“Ah, but I speak only the truth, madam.”
When he flashed his smile upon Lydia, she waited with bated breath for his next compliment. However, rather than the flattery she anticipated, his conversation took a different turn. “It seems your sister, Miss Elizabeth, and I have yet to meet. Is she in attendance this afternoon?””
“Yes, she sits there,” said Lydia, “next to Jane and Mr. Bingley,” indicating the threesome on the settee in the parlour.
Wickham turned and observed the exceedingly pretty brunette. As he gazed upon her countenance, he could easily understand Darcy’s attraction. There was something compelling about her dark, piercing eyes, and her full figure prompted his imagination to conjure up all manner of enticing occupations. Yes, from the looks of her, he was thoroughly going to enjoy ruining Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Across the room Elizabeth sat, oblivious of the scrutiny to which she was being subjected. As her father passed by the doorway, no doubt headed for the quiet solitude of his library, he met her gaze for a moment, and she offered him a weak smile. She still had not completely forgiven him for his meddling, and the atmosphere between them remained somewhat strained since her return from Kent. But as she had more and more time to give his argument proper consideration, she was beginning to realize that there had been some truth in his words.
Though she still believed Mr. Darcy’s proposal was impulsive and that he had allowed his compassion to rule his actions, perhaps it was an absence of pride that had made her refuse to give any credence whatsoever to his offer of marriage.
She recalled her candid confession to him that night of his proposal; yes, she was far from immune to his kisses. She blushed as she recalled how he had experienced firsthand the desire he had brought out in her. She feared she would always be susceptible to him.
Maybe I could have loved him enough for the both of us.
She released a deep sigh. It was futile to keep reliving their last encounter over and over again. He had made his offer; she had refused. And she was convinced that Mr. Darcy was not a man who, once rejected, would renew his attentions. No, she was certain he was now congratulating himself on his narrow escape.
She was determined to get on with her life. Every day she made a new vow to try and forget him. But every night the memory of their intimate moments together filled her thoughts. How she longed to see him again, and on rare occasions she did, as he came to her in dreams. But they were not the gratifying sweet fantasies that had once occupied her nights. Her dreams no longer allowed her to waltz gracefully in his arms, nor did they grant her a kiss from his lips. Now they were just haunting disjointed images of the man she was forever destined to love in vain.
If nothing else, this entire episode had accomplished at least one thing: despite everything, she now thought better of herself. She no longer pined for the perfection she had once prized. She was proud of herself, proud of the accomplishments she had achieved.
Somehow between her father’s and Mr. Darcy’s misguided but well-meant intentions, she had emerged a stronger, more confident woman; well, at least in most endeavours. There was still a particular insecurity that was yet to be overcome: she was still reluctant to attempt a dance.
Yes, it would take all of her courage, but she would now face the world and offer no apologies. Those of her acquaintance would either accept her as she was, or they were perfectly free to avoid her company altogether.
With her physical and emotional scars so thoroughly exposed to the only man she could ever love, there seemed little reason to hide anymore; she had nothing left to fear. Now resigned to spinsterhood, she would be content to be Aunt Lizzy to Jane’s many children, teaching them to embroider cushions quite frightfully and play their instruments very ill indeed.
She looked round her and watched the enthusiastic young men in their red coats as they easily charmed the young ladies of the neighbourhood, or perhaps it was the other way around. She turned to share her observations with Jane, but her sister was engaged in conversation with Mr. Bingley. She suddenly felt like an intruder. “I will go see if Mama requires my help,” she announced to no one in particular.
As she made her way towards the kitchen, Lydia called to her, diverting her attention. Her eyes met those of the gentleman’s as she approached. As soon as Mr. Wickham was presented, Harriet and Lydia quickly flitted away to engage another group of officers.
Upon hearing his name, Elizabeth was far from pleased that she had been left to endure his company alone. When several moments passed in awkward silence, she looked up and observed the man’s contemplative gaze upon her.
“You are staring, Mr. Wickham.”
“Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I know we have just been introduced, but I cannot help thinking that perhaps we have met before.”
Elizabeth tilted her head and focused her eyes upon his face. There was something disturbingly familiar about him, but she was sure that the infamous Mr. Wickham was definitely not among her past acquaintances.
“I am quite certain we have not, sir. I have, however, heard Lydia and Kitty speak of you often.”
“Of course, you must be right. The delight of meeting you is a pleasure I would not easily have forgotten.”
Elizabeth fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I can see that the rumours of your excessive charm have not been exaggerated. However, I should warn you, Mr. Wickham, I am not as easily flattered as are my younger sisters.”
Even though he was taken by surprise by her candid reply, his smile remained intact as he studied her. Upon observing her walk just now, he had mistakenly surmised she would be an easy conquest; that her physical defect would render her rather compliant, or at least timid and reserved. She, however, seemed none of those things. Perhaps she would be a contest worthy of his talents after all. He was confident that he would eventually win over the spirited Elizabeth Bennet. Just the thought of Darcy’s reaction to finding her in the arms, or perhaps the bed, of his worst enemy, brought a smile to his face.
However, having now witnessed the list of her gait, Wickham was questioning Darcy’s interest in her. True, she might be exceedingly pretty, but was she someone he would openly court? Society would hardly approve. Perhaps he had merely played with her affections, or was it possible that Darcy had deep feelings for the woman that transcended societal constraints?
Better and better.
“Now that I have finally been honoured with your acquaintance, will you not at least grant me the opportunity to remedy any misgivings you might have of my character, Miss Bennet?”
Recalling Mr. Darcy’s candid conversation regarding the man, she was already quite predisposed to think ill of him. Elizabeth arched a dubious brow. “I’m afraid the chances of that are very meager, sir. I would not hold out much hope for your success.”
Wickham pursed his lips into a forced smile. He was unused to any young lady spurning his charm, and he had to suppress his irritation. “Then I shall take that as a challenge, madam, for I am not one who easily concedes defeat. I am confident that once we are better acquainted, your good opinion will be secured.”
“Perhaps I have not made myself perfectly clear, sir; let me do so now. I have no desire that you and I should form any sort of attachment, Mr. Wickham.”
As Elizabeth regarded him warily, Wickham narrowed his eyes. Looking down at her intently, his pleasant façade was momentarily abandoned. As she witnessed his unguarded look of disdain, Elizabeth felt a sudden rush of unease. Had she not seen that very look once before?
“I beg you would excuse me,” she murmured as she attempted to leave his company, but his hand abruptly reached out and grasped her arm, forcefully halting her departure. Elizabeth stilled; her entire body rigid.
Wickham promptly removed his hand, and his complacent smile was quickly restored. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet; I did not mean to startle you. Please believe I meant you no harm.”
Offering no reply, Elizabeth hurriedly left his company having no doubt that Mr. Wic
kham was indeed a dangerous man.
********
Alyssa Marston stared down at the large diamond and ruby engagement ring, and her triumphant smile had to be suppressed. His proposal was not unwelcomed, for she had set her sights on The Honorable Archibald Clavering, a descendant of the Baron of Warkworth, almost as soon as she had returned to her family’s small estate in Northumberland.
Mr. Clavering’s ancestry could be traced back for countless generations, and his was one of the most respected and prominent families in the county. His title was ordained as a courtesy due to his family’s long standing association with the Percys. The Alnwick Castle in which the Duke of Northumberland now resided had once been known as Warkworth Castle where Mr. Clavering’s ancestors had been established for many years.
Oh, Mr. Clavering was by no means as handsome as Mr. Darcy (in truth, one might say he was not handsome at all), and he did have a rather weak chin, giving him a look of dim-wittedness (which would not be an inaccurate description of the man), but he was, however, rich beyond imagination; surprisingly even beyond Alyssa Marston’s imagination.
Knowing that he was most likely her best and last chance to capture a rich husband and to restore her family’s fortune, she had played her part perfectly, presenting herself as demure and unassuming for Mr. Clavering’s benefit. Not once did her behaviour defy propriety, and her conduct while in his presence was above reproach. Fortunately, she had never even been tempted in the slightest to encourage any physical contact between them. She could barely endure his chaste kiss upon her cheek, which so far had been his most daring display of affection. To say Mr. Clavering was a most proper gentleman would be a vast understatement.
Alyssa knew that from now on her conduct would have to be exemplary. Neither he nor his family would ever tolerate even a hint of scandal.
Mercifully, rumours of her blemished reputation had not reached this far north, despite Mr. Wickham’s countless retelling of the notorious events of that night in her London townhouse. He boasted to anyone who would listen of his seduction of Mr. Darcy’s prospective bride.
While Mr. Wickham may have been a most proficient lover, it was obvious the man had no scruples whatsoever. Yes, Mr. Wickham’s betrayal of her trust was something she would long remember.
However, now she could put all of that behind her. She’d had her little adventure, but now it was time to be practical. And nothing could be more practical than marrying one of the richest men in England.
“Of course, I will marry you, Mr. Clavering. It is my greatest wish come true.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “Then we shall not tarry too long. I will inform my family of our betrothal, and we shall be married as soon as they have deemed a proper amount of time has transpired.”
“Now that we are promised, may I address you less formally, sir?”
The look on Mr. Clavering’s face conveyed his disapproval. “I think it best to wait until our betrothal has been officially announced and the banns have been read at my parish. We would not wish to provoke any gossip.”
Alyssa gave him an indulgent smile. “Undoubtedly, you are quite right, Mr. Clavering. Please forgive my rashness. You may trust that I will do anything to avoid a scandal, sir.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The grand house just beyond the lake came into his view, and Darcy pulled back slightly on the reins. He had made the trip home a day earlier than planned as he had business to attend with his steward that could not wait.
Usually the sight of his beloved Pemberley inspired feelings of tranquility, but as he cast his gaze upon his ancestral estate, his anxiety did not lessen. This tightness in his chest was now his constant companion.
He slowed his pace and finally stopped at the top of the slope that led to the water’s edge. His journey, coupled with the heat of the July sun, had his body longing for some relief. Darcy dismounted and strode towards the lure of the cool waters. He began the removal of his clothing, starting with his cravat.
As he untied the neck cloth, his mind was again reflecting upon the agonizing scene of his and Elizabeth’s last evening. Though her words of rejection were painful to recall, it was the remembrance of her kiss that had him reliving their final moments together. He could still recall the taste of her sweet lips. It was her kiss that would not allow him to give up hope.
But it was much more than simply the passion of their kisses. She had somehow rendered his fear of love inconsequential compared to the frightening prospect of never having her.
He longed to share every moment of his life with her, to protect her and cherish her, to learn every detail of her by heart: every look, every smile, every curve of her body.
He wanted to walk with her on crisp autumn mornings and talk of frivolous things; things only they would share.
He wanted to watch the amber lights in her eyes turn dark with desire as he tenderly made love to her on soft summer nights.
He wanted her to gaze upon him with complete trust as he held her in his arms while together they danced a lovely waltz. If only he could make her see herself through his eyes. For to him, Elizabeth Bennet was the most perfect woman of his acquaintance.
Darcy peeled off his waistcoat and vest as he continued his descent towards the beckoning waters. Even nature was conspiring against him as he deeply breathed in the overpowering fragrance of the jasmine that surrounded him.
By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, only his breeches and shirt remained of his clothing. He sat momentarily to remove his boots, and then he walked to the edge of the lake.
Pulling the hem of his shirt from his waistband, he stared into the clear waters at his grim reflection; the reflection of a desolate man who now must face up to the truth. He could label it whatever he wished: attraction, infatuation, desire or regard. As hard as he had fought against it and as terrified as he was by the notion, he could no longer deny it. For the first time in his life, Fitzwilliam Darcy was in love . . . desperately in love . . . and it was proving to be just as painful as he had always imagined.
********
He emerged from the lake, his wet shirt clinging to his body as he gathered his clothing from the ground. Picking up the reins of his mount, he strode purposely towards the house. One of his grooms met him as he approached the meadow, taking his horse back to the stables.
As he neared the rear portico, he watched as an unfamiliar carriage pulled away. More curious travelers visiting the estate, he thought. He was glad he had missed them; he was in no mood to humour tourists.
Mrs. Reynolds, his housekeeper, was the first to be aware of his presence as he entered through the rear passageway that led to the kitchen. She was overseeing the preparation of the evening meal and looked up at him in surprise. His damp, informal attire, combined with the dark ringlets of wet hair framing his forehead made it impossible for her to look directly at him without betraying her amusement.
“Welcome home, Mr. Darcy,” she said as she bit back a smile and forced her eyes to look downward. “I was not expecting your return today. Your letter said you would not be arriving until tomorrow.” As she spoke she quickly discovered that there was nowhere safe to look as she now tried to focus her eyes away from the puddle of water that was now forming at his feet.
“I had business to attend with Mr. Owens that needed my immediate attention.”
“Georgiana will be so happy to see you. She is just finishing her music lesson with Mrs. Carson.”
Darcy could hear the faint sound of music emanating from the pianoforte in the music room just above them. He momentarily glanced upward. “I will see her as soon as I have changed,” he said as he absentmindedly stole a piece of the apple she was paring for tonight’s dessert.
Mrs. Reynolds smiled to herself. It seemed very little had changed since that wide-eyed four year old had first snuck into her kitchen. With no children of her own, for the past twenty-five years, Mrs. Reynolds had happily bestowed all of her maternal feelings on first th
e very young Fitzwilliam and then ten years later, on his sister, Georgiana. She loved them as dearly as if they had been born to her.
“I see there were tourists visiting the estate. I hope they were not too much of a burden.”
“Not at all, Mr. Darcy. On the contrary, they were very congenial.”
He gave her a dubious look as he had often encountered many ill-mannered and overly curious visitors whose only purpose was to invade his privacy.
“It is unfortunate that you missed them as the young lady said they had previously made your acquaintance. She even admitted that she thought you were quite handsome.”
“Really,” he replied dryly. There was only one young lady who held any interest for him at all and, according to her last letter to Georgiana, she was touring the Lake Country at the moment.
Concentrating on her task of now slicing the peeled apples and placing them into a bowl, Mrs. Reynolds muttered to herself. “Now what was it again? Brenton? Bennis?” She shook her head, as she unsuccessfully struggled to remember the young lady’s name.
When she finished slicing the last apple, she wiped her hands on her apron and looked up. Suddenly her eyes widened as she met Mr. Darcy’s bemused countenance. “No wait, it was Bennet! Yes, the young lady said her name was Miss Bennet—Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I understood that she and her companions are staying at the Lambton Inn.”
In all the years she had attended the Master of Pemberley, never before could she recall him looking quite so pale.
“Are you feeling unwell, Mr. Darcy?”
********
We are alone on the dimly lit balcony, and the strains of a lovely waltz drift towards us. His disappointment at my answer is reflected in the pained expression he bestows upon me. But then suddenly he takes me into his arms, and we begin to slowly dance.
We are much closer than propriety would allow, but I do not seem to mind at all. I enjoy this social intimacy that the dance provides as I inhale his unique redolence. Wordlessly we move together, in time with the music, and his mere touch arouses every one of my senses. I am lost in the simple pleasure of just being held in his embrace while the rhythm of the waltz dictates our movements.
The Last Waltz: . . . another pride and prejudice journey of love Page 23