Darcy & Elizabeth: A Season of Courtship (Darcy Saga Prequel Duo)

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Darcy & Elizabeth: A Season of Courtship (Darcy Saga Prequel Duo) Page 25

by Sharon Lathan


  Shortly after breakfast the third morning following Mr. Darcy’s return from London, both gentlemen found themselves in dire need of anger relief to save harming a specific person in the Netherfield household. Darcy made for the stables and was likely already miles away. Bingley practically ran to the game room, where his punching bag was hanging. A half hour of unrelenting clobbers onto the beaten-smooth leather surface, with sweat soaking his shirt and dripping from his brow, Bingley had just begun to feel the murderous urges slipping away when the door opened.

  “Caroline,” he croaked, punctuating it with a resounding wallop that wildly spun the bag, “I strongly suggest you turn right around and walk back through that door!”

  “Nonsense, Charles. As if your tantrum will be inflicted upon me.”

  Should I tell her how many times her face floated on the surface of the punching bag?

  “Tantrum?” he asked incredulously instead. “I am the one having a tantrum? That is rich, Caroline. You have been in the throes of a tantrum since my engagement to Miss Bennet!”

  “I cannot fathom what you mean.” She spoke airily but slid her eyes toward a random corner of the room.

  “Then let me explain.” Bingley gave the bag a last punch and then stomped to the billiard table. Caroline strolled casually around it as if nothing were amiss. Bending slightly with hands gripping the table edge, he summarized, “Rather than congratulate me, as a normal sister would, you snipe and whine and insult. Incessantly. For weeks. Even when we are trying to have a pleasant breakfast, you persist. Be thankful I have that bag to hit, or the alternative would be strangling you!”

  The last he accented with a hard slap onto the felt surface of the table. For one of the first times in active memory, his sister appeared genuinely taken aback by his temper. There was even a faint hint of regret glimmering in her eyes.

  “Is it possible, Caroline, to at least pretend you care for me? Or has your utter selfishness blinded you to how gloriously happy Jane makes me?”

  “Brother—”

  “I have been patient, Caroline, because you are my sister. My desire is for familial accord, as I presumed you desired too. Evidently I was mistaken. What is most inconceivable is you not adoring Jane when everyone does!”

  “I do not dislike Jane Bennet, if you must know,” Caroline blurted and then bit her lip, lowering her eyes.

  Stunned, Bingley stared at her for half a minute. Pushing up from the billiard table and crossing his arms over his chest, he mocked, in a voice heavy with sarcasm, “How generous of you to tell me now. Is this a sudden epiphany between the breakfast room and here?”

  Huffing loudly, Caroline flipped her arms in the air and flounced away from the table. “I have never hated Jane Bennet, Charles. She is…pretty and sweet, if not too bright, and her manners are…acceptable. I suppose you do love her, as you assert, and with time and proper guidance, she may improve in her elegance and—”

  “Is this supposed to be an endorsement? Do compliments choke your throat, Caroline? Never mind,” he bellowed when she sputtered an interjection. “All I want are your congratulations, even if false, and then your silence on the subject forever. I am under no illusions that Louisa’s pompousness is less than yours, but at least she possessed enough civility, respect, and affection to write with her congratulations. Do you think you can manage that much?”

  Hands balled on his hips, Bingley fought the urge to berate further. Willing his vexation to abate, he waited for her to reply, and as the time ticked by, curiosity dampened his frustration. Caroline stood near the dartboard some six feet away, staring vaguely toward one of the far windows. As typical, her chin was lifted haughtily and lips puckered as if a sour taste lay on her tongue. Unusual were the rapidly blinking eyes, the twitching leg fluttering her skirt, and the nervous twisting of the ring on her left hand. Bingley was frequently flummoxed by his younger sister’s attitude and opinions, but he was eminently familiar with her mannerisms and expressions. Everything Caroline did was practiced, controlled, and purposeful. A restless, distressed Caroline was an anomaly.

  “Congratulations!” Her shrill exclamation; abrupt, jerky pivot; and scowl were wholly at odds with the sentiment. Strangely, rather than Bingley’s irritation increasing, ridiculousness struck him.

  Snickering, he patted his chest. “Ah, Caroline! How you warm my heart with your well wishes. I pray the effort has not caused you harm?”

  After a collected pause and cleansing breath, she repeated, “Congratulations,” in a honeyed, sincere tone. “I wish you and Miss Bennet a lifetime of happiness. I mean it,” she insisted when Bingley’s brows arched, “truly. Jane is…” She sighed and brushed at something on her cheek. “…a lovely woman. Provincial and not what I wished for you, Charles, but…I cannot argue that you two are suited. She makes you happy,” she concluded with a shrug.

  “Indeed she does. Immensely so. Thank you.”

  Nodding once, Caroline turned away and resumed her dreamlike stare out the window. Bingley frowned, more confused than relieved. She spoke sincerely—he felt certain of that—and it was nice to hear the admission. Suddenly parched, Bingley walked to the sidebar and poured a glass of water and then another, drinking each in one long gulp. Caroline remained slump shouldered and immobile other than intermittent swipes at her face and a quivering tic along her jaw.

  Bingley’s eyes flew wide. Good God! Is she crying? The idea was preposterous! He searched his memories and honestly could not remember his sister ever crying—not even when lashed by their nanny while in the nursery. If he had ever given the topic any thought, he might have speculated her tear glands were dysfunctional. It was so inconceivable he experienced none of the standard male guilt or discomfiture at a woman crying. Rather, his inclination was to exploit her rare emotional state.

  “Accepting my future with Jane is an important step, Caroline, and I sincerely appreciate your congratulations. Now you must accept Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth.”

  “That I cannot do.”

  Leaving the glass on the sidebar, Bingley circled the billiard table at a moderate pace and stopped in front of the window she dazedly faced. Indeed, her eyes were red rimmed and moist, and an unattractive blotchiness covered her cheeks.

  Damn it all! Now I feel sorry for her.

  “I did not realize your feelings for Mr. Darcy were this strong. Having lost Jane for a time, I can empathize with your heartache over losing the man you love, and I am sorry—”

  “Love? What are you driveling now? Really, Charles! Just because you are ruled by maudlin emotions does not mean I am.”

  “Then…what?” Truly baffled, a coherent sentence would not form. Gesturing at his eyes and then toward her face worked to get his message across.

  “You become lachrymose at romantic poetry, tragic opera, and fluffy kittens frolicking. I weep when a drab inferior with an impertinent tongue destroys my future. I cry at injustice, Charles.”

  During her rant, the pooling tears disappeared and she wiped the residual wetness off her cheeks. Her motley complexion and reddened eyes tipped the scale toward anger rather then sadness. Bingley believed her claims were how she honestly felt. That did not make it sensible or right, however.

  “I shan’t belittle the intensity of your emotions, Sister. I disagree with your perceptions of Miss Elizabeth but doubt my ability to convince you otherwise. Where you are seriously wrong is blaming her for destroying your future because you never had a future with Darcy.”

  Unfazed, she smiled coolly and shook her head. “You are the one who is wrong. Mr. Darcy and I are alike. I am his equal, not Eliza Bennet. They are a drastic mistake.”

  “This line of thinking is dangerous. You must see reason!” Bingley rapidly strode until directly in front of her. “Darcy and Miss Elizabeth are perfectly suited, and their love is real. Surely you can see that!”

  Staring straight into his eyes, face emotionless, she countered, “I see a man who has been enchanted. Mr. Darcy is not the same,
and I would think, as his friend, you would fear for him.”

  A shiver raced up his spine. “I fear for you, Caroline. Give up these delusions of Mr. Darcy before you cause irreparable damage. Fighting the inevitable serves no one, least of all you.”

  “I refuse to see that union as inevitable. Until the vows are recited before God, they are not married.”

  “Listen to yourself!” Cinching her wrist penetrated her maddeningly aloof demeanor and placid tone—not much though. Caroline merely turned her head to peer at him through hard-set eyes. Fighting against the panic choking his airway, Bingley chastened, “Stubborn you are but not stupid. A betrothal is as binding as marriage, or near to. Honor is everything to a man like Darcy. If you know him an iota, then you know that. A gentleman never disgraces a lady or compromises her reputation.” Gripping her chin hard between thumb and fingers, he glared sternly into her eyes, his words clipped and hard. “Breaking his vow to Elizabeth is never going to happen, Caroline. Accept that and accept it now, or God help me, there will be consequences.”

  Bingley ripped the leather straps off his knuckles, spun on his heels, and stormed out of the room. He burned to pound the sand bag, but Caroline was too close for him to trust his resistance—especially with her frighteningly calculating, smug expression.

  * * *

  “Miss Bingley?”

  “Yes! Come in quickly! And shut the door, for pity’s sake!” Caroline flew toward the maid, yanked her inside, and slammed the door before the words finished passing her lips. The young servant quailed, but Caroline kept a tight grip on her wrist, demanding, “Tell me.”

  “The gentleman…came down, just now, and went into the library.”

  “Ah! Very good. And Mr. Bingley?”

  “Not seen him, miss. Must still be in his chambers. He was in a right mean state a while back, stomping and grumbling—”

  “Never mind that! I must hurry. You know what to do, right?”

  The maid nodded and then hastily spoke when Caroline shot her a dagger-like glare. “In fifteen minutes, I’ll come to the library, where you will have the door cracked. Waitin’ for your signal, then I go in.”

  “You must be abrupt and make no noise until inside. Good. This is for now”—Caroline pressed several coins into the maid’s palm—“and the rest when I am successful.”

  Remaining calm and walking to the library at a sedate pace was taxing. Fear that Mr. Darcy may exit the library in the handful of minutes necessary to reach the other side of Netherfield, where the library was located, urged her to hasten her steps. But Caroline’s plan depended on her arrival appearing casual, so entering in a rush and out of breath would defeat the purpose. With luck, his tendency to pass extended spans of time amongst the dusty books would be the case this time. She had never understood his enjoyment of poring over boring dissertations by writers long dead. A rousing novel with romance and adventure was comprehensible as a worthy entertainment upon occasion, but a bulky tome by one of those Greek or Roman philosophers—their names similar and unpronounceable—was inconceivable. It was a minor annoying flaw in an otherwise agreeable man, and if advantageous today, she might be able to better tolerate his bookish behavior in the future.

  My future as Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  For nearly three weeks, an appalled Caroline had watched Mr. Darcy act the fool over Elizabeth Bennet. He had remained blind to Caroline’s subtle displays of her superiority, further mystifying and depressing her. Hopes that their separation while in Town would break the Bennet wench’s enchantment went unrealized, severely vexing and distressing Caroline. Her moodiness spilled over while partaking of breakfast that morning—not a wise move—and she truly feared a line had been crossed.

  Then her brother had unwittingly reminded her of a fact forgotten: “Honor is everything to a man like Darcy…A gentleman never disgraces a lady or compromises her reputation.”

  Caroline Bingley rarely needed to resort to devious methods to get what she wanted, and in most circumstances, it was easier to be forthright. Nevertheless, if required for the greater good, scheming and blatant duplicity were ethically sound as far as she was concerned. If Mr. Darcy was unable to think sensibly, Caroline was fine with forcing the situation.

  As silently as possible, Caroline widened the crack in the library door and slipped inside. Her prey stood before a bookcase to the right with his back to her and was running one finger lightly over the spines. He paused a time or two until apparently intrigued by one title. This he pulled off the shelf. As he opened the slim book, Caroline left her undetected pose by the door and quietly moved closer.

  Mr. Darcy finally sensed her presence and glanced over his shoulder. A frown flashed across his face, Caroline unhappily noted, but in a second it was gone. Snapping the book closed, he turned and greeted with a proper incline of his head. “Miss Bingley.”

  “Mr. Darcy,” she responded, following with a perfected smile she knew to be seductive, as was her sinuous saunter. Avidly he observed her, but his neutral expression and cool gaze gave no hint that he was affected.

  Not for the first time, she fleetingly wondered if his imperviousness was an indication of some bizarre abnormality. Indeed, he was more animated with Elizabeth and stared at her constantly. Yet even with her, Mr. Darcy maintained his rigid composure and a deliberate distance, seemingly at odds with how a man was supposed to act when in love. Goodness knows Charles was forever simpering and gushing florid prose at Jane! It was nauseating, to be honest, and while Caroline never claimed to possess deep passion or particularly wanted to be afflicted so, she understood it to be typical. That Mr. Darcy did not embarrass himself with Elizabeth, as Charles did with Jane, proved to Caroline that his emotions were not strong.

  “I came to borrow the poems of Christopher Smart for Miss Elizabeth.” He thumped the book against his open palm. “She has never read them, so it will be a treat. Now that I have found it, I shall leave the library to you.”

  He stepped to the left, but she shifted the same direction and blocked his path. “I was hoping for your assistance. I am searching for a copy of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. Do you know if there is one housed here at Netherfield?”

  “I believe there is a copy in the collection, yes.” He pivoted smartly and strode briskly to a case on the opposite side of the room, tossing over his shoulder as she trailed closely behind, “I did not think you a fan of Shakespeare. You were bored by the Covent Garden production of A Merchant of Venice and once admitted you disliked Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I have accepted the errors in my judgment and education. I am determined to broaden my comprehension of fine literature, Mr. Darcy. A worthwhile endeavor, do you agree?”

  He did not reply and increased his long-legged pace, Caroline skipping to keep up. Revealing his familiarity with the three shelves of Shakespeare titles, Mr. Darcy unerringly retrieved Taming of the Shrew and turned to hand it over. Surprised to find her less than a foot away, she saw him flinch as he stepped backward, only to encounter the solid wooden bookcase impeding.

  “Pardon me, Miss Bingley.”

  His muttered apology and rosy cheeks were frankly adorable, and one of the first indications of a normal male response. Caroline smiled, feeling quite triumphant, and closed the already minuscule gap between their bodies. Fingertips sliding caressingly over his fingers to latch onto the book, she simultaneously leaned forward to press her breasts firmly into his hand and arm. Praying the timing was correct and the maid was lurking by the door, Caroline purred, “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. You are the soul of kindness. There must be some way for me to express my gratitude?”

  If not for the other hand lifting to wrap around his neck serving as an unexpected cushion, she would have bashed face first into the hard wood of the bookcase when he abruptly stepped to the side. As it was, she tottered and pitched past the space previously inhabited by him, and emitted a sharp yelp when her arm struck the surface.

  Shocked and in pain, she swung her eyes ab
out and instantly felt the remaining blood drain from her face. Mr. Darcy had somehow stiffened his spine so that he appeared a foot taller than his normal considerable height and was glowering at her with intense anger and hatred. Chilled to the bone, her veins then turned to ice when he brusquely bowed and snarled, “Excuse me.”

  Seconds later, he was out the door, his storming march past the maid causing her to blanch and scurry away—not that Caroline blamed her.

  * * *

  Darcy was furious. No, he was something far, far beyond furious. His anger at Lady Catherine on that day in Darcy House was a minor irritation in comparison. For the first time in his life, the urge to harm another human being overwhelmed. Only divine intervention saved Caroline from being hurled into the window conveniently located behind her. And considering how vivid the image and just how satisfying imagining it felt, all the angels in heaven needed to lend their aid, or he might turn back around.

  He knew exactly what Caroline had tried to do. The maid—one of the upstairs servants with no purpose anywhere near the library—standing stupidly in the half-open door sealed his suspicions. Rage mingled with self-recrimination and terror. How could he not have anticipated the lengths Caroline Bingley would go to? She had spent the past three weeks engaged in one long ploy to wrest him away from Elizabeth, so why was he stunned at her brazen attempt to trap him scandalously?

  Later he could waste time condemning his blind gullibility. For now, the objective was to get as far away from Caroline Bingley as humanly possible—for her sake as well as his.

  Not caring who saw him stomping through the corridor, Darcy ascended the stairs two at a time and rushed around the corner toward his chambers. Such was his state of mind that he did not see Bingley’s door open, and if the younger man had been any less attentive, they would have collided.

  “Darcy!” Bingley gasped, grabbing the jamb to avoid tumbling backward. “What has you in such a state?”

 

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