In the Arms of Mr. Darcy
Page 37
She shook her head, blushing as she poured the tea. “The things you say! Ridiculous.”
“Now it is you who are wearying me by not believing the truth of my words, poorly romantic as they are.”
“They are beautifully romantic, Richard. Forgive me. I know you speak the truth in your love for me. I suppose I yet have difficulty grasping it fully. It has not been a topic I have allowed myself to dwell on in the past.”
He gently clasped her chin in his fingers, lifting to gaze into her eyes. “Are your doubts assaulting you today, my love? Is that why your eyes look sad and tired?”
“Only partially. Actually it is Oliver. I returned from the exhibit to discover the physician here and Oliver suffering an episode. I was furious that he ordered not to send for me. He always thinks more of others than himself, sweet boy.”
“Is he better now?”
“Yes, but it was a horrid afternoon. It frightens me so, Richard. The spells occur with increasing frequency and he responds less and less to the treatments. The physicians are confounded. This disease, whatever it is, has no cure or definitive course. All is an unknown while my poor boy suffers.”
“You should be sleeping, Simone. Now that I step back from the sweetness of your lips I see your fatigue. I should leave you to your rest.”
“No! Please! I… needed to see you. I did rest for a bit once his crisis was over.” She cupped his cheek, smiling with the wealth of her love evident. “I, too, am addicted, dearest Richard.”
“Well, I am more than pleased to fulfill your requirements, my Lady.” And they lost themselves for a time in blissful, but controlled, kisses.
The Fotherby tales of sadness and woe dated back many years prior to Lady Simone Halifax joining the family. Her now deceased husband had been married twice prior to taking his young bride to wife. His first wife, a woman he reportedly had loved deeply although he never spoke of it to Simone, had died along with their only child during the birthing process after a mere five years of marriage. Lord Fotherby had refused to remarry for nearly twenty years. His second wife was thrust upon him by frantic family members fretful about the line’s continuation. She was the daughter of a Duke who, despite her impeccable breeding and pedigree, was hiding a chronic illness. None knew of her ailment, the secret hidden carefully behind a stunning dowry and pretty face. Lord Fotherby was furious when the deception was revealed on their wedding night when she was too ill to consummate their marriage.
For fifteen interminable years, they would be married before she finally succumbed to the puzzling disease that defied all medical expertise. In that time, they would rarely speak and even rarer still perform the marital duties necessary to produce an heir, the whole reason for the trumped up marriage in the first place. Nonetheless, three children would be born, two dying in their infancy and a third, Oliver, surviving but clearly stricken with the same malady as his mother.
Lord Fotherby adored his son, worshipped the ground he walked on. It was this overwhelming devotion that prompted him again to take a wife. Left to his own devices, he would not have done so. His heart still belonged to the love of his youth and his physical needs were met by the bevy of mistresses easily accessible to a man of his wealth and power. But Oliver needed a mother. And, as painful as the thought was, Lord Fotherby recognized that he needed another heir.
Well into his sixtieth decade, he was still a vigorous and handsome man, respected throughout the country and fabulously rich. His choices for a third wife were vast, not a father of his class unwilling to give a daughter to Lord Fotherby. In fact, the atmosphere was disgustingly similar to a cattle auction! He had his pick of every available female in all of England. Lady Simone Halifax, daughter to the Earl of Westgate, was not chosen arbitrarily. Physically she was beautiful, but many others were equally so. What drew Lord Fotherby was her innate kindness and empathy balanced with a wit and spunk that he found attractive. He wanted a partner who appealed to him in a sexual way, but who also could take on the various roles necessary for Lady Fotherby and as mother to his son.
Lady Simone was nineteen, over her infatuation with the now departed Second Lieutenant Richard Fitzwilliam, and, although not in love with Lord Fotherby, was in no way against the union. Like all females of her rank she had been raised to comprehend that marriage was rarely a matter of love, but rather a type of business arrangement. If one was so fortunate as to discover affection and admiration then all the better, but it was not anticipated. In this facet, Lady Fotherby would be highly favored. Lord Fotherby was a good man, the best as a matter of fact. Kind, considerate, generous, devoted, humorous, and a gentle lover, he was more than she had ever anticipated in a mate. She genuinely grew to love her stepson Oliver, who was quite like his father in temperament, and her own two sons were a fount of eternal joy.
For nearly twelve years, her life would move on with the typical soirees, Society functions, and duties as mistress of several vast estates. Lord Fotherby was extremely busy and weeks would often go by without her seeing her husband. She held no illusions that he was entirely faithful, this aspect of marriage not expected nor condemned. But he treated her well, made few demands, made his resources lavishly available, and was devoted to their children. Love would never bloom between them, but esteem and fondness were abundant. Heights of passion were never reached, but she knew no different and was satisfied in the tenderness found within the sexual act when he sporadically sought her favors. Life was content and she had no cause to grieve her situation.
Until Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam reentered her life.
Who can adequately describe the vagaries of love? The poets try and do an admirable job. Yet how is it logical to take one look at someone not seen or thought of for years and know instantly that your heart is lost? To Darcy, Richard described that first encounter with Lady Fotherby as taking his breath away. It would be another two years before he would learn that her internal reaction was as strong. Suddenly, she was as an absurd, love-struck teenager in how she would dream of him and look for him at every function attended. When he was spied, her heart would lurch, face flush, and body tingle. It was asinine and she was mortified. But she could no more halt the feelings than halt the sun from rising.
Her guilt during those years over the mental betrayal to her spouse was intense, but he was barely cold in his grave before she was blatantly flirting with the Colonel and pressing into his kiss! Her fingers had throbbed with the warmth of his lips and her spine shivered for hours, no amount of self-chastisement or shame adequate to overrule the sensations. It was pathetic. She was pathetic, counting the days until she could throw off the somber colors of mourning and hopefully see him again.
And now he was here, in her arms, returning her love with a checked desire genuine and profound. All traces of guilt were gone. If there was one thing she knew of her late husband, it was that he would have wanted her happiness. He had told her so on his deathbed. Clutching her hand weakly, voice faint, he had thanked her for the years of devotion, for their children, and for her faithfulness and perfection as Lady Fotherby. He assured her once again of the home and riches he had provided for her. Lastly, he had encouraged her to live life fully, find joy and peace. Her tears had been sincere when he passed, knowing that she would miss his smile and warmth and wit, but also knowing that she was young and deserved to move on. Thus, there was no remorse at the passion she now embraced in this man who had, to some degree, always lived in her soul. If it all seemed a bit dreamlike, she was gradually overcoming those doubts as well. It was impossible to cling to uncertainties when gazing into eyes brimming with purest love.
The kiss ended, both recognizing the escalating ardor and needing to withdraw before crossing permanent lines. Simone was nearly virginal in the surprising vibrations that raced through her body when he kissed her. Yet her innocence was not complete and she shivered and suppressed a moan of pure need. Richard smiled and pulled her close, nestling her head against his shoulder, and caressing lightly.
His grip had instinctively tightened, heart falling through the floor. For a frantic moment he experienced a violent stab of fear, a piercing pain followed by a vivid premonition that if she left his presence he would lose her forever. It was irrational and fleeting, but the aftermath lingered and caused him to shudder.
“Simone, must we continue this charade? I love you and you love me! What are a few weeks? Let me come with you and talk to your father now.”
She pulled away, staring into his dear face with a sunny smile and touching his cheek. “I thought of this very thing all afternoon, in between caring for Oliver. You are correct. There is no point in waiting any longer.”
“Excellent!” He interrupted. “When shall we leave? I can request time away easily…”
Her chuckle and light kiss halted his words. “Let me finish, silly man. My, you are like one of my children running away with yourself so! I do not wish to tarry in our decision to be together any longer than you do. But please allow me to speak with my father first.”
He frowned. “This is not the first time I have sensed a hesitation with you on the topic of our marriage, Simone. Do you think your father will be opposed to me?”
“I do not know, Richard, honestly.” She rose, hands wringing while pacing before him. “My father has always been obsessed with rank and situation. All four of us girls were auctioned off to the highest bidder.” She spoke bitterly. Richard knew from her sharing that she alone of the four daughters was fortunate in her marriage, her siblings wealthy and with titles equal to or above what they possessed prior, but none blessed with a kindly man. “You cannot imagine his glee when the Marquess of Fotherby agreed to marry me.”
He bristled, unable to hide his offense at the perceived slight. “I am the son of an Earl. And a colonel in His Majesty’s Armed Forces.”
“Yes, of course you are right. I am being silly. Worrying for nothing, I am sure.” She returned hastily to his side, taking his hands. “I love you, Richard Fitzwilliam. Surely that is all that will truly matter. But please grant me this one concession. I will send for you when the timing is right. And then I will be yours forever. I will kiss you under the mistletoe as your wife, Colonel, so be prepared.”
“I will be anticipating far more than a kiss, my dear, so you be prepared.”
She blushed, again nestling into his shoulder. Warmth returned to his body but could not entirely dissipate the icy chill buried deep inside.
***
A week passed without word. Busy with his duties, Richard nevertheless marked the passage of each day with growing excitement. Certain that Simone merely needed time to accustom her father to the fact that she planned to remarry so soon after her famous husband’s death, he was not concerned at the delay. Instead, he waited semi-patiently, attending to his work with no outward sign of expectation unless one noted how he subtly started every time a messenger arrived. He laughed at himself each time, as it was unlikely that a letter from the Marchioness of Fotherby would be delivered to company barracks! Rather he anticipated that an invitation would be waiting for him at home. Yet, as the week swiftly approached a fortnight with the stack of mail sitting upon his desk devoid of a parchment addressed in her delicate handwriting, his excitement turned to mild disquiet.
But nothing prepared him for the shock he received one morning as he sipped on his coffee and nibbled on a toasted slice of thick bread with cheese melted atop, that day’s edition of the London Times spread before him. He skimmed through the social page, not particularly interested in what Lady Whocares had worn to some play at Covent Garden, when his eye was captured. He read the gossipy announcement of the betrothal of the Marquess of Wellson to the widowed Lady Fotherby in utter disbelief, his trance-like gaze returning to the top of the column again and again.
On a windy day in mid-October, after two weeks of pain worse than anything suffered as a result of battle wounds, Colonel Fitzwilliam rode up the long drive toward Pemberley. The mansion beckoned to him with inviting hominess as it always had from the earliest memories of his childhood. No one expected him, the footman Rothchilde hiding his surprise with typical formality.
“Welcome to Pemberley, Colonel,” he greeted, as if unexpected visitors were a daily occurrence, taking the offered coat with an impassive expression. “I will inform Miss Darcy that you have arrived.”
“Are Mr. and Mrs. Darcy out?”
“They are away at this time, sir. Dr. Darcy is at the hospital in Matlock, but Miss Darcy is in residence.”
Richard managed to hide his dismay at that undesirable news. He nodded, heading unerringly for the parlor and liquor cabinet.
“Cousin Richard, what a pleasant surprise.”
He turned at the voice, glass of brandy halting midway to his mouth, stunned at the vision before him. It was Georgiana, yet not Georgiana. The woman who was once his child ward strolled gracefully toward him with a beatific smile, blue eyes shimmering with happiness. She wore a gown of rich purple velvet, clinging to her tall, willowy, but curvaceous form with perfection, golden hair piled elegantly atop her regal head, face stunningly beautiful above a slender neck and delicate shoulders. She drew close, raising one fine-boned hand to his cheek as her eyes clouded with concern. “What is it Richard? You look sad.”
He would never be able to explain how it happened, but never would he be ashamed at the comfort he sought. With lithe dexterity she captured the glass as it began to fall, gathering his brokenhearted body into her firm, sympathetic embrace, crooning soothingly as she gently rocked the silently weeping man.
They ended up on the settee with him telling her everything as she held tight to one hand. She listened attentively without interjecting once until he had exhausted himself of words.
“I had to come here,” he finished, breathing deeply. “Pemberley has always stilled my soul in a way even Rivallain never did. Of course, I was intending to burden your brother with my woes. Forgive me, little mouse, for laying this on your slim shoulders.”
He smiled weakly, Georgiana shaking her head slowly. “Do not be ridiculous. This is what friends are for.”
“Where are Darcy and Lizzy by the way?”
“They went to the Lake District with the Lathrops, Sitwells, and Vernors. You just missed them as they departed three days ago. They expect to return in a month.”
“Were you not invited?”
She laughed. “No, but I would not have wished to spend three weeks with a group of young married couples.” She paused, the mournful cast to his face at the reference to marriage too awful to ignore. “Oh, Richard! I am sorry! Is there anything that can be done?”
He stood, walking the gait of an old man to retrieve the forgotten glass of brandy, drinking deeply before answering. “No. She has made her decision apparently and the date is set. A Christmas wedding,” he finished bitterly. He drained the drink in one swallow, crashing the glass onto the table’s surface. “Why? I keep asking myself why! I know her father is pressuring her into this! It is the only explanation. But it makes no sense! She is an independent woman now. Lord Fotherby made sure of that with a more than adequate jointure to add to her engagement settlement. Seeking her father’s permission was merely a formality. One I was more than willing to bow to, as it is only proper, but still just a formality. And to choose Lord Wellson! My God, Georgie! The man is disgusting! Obese, crude, in his late fifties, a reputation of mistresses and illegitimate children scattered all over England. The thought of him with Simone…” He paced furiously and although there was not the slightest hint of humor in the realization, Georgiana could not
help but note that he, for the first time in memory, reminded her of her brother when he was dismayed or agitated.
“I waited and waited for her to send word for me to join her,” he continued brokenly, voice rising and falling with his anger and pain, “but no word came. Nothing! Then I read about her engagement in the newspaper. In the Society page, for God’s sake! She did not even have the decency to write me herself. I couldn’t believe it, I just couldn’t. In desperation I rode to the estate, but was repelled at the gates, by orders of Lady Fotherby I was told. God, Georgie! How could she be so cold? So unfeeling?”
“Perhaps you misinterpreted her sentiments, dear cousin?”
He shook his head vehemently. “I cannot believe I was so duped! It just cannot be that she would deceive so totally. We talked of marriage, our future together. She said she loved me, over and over! It was in her eyes, Georgie, in her kiss…” He paused, glancing with embarrassment to his innocent cousin whose face remained drawn with sympathy. “Could I have been so blinded by my own desires? I must have, although I still have difficulty countenancing it.” He released a harsh, humorless laugh. “My pride does not wish to face that error in judgment, let me tell you. I am not a child to be so led astray!”
“You said yourself that your visits together were few and usually with crowds about. When it comes to affairs of the heart, it is easy to be blinded into believing what one wishes.”
He halted his frantic pacing, looking with faint amusement into her mature eyes. “My, quite the expert on love, are we Miss Darcy?”
She blushed, ducking her head. “Little personal knowledge, I am pleased to say. And I do pray I never learn this lesson at the expense of my heart. But you know what William suffered and… Well, I do not suppose I am being a horrid gossip if I reveal what happened to Miss Bennet this summer only to you.”