Duty and Desire fdg-2

by Pamela Aidan

  “Like the look of that saber, do you?” Sayre strolled over to them with unconcealed pride. At Darcy’s nod, he motioned toward it. “Take it up! Tell me what you think.” Almost disbelieving him, Darcy reached up and gingerly freed the saber from its display. The weapon’s hilt seemed to slip into his hand, his fingers closing around it in a perfect fit, the swirling silver bands of the wrist guard accentuating its deadly beauty. He hefted it reverently, flexing the muscles and tendons of his hand and forearm, and slowly thrust it out before him, watching the candlelight play along its length as he tested its exquisite balance.

  “Go on, Darcy,” urged Trenholme as the others gathered around. “Show what can be done with the little beauty! My brother never was a swordsman. I’d like to see it as it was meant to be seen — in action!”

  Smiling with anticipation, Darcy executed a few simple moves. The blade floated, then slashed through the air, the traditional moves calling forth the weapon’s own distinctive song. Perfect, he thought, or as near to perfection as a thing from the hand of man could be.

  “Too tame by half!” Manning sneered.

  “Show us more than nursery exercises, Darcy!” called Poole.

  Checking his movement, Darcy gently placed the saber on a table and began unbuttoning his coat. With a knowing smile upon his face, Monmouth came behind him and helped pull it from his shoulders. Shaking one arm free, Darcy stripped his other and threw the coat over a chair as he turned back to the blade. It fit into his hand as smoothly as before, and no, he had not dreamed the perfection of its balance. Stepping away from the group and stretching the muscles of his back and upper arms, he swung the saber in increasing arcs.

  “He should have an opponent,” Chelmsford observed, but no one made a motion to offer his services. Instead, silence fell as the gentlemen eagerly awaited Darcy’s first move. Darcy drew in several calming breaths as he reviewed the steps of the exercise he had recently developed for himself. It had been well over a week…

  He began slowly with classic moves that warmed his muscles and steadily increased the beat of his heart. Then the pace and complexity of the figures increased as well, until the blade was a blur as he advanced and retreated against an invisible foe. The saber responded to his slightest wish, becoming an extension of his body. He pressed himself further.

  Shouts of “Well done!” and “Good show!” slowly invaded his concentration. It was time to end. Advancing to his host, he slowed and, with a flourish, threw the saber up into the air. Catching it, he laid it across his crooked arm, offering it hilt first to a wide-eyed Sayre. His Lordship took the weapon with a bow as the rest clapped Darcy upon his back, exclamations of their appreciation echoing from the stone arches of the ancient armory.

  “Damn me, Darcy!” Sayre eyed him speculatively. “Thought seven years would have slowed your sword arm. Of course, with such a blade…” He let the thought dangle as Darcy shrugged back into his coat and began on the buttons.

  “Out with it, Sayre. ‘With such a blade…’?” Monmouth prodded.

  “Just a thought.” His Lordship would not be rushed. “Perhaps, Darcy, you would like an opportunity to acquire the saber?”

  His suspicion aroused at such a question, Darcy replied casually, “Are you offering it for sale, Sayre?”

  “Oh, no! Not for sale, Darcy!” His host regarded him slyly. “If you would have the saber, you must win it from me!”

  The gentlemen entered Lady Sayre’s salon to the sound of a musical duet. The last to enter, Darcy paused in the doorway, for the scene presented for them had been artfully contrived. Lady Felicia sat at the pianoforte with Miss Avery at her side to turn her pages, while Miss Farnsworth stood behind them, drawing a bow across a violin. The music was sweetly plaintive, a popular lament and, with the performers so charmingly grouped, ideally suited to delight the senses.

  It was a pleasing sight, Darcy admitted as he found a seat. Veteran as he was of many a drawing room campaign, he was not inured to beauty and grace; and the females present possessed those qualities in full measure. All of them were good-looking women. Lady Chelmsford, the oldest, was still handsome; and her sister, Lady Beatrice, could almost be taken for Miss Farnsworth’s older sister rather than her mother. Lady Sayre had been declared a “stunner” her first Season by members of the fast set who still had entry into Almack’s and had been credited with bringing red hair into fashion. Although six years had passed since her triumph and marriage, her sloe eyes, womanly figure, and pouting, full lips were still more than capable of sending warm shivers down a man’s spine.

  Darcy turned his contemplation upon the younger ladies. Miss Avery, Lady Sayre’s much younger sister, was a copy of her but in a different key. She also possessed the Avery hair, but imitated her brother in looking upon the world through grass green eyes. The most obvious difference lay in her manner. Whereas her siblings regarded the world with confidence and complacency, Miss Avery did so with a timidity that revealed a severe doubt as to her welcome. This hesitancy was further exacerbated by her brother’s impatience with her and an unfortunate tendency to stutter. She was very young and impressionable, Darcy noted. Already, her gratitude for Lady Felicia’s intervention during supper had blossomed into worship as she gazed upon the lady playing so charmingly beside her.

  Miss Farnsworth, by contrast, was a regal beauty cast in the classical mold. Tall like her mother, she held herself with an easy confidence that bore testimony to her reputation as an accomplished horsewoman and huntress. A veritable Diana, she seemed as if she had just stepped from the forests and fields shouldering Olympus. In that, she was a perfect complement to her cousin. Lady Felicia’s celebrated beauty was all of English cream mixed with Norse ancestry. Sunlight or candle, it did not matter, her hair was gloriously golden and her eyes the clearest blue. As he turned his attention to her performance at the pianoforte, Darcy recalled his enchantment upon their introduction almost one year ago and his subsequent recession of himself from her court several months later. She was beautiful, of that there was no question. Her taste, her air of recherche were exquisite. She was the perfect consort for a man of distinction in the world. But he had relinquished his place in the lists; she was now his cousin’s, and although he could still respond to her beauty, Darcy suddenly found that he was not sorry he had stepped aside. He wanted for a wife and a mistress for Pemberley, not a consort, and especially not one whom he could not trust out of his sight.

  Lady Sylvanie was the only one of the young women who was not charmingly grouped for the gentlemen’s appreciation. Quickly surveying the room, Darcy found her half-hidden behind Trenholme’s turned back in a corner of the salon. A heated discussion was obviously in progress as Darcy immediately recognized the signs of a man whose back had been set up. Beverley Trenholme had never been one to handle his emotions stoically. He now wove back and forth, as he habitually did when in agitation, but Darcy could not fault him; for the movement gave him a view of the lady. His first impression of a fairy princess was recalled as he observed her cool disdain for her half brother’s words. Her black hair was plaited into a crown upon her head, although cloudy wisps had come loose and played delicately about an ethereal face. Her smoke gray eyes looked through Trenholme as if he were not even now leaning toward her, intent on making his point. Her gaze seemed focused elsewhere, beyond her brother or within herself, Darcy could not decide. No child’s flower fairy she, he concluded, but one of that more traditional, fearful caste whom men do well to treat with caution.

  Knowing he should not attend to a family squabble, Darcy made to look away; but at that moment, Lady Sylvanie’s eyes met his. A slow smile touched her lips. Seeing the change in her expression, Trenholme turned immediately, his features smoothing from their snarl into an embarrassed smile when he beheld the raised brow of her object. Looking over his shoulder, he said something that only caused her to laugh at him before he abruptly left her where she stood. Shuttering her eyes once more, the lady drifted to a chair next to L
ady Chelmsford and, without another glance in Darcy’s direction, appeared to give all her attention to the duet.

  Finally, the last notes drifted across the salon and were answered with enthusiastic applause from the gentlemen and ladies alike. Darcy added his, but the irrepressible memory of another lady’s performance at the pianoforte tempered his response. As the pair acknowledged their audience’s appreciation, he could not help but contrast their grand curtsies with Elizabeth Bennet’s unaffected one, which had thanked her listeners with such sweet sincerity. Elizabeth’s performance had been no better in execution, he admitted, but her music’s expression had called forth from deep within him a response that Lady Felicia’s performance had been unable to touch. He closed his eyes while the remembered pleasure coursed through him.

  A sudden cascade of feminine laughter brought Darcy’s eyes snapping back open, and a flush of heat crept up his neck. Had his lapse been noted? No, it was something Poole had said that had caused the amusement. He closed his eyes again, this time bringing his fingers to work at his temples. Is there nothing that does not bring her to mind, or have you merely lost all your sense? You are here, sir, for an antidote to her charms, not a restorative! He looked up again with purpose at the bevy of eligible femininity before him. Was The Woman who would cure him among them? He sighed lightly, feeling once more the effects of the day’s travel. Perhaps he just needed rest and time to become acquainted. Maybe then She would gently assume the guise of one of the ladies present. He could hope.

  “A delightful offering,” Lord Sayre complimented his guests, “as delightful as any I, or these walls, have been privileged to hear, I am sure. Do you not agree, Bev?” He turned to his brother, who by now betrayed no sign of his unsatisfactory interview with Lady Sylvanie.

  “A privilege, indeed!” Trenholme agreed and offered his arm to Miss Farnsworth as his brother did to Lady Felicia, escorting her to a divan.

  “Shall we have our tea, then?” Sayre looked to his wife. “My lady?”

  “Yes, Sayre, I take your meaning” — Her Ladyship gave a delicate snort — “and will not suggest more music for this night.” She arched her brow as she nodded to the servants. “Drink your tea, ladies. The gentlemen have their own plans for tonight.” Murmurs of disappointment issued from the female quarter, answered with nobly phrased apologies from the gentlemen. Darcy accepted his tea and sweets in silence, hoping that Lady Sayre’s little rebellion against her husband’s plans for a night of gambling would gain sway. The thought of a night spent in high-stakes and devil-may-care play was numbing to his travel-weary senses.

  “My lady.” Sayre’s voice rose above the others. “Might I suggest that the ladies use this evening’s separation to plan tomorrow’s activities? I promise we shall be at your service whatever you decide. Shall we not, gentlemen?” His offer was enthusiastically seconded by the men and eagerly accepted by the ladies.

  “Let it not be a very late night then” — his wife smirked in satisfaction — “or else your promise will be worth precious little on the morrow, my dear.”

  Sayre allowed the gentlemen long enough to do justice to his board before excusing them all from the ladies’ gentle company for the sharper air of his library. Mentally arming himself for the battles ahead, Darcy rose with the others and made his bow. The ladies wished them well with sweetly despairing smiles upon their faces.

  “Bonne chance, Papa.” Lady Felicia swiftly crossed the salon to Chelmsford, who was standing next to Darcy, and bestowed a soft kiss upon her father’s cheek. It was a pretty picture, and only Darcy’s closeness to the exchange allowed him to observe Chelmsford’s startled response before he checked himself and patted his daughter’s shoulder. Lady Felicia drew back slightly from his gesture as the gathered gentlemen murmured their approval of her display of sentiment. Darcy watched in silence, his mind divided in perplexity.

  “A most unfair advantage, Chelmsford,” Monmouth grumbled playfully behind him. “I have no fair lady to wish me well in such a manner.” Chelmsford laughed with the others, but his brow wrinkled slightly as his daughter rose from her curtsy.

  Lady Felicia smiled archly at Monmouth. “My Lord, it is true you have no ‘fair’ lady, but if you will soon come to the point, you might then claim the favor of one of another shade.”

  “Walked into that one with both eyes open.” Manning snorted above his fellows’ chorus of jibes at the Viscount’s misstep. “Take care, Monmouth!”

  “Yes, do take care, my lord, as shall I.” Lady Felicia turned to Darcy, detaining him while the rest of the gentlemen took their leave.

  “My lady?” he inquired politely, although the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in warning at the look she gave him. Cerulean pools appealed to him from under lowered lashes as her hand came to rest upon his arm.

  “As we are nearly related, Mr. Darcy, allow me to wish you well also.” His incredulity at her forwardness must have shown, or perhaps she felt his arm tremble under her hand; for she arched a brow and smiled. “But perhaps you have no need of wishes,” she murmured, drawing close to his side, “and know your way.”

  In a second she was gone, back to the other women, but the warmth of her hand and of the look she had cast him remained. Wheeling abruptly, he left the room, but the churning of his thoughts hampered his long stride. There was no hope of mistake or avoidance; Lady Felicia had made it very clear that a flirtation was not the sum of what she desired of him. My God, poor Alex! The thought brought him to a halt. No wonder he had come near to baring his fists when Richard had teased him. He knew! Had he known of his fiancée’s “propensity” before he made his offer? Surely not! Darcy’s lips pressed themselves into a hard line as he looked back down the hall. Could his aunt and uncle have been so deceived as well? His eyes narrowed. To all her other talents, then, must be added that of consummate actress.

  “Darcy!” Monmouth suddenly rounded the corner before him. “Coming, my good lad? I have claimed a seat for you.” His old roommate stopped directly in his path and peered into his face. “Is there a problem? Good Lord, what a scowl!”

  Darcy looked back at his roommate in chagrin. “N-no, Tris. Just a very long, blasted day.”

  “Oh, good that! Well, what I meant was, good that nothing is wrong.” Monmouth clapped his shoulder. “Come on, then. It will be just like old times — you and I against all comers, eh? Although, I seem to recall, you partnered that other fellow often after our first year. Who was that? Won all the prizes when we graduated.”

  “Brougham,” Darcy replied, the memories relaxing his features.

  “Ah, yes…Brougham! Earl of Westmarch, isn’t he? Whatever happened to him?”

  “Oh, he is still about. Flies with the Melbourne set usually, but I see him now and then.” They had reached the library door, which was opened by yet another richly dressed servant.

  “The Melbourne set!” Monmouth whistled. “Then it is not a wonder that I haven’t seen him. M’father would disinherit me if I were ever to —”

  “Monmouth, Darcy!” Sayre’s voice boomed out at them. “Hurry along, lads!”

  Darcy gazed about him as he came into the room, more curious to behold Sayre’s library than his card tables. In shock he looked from one side of the room to the other. “I thought this was your library, Sayre.”

  “It is, old man.” Sayre looked up briefly from the cards he was shuffling.

  “Then where are your books?” Darcy motioned to the empty bookcases.

  “Sold ’em!” His Lordship replied. “Got a pretty little sum for them, too. Who would have thought anyone would want them enough to pay for them?” He laughed. “Better the ready in my pocket than those old, fusty things doing me no good on the shelf.”

  “Sold them! Sayre, were there not some very old manuscripts among the collection?” Darcy looked at His Lordship in amazement.

  “Possibly…probably. Had a fellow in to give me a figure who was fool enough to let me see his excitement over what he had found. Go
t another thousand out of him.” Sayre began to deal the cards. “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”

  The last card was turned at three in the morning, and Darcy was thankful that he had been able to hold his own despite his fatigue and come out twenty guineas to the good. Not up to his usual play, he confessed in a yawn, dropping the golden coins on the dresser as Fletcher divested him of his evening clothes.

  “Humph!” the valet snorted. “Better play than His Lordship hoped for, I’ve no doubt! Begging your pardon, sir,” he added quickly, before moving to the washing stand to pour out the steaming water from the ewer.

  “No, continue, Fletcher,” Darcy encouraged, trying to stifle another yawn. “You have had an entire evening, and I expected you would have formed some opinions.”

  The valet carefully replaced the ewer before he turned and cocked his head at his master. “It would have been well with His Lordship if he’d heeded old Polonius, sir. Not only have Lord Sayre’s habits dulled ‘the edge of husbandry’ but they threaten to lose him his patrimony altogether.”

  Darcy nodded thoughtfully. “Hinchcliffe told me as much before we left London, and I have seen evidence of it with my own eyes. He has sold off his library, Fletcher!”

  “His library, sir?” Fletcher’s face showed only mild surprise. “It stands to reason. Have you seen the gallery yet, Mr. Darcy? The gilt frames have all been removed — sold, I understand — and replaced with wood and paint.”

  “‘All that glisters is not gold,’” Darcy thought aloud as he paced the room. Upon reaching the window, he leaned against its frame and stared out into the moonlit night. “I did see his weapons collection, and it is truly impressive. I would venture to say it is untouched.”

  “Yes, very true, sir, but according to my information, it is the only part of the Sayre estate either here or in London that has not suffered depredation.”

  “Hmm.” Darcy considered Fletcher’s information. “Yet tonight he held out one of his most valued swords as a prize at cards. His losses never reached that point, but — here, what is this?” He straightened and peered out into the darkness.