinned in the center of her dark curls, billowed over her creamy shoulders and down her back, giving her the ethereal appearance of an angel. A single strand of pearls adorned her throat, and matching teardrops swayed from shell-perfect ears.

  Her expression, however, particularly held his attention. She was frightened, certainly, but something else, too, cautioned him. She wasn't in the least bit happy to see him—or to be here at all. He silently cursed Wickham for preventing him from courting her more assiduously. He and Elizabeth had hardly made an idyllic beginning.

  Would she be smiling, her face radiating happiness if it were Wickham she were meeting instead of himself? A knife seemed to twist in his gut. He wasn't her choice of mate, true, but must she hate him because of it? How would they ever rub along if she did?

  Mr. Bennet surrendered to him the care of his daughter. Darcy executed a tiny, stately bow, accepting Elizabeth's cold fingers and drawing her forward. The light scent of her perfume wafted to his nostrils, and he inhaled deeper. He cast her a sidelong glance as they knelt before the altar.

  The words of the ceremony floated about Elizabeth's head in much the same way as her gauzy veil. To love, to honor, to cherish....he vows settled round her ears like a thick fog. To love? She peeked at Darcy from under her lashes; he appeared composed and detached. How could she love him? It simply wasn't possible. Dare she voice this ultimate lie? She scarce knew if she ma
de the proper responses; Darcy's hand holding hers in a light grip became her only reality.

  At a slight signal from him, she rose to her feet. Gently, he drew forth her left hand, sliding a twinkling diamond-and-emerald ring onto her third finger.

  "I now pronounce you man and wife."

  The words rang in her ears. Her gaze flew to Darcy's, locking with his for one terrified moment. His face loomed closer. His lips grazed over hers with the merest touch, the faintest lingering. His breath barely fanned her cheek before he drew away. The contact was so brief, so light that she wondered if she'd been kissed at all. She winced at the mockery of it.

  Clearly, he had taken her in disgust. How pressing was his need for an heir that he'd wed a woman he so disliked? It must be great if he would persist in this travesty of a marriage, making vows before God and man. As had she.

  Tucking her hand in his arm, Darcy turned her towards the small congregation. A happy smile shone through Georgiana's tears. Her mother and sisters looked in much the same condition. And did her father also seem a trifle weepy, or was it her imagination? She didn't have time to be sure. Darcy guided her back down the aisle, and into the bright sunshine.

  The handful of guests poured after them. A small whirlwind flew at Elizabeth, grasping her about the waist. She stumbled backwards, and was caught in the warmth of Darcy's steadying grip.

  "Lizzy!" cried Mary. "Does this mean I'll never see you again?"

  The distress in her voice rang clear and loud in the morning air. Elizabeth leaned towards her middle sister, thankful to escape Darcy's supporting hands. "Oh, no, Mary," she said, hugging her. "It just means I shall not see you as often, that's all. And only think! You'll have one fewer bossy sister to contend with."

  Mary cocked her head, pushing her spectacles higher up on her nose, considering. "That's true. Very well, then." She turned to Darcy. "Are you my brother now?"

  "Yes, I rather think I am," Darcy answered, as if considering this circumstance for the first time.

  "And will you teach me to drive?" demanded Mary.

  "If you insist." Darcy's mouth twitched at the young lady's unusual request.

  "Capital!" whooped Mary, hopping away.

  Elizabeth looked at Darcy, warming at his amused smile. His gaze flicked from Mary's back to her face, and her lashes swooped down. Then Mrs. Bennet enfolded her in a tight embrace, and she thankfully transferred her attention from the man who was now her husband.

  * * *

  Clad in a deep blue traveling gown, Elizabeth settled back against the soft velvet squabs, reveling in the luxuriously appointed carriage. Silence engulfed her, and she allowed the peace to soothe her jangled nerves.

  A row of tall, quiet houses loomed and receded. Soon her past would be left behind; Longbourn House and her future at Pemberley lay ahead. That future did not look promising, but it surely could not be any worse than the wedding breakfast they'd just escaped. Far more guests attended the breakfast than the wedding itself, and she couldn't count the number of people she'd greeted and from whom she'd accepted congratulations. Smiling and acting the radiant bride had nearly exhausted her resources. Had Darcy noticed her composure was about to crack? He'd certainly swept her away as soon as was seemly.

  She stole a glance at her newly wedded husband. The term was as foreign to her as the knowledge that she was now his mate. Elizabeth Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley. Her heart jerked with an emotion she couldn't define. Mrs. Darcy. The wife of the man lounging at ease directly across from her, his face turned to the window so he might observe with supreme casualness those they passed by. He put her in mind of a medieval lord, confidently aware he was master of all he surveyed.

  His cool glance flicked over her face and returned to the scene beyond the window. Certainly her master, and she, his chattel. Resentment flared unchecked through her bosom, and she didn't trouble to subdue it when his gaze locked with hers.

  Well formed lips twitched, closing over even white teeth. He sat a bit straighter, drew a deep breath and assessed her with polite detachment. "I have the impression that not only do you find this marriage distasteful, but that you dislike me, as well. Pray discontinue the pretense. We're alone now, so you may speak freely."

  His quiet, cultured tones fell into the silence like a bee droning for nectar. Elizabeth eyed him for some moments, considering whether she had the audacity to speak her mind. She decided to throw caution to the winds. "You are correct, Mr. Darcy. I hold you in exceeding dislike."

  "And might I ask why?"

  She was reminded of a mouse, pawed about by a merciless cat. That he was her husband cautioned her to show due respect; however, he had asked for honesty. She tilted her chin higher, striving for steady tones. "My parents wished me to marry well, but had you not come along, it is possible they might have allowed me to marry where my heart lay. Because of you, I am now destined to spend the remainder of my days in a marriage where there is no love to be given and none to be found."

  "Succinctly put," he allowed, inclining his head. "However, I beg leave to remind you, madam, that you refused your father's heir, therefore you lacked suitors who were as acceptable as I. It was little enough room left for those with nothing to give."

  "But you, sir, are the epitome of virtue in my parents' eyes," she returned, unable to keep bitterness from lacing her voice. "Wealthy, titled, a gentleman of the first rank. I happen to disagree with their notions of what is acceptable in a mate. I feel that having nothing but love is far preferable to having everything but love."

  A fine trace of cynicism showed in the look he bestowed upon her. "Then you are a most singular breed of female," was his flat reply.

  She was certain he referred to his unhappy experience with the scheming minx, but also knew he didn't know she knew. Hoping to draw him out, she asked with sweet innocence, "How so? I rather thought all women hoped for love."

  He shook his head. "No, Mrs. Darcy. Experience has taught me that most young women marry for two things: material comforts, and to better their position in life. Granted, some marry for love, and others for duty—" he shrugged "—as men do."

  "And why," Elizabeth asked, intrigued, "did you marry? You have no need of money, and surely it wasn't for love."

  He gave a short bark of laughter. "Elizabeth, you and I married for the same reason: duty. Your family needed money, mine, an heir."

  "You don't care at all for love?" she asked, unable to let the subject drop. She sought something, she knew— that vulnerable, human quality Georgiana had assured her he possessed. But there was more she needed to know...why had he chosen her, and why now? "If it were merely an heir you needed, you could have married long ago!"

  He studied her for a moment, thick lashes shrouding the expression in his eyes. "Has Georgiana been telling you my sacred secrets?"

  "Oh, no!" she stammered, caught off guard. A guilty blush burned her cheeks, but she widened her eyes in an appearance of guileless innocence.

  "Yes, she has," came his flat reply, and her clue that her guise had failed miserably. "Oh, never fear, I shan't tax her for it, but I know my sister rather too well. I suppose she said I was the most perfect gentleman in the land, too."

  "Oh, not perfect, Mr. Darcy," said Elizabeth with a smile, realizing he was sharper than she'd given him credit for, and deciding it best to abandon pretense. "But she does rather like you. Do you still love that female?" Silently, she cursed herself for asking so personal a question. Why should she care if he was still in love with the lady?

  "No, I don't. It was long ago, and I only thought myself in love with her. In fact, I'm happily rid of her. Saved from a fate worse than death, you might say. Besides, I had no need of an heir then."

  "But still you might have found a lady you could like." The words were out before she could stop them.

  His brows furrowed, and after a moment, he asked, "Who is to say I cannot like you?"

  "I only feel it so. You scarcely kissed me at the church." Not that she would have
wanted him to, of course.

  He grinned sardonically, and before she knew what he was about, he had closed the space between them, and taken both her hands in his. "If you desire me to rectify my oversight, I daresay I'd be delighted to."

  Elizabeth gaped at him and pulled back, eyes wide, cheeks hot. His proximity put her entirely out of countenance. "I—I wasn't asking for a kiss!" she sputtered, flustered. "I merely thought I had given you a disgust of myself."

  "Elizabeth," he murmured, gazing into her eyes, and lifting a hand to brush a stray tendril from her face, "your charms are the last I'd take in disgust."

  “It was another reminder that he'd married her for desire alone. His thumb ran softly from earlobe to chin, burning a trail along her jawline. Elizabeth lowered her lashes, hoping to hide the fact that she found the sensation all too pleasurable. Then he was gone, returning to the other seat with the same swift grace as before.

  It took her a second to marshal her thoughts, though one question reigned supreme: if he hadn't taken her in disgust, why had he run off to Pemberley? Hot on the heels of that, rose up another puzzle. "Mr. Darcy, if the lady we spoke of earlier merely wanted your money, then pray tell why you would deny her and accept me, as I am truly no better."

  His gaze flicked across the space separating them. "I know where I stand with you. You've made no pretense of affection; indeed, quite the opposite. Your honesty is refreshing, and I find it far less tedious than playing silly games of feigned love for gains too delicate to mention.”

  She nodded, seeing why he would think that way. He'd been perfectly frank with her since their dance at the Netherfield Ball, not offering the slightest pretense that he cared for her. And she agreed that a marriage based on a cold contract would be better than one made of lies. She studied him covertly until his gaze met hers. Straightening, she turned her attention to the scene beyond her window.

  They were on the road now, yet were still surrounded by an inordinate amount of humanity. "Why are all these people with us?" she asked.