The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  George knew this was a love song before Kshitij told him. He felt it to his bones and was deeply stirred by the romantic sensuality of the music and dancing.

  Awed silence met the conclusion of the dance. The rapt assembly needed several moments to recover their wits and calm their pounding hearts before able to launch into well-deserved applause. The dancers bowed humbly, palms pressed together first toward the Sardar and then the honored guests. Only when all corners of the room had been bowed to did they again turn their attention to the Sardar, gracefully padding on tiny feet toward the head table. There they turned toward the room, Pandey having risen to stand at his place before sweeping his arms in a gesture encompassing all eight of the stunning female dancers.

  “My honor to present to you my daughters!”

  They bowed again, the crowd wildly clapping, as the Sardar’s words fully registered to George. He looked at Dr. Ullas, whose eyes were fixed upon the dancer standing closest to them. She pivoted, pressed her slim hands together before her chest, and inclined her head in the standard gesture of respectful greeting known as namaste before meeting his proud gaze with sparkling eyes.

  “Greetings, noble husband. I pray my dance was an honor to your name and pleasing in your sight. And if so, perhaps I have earned the pleasure of meeting your most fortunate companion. Dr. Darcy, I am Jharna, and I have heard so much about you.”

  “And I you, Mrs. Ullas.” George returned the namaste greeting. “I hope that the reports of me have been as excellent as the high praise your husband has bestowed upon you.”

  “The praise has indeed been most high, although he would likely prefer I not reveal this.” She glanced at Kshitij, a teasing glint in her dark eyes. “My husband has exacting standards, Dr. Darcy. He gives his endorsement grudgingly and would rather the subject of his scrutiny be terrified of pleasing him. Earning his respect is not an easy or pain-free task. That you have done so quickly is noteworthy and intriguing to me.”

  “Be cautious, dearest wife,” Dr. Ullas interrupted, his smile warm as he feigned gruffness. “Dr. Darcy is entirely too conceited as it is. Best he remain in the dark and believe his skills paltry!”

  George laughed. “Have no fear, Doctor. I am conceited, it is true, but I know I have much to learn. As delightful as it is to hear you have praised my efforts to Mrs. Ullas, I am certain you will find a way to humble me later, probably deserved for some error in judgment on my part.”

  George was not sure what he expected from Dr. Ullas’s wife, but he was surprised on several counts. For one, he had not envisioned her youth. She was his age or perhaps a year or two younger. Why he had imagined her closer to Kshitij’s age was a mystery, now that he thought about it. Women married young in India, much younger than English women in general, so it was logical that an unmarried daughter of the Sardar would have been in her late teens at the oldest. Secondly, Jharna was strikingly beautiful, her figure tall and remarkably svelte for a woman who had birthed two children in quick succession, and she possessed an air of nobility as befitted one who was of a royal lineage. She was a sharp contrast to Dr. Ullas, who, although not homely by any means, was extremely plain of face and short of stature.

  The other surprise was the evident love they bore for each other. As Kshitij had spoken of Jharna during their travels, it became clear that he respected his wife and held great affection for his family, but as reserved as he tended to be, and with the typical hesitation all Indians seemed to have with revealing their private lives, George had not gotten a hint of more. The fact that Jharna had been given as payment by the Sardar did not shock George. After all, it was not unlike the English customs of the day. Daughters, especially of the wealthy and those who were titled, were more often seen as objects to be bartered to the highest bidder. George thought this somewhat depressing, but it was the way of it and had been for generations uncounted. Those who were fortunate found happiness or contentment within their marriages, and a few grew to truly love one another. Fewer still were blessed to make a match that was of deep, passionate love from the outset, such as his brother James and Lady Anne Fitzwilliam. Whether Jharna and Kshitij had fallen in love at first sight or gradually after their marriage George could not say. Whatever the case, the devotion between them was apparent, and it warmed George’s heart even as it instilled a twinge of sadness for what might have been with he and Sarah.

  “Dr. Darcy?” Jharna’s voice invaded his musings, of which he was thankful. “My sisters approach, eager for an introduction. You are the mysterious stranger who has captivated my husband, thus increasing your allure in their eyes. Be warned,” she added with a mischievous glance at the sisters who were now near enough to hear her, “as they shall monopolize your time and tempt you sorely if allowed!”

  The girls tittered and blushed. Only one was brave enough to step forward and, with downcast eyes, inquired, “Sahib Darcy, would you like to learn the dance?”

  “Sahib Darcy would love it!” George exclaimed, jumping up with enthusiasm and rushing to join the giggling females.

  For an hour or more, George was surrounded by dozens of ravishingly beautiful Indian women who were laughingly attempting to show the more adventurous men how to perform a lively dance that was as far removed from anything he had ever learned at Almack’s as the moon was from the earth. He could truthfully say he had never had so much fun in his life.

  “What I am wondering is how the Sardar plans to exceed tonight when this is only the precursor to his birthday celebration!” George sank onto the comfortable cushions at his place beside Dr. Ullas with a sigh and reached for a nourishing drink.

  Jharna laughed at George’s remark. “Tonight is a simple feast, Doctor. My father is saving the best of his wine and amusements for when the Peshwa arrives in two days. His day of birth is on the eighteenth, and that is when the celebration shall truly commence. He may be a warrior at heart, but he knows well how to plan an epic party!”

  The celebrating was respectable and in no way a wild orgy, yet as George swept his gaze over the room that to his eye was unequally jammed with gorgeous women, he experienced an overwhelming surge of sexual desire. The salacious sensations undoubtedly stemmed from not bedding a woman in a year. George’s self-control and moral scruples had earned him an enormous amount of taunting from his male friends over the years; nevertheless, he had left his virginity behind a decade ago and, until Sarah, hadn’t suffered too greatly in the area of abstaining.

  Well, he was definitely suffering now! He didn’t exactly place it into blunt words, the decision a glimmer of a plan in the corner of his mind, but the basic idea was not only to embrace the joy of no responsibility and tremendous fun, but also to include a healthy dose of wild passion somehow. Once allowed to simmer, his amorousness only needed the proper fuel to leap to a roaring boil. How swiftly that happened was a bigger surprise than he expected.

  An inexplicable tingling sensation flickered over his scalp and down his neck. Instinctively, he knew the direction to turn his gaze, sensing that someone was staring at him, and like a magnet, he was drawn. When he saw her, he gasped, his mouth opening and tongue immediately dry, though not for long, since the penetrating scrutiny soon had him drooling.

  She is exquisite, beyond perfection.

  Hair thick and black as a raven’s wings, skin unblemished porcelain white, plump, red lips glistening, and features utterly flawless. No one outside of heaven should be so stunningly beautiful. Voluminous skirts left no doubt that her body was curvaceous and highly feminine, the low-cut bodice one breath away from spilling her lushly endowed breasts.

  Her eyes were as dark as her hair, and they were indeed fixed directly on him in a challenging stare that spoke of intense interest in him and him alone. It screamed of attraction and desire with the unquestioning assurance that wanton passion and indescribable pleasure were not only attainable but the only option. Intelligence, playfulness, confidence, fearlessness,
independence, covetousness, a hint of selfishness and danger, and much more all in one ebony-eyed enchantress.

  George was smitten. Hell, who am I kidding? I am enraptured! Who is she? Then she opened her mouth and ran the tip of her tongue across her lower lip before smiling at him. Bloody hell! Combined with the libidinous thoughts previously planted in his brain, George felt such an extreme jolt of lust flash through his body that remaining in his seat for a few minutes was necessary before he could think about walking. As if she could read his mind, she arched one delicate brow and laughed. He could not hear her laughter, but he felt it deep inside his bones. There was no embarrassment, however, only a new rush of desire and blind hunger to share in her laughter, hear the musical tinkling in his ears, and then silence it with his mouth pressed to her lips.

  She moved away at that moment, after a tiny wink and sensual smile, and was swiftly lost in the crowd. George panicked. There were hundreds of guests in the haveli and the place so vast that it was entirely possible he may never find her! He jumped up, peripherally aware of the startled looks from Kshitij and Jharna, but said nothing as he bolted like an arrow straight toward where the mystery woman had stood.

  He didn’t make it halfway there before being accosted by a group of men he knew from Bombay. It was his own fault, blast it all, his eyes focused on scanning the general area from where she had blatantly flirted with him so that he walked smack into the circle of laughing men.

  “Darcy! I saw you sitting at the head table. What a coup! How did you manage that?”

  “Greetings, Lord Burgley,” George said, stifling the scream of frustration behind gritted teeth. “I have been traveling with Dr. Ullas, if you recall, and he is related to the Sardar by marriage.”

  “Ah yes, of course. Lady Burgley did tell me that.”

  “How is your wife? I hope Dr. McIntyre is taking good care of her?”

  “Yes, yes! Quite well indeed! I am sure she will be happy when you return, however. When will you be back in Bombay?”

  “I will be returning after the festivities here have ended. Commander Doyle was gracious enough to grant me a reprieve, but I am sure he will not remain patient forever.”

  George hoped Lord Burgley would say nothing about White or the Powis affair. His departure had happened rather swiftly after the severe reprimand Doyle had given him for attacking Dr. White. The hated older man had suffered nothing more than a busted lip and lots of contusions—thanks to three brawny pub guards pulling George off long before he was done inflicting his punishment—and Doyle had privately sympathized with George’s reasons. Publicly he was obligated to make a show of discipline, not that being “banished” to travel with Dr. Ullas was remotely painful. George could care less what rumors had flown around the island, and he wanted to make this interruption brief. To forestall the conversation from sidetracking out of his control, George inclined his head to the man at Lord Burgley’s right.

  “Mr. Shapter, I trust the arm has healed well?”

  “Thanks to you, indeed it has.” The young man well known to be insanely reckless as well as clumsy addressed the cluster of men in general, bobbing his head George’s direction. “I have broken this arm two times before and never regained full strength. Dr. Darcy set it clean, fashioned a constrictive splint with… what was it?”

  “Strips of cloth soaked in a mixture of gypsum, lime powder, crushed seashells, and other ingredients,” George replied automatically.

  “Right.” Mr. Shapter nodded. “Disgusting stuff but it worked wonders. The bone healed quicker than ever, and with the exercises he taught me, I was good as new in no time!”

  “Just in time for you to probably break it again,” piped in his friend Mr. Moir.

  Several men laughed in agreement. George scanned the crowd, trying to be sly about it and not let his irritation show. He opened his mouth to voice an excuse to leave, but Mr. Moir spoke first.

  “Darcy, have you met His Grace, the Duke of Larent?”

  Unfortunately, yes. “I have,” he said instead, forcing a pleasant smile on his lips. “It is always a pleasure, your Grace.” He inclined his head. The Duke’s reply was a short nod before he glanced away, boredom and disinterest oozing from his pores. Suppressing a grimace of distaste, George gave his attention to the man Moir introduced as the Earl of Yardley, newly arrived in India.

  “Merely passing through, as it were,” Lord Yardley said jovially. “My daughter begged me to take her on an adventure, and, well, I am a doting father who denies her nothing, so here we are! An adventure indeed it has been, and my Ruby has fallen in love with this country. I fear I may have difficulty dragging her home.”

  “I for one hope you never try, my lord,” Mr. Shapter said. “The sun would refuse to shine and all of India would weep at the loss of the priceless jewel that is Lady Ruby.”

  With effort, George resisted rolling his eyes at such obsequious fawning. “Ruby—priceless jewel.” It was nauseating! Yet no sooner had the opinion crossed his mind than he felt the same tingling sensation as generated by the mystery woman. His head jerked up, and after one heavy pound of his heart, he realized she was close behind him. He could feel the heat of her gaze burning the skin of his back right through the thickness of his clothing and started to turn around just as Lord Yardley spoke.

  “Ah! And here she is! My priceless jewel! Dr. Darcy, I have the honor of introducing my daughter, Lady Ruby Thomason.”

  George had begun to think his response to her imagined. After all, he had been dwelling on sex, so perhaps he had fabricated her flirtatious expressions or only thought she was looking at him. Maybe it was the distance or a trick of the light that had created a vision of perfection. In close proximity, she may not be as stunning or have the same impact.

  “Dr. Darcy. What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance.”

  No, she is utterly breathtaking. Air was wrested from his lungs and most of his blood went straight to his groin, leaving his brain starved for oxygen so that coherent thought was impossible. The impact she had upon him was compounded a hundredfold up close. And she was very close. She spoke his name with a husky caress, gave the word pleasure a slight emphasis, and then smiled that same sensual, impish smile delivered before. He realized he had been wrong on one count: his imagination assuming her voice would be light and sweet and musical. Rather, it was rich and velvety smooth, smoky and warm, musical, yes, but as the deep chords played in a nuanced rubato.

  Lady Ruby was pure sexuality encased in a living form. She knew her power full well and she relished it, enhanced it, and exploited it. George felt a tingling of danger radiating from her, but it excited him more. Before him stood a woman who he instinctively understood could never be tamed, yet therein was the challenge. George loved nothing more than a challenge! The raw, animal hunger to have her, to be the one who tapped into the fire that blazed from deep inside her, was undeniable and overwhelming. All men would feel the same—this George knew before he glanced to the men standing around him or noted how every male reacted to her—but she was looking at him, standing inches away from him, sending a silent message to him! The message was loud and clear.

  George relaxed and flashed his most dashing smile. Lady Ruby Thomason may have been wreaking havoc on his senses and spinning his mind and body out of control, but he wasn’t a green youth, unaware of his own charms. He was a Darcy—handsome, rich, brilliant, masculine, and confident. George knew the attributes he possessed, even if he rarely exploited them.

  He bowed without losing eye contact. “My lady,” he greeted with a resonant caress that was not lost on her, as noted by the slight widening of her eyes. “The pleasure is mutual, I am sure.”

  “I watched you dance earlier with the Indian ladies and was impressed at how quickly you learned the steps. You have a natural grace and rhythm that serves you well while dancing.”

  And other places also, he intimated with h
is eyes and a roguish smile.

  “My daughter wanted to join in and was lamenting the standards that prevented it.”

  “It is unfair that women are denied the ability to express their desires and whimsies as gentlemen are,” she retorted with an insinuating laugh.

  “Perhaps, but no daughter of mine will be seen in a thin garment with skin bare while undulating for all to see,” Lord Yardley countered. And of course, that planted the vision of Ruby doing precisely that firmly in every man’s mind!

  “More the pity. Do you see how tragic my life is, Dr. Darcy? I coerce my poor father into leaving our comfortable estate in England, begging him to show me the world in hopes of escaping the shackles that bind me, yet even in these exotic, romantic locales, I am surrounded by British mores.” She sighed dramatically, all eyes on the rise of her chest as she did and undoubtedly praying the straining fabric of her décolletage would fail. She reached out and touched George lightly on his arm, her fingertips brushing his bare wrist before coming to rest on the edge of his sleeve. “You must be an adventurous man, Doctor, based on your performance on the dance floor. Do you not agree with me that rules stifle us and inhibit our creativity? Would life not be richer and more satisfying if allowed to live unencumbered?”

  He nodded, keeping his arm still and rigidly clamping down on the wild rush of electricity instigated by her feathery touch. “I do agree, within reason, of course. Rules have their place and are necessary, but breaking them now and again is fun.”

  “Rules are what separate us from the animals, Lady Ruby.” The Duke of Larent’s cold voice cut through the playful banter. “Adhering to strict standards of propriety is our duty as the superior class. We act as rational man should and set an example for the lower classes who are unruly, largely due to allowing their baser instincts to govern them.”