by Kate Bedlow
Darcy and Elizabeth ~
Darcy’s Match
a Pride and Prejudice sequel
Kate Bedlow
Darcy and Elizabeth – Darcy’s Match (a Pride and Prejudice sequel)
Copyright 2018 Kate Bedlow
Published by Beastie Press
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Darcy’s Match
“Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”
~ Pride and Prejudice
It’s time for Georgiana to get married—but who will she choose?
Darcy’s choice is Kettering Corby, Marquess of Somersea, an old schoolfellow with a fair shot and an excellent seat, not to mention a fine title and a very fine fortune.
Elizabeth favors Mr. Drake Midwinter, a local clergyman of neither rank nor fortune, possessing no recommendation but one: he loves Georgiana. More importantly, Georgiana loves him.
As wealth and connections outweigh considerations of love and happiness, Elizabeth has to wonder: has Fitzwilliam’s intractable pride returned? Or have her old prejudices rendered her unable to accept the possibility that Darcy’s match is truly best for his sister?
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Prologue
December 1813, Pemberley
(two years ago)
“Of course, Miss Darcy. Anything.”
“Anything?”
Despite the chill inside the empty church (she could see her breath), Georgiana Darcy’s face flushed warm. Her pulse raced a little and her heart fluttered a little more, partly in fear, partly in anticipation. The feeling of inevitability enveloped her, like falling with no handhold.
Of course, Miss Darcy. Anything…
Dare she name her true desire?
“I came here looking for the rector,” she managed to say, stalling for time yet moving closer. Her footsteps echoed on the nave’s stone floor as she approached the handsome curate standing before the altar. “It seems fate has led me to you instead.”
“Fate?”
What could it be, if not fate? She was alone with Mr. Midwinter, and he had promised her anything. She ignored his wary puzzlement. “I want you to kiss me.”
There. She had said it.
“Miss Darcy!” He stepped back, as if revolted.
Oh! She had misread him. How stupid could she be? Of course he did not literally mean anything when she asked if she might beg a favor. But she was too far in now to retreat. She closed the last steps between them.
“You are the only one I trust.”
“I…” He looked away. “I doubt it is wise to trust me with a kiss.”
Something in his voice, a tender vulnerability, gave her courage.
“Sir, I believe it very wise.” She had known the gentleman but a few weeks, and she knew without doubt she could trust him. With a kiss. With her life. With her heart. “I need to know something, and you are the only one who can supply the information.”
Standing so near, she appreciated keenly how broad was his chest, how strong his arms. He was indeed the handsomest man she had ever seen—like a golden Apollo, Mrs. Crealy had once said…
But physical beauty was not what drew her to the visiting curate of Lambton village. No, it had been his kindness, unexpectedly gentle in so vital a man. He was no predator.
He was nothing like George Wickham.
“What is the information, Miss Darcy, that you believe a kiss might reveal?”
He was trembling, but not with revulsion. Dare she believe this was desire, and perhaps some fear? His sudden shyness was endearing. And it made her bold.
“Steady on, sir.”
She gripped his forearms. To anchor herself? Or to stop his getting away? She could not say, but the contact sent shivers through her not connected to the chill December air. She had come this far. She would not retreat.
“I am,” he said softly. “Steady. So far as a man can be in such a circumstance.”
He was truly nervous. He must care for her, a little. The thought made her so happy! She nearly burst out laughing with the surprised joy of it.
“There is no need to fear.” Hope made her even bolder, and she teased him. “This is all in the spirit of a scientific inquiry.”
“Ah, I see. No…” A bemused twinkle lit his eye. “No, I do not see.”
“I need to know what it is like to be kissed… I mean well-kissed. No, not—I mean kissed well. Oh no! Not that either.”
She was getting it all wrong. Wickham had been so… overwhelming. He had persuaded her that they were in love, and she had allowed liberties mortifying to remember. His kisses had terrified her. Consumed her. Blotted Georgiana Darcy away and transformed the living girl into an object, a thing, meant only for the man’s gratification.
She shuddered.
“Never fear.” Kindness infused the curate, in voice and in manner. No wonder she preferred his sermons to those of his stern uncle. “You may withdraw, Miss Darcy. It will be as if this conversation never occurred.”
“But…” She did not wish to withdraw!
“I would not take advantage of you for the world.”
“It is rather the other way around, do you not agree? Mr. Midwinter, I wish to be kissed by someone who has my best interests at heart.”
He smiled then, though he seemed to fight it. “You think I am such a one.”
She did. He had already proved himself such a one. But she now found that it did not matter. Oh dear. She had nearly lost the thread of her original intention. Pure feeling threatened to take her over, and she could barely recall the original logic which had brought her to this moment.
“What I mean, sir, is I have to know what an honest kiss is about.” She struggled to sound sensible. “And you are the properest person I know for the job.”
He broke away from her. “You think I could give you an honest kiss.”
Was he angry? He backed away but was stopped by the altar behind him.
“No one better. And I…” Again she closed the space between them. “And I trust you not to tell.”
Anger defin
itely flickered in his eyes. She had insulted him.
“Miss Darcy—Georgiana…”
An anguished groan escaped him, but the sound she grabbed hold of was her given name like a prayer on his lips, vibrating with feeling, with desire—or was that merely wishful thinking on her part?
She was utterly confused.
“Drake.” Her voice cracked. She felt a single tear roll down her cheek and she looked away. She had ruined everything. She was miserable. Had to get away, run back to the great house, hide in her room, and never come out again.
His warm hand cupped her cheek and turned her face to his. “Georgiana.” His lips claimed hers. Tenderly, tenderly. She was in grave danger of swooning, and she murmured with involuntary pleasure.
It was like coming home. Spinning in this glorious, timeless space, the world felt utterly safe and right.
She did not disappear, engulfed within his power. No, she felt stronger, happier, more alive than ever.
He pulled away. She took a step back and knocked against the altar; they had indeed been turning, until they had changed places. A few seconds of stunned silence passed between them, then, “And did you learn anything?”
“I…” It took an effort to reclaim her powers of speech. “I believe I did.”
“Good.” He smiled wistfully and let her go. She had not realized he had taken her into his arms until she felt the loss of them. “Good then.”
He retreated, turned away from her—and trod upon Elizabeth.
Chapter 1
Today
5 January 1816. The peace held, both abroad and here at the world’s center—Pemberley, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s estate in beautiful Derbyshire. And although this was the coldest winter Darcy could remember in his three and thirty years, all was sunny in his heart’s garden.
An invasion of family and company were at Pemberley for the annual Twelfth Night festivities, and Darcy, his brother-in-law, Charles Bingley, and his cousins Richard Fitzwilliam and Carleton Quartermaine had come out for a shoot.
Crouched in the snow, he and the others waited for the dogs and the beaters to flush something out. With the poaching holiday underway today, perhaps two hundred or more men and their boys crawled through Pemberley’s woods and open fields, snow and cold be damned. Some bore muskets and old flintlocks, but most relied on traps and other means whereby man vanquished beast.
Each year on this day, the tenants and cottagers were allowed to kill game on the estate to feed their families, a tradition started by Darcy’s mother, Lady Anne, which he continued in her memory despite the misgivings and grumblings of his fellow landholders. The holiday created enormous goodwill and made the winter less perilous for all. This year especially threatened greater hardship for several reasons—the unusually cold winter, for one. So many men having returned home to no work after years away at war, for another. The price of bread driven sky-high by the new Corn Laws, for a third.
Darcy’s cousins, former military men who had seen killing enough, went at an easy pace, their shotguns held carefully but casually. Charles was ambivalent, as ready to shoot a bird as not.
The fifth man in their party was sharp and alert, as befitted one who hunted to a higher purpose. The vicar’s kill would be stretched to feed families in his parish for weeks. Several birds were already tied onto the back of his horse, and he appeared ready to bring down another.
The world was preternaturally silent, prey hiding, hunters listening. One became either overalert or lulled into a mood of contemplation. Darcy, a contented man, fell into the latter category, contemplating the warmth, contentment, and female companionship awaiting him at the great house. His darling wife, adorable daughter—his lovely sister.
Georgiana had been much on Darcy’s mind of late. For many years, it had been just the two of them, left orphans with a special bond. He could hardly believe a decade had passed since his father’s death. At a mere three and twenty, he had been charged with the care of Pemberley, an estate which provided a living, one way or another, to close to a thousand souls. But the most important soul in his charge was his sister, then a child of but eleven years.
He had of course assumed the responsibilities thrust upon him and had done his best to see that all in his care prospered and were happy. But his best had not been good enough. Through a terrible dereliction in his duty to his sister, he had almost lost her to that bounder. It had woken Darcy up, made him realize that he alone was not enough.
Pemberley had needed a mistress. His sister had needed a motherly figure. Someone to provide female nurture, model good character, bring her out in society. Someone to ensure no further disasters in the vein of George Wickham.
And yes, he had needed a wife.
He smiled, remembering how he had approached the task of finding a life’s companion as he did all things of importance: with serious purpose and a mind toward practicality and duty. He neither expected nor thought it possible he could care for any lady as he did his dear sister, but he did expect, and thought it rather probably, that he would be a good husband and afford the future Mrs. Darcy all the respect and comfort she would deserve.
Whoever she turned out to be.
Inexplicably, all rational thought had blown away with the winds when he fell in love with an utterly inappropriate country girl of no fortune and fewer connections. Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn had left him at sixes and sevens until he acknowledged his feelings for her—and even then the way had not been smooth.
Until it was.
With no diminishment of his feelings for Georgiana, Darcy loved Elizabeth beyond anything he had ever dared hope for. She was his love, his refuge, and his dearest friend in all the world. After several years of marriage, they were still deeply in love, and she had given him a daughter who was the delight of his life.
He had always assumed his first child would be a son—he could not say why—and when little Janie was born, he had been utterly unprepared for the deluge of tender feeling that enfolded and enchanted him from the first moment he held her in his arms.
Love did not lessen when shared. Rather, he had discovered that the more people he had to love, the more love he had to love with.
This was his life now, loving and being loved. He eagerly awaited the day Elizabeth would tell him she was once again expecting a happy event. With his heir ensconced in the nursery, his happiness would be complete.
Almost entirely.
And there was the rub.
The one blot upon Darcy’s happiness was the unhappiness of his dear sister. At nearly one and twenty years of age, it now seemed certain Georgiana would follow Caroline Bingley’s example and remain unmarried—which he could accept if he believed Georgiana wished it. Matrimony was often a dangerous enterprise for a woman, and many ladies of fortune—like Charles’s sister—avoided it.
It was quite possible that Caroline continued to refuse Cousin Richard’s advances because she simply did not wish to risk the perils of childbirth or (more likely in her case) the loss of control over her personal fortune, but in Georgiana’s case, Darcy did not believe (and nor did Elizabeth) that this was so.
His sister had a tender and affectionate heart, and she deserved a considerate and respectful husband. There were such gentlemen to be found, if one were only careful about it. As for children, anybody who watched her play with Janie and Thomas, Darcy’s nephew, could see Georgiana would be a wonderful mother.
There was no excuse for her single state. She was pretty, obedient, of a wealthy and important family, and in possession of a goodly fortune of her own. True, Georgiana had a streak of saucy impertinence, which she allowed only her most intimate friends to see. But while many gentlemen might find this unattractive in a wife, her brother considered it one of her more endearing traits.
It could not be due to Wickham. That bad business had never got about. As far as the world was concerned, Miss Darcy had accidentally (and fortuitously) killed the traitor, run him through with a rapier. She’d received
a medal for it from the Prince Regent. None but a very select few knew that when Georgiana was but fifteen she had very nearly eloped with the blackguard. Her reputation was without stain, so that was not the problem.
Which left Elizabeth’s theory. That Georgiana had fallen in love, but the gentleman in question had not proposed and she would not consider any another. This, of course, was unthinkable.
Unless the gentleman in question were an idiot.
The dogs found something, and with a quick rustle and terrified shriek, two pheasants took flight from their cover. Darcy watched the purported idiot calmly take aim, fire off a shot, and bring down another bird. The dogs raced away in the snow to retrieve it, and a couple of the beaters followed.
“Excellent shot, Midwinter!” Charles Bingley called out cheerfully, and it was.
“You’ve certainly outdone me, Vicar.” Quartermaine was famous for his merry moods, but he had been especially genial the past day or two. “I have not killed a thing.”
“And yet you are even more jovial than usual, Cousin.” So Richard had noticed it too.
Quartermaine’s face reddened, and then Midwinter chuckled. Fleetingly, Darcy thought they must all be a party to a secret. But that was ridiculous. Quartermaine barely knew Midwinter.
This was going very well. Thinking to both please Elizabeth and examine the idiot more closely himself, Darcy had sent a note early this morning to the vicarage at Lambton, inviting Midwinter to join the party.
Elizabeth had taken the idea of the unlikely romance into her head a couple of years ago, shortly after Midwinter came to Lambton as Hanson’s curate. The young man had been fresh out of Oxford and recommended for the position by his uncle, who happened to be the rector of St. Mary’s, Pemberley’s parish church.
Naturally, any thought of Georgiana being in love with a curate was laughable. Midwinter’s lack of fortune was off-putting, yes, but life as wife of any clergyman below a bishop was hardly what one envisioned for Miss Darcy of Pemberley.
Elizabeth argued this was true only if one did not know her intimately.
In Darcy’s opinion, all clergy be damned; Georgiana deserved no less than a title.
