Most Ardently

by Sheena Austin et al.

  “I couldn’t deny a request from the mistress of Pemberley,” he smiled.

  He reached for her; she was already so close, but it felt like he had to bridge a canyon to fill that tiny gap between their lips. And still, he made her reach up to kiss him. He couldn’t bear to do it. He needed to know that she wanted this, that this wasn’t some fever dream. She kissed him tentatively, like a question lingering between them.

  A quick stray thought of pushing her away entered his mind, but she gently bit his lip, like the night before when he nipped at her neck. It brought a shock of pleasure to him and he pulled her closer, while pulling away enough just to say, “You’re a tempting little minx, aren’t you?”

  She smiled at that, eyes full of mischief. The Colonel didn’t ever picture Lizzy as a shy little miss, but he wasn’t expecting this either. She was tentative, yet still took the lead, her hands reaching under his coat to touch his chest.

  He stepped back, pushing his back against the wall, pulling her against him. His hand wound in her hair, freeing the silky tresses from her coiffure. She tucked her head under his chin and kissed his neck, shy little kisses dotting along his jaw. He looked up and realized he was directly in the path of her portrait. Those dark eyes staring back at him, a different version of her looking down on him, that little knowing smile painted on her face. How different that storybook version of Lizzy must have thought her life would be. She never would have guessed she’d be kissing the Colonel in her husband’s portrait gallery.

  She pulled away and looked at him. He must have gone stock-still studying the painting for she asked, “Have you changed your mind?”

  “Not here,” he said, and he led her from the room, wanting her all to himself, without two hundred years’ worth of eyes judging him from across the canvas.

  There were still things left unsaid. He never spoke of Waterloo, of the terrors he saw and could never unsee. She never once mentioned the loneliness she felt, a dull ache that encroached upon her even in the busiest ballrooms. Yet, somehow, in their closeness and the feel of her soft skin and the way he moved inside her, all of this was laid out there in the open, laid bare upon the sheets.

  Afterwards, Lizzy sat up, wrapping herself in a blanket and the words that had been perched on her tongue earlier came tumbling out. “I buy things. When I get angry. I like to go to stores and order dresses for parties I’ll never host and writing desks on which I’ll never write my letters. I ordered a crib in which there will never be a baby. Not any time soon anyhow. I like to spend his money. I like to walk around and have the shop clerks and modistes fawn over me as if I were truly mistress of Pemberley and not – whatever I’ve become. This imposter roaming the vast halls.”

  “None of it matters,” he told her, bringing her fingers to his lips and giving them a little kiss. It had only been an hour, but that kiss was as familiar as her own hand now. “Will anyone care in 200 years’ time? Do you truly believe someone will be talking of Pemberley? Even Waterloo will have no meaning. Do you think anyone will remember the name ‘Darcy’ as if it held any sort of personal significance to themselves?”

  She leaned down against him, burrowing under his arm. “What is there then?” she asked.

  “Just this. This is it. The breaths between moments. You don’t get many of them, Lizzy. If war has taught be anything, it’s that. This is all we get.”

  Lizzy didn’t agree. The Colonel was preparing as if the world could end at any moment. But Lizzy knew it did not. It stretched long ahead of her into a path she could not yet see enough of to forge. Sometimes a single day felt like a lifetime. One had to make meaning in it.

  “No one needs you to be mistress of Pemberley,” he continued. “You need not answer to that title.”

  “What shall I answer to?” she said, resting her chin on his chest.

  “Sweeting,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Or darling,” and he kissed her cheek. “Or Lizzy,” he said, and she reached up to kiss his lips.

  “I suppose I can’t ask about the future,” she whispered, her lips still close enough to touch his.

  “I don’t have an answer to that,” he said, stroking her back. “I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give. It’s more than I was expecting, and I shan’t ask for anything more.”

  Lizzy was surprised by the frank answer. She was afraid he might regret the night, try to talk her into thinking it was a mistake. And perhaps it would seem so when she was fully dressed and going about her day. But right now, it didn’t feel like a mistake.

  “Are you very unhappy, Colonel?”

  “I don’t know,” he sighed. “And you?”

  “Not now,” she said. “Not always,” she said truthfully.

  “Fair enough,” he said, and pulled her in for a kiss. “That’s a relief anyway. I was very worried that you have a happy match, even if it’s only sometimes.”

  “Why is that?”

  He slumped his head back on the pillow. “I hated the idea of paying Wickham off some years ago or forcing your sister into a wretched marriage, but I couldn’t stand by and let him ruin you or your sisters’ reputations. When Darcy told me what happened, I told him what had to be done, regardless of—”

  Lizzy froze. “It was you.” Lizzy thought back to what had happened all those years ago. Lydia’s reputation had been saved – barely—because Darcy had paid off Wickham to marry her. When Lizzy had asked him about it, he said he had done it for her. She assumed it was because he didn’t want her reputation sullied or perhaps out of guilt that he hadn’t disclosed Georgiana’s narrow escape from Wickham, making others a victim of his schemes. She hadn’t thought about what led to Darcy’s decision. She never thought that there had been someone whispering in his ear, guiding him towards an action that would change how she saw him. She might never have felt the esteem or the gratitude towards him that led to her decision to marry him.

  “It was your handiwork that brought me here,” she said, her hand gesturing to the beautiful room they were in, though her tone indicated that it might be a prison.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” though his tone suggested otherwise. “I merely suggested that he shouldn’t throw away his feelings for you when there was a way he could—and should—fix the problem at hand.”

  “Had he not done that, I wouldn’t be here. There is no way he could have married a woman like me had Lydia been ruined. Had you not convinced him of his course of action, he would not have arranged for Lydia’s wedding. Darcy could have married Caroline. Or even Anne de Bourgh.”

  “But he didn’t,” the Colonel said. “You must remember that fact no matter what. He did it for you. He chose you.”

  “But by your suggestion. By your machinations.” This revelation had stunned her, and she couldn’t bite back the confusion that resonated in her voice.

  “Lizzy, who wouldn’t want to marry you?” he asked, repeating a question he had asked her earlier. He tilted up her chin so he could look into her eyes and she felt as though she were beloved and lovely, and more so, someone who deserved to feel such things in abundance

  Chapter 10

  WHEN DARCY ARRIVED the next afternoon, he burst through the door like the North Wind itself, snow covering his coat, sodden boots leaving wet prints everywhere. Lizzy, he called, and she stood there, not sure what to make of him. He looked like her husband, he felt like her husband as he put his arms around her, still covered in snow. He didn’t apologize. Just embraced her and kissed her on the forehead, the same way he kissed his little sister. The snow that clung to his coat wet her morning gown and skin and left her cold. Or at least she told herself it was the snow that left her cold, and not her husband.

  Darcy ordered food and they all sat together, Darcy, Georgiana, Lizzy and the Colonel. In the past few days, Georgiana had found herself a new suitor—apparently, cousin Mortimer was no longer the meek and mild young man they once knew and had appeared at a party Georgiana had attended as a tall and handsome young buck. Miraculously, Georgi
ana no longer had a disinclination towards him and spoke about him as though she never did.

  “You might be too late, old man,” Darcy joked to the Colonel.

  “Same,” the Colonel muttered, on his second glass of port.

  Now that the snow was over, Lizzy was looking back through her lists, conferring with the housekeeper, back in Pemberley party mode. While the storm had detained several guests, some of them would be arriving shortly, including cousin Mortimer who Darcy had enthusiastically invited after hearing Georgiana’s gushing remarks.

  The guests would also include Caroline Bingley. How does one act as hostess in this situation, Lizzy wondered. She was going to seat her in the furthest reaches of the dining room, that was for sure.

  She was too busy to feel anything. Hurt, relief, grief, guilt, all of those rolled tightly into a ball and knotted in the pit of her stomach. She had a maid press and prepare the red gown she had commissioned for the occasion. It didn’t look the same, she thought. She didn’t look the same.

  She thought that she would be full of questions or fury when she saw Darcy again after the Colonel’s revelation. But she didn’t. She had tried so hard to impress and please her husband over the past months and all of it came to nothing. And she wasn’t sad about it. She knew now where she stood. In society, in her marriage, and at Pemberley. She might not have mastered the ton or kept her husband, but she would keep Pemberley. It would be a beautiful party, and if it wasn’t, she’d drain whatever was left of the port that the Colonel hadn’t already consumed and have a jolly good time anyway.

  The Colonel watched this scene with less amusement than he did a few days before. Lizzy shuffled servants and guests alike to their places, like they were actors in a play and had to hit their marks and watch for cues. But there was no role for him.

  What’s more is that he couldn’t look at Darcy. He was as he always was, stiff and silent around his wife. He caressed her briefly when he arrived, a trifle gift of apology. As if a touch from him was enough to elicit forgiveness for what he had done. But it tore him apart just as much as a blow to the kidneys or a rocket at Waterloo. She half smiled at him, then picked up her lists and began to set the house to rights for the party. As if nothing happened. As if her husband hadn’t abandoned her for his mistress. As if they hadn’t just spent the night with one another.

  As the day wore on, guests began to arrive. The house began to fill with familiar faces. Lizzy made an appearance in a crimson gown, and her hair done up as high as it might go. She smiled at her guests, even as Jane arrived with her husband Charles and his sister, Caroline Bingley. He thought about the portrait he saw the night before. How it might change over the coming years, for this Lizzy before him wasn’t who he saw last night. In her crimson gown, with a smile plastered to her face, and a commanding tilt to her head, she was the mistress of Pemberley. And she was here to do battle.

  “Ah, Colonel, I think you’ll enjoy this,” cousin Mortimer, said interrupting his thoughts. He produced a little wooden box. He placed it down on the table and gingerly lifted the lid.

  “Recognize this?” he asked, handing a trinket to the Colonel. It was faded, but one could clearly see the red, white, and blue ribbons.

  “I do,” the Colonel said. “It’s a French cockade.”

  “Yes,” cousin Mortimer laughed. “This is straight from the grounds of Waterloo.”

  The Colonel’s face twisted. “Is it?”

  “Yes, I went out there with a merry party shortly after the battle and we brought back some keepsakes. And look at this.”

  Georgiana, who had steadfastly affixed herself to Mortimer’s side all evening, gasped. There were two teeth in the palm of his hand, yellowed and cracked. “From one of the soldiers, no doubt,” Mortimer explained, as if the Colonel himself hadn’t seen soldiers’ teeth and much worse get torn from their bodies on the field.

  “How charming,” the Colonel said. He could feel his blood rush to the surface of his skin, could feel a prickle down his spine just as he did when he was called into the pit for a fight. The Colonel knew people did this, picnicked on battle sights as if it was a lark and not the most devastating time of his life. He couldn’t mention the atrocities witnessed, but some buck was allowed to pass around a dead fellow’s teeth as if it were an amusing trifle. The room grew small, so small again. He could hear people talking and laughing, but could no longer see them. He wiped his hand over his eyes.

  “I need some fresh air,” he muttered to no one in particular and headed towards the door in the back of the room that led to the garden. Outside, it was crisp and cold, but it felt like what he needed to cool his fury. He breathed in deeply and looked up at the sky.

  He felt a tug on his arm and hoped it wasn’t who he thought it would be.

  Of course, it was. Lizzy turned him towards her. He must look a fright because her eyes were huge and full of alarm and she pulled her cloak tighter around her neck.

  “Lizzy, I can’t,” he started. But wasn’t sure how to finish it. He didn’t want her here for so many reasons. He didn’t want her to watch him break down. He tilted his head back up at the sky. It was dark and vast. The stars were hidden tonight, so he looked up at the moon.

  She tucked herself under his arm, a quick shot of pain rushed into his shoulder as she burrowed closer. They were too close to the house, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Surely, the bloody cockades and teeth would be enough to entertain the guests for some time.

  “I’ll just stay out here with you. Under the stars,” she whispered. He thought about the moment after he was shot at Waterloo. It was just in the shoulder, but for a moment he lay bleeding on the field, the air kicked out of him, confusion over where the blood was coming from. For a moment he thought about not getting back up.

  She pushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I think you need some time to recover.”

  “From you?”

  “From the war.”

  “What about you?”

  She shrugged under his arm, looking into the darkness. “There are always more things to buy, aren’t there?” She let out a big sigh. “I suppose I should tell Darcy that I should like to start over.”

  “I’m going to go north,” he said. “To my brother’s estate. Maybe rent some little cottage out there. Surely, no one would object to the mistress of Pemberley visiting to pick out furniture and draperies for her bachelor cousin.”

  “No, but I’m sure there will be a Mrs. Fitzwilliam soon enough. Eventually.”

  “Eventually,” he agreed.

  If there’s one thing that the Colonel had learned in the past few years, it was that some things go unsaid. Some thoughts never make it to words. He had held enough men’s hands as they lay bleeding when the words came spilling out of them. Secrets and lost loves and hopes and fears all torn from their throats in their final breaths. So, to Lizzy now, on this cold night with the household party of her dreams just beyond the door, he whispered his wishes for her. He leaned into her, burying his face in her hair and softly told her how he felt when he saw her, who he was when he was with her. It was a secret, it was something one is never to talk about, but now it was released into the air. Into the cold. Into the darkness.

  “I know,” she whispered back. “I see you, too,” she told him, her hands tightening on his arms.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you more.”

  “It’s just enough,” she said. She squeezed his hand one last time, feeling his warmth, and walked back towards the house, her red dress glowing in the candlelight from the rooms within.

  About the Author

  A LIBRARIAN AND RESEARCHER by day, Claire O’Dare writes Regency and contemporary romances at night.

  Twelvetide Chaos by Deborah E Pearson

  Chapter 1 - Christmas Day 1812

  A Partridge in a Pear Tree.

  “Oh, my poor nerves” Mrs Bennet opined. “Christmas has arrived and the girls’ weddings are in four days.”

  Mr
Bennet sighed. He had heard the same refrain for the past month. His wife was notoriously nervous. However, Bennet had yet to see her miss a social event or fail in any endeavour that she put her mind to. When their girls had all returned engaged from their annual Ramsgate visit, Mr Bennet had been somewhat concerned. Mrs Bennet had taken that in her stride and was overjoyed. Mary, their middle daughter, had done herself proud as she had become engaged to Thomas Bertram, the eldest son and heir of Sir Thomas Bertram a baronet from Mansfield Park. Catherine, their second youngest, had won the hand of Edmund Bertram, the younger son. Jane, their eldest daughter, had betrothed herself to Mr Bingley, a wealthy young man who was renting Netherfield Park not three miles away from Longbourn, their family home. It was Elizabeth, their second eldest, and Lydia, their youngest, who had brought the most surprises. Elizabeth had returned home engaged to Mr Darcy, a wealthy landowner from the North of England, and Lydia had found herself a young ensign in the regulars by the name of Mr Wickham. Mrs Bennet was overjoyed that her girls had done so well for themselves. It had not taken long before the girls had decided between themselves that they would exchange their vows in a single ceremony. Initially Mrs Bennet had been in her element as she organised the weddings of five daughters, but the quantity of work had soon overwhelmed her, and every morning before they descended the stairs for the day, Mr Bennet had heard his wife lament about her ‘nerves’. Gently, he pulled her into his arms, “My dearest, you can do this you and you alone have the strength to pull this quintuple wedding together.”

  “Oh, Mr Bennet, I fear this may be too much for me. It really is a lot of work.”

  “If anyone can do it, you can. Now, Mrs Bennet we must get dressed. The young men and your sister will be here soon.” Mrs Bennet grumbled but saw the sense in starting their day. It did not take the matriarch and her husband much time to get ready. They were downstairs five minutes before their daughters and long before any of their guests arrived.