“Didn’t she have a son that died a few years back? On the Hamilton yacht wasn’t he… when it sank… or some such accident?” He settled his chin on his folded arms, surreptitiously eying leftover biscuits.
“Yes, I believe she did have a son who drowned, but not on the Hamilton boat.” Darcy didn’t bother to look up from his writing. “Sit up straight—you’re going to break the legs on that chair, lurching back and forth like that! It’s like having an elephant bouncing on a twig.” He slapped at his cousin’s hands. “And stop grabbing at my food, you thieving bastard.”
Fitzwilliam grunted. “You’re sounding more and more like Aunt Catherine, the older you get, did you know that? Even beginning to look a bit like her. What else do you know about the matter? I mean the hag’s son.”
Darcy returned to his figures. “I believe he was a baronet. He was on his way to confront a wayward wife who had left him and run off to America. His ship went down during a storm or at a blockade. I can’t remember which.”
“Well, I wonder who I saw, then. The woman I have seen coming and going in the square was certainly not a baronet’s wife. Dresses rather plainly, and now she accompanies a young girl. Mayhap she is a governess or teacher,” Fitzwilliam was muttering.
“What are you going on about?”
“The old tabby wouldn’t have perhaps produced a beautiful daughter somehow of which you are unaware.”
“She couldn’t produce a beautiful anything, if I’m thinking of the same person.” This interruption was causing Darcy to lose focus. Rubbing his forehead, he stared intently at his cousin. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in helping me with these accounts, seeing as you are just sitting there doing nothing but annoying me?”
“Help you with accounts?” Fitzwilliam let out a hoot of laughter. “That is rich, Darcy! Really, you have the most wonderful sense of humor!” Fitzwilliam chuckled casually as he shook his head.
After a moment, Fitzwilliam pressed on, once again disturbing the silence. “Do you know if she has any visitors at the present? The beast, I mean.”
With a resigned sigh, Darcy removed his spectacles, pinching his nose at the bridge. “Richard, I have no idea what goes on in this neighborhood. I can’t even direct my own household.” After replacing his glasses, he picked his pen back up and set to work again. “Ask Aunt Catherine if you require the latest on-dit.”
Fitzwilliam shivered and sipped his coffee. He was very quiet, unnaturally so for him. After a few moments, an anxious Darcy looked up. “What has you asking these questions, please?” Fitzwilliam was on an extended city stay as plans were implemented for the allied armies to begin leaving Paris the following year. The prior two weeks with his brother had done little to relax him. He was ripe for trouble.
“Well, since you bring it up, I just saw that beast in her carriage, and a young woman walked over and got into it with her.” Fitzwilliam smiled wistfully. “Absolutely lovely. The young woman, I mean. I have seen her before upon occasion, from afar, but never met her, never even knew where she lived. She gives one the impression of being very ethereal, very otherworldly, very foreign.”
He grabbed absently at some papers on the desk, reshuffling them, replacing them gently when he realized he had ruined their order. “Sorry.” He returned his hands to his knees. “She may be accompanying a young girl Georgiana’s age, perhaps an acquaintance?”
A grinning Darcy leaned back in his chair, studying his cousin closely. “Shall I describe this lovely lady of yours? A dimwitted little pocket Venus—a redheaded slow top.” Chuckling at his cousin’s glower, he picked up his quill again.
“You are not, in any way, shape, or form, amusing, Darcy.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, the only trouble is that you always get bored with these silly creatures within a week, sometimes less, and then you have the problem of where to dump the bodies. And if she is a servant or governess or even a paid companion, that never ends up well, does it?”
Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to argue but realized that Darcy was pretty much on target. He grunted and went back to sipping his coffee. “Are you going to finish that pie?” he asked and reached for the apple tart on the side of the desk.
Darcy quickly snatched back the plate, never taking his eyes from his books. “Yes, I am going to finish that pie. Don’t you have a barracks or something that provides you with food? I’m not made of money, you know.”
“Are you insinuating that I take advantage of your good-natured hospitality?”
“Who’s insinuating?” Darcy abruptly looked up from his paper and stared hard at his cousin. “A man your age, really, Fitz! You should have a home of your own by now. You should be over this constant need for conquests, unless you truly don’t want to marry and have a family.”
Fitzwilliam shifted in his seat and studiously avoided eye contact. “Well, certainly I do, Darcy. One day. Perhaps in the future. The distant future. When I am old and defenseless. Stop staring at me like that! There is no immediate rush, is there? There are so many lovely ladies I have yet to meet in the time God has allotted to me. Besides, I have little income, no home, and no immediate prospects. So, unless I can impregnate a ninety-year-old virgin heiress with a dickey heart, I am not inclined to rush the event.” He put down his coffee cup on the edge of the desk and brushed off the crumbs that had been collecting throughout the morning.
Darcy rolled the quill between his fingers and looked with benign pity upon his cousin. “You should, you know. It’s a wonderful feeling to be the head of your home, with a wife who adores you and whom you adore in return.”
Fitzwilliam whipped out his pocket watch. “Oh, look at that. I have to run.”
Ignoring him, Darcy turned his face to the fire, a besotted look in his eyes and a smile on his lips. “It’s a good feeling to care for your family and their well-being. It makes you finally grow up, I can tell you.” He sighed deeply and began attacking his figures once more, his mind filled with unlimited love and joy, thinking on his upcoming paternal responsibilities. “I myself find women to be unbelievably wonderful creations.”
“I suppose you will continue with this treacle even as I beg you to stop.”
“Well, think about it…” Darcy continued, looking up from his work.
Fitzwilliam groaned.
“They give back to you double and triple whatever little you hand them.”
“I think I’m going to be ill, Darcy. Please stop.”
“You hand them disparate items of food, and they give you back a wonderful meal. You provide them with four walls and a floor, and they give you back a loving home. You give them your seed,” Darcy’s eyes misted, his voice choked with emotion. “You give them your seed, and they give you back the most precious thing of all—a child…” They sat in silence together.
“And God help you if you give them shit.” Fitzwilliam was calmly packing tobacco into his pipe, and his eyes met Darcy’s for a moment. Understanding flashed between them.
“Amen to that, Cousin.” Darcy crashed down to earth, quickly resuming his work.
Not to be dissuaded for long, Fitzwilliam continued. “She had a lost look to her. Perhaps she’s a widow, a French war widow. She looked foreign somehow.”
Struggling to suppress his grin, Darcy returned his attention to his papers. “You are incorrigible,” he muttered.
“Well, I can dream, can’t I? A lovely, willing young widow of a certain station is better than going off to Mrs. Cleary’s house to buy a woman’s affections. Don’t look at me so affronted, I saw you there once. I was there myself.”
“I was never there! I deny it. Anyway, I went merely for the gaming.”
“Tell it to Bingley, brat; perhaps he’ll believe you. I saw you myself, upstairs, entering a room with a very busty brunette, not more than six years ago. I was briefly in on leave and not about to go yelling your name down the hallway.”
The wind taken from his sails and shamefully red-faced, Darcy shrugg
ed in annoyance.
“Well, it is true that a man does have certain needs.” Darcy glanced up briefly.
Fitzwilliam sat back, restless and eager to be doing something. “Besides, widows are so damn grateful…”
Darcy let out an aggravated yowl, “You have no conscience to speak of, do you?”
“Well, what should I do? I will more than likely never marry. I’m not about to go ruin some eighteen-year-old debutante. Then the older they are, the more desperate their ploys. You could be trapped with someone you wouldn’t want to spend five minutes with, let alone your entire life.”
Fitzwilliam raked his hands through his hair several times, leaving its appearance wildly on end. It was thick and unruly and tended to go its own merry way once its morning duty was over. “You know, I am rather disappointed at your attitude toward me, as well as offended,” he huffed. “You do owe me some gratitude, brat. I was, after all, your example in polite society, your role model, as it were, especially with the ladies.”
Darcy stared at him in disbelief, the fighting anger just as strong at that moment as it had been when they were ten and eight years old.
“Role model?! You farted on my head.”
“You peed in my face!”
They glowered at each other for several seconds.
“Apparently we have a stalemate here, relative to degrees of bad behavior. In the interest of family harmony, however, I will concede the peeing was worse than the farting.”
“Thank you, Darcy. Damn big of you.”
Fitzwilliam again picked up his coffee cup. “Getting back to our subject,” the professor continued, “married women are, of course, also quite acceptable…”
Darcy slammed his hand down on the desk and gave Fitzwilliam another warning look.
“Well, they are! But they tend to have angry, pistol-holding husbands, and that can sometimes be very tricky. Now on the other hand,” Fitzwilliam continued with a gleam in his eye, his brows waggling, “widows have experience, and if they have attained a certain station in life, they rarely wish to remarry. They are generally well-bred and can converse with a man, and by thankful, I mean thankful for the attention, not the other, you lout.”
Darcy was still shaking his head in disbelief.
“All right, maybe they are grateful for the other. The ones I’ve entertained certainly have been ecstatic.” Fitzwilliam beamed, wallowing in his memories.
“I would ban you from my house if I thought for a moment you would pay any attention. Get your coffee cup off my desk, you are making a mark.” Darcy picked up his pen to write again, noticing the tart was missing. “And quit eating my food!”
After a few minutes of silence Darcy finished his work and began to blot the ink. “So, you are hoping for an introduction to this pretty-faced, eager, young cork brain—is that the gist of what you’re saying?” Darcy looked up to see a surprised expression on Fitzwilliam’s face.
“No, actually, and I would appreciate it if you would not speak of her that way.” Fitzwilliam suddenly felt protective of the exotic-looking woman with the fawnlike eyes.
Darcy watched his cousin to see if he was being serious.
“I am dead serious,” Fitzwilliam said, reading his mind. After addressing several letters, Darcy folded up his papers and placed them all into a packet for his secretary, while Fitzwilliam poured them both more coffee.
“I am sure I shall regret this, but the Winter Ball is this Wednesday at Lady Jersey’s mansion.” Darcy picked up his newspaper to read, flicking it once or twice before surgically folding it in half, then reached over to his plate to search for his half-eaten cucumber sandwich, now long gone. He looked taken aback that the plate was empty. “I was going to ignore the invitation since Elizabeth will be unable to attend and Georgiana is still fearful of being in large crowds without her. However, perhaps with the two of us…?” His eyes darted in vain for any remaining food. His stomach was growling. “If there is a young woman of presentation age visiting, I am positive the old goat will have finagled an invitation. She is said to be a most avaricious social climber. Perhaps your lovely lady will also attend.”
“Absolutely perfect.” Fitzwilliam smiled broadly at Darcy.
Darcy’s mouth twitched a little at the side. “Are you sure you are brave enough?”
Fitzwilliam leveled a steely glance at his cousin. “I laugh at fear. I sneer at danger. I…”
“Aunt Catherine is co-hostess.”
“Oh bloody hell.” Fitzwilliam’s tossed a wadded-up piece of paper into the fireplace.
Chapter 4
The Winter Ball, an eagerly anticipated annual event, was considered very important socially, due to its exclusivity, the herald of the coming Season, and the initial exposure for debutantes about to be presented at court. It was a small fête by ton standards, only the upper half of the socially acceptable being invited, marriageable daughters, nieces, and sisters firmly in hand. The middle-aged women present were on the whole a rather plain-faced bunch. They attempted with diamonds, paint, and feathers to achieve what nature could no longer—a countenance worthy to compete with their youthful charges.
The men fared little better. In general, they were middle-aged and balding, wearing gaudy-colored waistcoats as well as high-point starched collars that sliced into their cheeks. Frighteningly large jowls were created this way, framing ridiculous cravat creations.
And, as always, there were officers everywhere—the current darlings of society.
***
Fitzwilliam elbowed and pinched his way past the doorway idlers, coughed in the face of celebrity gawkers, forced a pathway through the chattering, teeming gentry. A terrified Georgiana could do nothing but keep her head low as he dragged her behind him through the crowd, an apologetic and mortified Darcy following in their wake.
It was when they approached the footman who would announce them that he saw her, her simple presence outstanding amidst a multitude of inbred and odd-looking individuals gushing and fawning over each other. Wearing an outmoded, drab gown meant for someone much larger and much, much older, she was tenderly patting stray locks of a young girl’s hair, adjusting the bow on the back of the girl’s dress, in short, fussing about the girl like a mother hen with her lone chick. He was thunderstruck. Even without the feathers, paint, lace, and jewelry, she far outshone the posturing aristocratic ladies surrounding her, who competed in vain for attention.
At this distance, the youth she tended to appeared to Fitzwilliam as little more than an infant—small, frightened, and frail. However, it was not the anxious-looking girl who was causing him concern, drawing his offense. It was the activity surrounding the two that began to fuel his indignation, the admiration of the many men milling about ogling his Beauty, commenting upon her shimmering blonde hair. Fellow soldiers gaping and drooling over his Beauty’s eyes as they sparkled with amusement within a perfect, heart-shaped face, long, dark lashes lowered now to her task and shadowing his Beauty’s cheeks.
It was a testament to her good looks that those who circled overlooked the other grander, more-opulently gowned women, to be drawn instead by a loveliness that appeared both alien and delicate at once.
The young girl nervously whispered something, and the Brown-Eyed Beauty laughed gently, her face softening as it tilted to the side, lighting up with open joy, her eyes twinkling in devilish delight. Deadly dimples suddenly appeared.
Instead of being charmed, Fitzwilliam was furious.
“Why do you look as if you’ve just gotten your foot caught in your stirrups?” As he followed Richard’s rapt gaze, looking across the ballroom in the same general direction, Darcy discovered the object of his interest. “Ah. Well, well, well…” he muttered.
“What?” Fitzwilliam turned momentarily toward his cousin.
“I take it that is the woman about whom all your fuss has been?”
After one or two tense moments, Richard responded. “Yes, Darcy,” he bit back icily. “That is the woman about whom, a
s you so haughtily say, all my fuss has been. What of it?!”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Still he hesitated, staring.
Seeing Darcy’s reaction, Fitzwilliam bristled. “You wish to make some sort of observation, brat? Yes, that is the woman, and please do not stare at her like some sort of bedlamite.”
“Well, pardon me, Your Worship. She’s just not what I had expected.”
“What do you mean by that?” Fitzwilliam glared. “She is the most beautiful woman in this room, if not the whole city.”
“Jesu, calm yourself, Richard. I didn’t say she wasn’t. It’s just that she’s so… so…”
“So… what?”
“Well…” Darcy’s eyes made a quick appraisal of the woman in the distance. “Well, for one thing, she is rather plainly dressed for such a grand assembly, and she does appear rather foreign-looking with those cheekbones. Here’s an aside. Whatever happened to your dream of a deathly pale, full-bodied, and terminally ill English Rose due to inherit an estate the size of Kent? Hmm? In case you had not noticed, this young woman is very healthy and quite slender and apparently poor. At the very least, you must admit that she doesn’t have the usual voluptuousness of which you are known to be so fond.” Without even looking at his cousin, he could feel his eyes boring into him. He sighed.
“She is not that slender,” Fitzwilliam said coolly. “And you are still staring at her. I don’t like it, I tell you.”
Darcy rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Please try and behave as an adult. I’m sure you’ve seen them about—emulate.” The air crackled between them. “All I am saying is that she has a leaner frame than the average woman you prefer. She is tall and slim and, well, frankly, she appears small-busted.” Darcy eyed her critically and then turned to look at a furious Fitzwilliam. “Maybe it is just that the dress is so huge. Stop scowling at me!”
He sipped calmly from a glass of wine he had just been handed by a footman. “Merciful heaven, aren’t you suddenly the sensitive one! I have nothing against the woman at all. She is quite as lovely as you say, perhaps more so.” Fitzwilliam’s green-eyed rage was turning boiling red from his struggle for control. “And she is definitely not your type.”
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