In the Arms of Mr. Darcy tds-4

by Sharon Lathan

  The last thing she wanted was to make idle conversation with a pimply faced boy cadet. She wove through the press of bodies conversing and laughing, making for an empty corridor to the left. A quick glance behind proved that no one was following or seemed aware of her passage. With a sigh of relief, she opened a random door and noted a darkened room. Perfect! She ducked inside and sagged against the latched door, closing her eyes for a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

  The room was quite dark and it took her pupils a few minutes to adjust. She realized it was a vast library only because she was standing near a tall shelf of books. All the curtains were drawn, sporadic gaps allowing the muted light of an overcast day in January to pierce for faint illumination. She wended past the shelves and chairs toward the back of the room, no specific destination in mind, and not noting the man leaning casually against the unlit fireplace until she nearly collided with him.

  “Oh!” She exclaimed, retreating several paces in alarm. “Forgive me! I did not see you there!”

  “Obviously.” His voice echoed about the room, resonant tones imbued with traces of latent laughter. “It is understandable, however, so no need to apologize.”

  For some reason Kitty felt a flair of irritation. “You could have alerted me as to your presence. Then neither of us would be suffering such embarrassment!”

  “Why should we be embarrassed? It is a dark room so clearly you did not want to be seen. Seeking privacy, I assumed. As was I.”

  “Nonetheless, you should have made your presence known.”

  She could sense his shrug even though the gloom was too great to see more than a vague outline. “It is a large room so I rather hoped you would wander to the far side. I did not wish to intrude upon your solitude, but apparently the intrusion was fated to be for both of us.”

  “Intrusion was what I was evading, oddly enough,” she blurted, biting her lip at the rude slip.

  “What sort of intrusion?”

  “Unwanted conversation, ironically.”

  He chuckled, the sound reverberating. “Yes, ironic indeed. Doubly so as I fled here for the same reason.”

  She cocked her head, straining to see more than an outline of what appeared to be a tall, brawny figure. The voice was indecipherable. Was he young or old? None of the squeak inherent in the truly young, or the tremulousness of the aged, but anywhere in between was possible.

  “Who were you avoiding?”

  “The dozens of available women from forty years on down who my father deems it his self-appointed duty to parade under my nose at any gathering we attend. Weddings, funerals, all are fair game as far as he is concerned.” There was that smoldering laughter again, not a trace of resentment in his words. Kitty realized she was smiling.

  “Only forty years on down? How fortunate you are. My mother considers any male not yet in his dotage eligible.”

  “Is she here now? Pointing out the wealth of handsome and not-so-handsome specimens in uniform? Is that why you scurried away?”

  And she did laugh. “No, she is not here, but I was actively imagining her face when I tell her that I did not flirt with and gain the favors of at least one officer. She will be deeply disappointed in me.” And for the first time there was no bitterness in the thought.

  “I gather that we are both horrid children, severely upsetting to our parents,” he said.

  “Indeed we are.”

  “I, for one, have vowed never to force those of the opposite sex upon my children, when they arrive.”

  “Interesting. Of course, the paradox is that if you do not fulfill the wish of your father, you will never have any offspring to uphold your vow to!”

  He laughed aloud, slapping his thigh in mirth. “Excellent! Touché, miss. That, I confess, has never occurred to me! Perhaps I should return to the parlor and see who he has scared up.”

  “It sounds as though he may have reached the point of desperation with you, so I am not sure you can trust his judgment at this juncture.”

  “Hmmm… You are undoubtedly correct. I think I am safer here in the dark conversing with a complete stranger. Ah!” And she discerned the slap of his palm against his forehead. “But I forgot that you were seeking solitude and avoiding unwanted conversation. So we now have a dilemma.”

  “How so?”

  “Who should leave? I was here first, so logic would dictate that you depart and face the lurking male hounds. But then I do pride myself on being a gentleman, so decorum dictates that I bow out gracefully and manfully bear the agony. What shall we do?”

  “Do you have a coin? We could flip for it, the loser rejoining the assembly and taking their chances.”

  “Alas, it is too dark.” And neither mentioned the simple solution of pulling the drapes.

  “Well, we have been talking now for some fifteen minutes, so are no longer complete strangers.” Kitty offered hesitantly.

  “True, true. And the conversation, at least from my perspective, has not been completely unwanted.”

  “I agree.”

  Silence fell, Kitty sensing his eyes upon her and feeling the smile. A comfortable quiet settled about them. He shifted from one foot to the other, still leaning against the fireplace and Kitty could now perceive that his arms were crossed over his chest. She paced around a chaise, fingertips brushing over the edges for tactile direction, unconsciously striving to attain an angle that might cast greater clarification upon her partner.

  “Are you here as a guest of the bride or groom?”

  “The groom. My father is a general in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s regiment. I have known him for years, although I cannot say we are close confidants. My brother went to the Academy with him, so is closer in age and relationship. And you?”

  “The groom as well. My sister is married to his cousin, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Ah! So you would be Miss Bennet?”

  Kitty nodded, hesitating to speak. For some strange reason, she suddenly felt uneasy, but could not quite place her finger on why.

  Then he spoke, “You preferred anonymity, yes?” His voice was soft, almost a caress. “Stay in the shadows, talking with the unseen, unknown individual where it is deemed safe? Why is that, Miss Bennet?”

  “I suppose if I never see your face or know who you are than you cannot affect me.” The words burst forth, Kitty blushing at her private confession, but he did not seem perturbed.

  “Hmmm… Perhaps. Although, in my experience it is the hidden one who is the greater threat. The enemy who lurks in dark places and springs out unawares.”

  “Is that not, in effect, what you have done?”

  He laughed, the sound musical. “From a certain point of view, I suppose that is correct. Although, strictly speaking, you sprung in on me.”

  “But you were lurking in the dark place.”

  “Merely because I arrived first. The scenario could have been reversed.”

  “You are laughing at me,” she accused, suppressing a girlish giggle.

  “Only a little. In truth I am just pointing out the absurdity in both of our rationales and actions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Again she felt his shrug. For the first time since entering the library he moved from his languid repose against the mantel, standing straight and even taller than she thought, nearly as tall as Mr. Darcy, and took one stride toward her.

  “We hide ourselves away to avoid what we have decided are unpleasant consequences. We seek to be left alone or at least to our own devices without exterior finagling. We weary of the game imposed upon us by well-meaning parents. And we somehow have divined that there is a safety to the dark. Yet, and I can only speak honestly for myself although I am sensing the same from you, we are actually enjoying ourselves. You see? Absurdity.”

  “I suppose you now want me to congratulate you on your brilliant deductions and acknowledge that I am enjoying myself?”

  “Only if you mean it.”

  Kitty laughed, helpless against the smug, gay inflection obvious in his retor
t. “I believe, sir, that you are impertinent!”

  “I have been accused of worse.”

  He moved again, but in the dark she lost sight of where he was. “Sir?”

  “I believe, Miss Bennet, that it is time for us to dispense with the shadows.” He was to her right, not five feet away, and beside the nearest cloaked window. “Are you willing to face the light of day with all its accompanying glories and ugliness?”

  “Which are you? The former or the latter?”

  “You, Miss Bennet, are a wit and I have decided I like you and that you are in the former category. I will allow you to judge me for yourself. I am brave enough to accept your evaluation.”

  “Very well then. But I shall be brutally honest.”

  “Understood.” And the curtains were thrust aside, sunlight streaming in and momentarily blinding both of them. Eyes blinked back tears, hands involuntarily rose to shade, but gradually their pupils adjusted. She had suspected that he was a military man, and he was tall, as she had ascertained. Easily in his early thirties if not a bit older, his form trim, but wide in the shoulders and chest. His eyes were deep brown, almost black, with thick lashes framing, and curly hair, black with scattered streaks of grey at the temples.

  The seconds stretched as they examined each other unabashedly. Eventually, simultaneously, pleased smiles spread over their faces.

  Kitty moved first, extending her fingers and curtsying fluidly. “Miss Katherine Bennet.”

  He lifted her hand, bowing as he brushed soft lips lightly over her knuckles. “Miss Bennet, a pleasure. I am Major General Artois. Randall Artois.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Promise of a New Life

  While Richard dealt with the aftermath of Lady Fotherby’s imprisonment and renewed their relationship, Darcy concluded his business in London and hastened home for the Christmas holiday. Anxiousness to share the news of Richard’s happiness and engagement—an agreement the reunited lovers formalized less than a day after escaping Hampshire for the plush comfort of the Fotherby townhouse at Mayfair—was matched by an urgency to embrace his wife and son. Christmas was days away and three plus weeks without them was more than he could bear.

  Despite his fretfulness, Alexander had recovered rapidly from his cold. Darcy returned to discover a fat, healthy son who greeted him with shrieks of joy and outstretched arms as he toddled across the nursery floor and fell into the strong embrace of his delighted father.

  His wife, conversely, greeted him feebly from their bed. Alexander’s mild infection had transmitted to Lizzy nastily. She lay under about a dozen quilts, nose red and copiously running, chest rattling with each breath, lips chapped in a feverishly shiny face, and a hacking cough that rendered her weak and winded. It was the first incidence of such an illness with his wife and Darcy was seriously dismayed.

  And furious.

  But he thrust his anger at not being notified aside, and diligently assumed the task of caring for their son and nursing his wife to health. Luckily the Christmas activities planned were minor and completely arranged, all the presents purchased and wrapped, since Lizzy barely managed to stay awake while Alexander thrilled over his numerous toys. The infant’s fascination with the ribbons and paper wrap evinced a weak smile and chuckle that instantly sparked a coughing spell necessitating Darcy carrying her to bed for a hot mist breathing treatment and rest.

  Dr. Darcy insisted that it was nothing more than a common cold with chest congestion and minor compared to the influenza Darcy had suffered prior to Alexander’s birth, but Darcy was not placated. He fretted, hovered, and enforced every form of therapeutic remedy he could glean from his uncle and the medical books in the library. It took nearly two weeks, but finally Lizzy recovered the greater portion of her natural vigor. Yet she continued to sleep far longer than typical, had a lingering cough, and was frequently weary enough to nap in the afternoons. Attending the Cole’s masque was out of the question, the gorgeous gown created for the occasion wrapped and stored for a future engagement.

  Even with her steady improvement, Darcy worried over permanent damage to her lungs. To augment her recuperation, Darcy surprised her with a spontaneous gift of three nights basking in the curative waters at Matlock Bath. He was not a great believer in the claims of mineral spas, but even George concurred that it wouldn’t hurt.

  Leaving Alexander behind for the first time since his birth was difficult, but they said their adieus, smothering him with an abundance of hugs and kisses. They began the short drive to Matlock assuaging their guilt by remembering the medicinal instigation for the short holiday.

  However, within a few miles the romantic nature of their destination was secretly beginning to dawn on them!

  Matlock village on the east bank of the River Derwent, some eight miles from Pemberley, was a frequent destination, as it was larger than Lambton, thus offering a handful of shops not available in the closer hamlet. And of course Rivallain, home of the Earl of Matlock, was reached via the main thoroughfare over the bridge. Matlock Bath, some miles away and on the western side of the river, nestled high within the thick-forested foothills of the craggy limestone cliffs where the warm thermal springs bubbled, was a novelty for both of them.

  Lizzy brightened notably as soon as they began their ascent from the bridge. The sublime beauty of Matlock Dale with dark-blue water flowing briskly amid the blanket of yew, elm, and lime trees clothing the shore from which the humble church’s pinnacles reared was impressively picturesque. Even more stunning was the naked limestone brow of High Tor, bursting upward some three-hundred-fifty feet and casting a shadow on the river far below. Centuries of fallen fragments shaped the bed of the river, the current foaming over boulders and rubble in a constantly changing flow, the roar considerable especially now, after recent rains. It was magnificent.

  Cut into the gorge in 1815, the new coach road wound through the hills and strips of meadows, giving glimpses of the continually altering terrain below. They passed numerous lodges and bathhouses nestled among the trees, dozens of meandering footpaths through the wood and brush, and the occasional mineral incrustation formed by deposits from the springs that harden and decompose until covered by moss. It was a landscape both familiar due to common Derbyshire vegetation while also utterly unique.

  A final bend in the road and opening in the trees revealed the New Bath Hotel. So named simply because it was built in 1802 upon discovery of a newer and warmer spring—many years after the original lodge that was once just the Bath Hotel but was now referred to as the Old Bath Hotel—the massive white wood and brick structure of Regency design sat on a lush five-acre expanse surrounded by trees and sculptured gardens. As modern and prestigious as one could hope for in the lesser-known spa community of Matlock Bath, the hotel had a marvelous reputation for excellence. Plus, and even more important to Darcy than luxury at the moment, was the Roman-style bathing room large enough for swimming. And the waters themselves were reputedly higher in healing properties.

  Lizzy smiled, turning to her husband with shining eyes. “It is beautiful, William. Thank you for thinking of this.”

  He drew her close under his outstretched arm, boldly stealing a brief kiss and caressing over her cheek. “Anything to help you, dearest. I would have gone to Bath if need be, but fortunately, we are close to a spa far more private and less crowded.”

  He gazed into her eyes, noting the expression of love and joy that momentarily erased all traces of her lingering infirmity, and abruptly the romantic nature of their outing washed over him. By the sudden change in her face—lips parting slightly and half-lidded eyes straying to his mouth—it was clear that the identical thought had occurred to her. Unconsciously, he bent his head, meeting her upturned mouth eagerly. Alas, the kiss was interrupted by the carriage stopping with a jolt.

  Darcy frowned and Lizzy giggled. They shared a last, lingering look, communicating their need silently.

  Mr. Saxton, the owner, greeted them upon arrival. Darcy’s requests, made in ad
vance by Mr. Keith in person and with large quantities of cash exchanged, were explicit. A suite on the first floor with private parlor and additional rooms for their servants, in-room dining when possible, limitless supplies of the curative drinking water, and frequent use of the baths. Fortunately, it was the slow season for tourists, but Mr. Darcy’s eminence and wealth were more than adequate to grant the requirements asked for.

  The intervening hours between settling in their comfortable and spacious if unadorned chambers and finally meeting in the basement bath were tortuous. Darcy resisted bodily tossing his wife onto the bed and ravishing her only because there were servants in and out. He also insisted she consume a full glass of the mineral water waiting in a large pitcher before they did anything. And of course, he did wish for her to rest and recuperate, thus not too sure how wise it would be to engage immediately in the exhaustive, vigorous session of lovemaking that he desired with a palpable ache. He knew his wife well enough to sense that she was struggling with the same yearning, both of them gripped with emotions akin to the heady days of their honeymoon when touching each other was at times quite all that they thought about! Any residual guilt they secretly harbored at being filled with these sensations while their baby was at home without them vanished under the layers of sexual currents.

  Once alone in the Roman style bathing chamber built of heavy masonry and tile in the foundations of the western wing of the hotel, the low arched roof glowing golden and rippling from niched candles surrounding the pool, they were caught up in a flare of raging need. Darcy entered the water first, Lizzy exiting the dressing room moments later wearing a thin shift. She crossed to where he waded in the waist high water, eyes greedily assessing his figure. The vision of his lean physique, with solid, defined muscles wetly glistening in the subdued lighting and black chest hair enhancing his virile masculinity—as well as creating a pathway pointing to the equally delicious and manly lower body only partially obscured by the opaque mineral water—sent her ardor skyward.