Darcy's Quest

by Marianne Lewis

  Darcy drew her from the study and into the main hallway. He liked the feel of her hand in his. Her soft skin and delicate bones sharpened his awareness of how appealingly feminine she was. He twined his little finger round hers, knowing she'd twitch again, which she did. He wished she didn't hate him so. Did his heir stand a chance of being conceived?

  He'd seen Elizabeth staring at his lips, and had taken heart, believing, hoping, wishing, praying that perhaps, just perhaps, she'd liked his kiss. But she was still as nervous as a doe in hunting season—and he was hunting, he made no doubt. His mouth curled in a sardonic smile.

  He opened a door and ushered her through it, the movement necessitating the release of her hand. He didn't doubt her thankfulness; she immediately clasped her fingers together before her. "This is the music room, as you've no doubt concluded. Do you play any of these pieces?"

  "I play the pianoforte some," Elizabeth answered, walking forward to assess that instrument. Evidently in excellent repair, the piece was of a quality high above the battered one her parents kept. She ran her fingertips across the keys. A soft melody rippled forth and her lips lifted. She looked across at Darcy. "It's a very beautiful instrument."

  "I bought it for my sister. I plan to surprise her with it when she returns from visiting our aunt in Kent."

  "What a lovely gift! Do you play?"

  "I'm passable on the pianoforte. I haven't a notion why the rest are kept. Decoration, I suppose. I hope you feel free to use them anytime."

  "Thank you, I shall," Elizabeth returned with a quick smile.

  "Shall we continue our tour?" he asked, this time offering his arm.

  Elizabeth nodded, refusing the urge to ignore his arm proffered in escort. Such churlishness sat ill with her, even if his proximity was unnerving. Besides, taking his arm was much easier than holding his hand. He would have no opportunity to curl his little finger round hers, and thus throw her out of countenance. However, the strength of his arm and the warmth of his skin penetrating white linen did little for her peace of mind. She wondered if she'd feel less intimidated and more inclined towards friendliness were he more approachable.

  The morning passed speedily. Darcy was kind and pleasing; though, as ever, a hint of restraint colored his manner. That difference between him and Wickham was markedly clear. Wickham could never be described as restrained. Elizabeth pondered this a moment, and was shocked to realize that Wickham's lack of reserve had made her somewhat uneasy. Of course, she reasoned quickly, Darcy's tendency in the opposite direction could be no better. But why, then, did she appreciate it more? Why did she find it almost reassuring?

  "And now for the picture gallery," Darcy said, interrupting her musings. "I promise this will end our tour."

  Elizabeth's lips twitched. Indeed, it had seemed monstrous long, so large was the house. The thought of lunch beckoned, but the portraits of Darcy's ancestors enticed, and her mind soon deserted the thought of food.

  Slowly, they moved along the gallery, Darcy regaling Elizabeth with tales of each successor to the line. "There's always been one son born of each union," he explained. "A blessing indeed; however, it leaves no heir should that son die without issue. Fortunately, such tragedy hasn't yet occurred.”

  And she was beside him, thought Elizabeth, for the sole purpose of seeing it did not. It was rather jolting to realize her grandson would join the others in due time. Would her great-grandson say to his new wife, as he waved a hand towards her portrait, "This is Elizabeth Bennet, bought by Fitzwilliam Darcy to secure his line. Mama tells me she wasn't the happiest of brides, but..." Would she come to love her husband? And he her? She glanced across at Darcy. No, it truly wasn't possible.

  "You can see why," Darcy said, his low voice breaking through her thought, "I so desire an heir. I'd feel a gross failure to my ancestors did I die without succession. They worked long and hard to establish the line and all that is bequeathed with that: the estate, the farms, and all else."

  Elizabeth gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment. Yes, she could see, but she heartily wished she hadn't been chosen as the one to produce that successor. She stopped before the next portrait, surveying the handsome man depicted therein.

  "That's my father," Darcy said quietly from behind her. Something in his voice captured her attention. A certain note of what? Pride? Sadness?

  "You resemble him," she commented. The same piercing eyes watched her from the canvas. "Do you miss him?"

  "Very much. He was killed in a hunting accident, and I was in no way ready to step into his shoes and assume responsibility for the family."

  Elizabeth turned to him, noting the brief clouding of his eyes. A pang of pity for him assailed her. The weight of duty Darcy had shouldered must have been onerous. She had an idea how heavy such a burden could be. He didn't seem inclined to elaborate any further, so she stepped to the next portrait. "Ah, and here is Lady Anne. She's very pretty, don't you think?"

  He smiled. "Yes, Mama was considered quite the diamond in her day."

  Elizabeth nodded absently, her attention captured by the likeness of her husband.

  "That was painted when I reached my majority," Darcy explained.

  She studied the portrait closely, noting Darcy's laughing eyes and carefree grin. She looked at Darcy, comparing him with his younger self.

  "Time has a way of changing one's attitude," he said with a shrug, and she suspected he knew her thoughts.

  "What took that look of merry devilment from your face?"

  Another shrug. "Maturity, responsibility, disillusionment, I suppose."

  Elizabeth took another good look at the younger Darcy, pondering what it might have been like to meet that man.

  "As you know, likenesses of my sister is hung in the drawing room," Darcy said. "You like my sister?"

  "Very much," she replied with a nod.

  "She likes you as well," he said. "She told me I couldn't have done better for myself."

  "Kind of her to say so," Elizabeth acknowledged, inclining her head. She wondered if Darcy agreed, but didn't dare to ask.

  "If you'd like, we might have lunch, and tour the grounds later, if you wish."

  "That would be fine," she responded, taking the arm he offered.

  * * *

  At lunch, during which she noted that he had ordered her place set to his immediate right, she mused, "The house is so very large, I wonder you use half of it."

  "I'm sure we don't. However, when we were growing up, it was filled. My sister and I, our father, nannies, governesses, tutors. It was a much busier place then. I sometimes find the lack of activity onerous, after having known busier days. I should like to fill the rooms with the laughter of children. Do you like children, Elizabeth?"

  She considered a moment, imagining the vast rooms and hallways ringing with the sounds of pattering feet and shrill little voices. The thought warmed her. "Yes, I rather think I do."

  He smiled and reached across to her, his fingers gently caressing the back of her hand. "I rather think I should have asked you that before proposing. I'm happy to hear your affirmation, though." He cocked an eyebrow. "Should you like to get started on that endeavor?"

  She blushed, shyness and confusion overtaking her. Her gaze fell to her hand, and she watched his fingertips smooth along it, wondering at the strange sensations which fluttered within her at his touch.

  "William," she ventured after some moments, "I am your wife, and as such, will do my best to fulfill my obligations to you. I apologize for my shyness last night, and thank you kindly for your understanding. I shall try harder to please you."

  Darcy's fingers lifted abruptly and he sat back on his chair, crossing his arms before him. Were he a cad, he'd take her at her word right now, and blast lunch, the servants and the remainder of the afternoon. But he wasn't a cad, and it sat ill with him that she should see their lovemaking as a sacrifice, a duty she must submit to.

  "Elizabeth," he finally responded, "your intentions are noble, I'm assured. However, I
don't find the thought of making love to a martyr all that stimulating."

  Anger spat from her eyes. She regarded him with silent mutiny. "You've paid for your heir," she said in cool and dignified tones. "'It would be dishonorable of me should I fail to keep my end of our bargain."

  "Indeed," he said dryly. "Your sense of duty is most worthy."

  * * *

  Strolling about the fragrant, manicured gardens soothed Elizabeth's nerves. The warmth of the day and the fresh summer scents were relaxing reminders of how well she loved the country life. Her hand resting in the crook of her husband's arm, she listened to him explain the history of his home. She found his discourse fascinating, and sensed his deep love for his heritage.

  At bedtime, Elizabeth didn't fuss when Emily laid out a shimmery pink confection no less revealing than the previous night's costume. She spared a thought for how these flimsy garments had found their way into her wardrobe, making no doubt Lydia and her mother were responsible. The two had gone shopping alone one day and returned giggling like schoolgirls. Elizabeth wasn't sure she appreciated their thoughtfulness one whit.

  However, she had no fear that Darcy wouldn't keep to his own chambers tonight. He'd escorted her to her door, and wished her pleasant dreams. She took that as a dismissal, and wondered that he didn't push the matter of an heir. He confused her, this husband. He'd been ever so nice, touching her gently on the hand, running his fingers over hers. She remembered thinking on the eve of her wedding that surely Darcy would be a cold and aloof mate, distant and uncaring. But today he'd shown himself attentive and solicitous, even to the point of kindness.

  But he hadn't kissed her, which bothered her. She couldn't understand why she would want him to, why she had enjoyed his kiss, and why she hadn't once thought of Wickham during the day. Strange, but she'd never waited in expectation of Wickham's kiss. She hadn't really thought about it. And perhaps it wasn't honorable of her to think of the man she loved, but even Wickham hadn't shown her the attention and courtesy Darcy had this day.

  She went to the window, lifting back the curtain. A figure paced below. Darcy? Why was he down there? He moved behind a hedge and disappeared. She sat for a long time, watching, but he didn't appear again. Then she heard a soft whirring noise and his voice—coming from his chamber.

  She flicked back the curtain, and quiet as a mouse, slipped into bed. How had he gained his room without appearing again? She hadn't missed him, that she knew. She hadn't once taken her eyes from the place. However had he done that?

  Chapter Eight

  Another night passed, and no sign of Wickham at Pemberley. How did he fare? Darcy couldn't dismiss a feeling of unease.

  He dismissed Harrison, his valet, with a wave of his hand, and sprawled fully clothed upon his bed. Folding his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. He knew he shouldn't be getting into a pucker so soon, but the nagging uneasiness persisted.

  He'd thought the process of begetting a son would be a simple task, and found it damned inconvenient that things weren't proceeding according to plan. Oh, he had no doubt Elizabeth would now take her rightful place in his life. The temptation to go to her tugged against his sure knowledge that she'd hate every moment of their union. Yes, she would submit to her duty, but his better nature demanded he regard her feelings and not force himself upon her.

  He stirred restlessly upon the bed, thinking the whole matter the very deuce of a coil. He wanted an heir, but he also wanted Elizabeth, every beautiful curve of her, and she loved the man he despised.

  Devil take it! He wanted her to come willingly, but he didn't have the patience of a saint!

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked to his wardrobe. Wrenching it open, he snatched up his greatcoat and slung it over his shoulders. Two minutes later, he strode into the stables, barking at his groom to saddle his bay.

  "I'm off to Lambton, Tom," he explained more gently, seeking to quell his bad humor. "I feel in need of some good, strong ale."

  "You thinking of going alone?" Tom grunted, swinging the saddle onto the bay's back.

  Darcy acknowledged the logic of not going alone. "Perhaps you should accompany me."

  “And are a man and his master to take drink together in a common taproom? I think not. Either give me some of your fancy togs, or I'll give you some of mine." Tom edged the bit between the stallion's teeth, casting Darcy a sidelong glance.

  Darcy sighed, shrugging. "Very well, I shall impersonate your undergroom this night. Bring me a hat and coat. I rather think I can keep my breeches and shirt."

  Tom nodded, whisking off to fetch the needed clothing. Twenty minutes of hard riding by the light of a full moon saw them alighting before one of Lambton's less frequented inns. Darcy had no desire to be recognized in his present state of dress.

  The taproom hummed with a scruffy assortment of customers. The poor lighting gave Darcy cause for thanks, but still he pulled his hat lower over his forehead, and directed Tom to a small table near the back corner. Darcy rather thought they were lucky to find it, so full was the taproom with bawdy riff-raff. The two men arguing at the table behind him were decidedly rough-looking. He would certainly not grace this establishment with his presence again.

  "You order the ale, Tom," he said, drawing some coins from his pocket and placing them on the table. He knew his cultivated speech would be remarked upon in an instant among this crop of undesirables.

  A saucy serving wench flounced to their table, assessing them with a practiced eye. Tom immediately bade her bring two ales. The girl sniffed and turned on her heel, swinging her hips in an exaggerated fashion back to the tap. Minutes later, she set two mugs of frothy brew before them, and deftly caught the coin Tom flipped her.

  Darcy sat back, taking a long pull of the ale. The men behind him argued louder now, partly, he assumed, to be heard above the din, and partly because they'd each had their share of drink. More bored than curious, Darcy turned his ear to their conversation. He heard his name mentioned and a chill like an icy finger ran up his spine.

  "I ain't gonna touch Darcy till I'm certain he's our man. Too risky."

  Darcy leaned forward, cradling his half-empty glass between his palms. "Tom, look past me and give me a full description of those two men. I didn't observe them closely enough when we arrived."

  Tom lifted cautious eyes, peering past Darcy to the two ruffians. Slowly he counted off their attributes, or lack thereof, finishing with "Black hair, the both of them. Ugly."

  "We'll deal with them tonight," Darcy said in a low, steely voice. He explained what he'd overheard, adding, "I trust you have a weapon of sorts on your person."

  "Aye, that I do," replied Tom. "As do you, I'm certain."

  "Indeed," drawled Darcy, wiggling his foot. The hard steel of his knife rubbed against his shin. The blade was such a constant companion now that he rarely remarked its presence. He lifted his tankard, draining the remaining ale, his brain busy formulating a plan.

  Lie in wait for them to leave the taproom? But what if they had rooms in the inn for the night? He didn't doubt he and Tom alone could send the devils to their Maker, given the element of surprise and a bit of good luck. The two men being deep in their cups was an added advantage. But, where might they ambush them, disarm them with nought but knives?

  "Sir, watch yer head!" Tom, rising out of his chair, pushed Darcy aside. Darcy's chair toppled over, leaving him stranded on the floor. He barely had time to grasp the situation for a second later, a smelly brute with gin-laced breath slid on his belly beside him, obviously having come to grief with a fellow patron.

  With a roar of rage, the felled man raised himself to a hands-and-knees position. His assailant was poised above him with an empty gin bottle at the ready. Darcy rolled over and away. The rough, heavy table crashed onto its top, legs extended into the air.

  A collective bellow from the bawdy patrons of the tavern rose a moment later. Tables crashed, chairs cracked and tankards clattered against the walls and
floor. Bodies grappled and feinted, some meeting forcefully with the wooden planks to lunge frantically away from pounding boots.

  "Damnation!" Darcy leapt to his feet, dodging one fisted blow, only to be staggered by another connecting with his lip. Warm blood oozed and trickled down his chin. Tom sent the first man to his knees with a punishing clout to the shoulder. Darcy sprawled the other with a swift uppercut to the jaw.

  Backing against the wall, he grasped Tom's arm, dragging him away from the scene of commotion. "Where did our men go? Did you see them?"

  "They cleared out!"

  "Damn," Darcy muttered, casting a jaundiced eye over the tangle of brawling humanity. "Blasted lot of them. Let's get out of here."

  "Right with sir. Fresh air won't go amiss."

  At last the door was in sight; only one swaggering lout marred the view. Darcy and Tom lunged towards him, sending him sprawling with nothing but their collective weights aimed at his midriff. Then they sprinted out into the cool night breeze.

  Darcy softly swore, glancing up and down the street. "You're sure you saw them leave?"

  "They made for the door the moment they saw that animal waving the gin bottle."

  Darcy gave a frustrated grunt and pounded his thigh with his fist.

  ''Here, sir, they don't know you're their man,” Tom offered as a placating gesture. "We won't find them tonight, that's sure, but that ain't to say we can't send some men round here looking for them."

  Darcy cast him a disgruntled glance. He did have the men's descriptions, and Colonel Forster could probably send out a small army to search for them. But that consolation didn't put his mind to rest. To have had his foe neatly in his hands, and to lose them, made his blood burn like fire.