B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  As Darcy’s closest friend, it was important for both the Howgraves to groom his friendship. Hence, Howgrave was near her elbow obtusely attempting to ingratiate himself to Bingley by publicly reminding him of a very private financial embarrassment.

  “We had the income tax repealed, did we not?” Howgrave insisted on having Bingley’s agreement. “You sir, would still be retrenching otherwise.”

  Well-mannered as he was, Bingley ignored that Howgrave made mention of his reverses. He looked to entertain Lady Howgrave instead.

  Couching his voice for jollity, he bid her, “Pray, what distinguishes knowledge from stupidity?”

  After a well-timed pause, she responded, “Knowledge is finite.”

  “Yes, yes,” he explained to one and all, “Stupidity knows no bounds!”

  Everyone laughed. Bingley allowed her to own the jest. It was, for all that, an old joke. If all of Derbyshire had heard it, they were too polite not to applaud. Juliette had good reason to fear that was to be the apex of wit for the evening. Had it not been for the sweet anticipation of encountering Darcy, she might have pled a headache and fled. Not unlike other much-touted virtues, she had never admired patience. It had always seemed an excuse for hopelessness. But she had begun to learn it—that and optimism.

  Eventually her newly acquired forbearance was rewarded. And when it was, she had Charles Bingley to thank for it. It was he who spied Darcy and beckoned him.

  No one, not even Jane, realised that Bingley was not merely overawed by Juliette’s beauty, he feared her. She flustered him. When disconcerted, his loquacity was known to run amok. He feared that once unfettered, his effusiveness just might expose information that he knew he should keep to himself.

  Not that he held any intelligence of Darcy’s past. No, not at all. Bingley suspected, but he did not know. Suspicion was enough to test his tongue. Heretofore he had barely kept it in check. He could not think of another joke suitable for ladies’ ears.

  Desiring escape at all cost, when Bingley espied Darcy, he saw reprieve. From across the room Darcy saw Bingley raise his hand and betook himself in that direction. Half the distance was crossed ere Darcy’s countenance altered. So little did it change, however, only Bingley was witting of his annoyance. Despite his good friend’s displeasure, Bingley experienced only the smallest regret. In some instances, it was every man for themselves.

  Before Darcy could retreat, Bingley bid, “Tell us, Darcy, what is your opinion of the current economy? Shall it remain on the mend? What say you?”

  At this inquiry, half of the listeners gave an inward groan. Few (and that included Bingley) cared to speak of politics. A few others were happy for a chance of contention—that which all political discussions were certain to bring. Everyone awaited Darcy’s response.

  Darcy paused before answering Bingley, weighing his words. He disliked giving his opinion on such matters in public and Bingley was well-aware of that disinclination. Therefore, he did his best to remain vague and glowered at his friend as he did. (Wisely, Bingley gazed with great interest upon his toes.) Whilst equivocation was demanded by the onlookers, Darcy only said, “Unemployment looks to remain a source of agitation.”

  “Yes,” agreed another, “I defy you to agitate a fellow who has a full stomach!”

  That simple theorem incited an all-out political debate—arguments defending order and those who believed in the working class movement. This reignited Bingley’s interest. Granted, Bingley’s sensibilities were innately kind. However he had come very close to compleat financial ruin, so his understanding on this issue was sympathetic. The only thing that kept him in new waistcoats was that he had retained interest in his coal mines.

  He said, “I must say that time in Fleet Prison has cured no man’s financial situation. We need good men of the people to represent us....”

  Here he was interrupted by another, “There is no such thing as a good politician or an honest thief!”

  Howgrave had better sense than to harrumph, but his laugh was hollow. A hint of a smile tempted the corner of Darcy’s mouth. Others whooped and laughed enough for twenty men. The group ebbed and flowed as those uninterested in political unrest repaired to other corners of the room, and those who enjoyed the possibility of fisticuffs, or at least a good argument, joined them.

  “If you pick up a dog to feed him, he won’t bite you,” said a cadaverous man with a pock-marked face. “This is the main difference between dog and man.”

  Unadvisedly, Bingley said, “If we are to speak of beasts, I beg a question.” He paused and then asked, “Pray tell, why is it that there are far more horse’s asses around than horses?”

  When he issued that vulgarity, Bingley hastily glanced at Jane. Her countenance trembled, thereby advising her dear Charles that he overstretched his humour. Regrettably, her admonition was too late by half and the discussion was propelled into an arena better suited for other, less dignified, venues. A man named Feakes (who had nothing to promote of himself but a fat stomach and a wife with property) was most vexed upon the havoc the unrest had played on wages.

  He announced, “When once a well-made woman in Haymarket was had for six shillings a year ago, now her time cost five pounds....”

  “I do beg your pardon, sir,” said Bingley.

  Mr. Darcy’s jaw clenched. When he did speak, it was in a low, precise voice.

  “Indeed, Mr. Feakes, you forget yourself, sir.”

  The man did not wait for the rebuke to take a hasty leave. With the compliance of a courtier, he genuflected his way out the door and had formed his letter of apology ere the footman called for his coach. A letter would be accepted. However, there was little chance that Feakes would insult propriety at Pemberley again. (There was little chance any persons witnessing Mr. Darcy unhappiness upon such a transgression would either.)

  As the instigator, Bingley assumed an ingenuous—even beatific—expression and betook Jane’s hand. Thereupon, he led her and her poor, delicate ears from such unseemliness. Abruptly, Lady Howgrave found herself offended by the language and subject that she had listened to a hundred times over during her husband’s political campaigns. With a hint of distaste and upraised hand, she made it apparent that she was to be led away as well. Howgrave was busy haranguing another guest, punctuating his remarks by poking his finger in a man’s chest. There were any number of other gentlemen who would have climbed the Austrian Alps to take that delectable hand, but she eschewed them. With a glissade of one velvet slipper (and the agility of a cat), she moved in such a way that only Mr. Darcy had that honour. Neither delight nor abhorrence was betrayed by his countenance as he allowed her to place her hand upon his.

  Because Mr. Darcy and Lady Howgrave took their leave, the other guests disbanded that corner of the ballroom as well. That entertainment having dissolved did not mean there was nothing left to amuse them. This dispersal was accompanied by the synchronous opening of a dozen fans. The ladies who owned these fluttering accoutrements floated away, kept aloft by raised eyebrows and wagging tongues. Their husbands did not follow their wives in any haste. Lady Howgrave looked to great advantage when she walked. Indeed, not an eye was spared from ogling her. She had honed that walk over years of practise. It was said that she had more swing to her undercarriage than a well-oiled barouche.

  If Darcy believed himself to have been manipulated, it was unapparent. Those who knew him did not expect otherwise. The more inquiring his company, the more impenetrable was his countenance. Perchance he might reflect disapproval, but never would he display any hint that he was the victim of a manoeuvre. Upon this occasion, his noble mien remained fixed—albeit as if he had smelled something a tad... fetid. It might have been concluded that he was simply offended by the company he just quitted, not that of Lady Howgrave.

  When the couple did not step onto the dance floor, most onlookers became disinterested.

  Darcy’s expression altered but little as the good Lady Howgrave gracefully propelled him from thence up a stairc
ase to a vacant hall. She did so by admiring each the vast number of paintings that lined the wall. Juliette appraised a fine Dutch painting and the parquet floor with a long look of approval. She only stopped her consideration to gaze at the ballroom floor below. Dancers awaited the allemande as the orchestra retook their places after an intermission. As if by preordination, they commenced a waltz. It was quite the fashion amongst those who amused themselves by admiring the neoteric.

  There were a few gasps and several couples left the floor. Others did not hesitate and began to whirl about. They were either blithely unawares (or quite possibly happily witting) that some believed the piece of music was unseemly. The flash of colour as the gowns twirled grandly around the room was quite exhilarating. All of London was entranced by the dance. With the strong, propulsive rhythm—not to speak of the hold (which was nothing less than an embrace), it was a heady, sensual dance. One could actually detect the outrage of those in the ballroom who kept track of such offences.

  Mr. Darcy’s usual hauteur was overspread by a rare shade of crimson. Juliette issued a premature smile, believing she was the cause his discomposure. It was not she, however, who held his attention.

  Mr. Darcy placed both hands firmly on the balustrade. His expression as he looked down upon his conductor was dour. Mr. Darcy’s glare was forbidding. The conductor looked up as if touched by the hand of God. No word passed between them. However, the conductor immediately (and with great fluidity) guided the orchestra into a sedate quadrille. Passably pleased with the hastiness whereof the dance was altered, Mr. Darcy’s colour began to return to its customary hue.

  Juliette was not one to allow the matter drop.

  As if musing, she said, “How far afield from heated passion we have chanced....”

  Said he, “I beg your pardon?”

  She disliked having to repeat what she believed to be a perfectly delivered bon mot. Nonetheless, she did. The importance of her observation must not be dismissed. Nodding towards the tranquil dance floor, she said, “How far afield from heated passion we have chanced.”

  In the repeating, her remark had not improved on him. He offered no response. For a man known to own a quick mind, his behaviour was well-nigh hebetudinous. It was quite maddening. She reminded herself of his incomparable self-possession. Had he been untouched, he would have spoken more. Therefore, she took his want of ardency as a compliment and delighted in his silence.

  When he did speak, it was a seemingly incongruous remark.

  “I here beg to offer my apologies,” he said. “I was not informed that particular dance was to be part of tonight’s selections.”

  She found it exceedingly regrettable that he had halted the waltz. It would have been superb ambience for a conversation, perchance a foreshadowing of what was to come. Hence, she pursued the subject.

  “I am exceedingly disappointed that you disapprove of the waltz,” she said. “I find it quite provocative.”

  He responded, “I fear not all of my guests agree with you, Lady Howgrave....”

  “Juliette,” she interrupted.

  As if he had not heard, he continued, “It is my obligation as host to entertain everyone, not just ladies and gentlemen of the ton.”

  That remark could have been ill-taken. His manners had always been high and imposing. He had not the insolence of the English sort, but he often gave offence. She was loath to be offended, proud in the comfort that she knew him well enough not to be.

  She replied, “It has been my observation that many critics take far greater relish in censuring others than anyone ever did immersing themselves in sin.”

  He smiled and she laughed, happy that she finally elicited one from him. And when she did, the lilt of her voice hung in the air like a melody.

  With the unerring misfortune that some incidents invite, Elizabeth Darcy happened to hear the echoing laugh and turned her eyes upward at that very moment.

  Chapter 20

  The Retort

  It was late and the room was compleatly in shadow. Having flamed out, most of the candles sat in a puddle of wax.

  It had been a long evening and Darcy was altogether fordone by feigning felicity. Above an hour with more than a half dozen people tried his patience. Despite the ball being pronounced a resounding success by all, he believed that he had never seen more over-dressed twits and under-hung jaws in one place in all his life.

  Moreover, his feet hurt.

  He despised dancing slippers. No matter how carefully they were fitted, by the end of the night, his insteps ached. It was further proof that man wasn’t meant to dance. It was a wholly unnatural occupation. Women were meant to wear slippers; men were meant to wear boots. Was his opinion on the matter not incontrovertible, he had several blisters in proof of it.

  He tossed the despised slippers aside. They landed just outside his door giving Goodwin to understand he was dismissed for the night. Mr. Darcy was in no mood to suffer any other ritual—his nightly ablutions or not. He sought nothing more than the arms of his wife. Was it not for her, he might have become a compleat recluse.

  By virtue of his vexation, he did not take notice until then that his wife had preceded him to bed. On an evening so heavy with duty and small consternations, he had little doubt she would be fast asleep. Here, his desire collided unhappily with his conscience. The evening had left him near spent; no doubt she was as well. It would be unthinkable to come to her in service of his own passion for a second time. As much as his heart was in want of possessing her, he feared imposing himself upon her again might do her harm.

  As he turned aside all thought of amour, he stopped. Perhaps she was awake, anticipating his disquiet. Such was his history. The larger the gathering (especially one infested with politicians), the longer it would be ere slumber would come to him. In the future, he would be more vigilant about alarming her in that. She needed her rest, not stand guard over his. Heaving a great sigh, he renewed himself to husbanding her and their coming child. From this moment forward, prudence would rule his every thought; caution, his every touch.

  But for tonight, to lie next to her—just for a brief while—would console them both.

  The balcony doors allowed a shaft of moonlight to illuminate the bed and the ivory curve of his wife’s bare back. She was not asleep. She sat in the middle of the bed, perched on her knees. A suspiration of desire all but choked him.

  Desiring nothing but to feel her skin against his, he drew his shirt over his head and cast it to the floor. At the sound of his footfalls, her arms crossed her bosom. Momentarily, he thought he had given her a fright. But she did not turn about to see who was there.

  He stopped short of the bed, uncertain as to why. Something forbidden was in the air. He could smell it, feel it, sense it. Owing to the power of that sensation, his flagging spirit was reinvigorated. As he stepped closer, he saw that she was in a state of nature—exquisitely so. So fetching was her nakedness, it might well have given him leave to cast all thought of prudence to the wayside. However, he did not think of that. Still resolved to be her guardian, he was struck by two successive thoughts. Firstly, that her nakedness might invite a chill, and secondly, was she cold, he must warm her.

  It was then that he saw that she was not compleatly naked. Initially, she looked to have a shawl draped about her hips. But as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that what clung to her hips was that which he had so vehemently removed earlier that evening. He was aghast (more or less).

  “Mrs. Darcy!”

  He had not truly raised his voice, nor had he actually gasped. But it was near enough to have given her a start. She, however, did not respond as if disturbed. Rather, she very slowly and, admittedly, quite seductively, looked at him over one bare shoulder.

  It was both an invitation and a dare.

  A pause was needed for him to collect his thoughts. No doubt, she believed him slightly vexed. He was, or at least he knew that was the part he was to play in the performance she had foreordained. Not
withstanding the abhorrence he held for disguise of any sort, he scowled (allowing that to appear vexed was not a compleat perjury). Indeed, when he spoke his voice was a husky mixture of indignation and hunger. Yet, his words were not those of a man who desperately desired to make love. Another man might have been more wise.

  “Have we not decided against that indecent garment?”

  “This?” she asked innocently, placing two fingers inside the waistband. “Indecent?”

  “Perhaps I misspoke. It is merely immodest.”

  She retorted, “I believe that it not the garment that is indecent or immodest. A garment is but a ‘thing’ and therefore, cannot be either chaste or debauched. It can be silk or cotton. It can be plain or ruffled. It can have a pink ribbon drawstring....”