“I should hope not,” Fitz said. “Nature has not stinted you there. But my God, Syl. A corset? It’s not as if you have a tendency to corpulence.”
“Oh, the fashions these days are impossible,” Monkton said. “They’re wearing coats so tight, and with such narrow waists. Come on, give me a hand with these laces.”
Fitz pulled his penknife from the pocket of his pantaloons and flicked it open.
“No!” Monkton shrieked, stumbling backward. “I’ll need to get into the coat again.”
“You do make a fellow pay for pleasure,” Fitz complained, picking at the knots. “Never expected to find myself working as an abigail.”
“Don’t worry, love. I’ll make it worth your while,” Monkton said in the accents of a Covent Garden streetwalker. Once divested of his undergarments, he showed himself off to best advantage, leaning in a carefully posed S-curve against the bedpost. “There. How’s that?”
Fitz studied the lithe, supple body before him. “That’s what I mean. It leaves such ghastly red marks where you lace it so tight.”
“Men,” Monkton said, rolling his eyes. “No pleasing you. What can it possibly matter so long as my cock is hard and my arse is open?”
“An excellent point,” Fitz said. He moved to stand behind Monkton, who braced himself on the side of the bed. Fitz pulled the stopper from the jar of grease, spread a liberal amount over himself and Monkton, and pushed roughly inside. Monkton inhaled sharply but pressed back against Fitz in encouragement. God, it was a pleasure to have a willing—no, an eager—partner for a change, Fitz thought.
“Oh,” Monkton said on a sigh, “you do have an excellent point yourself, Fitz. That Charles Bingley is a fool.”
“Leave him out of this, Sylly,” Fitz said.
But an hour later Fitz couldn’t follow his own advice. It was all he could do not to think of it, the contrast between Monkton’s practiced, easy acquiescence and dear Charles’s prickly, innocent love. Sylly knew every trick of exciting a man’s interest, keeping him aroused, satisfying him—and stirring him to rise yet again. He was like the mythical whore that all men dream of, who does it for pleasure, not for money. Like Wickham without the danger and the malice. But Charles…Charles was like a lady. Not in body, and certainly not in performance. But in the way he required courting, never knowing from one day to the next if he would welcome or deny one’s attentions. Ordinarily Fitz wouldn’t have time for such nonsense, but where love was concerned, it seemed, all one’s comfortable assumptions were overset.
Only one other disturbing occurrence clouded Fitz’s enjoyment of the first real relief he had known in weeks. Somewhere in the second hour of their tryst he was visited, as after the Meryton assembly, by the memory of a pair of wide, dark eyes, a fascinating, sweet-sharp voice saying, “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at,” and at the height of his passion he momentarily lost his force.
“It’s all right,” Monkton said. “I know it’s not the same as being with your friend.”
The man had intelligence and sensitivity, even if he rarely showed it. “I’m sorry, Syl,” Fitz said. “Lie back and let me make it up to you.”
“God, Fitz,” Monkton said. “It’s not as if you have anything to apologize for, after those first two bouts. If I were a woman I’d marry you tomorrow.”
“If you were a woman,” Fitz said, “we would not be having this conversation.”
“Not so sure about that,” Monkton said. “I have the feeling that something curious is going on with you, something more than your Charles contemplating marriage.”
“You have a most unhealthy imagination.”
“How true,” Monkton said, winking. “But you know, Fitz, I’m right more often than I’m wrong. At least I don’t lose many wagers.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Fitz said. This time he was forced to follow his own advice, as it was impossible to speak with his mouth full.
Nine
CHARLES BLOTTED THE paper again and swore, saw Georgiana in the doorway, and stood up. “I am sorry, Miss Darcy. I didn’t know you were there.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Bingley. Fitz uses words like that all the time when he thinks I’m not listening. Then when I say the most innocuous thing, like drat or deuce, he scolds me as if I were a child.”
“A lady oughtn’t to say drat,” Charles said. “It’s vulgar. And deuce is highly improper.”
“But suppose I hold a two at cards?” Georgiana asked innocently. “What am I to say then?” She saw Charles’s sad face, realized he was in no condition to endure even her gentle teasing, and took the seat across from him at the small table. “What has you so unhappy, Mr. Bingley?”
Charles felt such a desire to unburden himself to any sympathetic ear that he could not deny even the curiosity of a sixteen-year-old girl. “Do you promise not to tell Fitz?”
“I promise.” She pointed to the sheet of paper. “But if that turns out to be a forged commission to the Foot Guards, I’ll have to tell him anyway.”
Charles laughed. “Not likely. Even a red coat couldn’t turn me into a heartbreaker like George Wickham.” He noticed her frown and the dark red flush and, assuming this reaction was caused by knowledge of her brother’s troubles with the man, quickly changed the subject back to one that could cause embarrassment only to himself. “It’s a poem. At least, it’s an attempt at an ode, but I can’t get the meter right. And I can’t think of anything that rhymes with Jane.”
The diversion worked. Georgiana’s face lit up with childish pleasure and she clapped her hands. “Oh, what fun! But there are dozens of words that rhyme with Jane. It must be one of the easiest. Let’s see. Plain, plane—there are two words, spelled differently, you know—pain, pane—two spellings.” She sat back and closed her eyes. “Now, let’s start from the beginning. Bane, cane, chain, crane, deign, drain, fain, feign—two spellings—gain, grain, lane, lain—two spellings—main, mane—two spellings—rain, rein, reign—there are three spellings, you recall—sane, seine—two spellings—stain, wane, wain—two spellings. And if you can take two syllables, contain, disdain, explain, refrain, remain, sustain—”
Charles held up a hand in protest. “I see, Miss Darcy, that I am in an unequal contest. You’re so much cleverer than me—like your brother.”
“No, you mustn’t say that.” She shook her head, made uncomfortable by the compliment, then decided to be bold. “But don’t strain your brain or you’ll give yourself a migraine, if not a chilblain.”
“Stop!”
“Shall I constrain my efforts?”
“Yes! I surrender.”
“You are slain?”
“Bluestocking!”
Georgiana sat back as if she’d been struck, all her cheerfulness gone in an instant. “I know. I can’t seem to help it. Part of the problem is that I still have lessons occasionally, but the truth is I’m never so happy as when I’m reading, or learning something new—or playing the pianoforte.” She twisted her hands in her lap, cracking her knuckles.
Charles sat momentarily silenced. How could Fitz imagine he would wish to marry such a child? A precocious child, certainly, but when he compared her coltish awkwardness with Miss Bennet’s mature, womanly composure the contrast was devastating. But Miss Darcy was not to blame for her brother’s whims. He reached over and lifted her hands to the table, laying his own on top of them to quiet her fidgeting. “Miss Darcy, you’ll never play another note if you keep that up. I didn’t mean any harm by what I said. I was only joking, because you’re so quick and I’m a dolt who can’t even think up a simple rhyme.”
Georgiana looked at Charles with gratitude. “You’re not a dolt. You’re so much better at mixing with people. I’ll never learn how to be easy in society.”
“Of course you will. It just takes practice. Now, let’s see if in all that long list of words there’s a good rhyme. I don’t want an unpleasant meaning. I want something beautiful and kind and sweet-natured. Like the lady in the poem.”
“Of course.” Georgiana had a revelation. “Mr. Bingley—are you in love?”
Charles felt himself blushing. “Please don’t tell Fitz,” he said.
“It will be our secret,” Georgiana said with girlish solemnity. “What is she like? Sorry, you just said. Beautiful and sweet and kind. Why is Fitz so set against her? Is there something wrong with her?”
“She’s perfect. It’s just that Fitz doesn’t approve of her family. As if that mattered. It’s not as if I’m going to marry them.”
Georgiana wrinkled her brow. “But that’s exactly what Fitz always says. He says, when you marry, you’re not only marrying your spouse but his or her entire family and all their connections. It’s very important, at least according to him.”
“I know. He’s been telling me the same thing, over and over. Honestly, I can’t see how it has any great significance for me. It’s different for you and Fitz, I understand that. Your uncle is an earl, and Fitz has the magnificent Pemberley to keep up, and I suppose you have a good marriage portion.”
“Yes,” Georgiana admitted, bowing her head.
“Please don’t mind that I said it. My sisters have pretty good fortunes, too. All I meant is, my father simply made a lot of money in trade. And some of Miss Ben—Jane’s relations are in trade. So she and I are equals on that level.”
“But doesn’t Fitz think you should move up from that rank? After all, you’re not in trade. Your father brought you up as a gentleman and left you a gentleman’s fortune. Once you find the right estate you’ll be a landed gentleman yourself.”
“Well, Jane’s father is a gentleman, with a good-size, respectable piece of property. It’s not his fault that he has no son and the estate is entailed.”
Georgiana recognized the futility of further debate. “May I read the poem?”
Charles, preferring anything to rehashing the same tired arguments with a deceptively young and pretty female Darcy who appeared to have as sharp a mind as her brother, turned the paper face up.
Georgiana read aloud in a soft, clear voice:
When I behold my Jane’s sweet face
And all the virtues that her grace,
I think I am in paradise
And never more make need sacrifice
At idols’ shrines of brass and ____
When I may worship at my Jane
Georgiana giggled, then looked stricken and covered her mouth. “Oh dear. I’m not good at recitation. Fitz always complains that I give everything a humorous tone.”
“What a coincidence,” Charles said, delighted to find that they had something in common after all. “He says I have a tendency to levity that is becoming tedious. But he seemed to like it well enough when a certain lady was laughing at him in Hertfordshire.”
“Really?” Georgiana sounded skeptical. “I would dearly love to see Fitz allowing any lady to laugh at him.”
“I’ve never known him to permit it either. Of course, I’ve only been his friend for a couple of years. The funny thing is, the lady is Jane’s sister. But he doesn’t seem to miss her at all now. He said she didn’t love me—Jane, I mean—but how would he know? What does he know about love?”
“I think he does know something,” Georgiana said, turning her face away and tucking in her chin like a nesting swan. How could Fitz imagine she would ever marry this silly young man? He was sweet, certainly, and very kind, but he was still a boy, even if he was almost seven years her senior. More of a confidant than a suitor. Perhaps there was a way to appear to comply with her brother’s wishes without openly defying him. “Fitz is an excellent brother, and I’m sure he’s a good friend. You’ll see eventually that he means well by you too.”
“Yes,” Charles said in a dispassionate tone. “Yes, he does.”
“I suppose,” Georgiana proposed in a hesitant manner, “since you and he are such close friends, he wants us to be friends also.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Charles said, much happier at this turn in the conversation. “And I hope—that is, I would like to be your friend, Miss Darcy.” He picked up the crumpled sheet of paper. “I should probably throw this wretched composition on the fire. It’s really just—”
“Profane,” Georgiana said.
“Now hold on a minute. It’s not as bad as all that.”
“No, the rhyme. Let me see it again. Yes. ‘At idols’ shrines of brass profane.’ What do you think? You can contrast your pure love for your perfect lady with the profane idols.”
“Oh, I see. That’s perfect. I say, you’re the best. If I weren’t in love with Jane I think I would ask you to marry me after all, the way everybody wants us to.”
To Charles’s vast discomfort, Miss Darcy responded, not by laughing or cuffing him the way one of his sisters would, but with a stifled sob.
“Now, whatever did I say wrong? Never tell me you’re in love with me and I dashed all your girlish hopes.”
That raised at least the attempt at a smile. “I think I must tell you my secret,” Georgiana said. “If we are to be friends, then you ought to know.” She took a deep breath and started in before Charles could forestall her. “Last summer Mr. Wickham proposed to me. No, wait, please don’t say anything or I won’t be able to tell it all. He said he was very much in love. You see, he was brought up with us, with me and Fitz, and I was used to looking up to him like a brother and felt very comfortable with him—so I was not as cautious as I would have been with a stranger. And he is a personable man, with a pleasing address and—”
“Damned fine-looking,” Charles said, before he could stop himself.
“Yes,” Georgiana said in a strangled whisper.
“You mustn’t be so despondent over a youthful indiscretion,” Charles said. “If all the innocent young ladies who’d had their heads turned by a good-looking scoundrel considered themselves ruined, there’d be nobody left for honest gentlemen to marry except the sort of coarse, brazen women who don’t care.”
Georgiana looked up. “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. But it is something to bear in mind.”
“Please go on,” Charles said. “I want to hear the whole—and how you were rescued.”
“Mr. Wickham said we ought to elope, because Fitz would disapprove of the match and would try to stop us. And since I’m underage we would need his permission to marry. But I didn’t like the idea of sneaking off as if we were doing something shameful, so I wrote to Fitz and he came storming down to Ramsgate and had words with Mr. Wickham and that was the end of it.”
“And a good thing too,” Charles said.
“Yes. Fitz explained that Mr. Wickham was only interested in my fortune. He said that he had offered him the choice of marrying me, with my money to be kept in trust for our children, and we could live on an allowance from Fitz—a very generous one. But Mr. Wickham didn’t want that. At least, he never came back.”
Charles felt momentarily at a loss. No wonder she was so shy—and no wonder she had been so upset by his witless jest about marrying her. “If it’s any comfort, it’s the same thing for us men. Fitz is forever warning me off perfectly nice girls, saying they only want me for my money.”
“And do they?”
“Well, I suppose most of them. But not Jane.”
“How can you tell?”
“I just can,” Charles said. “Fitz doesn’t want to believe it, but I know. And I think, when you meet a man who loves you for yourself, you’ll know. Wickham is simply not a good man, and is out for whatever he can get. But they’re not all like him. You’ll meet some who are worthy of you. In fact, you’ll probably have to fight them off, which means it’s a good thing you’re so tall.” He stood up and put his arm around her bowed shoulders. They were very broad shoulders, he noticed, much like Fitz’s.
Georgiana stiffened. “I know we are not in love, but I think you ought not to embrace me like that. Mrs. Annesley is forever reminding me that people tend to misinterpret even the most innocent words and acts.”
Char
les withdrew his arm, stepped back several feet and reddened like a girl. “I am sorry, Miss Darcy. I thought, since we were friends…”
Georgiana sighed. Oh, this was impossible! When would she be able to forget the events of last summer and regain her natural poise? It seemed that having a woman’s body destroyed any grace she had once possessed. She was always twitchy and nervous now, shying at every friendly gesture like a bird with a broken wing, scuttling into the hedge at the sound of approaching footsteps. “It’s all right, Mr. Bingley. I know you were only trying to comfort me. It’s just that Mr. Wickham claimed to be my friend too. And I thought he was Fitz’s friend, like you.”
“Well, I hope I’m a better friend than that,” Charles said. God, this was difficult. What the devil was Fitz thinking, bringing him into his house with this sensitive, wounded creature? “And I promise not to take any more liberties.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bingley. I assure you, you’re the least likely person to take liberties I can imagine.”
“Hmm,” Charles said. “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment.”
“Well, you must admit, you don’t seem much like a wild libertine. Would you wish to be?”
“All men do, at least in our imagination,” Charles said. “I shall have to be satisfied with being a trustworthy friend. Would you mind helping me with the rest of this poem, so I can chalk up one artistic achievement to my otherwise empty existence?”
Georgiana pursed her lips. “Well, actually, I’m sorry to say I think the fire might be the best place for it. Why don’t you let it sit overnight and see how it looks in the morning?”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Charles said. “What do you say to a friendly game of backgammon instead?”
Georgiana laughed. “I hope you’re better at backgammon than poetry.”
“I couldn’t be worse. We’ll play for very high stakes. Tuppence a point.”
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