The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  George attended to his duty but also had a marvelous time. He was a fabulous flirt, of course, and loved to dance. His exotic garments, even without the khanda, drew attention from males and females. It was a familiar phenomenon, England or India, so George thought nothing of the tickling sensations instigated by stares from all quarters of the room. There were three times during the course of that night, lasting until dawn, when the impression of scrutiny caused him to search the teeming masses for who was examining him so intently. He never could figure it out and shoved it out of his mind. By the time he stumbled into his bed at five o’clock, the mystery was a vague niggle, and by the time his empty stomach woke him at noon, he had forgotten all about it.

  His morning ritual of stretching and yoga breathing occurred later than usual, followed by the grooming tasks necessary to make him feel human. Dressed in one of the few simply adorned kurtas he owned, a dark brown a shade lighter than the shalwar loosely covering his legs, George re-entered his bedchamber and greeted Anoop with a smile that turned into a yawn.

  “Lord, I think I am too old for late nights and wild shenanigans. Coffee with lots of sugar, please.”

  “You should have slept in the afternoon, Vaidya, as I suggested.”

  “Lesson learned.” He took a large gulp, the scald on his tongue worth the rush of stimulating coffee. Biting into a warm roll smothered in butter and honey, he waved at the seat across from him. Anoop sat and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Will we be visiting the hospital today, Vaidya?”

  “No. I told Dr. Runge I would be out late and not to expect me until tomorrow. I was planning a quiet afternoon in the cool of the stillroom. The ashwagandha roots are dried enough to grind and the bhuiamla I planted last fall is blooming. There are still some seeds brought from India I want to plant, so we will have a replenishing supply once my stores are gone. Can’t get giloya or real turmeric here, so have to plant those.”

  “Did you send the list to Vaidya Ullas?”

  “Yes, but that will take some time to get here and some need to be fresh, as you know. Nimesh can send seeds at the least. The gardens and orangery at Pemberley are better for serious growing, of course, but the stillroom here is adequate for a few of my favorites. Plus, the pretty stillmaid, Hortense, likes my company.” George finished off the first roll and reached for another, his eyes on Anoop. “I think she likes your company even more though.”

  Anoop flushed beet red under his brown skin. “She is English. Not for me.”

  “She is a negro ex-slave who happens to live in England. There is a difference.” George chewed and drank his coffee, obliquely watching Anoop try to pretend disinterest in the topic. Finally coming to a decision, George sighed. “Listen, Anoop. You are my friend, no matter what label you put on it. You have been with me for, God, what is it? Twenty-five years? I have dragged you all over the place, never giving you the chance to make a life for yourself—”

  “Not true, Vaidya. I make my own choices and that has been to serve you.”

  “But what about Diviya or Tanzil? Both wanted you to marry them and don’t deny it.”

  Anoop lifted his chin and met George’s eyes. “They were not my destiny. If they had been then I would be married and not here.”

  George returned the calm stare, finally nodding. “You are right, Anoop. I apologize. I forgot my years of Hindu lessons for a minute there.” He smiled and was rewarded with a returned smile and humorous nod from Anoop. “But you know I am a busybody, so will take the next in stride. All I am saying is that I want you to embrace your destiny without any concern for me. I love you, my friend, and will support whatever the gods have planned for you.”

  “I appreciate that, Vaidya. Now, are you done, so I can return this tray to the kitchen? We have work to do if you want to crush all the ashwagandha roots.”

  As the two men were crossing the entryway toward the rear doors leading to the backyard, where the stables and other outbuildings were located in the old mews, Elizabeth and Georgiana exited the front parlor. They were pulling on gloves and tying bonnets, their conversation animated, so they did not see the gentlemen.

  “Entertaining plans, ladies?”

  George had pitched his voice in a low rumble designed to startle them. To his disappointment, they merely looked up with sunny smiles.

  “George! You look rested this afternoon. Slept well, did you?”

  “I am surprisingly chipper considering I nearly died of boredom last night.”

  “Ha! He danced nearly as often as I, if one can call it such when the steps are wrong.”

  “I heard not a single complaint. And, let’s be honest, this standing in a long line and circling each other is yawn inducing. Lady Jersey and the Princess von Lieven adored the Indian dance steps I taught them, and my waltz with Lady Beauchamp was inspired.”

  “It was indeed highly entertaining,” Georgiana agreed. “William would have been mortified!”

  Elizabeth laughed. “That proves the truth of the evening right there. Boredom indeed! How many lovely ladies did you dazzle with your charms, Dr. Darcy?”

  “I lost count after forty,” he answered with aplomb, and then turned toward the women coming from the corridor leading to the private quarters. “Ah! I presume a walk to Hyde Park is on the agenda. Greetings, Mrs. Hanford, Mrs. Annesley.”

  Mrs. Hanford curtsied, her cheeks rosy and smile vaguely flirtatious. Even the grandmotherly nanny was not immune to the allure of Dr. Darcy. She was pushing a perambulator within which lay a wide awake Alexander, the five-month-old chewing on a silver rattle and staring at his tall grand-uncle with bright-blue eyes. George exchanged pleasant chitchat with Mrs. Hanford as he bent to tickle the baby. Mrs. Annesley had said nothing, and as George straightened after eliciting a series of throaty chortles from Alexander, he swept his eyes toward Georgiana’s companion, she hastily averting the gaze that had been resting on him.

  Mrs. Annesley had been hired by Darcy three years prior to serve as chaperone and friendly companion to his sister. After the disastrous previous companion Mrs. Younge had arranged the plot with Mr. Wickham that had come perilously close to culminating in Georgiana’s seduction and elopement at fifteen years of age, Darcy had chosen carefully. He told George that the widowed Mrs. Annesley was not only reliable and with impeccable recommendations but claimed she was kind, educated, and possessed a delightful personality. George had trouble believing the personality part, since she refused to speak more than two words to him. Whether that was because she did not care for him or because she was withdrawn by nature he did not know. Normally, it might have bothered him or been taken as a challenging puzzle to solve, but he so rarely saw her that he simply forgot her existence the bulk of the time.

  George would have been hard pressed to say what her facial features were, although his impression was that she was attractive. He had no idea what color her eyes were or any other defined detail except that her hair was a pale blond similar to Georgiana’s. Today, like always, she wore a well sewn but rather drab gown of pale gray with matching bonnet pulled far forward so that only the tip of her nose and tightly coiled hair at the nape of her slender neck were visible. She stood several feet away and, as typical, attempted to fade into the background.

  “Would you and Anoop care to join us, Uncle?”

  “Thank you, but no. We have work of a serious nature to attend to in the stillroom. However, if I may impose upon you to cut some dried bulrushes for me, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “Do they have a medicinal value, Doctor?”

  “No, Mrs. Hanford, not that I am aware. I simply like them!”

  “You and my husband both. He is such a child when it comes to blowing the cottony bits.”

  “It is the simple joys of life that keep us young, dear Elizabeth.” He bent to administer another series of tickles that had Alexander squirming and burbling,
and then bid them adieu and happy hunting as he assisted out the door. “Have a lovely day, ladies! Be careful. Watch out for attack ducks. They are rampant in Hyde Park, you know, as are killer butterflies. Don’t forget the bulrushes! Watch the wee one, Mrs. Hanford. He is a Darcy, and we are an unpredictable lot. Enjoy your afternoon, Mrs. Annesley.”

  He tipped an imaginary hat as she scurried through the door, last in the line of women. “I will, sir. Thank you,” was her softly murmured reply, a rapid glance upward revealing a flash of blue before she moved hastily past and down the steps.

  George stood on the threshold watching them stroll away. What an odd woman, he thought, his eyes lingering on her lithe gait and slightly swaying hips. Then he shrugged, closed the door, and forgot about it.

  Three hours later, George and Anoop were done with the roots and on to hanging an assortment of medicinal herbs, some Indian and others obtained in England. George chatted with Hortense, the shy young lady giggling at his jokes but listening to his instructions as well. When she wasn’t sneaking glances at a silent Anoop, that is. They were enjoying themselves, yes, but it was a chore George took seriously, so being interrupted was not appreciated.

  “Dr. Darcy, pardon me for disturbing, but you have a visitor.”

  Mr. Travers, the Darcy House butler, impeccable in his black suit and white gloves, stood at the door looking out of place amid the rough tables and piles of dead plants. George knew he would not have interrupted if the visitor were unimportant, but it still annoyed him to be bothered at a critical juncture in the harvesting process.

  “Send him out, Mr. Travers. I can diagnose what ails him here as well as inside.”

  “It is a lady, sir, and I think it best if you meet with her inside the house.”

  George raised a brow. Mr. Travers’s tone was regulated, but George detected a hint of seriousness. He glanced at Anoop and then the maid, who shrugged unhelpfully.

  “A lady, you say? How extraordinary.” His curiosity was piqued, but he removed his gloves and leather apron reluctantly.

  “Yes, sir. A fine lady, I might add. I have taken the liberty of ordering tea.”

  “Have you now? Well, then I suppose I better step up the pace!”

  “I can bundle these for ye, Doctor,” the stillmaid offered. “I been watchin’ and know how it done. Mr. Anoop will help. I’ll be careful, promise.”

  “Well! Aren’t you a peach! Thanks, my dear.” He handed the basket to Hortense, patted her rosy cheeks in a grandfatherly gesture that made her blush, gave a smattering of Hindi instructions to Anoop, and, after dipping his hands into a basin of water and cleaning as best he could, turned to the waiting Mr. Travers.

  “A fine lady, you say. Fine as in handsome?”

  “I cannot say, sir.”

  “Cannot or will not? Are you blind or diplomatic?”

  “As you wish, Doctor.”

  George laughed and clapped the butler on the back. “Lead the way, Mr. Travers. If I must be interrupted in my task with one lovely lady, there is no better way than with another beautiful woman.” He winked at Hortense, who blushed even more and then looked to see if Anoop was even slightly jealous. He wasn’t, too aware of George’s personality to take it seriously, but he was caught boldly admiring her rosy cheeks and pretty white smile. George stifled his laughter and stepped hastily after Mr. Travers.

  Fitzwilliam had left early in the morning and the women were still at the park. Privacy was not an issue anywhere in the house, yet Mr. Travers led him down a corridor to the room that served jointly as the library and Darcy’s office.

  “Why is she in here and not the parlor?”

  “She requested a place where the two of you would not be disturbed. I gathered her visit is of a sensitive nature. However, if you feel threatened simply cry for help and a footman will rescue you.”

  “Cheeky scoundrel! I knew you had it in you, Mr. Travers! Rescued indeed! Rest assured that I never ask for rescuing from a beautiful woman.”

  The butler inclined his head, George catching a glimpse of a smile before he turned away. Chuckling, he entered the library. Seconds later, his laughter stuttered to a halt when his mouth dropped open in shock.

  The woman stood near the window, turning as he entered and fixing him with an affectionate gaze he had not felt in a long, long while.

  “Hello, George,” she greeted in a husky purr that sent tingles up his spine.

  “Ruby?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t sure if you would remember me after all these years.”

  “How could I forget? I… Well, you have me speechless, and that has forever been a rare phenomenon.”

  The Duchess of Larent, who was once Lady Ruby Thomason and the second woman George had loved, smiled at his words. “Yes, I know. Very little surprised you.”

  “This definitely has. Good lord, how long has it been? Twenty-four, twenty-five years?”

  “Twenty-seven years, two months.”

  George’s brows rose at her exactness. Perhaps she had performed the math before arriving. Goodness knows he didn’t remember precisely. “Indeed. I would not have thought it so long. You are as lovely as I recall, Ruby. The years have barely touched you.”

  “Oh, George!” She chuckled, the amusement a rich vibration of sensual promise. “You always were a charmer. Thank you, but we know that is not the truth.”

  It wasn’t far off the mark, although if he was honest, he would admit it was difficult to be certain, Ruby’s face long since a dim two-dimensional image. Standing before her was strange, as if one of those hazy dreams of some forgotten place or person was transpiring during his waking hours. She had aged, of course, just as he had, but was still beautiful. Rather than the petite, buxom girl in his faded memory, her figure was voluptuous with curves to her flesh that tipped her toward the edge of heaviness but only increased her allure. The aura of sensuality was there under the surface, but muted from what he remembered. Whether that was due to his maturity and the effect of many years or a change within her was impossible to say.

  “I see Indian culture has affected you.” She indicated his attire with a sweep of her hand. “It fits you well. You are as handsome as ever, George. Older, as am I, but age has only enhanced your attractiveness. Why does that seem to be the way of it for men while we women lose our bloom?”

  George laughed and shook his head. “Now who is the charmer? You have lost nothing, Ruby, but have only amplified what was there in youth. Sorry, I am a terrible host. You have shaken my usual composure and gentlemanly conduct. Please sit and be comfortable.” He gestured at the sofa and moved to sit on the chair across. “I apologize for my appearance. I was working in the stillroom. I believe tea and refreshments are on the way. And I do realize I should say, ‘Your Grace,’ but it feels unnatural. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. It seems unnatural from you as well.” She sat on the edge of the sofa indicated, arranging her skirts with hands that trembled ever so slightly.

  A knock at the door interrupted the uncomfortable pleasantries. Mr. Travers delivered the tea and refreshments as promised, the ritual of pouring and serving allotting George time to observe Ruby and gather his thoughts.

  Last year while in Devon visiting with his sister Estella, George had read of the Duke of Larent’s death. The news jolted him, not out of regard for the duke, goodness knows, but because he had never once considered encountering her, or Sarah for that matter, at a social function while in England. It was pointless to fabricate scenarios, but at least reading of the duke’s death planted a seed of possibility, so he wouldn’t be utterly flummoxed if it happened.

  However, none of the scenarios involved Ruby brazenly walking into Darcy House! Why had she? The skills that made him a masterful diagnostician sensed she was here for a purpose, and that was not to reminisce about the past. She was serene, her gestures and expressions controlled and compose
d, but he sensed her nervousness. This was definitely not a casual social call between two old friends, although what other reason she had for seeking him out he could not fathom. Unless, he suddenly wondered with alarm, she was ill!

  He altered his study, scrutinizing her as a physician rather than a former lover, and quickly diagnosed that nothing major was amiss. She was a picture of health, so unless it was something subtle indeed, he doubted it was a professional call. Whatever had brought her to his door, the ball was in her court so he allowed her to lead the conversation.

  “I heard you came back to England just last year. Is that correct?”

  “It is. I thought I was merely coming to visit, as I had before. After a few months, I realized I had no desire to go back to India. Still I hesitated to commit. After all, India had been my life for nearly thirty years. Finally, though, Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth begged me to stay, and you know I adore being indispensable, so here I am.”

  A half-hour passed as George told her of his adventures in India, leaving out anything personal. She asked if he had married, that the closest they came to touching on intimate matters, and he simply answered no without mentioning Jharna. She kept the conversation focused on him, cleverly evading his attempts to inquire of her life, a ploy George grew annoyed at.

  Putting his teacup onto the tray and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, George halted her midsentence. “Why are you really here, Ruby? As pleasant as it is to play catch-up, we both know that is not your purpose. Sorry if that sounds rude.”