When he had first proposed, Elizabeth had believed he could not possibly have made a worse choice for his wife. Now she realized they were far better suited than she had initially understood. Perhaps he had been right about their compatibility in marriage as well.
Elizabeth passed much of the afternoon staring out of the window and accomplished very little of her embroidery. The two sisters shared a dinner of cold meat alone. Lydia’s conversation primarily consisted of laments over Mrs. Forster’s continued absence and their confinement within the house. Since Lydia remained unaware of the heightened sense of danger, the restrictions had chafed even more for her. Elizabeth contributed little to the conversation as she was caught up in musings about French spies and a certain man from Derbyshire.
Mr. Darcy called at half past eight; by then Elizabeth was prepared to fling herself into his arms if he would only take her from the house. After a long day of inactivity, even Lydia was happy to see someone “so horribly dull.” At about nine o’clock, Mr. Darcy extended an offer to take Elizabeth for a walk through the town. By now Mr. Wickham and his cohorts would be on their way to the cliffside cave, so they would present no danger.
Elizabeth accepted eagerly and held her breath as Mr. Darcy politely extended the offer to Lydia, but she wrinkled her nose and declined. Apparently, she had a limited tolerance for Mr. Darcy’s company. Elizabeth could not feign disappointment as she was happy to escape Lydia’s complaints for a while.
The sun set late at this time of year, and it was still quite light when they departed from the house. Warm and humid, the air moved sluggishly, so Elizabeth suggested they make their way to the beach, which always enjoyed a good breeze.
They first strolled along St. James Street, a grand promenade that ran parallel to the beach. Only a single row of houses and shops separated the lane from the beach, and several cross streets led directly to the sand. A popular site for after-dinner perambulations, the lane was a place to see the “right” sort of people—and to be seen in turn.
Mr. Darcy seemed content to allow Elizabeth to lead the way. She admired the silk displayed in one shop window and examined ribbons at another, but Mr. Darcy’s company was far more interesting than the wares in any shop.
Soon weary of being jostled by the crowds, Elizabeth found herself yearning for a little more privacy to enjoy Mr. Darcy’s company. “Might we walk on the beach?” she asked him. “If it is not too much trouble.” She knew that many people did not enjoy such excursions, particularly when they got sand in their shoes.
“Of course.” He smiled. “The beach is one of my favorite places.” This made Elizabeth smile in return. “If we turn right at the next corner, we will arrive at the beach directly.”
However, before they reached the next corner, they became aware of a commotion ahead of them on St. James Street. The crowds had ceased moving as people gawked at a small group moving slowly in their direction. As the group grew closer, Elizabeth discerned two men leading the way in elaborate livery, carrying both swords and pistols. She squinted, trying to make out the design of the livery, and then gasped.
“It seems the prince regent will be gracing us with his presence,” Darcy murmured in her ear.
Elizabeth’s stomach fluttered. The prince regent’s presence in Brighton had been the subject of many dinner table conversations at the colonel’s house, but all had agreed that they were unlikely to glimpse him except as a face in a passing carriage. Accounts about the prince were numerous and often contradicted each other; Elizabeth was eager to learn the truth for herself.
Now she could glimpse the figure of the prince behind the guards. Having seen engravings and reproductions of portraits of the prince, Elizabeth had thought he was not a particularly handsome man. Now she knew that the artists had been generous.
He was…well, no other word could describe his gait except waddling. She believed she had never seen such a…rotund personage. He wore a suit of light blue silk and an enormous number of jewels—both on his fingers and around his neck—that somehow magnified his size. His eyes protruded slightly, and his jowls flapped with every step. With a red face and perspiration dripping into the neck of his cravat, he seemed to veer precariously close to the edge of an apoplectic fit. Obviously, years of a self-indulgent lifestyle had taken a toll on the man’s health.
He leaned on a jewel-encrusted walking stick in one hand while a well-dressed, bosomy lady held his other arm. She appeared to be propping him up rather than using his arm to steady herself. This must be Mrs. Fitzherbert; she had been the prince’s mistress for many years.
Two liveried servants followed behind the prince, anxiously scrutinizing his every step. Perhaps their job was to catch him in case he should fall, although they hardly appeared equal to the task. Two additional guards made up the rear of the procession.
The prince regent appeared to be every inch the indolent and dissolute man described by rumors and broadsides—a man who had earned his subjects’ disrespect and scorn. As he passed, many people bowed or curtsied—and many did not—but he took no notice either way.
As the procession grew closer, Elizabeth tried to recall what she had learned about court manners. The presence of royalty required a special kind of curtsey, but she did not remember the precise form—or indeed if anyone had taught it to her. She had never anticipated having a need for it.
However, all the prince’s efforts were focused on walking in the heat; he was unlikely to notice if she curtsied incorrectly. With his head held high, his eyes touched the crowd only briefly, and he made no effort to interact with the bystanders.
In her mind, Elizabeth rehearsed the curtsey she believed to be the correct one and prepared to make it. But as the entourage neared them, the prince called a halt. “Darcy? Is that you? Darcy?”
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Darcy took a deep breath, stepped forward, and made a low bow. Behind him, Elizabeth quickly made her curtsey. When Mr. Darcy straightened, he spoke in a solemn, even tone. “Your Highness, you look well.” Ah, thought Elizabeth, he does know how to lie.
“Thank you, but Brighton is deuced hot this time of year!” the prince grumbled as a servant handed him a handkerchief to mop his brow. “I would have remained in the Pavilion, but Maria did so long for a walk.” He absently patted the woman’s hand where it rested on his arm.
“It is a nice evening for a walk,” Mr. Darcy said.
“I did not know you were in Brighton.” The prince’s tone was almost peevish, as though Mr. Darcy was obligated to keep him informed of his whereabouts. “Where are you staying?”
“The Crescent, Your Highness.”
“Not a bad place. You should come to dine at the Pavilion.” The prince made a grand, expansive gesture. “I am contemplating more renovations to the place. As you know, Moghul and Indian designs are the very height of fashion. My architect—Nash is his name—has designed an addition with these wonderful turrets and domes. I could show you the plans!”
“That would be delightful.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was carefully neutral.
The prince wheezed a bit. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.” He teetered on his elegantly shod feet; for a moment it appeared the servants might be pressed into service to catch him. However, with the help of his mistress and the cane, the prince regained his balance. “Perhaps I should sit for a while.” He glanced about, but they were in the midst of a cobblestone street, now closed to carriage traffic; no benches or chairs were in evidence. “Hastings, find me a chair.”
One of the servants hurried into the nearest house, emerging immediately with a rather plain wooden chair that he set behind the prince, who sank into it with a sigh. “Damned gout!” he exclaimed. “Sea bathing is supposed to be beneficial for it, but I do not know.”
He peered up at Mrs. Fitzherbert, standing by his side. “Hastings, obtain a chair for Maria.” The servant repeated the process, retrieving a chair from the same house and setting it beside the prince’s. Standing in their doorway, the owners of the house were
peering wide-eyed at the spectacle. They did not appear particularly well off, and Elizabeth wondered if their household owned additional chairs or if the prince had commandeered their entire supply. I hope the prince would not think to order chairs for us!
Now that he was seated, the prince seemed to be of a more amiable disposition, arranging his face in a rather grotesque smile. “Who were you walking with just now?” he asked Mr. Darcy. “Do you have a wife?”
“No, Your Highness.” Mr. Darcy gestured for Elizabeth to come forward. “This is my friend, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” She made another awkward curtsey, devoutly hoping it was the proper one.
The prince’s attention immediately drifted away; evidently Mr. Darcy’s friends were not of interest. Seconds later, the prince was seized by a great coughing fit that shook his entire frame. Mrs. Fitzherbert and the servants bustled about, offering water—or some other liquid—from a flask and patting his back, but their efforts served no obviously beneficial purpose.
After many long minutes, the prince was finally able to speak again, with a wheezier and hoarser voice. “Damned consumption! It never seems to improve.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Yes…well…” The prince waved irritably, obviously finished with the conversation. “I would like some cake. Hastings, find somewhere that will give me some cake.”
The servant evinced some surprise at this order but immediately ran down the street in search of cake. Elizabeth hoped the man would buy it from an establishment that sold cake rather than stealing it off the table of some hapless family.
The prince pointed to Darcy. “Contact my secretary about a dinner engagement, and I shall show you those designs. Such turrets! Such domes! It will be quite grand!”
“I will,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Be sure to take your lady here to the beach. It is very pretty at this time of day,” the prince wheezed.
“We were going there just this minute,” Mr. Darcy said.
“I should love to walk along the beach!” Mrs. Fitzherbert sighed.
“Would you, Maria?” The prince gave her a fond smile. “You know how I hate the sand and stones, but perhaps after I have rested, we may take a short walk on the beach.”
“That would be most delightful!” She beamed at him.
The prince waved at Mr. Darcy. “Perhaps we shall see you at the beach by and by.”
Recognizing their dismissal, Mr. Darcy bowed again, took Elizabeth’s arm, and set a brisk pace along the street, not slowing until they had turned the corner. Once they were out of the prince’s sight, he gave a long exhale and allowed his shoulders to sag. He shot Elizabeth an anxious look. “I apologize for subjecting you to such an…awkward situation.”
She shrugged. “Lydia will be quite jealous that I have met the prince regent and she has not.”
“I suppose. I would happily send her in my stead to the Pavilion.”
“How are you acquainted with the prince?”
Mr. Darcy removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I am not—not really. We have met upon a few occasions. My father lent cash to the king some fifteen or twenty years back; as a result, our family was often invited to state occasions. I was fairly young at the time and found them quite tedious.”
“You would probably find them tedious today as well.”
“Ha! Probably.” He carefully folded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. “The debts were repaid, my father died, and the king…grew ill. Intercourse between our families dwindled, and I did nothing to encourage it. I did encounter the prince at a ball some five years ago, and he was eager to talk about ‘old times.’ Still, I am surprised he recognized me.”
Elizabeth was not quite so surprised. Mr. Darcy was a striking man. Even someone as self-centered as the prince regent would find him remarkable. “Do you believe he will actually invite you for dinner?”
Mr. Darcy sighed. “I suppose it is possible; he is obviously eager to share his architect’s renovation plans. I must contact His Highness’s secretary; that was practically a royal command. However, it is just as likely the prince will have lost interest in two days’ time.” His tone suggested that he would prefer to be forgotten. She understood; excessive royal scrutiny could be unnerving, particularly from such a prince.
He took her hand and set it firmly back on his arm. “But enough of princes and royalty. Let us walk along the beach and think on pleasanter subjects.”
“Yes.”
At dusk the beach was not crowded. A few other couples were also enjoying the beach’s beauty, and some distant children ran and splashed in the shallow water. It was nearing high tide, and the beach was far narrower than it had been when Elizabeth had bathed there.
They walked east for a while, with the setting sun at their backs, watching as the waning light cast the clouds into vivid hues of gold, orange, and pink. The rhythmic sound of the waves was relaxing, and some of the tension from the past few days drained from her body. It was somehow easier to breathe here. Elizabeth sighed in contentment; the serenity of the place soothed her soul. “At times I believe I could happily spend the rest of my life on the beach.”
“I know how you feel,” Mr. Darcy replied. “Although I would miss trees and woods and Pemberley.”
They strolled in a companionable silence. Accustomed to walking with her rather voluble sisters, Elizabeth found the quiet to be both strange and oddly comforting. The only Bennet sister who did not maintain a constant stream of chatter was Jane, but when she said something it was worth hearing. Elizabeth might say the same of Mr. Darcy. This brought a smile to her face. Who would believe those two people would have anything in common?
After several minutes of silence, Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. “I suppose they will arrest Wickham tonight.”
“They may have already.”
“What will you do then?”
Elizabeth stared at the horizon. “I would like to return to Hertfordshire. There is no need to remain. However, it may be difficult to convince Lydia to depart immediately, and she should not remain in Brighton without me.”
He fell silent again. Only then did she realize that expressing a desire to leave Brighton might be interpreted as a wish to quit his company. “But we might linger in Brighton a week or two as well,” she added.
He did not respond. Perhaps I misinterpreted his reaction. Finally, he lifted his head and caught her eye. “Would you…perhaps consider…a visit to Pemberley?”
Elizabeth blinked rapidly. “Pemberley?”
“I would very much like to show you Derbyshire…and my home…” He swallowed. “The grounds are very fine.”
“Of course. Of course, I would love to see Pemberley,” she said hastily. “But I would need—”
“A chaperone,” he finished for her. “Yes, yes, of course.”
Another long silence followed, broken only by the crash of waves and the crunch of sand and stone beneath their feet. “My aunt is from that part of the country,” Elizabeth said finally. “She might accompany me on a visit.”
“That would be…I would love to have her visit…and you, of course.”
How ridiculous. We kissed on my bed. More than once. How silly that we are now so awkward and hesitant with each other. We did better when I disliked him. Perhaps he prefers frankness?
She stopped walking and faced him. “Why, Mr. Darcy,” she adopted a pert tone, “are you hoping that a visit to Pemberley will convince me to accept an offer of marriage?”
A smile curled up one side of his mouth. “I do not believe an offer of marriage is on the table, madam.”
She almost laughed aloud. “So you climbed into my bedchamber because…?”
“I had to warn you about Wickham. I had no other purpose in mind.” He clearly repressed a smile.
“And when you kissed me?”
“Kissed you?” he exclaimed in mock horror. “I recall no kisses. Perhaps I fell against you and our lips br
ushed against each other, but kisses? No.”
Elizabeth could maintain the charade no longer; she burst into laughter. Mr. Darcy joined her, but when their chuckles subsided, his expression was sober. “In truth, I have long been hoping to change your mind on the subject of marriage—whether it is with kisses or houses.”
“Quite a devious plan, sir.” He smiled at her raillery. “But I must warn you that neither kisses nor houses will tempt me.” His face fell. “However, your words may very well accomplish that goal. I must confess to a weakness for lively conversation.”
His eyes lit up. “Hmm…I will do my best to provide it.”
“You have done an admirable job to this point.”
He was standing quite close and spoke softly. “However, Miss Bennet, I find I have a dilemma. You enjoy my conversation, but I have a strong inclination at this moment for an activity that does not include words.”
At these words Elizabeth’s entire body came alive—no part of her had forgotten the marvelous kisses in her bedchamber. Her lips were greedy, and her arms were empty. She wanted more. More kisses. More caresses. More Mr. Darcy.
In the next moment Elizabeth was falling. Falling into Mr. Darcy’s arms. Falling against his body. Warm lips covered hers, and a tongue pushed into her mouth, exploring and stroking. In a distant part of her mind, she knew they should not kiss in plain view of any passersby, but it was impossible to deny herself such bliss. Every second she promised herself she would stop, and every second she could not endure the thought of such deprivation.
Finally, the need for air became too acute, and she pulled away, resting her head against the front of his waistcoat. “You have an unfair advantage, sir,” she mumbled.
“Hmm?” His voice was laced with amusement.
“Your kisses are nearly as persuasive as your words.”
He kissed the top of her head affectionately. “I must use every advantage I have.” He hugged her tightly against his chest. “Oh, Elizabeth, I pray you will come to Pemberley.”
Craning her neck upward, she saw naked hope in his eyes. “I will come, Mr. Darcy. I will find a way.”
Darcy and Deception Page 13
