“I just hope she’ll have me after the way I treated her,” Charles said as they settled in.
“No woman of sense turns down an offer from a man of your fortune and amiable character,” Fitz said as he snuffed the candle.
“Damn it, Fitz! I thought we had got beyond that. I don’t want her to be sensible. I want her to love me.”
Fitz laughed. “Spoken like a lover. For you, my dear, it is one and the same. Any sensible person can’t help but love you. Like me.”
Charles felt Fitz’s growing erection thrusting at him and rolled over, sighing with pleasure. “I hope you won’t be offended if I think of her all the while,” he said.
“Not at all,” Fitz said. “As you may recall, I have had similar desires. Although how I am expected to know your thoughts is a puzzle.” He laughed more gently at the absurdity. “Perhaps you meant to cry her name at the height of your passion?”
“Beast!” Charles said, joining in the laughter, until, stilled by Fitz’s urgent need, he was breathing in unison with his friend, the deep inhalations and exhalations punctuating the movements of their entwined bodies.
Much later, woken by a sudden, distressing thought, Charles slithered out from under Fitz’s heavy arm and rolled onto his back. “I suppose we’ll have to give this up after I’m married.”
“Mmm,” Fitz murmured, roused from the deep slumber that follows great effort. “What happened to the man who was so eager to leave boyhood and its inferior joys behind?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said. “Things—you—are so different now. I used to think you just wanted someone to bend over for you, and if it hadn’t been me it might have been any other obliging fellow. Now, it feels more like—”
“Sounds as if you’re on the verge of another proposal,” Fitz said, “before you’ve had the chance to ask Miss Bennet.”
“But won’t you miss it?” Charles asked. He lowered his voice, whispering so softly Fitz had to strain to hear. “Won’t you miss me, just a little?”
“Dear Charles,” Fitz said, striving to maintain a lighthearted tone against his own impatience. “Of course I will, at first. But it’s not as if we’re ending our friendship. Even the Greeks of classical times married in due course. You are not wrong to desire it for yourself.” He paused while Charles cogitated. “The one thing I blame myself for is that your generosity to me has kept you from that experience with women that a considerate husband acquires before marriage.”
“That was no sacrifice,” Charles said. “I never wanted that sort of thing, more like a business contract than affection. In fact, I’m very proud to be coming to Miss Bennet as pure as she in my knowledge of the opposite sex.”
“She will not thank you for it,” Fitz said, “when you have no idea how to proceed on your wedding night. Virgin young ladies are difficult to please, and need a practiced husband to guide them through their first time.”
“I can’t believe it’s so complicated as all that,” Charles said. “But why don’t you teach me a few things?”
“If I can,” Fitz said. “Really, the most important lesson is self-control. Your natural impulse will be to fall on her and possess her all at once, but—”
“Yours, maybe, but not mine. God, Fitz, allow me some sense.”
“You may scoff,” Fitz said, “but when you’re alone with your beautiful Miss Bennet and you have your first look at an unclothed female form, if you’re not careful your cock will make the decisions and the rest of you will merely follow where it leads—or points.”
“Thinking with one’s prick.”
“Precisely. A coarse expression, but true.”
“Well, come on, then, and show me what to do.”
“Just be patient at first,” Fitz said. “Remember, she hasn’t been to school or engaged in sport the way we have. This will be the first time that anyone has touched her.”
A pleasant half hour went by as Fitz expounded on the finer points of women’s anatomy, demonstrating on Charles the various approaches a man could take and the responses they might elicit. The risen moon peeped in at the window through curtains imperfectly drawn, lending the squat, undistinguished furnishings a mysterious, graceful beauty. Caro Finchley’s amorous sophistication and Lydia Waring’s robust appetite blended in Fitz’s memory until, without knowing how or when the change occurred, he was making love to Elizabeth on their wedding night, imagining her small form contrasted with the latent force of her passion, roused to full strength by the skill of an experienced lover.
How different it would be with her, Fitz thought, as he kissed and fondled his docile, willing partner. Charles had given Fitz comfort and familiar, easy companionship, but only with Elizabeth might he enjoy the challenge of the mental contest, the spark that could inflame his desire to its hottest. Strange that things should sort themselves out this way, when one would have thought it was the man for love and the woman for the commonplace matters of family and children. But life was a constant surprise, nor were all surprises disagreeable.
As Fitz described that mysterious seat of women’s passion and how it varied in size and sensitivity, Charles’s eyes shone silver in the faint light, round and unblinking, caught somewhere between fascination and terror, like a child staring at a lion in a cage. “Now you truly are frightening me,” Charles said. “My word, according to you, a bridegroom would have to have the intellect of Sir Isaac Newton, the patience of Job, and the conquests of Casanova and Don Juan put together merely to have a one-in-ten chance of ordinary happiness.”
“An apt pupil,” Fitz said, shaken out of his reverie. “You have learned the lesson perfectly. But don’t despair. The mere fact of your willingness to consider her pleasure means you are halfway to achieving it.”
Charles said nothing, but his drooping lips and wilting posture reflected lack of confidence—at best, doubt.
“Remember when we met?” Fitz said in an encouraging voice. “You had ventured into St. James’s Park one night—”
“And I was so innocent,” Charles said, grateful for the different direction the conversation had taken. “I had no idea what went on after dark.”
“Or so you always claimed,” Fitz said. “It was fortunate I came along when I did.”
“But what were you doing there, eh?” Charles asked, giving Fitz the opportunity to complete the familiar anecdote.
“Looking for you,” Fitz said, supplying the customary kiss on the lips and caress below. “Yet you became adept in the practices of love readily enough.”
Charles sat up. “But that was different,” he protested. “At least one of us knew what he was doing.”
“Careful, Charles,” Fitz said. “That sounds like an accusation.”
“Oh, Fitz, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just, I can’t help thinking how much easier it would be if we could maintain our friendship after—” He stopped, his thoughts overtaken by a monumental epiphany. When he spoke again the words tumbled out in stuttering excitement. “That’s what you meant about similar desires! Wouldn’t it be perfect if you and Elizabeth—that is, remember how you admired her last year? And then when she came to Pemberley over the summer, it seemed as if you two were reaching an understanding. But now, I can’t tell—”
“No,” Fitz said. “I cannot quite interpret the situation myself.”
“That’s it, isn’t it? Now that you have decided it’s acceptable for me to marry Jane, you’re planning to marry Elizabeth. I say, that’s a wonderful scheme! We’ll be brothers-in-law and we can visit as often as we like. The two of you can stay with us at Netherfield half the year, and Jane and I will stay with you the other half—”
“Charles,” Fitz interrupted the frenzied outpouring. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Things are not so far advanced as I might wish. She was unusually reticent during these visits and—”
“I don’t see what you have to worry about,” Charles said. “How did you put it? ‘No woman of sense turns down an offer from a man of your
fortune and amiable character.’ And Elizabeth is nothing if not rational. Lord, your aunt de Bourgh will be furious.”
“It’s a terrifying thought,” Fitz agreed with a tight smile. “When I come back from town we’ll talk about this some more.”
“You’re going to town now? Why?”
“I have some business to take care of. And I think you’ll find it easier proposing to Miss Bennet without my distracting presence. Won’t you?”
“Yes, Fitz, I will. I say, you really are being very decent about this. I hope I shall have excellent news to report when you return.”
“I’m sure you will. Look, Charles, before I go there’s something I must tell you.”
“If it’s that you’re sorry for your opinion of last autumn, thinking Miss Bennet was not in love with me, I forgive you. I know you had my welfare at heart.”
“I’m afraid there’s more to it than that,” Fitz said. “I must ask a favor, Charles—that you say nothing to her about my belief in her lack of regard for you. For her sister’s sake, I would prefer that she not hate me too much.”
“And how am I supposed to keep your name out of it?”
“One might as well ask, why would you wish to drag me into it?”
“Think about it, Fitz. I can’t very well just turn up again almost a whole year after running off like a shabby, Wickham sort of person, and blurt out some half-arsed proposal. It’s not like accepting an invitation to dine. I shall have to explain to Miss Bennet why I went away, and have a credible reason for being in love with her then but disappearing without declaring myself.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But Charles, you will need to hear the full account before judging what you may reasonably tell Miss Bennet.”
“The full account!” Charles repeated in the giddy accents of a child at a puppet show. “I’m beginning to wonder about you, Fitz. Are you secretly a French agent? Or perhaps you’re not really the legitimate master of Pemberley. I know! George Wickham is the rightful heir and you kept him locked in the cellar wearing a mask so no one would see the resemblance to your father, but he escaped and—”
“Enough, Charles,” Fitz said. “This is hard for me to say, so I must confess it straight out. When we were in town all those months, and it seemed as if Miss Bennet did not keep up the friendship with your sister, the fact is it was really the other way around.”
“Well, damn it all, Fitz! I always knew Caroline took too much upon herself. She’s an interfering bitch, to speak plainly. But how is this your confession? Did you suggest it to her? I’m sure she’s capable of plotting such a deception all on her own.”
“I can’t deny it, Charles. But there is something worse that was as much my fault as hers, and which she would not have dared to carry through without my consent and encouragement. Miss Bennet was in town for a time, visiting her aunt and uncle, but Caroline and I decided not to apprise you of that fact.”
“You what?”
“We thought it imprudent to allow the association to continue, just when you appeared to be on the mend.”
“Jane was in town? And you lied to me? For how long?”
“For a few—months.” Fitz nearly choked on the word but forced himself to maintain his usual veracity. “And yes, we concealed the truth from you.”
Charles leapt out of the bed as if it were crawling with bugs. “You shit!” he shouted. “You rotten, filthy bastard! You arse-fucking sodomite! I don’t have words to say what I think of you!” He stood by the side of the bed, chest heaving, hands clenched into fists, his handsome features distorted into glowering ferocity, as if waiting for Fitz to make a move so he could continue the attack on a physical level.
Fitz sat propped on one elbow, watching his friend’s eyes. “You appear to be finding a number of appropriate terms,” he said.
“Don’t, Darcy,” Charles said. “Don’t you condescend to me. Don’t sneer and look down your nose after you have just admitted that you destroyed my happiness as easily as swatting a fly.”
“I’m sorry, Charles. It seems I am the one at a loss for words. Only that I am truly sorry and I did it for what I thought was your benefit.”
“You can take your ‘sorry’ and your ‘benefit’ and your ‘concealed the truth’ and you can shove them all up your arse.”
“Yes, Charles. I understand. It’s just as well I left this confession until now. I’ll go up to town tomorrow. It will take me a week or more to get through this business. You’ll have time to cool off, and if all goes well with Miss Bennet, as I have every reason to believe it should, you’ll be in a benevolent mood and ready for forgiveness and reconciliation.”
“I’ll never forgive you, Darcy. Never.”
Fitz sighed and said nothing.
“And I should like you to keep to your own room from now on.”
“As you wish.”
“And I hope Elizabeth tells you to go to hell.”
Fitz put on his dressing gown and shut the door firmly behind him—the same door that had been incompletely closed that night last fall. “She did, Charles,” he muttered. “She did.” Fitz wondered who had been in the corridor last autumn, if anyone. He had always half hoped, half dreaded, that it had been Elizabeth. Perhaps she had turned down his proposal at Rosings merely from misjudging what she had seen. But no, if that were it, she would have said. That was her great charm—her directness, her lack of pretense, her honesty.
But how could a lady say such a thing? What if the complaint about his rudeness and ungentlemanly behavior was a pretext, the closest she could come to her real objection? Yet God knew his manner had been offensive.
He went over it again, all the discourse he’d had with her, or lack of it, during the recent visits to Longbourn. Still, she had not been cold, merely distant. It might simply be prudence. Fitz sighed. He did not like the thought of a careful, circumspect Elizabeth Bennet. Just because Fitz was turning into a dove didn’t mean he wanted a mate of the same lackluster disposition. What had Charles said? He didn’t want her to be sensible; he wanted her to love him.
He felt his great need, the interrupted second round of lovemaking he had not enjoyed with Charles, and he imagined her kneeling over him with her slim, light form, naked but for a diaphanous garment like a statue of Aphrodite…
Twenty-Two
“SO, DARCY, MRS. Collins tells me you are to be wed.”
Fitz looked up from his correspondence, then stood hastily as his aunt de Bourgh burst through the door of his study. “Forgive me, Lady Catherine. I did not hear you come in.” Didn’t even know you were in town. Like the Queen of the Night in The Magic Flute, spreading gloom and oppression wherever you appear…
“Told the footman not to announce me. None of that formality between aunt and nephew.” Lady Catherine waved her hand, heavy with rings. “Oh, sit down, sit down. Don’t want some big lump looming over me. Now, what do you mean by going behind my back?”
“I’m sorry, aunt—to what are you referring?”
“None of your hedging, boy. You know very well what I mean. It seems the Bennet family will soon have the good fortune to get rid of not one but two more of their daughters. I have just come from an instructive interview with your light-o’-love, Elizabeth.” Lady Catherine’s voice shook with sarcasm.
Fitz had no parry to his aunt’s unexpected opening lunge. “Elizabeth Bennet?” he said, startled at hearing the name.
Lady Catherine, disappointed at drawing blood so early in the match, and despising any such easy capitulation, was determined on a fight. She stood slightly hunched with her hands on the desk, shouting across the short distance like a fishwife. “The most impertinent, saucy wench I hope never to have to converse with again in my life.”
“I am sorry you had an unpleasant conversation,” Fitz said. “What did you say to her?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. Hard to get a word in between her insults and impudence and her brazen outright defiance.”
“She does tend to speak her
mind,” Fitz said, struggling to maintain his composure. Curiosity to know the outcome of the encounter outweighed his natural desire to defend Elizabeth.
“It’s one thing to allow your friend Bingley to make a fool of himself,” Lady Catherine said. “Only a tradesman’s son, I understand. But you ought to have more sense than to lower yourself to such a piece of country trash.”
“Now just a minute, aunt,” Fitz said, giving up the attempt at self-control. “I must ask you to refrain from using such terms about a young lady who—”
“Lady! Never in my life have I spoken to anyone who is less a lady than that Miss Cheeky Bitch.” She spat the words out with a strange sort of satisfaction, like a badly trained dog retrieving the offal his master has thrown away.
Fitz had to clasp his hands together under the desk so as not to give in to the desire to wipe his face. As the cause of his aunt’s indignation began to take shape in his mind, he made a feeble attempt to prevent what felt like hope from showing in his expression.
“And you will wipe that smirk off your face when I’m addressing you.”
Fitz wished there was a looking glass in the study. He had never, he was quite sure, smirked in his life. It might be interesting to observe. He folded his lips inward, pressed down with his teeth, then had to undo all his work in order to speak.
“No, Darcy.” Lady Catherine held up a hand before he had articulated a syllable. “I will do the talking here. There’s one thing you seem to have overlooked. You are betrothed to my daughter. That’s right, to Anne. Have you forgotten?”
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