Mr. Darcy's Noble Connections: A Pride & Prejudice Variation

by Abigail Reynolds

  "I must admit that I do not understand your connection to the Carlisles, Mr. Darcy, apart from that you visited them as a child and that they seem to take an unusual interest in your activities."

  "Sometimes I am not certain that I understand it either," said Darcy with a touch of irony. "It is complex. There have been ties between the Carlisles and the Fitzwilliams for many generations. Lord Bentham's mother is the sister of the late Earl of Matlock, and thus aunt to the current Earl and my late mother, but there were bonds of friendship that were as strong as blood ties. Lord Bentham was my father's closest friend, and his first wife was a dear friend of my mother, so naturally our families were quite close. My father was desolate after my mother's death, so my sister and I were sent here for the summer to escape from the mourning atmosphere at Pemberley. For many years, I looked on Lord Bentham as an unofficial uncle."

  "But no longer?"

  It was silent except for the birds chirping and the sound of Darcy's heels striking the gravel path. After a long pause, he said, "We did not see eye to eye on some matters regarding his eldest son, who was my particular friend, along with my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. That was four years ago. His son is now in exile and my cousin has been on the Continent most of the time since then, so there has been little reason for contact between us."

  "That must have been a difficult time, losing both your friends and your unofficial uncle so soon after your father's death."

  Her words, though delivered with sympathy, nonetheless felt more like she had applied live coals to his chest. How could she have known what that year was like? The topic of his father's death was still too painful for him to discuss openly, and he would remember if he had said anything to her about it. Perhaps Eleanor...no, of course not. He must have mentioned it in that bitter letter he gave her at Hunsford. He had been in such agony that night that one more painful recollection made no difference. But she had remembered it all this time and thought of it enough to put it together with this new information, not simply dismissed it as unimportant to her life. Did she truly think about him to that extent?

  He cast a glance in her direction, but she appeared to be looking at the flower borders. Forcing himself to take a few breaths, he said, "It was difficult at first, but I developed a new circle. I spent more time with Paxton afterwards, and he introduced me to Bingley. And, as you know, I do see Richard - Colonel Fitzwilliam - from time to time."

  Elizabeth's lips curved in a smile of reminiscence. "My trip to Kent was also a reunion of sorts. Charlotte - Mrs. Collins - was my dearest friend until she married and moved to Hunsford. I missed her, but her absence also made me closer to my sister Jane, and I am glad of that."

  Something about her gentle tone soothed a wound he had not realized was still open. Or perhaps it had just re-opened with his visits to Bentham Park, where he should have felt at home and instead felt at odds with everyone. During the last four years, he had managed to avoid thinking of Edward most of the time, but at Bentham he could not forget that Edward ought to be there, and there was a great emptiness in his life where Edward used to be.

  He was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not notice at first that Elizabeth had stopped walking. Her attention seemed to have been caught by a bushy plant covered with unimpressive yellow flowers. She stood still a few feet away, as if frozen. As he retraced his steps to join her, he discovered what had caught her attention. A large butterfly, yellow with black markings, rested on a fringe of greenery.

  He felt a weight on his arm and looked down to see Elizabeth's gloved hand gripping the sleeve of his coat, silently warning him against movement. He was more taken aback by the fact that she was voluntarily touching him than he could be by the presence of any insect.

  "It is a swallowtail," she said in a hushed voice. "I have always wanted to see one, but they are very rare outside the fens."

  "I did not realize you had an interest in butterflies." It seemed fitting somehow, since her movements were so much like those of a butterfly.

  "My father makes a study of them, and I used to follow along when he was in search of new specimens. He taught me all about them."

  "It is a pity he is not here today."

  She shook her head. "No. I am glad he is not. He would want to capture it for his collection. I could not bear to see the life snuffed out of such an elegant creature."

  Darcy had been watching her intent expression more than the butterfly, so when she glanced up at him as if to gauge his response, their eyes met, creating an ineffable tension. It was as if there were a cord connecting them, and he was falling into the darkness of her fine eyes. The amazing part was that she did not immediately turn her gaze away. He forgot to breathe.

  He was the one who looked away first. This was too dangerous. Her eyes could tempt him into doing things he must not do and saying words he must not say, especially when Paxton and Lady Eleanor were just a short distance behind them. To preserve his appearance of equanimity, he said the first words that came into his mind. "Those red spots at the base of its wings look almost like a pair of eyes." But it was not the colorful mock eyes on the butterfly he craved, but the brightness that gleamed in Elizabeth's eyes.

  "Yes, they do," she said softly as the butterfly began to dip toward the tiny yellow flowers, sipping at the nectar within them. "How odd that it can drink from a plant so bitter. Rubbing those leaves on my skin would give me blisters, but it does no harm to such a delicate creature, and a tea made from the leaves can ward off pestilence. Nature can be very perplexing, can it not?"

  "What is it?"

  He felt more than saw her gaze flutter over him. "Rue. Mad Ophelia's favorite."

  He quoted. '"There's rue for you; and here's some for me. We may call it herb-grace o'Sundays. – O, you must wear your rue with a difference...' I have always wondered what she meant by that."

  The butterfly chose that moment to take flight, making loops in the air until it disappeared over the tall brick wall that surrounded the garden. Elizabeth watched it until it was out of sight, then began to walk again. Her eyes cast downwards, she said, "I suppose we all wear our rue differently."

  For perhaps the thousandth time, Darcy wished he could see what she was thinking. What did she rue? Did she regret believing W'ickham's lies? Or did she regret some of the things she had said to him? Or possibly….no, it was best not to think about that.

  After passing a rock garden, the path led them up several steps to a pergola covered with green leaves, with pendulant violet blossoms hanging from the lattice overhead. Darcy looked back over his shoulder. Paxton and Lady Eleanor were perhaps a hundred paces behind them, looking deep in conversation. He could not be sure, but Paxton did not look pleased. Darcy was tom between sympathy for his friend and a sense of envy that at least Paxton knew his love was requited, which was more than Darcy himself could claim. It was yet another thing not to think about.

  He had no choice but to move closer to Elizabeth as they entered the narrow pergola, but she showed no sign of objection. Her nearness was intoxicating, even more than when he had waltzed with her. The pergola stretched ahead of them for some distance with pillars on each side, like the aisle of a church down which they must walk. Darcy gave a mental wince at the thought. This might be the only aisle he would ever walk down with Elizabeth, but he was not prepared to give up hope yet.

  It was darker here, with only a little light filtering through the leaves, and the flowers overhead gave off a heavy, sweet scent that seemed to cloud his senses like opium. It was as if they had walked into a strange land where nothing was the same, some underworld from the ancient myths. He allowed himself a brief moment to pretend that in this odd flowery world Elizabeth might actually care for him, tasting the ephemeral sweetness of his dream as he gazed down on her bonneted head.

  His reverie was shattered when she said his name with the sort of firm determination that indicated some kind of rebuke was about to come. He wondered what he had done this time to upset her. Ca
utiously, he said, "Yes?"

  She looked up at him, fragments of filtered sunlight dancing across her face and the dark curls that framed it. A thought flitted through his mind, wondering if she would taste of flowers like the scent that surrounded them. His eyes caressed the familiar curves of the lips he had so often surreptitiously admired.

  When she parted those rosy lips, apparently to say something, a jolt of fierce, possessive desire shot through him, overthrowing his reason. He forced himself to concentrate on what she might say.

  Another misunderstanding could ruin this tentative truce of theirs. But no words emerged from those tempting lips. Her fine eyes were fixed on him in bewilderment, and somehow he knew, just as he knew that Elizabeth Bennet would always hold his heart in her delicate and expressive hands, that for the first time she was aware of what lay between them. Was she feeling as drugged as he by the heavy scent of flowers, or was it just her presence that overwhelmed him? All he would have to do was to lean down and brush his burning lips against hers and.... No, that way led to madness. Better just to savor the moment, to revel in the awareness of her shallow breaths and darkened eyes, and to hope that this moment lasted forever.

  But he could not resist her completely. Raising his hand, he brushed the back of his fingers lightly against her skin. It was as soft as a flower petal, and his hand lingered at her jawline, unwilling to give up the prize it had discovered. As his index finger found its way to the tender skin just beneath her chin, he heard a hitch in her breathing that sent a sharp lance of desire straight to his loins. If only he could pull her into his arms, pressing her soft curves against him as he claimed those tempting lips....

  The sound of approaching voices made Elizabeth jump back like a startled doe, her eyes darting everywhere except at him. A fashionably dressed older couple was coming towards them, laughing over some shared thought. How could they be laughing when his world had just shifted on its axis? For once. Elizabeth's agitation did not trouble him, since it only provided proof that she now knew what it was to desire him. A mixture of triumph and sweet relief surged through his veins.

  The couple was only a few feet away now. The gentleman acknowledged them with a bow. "You must be the visitors from Bentham Park. I am Sir William Taylor."

  Darcy returned the bow. "Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, at your service. May I present Miss Bennet, a guest at Bentham Park? Lady Eleanor Carlisle is just beyond the pergola."

  "Your gardens are very impressive," said Elizabeth, her cheeks still flushed. "I have never seen such a happy grouping of formal and informal plantings."

  "The credit must go to my wife, Lady Janet," said Sir William with evident pride. "She designed almost all of it."

  Lady Janet smiled warmly. "With a great deal of help from the gardeners, of course. You are fortunate to come when so much is in bloom." She gestured to the pergola as she spoke with a light Scottish accent.

  "Yes, it is very lush," Elizabeth said. "Some of these plants I would have expected to see only in the South, though Mr. Darcy tells me that at least one of them is native to this area." She gave him a bewitching smile that made his heart skip a beat.

  It took him a moment to collect himself. "I believe Miss Bennet is referring to the heather. I have never before seen it cultivated in such a manner."

  Lady Janet was obviously pleased by his observation. "That was one of my experiments. Our head gardener thought I might as well decide to grow weeds, but even he has come to like it. It blooms so profusely in the moors where the soil is poor that I wanted to see what would happen if it were in better soil and kinder conditions. It looks quite different here from its cousins on the moor."

  "I have certainly never seen it grow in attractive groupings like that."

  Elizabeth said, "I was very taken with it, though I have never seen the wild version."

  "Oh, you must visit a moor while you are here. Miss Bennet," exclaimed Lady Janet. "They have a wild beauty all their own, although I must admit to a certain amount of prejudice since they remind me so much of my home."

  "I would love to see one." Elizabeth's face was alight with interest.

  Just then Paxton and Lady Eleanor joined them.

  After Darcy had made the introductions and the requisite compliments paid to the garden, the Taylors continued on their walk, and Darcy turned to Paxton. "The moor we passed en route - is there a lane going up into it?"

  "I believe so."

  "Would you object to making a brief stop on our way? Miss Bennet has never seen one of our heather moors."

  Lady Eleanor and Paxton exchanged skeptical glances. Lady Eleanor said. "There is nothing to see, just a wasteland."

  "Still, the moors have a certain stark attraction, and it would be a shame for Miss Bennet to miss the opportunity to see them while she is here."

  Paxton said, "It should be simple enough. Darcy, perhaps you and Miss Bennet could go ahead in the curricle, and we will plod along behind and meet you just beyond the moor. Your greys can easily make twice the speed of the carriage."

  "If that is acceptable to the ladies, I would be happy to do so." It might please Elizabeth as well, since she would be happier in the open curricle than in the closed carriage.

  "I have my maid, so there will be no difficulty if Geoffrey rides with me," Eleanor said, looking delighted by the idea. Darcy suspected that the maid would be riding in front with the coachman.

  Chapter 8

  Elizabeth's pulses were fluttering at the idea of travelling alone with Mr. Darcy in the curricle. It was respectable enough as long as they were on a well-travelled road, but were moors not supposed to be empty, desolate places? If she declined, it would seem as if she did not trust him. While she might be unsure of what she wanted from him, she was certain he would never impose himself upon her. He could have done so easily in the past had he so chosen. Her cheek tingled where he had touched her. How could the merest touch of a man's fingers produce such intense sensations?

  She allowed Mr. Darcy to hand her into the curricle. The seat was higher than she was accustomed to, allowing her to look over the backs of the matched greys. Darcy paused beside one of them and made a slight adjustment to the harnesses, speaking quietly to the horse as he did so. The domestic moment made her smile.

  Swinging up beside her. Darcy shook the reins and the curricle began to move. He kept the horses at a brisk trot until they reached the main road, then encouraged them to a canter. "If this is too fast, I hope you will tell me. We will still be ahead of the others even at a trot, but this will give us more time." He spoke loudly to be heard over the wind whistling past them.

  Elizabeth found the speed exhilarating. "Will it not tire your horses?"

  "The greys? They are racing stock. They could go a good deal faster than this on a better road."

  The noise of the road provided an excuse to remain silent, which was fortunate since she knew not what to say. Once again, she did not know what to make of him. She should be counting her blessings that Sir William and Lady Janet had interrupted them in the pergola. What had she been thinking? It was all well and good for her to attempt to be civil with him, but what in Heaven's name had made her speak so openly to him, both about her worries for Eleanor and then in that ridiculous discussion of rue? It was true that the flower-laden pergola would have to rank high in a list of romantic settings, but that was absolutely no excuse for what had almost happened there. However much she might hate to admit it to herself - and certainly would never admit it to anyone else - she knew the truth. If he had tried to kiss her then, she would not have stopped him, and she did not know why. He was annoying, ill-tempered, proud, and demanding, and she had no intentions toward him - or at least she should not. But when he had touched her face, she had wanted more - more of him, more of that hot sensation that seemed to rush deep into her. Oh, what was wrong with her today?

  Somehow his feelings for her seemed to have unexpectedly stood the test of time and survived the trial of her bitter refusal at Hu
nsford, something she would not have believed possible. But why should it matter that he was more constant than she would have expected? Naturally she was sorry for his pain and disappointed hopes, but that was no reason to give any consideration to a man who did little but vex her. Perhaps it was just this odd intimacy into which they had been thrust by Eleanor and Mr. Paxton. Being the only two people admitted into their secret made for a peculiar situation. But given their own past, how could she expect any sort of normalcy in their interactions?

  She had also caught a glimpse of a new side of him today when he had told her about his history with the Carlisle family. In the past, he had been haughty, cold, angry, and insolent; but when he spoke of his friends leaving him, his eyes had been full of loss. It was understandable; she herself had struggled first over losing Eleanor, then years later over her disillusionment with Charlotte's decision to marry Mr. Collins. How much worse it must have been for Darcy to discover that his childhood friend had been a cheat and a liar! She could not imagine Darcy would have accepted that behavior, so he must have lost his friend even before he went into exile. Apparently it had occasioned him so much pain that he could not bear to have any contact with Lord Bentham.

  How had her sympathy toward him at that moment transmuted into a desire to relieve that pain in his eyes? It made her vulnerable to him in a new way she could not understand. Perhaps it was only the romantic setting of the gardens that had made her so susceptible to his mood.

  All of her rational thoughts, though, were inadequate to convince her body to abandon its new awareness of the gentleman holding the reins beside her. She could feel every one of the inches that separated them. How easily he could reach past them to touch her hand or her arm! He would not do so, of course, but she still could not forget the possibility, or stop herself from imagining it. The brush of the air against her skin made it tingle as if she were blushing from head to foot, and she felt aware of his nearness each time the curricle lurched to one side or the other. It was ridiculous to feel so sensitive to his presence when nothing had happened! All he had done was to look at her as if he wanted to kiss her, and touched her face one time. He had not even tried to take her hand, yet that small interchange was still enough to have changed everything between them.