Masquerade 2

by Emma East

  He stopped only a foot from Darcy, and Darcy wondered if he would have to fend off his friend. The merchant’s son turned gentleman appeared ready to emulate the rough men who worked in his warehouses, ready to descend into savagery.

  “Did you plan to make her an offer? Or did you plan to leave her behind after playing with her heart?”

  Darcy didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  Bingley saw the answer in his face. “You should not be here in the morning, Darcy.”

  “But—” He caught himself and clamped his lips closed. His fists clenched at his side. He would not beg and he would not expose Elizabeth to more censure than he had already brought down on her.

  “Very well,” Darcy said. He bowed and brushed past him on his way out of the room. A friendship of over five years… and he left behind silence and fury. It spoiled even the memory of his time with Elizabeth, the room spoiled by the memory of her shocked, fearful eyes. The mingled joy and awe that had entered him at Elizabeth’s admittance had turned to ash in his mouth. He climbed the stairs, moving through the crush of people with the practiced ease of someone used to crowds parting for him. He saw nothing and no one.

  I told her I would never place her into a situation where her reputation would be jeopardized. I failed. I failed her.

  Chapter Three

  Kitten,

  I promised to never place you into a situation where we could be discovered. I failed you.

  Last night, B. made it clear I was no longer welcome in his home. To protect you, I go. Considering what you admitted last night, I fully expect you to think the worst of me for it and, for that, I apologize. My intentions towards you have never been honorable. B. made me face my actions, and I leave with the difficult realization that you have only seen a man I do not wish to be.

  It is my actions and my actions only that have led you astray. Please forget the man penning this letter, Kitten. He is neither worthy of your devotion nor deserving of a second thought. Just know that he—no, I feel the honor of your affection deeply. I only hope that the next man who earns your affection is worthy of it—and of you.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Then, she lifted her hand to her eyes, now prickling, and pinched the bridge of her nose. She refused to give into emotion. Not now. Not ever.

  A flurry of sensations stormed across her face. The sting of shame and embarrassment. The cold lack of his affection. The burn of anger at his leaving.

  He did not return her feelings, and in fact had fled from them entirely. He did not love her, and she couldn’t even retract her declaration.

  “Kitten, do you think I’m going to let you go?”

  Those words, spoken so tenderly last night, so she might almost believe he could return her feelings—

  She pressed her knuckles to her eyes and rubbed viciously, desiring only to squash the tears forming. What a fool she was. He was a seducer, and she was a naïve little girl.

  A sob clumped in her throat, but she forced it down. She wouldn’t let emotion weaken her. She had hoped, unlikely enough, to find him waiting for her at the cottage. Hope and apprehension mingled in her all morning on her walk to the cottage as the sun worked its way into the sky. She turned away from the cottage’s front door now—the cottage where they had made love in the early hours, the cottage where he had left this unsigned letter on his way out of town.

  Mrs. Bennet would be furious at the news. Elizabeth walked back home as slowly as she could manage. She didn’t want to see her parents just now, and she balked at the idea of hearing her mother’s complaints about Darcy’s departure from town. She pressed her hand to her stomach, to the dread twisting there. How long could she stand her mother’s complaints when she wanted to scream at just the idea of it? Her easygoing, carefree nature was badly damaged by this heartbreak, a heartbreak she had to keep secret. She didn’t know if she could be the Elizabeth her family knew only yesterday.

  But each step took her closer to Longbourn, and eventually she had to cross the threshold onto the lawn. Then her eyes spied a coach in the drive and her heart fluttered. She quickened her pace until she got inside and quickly removed her bonnet and gloves, her ears straining to define the voices in the parlor. Could Darcy have stopped at the estate on his way out of town?

  She did not rush to the parlor, though she couldn’t resist hurrying a little. But when she stepped into the doorway, she paused as Bingley, replying to something Mrs. Bennet said, lifted his gaze to hers.

  She slammed to a stop as if an invisible barrier blocked her way. Dread dropped in her stomach. Her shame, so near to the surface already, rushed to the forefront of her mind and to her burning cheeks.

  “Lizzy, where have you been?” Mrs. Bennet harrumphed her irritation and waved her inside. “Have you been out walking again? You will become too thin if you keep going on these long walks and missing breakfast!”

  She couldn’t meet his eye for long and she kept her gaze turned away, making a circuitous route around the grouping to sit by the window. She didn’t know what to expect from the man who supposedly threw Darcy out of his home.

  Mrs. Bennet, however, forced the issue. “Why would you sit all the way over there? Here, come sit here. Mr. Bingley was only telling us that Mr. Darcy has left town to return to London, and I was telling Mr. Bingley that it is sad to hear of it only now, after he is away, or else I could have arranged a dinner in his honor. He is a very fine gentleman, I think.”

  She continued chattering on about the qualities of Darcy and the disappointments she endured without his presence, casting small glares at Elizabeth as if expecting her to fess up. As if Elizabeth would admit she had driven Darcy away. But Elizabeth refused to respond, her hands clasped so hard in her lap that the whites in her knuckles stood out sharply against her burgundy dress.

  “And our Aunt Gardiner has invited us to town,” Jane said. There was reluctance in her tone and Elizabeth glanced at her to find her gazing at Bingley. Of course, she wouldn’t want to leave for town with Bingley here.

  Bingley caught Elizabeth’s eye and she couldn’t look away. He was troubled, yes, and his eyes lacked the friendly, carefree quality that usually shone out. But empathy and concern replaced the anger she had seen burning in his eyes the night before.

  The topic changed and Elizabeth allowed herself to release the of the tension in her shoulders when it didn’t appear as if Bingley would expose her terrible crimes to her family. However, she couldn’t escape talk of the ball. Her sisters ensured the discussion was dominated by talk of the food, the music, the dancing, and what their neighbors wore. Bingley avoided Elizabeth’s gaze as much as she avoided his. But her thoughts still drifted to the way Darcy’s eyes followed her the night before, or how his breath stuttered when she returned his kiss, or how tightly he held her thighs as he sent wave after wave of pleasure through her core.

  A dalliance. Was that all he considered her?

  What else would she, a poor gentleman’s daughter, ever be to him? If he had loved her, he should have stayed and fought for her. Instead, he ran away to protect his reputation, protect himself against a Bennet claim upon him.

  Elizabeth had to drop her eyes then. She wanted to believe it was anger that made her eyes hurt, made tears burn against her eyelids, but she couldn’t lie to herself.

  Surreptitiously wiping her eyes, she steeled herself to appear normal and not as if her heart had torn in two.

  The rest of Bingley’s visit was normal. Normal, if not for the undercurrent of concern and apprehension that laced his gaze and voice when a comment was directed toward her. Striving for normalcy, Elizabeth kept her winces when Darcy’s name was brought up to a minimum.

  Internally, she wished for a cup of strong tea, her window seat upstairs, and a month of rain. She didn’t know how she had ever let herself get dragged to this point, entangling herself with a seducer, allowing her feelings to grow out of control.

  When Bingley left, she wasn’t as enthused when her mother urge
d her to act as chaperone for him and Jane on his way to the carriage. Especially when Jane peeled away to retrieve her gloves from upstairs. Bingley motioned to the front door and Elizabeth, dread rising like nausea in her chest, shuffled to follow him.

  Bingley turned to her on the front steps, his hand lifting to tug at his dark red hair, one of the first times she had seen this signal of distress from him. He searched her face, and the concern in his eyes only grew. “Miss Elizabeth… how, er, are you?”

  “I’m fine.” She had expected a question of this sort from him, but felt thoroughly unprepared just the same. Her hand went to the pocket of her skirt where the letter waited for her to unfold it.

  “I’m sorry I ever invited him here,” Bingley told her, an admission he blurted out as if he had thought about it the whole night. “Please accept my dearest apologies for not recognizing him as—well, as he is.”

  I knew what he was and still left my heart open to him.

  She shook her head. “Do not worry for me, Mr. Bingley.”

  “At least we will see no more of him.”

  She nodded and pressed her hands to her unsettled stomach. No, they would hardly cross paths again, with only luck initiating their first meeting.

  “If I had known… that damned man.” Bingley’s anger was a terrible thing to hear. An amiable, pleasant man, he should never have cause for that much grief. And now he had lost a close friend—all because of Elizabeth.

  Chapter Four

  He floated through the halls of Pemberley, shadows curling around him, enveloping and welcoming. The upper floors were quiet, his footsteps muffled in thick carpets. Up ahead, through the elaborately framed doorway to the Master’s bedroom, a light shone. Waiting, beckoning. Even if he had tried to stop himself, his blood heard the call and wouldn’t let him pause.

  “Darcy, oh Darcy…”

  The smell of roses, heady and thick, nearly overwhelming him when the door opened before him without a touch. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. Gauzy netting and silks shielded the bed, but the evidence of her presence was clear in the rose petals leading him to the giant four poster. No matter how luxurious the room and decor, she would exceed them in her exquisiteness.

  Then he was there, shielded by those silks and her long fall of curly hair from the rest of the world. Her throat bared, both powerful and vulnerable; she owned him heart and soul. And from the dark gleam in her eyes, the curl of her lips, she understood the power she had over him.

  But Darcy did not need to care about that, not now, not with her hands buried in his hair and her core encasing him in smoky, curling heat. He could pretend that his power over her wouldn’t snuff out her spark, pretend his sins hadn’t spoiled her love for him.

  “Kitten…”

  Her pert nipples drew him in, mouth aching to torture her as she did him. She arched and panted, the aroma of their lovemaking in the air. Hours worth, and she still tasted as sweet. When he pulled back, he cradled her rounded stomach. Heaviness weighed in the air, in his hands, as she rode him.

  “My love, please—”

  “I love—”

  Darcy woke to the darkness of his London townhome bedroom. He fought the heavy duvet off him, panting as he tried to remember the import of the dream he had been having. Suffering under, if the sweat slicking his skin was any evidence. He finally flung the duvet away and climbed out of bed, letting the cool air from the open window sting his wet, overheated skin. He stood in the open window, unafraid that any of his neighbors would see his state of undress with the privacy the trees on his property provided and the lateness of the hour. Dawn was only just curling a few fingers over the blue-black horizon.

  Imagining Elizabeth there beside him was easy, too easy. The laughter in her gaze, the slight arch in her brow before she threw out a witty comment on this or that. Her elegance, easy and unaffected, that carried her through every room and situation. She would fit well here. In London. In Pemberley.

  His mind went to his dream, a glimmer of his awe drifting back to him. Heavy with his child. Would she truly look so radiant? He had suffered through many a dream like this since before he left Meryton. It produced in him an ache so deep he couldn’t breathe sometimes.

  Now his hands gripped the iron railing on the small balcony, the January air a painful bite on his bare skin that he relished. He didn’t deserve even this ache, this twinge of longing for something he could never have.

  He had ruined her and nearly exposed her to the censure of the public. If it had been anyone but Bingley who caught them, he would have been responsible for a humiliation so complete families routinely sent their daughters to French nunneries in response.

  But Bingley knew nothing of import. He did not know how much of Elizabeth Darcy had corrupted. There was hope for her reputation. She could move on, find a man deserving of her, no matter how much acid ate at his throat when he imagined any other man hearing her husky laugh.

  He had never imagined marrying her, not before. It was a fling, and time and distance would close off any future desires. She would become a fond, pleasurable memory.

  He had daydreamed once of taking her as a lover. But he balked at the idea before it could truly form. He did not want a shadow of his Elizabeth, a woman kept to the side waiting to entertain him. A gilded cage. He wanted all of her, all the time.

  Finally, he stepped away from the railing, shivering in the winter chill. He crept back to his now cold bed and shuddered as he pulled the duvet up to his chin. The bed felt too large, empty. And he felt almost as if he was waiting for her to slip under the covers next to him.

  He had wanted to see her free to move on without his oppressive desires constricting her and overwhelming her. Though always eager, he knew it had been him urging her to take the next step, the next rendezvous. Without him pulling her up those stairs that fateful night months ago, the desires of men would have remained unknown to her until her wedding night.

  An image crept to him of her walking toward him, a bouquet in her hands and smiling eyes. He shoved it away. Without him chasing her down at the ball, they would have never have been found out. She would have evaded his possessive grasp.

  But now it was over. Well and truly. There would be no chance for him to drag her back into his destructive embrace.

  What did she feel, so many miles away from him now? Was she angry? Happy to be rid of his desires? Indifferent?

  Anything but indifference, he thought—hoped—with a clench of his heart. Let her hate him and wish him the cruelest punishment. That at least showed that she had cared, that she still cared.

  Blowing out an irritated breath, he punched his pillow into a more comfortable position. He couldn’t think about this anymore. She was gone, out of his life. Let her be indifferent. He no longer cared.

  But Darcy had never been in the habit of lying to himself.

  The next morning, he had to deal with a reminder that responsibilities waited for him if he just looked. Mrs. Curling kept the London townhome running smoothly and efficiently, whether or not Darcy or his sister were present. But now she was reminding him of an ordinary society expectation that turned his stomach.

  “Have you thought further about throwing a party since you’ve arrived, sir? I would order venison sent from Pemberley this morning if so to ensure freshness.”

  “No. No dinner parties.” His curt tone made Mrs. Curling’s pencil pause over her book. Darcy rubbed his brow. “I’ve decided not to entertain for the foreseeable future. I will inform you if those plans change.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said with a second’s pause. “Then if that is it I will see to your current orders now. Sir.”

  For Darcy to not plan at least one dinner for his friends while in town was odd. He was certain that despite her discretion, the news would drift to the other staff and soon all the neighbors would know that proud Darcy would shun the company of his friends. He had not even sent his card around.

  Georgiana was in Pemberley for the
time being. That was what decided Darcy to come here, where no one would notice or comment on his absence from society. Georgiana would not poke or prod, but she would inquire after his health and well-being. Thinking about her concern set his hackles on edge. Gentle as it would be, with good intentions, the careful words and sympathies would be like hot knives on his spine. No, better to be here where the questions were limited to what he would like for dinner and which housecoat he would shrug on each morning. He would allow no other complications.

  But though silence accompanied him as he ate his food, read his papers, and studied his books and ledgers, unease niggled at him. Despite the silence, uncertainty rushed through him. Had he made a mistake? Could he have weathered Bingley’s anger better and convinced him all was well?

  Did Elizabeth miss him?

  On his fourth week in town, Darcy grew tired of the townhouse. He dressed fully for the first time, taking care to select his finest jacket and ensuring not a wrinkle existed on his breeches. When a bemused Mrs. Curling asked if he wished to be driven and where he was to go, Darcy ordered his small carriage readied. Like a wild horse, he didn’t know where he meant to go, only that his muscles tensed under his skin with the restless need to run and run and run.

  But London was a quagmire of people and carriages in the way. There was no open place to roam, to run. Not like Derbyshire. Not like Hertfordshire. His longing for the open horizon was unquenchable here in town, though it offered him the silence he wanted.

  There was one place he could go, a place where he could meet his desire for a rush. In fact, specific lanes encouraged reckless men to show off their driving skills. He turned the horses toward the park.

  There, he let the horses free, and the wind whipped through his hair hard enough to dislodge his hat, sending it flying into a hedge. Corners were taken at breakneck speed, the horses driving with focus and flanks quivering with the effort to go faster and faster.

  He urged them to new speeds. They were fine, strong horses and the carriage not too heavy, and they relished the wind and the race as much if not more than Darcy.