Christmas at Darcy House

by Victoria Kincaid

  “Mrs. Gardiner will see you in the drawing room,” the maid said and beckoned for him to follow her down the hallway. Mrs. Gardiner but not Miss Bennet? Is Elizabeth ill? Has she been summoned home for a family emergency? Is she refusing to see me?

  The older woman was standing and facing the door when Darcy entered the room. “Mr. Darcy,” she said with a tight smile, “to what do we owe this honor?”

  Darcy was too impatient for common social niceties. “I must see Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth—immediately.”

  Mrs. Gardiner’s eyebrow rose. She was definitely suspicious of Darcy’s intentions. “She is not available now. Perhaps you could return tomorrow.”

  Not available? That was not the same thing as not at home. “Thank you, no. The matter is most urgent. I will remain until she is available.” He eyed the sofa as if preparing for a long wait.

  Mrs. Gardiner pursed her mouth, evidently displeased at the prospect of Darcy occupying her drawing room for hours on end. “Mr. Darcy—” she began in a quelling tone.

  A flash of something caught Darcy’s attention from the corner of his eye, and he shot a glance toward the window. There had been movement. Elizabeth’s white dress stood out vividly against the browns and greens of the garden, but she was not alone.

  It was a scene from Darcy’s worst nightmare. Wickham was talking to her earnestly, and she was smiling at him. But that was not the worst.

  The worst was that he was holding her hand.

  And she was smiling.

  Darcy was racing for the door before he had consciously decided to do so. I must get to Elizabeth. Now.

  “Mr. Darcy! Where are you going?” Mrs. Gardiner followed him out of the room.

  Naturally, Darcy was unfamiliar with the house, but he guessed there would be a back door to the garden. He rushed along the only corridor that led to the back of the house and…yes, there was a back door.

  “Mr. Darcy!” The maid had joined her mistress, and they both called his name as they gave chase. But panic had given him wings, and they were far too slow to catch him.

  He twisted the door handle violently, and it opened, spilling him into the garden. Once outside, he ran, dodging shrubs and randomly placed rocks, desperate to reach the back of the garden where he had espied Elizabeth and Wickham.

  “Beckett! Beckett! We need your help!” Mrs. Gardiner cried. No doubt Beckett was some sort of manservant. Do they think that one man can stop me from reaching Elizabeth? Ha, I would like to see Beckett try.

  As he rounded a curve in the pathway, his quarry came into view. They were already staring in his direction, no doubt alerted by the shouting.

  “Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth’s mouth fell open.

  However, Wickham was grinning smugly. “You are too late, Darcy. She is mine now.”

  Chapter Six

  Elizabeth did not know what to think. One minute she and Mr. Wickham—George—were having a simple conversation about when to hold the marriage ceremony as Elizabeth sought to quell the anxious fluttering in her stomach. A minute later they heard shouting, and Mr. Darcy came pelting in their direction from the house.

  “You are too late, Darcy. She is mine now,” George said.

  What did that mean? Elizabeth was not George’s possession like a table or a horse. And why would Mr. Darcy care?

  Mr. Darcy stumbled to a stop, staring at them. No, at their joined hands. Elizabeth lifted her chin slightly, refusing to let go. Engaged couples could hold hands; it was not improper.

  “He made you an offer?” Mr. Darcy asked her. She nodded, not feeling equal to a verbal response. “And you accepted?” She nodded again. As they spoke, her Aunt Gardiner hurried up behind Mr. Darcy, swiftly followed by Shaw, the housemaid, and Beckett, the manservant. Had they been attempting to prevent Mr. Darcy from entering the garden? Why was he here? Hoping for elucidation, Elizabeth peered at Mr. Darcy and instantly wished she had not.

  His face held an expression of the bleakest despair. As if he had lost something of great value and knew he would never retrieve it. His devastation was so complete that Elizabeth dropped George’s hand and took an involuntary step forward to comfort him. George caught her arm and murmured “Elizabeth” sternly. Oh yes, an engaged woman should not comfort another man.

  Mr. Darcy’s chest was heaving, and he glared at George as if he could incinerate the other man with his gaze. “Go ahead, hit me again,” George said with a smile, tapping the red mark on his chin. Was that how he had obtained it? Had he not said…? “You will still be too late.”

  However, Mr. Darcy did not look like a man about to punch his nemesis. He looked like a man who was about to jump off a bridge into the Thames, but for the life of her, Elizabeth could not understand why. Why should her engagement to George prompt such despair?

  Mr. Darcy closed his eyes, rubbing his face with shaking hands. Then he released a long breath, his shoulders relaxing. A sort of half-smile curved his lips. “If there is a scandal, so be it,” he murmured to himself. What did he mean by that?

  When he opened his eyes again, they were fixed on Elizabeth, a darker color than she had ever seen before. It was as if she were in a cage with a tiger—a tiger who had selected her as his prey and would ignore everything else until he caught her. The skin on the back of her neck prickled with unease.

  Mr. Darcy’s expression must have unsettled George as well. “Darcy,” he said in a warning tone, but the other man gave no indication he heard. They were a still tableau for a few seconds.

  When Mr. Darcy moved, it was sudden and swift. Before Elizabeth could blink, he was standing in front of her. In another heartbeat, his arms were wrapped around her. Over the rush of blood pounding in her ears, Elizabeth could hear Aunt Gardiner and George shouting, but she could only stare, mesmerized, into Mr. Darcy’s eyes.

  “Forgive me, Elizabeth,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her ear.

  “Forgive you for wh—?” Mr. Darcy’s mouth was upon hers before she could finish the sentence. Elizabeth had been kissed before, but comparing those paltry offerings to this overwhelming experience would be like comparing a tiny rivulet to the Thames.

  Despite a faint voice at the back of her head warning that this was wrong, she was flooded with a sense of rightness. This was the way kissing should be. She should kiss this man forever and never stop.

  But then her body demanded more…more touching…more contact. Touching with lips and tongues was not nearly sufficient. They were too far apart. Her body pressed into his, her softness against the hard planes of his chest and the muscles of his legs. Her hand traveled up his back to tangle in his hair, which was every bit as soft as she had imagined.

  But these touches were still not sufficient. Her body—her core—tingled and grew warm as if demanding a different kind of contact with the extremely male body opposite hers. Kissing was not enough. Touching through clothing was not enough. She needed to touch his skin—without the barrier of clothing—and have him touch her, exploring each other’s bodies until they merged together into one.

  Oh, merciful heavens! What am I thinking? Where are these blatantly carnal thoughts arising from? Did kissing always have this effect? But no, the stolen kiss with John Lucas had not been like this. And kissing Mr. Wickham…

  Mr. Wickham.

  George!

  Her fiancé!

  Oh, goodness, I am kissing Mr. Darcy in front of my new fiancé.

  Enthusiastically.

  Even with that panicked thought in her head, it took a moment for her body to obey her command and pull away from the kiss. Even then she did not struggle in Mr. Darcy’s firm embrace. He touched his forehead to hers as their hearts pounded and their breaths came in ragged gasps.

  Mr. Darcy straightened, glancing at her and glaring at George. “It is not enough,” he muttered to himself. “I must do more. I must make certain. Forgive me, Elizabeth.”

  This was all the warning she had before his mouth plundered hers again. His taste and scent fill
ed her senses, and she could do nothing but enjoy the sensations.

  And then she felt his hands. On her waist! Scandalous. He was caressing her through the thin fabric of her dress—in front of at least four witnesses.

  She ripped herself from his grasp. “Mr. Darcy!” she cried, outraged.

  Backing away, his hands in the air, Mr. Darcy could not have appeared more contrite. “I apologize. It was the only way to be sure…”

  Elizabeth did not know what he was talking about, but she was well aware of her feelings about his actions. She curved her fingers into a fist—and punched him in the mouth.

  ***

  Darcy had been prepared for a slap, but the punch was a surprise.

  He stumbled backward with the force of the blow, pressing his fingers to his lower lip. They came away bloody. But no matter; he would endure far more for Elizabeth’s sake.

  She stared at him, horrified, her chest heaving and her face flushed with anger. Then she very deliberately wiped her lips with the back of her hand, removing all trace of his kisses. She was magnificent. Many other women would have collapsed in a gibbering heap of nerves, but not his Elizabeth.

  And she was his Elizabeth now. He had ensured it. In that instant after the horrible discovery that he had arrived too late to prevent the engagement, Darcy had realized he would far rather marry her and risk the disgrace of an alliance with the Bennets than see her wed to Wickham.

  Pulling out a handkerchief, Darcy applied it to the cut on his lip. Only then did he turn to gauge the reactions of their witnesses. At some point Mr. Gardiner had joined the group. Darcy could picture a kitchen boy being sent running to fetch the man from his warehouse.

  Gardiner regarded Darcy with an outraged expression, his hands folded over his chest. Mrs. Gardiner seemed close to tears—causing Darcy a moment of regret—her hand over her mouth. The maid seemed to think this was the most entertaining thing she had seen in years, and perhaps it was. The manservant’s forehead was creased with anxiety; perhaps he was concerned that someone would order him to lay hands on Darcy.

  And Wickham…his expression was beyond description. If Darcy were not so anxious about Elizabeth’s reaction, he would have reveled in Wickham’s. The man was drawing deep, measured breaths through his nose and glaring daggers at Darcy. He knew he had been bested. Darcy would be quite pleased…

  If it were not for the hateful glare from the woman he loved.

  Elizabeth had her hands crossed over her chest as if to protect it from further inappropriate advances on his part. Tears glistened in her eyes, but she did not weep. In fact, she appeared liable to punch him again. He would let her. He deserved it.

  And he would do it all again in a heartbeat.

  Mr. Gardiner stepped forward, attempting to take charge of the situation. “Mr. Darcy!” he thundered, his body shaking in indignation. “How dare you treat my niece in such an infamous fashion? I-I ought to have you arrested!”

  No doubt if Darcy were someone else, Gardiner would have him arrested; rank did have its privileges.

  Darcy felt the heat rising in his face. It was difficult to defend himself when he knew his behavior was wrong, but he had done what was necessary to save Elizabeth. “I apologize to you, Mr. Gardiner, and to you, Miss Bennet.” Elizabeth’s eyes were averted from him. “I-I did not arrive with the purpose of engaging in such indecent behavior. But I…”

  His words trickled to a halt. How could he possibly explain it? The truth—“I was saving your niece from Mr. Wickham”—would be both difficult to explain and readily denied by the man himself. “I did what was necessary,” he finished finally.

  “Necessary?” Gardiner spat out. “You have compromised my niece! What necessity could possibly provoke such actions? You may be accustomed to enjoying such licentious behavior with impunity, but I assure you, sir, that it is not acceptable in my house!”

  Darcy’s shoulders stiffened, and he reminded himself that the man had every right to his indignation. But he did loathe the assumption that he was a rake of the first order. “I am prepared to do my duty to Eliza—Miss Bennet,” he said.

  Gardiner’s eyebrows shot up. Had he truly expected that Darcy would not do right by her?

  “You will stand by that?” Gardiner asked, his eyes narrowed.

  These aspersions on his character were growing more difficult to overlook. “I have said that I will,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Wait!” Wickham cried. “Elizabeth is my betrothed. Darcy cannot have her.”

  Gardiner’s jaw dropped open. “Your betrothed?”

  “I offered marriage to Elizabeth, and she accepted!” Wickham cried, aggrieved.

  Mrs. Gardiner glanced at Elizabeth, who nodded slowly.

  Wickham was warming to his indignation. “And then Darcy comes out of nowhere and starts kissing her and…and…other things!”

  Darcy was secretly amused that even Wickham could not bring himself to say “held her waist” to the Gardiners.

  “Yes, I noticed,” Gardiner said dryly. His hard gaze fixed on Darcy again. He clearly viewed Darcy as the enemy here.

  “I have a prior claim!” Wickham cried.

  Gardiner raised an eyebrow at the younger man. “I will not have my niece haggled over like the last potato at the dinner table.” Wickham subsided with a sulky scowl. “The fact of the matter is,” Gardiner continued, “that your engagement was not of long standing, having been agreed upon by the principals, what? Only five minutes ago?”

  Wickham’s head jerked up. “But—!”

  “And you have not gained my approval or Mr. Bennet’s,” Gardiner went on more forcefully. Wickham said nothing but glared mutinously at Darcy.

  “In the meantime, Mr. Darcy has committed violations upon her person which would make it difficult for Elizabeth to marry anyone else.” His formidable stare was turned on Darcy. No doubt Gardiner was aware of stories about men deliberately compromising a woman so she would be forced to marry him. Such situations were rare but not nonexistent. However, they usually involved a penniless gentleman and a lady with a large dowry—and no doubt such incidents often took place with the lady’s knowledge and consent. Gardiner frowned, trying to puzzle out why Darcy would deliberately compromise a woman with no prospects, but Elizabeth was worth so much more than any fortune.

  “No!” Elizabeth cried, a piteous sound that shriveled Darcy’s insides. “No!” The second cry was more forceful. “I did not consent to the-the attack!”

  Attack? How could she think of our first kiss that way? It had been a spectacular kiss, and of long duration. Darcy’s lips still tingled, and his body retained the impression of Elizabeth pressed against him. Had she not enjoyed it even a little?

  Beckett apparently thought the same. “She looked to be returning the kiss,” the manservant murmured to the maid. “Didn’t you think she was returning it?” She nodded with a barely suppressed smile. Apparently, this was better entertainment than Drury Lane.

  Gardiner scowled at his servants and then glared at Darcy. “How can you possibly excuse this abominable behavior?”

  Darcy straightened his shoulders, reminding himself that he was still master of Pemberley—even with a bloodstained handkerchief at his lip and a horrified woman staring at him. “I did what was necessary. Miss Bennet cannot marry Mr. Wickham. He is a blackguard of the first order and would ruin her life.”

  Elizabeth gasped. “So this farce”—she gestured to everyone present—“is to prevent me from marrying George because you hold a grudge against him?”

  George? Darcy winced.

  “It would seem to me,” Mr. Gardiner spoke before Darcy could reply, “that you are the one ruining Miss Bennet’s life. She cannot marry Mr. Wickham now that you have compromised her virtue.”

  Elizabeth gasped. “B-But it was just a kiss…and-and the other…I did not invite his attentions—!”

  Her uncle gave her a pitying look. “I know, Lizzy. But you have been compromised before several witn
esses.”

  Realization slowly dawned on Elizabeth’s face as she took in the avid gazes of the servants. The Gardiners might be induced to keep quiet about the incident, but nobody could guarantee that the servants would not gossip. If Elizabeth married Wickham and rumors spread, their union would always be tainted by suspicions about her relationship with Darcy.

  Which, of course, had been Darcy’s intent.

  Elizabeth’s breath was coming in gasps. “N-No. H-He c-cannot! I will not—!”

  Gardiner grimaced and took a few steps toward his niece, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry, Lizzy. You are far too compromised now to marry anyone else.” Darcy wished he felt a greater sense of triumph—or at least relief—at this declaration, but saving her from Wickham meant little if he had forever lost her regard for him.

  “No,” Elizabeth said miserably.

  Gardiner viewed his niece with a sympathetic expression. “It is the way of the world, Lizzy.” Darcy bristled at his condescending tone. Yes, Darcy had put her in an impossible position, but she deserved to be treated with honor and dignity.

  Once the initial shock had passed, Darcy knew she would see the benefits. She had not expected him to propose; she had not dared to hope. It would take some time to accustom herself to the idea, but the joys of being his wife would smooth away any awkwardness over his initial behavior.

  Darcy stepped forward, interposing himself between Elizabeth and her uncle. “Eliz—Miss Bennet, I apologize for the way this has occurred.” He tried to appear as contrite as possible, although inside he celebrated the knowledge that she would soon be his. “But will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  Elizabeth burst into tears.

  Chapter Seven

  This was not the reaction Darcy had dreamed about.

  Darcy was at a loss. His first impulse was to enclose her in a comforting embrace, but, of course, such a gesture would not be welcomed. Surely this was just a reaction to the surprise of being kissed in such a way. Soon she would recall their teasing conversations and how much she enjoyed his company. After all, her family had nothing, and any woman in England would give much to become the mistress of Pemberley.