Elizabeth had the uneasy feeling he was concealing something. “I am happy to hear it,” she said nonetheless.
There was a long pause. Words eluded her. Elizabeth wished to express her appreciation, but Mr. Darcy seemed uncomfortable enough. Should she speak about the weather or inquire after Georgiana?
Mr. Darcy fiddled with the end of his walking stick, drawing Elizabeth’s eyes to his hands, which seemed to betray some kind of nervousness. “I had a favor to ask of you if you are willing to undertake it,” Mr. Darcy said finally. A favor? She was almost too shocked to speak. Instead, she nodded for him to continue.
Mr. Darcy took a deep breath and went on. “You know my sister will be making her debut at the start of this Season. She is quite nervous about the process—well, ‘terrified’ might be a more apt description. My aunt, while an excellent judge of fabrics and a wonderful hostess, does not always understand Georgiana’s reservations. I think Georgiana would benefit during this time from the assistance of a friend closer to her age. I was hoping you would be willing to be that friend.” His eyes rose from the walking stick to meet hers with an almost pleading look.
It was quite the longest speech Elizabeth had ever heard from Mr. Darcy; to say she was astonished would be an understatement. She believed he disapproved of her, if not actively disliked her. Now, in the space of five minutes, he had given her two incontrovertible indications that he did not disapprove of her. In fact, he appeared to hold her in some esteem.
Elizabeth felt a little dizzy as she struggled to reorient herself to this new understanding of the world. It was like suddenly discovering the sky was green.
Mr. Darcy was watching her intently, awaiting her response. The intensity of his gaze made her blush, and she needed to look at the wall to regain her composure. “I thank you. You honor me with your trust.” She took a deep breath and turned to face him again. “However, I did not have much thought of remaining in London very long.” Did his face seem to fall at her words?
“Not in London?” he echoed, as if he could not quite comprehend her meaning.
“London is not my home, after all.” Mr. Darcy almost seemed to wince. How odd! “I have been living here awaiting my wedding to Richard.” She hastily swallowed the lump in her throat. “By all rights, I should have returned to Longbourn immediately after his p-passing, but I had matters of business.” She blinked rapidly to keep tears from falling. “And truthfully, I needed time to grieve apart from the uproar my family sometimes creates.”
“But surely you will not return to Longbourn permanently!” He seemed appalled at the suggestion.
She gave him a small smile, which helped to fend off the threatened tears. “I miss my family, and Jane’s time draws near. I will certainly return to Hertfordshire soon. Jane has invited me to live permanently at Netherfield with her and Charles.” A deep furrow appeared between Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows. “I confess the idea has its appeal. I can be the maiden aunt—giving her children their lessons and teaching them to play the pianoforte very ill.”
She smiled at her jest, but Mr. Darcy did not. He actually appeared stunned by this vision of her future. “You do not plan to return to London?” His voice was rather strangled.
She shrugged. “I do not particularly care for London. I always enjoy its diversions for a time, but soon I long for the fresh air and fields of the country.” Then she recognized the origin of his distress. “This does not lessen the value of your efforts on my behalf! The house will be of great use. Should my father pass away soon ,… my mother will need assistance. The townhouse will fetch a good price…”
Her words petered out as she noticed the thunderous look on Mr. Darcy’s face. Did he disapprove of a plan to sell the house? “You take excellent care of your family.” His words were complimentary, but his tone was severe.
“I do what a daughter must,” she said lightly.
“No, there are many who do not fulfill their family obligations nearly so well. Your parents are most fortunate.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, thinking she must add this conversation to her list of things she did not understand about Mr. Darcy.
“I hope you will not entirely deny yourself the pleasures of London.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was strained, almost pleading. “If you find yourself in Town in the coming months, I hope you will consider assisting Georgiana in her preparations.”
“Indeed, there are few things which would give me more pleasure, but I cannot make a promise under the circumstances.” Elizabeth almost felt guilty for disappointing the man, a most odd sensation.
“If you are here at the start of the Season, you must at least attend Georgiana’s come out ball.” He said this most insistently; this was a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.
“I cannot imagine the earl and countess would welcome me to that event,” Elizabeth demurred. This was another good reason not to participate in Georgiana’s coming out preparations, but Elizabeth had been reluctant to share it.
“Georgiana and I would, and that is enough.” Darcy’s mouth was set in a firm line.
“I thank you for the honor of the invitation. I will attend if it is possible.”
“That is all I can ask.” With this cryptic remark, Mr. Darcy stood, made a small bow, wished her well, and quit her company.
Elizabeth sat alone for a moment, reviewing all that had passed between them. “Whenever I believe I understand the man, he confounds me once again!” Elizabeth said to the empty room. “It is most vexing!”
***
By the time Darcy had arrived at his townhouse, his thoughts were in a frenzy. “Leave London! Live at Netherfield?” he muttered to himself as he strode into the Darcy House entrance hall. He ignored a sidelong glance from his footman and stalked toward his study.
When Darcy had conceived the scheme to ask Elizabeth’s help with Georgiana’s debut, he had recognized how it would benefit his sister. However, he was not unaware of the advantages of having Elizabeth as a regular guest at Darcy House. Despite vowing to avoid her company, he could not resist the comfort of seeing her frequently and knowing she was well. And if he should sometimes encounter her at tea or dinner … well, that was simply an accident of fate.
It had never occurred to him that Elizabeth would return to Hertfordshire at all, let alone that she would leave so soon. “You are a fool.” he muttered to himself as he threw his body into a chair by the fireplace. He ran both hands through his hair, disordering it completely. “A fool!”
Darcy had known her father was ill and her sister was expecting, yet somehow the inevitable conclusion had escaped him. He could never expect more than friendship from Elizabeth, but he had allowed himself to envision a future in which she was a frequent presence in their lives. Such a future would not come about if she resided with the Bingleys—living like a poor relation when she had the means to maintain her own household. Darcy pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. “Netherfield!” It emerged like an oath.
If she lived at Netherfield, he would only see her once a year, if that. The thought made his chest tight.
Yes, Elizabeth would need to be with Mrs. Bingley for the birth of her child. But surely she could return to London after a month or so? Darcy’s teeth ground together as he envisioned Elizabeth’s future devoted to sacrifice and caring for others’ needs.
Standing, Darcy paced the length of the room. He must entice her back to London for her own sake. At least here she was free from her family’s demands. If he could have her return for at least part of Georgiana’s preparations … perhaps she would change her mind about London.
But how to entice her? He had pressed the point as much as propriety permitted. Any further words on the subject would risk revealing too much.
However … a corner of Darcy’s mouth curved upward. Elizabeth might listen to pleas from another quarter. In fact, she might find another’s arguments more difficult to refuse. He had not yet mentioned the possibility of Elizabeth’s assistance to his sister,
but he knew she would welcome the idea.
He rang for a footman. When Jenkins opened the door, Darcy commanded, “Please ask Georgiana to join me.”
Chapter 9
Darcy lifted the brandy decanter and started pouring before realizing it was empty. With an oath, he slammed the decanter down and grabbed the bottle of port beside it. He eyed the liquid suspiciously. Would there be enough?
He poured a healthy measure of port into his glass and took a swallow, relishing the burn at the back of his throat. Ah, that was what he needed. He staggered to the chair next to the fireplace and slumped into it. The damn cravat was choking him, so he tugged at the knot until the strip of cloth hung loosely around his neck. He had already divested himself of his waistcoat. The London weather was unseasonably warm for November, and the brandy had warmed him further.
The port slid smoothly over his tongue. Perhaps only a little more was necessary to achieve his goal: oblivion. And oblivion was essential. This morning at breakfast, Georgiana had announced that Elizabeth was in town and would be arriving for a visit in the afternoon.
Darcy had not seen Elizabeth since that awful visit in July when she had informed him of her plans to return to Hertfordshire. He still shuddered at the memory. With Darcy’s prompting, Georgiana had secured Elizabeth’s promise to assist with some of the preparations for the come out. He had known Elizabeth would be unable to refuse his sister when the debut so clearly frightened her. Of course, the preparations had only recently begun in earnest.
During Elizabeth’s first visit to London in October, Darcy had managed to visit Pemberley, but now business required him to remain in the city. An encounter with Elizabeth was inevitable—if not tonight, then soon. But he was unprepared. He had exerted great effort to ensure Elizabeth’s continued contact with his family … and he longed to see her but knew he should not. For months, the day when he would again see Elizabeth had loomed large in his imagination, creating a sickening combination of desire and dread.
Each time he had pictured their reunion, he experienced again the fear that he would not be strong enough to restrain his desire. Then he would be overcome by the self-loathing that accompanied lusting after his dead cousin’s fiancée. The cycle was depressingly familiar to him.
Darcy snorted at that thought and drank deeply.
Now, deep in his cups, he realized lust was not an accurate description. Lust would be simple; the needs of the body he could control. His dilemma was that he was in love with his dead cousin’s fiancée. If he would own the problem, he should at least own the enormity of it.
Darcy had survived three months without careening off to Longbourn to kneel at Elizabeth’s feet and declare his love. But it had been a near thing once or twice. Occasionally, he had permitted himself the fantasy.
However, even if—by some miracle—she agreed to accept his hand, he would be betraying Richard’s memory in the most fundamental way imaginable. While it was simple to picture Elizabeth in his bed and as mistress of Pemberley—in fact, he had difficulty banishing such visions—he could not possibly envision living with the guilt. No, it was impossible. Richard would forever stand between them.
Ironically, it was at such times that Darcy missed his cousin most acutely. Richard had been the only one to whom Darcy had ever confided his deepest thoughts and feelings. At every turning point in his life, Darcy had relied on his cousin’s advice. Darcy could easily picture himself discussing his dilemma with his cousin, if the source of his troubles were anyone other than Richard’s betrothed. Richard’s absence felt as if someone had cut off one of Darcy’s limbs. In the back of his mind, he was aware that something was missing every minute of every day.
Darcy tossed off the remaining port and staggered to his desk to refill his glass. The drinking was a short-term solution at best. He had repaired to his study for the purpose of avoiding Elizabeth. At least in this condition, he would never surrender to the voice reminding him Elizabeth was in his drawing room visiting his sister—and urging him to stride down the hall to join them. No impulse was stronger than his fear of saying something to make a fool of himself.
Like suggesting that he was in love with her.
No, better that she believed he avoided her because he disliked her.
Unbidden, he recalled a conversation he had overheard between Georgiana and his Aunt Rachel two days previous. His harsh words over the summer had prevented his aunt from attempting matchmaking again. But he had heard her asking Georgiana if her brother had a mistress, something no one should be discussing with a girl of that age. His aunt must be desperate. Far from being shocked, Georgiana had merely responded thoughtfully that she did not believe so.
Then his aunt had the impertinence to inquire if Darcy was in love with a married woman! Apparently, she was exceedingly determined to ferret out the reason he had declared he would never marry. Georgiana had denied that supposition as well. Darcy supposed he should be grateful that neither woman suspected the truth, but the conversation had not improved his present mood.
Despite his defiant words to his aunt, Darcy did wish to marry. He had always imagined bringing a wife home to Pemberley and raising a family. However, he could not envision marrying anyone other than Elizabeth. Nor could he envision marrying Elizabeth.
Damned if you do, damned if you do not.
Just damned.
However, either he or Georgiana needed to produce heirs for Pemberley. He could not stomach the thought of it falling into the hands of a distant cousin he barely knew. If Georgiana were disinclined to marry, Darcy would not require it of her. Should it come to that, perhaps he could find a respectable woman who would understand he was incapable of loving her. They could lead separate lives and rarely see each other.
The thought threatened to make him vomit.
Or perhaps it was the port.
The room spun in lazy circles around him while his arms and legs felt unusually heavy. At least now he was sufficiently foxed. Even if he could walk without falling, his pride would forbid him from allowing anyone, even Georgiana, from observing him in this state. He was safe from any foolish impulses to visit Elizabeth.
He stared out the window at the rapidly descending dusk and the rain pounding against the glass. At least he had accomplished his mission for the day. With that thought, he rested his head on his desk and fell asleep.
***
Upon awaking, he noticed that the unconsumed port had spilled and stained the right sleeve of his shirt, so he smelled even more like a distillery than before. Outside the window, the day had turned to night, and rain was pounding against the glass. He had slept longer than he expected.
He stood cautiously, holding onto the desk for support. The room was no longer spinning, but it still swayed like the deck of a ship during a storm.
Experimentally, he released the desk and was inordinately pleased he could stand without support. Perhaps he could walk under his own power as well. At least he had slept through the danger of Elizabeth’s visit. Georgiana had undoubtedly already retired for the night as well. No one would be about, except perhaps a few servants, whom he could easily avoid.
He stepped carefully to the study door, placing each foot precisely in front of the other to increase his chances of remaining upright. As he opened the door, he reflected on the need for a different strategy to handle Elizabeth’s presence in London. While daily drinking held a certain appeal, it would create many other problems. Avoidance was the best solution but would be almost impossible if Elizabeth were a daily visitor.
Perhaps he could suggest to Georgiana that they meet at Elizabeth’s townhouse—or even Matlock House. Or maybe he could devise a reason to visit Pemberley, although with Georgiana’s coming out ball approaching, he could not stay away for long.
One hand trailing along the wall for balance, Darcy struggled down the corridor that led to the back stairs and the blessed sanctuary of his bed chamber.
Too late Darcy, discerned the whisper of light footst
eps on the back stairs, the sound of leather soles too fine to be servants’ boots. Georgiana! He drew back from the foot of the stairs, hoping she would be too distracted by her own thoughts to notice his current disordered state. His cheeks flushed with shame; he never wanted her to see him like this.
He did not look up until she was nearing the bottom step. “Geor—”
The words died of dismay on his lips. It was Elizabeth!
Despite his horror, his eyes drank in the sight of her like a man needing water in the desert. Her dark curls framed the porcelain skin of her face, which had a bit more color and fullness than three months previous. Although still quite slender, she appeared to have gained back some of the weight she had lost following Richard’s death. In the dimness, her blue eyes were nearly black and bottomless, capable of uncovering his every secret and fault.
Unfortunately, many of his faults were on display.
He might as well be naked. With no coat or waistcoat and his cravat hanging around his neck, he resembled a wastrel returning from a night at the pub. Darcy swallowed, trying to think of something to say which might save this situation. But his thoughts had turned to mud, and his tongue was thick and unresponsive in his mouth.
Elizabeth appeared slightly less shocked to see him, but one could reasonably expect the master of the house to traverse his own corridors. Her eyes widened as she noticed his disheveled state. She nodded a greeting. “Mr. Darcy.” Was she smirking at him?
His brain and tongue immediately had a disagreement about how to address her. “Eliza—Mish--Elizamish Bennet Miss!”
Good Lord! What a disaster. He should give up speaking altogether. Yes, a vow of silence! That would save his dignity.
Panic stricken, his eyes shot to Elizabeth’s face. She appeared bemused but not horrified.
The silence dragged on between them. Say something, anything!
“Is it still … that is … raining?” His tongue was thick and uncoordinated.
Pride and Proposals Page 9
