Haunting Mr. Darcy

by KaraLynne Mackrory

  Also by KARALYNNE MACKRORY

  FALLING FOR MR. DARCY

  BLUEBELLS IN THE MOURNING

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  HAUNTING MR. DARCY

  Copyright © 2014 by KaraLynne Mackrory

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information: P.O. Box 34, Oysterville WA 98641

  ISBN: 978-1-936009-35-0

  Graphic design by Ellen Pickels

  Acknowledgments

  I never imagined I would write a novel, let alone a few. However I know all these words would still be locked inside if not for the encouragement of a great many people.

  Meryton Press gave their unparalleled trust in my stories and lent me the confidence to claim the title “author.” Profound thanks to Michele Reed, Ellen Pickels and the rest of the team for taking a risk and casting their lots with me again.

  My editor, Christina Boyd, deserves my fanciest shmanciest thanks for fixing, all, my, grammar, issues. Her ability to tweak the sentence or coax a scene made my writing seem so much better, and her faith in this story made it come alive.

  Gratitude must also be given to my kids, who never complained once about having to watch a movie (wahoo!) or suffering pizza for dinner (yippee!) or even being asked to endure it multiple times (Mom’s the best!) while I wrote this book. My son once asked me if, in my books, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet always (insert nine-year-old boy exasperation) end up together. Yes, darling, they always do.

  Lastly, a devoted thanks to my girl Miss Austen. I don’t claim to match her abilities or her talents. I simply love her stories enough to want to try.

  Dedication

  A long time ago in a college far, far away, my heart met its other half and has been beating fiercely ever since. I love you, Andy.

  Chapter 1

  The deep, resounding thwack of the study door closing with exaggerated force caused Fitzwilliam Darcy to wince. In his agitation, he had swung it harder than necessary, and now the ache in his head intensified like an echo of pain inside his skull. With a restlessness that had built in him over the past few weeks, he impatiently pulled at his cravat, doing considerable damage to the fine silk before he twisted it into a ball, ready to lob it across the room.

  “Aggh!” Darcy expelled as his muscles stretched and fulfilled their master’s command, tossing the garment into the air. The light silk unraveled and spun slightly, twisting and turning like the mesmerizing dance of a fire, before floating harmlessly to the floor mere feet from him. Laughing humorlessly, Darcy sighed. “A fine metaphor, I should say.”

  He walked the short distance, picked up the garment again, and stood looking at it. He had returned from yet another insipid London ball, and like the others he had uncharacteristically attended in the recent weeks since his return from Hertfordshire, he had extended himself so far as to participate in the festivities: dancing, engaging partners in conversation — all of it. All of it in an attempt to purge a certain lady from his thoughts, a certain lady he had met a few weeks before with his friend Charles Bingley at Netherfield. Like the anguished and impassioned discard of his cravat, all his efforts to disengage her from his thoughts by thrusting himself into society came floating down, spinning to naught — spinning away all his energized activity to settle her right back into his thoughts and heart without any real change.

  Darcy’s hand holding the crumpled silk fell to his side as he walked to the sofa near the wall. His legs folded, his shoulders slumped, and his hands came to create a nest for his head. For a while, he sat there holding the cravat to his face and attempted to calm himself and halt his developing megrim. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had bewitched him, and even after escaping her charms by following Bingley to London after the Netherfield ball, he had yet to forget her. So very easily, he could recall the soft brilliance of her skin and the beautifully contrasting dark hue of her curls. It was an intriguing brown — so dark, it could almost be called black — and yet when the sun lit it, it was clearly a warm, delicious coffee with slight hazelnut highlights that hid at her temples. Her hair, he imagined, was as soft as the silk in his hands.

  Darcy lifted his head to look at the cravat again. Slowly, he brought the silk to his cheek, imagining he held her mass of hair to his face; inhaling her scent, a unique vanilla-lavender blend. Instead, the smell of lemons and sandalwood taunted his senses — his own cologne mocking him, a fair reminder he was yet again playing the part of the fool. With a frustrated groan, he pulled his hand away, shaking his head as he collapsed against the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

  This is utterly ridiculous! Why can I not purge myself of this . . . this . . . obsession! Darcy groaned again, knowing with certainty it was more than an obsession but not quite prepared to admit it aloud. He still had faith that he was not in such danger as to make redemption impossible. He could liberate himself and forget Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He could and he would. And once he did, he would be better off for it. Again, he reminded himself that she only need serve as an example, a template. He could take the traits and charms that had him so spellbound and simply find them in another, more suitable lady.

  He forced his thoughts back to the ball from which he had recently returned. There were many handsome women there — all from the correct station in life, with connections and wealth to make a most proper Mrs. Darcy.

  Darcy thought back to his dance with Miss Dennis at the ball. She had intrigued him with her dark hair and light complexion. He allowed himself to admit that she almost resembled Elizabeth and that it was one of the reasons he had asked her to dance. His choice based on her resemblance to Elizabeth was purposeful, he told himself, because if he were to find Miss Bennet’s replacement, he ought at least to be attracted to the lady.

  They took their places in the set, and Darcy reminded himself of his purpose in attending that evening. Looking across at his partner, he attempted a congenial smile. She properly blushed and returned a slight smile of her own. She was a pretty woman, despite her brown eyes that were not quite right, he told himself. He thought that perhaps dark chocolate brown eyes with little flecks of gold would suit her better. And if she could just have a slight dimple on her left cheek that appeared, teasingly, when she smiled, she could be called very handsome, indeed. Suddenly, Darcy had stiffened, his face falling into a stern frown. He realized once again that he was trying to make this lady into Elizabeth instead of finding a lady to replace her in his thoughts.

  He saw that his sudden change of expression discomposed Miss Dennis, for she quickly lowered her head, taking her gaze with her. The music started, and they began the simple movements of the dance. Darcy knew he ought to make amends for his boorish behavior just then and searched his mind for something to say.

  His lip twitched with humor as he said, “I believe we must have some conversation, Miss Dennis.”

  She smiled, and assured him that whatever he wished to be said should be said. The pattern separated them for a moment, and when next he was upon her, he mentioned the elegance of the dance.

  “Indeed, it is lovely, sir.”

  Darcy sighed and looked away as the gentlemen circled right. When next they met, that same wicked humor struck him again, and without fully realizing it, he attempted to relive his dance with Miss Bennet at Netherfield and said, “It is your turn to say something now, Miss Dennis. I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room or the number of couples.”

  His partner seemed startled, and instead o
f replying with a witty rejoinder as he had hoped, she fell silent and her face paled. Sighing once again, Darcy attempted an apology and explanation when next they faced each other, joining hands for the allemande.

  “Forgive me, Miss Dennis, for my poor attempt at humor. I did not intend to give you discomfort.”

  He barely heard her reply, and he realized he hardly cared. Already he was feeling the familiar pull of his heart, the weight settling on his shoulders, and the ache developing in his head. Miss Dennis was lovely, surprisingly kind and seemingly possessed little of that vulture-like avarice often possessed by the ladies in London. And yet, despite all these things, he could not be satisfied. She could not replace Miss Elizabeth, of that he was certain. He was beginning to believe that nobody would, and that was a thought that terrified him, for Elizabeth was not a suitable option for a wife, and he was determined to find one.

  The rest of the dance proceeded with an awkward silence that suited Darcy just fine. He was in no humor anymore to give consequence to young ladies who could not fulfill his requirements. And this time he did not mean wealth, connections, and social status but rather wit, beauty, and joie de vivre.

  Immediately upon presenting Miss Dennis to her relations, Darcy made for the coat room. He retrieved his belongings and, dismissing a call for his carriage, instead told the servant to tell his groom to send the carriage home. He would walk.

  He pulled up the collar on his greatcoat when he saw a light snow had begun to fall. In the short distance from the London residence of Lord and Lady Hoemke, the host and hostess of the ball, to Darcy House, the light snow turned into a heavy coating on his shoulders. The walk became slick with a layer of ice and Darcy occasionally slid briefly as his lengthy, frustrated stride propelled him home. Upon reaching Darcy House, he entered without a word to his surprised butler, whipped off his coat, hat, and gloves, tossing them aside to a small bench in the hallway, and headed to his study.

  Darcy kicked off his shoes and lay back across the sofa, coming to rest with his arm hung across his eyes as he brought his thoughts back to the present. At least, tonight I did not imagine Elizabeth! A feeble laugh escaped as he recalled the ball he had attended not a fortnight earlier where he had a most frightening encounter. He had been walking around the outside of the room when he heard Elizabeth’s same tinkling laughter. Quite under their own command, his legs propelled him towards the sound, only to find the owner of the laugh was not Elizabeth but a very striking woman with golden hair and blue eyes. The only proper thing to do after such a direct encounter was to seek an introduction. A Miss Ellsworth was owner of that deceiving laugh. His dance with her had been remarkably enjoyable. She was skilled in the art, but he soon found that she laughed too much. Every word he spoke produced the sound — the sound his closer inspection made quite obvious — that was a little higher pitched than Elizabeth’s and far less endearing, he decided.

  It was a pattern Darcy was beginning to recognize. He would seek out ladies possessing some aspect of the charms he favored so well in Elizabeth, only to find that their differences, however slight, were enough to keep him from furthering the acquaintance with the lady. And here he was at the start of the new year, more than a month since he had last seen Elizabeth, and he was no closer to expunging her grasp upon his heart and mind than when he was in her presence.

  A knock at his study door pulled Darcy from his discouraging thoughts, and he contemplated ignoring it when it opened without invitation, a peek under his arm revealing his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. Darcy groaned and quite rudely said, “Go away, Richard.”

  “Well, now Darcy! I say, is that any way to repay my generosity?”

  Darcy pulled his arm from his eyes and pierced his cousin with his gaze. “And what form of benevolence, pray tell, do you delude yourself into believing you have bestowed upon me?”

  “I have saved you from the wrath of my mother, of course,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said pragmatically as he poured himself a glass of port. He raised his glass to his cousin in salute and then drank it down before filling it again. “May I pour you a glass, Cousin?”

  Darcy shook his head in exasperation and sat up. “Please, help yourself.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed and stated that he would, indeed, help himself.

  “What is it that I have done to gain the ill favor of Lady Matlock that necessitated your intervention?” Darcy groaned as he began stripping off his formal waistcoat and silk stockings. He only stopped when he had made himself more comfortable in shirtsleeves and breeches.

  “This is not the first ball hosted by a friend of hers that you have abruptly left without taking your leave.” Colonel Fitzwilliam paused as he found a comfortable seat near the fire. “Your poor manners caused no small insult this time and I, gallant as I am, made excuses for you. I mentioned you looked as if you were getting another of your megrims.”

  “As it is, I am,” said Darcy. “Thank you. I found myself in need of fresh air and, in the end, decided my mood was best soothed by leaving. I did not realize I had created such a pattern of poor behavior. I will write Lady Matlock tomorrow and apologize.”

  The gentlemen were silent for a time, and Darcy again leaned back against the sofa to stare at the ceiling. His cousin eyed him as he savored his drink. Darcy’s behavior of late had been troublesome in a number of ways. First, it was not in Darcy’s nature to attend many events of the Upper Ten Thousand, especially balls. Since returning to London, his cousin had attended quite a few each week. Second, Darcy, if compelled to attend, did not, under any circumstance, dance. However, at each of the balls the colonel also had attended, he had marveled that his usually taciturn cousin danced a few sets each time. It was beginning to draw attention from the ton, too. Rumors were floating that Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley was looking for a wife. And lastly, Darcy’s manners were usually impeccable. Colonel Fitzwilliam scanned his cousin; his dress was usually impeccable too.

  “I always imagined I would be married before you, but at the pace you are setting, it looks as if you may beat me to the altar in the end.”

  Though startled slightly, he merely spoke to the ceiling, “That looks ever more unlikely.”

  “So it is true. You are looking for a wife?” Colonel Fitzwilliam could not hide the surprise from his voice. He had simply intended to rile his cousin. He had not anticipated that his teasing would ring true.

  Darcy’s bored tone was incongruent with his words. “I am looking for a wife.” He then added under his breath, “A suitable one.”

  The colonel sat up and leaned toward his cousin. “Fiend seize it! You are either a trifle disguised tonight or you are in love!”

  His cousin’s words shocked Darcy, and he, too, sat up immediately to deny it, only realizing too late that his reaction confirmed it all the more. The two men stared at each other in a battle of wills that eventually ended only when the colonel began to laugh.

  “And by that comment, I assume the lady in question is not suitable.”

  Darcy glared at his cousin, angrier with himself for being so careless with his words.

  “At least tell me she is a gentlewoman.”

  “I have no wish to speak of this, Richard. Kindly finish my port and see yourself home.”

  The colonel’s amiable expression suddenly turned serious. “Darcy, is she a gentlewoman?”

  “What kind of cad do you take me for? Of course she is. Now pray, leave me be.”

  Darcy’s irritation was increased as his cousin relaxed and settled himself deeper into the chair he occupied. He loved his cousin and was grateful to have his wise perspective when it came to their shared guardianship of Georgiana. Usually, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s jovial temperament struck just the right balance to his own generally somber mien so as to create a mutually endeared friendship that went beyond the familial. But at times like tonight, in the mood he was in, his cousin severely grated on him. He wished tonight only to be left alone.

  The colonel, sensing he had pushed
his cousin far enough for the evening, conceded gracefully with a promise to return to the subject at hand. “I would very much like to hear about this ‘unsuitable’ lady, Darcy. It is a remarkable thing in and of itself that you have fallen for anyone, and I should like to hear what strategy this lady employed to capture your heart.”

  Darcy’s silence was not unexpected.

  “And I am particularly intrigued by your notion that she is unsuitable — if, as you say, she is a gentlewoman; you are a gentleman. So far as I see, you are equals.”

  “Good night, Richard.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed as he stood to replace his glass at the sideboard. “Good evening, Darcy. Sleep well.” Upon reaching the door, he turned and paused, looking his cousin over. A touch of concern marked his brow.

  Darcy lifted his head to look at his cousin. Their silent communication was brief, and it almost made Darcy change his mind about confiding in Fitzwilliam about Elizabeth — almost. He could see his cousin’s concern, and yet for now Darcy could not contemplate the pain of that conversation.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded his head in farewell but then remembered something and checked his watch. “You did leave quite early tonight, Darcy. It is not even midnight. But since I am leaving, I shall say ‘Happy New Year’ to you now and wish you a good year. Do not forget to make a New Year’s wish!” He laughed and returned Darcy’s silent wave before sliding through the darkened doorway. Darcy’s dilemma was quickly replaced in his mind by the image of a beautiful Miss Andrews still at the ball. If he hurried, he could make his own New Year’s wish come true and secure a dance.

  For quite some time after, Darcy looked at the door through which his cousin had exited. He heard the entry clock strike the quarter hour. His cousin’s words had an unexpected effect on Darcy. If I had a wish for this New Year, I would wish for an end to this search. And foolishly he added, and to see Elizabeth one last time.

  He stood and walked to the sideboard to poor himself a drink. He hoped it would help ease the pain that was still making a home in his heart and mind for Elizabeth. After finishing his refreshment, he returned to the sofa and lay down. He heard the clock strike midnight, and his thoughts as he drifted to sleep were of Elizabeth.