Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T he last performance ended, and there was still no sign of Darcy or Lord Fulford. Concluding that the men had decided against returning to the box, Elizabeth and the others made their way to the saloon. Several ladies and gentlemen of the Matlocks’ acquaintance approached them, asking to be introduced to Elizabeth. She strained her neck to take in all corners of the room, hoping to see Darcy, but she did not. She prayed nothing terrible had befallen him. Lord Fulford has a nasty temper . I would not like to provoke him—especially when he has been drinking. She took a steadying breath in an attempt to alleviate her worries. Darcy is strong and formidable. He will not come to harm.
Gradually, the crowd began to thin. While Lord and Lady Matlock and Lady Fulford were occupied speaking to acquaintances, Elizabeth made her way to the window where she had earlier seen Darcy. Sheltered by the heavy, velvet curtains, she stared at the darkened, busy street below.
“She is quite the beauty,” Elizabeth heard a lady say. “The mysterious Miss B.”
“I have seen her like before,” an older woman’s voice replied. “Artful. Knowing. I did not think Mr Darcy a fool, but he would not be the first man to be persuaded down the aisle by a fine figure and a lovely face.”
“My brother thinks it was Miss Bennet who informed the paper of their…connexion, shall we call it, and it forced Mr Darcy to propose.”
“I cannot agree. From all accounts, Mr Darcy is not a man who would do much against his will. Indeed, after seeing them together, I do not believe Mr Darcy has much to be unhappy about, and he does not seem to be. Miss Bennet is pretty.”
“Everyone says that his family is furious.”
“And yet his uncle and aunt have accompanied her tonight, and she is staying with his cousin. These are not the actions of incensed relations. Besides, Mr Darcy may marry where he pleases. ‘Tis is only a shame that he has dipped his pen in inferior ink.”
“You do not think they have already?—”
“I cannot be sure. He desires her. It is obvious from his manner. She, on the other hand, I cannot decipher. She is young and appears charming, but there has been no further news of their plans to marry. There is something amiss, I feel.”
Their voices faded as they walked away. Fingers trembling, Elizabeth leant against the windowsill. Tears welled in her eyes. I shall not cry. I shall be mistress of my emotions. She fought to quell her anger. She slipped from the room and returned to Darcy’s box, glad of the solitude of the now empty theatre.
“Where is everyone?”
Darcy’s voice startled her, and she turned from her observation of the largely empty theatre to see him. His hair was tousled, his cravat and waistcoat rumpled and stained with mud.
His expression fell when he saw her tear-stained cheeks. “Good God, whatever is the matter? Are you hurt?”
Wiping her cheeks, she shook her head. “I could ask the same of you. I have been worried at your prolonged absence.”
He took a step closer. Elizabeth was so relieved to see Darcy that she did not care that they were together in the near darkness. The candlelight cast a warm glow over Darcy’s face, accentuating its strong masculine contours and the sensual line of his lips. How many times had she thought him handsome? Too many to count. Unbidden, the image of him entering her bedchamber bathed in the same soft light flooded her mind. Heat rushed through her body.
Darcy crossed the box towards her, stopping near the chair Lord Fulford had fallen from; he kicked aside a shard of glass. “Was that the behaviour you were trying to warn me of when I asked about my cousin? Fulford could hardly stand, he was so intoxicated. How often is he like that? If I had known of his dissolute character, I would never have permitted you to stay with them. Forgive me for placing you in harm’s way.”
“Fortunately, I have had little to do with him. He keeps abed for most of the day—when he is at home. He is often away. I admit I am uncomfortable in his presence. He is cruel to Lady Fulford, and I fear his conduct is worse than I know. I have begged her to tell you, but she has refused.”
“I thank you for your discretion.” He raked a hand through his hair. “You must not stay under the same roof as him.”
“Where is he now?” Where she slept was less important to her at the moment than knowing what had become of the man.
“I hauled him to the streets, hoping it would sober him. He slunk away into the night, muttering the name of some woman.”
“Mrs Wilder?” Elizabeth guessed.
Darcy’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You are acquainted with her? Who is she?”
His expression darkened as she explained the woman's connexion to Lord Fulford. She was strangely relieved that Darcy had no prior knowledge of her.
“Do you have any notion what Lord Fulford intends to do? I do not want your cousin to be alone when—if—he returns home tonight.”
“I do not know, but I shall not allow you to be in his presence again,” Darcy said with determination. He glanced about the box, before returning his gaze to her. His eyes were full of compassion and when he spoke again his tone was one of great gentleness. “But you have not accounted for your tears. Why are you here alone? It is not because of what happened with Fulford, is it?”
She shook her head and told him some of the conversation she had overheard. She could not bear to repeat everything that was said or reveal how acutely she had felt the woman’s insult, but by his furious expression, she knew she had said enough.
“I wish I knew who they were, so I might put them in their place,” he said.
His indignation went a long way to alleviating her disquiet. She gave a soft laugh and wiped her eyes. “They are not worth the effort—or my tears.” Sensing that he was still seething, she hesitantly brushed the arm of his coat. “Let us be done with this unpleasantness. Do not let it spoil our evening.”
At her touch, his anger instantly disappeared, and he stepped so close to her that she was almost in his embrace. Her fingers lingered on his arm and, without thinking, she slid them towards his shoulder. Wordlessly, Darcy reached for her other arm and slowly removed the long glove. His fingers trembled as they caressed her forearm. He brought her hand to his mouth, never once taking his eyes from her face. Her breath hitched when he pressed his lips to her wrist in a tender kiss. The sensation was all-consuming, and it rooted her to the spot; she wanted to open herself to him and surrender. She shivered.
“What is this? Is it real?” she whispered, half-scared of his response.
At her words, Darcy’s eyes became full of guilt, and he moved away. “I must beg your forgiveness once more, Elizabeth. I forgot myself.” He pulled at his cravat and smoothed his fingers through his hair. “We should return to my uncle and aunt. I wish to make arrangements so that you and Cecilia are not left without protection tonight.”
Elizabeth did not trust herself to speak, and merely nodded. Darcy placed her hand in the crook of his arm. As he did, Elizabeth glanced over his shoulder towards the darkened stage, wanting one last view of the magnificent theatre; a trail of candle smoke twisting through the air from the infamous Mrs Wilder’s box. For a moment, Elizabeth thought she saw the box’s curtain twitch, but she told herself it was just her imagination. She turned her attention back to Darcy.
“Yes. I do not wish to stay here a moment longer.”
The morning after the theatre, Darcy woke with a pounding headache. Sleep had eluded him once again, and he pulled at his cotton nightshirt, feeling restricted and restless as he relived the night before. What had possessed him to kiss Elizabeth? His self-control had abandoned him the second he had seen her; she had appeared so vulnerable and alluring. He cursed his behaviour. Mr Bull, the scoundrel, had forced himself upon her. She is under my protection, and I am no better! A small voice encouraged him to hope that she had welcomed his embrace. ‘Is this real,’ she had asked, and then, in the darkness, he had realised that for him, indeed, it very much was. How often had he scorned the milksops at White’s, pining away over ethereal beauties, but his pain was worse than theirs could ever be; for now here he was, caught in a lie, pretending to be engaged to no one less than his heart’s desire.
They had agreed that Fitzwilliam would stay with Cecilia and Elizabeth. Lord and Lady Matlock had protested, but Darcy had remained resolute, confident that the colonel would lend his support when informed of Fulford’s reprehensible conduct. Cecilia had not said much in opposition to his plan; rather, she had seemed relieved. Elizabeth had said little, leaving him worried he had offended her. When they parted, he had placed an uncertain kiss on her fingers in farewell. With a graceful curtsey, she had thanked him for a pleasurable evening, the deep blush across her cheeks and neck a sign she was not thinking of the performance.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. How had Elizabeth fared last night after he left her? He thought of her tear-stained face and hoped she had slept better than he. Anxiety threatened to overset him. His sister, Cecilia, and Elizabeth all needed him, and he did not feel up to the task of protecting any of them.
With a deep sigh, he rose from the bed, determined to call upon the Fulfords’ residence at the first opportunity.
Darcy found Elizabeth talking to Fitzwilliam, who, to Darcy’s intense irritation, was making her laugh.
“Good morning!” the colonel called when he saw Darcy. “You must excuse our excessive good humour, which I am afraid is at your expense. I am telling Miss Bennet how much you detest social occasions.”
A fleeting look of embarrassment crossed Elizabeth’s face, but when she smiled—brilliantly and widely—it was just for him, and he allowed himself to hope that she did not despise him for his behaviour of the night before.
“I had the pleasure of informing your cousin that your reticence is not a surprise to me,” she said.
“I cannot list a garrulous nature amongst my faults,” he admitted.
Fitzwilliam guffawed. “Conversing with others is not a fault, Darcy. Most of us regard it as essential.”
Darcy glared at his cousin, wishing he would excuse himself. Before he could suggest it, Elizabeth spoke.
“For my part, I prefer a man of a few well-chosen words to a man of many ill-advised ones.”
Darcy forgot his vexation with his cousin and smiled at her, grateful for the implied compliment.
“Before you scowl at me again,” Fitzwilliam said to Darcy, “Let me say that I was about to assure Miss Bennet that you harbour a dark secret. Underneath your unwelcoming exterior lies a man of warmth and integrity.”
Before Darcy could reply, Elizabeth came to his defence.
“Although I appreciate your insights, Colonel, I confess I have no need of them. I am familiar with both his foreboding countenance and his noble character.” Elizabeth gave Darcy another smile before continuing. “While we are on the topic of talking, I believe there is an urgent matter regarding Lord and Lady Fulford the two of you will wish to talk about in private.”
She stood and announced that she would go to Cecilia, who was still abed. Directing her words to Darcy, she said, “Lord Fulford did not return last night. Lady Fulford and I have arranged to visit an art exhibition in Duchess Street this afternoon. Perhaps you would be so kind as to escort us?”
“I would be delighted to,” said Darcy. “Please do not hurry my cousin. You are correct that Fitzwilliam and I have a great deal to discuss.”
She curtseyed and left the room.
“Miss Bennet informed me that she has four sisters,” Fitzwilliam said. “Are they all as lovely as she?”
Darcy sat across from his cousin. “We have more serious matters to occupy our minds. First, we must decide what assistance we can give your sister. Second, the threat to Georgiana has worsened.”
Fitzwilliam’s previously jovial manner was replaced by a grave one. “If I were not a rational man, I would be convinced that our family is cursed. Ever since Dominic’s death, I cannot but wonder what maleficence will befall us next.”
Darcy set his jaw. “None, if I can help it.”