by Kate Bedlow
“What a happy turn of fortune,” Fitzwilliam said. “There was never any idea of Kett’s becoming the heir—too many between him and the old marquess. But stranger things have happened in this world.” Fitzwilliam looked at Mrs. Reynolds. “Did he say how long he intends to stay? The week, at least, I should hope.”
“He was rather vague on the subject. I can tell you he brought a quantity of trunks. He asked for hot water for a bath and that you pardon his being late, but he did bring a fancy dress costume for the ball.”
“You must forgive his impertinence, Mrs. Reynolds. Kett was always one to put his toe over the line.”
“On that, I will not disagree. I have ordered the Blue Dragon room readied for him, and Garrett has shown his valet to the servants’ quarters.”
“Very good. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.”
No, this was not very good!
Lord Somersea, here in the house. The very man whose pursuit of Georgiana had resulted in her name being mentioned in the newspapers—and who threatened Mr. Midwinter’s interest.
Morton left the chamber with Mrs. Reynolds, but Fitzwilliam stayed back.
“Good. We are alone,” he said. “I have something to share with you.”
“A secret?”
“It was, but I am to announce it at the ball. Quartermaine came to tell me—”
“He and Mary have wed!”
“How did you know?”
“I did not. But what other announcement would Carley wish you to make at the ball? Mary has been delighted with herself all week. Now I understand why!”
“Hmph.” Fitzwilliam mocked a pout.
“Never mind my guess. Do tell me the particulars. When did it happen? Why a secret?”
“To surprise everybody with an announcement at the ball. Quartermaine obtained a special license and Richard arranged with Midwinter to perform the ceremony at Lambton two days ago. Richard and Lydia were the witnesses.”
“That girl! She acts flibbertigibbet, and yet she keeps secrets better than anybody. Mama will be delighted!”
“I had better collect Georgiana and take her down, but first….” He kissed Elizabeth’s forehead, her cheek, her lips, then bent down to retrieve her monstrous hat. Setting the thing on her head, his eyes sparkled.
“It seems love is in the air tonight.” Elizabeth felt encouraged. Perhaps Mr. Midwinter would be inspired. “How generous of Mary and Carley to finally do the deed just in time for our ball.”
“They might inspire others. Perhaps my sister and Kett will like each other. What a very fine match that would be!” Fitzwilliam smiled as if quite pleased with himself.
Drat!
Fitzwilliam headed for the door, giving Elizabeth no time to form an argument against the appalling idea. In desperation, she called out hastily, “Dearest!”
“Yes?”
“I… I advise you not to talk to Georgie about Lord Somersea—at least not until she has seen him first. Gauge her natural response before you go all in.”
“You are wise as ever, my dear. I will hold back.”
Georgie had claimed there was no understanding between her and this Lord Somersea, but perhaps his lordship did not know that. He had come all the way to Pemberley through the bitter cold and winter snows for a mere ball. Either he believed there was something between them, or he intended there to be.
Elizabeth loved her sister-in-law with all her heart, but the girl had not the courage of her convictions. When Georgie saw how well her brother liked the marquess, it might persuade her to think better of him too. Elizabeth must speak with Mr. Midwinter at the first opportunity and encourage him to reenter the fray.
Lord Somersea must not get to Georgiana first.
Chapter 5
“Miss, can you lift your chin a little?”
The maid’s voice broke into Georgiana Darcy’s thoughts and pulled her abruptly into the present moment. She had been lost in reverie, thinking of a day two years ago when she came upon Mr. Midwinter in the cold nave of Pemberley’s parish church.
The Day of the Kiss.
Seeing him again this morning, falling down in the snow with him, becoming entangled in his arms… it had all brought back such memories—such feelings!
“Sorry. I was lost in a fog.”
She held still so that Gilliam could progress with the arrangement of her hair. Nevertheless, she could not stop thinking of Mr. Midwinter.
The aftermath of the kiss had left her mystified. She had believed the handsome clergyman cared for her, but from that day he had been awkward in her presence and had grown progressively distant. Last year she had sent a personal note with his card for the Twelfth Night ball, and still he did not attend.
From that night to this, in self-preservation more than anything, she had kept mostly to London, though its routs and crushes smothered her—metaphorically as well as literally—and she had missed Pemberley terribly in the bargain. But the embarrassment of Mr. Midwinter’s rejection was no more than she deserved. What had she been thinking, to approach him so brazenly, to beg him to kiss her?
When she was a child, her mama’s death had taught her that terrible things could happen when she behaved thoughtlessly, selfishly. Ever since that dark time, she had resolved to be demure and obedient, a credit to her family. But then George Wickham had exposed the weakness in her character.
With George she had nearly betrayed all those who loved her. Had she been thinking at all clearly, she would have been sensible of it! He had persuaded her to act against her own dear brother’s wishes as well as any standard of good sense.
None but her most intimate family and friends were aware, even today, of her thwarted plan to elope with the blackguard, but she knew what she had done. She would be eternally ashamed of her folly. When Fitzwilliam saved her from that tragic error, she had redoubled her vows to be good.
How quickly had what she thought was love turned to hate! Though she had never meant to kill the man. That had been a truly strange turn of events.
Worse than being a rake, a gambler who did not honor his debts, a fortune hunter, and a debaucher, Wickham had turned spy for Napoleon. Cousin Richard was still in the army then, working secretly for the Crown to rout a ring of French spies operating in Hertfordshire. He had employed Lydia Bennet, of all people, to expose the traitor Wickham and bring him to justice.
In a terrifying turn, Wickham discovered what he considered Lydia’s betrayal and took her prisoner. Georgiana had been among the party involved in her rescue. What happened then was horrible, but Georgiana had no choice. Wickham shot Fitzwilliam and was readying to fire another shot when Cousin Richard’s rapier clattered to the floor at her feet.
The details were still hazy in her mind, but when it was over, she was standing in the middle of the room in Mrs. Younge’s London boardinghouse with the blooded sword in her hands and George Wickham dying on the floor. To this day, she could not banish his astonished Georgie? from her mind.
For months after, she had gone through the motions of living without feeling at all alive. She and Lydia Bennet were decorated by the Prince of Wales and fêted by the ton. Lydia had taken to fame as the gods take to nectar, but for Georgiana the ordeal had been agonizing. She would never have got through it without Lydia’s support. The bond they had formed would last for all time.
Lydia’s cheerfulness notwithstanding, Georgiana had not been able to come out of her cloud. Not even the happiness of Fitzwilliam’s marriage to Elizabeth had kept the blue devils at bay.
Then a young curate came to Derbyshire to perform the clerical duties at Lambton parish when its vicar was so terribly ill, and her world was made new.
To Miss Georgiana Darcy of Pemberley, Mr. Drake Midwinter should have been nothing more than another handsome young man in a world of handsome young men. Someone she should be polite to, yet keep at a distance. But the curate was poor and without prospects, which made him quite safe, and his being related to her own parish priest justified her knowing hi
m. They spent more time together than they should have. He crept into her habitual thoughts unawares.
The better she knew him, the more she admired him. Without realizing it, her admiration grew into something much finer and quite powerful. All her resolutions to be good flew out the window.
Then one snowy December day, in the empty nave of St. Mary’s, she had actually begged him to kiss her! To compound her embarrassment, Elizabeth had seen them together.
It was not what you think, she had told Lizzy as they returned to the great house.
I do not think anything, Elizabeth had said. I wish I knew what to think. What am I to tell your brother? How could you let that young man take such a liberty, especially after—well, I will not say it.
Lizzy did not have to say it. She meant after all that had happened with Wickham, of course. Georgiana had assured her that the clergyman was nothing like George Wickham and was not to blame. Please don’t tell Fitzwilliam. I could not bear it if Mr. Midwinter lost his position because of me.
Elizabeth had demanded an explanation, and resorting to desperate measures, Georgiana had told the truth, that she had been curious as to whether all men’s kisses were as unbearable as Wickham’s.
Lizzy had burst out laughing! For some reason, it had pleased her very much to know that Wickham’s kisses were unpleasant.
Encouraged, Georgiana had told Elizabeth all. I knew I could trust Mr. Midwinter not to tell anyone or use it against me or to harbor any… expectations. I had to know if kisses generally were so objectionable or if it was Mr. Wickham’s kisses in particular that had been unsatisfactory.
I see. A general inquiry. Not that you were curious as to Mr. Midwinter’s kisses in particular? Elizabeth had looked at her dubiously, with that teasing twinkle in her eye, but she had said no more on the subject.
The doubt in Lizzy’s eyes had forced Georgiana to examine her true motives, to own to herself that she had merely used Wickham as an excuse. She had wished to kiss Mr. Midwinter.
In particular.
Well, she had got what she wanted, and more’s the pity! For it had quite soon become obvious that he did not want her. Mortifying. And so she had attempted to banish him from her mind.
This past year, Georgiana had spent more time in Town than at home, accepted far too many invitations, and drowned her feelings of abandonment in the supposed delights of the Season. Amid the entertainments and luxuries and fashionable people of London, she had pushed her memories of the kind, steadfast, and solidly handsome cleric to the back of her consciousness.
Until last month in London, when a most singular conversation unraveled all her forgetting. Georgiana and her friends were to have spent a quiet evening at home, but somehow Lord Somersea had charmed his way into her Berkeley Square drawing room. She had come downstairs to find him chatting amiably from the oversized chair near the fire where he had made himself quite comfortable, as if settled in for the night.
The marquess still showed no signs of leaving—despite her giving him several gentle hints.
At last, Lydia stood abruptly and laughed at him outright. “You do not have to go home, Kett, but you do have to go.” She rang the bell for his hat and coat.
Everybody expected Lydia to be outrageous, and to his lordship’s credit, he took her joking good-naturedly.
“I recognize marching orders when I hear them.” He stood and stretched his arms, which had the effect of directing Georgiana’s attention to his broad shoulders and muscular physique, then his thick black hair and deep brown eyes. He made her think of a panther preparing to enter a hunting ground. There was a feigned laziness about him which belied an underlying ever-alert sensibility.
“You see, Georgie?” Lydia said. “His lordship would have you believe him well trained.”
Georgiana smiled but hesitated inwardly. The friendly banter between Lydia and Lord Somersea had lately taken on an aura of familiarity which felt dangerous. It presupposed an understanding between Georgiana and the marquess which did not exist, not yet, no matter how eagerly the two seemed wish it.
She should probably find a way to like Lord Somersea in the way he obviously wished her to. He was everything a gentleman should be, and it would certainly please her family and friends were she to encourage his interest.
“By the bye, ladies, I have a surprise for you all.” Lord Somersea appeared to notice her discomfort. He turned to Gwennie. “I recall Mrs. Annesley expressing a desire to attend Astley’s Amphitheatre. I have arranged to borrow a box from a friend tomorrow night.”
“Is that not grand?” Lydia said, with no surprise at all. She must be in on the plan. “And as it happens, tomorrow we have no prior engagements.”
“How kind.” Gwennie was more cautious. She never expressed her desires without first learning whether Georgiana would approve. But Georgiana would never disapprove, as her companion so rarely desired anything for herself.
“I should be delighted if you would be my guests,” Somersea went on. “And for propriety’s sake, Lord Farley has agreed to join us.”
“That is thoughtful,” Georgiana said.
Along with Fitzwilliam, Cousin Richard was still her guardian. If he joined them in the box, it would indeed serve propriety. On the other hand, rather than stem speculation regarding herself and the Marquess of Somersea, his presence would tend to fan the flames by signaling her family’s approval of a possible match.
“Tomorrow then,” Kett said quickly, forestalling her from expressing any reservation. “I shall call for you ladies in my carriage, if you will allow it.”
“Yes, yes, Kett. Mrs. Annesley will protect us.” Lydia rolled her eyes and took hold of his arm. “Now you really must leave. Come, let me show you to the door to be sure you are truly gone.”
Georgiana reclaimed her customary place—the chair Lord Somersea had commandeered—and watched the fire. She had grown weary of Town, but she would not be able to go home until the new year as she had agreed to accompany Lydia to Hertfordshire for Christmas. For tonight, all she wanted was a quiet evening at home with her two intimate friends.
An involuntary sigh escaped her. “The room suddenly feels larger with the absence of Lydia and Lord Somersea.”
“Yes.” Gwennie looked up from her handwork, a fichu she was embroidering with delicate bluebells. “They are both the sort who fill rooms with their personalities, whether they add to the conversation or not.”
“No chance of either not adding to the conversation.” Georgiana chuckled. “But I am glad his lordship thought of the circus. I would like you to enjoy yourself more when you are in Town. I spend so much of my time here with Lydia, leaving you on your own.”
“It is the duty of an unmarried heiress in London to make herself available to the hostesses of the ton. Besides, you are young. It is right that you have a good time.”
This from a woman but four years Georgiana’s senior.
“So I have been told. But for tonight, let me call for brandy and biscuits and we’ll enjoy the quiet.”
“I would adore a brandy above all things.” Lydia returned, looking very pleased with herself. She had probably cooked up some prank to play, either with Lord Somersea or on him.
Gwennie rang the bell before Georgiana could rise from her chair. Her present companion was far more thoughtful than Mrs. Younge had ever been. What pain might have been avoided had Gwennie been with her from the beginning!
Mrs. Gwendolyn Annesley was of a genteel family of reduced circumstances known to Georgiana’s aunt, the Countess of Matlock. Cousin Richard had served with Gwennie’s husband, an officer who had died bravely at Talavera. Captain Annesley’s death had left Gwennie in a precarious way, for his commission had reverted to the Crown, leaving nothing for her to sell. She was comfortable in her present position, but would be nearly destitute should she lose it.
When she lost it, Georgiana reminded herself. A lady did not keep a companion after marriage, and she must marry one day. On that day, Georgiana w
ould surrender more than Gwennie’s companionship. She would lose all the little freedoms her present circumstance allowed, the small pleasures of living alone (more precisely, living apart from Fitzwilliam and, these past few years, Elizabeth) and having her way in the simple things.
Ordering supper dishes without reference to her brother’s tastes. Having brandy after a meal rather than coffee or tea (or loathsome ratafia). Playing the pianoforte to please herself, rather than everybody else. Spending intimate carefree evenings with her two dearest friends.
Gwennie always accompanied Georgiana to London, and Lydia stayed at Darcy House as well when she was in Town. Georgiana loved them both. It was so cozy, just the three of them—and there was never risk of boredom, for Lydia was a treasure trove of diverting stories. She was no longer a spy, but she had retained her talent for finding things out.
“I have had a capital idea,” she said now. “When we see Lord Farley tomorrow, we should ask him to come to Hertfordshire for Christmas. He would like that, I think, as Carley will be there.”
Carleton Quartermaine was Georgiana’s cousin, the son of Lady Catherine’s dead husband’s dead sister. Growing up, none of the Derbyshire family had known of his existence. He and Cousin Richard discovered their relationship when Carley saved Richard’s life while they were both serving in the army.
Then Carley fell head over heels for Mary Bennet, one of Lydia’s sisters, when he saw her at the Bennets’ tea shop in Hertfordshire. Everybody said Mary used to be very serious and prim, but Georgiana could hardly believe it. She was certainly prim no longer!
Love must bring out the wonderful things inside a person.
“That is a very good idea. We will need an escort on the journey to Meryton.”
“Caroline Bingley will be there also,” Lydia said innocently.
Gwennie stopped her embroidering. “I thought you did not approve of Miss Bingley.”
“At one time I did not.” Lydia made a face. “But upon knowing her better, I better understand her.”
“She did make your tea shop possible,” Georgiana said.
