“But Jimmy Swain?” Fitz said, with more emotion in his voice than he intended. “I had thought you sharper than that.”
“Oh yes?” she said, her tone a remarkable mimic of Fitz’s at his most disdainful. “He proposed marriage, you see.”
“But how are you? Are you—well?”
“Do you mean have I permitted him to afflict me with the same ailment he suffers from? No, I am indeed sharper than that.” She laughed with unforced gaiety and twirled before him, managing not to jostle anyone in the crowd of would-be dancers and seekers of refreshments. “What do you think? Will I make a good peeress?”
“Better than most,” Fitz said. “Assuming your husband outlives his father.”
Lydia shrugged. “Anything’s possible. At least I shall have the perquisites of the future Lady Swain while I’m still young enough to enjoy them.”
Fitz was regretting his rash impulse to renew old acquaintance. “You know, Lydia—Mrs. Swain—a peeress, even the daughter-in-law of a peeress, ought not to speak quite so freely in public.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said, smirking at him. “When I next find myself in public, I will remember all your kind instructions on the subject.”
“You do not consider this a public place?”
“Lady Finchley’s? Lord, you have been out of town a good while. Nothing I’ve said here is any worse than what everyone else is saying. In fact, if I were you, I should worry what people are saying about me.”
“Mr. Darcy.” Lady Finchley came gliding through the crowd that parted to make way for her. “I think this is our dance.”
Fitz bowed dismissal to Lydia and stepped eagerly forward. “Thank you for the rescue,” he said to Caro as the music started up. “That was becoming unpleasant.”
“Lydia Swain?” Lady Finchley said. “Since when can Fitzwilliam Darcy not untangle himself from the wiles of a Cyprian?”
“Since she became an anticipated peeress,” Fitz answered. “She seems frighteningly self-assured by the transformation.”
Lady Finchley smiled. “As she should. It’s a good match for her, despite the disadvantages.”
“So she was telling me,” Fitz said. “It’s a pity such a great improvement in her circumstances has to entail such risk.”
“Well, Fitz,” Lady Finchley said. “You weren’t going to marry her, were you?”
“Of course not. How could I? Why would I?”
“Why indeed? No gentleman of property who needs an heir will marry a woman like her. Call her Cyprian or High Impure or what you will, she’s still a whore as the world sees it, no matter how exalted her patrons.”
“Your meaning?” Fitz asked.
“Only that Jimmy Swain, with his sorry state of health, had but this one chance of a little happiness and he took it. He pays for her clothes and her carriage and her jewels—and her lovers—so that he can hold his head up in the world and pretend, even if everyone knows it’s a sham, that he’s as capable of keeping a pretty young wife as any man. Lydia allows him every liberty of a husband but one—what he most wants, a child to carry on the name.”
Fitz grimaced at the plain speaking. He had forgotten just how frankly and coarsely people spoke in town, especially of those they deemed their inferiors, either by birth or by luck. He concentrated for a while on the steps of the dance, watching Caro’s large breasts that gleamed like ivory globes in the light of a hundred candelabra. She was strapped so tightly into her revealing gown that the vast expanses of soft flesh were given the illusion of firmness, like the rinds of the melons they resembled in size. They barely so much as jiggled, even in the vigorous motion of the reel.
Lady Finchley saw the direction of Fitz’s gaze and shook her head. “I ought to be flattered. But I doubt you really want to board this old wreck again.”
Fitz smiled, abashed, feeling more than ever like a precocious schoolboy who had scraped together the price of his first visit to a brothel and had no idea what to do next. “I’m sorry, my lady. But—”
“No apologies, Fitz. And please go on calling me Caro. Made me feel quite young again. Know I must seem a worn-out jade to you young stallions, but there’s life in me yet. And pardon the jumbled images, but I’ve a bigger fish on my line.”
“Don’t speak of yourself that way—Caro,” Fitz expostulated with forced politeness. “I have only the fondest memories of a beautiful, generous lady who gave a young, very innocent man the most glorious year of his life.”
Lady Finchley laughed at that, snorting in her gruff, aristocratic manner, but looking pleased all the same.
Thankfully the set came to its eventual end and he took the chance to move away. In the interval while the musicians rested there was a growing hubbub of conversation. Over the bowing heads and curtsies Fitz saw a handsome, well-preserved gentleman of fifty sauntering through the crowd like royalty. The man arrived within a few feet of Fitz and gave a slight inclination of the head. “Darcy?” he said. “Lady Finchley mentioned you might put in an appearance. How are you?”
Fitz bowed from the waist, just the right angle required for one of the highest peers of the realm. “Very well, Coverdale, I thank you,” he said. “I hope you are well. And how are your sons?”
“Still younger than you, Darcy,” the seventh Duke of Coverdale replied, his dry voice turning the most innocuous phrase into a witticism. “I hear your sister is ready to enter society.”
“Not quite,” Fitz said. “Georgiana is only just sixteen. I’m assisting her in setting up her own establishment.”
“Excellent. Does Miss Darcy attend private functions? Alex is giving a small supper and card party next month to mark his coming of age and accession to the title of Marquess of Bellingham. Perhaps he can send her an invitation.”
“I’m sure Georgie would be delighted to attend Lord Bellingham’s affair,” Fitz answered. “As would I.”
“Oh, Alex won’t do anything to arouse a brother’s apprehensions,” Coverdale said. “Miss Darcy’s companion will of course be made welcome. But I’ll warn Alex not to propose marriage on the first visit. Good to see you, Darcy.” He moved on, accepting the accolades and the pleas of the crowd as if he had won a great battle or could dispense justice single-handed, Fitz thought with scorn. Yet the man was gracious, polite, patient with everyone who accosted him. He listened to old ladies’ encomiums on their debutante granddaughters and to various inebriated men’s accounts of their victories over wayward women, unlucky hands of cards, and corked bottles of claret with equal dispassion and forbearance.
He was a true aristocrat, Fitz decided. Noble by birth and breeding. And that business about Georgie was typical. Wealthy she might be by ordinary standards, but Coverdale would be looking higher than a commoner’s daughter for his elder son and heir. He must simply have wanted to ease the way for a shy young lady on her first forays outside the schoolroom.
Coverdale approached his hostess and smiled, bowing deeply. “Our dance?” he said, holding out his hand.
“Your Grace,” Lady Finchley replied, curtsying with surprising agility and giving the honorific, vaguely improper when coming from a lady of the duke’s social sphere, a loving intonation that softened any sting of irony.
Fitz watched as they went through the figures, smiling into each other’s eyes throughout the intricate steps and turns. Bigger fish, indeed. Both widowed, fewer than ten years apart in age, they were well matched and, it seemed, genuinely in love.
He need not fear a resumption of that old attachment, whether he wished it or not. A large, buxom blonde, almost old enough to be his mother, was hardly his ideal. Yet Caro’s kindness would have been most welcome in his present mood. He scanned the crowd, feeling a strange mix of relief and regret. Perhaps Lydia, he thought. What had she confessed, and Caro corroborated? That she was always careful. If that was true, he might take the chance of seeing if she was interested in rehearsing the past…
Fitz saw her skip by, partnered by none other than the same Ric
hard Carrington who had, only a year ago, been known as Caro’s latest recruit. Apparently young Carrington had passed his training exercises with flying colors and been promoted out of the ranks to earn his own command. Richard and Lydia, while not as tender as the older couple, were every bit as intimate. Lydia’s gown, cut in a flowing style appropriate for a younger lady, did not rein in her flesh so tightly. Her full, shapely breasts rose and fell as she danced, until Fitz was in danger of being mesmerized. He blinked several times and headed for the door. There was nothing to be gained here, nothing except a most exasperating wish to see not quite so much exposed flesh of a rather more slender form, a delicate face with a pair of dark, expressive eyes, and to hear a clear, sweet voice saying that Mr. Darcy was not to be laughed at. Oh, to hear her laugh at him, what joy that would be.
He scowled at his ridiculous thoughts and took his leave.
ALL WAS QUIET when Fitz entered his house and locked the door behind him. He never liked making servants wait up, especially when he might not be home until late, or the next morning…
Charles was sound asleep, surprising in one who took no exercise and rarely ventured outside, and who seemed to dream away the days in a dormant state. The slight noise of the door opening and Fitz’s careful footsteps did not rouse him so much as one degree above total oblivion; he lay in his usual position, curled on his side, his shirt hiked up conveniently around his waist, and he barely stirred as Fitz undressed and slipped in beside him. Furtive as a twelve-year-old boy, Fitz spat on his hands and began a gentle but purposeful massage of Charles’s bum-hole. By the time Charles woke to a sense of what was happening, Fitz was already inside.
“God, Fitz, you do need a bath,” Charles said. “Can’t you let a man sleep in peace?”
“Hush,” Fitz whispered, kissing Charles’s neck, unable to waste effort on complicated speech. “I want my own sleep too, you know.”
“Then why don’t you try sleeping,” Charles said, “instead of—” He was silenced by Fitz’s massive and forceful explosion inside him. He whimpered, lay still, and let Fitz finish.
“I take it the ladies were unreceptive,” Charles said a few minutes later.
“What?” Fitz murmured, well on the way to blissful unconsciousness.
“At the ball,” Charles said. “Had to come home and abuse me instead.”
“Don’t be silly,” Fitz said. “Just didn’t see anyone I wanted half as much as you.”
“That’s a shame,” Charles said. “Because I don’t appreciate being treated like your neglected wife, at your disposal any time of day or night, whether or not I’m feeling well, or in the mood—”
“Please, Charles,” Fitz said. “Let’s discuss this in the morning.”
“Very well,” Charles said. He sat up and threw off the covers, exposing Fitz’s naked, sweat-dampened flesh to the drafty air.
“Damn it!” Fitz exclaimed. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I prefer to sleep alone,” Charles said. “If you don’t want to talk to me now, please go to your own room.”
Fitz groaned and sat up. “You’re worse than a greensick girl with the vapors.”
“And you wonder why the ladies aren’t accommodating,” Charles said. “You make Henry VIII seem a model of gentlemanly behavior.”
“I begin to have a new appreciation for the chopping block,” Fitz said, gathering up his clothes. “I beg your pardon, Miss Anne Boleyn, for disturbing your chaste slumbers.” He stumbled wearily to his room and fell into bed, jamming his long legs under the tightly tucked sheet and kicking the corners loose.
CHARLES STAGGERED INTO breakfast when Fitz was done with his meal and perusing the morning paper. Georgiana was not yet down. “You know, Fitz, I don’t wish to be ungrateful, but I think perhaps I should consider removing to Hurst’s establishment.”
“For goodness’ sake, Charles.” Fitz lowered the paper and observed his friend more closely where he sat huddled like a whipped schoolboy, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed steadfastly on his plate. “How I miss my old shooting partner.”
“Who do you mean?”
“He was a cheerful, friendly soul, the perfect companion for a walk in the country. No finer way to spend a morning, with convivial masculine conversation, a dog, and a shotgun, bag a few birds…Haven’t seen him lately.” Fitz leaned back in his chair, observing a point a couple of inches above Charles’s bowed head.
“If that’s what you want, you should have stayed in Hertfordshire. No partridges or pheasants in town.”
Fitz laughed. “There’s more than one way of hunting, my dear, and many varieties of quarry to flush. Used to have a good friend for that, name of Charles Bingley. Wonder whatever became of him.”
“Oh, I see. I’m not cheerful anymore, Fitz. And that sort of ‘shooting’ doesn’t appeal to me now.” Charles continued to ignore his breakfast, like a monk at the refectory listening patiently to the long grace and awaiting the signal to eat, the boiled egg congealing in its cup and the rasher of bacon cold and shriveled.
“We made a good pair, though, didn’t we, before all this foolishness started?” Fitz said in his purring, seductive voice.
“It’s not foolish,” Charles said. “Love is not like bagging birds.”
“Perhaps not,” Fitz said. “But finding love is.” He stood up and moved to Charles’s side, brushing his stubbled cheek with the back of his knuckles. Too tired even to shave. At least that made Charles raise his head, although he quickly dropped his eyes to his lap again like a shy country maid. “You must make a bit of an effort, my dear. I could help you, be your pointer, and start the birds for you to take.”
Charles held Fitz’s hand, keeping it on his cheek. “That’s kind of you, Fitz. You’ve always been a good friend. And yes, we did have some pleasant times.” He sighed, let go of Fitz’s hand, and stabbed at the egg with his spoon. “If I stay here will I have to lock my door at night?”
“There’s no need for that. I won’t trespass again.”
“Do you promise, Fitz?”
“Damn it, Charles, I have just said so. Don’t turn everything into a gothic novel.”
“Well, in that case, Fitz, yes, thank you, I would prefer to stay here. At least you don’t rant on and on at a fellow about how provincial and dreary everything was at Netherfield. And you don’t dragoon me into day-long shopping trips to Bond Street or insist I ingratiate myself with fearsome old ladies I don’t know in the hopes they’ll be persuaded to confer invitations to Almack’s Assembly Rooms.”
“You see,” Fitz said, smiling, “I do have some good qualities after all.”
“I never said you didn’t,” Charles said. “You’re the best of good fellows.”
“Not to spoil the sterling character you gave me,” Fitz said, “but it so happens I have vouchers for Almack’s and I was hoping you would accompany me some evening. It’s not really a safe venue for one eligible bachelor alone. No meddling sisters, just you and me, a well-matched team as we used to be. I’ll beat the coverts and drive the plump ones to you. What do you say?”
Charles didn’t answer directly. “Sometimes I wonder if she couldn’t come to town. She has relations here, you know, an aunt and uncle. I don’t see why she couldn’t visit them, if only for a week or two.”
Fitz almost gasped at the articulation of his deepest fears. “Who?” he said, hoping somehow that he had misheard, or that Charles had meant something else—someone else.
“Miss Bennet, of course.”
“Why would she do that?” Fitz said when he could speak. “She’d have to stay in the City where her tradesman of an uncle lives, probably above his warehouse. He’d undoubtedly resent the expense of another mouth to feed when there’s no chance of her catching a rich husband. It’s not as if she’d be close enough to fashionable people to call on them or to attend functions in society.”
“God, you’re cruel,” Charles said. “Don’t you have any compassion?”
Fitz shrugg
ed. “The poor are always with us,” he murmured. “I can’t claim to be a saint, but I do my share of charitable work at home.”
“I’m sorry, Fitz. I don’t imagine I’ll be good company for you at Almack’s. There’s only one lady I want, and I can’t see the point of looking at others.” Charles laid his spoon down. “Do you know, Fitz, I’m too tired to eat. I think maybe I’ll have a nap, make up for my interrupted night.”
Charles climbed the stairs slowly, moving like a man three times his age, head lowered to avoid a misstep and not watching where he was going. He nearly bumped into Georgiana on her way down.
“Mr. Bingley!” Georgiana Darcy said. “Are you quite well?”
“No, Miss Darcy,” Charles answered in piteous tones. “I was just telling Fitz that I think I must keep to my bed.”
“Good morning, Fitz,” Georgiana greeted her brother with a small, formal curtsy and took her place at the table. “Is Mr. Bingley unwell?”
“It’s nothing serious,” Fitz said. “But I hope you won’t mind looking in on him occasionally.”
“Of course not, Fitz. He’s your friend, and I would like to think he’s my friend, too.”
“That’s right,” Fitz said. “You’re a good girl, Georgie.” He lingered in the doorway as she tucked into her egg and toast. “You will be gratified to hear that the Duke of Coverdale expressly asked you to be one of a select few to celebrate his elder son’s coming into his title of Marquess of Bellingham next month.”
“Oh, Fitz! I hope you told him I am not yet out.” Georgiana’s face held the same expression, rigid with terror, that Fitz remembered from her first pony ride, more than a decade ago. Right before she fell off and refused to try again for almost a twelvemonth.
“I did no such thing,” Fitz said. “It is not a ball, merely a card party. Mrs. Annesley has assured me many times of your readiness to take the place for which birth and education have fitted you.”
“But Bellingham! All the ladies are swooning over his exceptional beauty—or so I have heard. I won’t know what to say!”
Ann Herendeen Page 9
