Steeling herself, she withdrew a pace and forced the tremors of fear aside. Determined to risk potentially losing him, she lifted her chin and met his fierce stare. Her voice was firm when she spoke, “I can accept this, Lord Blaisdale, and will do my best to comply with your demands. However, I must be honest and confess that I do not know if I am capable of the more… private requirements you wish for.”
“Do you truly doubt your potential or are you toying with me?”
“You have stressed your repugnance for such behavior, my Lord. Another attribute of a successful marriage that has been revealed to me is honesty. This has not necessarily been a natural trait of mine, but I have seen the positive affects of the quality in my brother’s union. Additionally, you have been exceedingly forthright with me so it is only proper for me to extend the same. You are offering me an incredible opportunity and I would be a fool to pass it up. Perhaps I am a fool for risking your rejection, but I…” She swallowed, dropping her gaze from his penetrating stare.
“Yes, Caroline? Tell me.”
She glanced away, noting afresh their solitude. With eyes averted, she haltingly resumed. “You intrigue me as well, Lord Blaisdale. I… feel… strange sensations… when near you. But I do not… I have not…”
He clasped her upper arms, gently pushing her against the stone wall. He began the kiss with light pressure before deepening to an unrestrained passion. Caroline was taken utterly by surprise, stiffening for a second before the surging waves washed all innocent hesitation away. His hands roamed unchecked, stirring and rousing skillfully, his hard body pressed into hers.
Never had any man handled her in such a way. Sir Dandridge’s tentative touches and timid kisses had educed vague flutters but none of the shivers currently overwhelming her. Lord Blaisdale’s assault overpowered her to the point where she mustered not the slightest embarrassment or offense at the breach in gentlemanly behavior.
Caroline came alive in places unknown to have perception. She soared to raging heights of pure passion as he skillfully caressed and surveyed her figure. All the while the fiery kiss continued and intensified.
She discovered her hands and arms wrapping around his body and boldly exploring in return. Lord Blaisdale trailed his lips down her neck toward her bosom, releasing a guttural growl and grinding so harshly against her that even the layers of clothing were irrelevant.
Caroline’s legs grew weak, her muscles failing as a low moan escaped. She was clutching onto him for stability when he pulled away, panting heavily and grinning with supreme satisfaction. He stroked lightly over her cheek, lust-filled green eyes engaging her dazed ones.
“Delicious, Caroline. You are well, love? No further doubts?”
“Lord Blaisdale, please. I…”
“Do not fear. You have proven what I already knew. And I believe you can now address me as John.”
Chapter Eleven
The Court of St. James
The horses turned the corner onto Grosvenor Square, hoofs clomping loudly on the perfectly laid stones as Mr. Anders tugged slightly on the reins. The well-trained animals slowed in response, the vehicle’s occupants noting the deceleration but not needing that clue to know they were nearing the end of their journey.
“Look, my darling. There it is. Darcy House. Your other home and where we shall stay for a while. Thank goodness, as I am weary of dragging you from place to place.”
Lizzy kissed the crown of her sleeping son’s head, her softly spoken words apparently unheeded by the oblivious four-month-old infant but clearly not by her husband. Darcy leaned forward slightly in his seat across, furrows rapidly creasing his brow.
“Are you feeling unwell, Elizabeth?”
Lizzy smiled, shaking her head as she met his concerned eyes. “I only meant that I am pleased to be settling in one place for an extended spell. And into a house that is ours. No offense to Lady Catherine’s hospitality, but extensive renovations to Rosings will be required ere Anne and Raul have a baby.”
Darcy relaxed once again into the plush cushions. “Indeed. Fortunately, they have time. As for renovations, I am confident that Darcy House has been remodeled to my specifications. Alexander will discover a comfortable chamber to sleep in near ours as it should be.” His tender gaze rested upon his son, nestled warmly against Lizzy’s chest under a thick blanket. “He will have plenty of time to recuperate and grow stronger before we return to Pemberley.”
In fact, both mother and child were the picture of health. Lizzy’s expressed desire to stay in one place was purely driven by an internal need for familiarity. Darcy House may not have been “home” in the same respect as Pemberley, but it came close.
The object of her musings was now in plain view. The washed white stones and wide sash-paned windows reflected the bright April sunlight, casting a virtual glow around the house where it majestically sat across the grassy park in the middle of Grosvenor Square. All the townhouses fronting the Square were stately, Darcy House not more or less so, but it was the only one with a stunning combination of marble and glass in vast amounts. The wrought iron barriers to the basement quarters and balconies on the upper levels were polished until gleaming, not a hint of rust evident for the Master to see. All debris had been swept away from the gutters and pavement walkways, and a new carpet runner padded the marble steps leading to the vivid blue front door. The windows were open, allowing the fresh breezes of spring to ruffle the curtains and cleanse the interior air, carrying floral fragrances from the lush blooms growing inside the ornate flower boxes underneath each sill.
It was a picture of welcoming perfection, just as Darcy expected.
Mrs. Smyth, the housekeeper of Darcy House, stood in the ground level morning room watching the sedate approach of the rich Darcy coach. She stood with back straight, chin lifted, and hands clasped loosely in front. No overt sign gave away her state of mind except for the persistent spasm behind her left eye that caused the orb to twitch rhythmically. She knew without a doubt that the house was prepared for the arrival of her Master. Her superior expertise and knowledge of Mr. Darcy’s expectations allayed the bulk of her trepidation. It should have completely quelled her fears. It always had. But that was before Mrs. Darcy joined the mix.
For five years, Mrs. Smyth had been housekeeper of Darcy House, a position she valued, and it had been bliss. Mr. Darcy was frequently in Town during those years, but usually alone and so reserved that one hardly knew he was present. He rarely hosted any parties and then they were minor affairs with a small number of guests. His demands were few, mainly ones of preserving order and quiet. He was exacting and intense, not in any way foolish or to be trifled with, but since Mrs. Smyth was an excellent, scrupulous manager, they never clashed.
From the day she heard of Mr. Darcy’s shocking engagement to the country girl of no family or connections, she had sensed a dark cloud creeping inexorably over her existence. As a city girl born and bred, Mrs. Smyth considered anyone outside the regions of civilized London as suspect and on equal par with the dregs of Whitechapel or Wapping. That Mr. Darcy, a paragon of Society, would marry such a woman was beyond her comprehension. She had assumed that Miss Bingley would someday be Mrs. Darcy, or at least some lady like her. That would have been the correct course, the sensible choice, and Mrs. Smyth saw no logic to his hideous error in judgment, suspecting as many did that there must be some sort of witchcraft or trickery at work from the obviously money-seeking upstart.
Upon her first meeting of Miss Bennet, when Mr. Darcy brought his fiancée and her dowdy father to Darcy House during their engagement, Mrs. Smyth’s worst fears were realized. Miss Bennet was plain and drab, dressed in ugly gowns of no style and poor workmanship, with hair and body unadorned in any way. She smiled constantly, vulgarly showing all her teeth, was animated and noisy, and laughed incessantly. Grudgingly, Mrs. Smyth admitted that Miss Bennet carried herself with grace and that her manners were adequate, but those positives were overruled by her improper boldness and teasing informal
ity with Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy was clearly besotted and subtly altered. He smiled too much and laughed aloud. His eyes followed her every move. And worst of all, he welcomed her impertinence and returned her banter! It was frightening to observe and Mrs. Smyth prayed daily that something or someone would intercede and break the spell. Unfortunately, that did not happen and the marriage took place. Mrs. Smyth was relieved when Mr. Darcy informed the staff that, after the wedding, he would immediately be retiring to Pemberley for the winter, not to return until late spring. She rested in the conviction that the naturally inhibited, staid, and domineering Mr. Darcy would shake off the shameful enchantment after months of forced confinement behind the walls and snow-laden landscape of Pemberley. He would recognize his vast mistake, and indeed if it was too late to reverse the blunder, surely he would rectify the damage by grinding the presumptuous nobody down into the submissive, proper wife she should be. Perhaps then, Mrs. Smyth thought, there would be hope for regaining the Darcy reputation and salvaging the future.
That hope was dashed within days of Mrs. Darcy’s first season in London. The housekeeper’s painful, disgraceful humiliation yet resounded through her mind. The subsequent weeks of bowing to Mrs. Darcy’s demands were fresh wounds that gnawed at her serenity.
All of London Society had apparently forgotten the embarrassing background of Elizabeth Darcy, but it did not sway Mrs. Smyth’s opinion. She would not forgive. Or relinquish her belief that, although Mrs. Darcy displayed a newfound class and elegance beyond what she had ever imagined possible, there was a lacking propriety and borderline crassness to the Darcy household that had not existed prior. The addition of the boisterous, coarse Dr. Darcy, surely unacceptable if not for the negative influence of Mrs. Darcy, cemented her judgment.
Numerous times after slimly escaping dismissal she had contemplated seeking employment elsewhere. But, in the end, even with the detriments, she was in an esteemed position of power in a prestigious household. Her wage was substantial, her quarters generous, and her freedom liberal. Their tenancy last spring was trying but short, the family then departing to reside the bulk of the year at Pemberley.
So Mrs. Smyth went about her business, blessedly alone in her supremacy. She had almost forgotten the past indignities, but the looming presence not only of Mrs. Darcy and Dr. Darcy but also an infant escalated her distress. Any miniscule hope that matters may have changed, that Mr. Darcy was not as dotty over his wife after a year, were shattered when the orders came through regarding the nursery. Who had ever heard of an infant sleeping within earshot of the master suite? With bells installed to wake if needed? Quarters for a nanny but no mention of a wet nurse! It was unbelievable. Too unbelievable to fully comprehend, so she assumed it was a puzzle and she was missing a piece.
Thus, her dread had risen substantially until the dratted tic occurred with alarming frequency. The arrival of Mr. Darcy’s valet and Mrs. Darcy’s maid, along with the nanny three hours ago alerted the entire household to the impending appearance of the family. Everyone was on high anticipation, the heightened energy palpable even though they went about their duties with cool efficiency.
Mrs. Smyth waited until the last possible moment, watching the carriage halt and the footman leap down to open the door. She heard the front door of the townhouse open as watchful servants descended the steps to assist with luggage and passengers. Dr. Darcy disembarked first, his skeletal limbs encased in an outlandish foreign outfit of shocking maroon, the toothy smile and piercing blue eyes sweeping over the house sending chills up the housekeeper’s spine. She involuntarily backed up a step, but he turned toward the carriage to assist Miss Darcy before spying her staring out the window.
Ah, Miss Darcy. Finally, a true lady of breeding and gentility, Mrs. Smyth thought. She noted the hereditary elegance and nobility apparent in how Miss Darcy moved, in every tilt of her head or lift of her fine-boned hands. Impeccably dressed, hair arranged flawlessly, smile understated, figure tall and gently curved, skin ivory—in all ways the image of a lady.
Next came Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Smyth sighed, her hands clenching involuntarily. Never, not once in even the remotest way, had Mrs. Smyth considered Mr. Darcy as anything other than her employer. For the same reasons that she was so appalled by his choice of bride, she never fancifully or poetically dreamed of him falling in love with his housekeeper. Leave that nonsense to the ridiculous novelists who imagine such a horrid development romantic! She knew her station in life and embraced it fully. Nevertheless, as a woman in her early thirties, she assuredly recognized a handsome man and could readily appreciate the view.
As always, his stature, masculine physique, strongly chiseled facial features, and absorbing sapphire eyes stirred her womanly instincts. It was a purely lustful response, and she knew this, instigated as much by the specimen of prime manhood before her as by her internal urges so tightly controlled. It was rare, but there were those times when she missed her husband. Or rather what he had roused in her. She sighed again, allowing the feelings to wash over her briefly as she gazed upon her master.
As quickly as they came, they disappeared. Mr. Darcy was a man of astounding presence. He wore his authority, eminence, and rank as an aura discernable to all. He was so far above her, a reality that brought no anger or bitterness but instead a sensation of peace. This is how the world was supposed to be—people keeping to where God had placed them in the proper order. Grasping beyond where one was born only brought upset and strife; it disturbed the flow and caused chaos.
The burn of suppressed passionate lust ebbed, replaced by the burn of irritation. She clenched her fists tighter, observing as Mr. Darcy turned toward the carriage, reaching in and grasping onto the extended hand and elbow of his wife. He said something, his face lighting with a smile as Mrs. Darcy came into view. Typically, Mrs. Smyth noted with a grimace, she was laughing. Her dark eyes glittered with mirth, and her full lips curved into a beaming smile displaying her teeth whitely against the crude tan of her skin and ruddiness to her cheeks. The housekeeper swept her eyes over her mistress, admitting grudgingly that she could find no fault with Mrs. Darcy’s attire or figure or hairstyle. But the shock of seeing the infant clutched against the woman’s chest was stunning.
Mrs. Smyth caught her breath. When the nanny had arrived with the personal servants and not the infant, Mrs. Smyth had been surprised. Fleetingly, she had wondered who was caring for the child, but put the thought aside in the haste of last minute preparations. If asked, she probably would have answered that the wet nurse was caring for the babe, or that it would be swaddled tightly and contained in a carry basket of some sort. Seeing it now with tiny bare feet emerging from the bottom edge of the blanket that Mrs. Darcy held over the body, the round head and pink face pressed against its mother’s full bosom was astonishing. Obviously the squalling, probably smelly baby had been held and cared for squarely in the midst of them! The idea was revolting, but then Mrs. Smyth did have to admit honestly that she knew nothing about babies, praise the Maker for that miracle. Nevertheless, it was exceedingly rare, as even she knew, for offspring to be so boldly displayed, let alone carted about.
She shook her head, inhaled deeply, and steeled her spine. “Only three months or so,” she murmured aloud, repeating the words again to etch the fact firmly in her mind. With a final sigh, pat of her palms to ensure every hair was secured into the severe bun, and harsh rub to the persistent tic, the housekeeper moved toward the foyer to greet her Master and Mistress.
“Excellent, Georgiana. Remember to casually sweep with your right hand as you rise and grasp onto a few folds, the train will move to the side, and you will be able to back away faultlessly. Small steps though. If your heel snags it will be easier to remedy if you are not off balance from a large stride. Very good. Try it again, Elizabeth. As Georgiana has done.”
“Thank goodness the ridiculousness does not extend to the footwear,” Lizzy muttered. “If I had to don jewel encrusted shoes with three-inch heels and attache
d feathers I am certain I would fall on my derriere.”
“You shall be marvelous, my dear,” Lady Matlock placated, continuing the instruction in her dulcet voice.
The three women stood in the Darcy House ballroom spending their fifth day in a row practicing the choreographed maneuvers required when presented to the Prince Regent at the Court of St. James. Lizzy and Georgiana were granted permission to be presented to the sovereign by Lord Chamberlain, and the ceremony was scheduled for that afternoon. Darcy never doubted the entitlement. As the wife of a wealthy and esteemed landed gentry with a venerated ancestry, an introduction at Court was an expectation.
It was quite probable that the Georgiana of a year prior may have collapsed in fear at the idea of entering St. James’s Palace, embarrassing the Darcy name by paralyzing nervousness when the time came. Her limited experiences in social milieus while touring Wales and on Twelfth Night partially paved the way; however, even with that minimal exposure to Society, she seemed to grasp readily the pomp involved. She wore the wide hoop skirts and layers of fabric with natural ease. Not once had she erred in her curtsy, her limber body bending into the deep genuflection and rising dozens of times over without the slightest waver or misstep. She masterfully handled the three-foot train, the yards of lace and braided rouleau edging the delicate satin and tissue gown flowing over the curves of her body fluidly as she walked. It was awe-inspiring to observe her graceful command of the protocol-ridden ceremony and unwieldy costume. Even the laughable extravagance of the court-ordered attire with velvet torque adorned with pearls and three ostrich plumes waving a foot over her head did not seem as amusing on her lithe figure.
Moreover, the lifelong immersion in protocol, ease with aristocracy, and natural elegance of the former Lady Madeline Hamilton, daughter of a Marquess and now the Countess of Matlock, was a soothing balm. For weeks, Lady Matlock prepared Georgiana and Lizzy for their presentation to the Prince Regent and his court.
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