Mr. Darcy's Indiscretions

by Valerie Lennox

  But luckily, Elizabeth was saved. That day, all the men were preparing to go on a hunt, and the women would be riding out with them to see them off. There would be a picnic, so it seemed it would be unlikely that Elizabeth would have to entertain everyone again.

  She determined that if she were asked, she would say that she was quite exhausted from talking all night the previous evening and that she had a raw throat. Which was, actually, somewhat true. She kept sipping at water, but it wasn’t helping. She wasn’t used to anyone paying the least bit of attention to her, and she didn’t think she’d said that many words in mixed company in the last five years all stacked together.

  The air was warm when they went out around noontime.

  It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. They settled on a gentle hill for the servants to spread out the food.

  Elizabeth gazed out over the horizon, the rolling green hills stretching out before her. It reminded her of the ocean. A land ocean—green instead of blue. She imagined the hills bursting open like waves, the scenery all going liquid.

  “Miss Bennet?”

  Elizabeth started. “Yes?” She was terrified this was going to be it. Someone was going to want more stories of India.

  But it was Anne. “I wonder if I might join you.”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Elizabeth.

  Anne sat down. “Admiring the view?”

  “Yes, it’s quite pretty.”

  “Oh, quite.”

  Elizabeth waited, but Anne said no more. Did that mean she was supposed to say something? Drat, why was she so terrible at this? Anne probably thought her a tongue-tied buffoon. She never could think of anything to say around the woman.

  Anne folded her hands in her lap. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. What a happy coincidence that you should end up in the same place as Darcy and me.”

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “A happy coincidence indeed.”

  “I had no idea that you were the sister of Mr. Bolton’s wife.”

  “I have a lot of sisters,” said Elizabeth.

  “Indeed,” said Anne. “Listen, Miss Bennet, I shall just come out with it, I suppose. You obviously have designs on Mr. Darcy.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Anne raised her eyebrows.

  “I don’t want to marry him or anything like that,” said Elizabeth. “I know that I’m not marriageable material. You needn’t worry about that if you don’t approve of me.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to marry him, what do you want?”

  Elizabeth blushed.

  Anne waited for a response. When none came, she turned back to gaze out over the horizon. “I feel obligated to tell you that Darcy has told me that he has no intention of marrying.”

  Elizabeth turned to her sharply. “But that was always his plan. He would come back to England after he had made his fortune and get married. What is he going to do about his land? He’ll need heirs, won’t he?”

  “Oh, someone will inherit, I suppose,” said Anne. “That’s what he said to me. You do not think I said all of these things to him? At any rate, since you are not even interested in marriage, perhaps it doesn’t matter. I only wanted to apprise you of the situation. I thought you might be quite crushed otherwise.”

  “Well, no, of course not,” said Elizabeth.

  Anne shrugged. “Excellent, then. I did find your stories of India so terribly diverting. I shall look forward to more of your company.” Airily, she wandered away, leaving Elizabeth to puzzle over what she had said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “But how did you find out where his room was?” said Elizabeth to Cecily. It was after dinner, and Cecily was helping her undress for bed.

  “Well, I told his valet that Mr. Darcy was looking for him, and that he was to go to the east wing at once,” said Cecily. “He says, ‘The east wing? What’s he doing there?’ And I says, ‘Oh, isn’t that where his room is? On the east wing, overlooking the gardens?’ And he says, ‘Look here, Mr. Darcy’s room is in the west wing and it’s overlooking the drive.’ I says, ‘The first room overlooking the drive?’ He says, ‘No, the third one down. Are you sure that it’s Mr. Darcy who needs assistance?’ Then I pretended to look confused, and I says, ‘Maybe not, if that’s not where his room is. I don’t know.’ And he says he’d best go check in any case, and that was that. So, there you have it. That’s where his room is.”

  “You’re wonderful, Cecily,” said Elizabeth. She wanted to throw her arms her around the maid, but she didn’t. It wouldn’t have been proper, and it would have confused the poor girl. Instead, she reached for Cecily’s hand and squeezed it.

  Cecily’s face broke into a big smile. “I did right?”

  “Perfection.”

  Cecily looked down at her hands, and then up again, shyly. “Can I know what you’re to put in his room, then? If it’s a joke, I’d like a laugh.”

  “Oh, a horse shoe.” Elizabeth pulled the first thing out of her head that she could.

  Cecily wrinkled her nose. “I don’t see why that’s funny.”

  “You would have had to have been there, I think. It’s one of those jokes only funny to the circle of people in attendance.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “But I’m ever so grateful, and I think you are quite the best ladies maid in all of England.”

  Cecily blushed with pleasure. “You really think that?”

  “I do.” Elizabeth smiled at her. “I can’t thank you enough. And…” She lowered her voice. “I would appreciate it if you kept this between you and me. Don’t tell my sister, Mrs. Bolton. I don’t think she would get the joke.”

  “Of course,” said Cecily.

  “Thank you ever so much.”

  “Well,” said Cecily, “I was happy to do it, I was. And anything else you need, you just ask me.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth lay awake for what seemed like eternities, listening to the vast quietness around her, trying to convince herself that everyone must be asleep by now, and that if she got up and sneaked out of her room, no one would be the wiser.

  But thinking it and doing it were quite different things, and she found she could will her legs to move, but she couldn’t actually force it to happen.

  She lay there, in her nightgown, awake and longing, her heart beating with anticipation and fright.

  And then, finally, she did it all at once.

  She flung herself out of bed, and rushed across the room to open her door.

  The hallway was quite dark.

  She gulped.

  Lighting a small lamp, she stepped slowly into the hallway.

  She pulled her door shut behind her. It wouldn’t do to leave it open. Anyone could look inside and see that she wasn’t there.

  She didn’t expect that anyone would be by to check on her in the time she was gone. After all, she would be back by morning. Still, better safe than sorry.

  She began to tiptoe down the hallway, her lamp spreading a small circle of flickering light ahead of her. She could make out the carpet on the floor, the decorative runner where the floor met the wall, but no more than that.

  She knew that there were portraits higher up. In this wing, the walls were plastered with portraits of the de Bourgh family, all the way back to the fourteenth century.

  Elizabeth was glad enough not to have their disapproving eyes on her as she moved through the hall.

  Of course, she realized, their eyes were on her. She simply couldn’t see them, because her light wasn’t bright enough. But that didn’t mean that the portraits weren’t looking down her from above, passing judgment on her.

  Don’t be silly. They’re only paintings, she admonished herself.

  But she couldn’t help but shine her light upward, illuminating the severe face of one of the ladies. This one had a small dog on her lap, and the dog seemed to be glaring as well.

  Elizabeth shuddered. She shut her eyes and then opened them.<
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  Resolving not to think of the portraits, she pushed forward.

  But she could feel their eyes on her, boring into her back.

  And as she walked, she found herself moving faster and faster, just to get away from them. She didn’t want them looking at her anymore.

  She knew it was stupid, but she hurried, and as she moved more quickly, she was noisier.

  The floor creaked.

  Her footfalls were louder than she would have liked.

  She winced with each noise, frightened that someone would come out of one of the rooms.

  She imagined a guest opening the door, sleeping cap on her head, eyes squinting in the darkness, demanding to know where she was going.

  What would she say if she were caught?

  She couldn’t think of a thing that would be believable.

  Finally, she reached the end of the hallway, and she let out an audible breath of relief.

  But now, she emerged into a large open area.

  Two staircases descended down to the foyer of the house, and another behind her ascended to the next level. The ceiling was quite high, another story above her.

  Her first step away from the wing echoed throughout the entire house, so loud that she let out a tiny whimper in fright.

  Someone had surely heard all that.

  Someone was going to appear now. A servant. Miss Anne de Bourgh herself.

  She waited.

  No one appeared.

  She took another step, this one more careful. It was not nearly as loud, but it was not utterly silent either.

  She inched her way over to the west wing, trying with each step not to make any noise at all. And with each step, failing miserably. They were all so loud.

  She was sure that she would be discovered. Positive of it. So sure that she nearly convinced herself to turn back and go to her room. Why keep going when she was sure to be intercepted before she even made it to Darcy’s room?

  But she pressed forward in the end, and then she made it to the doorway of the west wing.

  She slipped inside.

  She was so close.

  Now, she only had to go three rooms down, on the side facing the drive, and then she would be at his room.

  Should she knock? Should she simply open the door?

  What if she frightened him and he made noise, and they were caught?

  Worse still, what if he was dead asleep and he wouldn’t wake?

  She thrust her thumbnail between her teeth and chewed.

  She stood in front of his door, flexing her right hand. To knock or to open?

  Which should she do?

  And then, before she could make her decision—

  Someone cleared his throat. Behind her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  She whirled, horror filling her, seeping into her bones. It had happened after all. She had been caught. If only she hadn’t dallied so long here in front of his door.

  “Miss Bennet?” whispered a voice.

  Wait. Was that…

  She raised her lamp with shaking hands until she illuminated the face of Darcy.

  She was limp with relief. After all of that, she had not been caught at all. “Why aren’t you in your room?” she said.

  “I was, but I heard footsteps in the foyer. I looked out, and I saw you outside Mr. Haversham’s door.”

  “Mr. Haversham!” She put her fingers to her lips. Oh, what if she had opened that door? “But your room is supposed to be the third door down, overlooking the drive.”

  “And so it is.” He pointed. “That way is the drive.”

  “Is it?”

  He shook his head at her. “What are you doing here, your sense of direction notwithstanding?”

  Could that really be the drive? It was true that she sometimes got dreadfully turned around inside houses, especially when she couldn’t look out the windows. But the drive was in front of the house, and she had just been in the foyer, which was…

  Oh, dear.

  That way.

  “Miss Bennet?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for you. I came here for you.”

  He sighed. “You are really stupid sometimes, you know that?” But he grasped her by the hand and dragged her into his room.

  His bed was mussed, but the covers were still pulled up. He had not been asleep then, even though he was only wearing his nightclothes. He looked around the room, seized a chair, and moved it over. He gestured.

  She sat.

  “You shouldn’t have done this,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t have come to your room, or shouldn’t have come to Rosings?”

  “Both.” He thrust both hands into his hair. “I cannot—”

  “Wait,” she said. “I know that you must think I want more from you than you could give. But I swear to you, I do not.” She got out of the chair and went to him. She put her hand on his chest. “I will take whatever you can spare.”

  He moved her hand. “You do not understand. I should have explained to you before, but I find it all so dreadfully mortifying. I have a problem with opium.”

  “I know that.” She put her hand back. “As it happens, I think I have a problem with you, so perhaps we’re quite evenly matched.”

  He laughed a little, sounding helpless. “I cannot be what you want me to be for you.”

  “Do you think I want you to marry me? I don’t.” She pressed closer. “I would be anything you wanted. Your mistress. Your whore. You could use me as you saw fit.”

  He made a noise in the back of his throat. “Miss Bennet, you do have a knack for unwittingly saying the most erotic things.” He touched her cheek.

  And then he was kissing her, and it was glorious. She was bursting to life, like a log catching flame in the fire place, sparks flying, tongues of heat and light climbing. She clutched him.

  He pushed her away. “No, no. I can’t… I am worthless as a man.”

  She didn’t understand. She cocked her head. “You’re not worthless.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “I am taking rather a lot of laudanum daily. And I find that… certain parts of me do not function as they used to.”

  She knitted her brows together. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh dear Christ, Miss Bennet.” He closed the distance between them, snatched up her hand, and put it against his crotch. “I cannot make a whore of anyone without this, can I?”

  She bit down on her lip. Oh. In her extensive readings on the subject, she had become a bit more knowledgeable on male anatomy than she had been years ago when they had first come together. She knew that the male member needed to be erect, and that there could be dysfunction with that process. “The laudanum does that?”

  “At the levels of consumption that I am at, yes. So, you see, there is nothing in my future. There is no marrying, or siring heirs, or having you, no matter how much I might want to. I am worthless.”

  She sat back down on the chair for a moment, thinking this over. “Well, we can still kiss, can’t we?”

  He laughed, a low chuckle. “I suppose so, but I think it would be vastly frustrating to work ourselves up for something we can’t finish.”

  She looked up at him. “Everything about this is vastly frustrating. But I did not come all the way to Rosings for nothing.”

  He sighed. “Well, I’m sorry about that, but perhaps you did.”

  “You won’t kiss me?”

  He looked her over, and there was a brightness in his eyes, a hunger. But he turned to his bedside table, picked up a bottle of laudanum, and took a long drink.

  “Can I have some of that?” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m stuck here for a bit anyway,” she said. “There’s no way that I’m going back to my room through that empty hallway with all the portraits.” She shuddered.

  He looked a bit confused, but he laughed and shrugged. He held out the bottle to her.

  She stood up and crossed the room to him.
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  He handed her the bottle.

  She took a drink. She made a face at the taste.

  “Go easy,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

  She gave him back the bottle, and she searched his eyes with her own. “I want to be close to you. When I said before that I would take whatever you could give me, I meant it. Whatever you can give me is all I want.”

  He reached out, his fingers barely brushing her cheek, and then he clenched his hand into a fist and looked away. “Miss Bennet…”

  “I really do wish you would call me Elizabeth.”

  “Oh, blast it all.” He seized her by the hand and tugged her. Together, they fell back on his bed.

  * * *

  He had his nose buried in her hair, and it smelled sweet. His eyes were closed, and he was lost in a world of swirling visions. His entire body thrummed, goodness pulsing through him. “What do you see?” he whispered.

  “The ocean,” she replied. “It’s vast and calm, and the sun is rising, bright red in the sky, staining everything with purples and oranges.”

  “Mmm.” He could see it too, now. “What else do you see?”

  “Our ship,” she said. “You and I are standing on the main deck, and we’re looking out over the water together.”

  “Our ship?” He was amused. He began to trace small, soft patterns on the bare skin of her arm. Their bodies were pressed close, their limbs entangled. He’d never felt closer to another person in his entire life.

  “I suppose it’s your ship. You know what I mean.”

  “No, it can be ours. I want it to be ours.” He wrapped his other arm tighter around her.

  She was smiling. He could hear it in her voice. “Our ship, then. Where we live together. Not trapped here. Out where we’re free.”

  “Free,” he echoed. “What else do you see?”

  “There’s something in the sky.”

  “Ah, yes, I see it,” he murmured. “It’s a bird. A beautiful, white bird with snowy feathers.”

  Her breath caught. “I see it too!”

  He chuckled. “It’s flying in a circle around our ship.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice breathy in wonder. “How is that possible? How are we seeing the same thing, even though we both have our eyes closed?”