Chapter 34
Darcy had rarely attempted to flirt. It had always intrigued him to see other men ply their skills. He used to watch such performances with interest, trying to guess how the ladies would respond.
It was rather embarrassing to discover how many of his friends’ chosen ladies would pass them over the moment they thought that Darcy was admiring them.
It did not matter that Mr. Casey could recite sonnets from memory, or that Mr. Dengle had brought them armfuls of flowers.
They merely amused; Darcy was the prize.
His wealth and position meant that he could win any conquest without even joining the fray, and he was humiliated by that.
He could not watch his friends for long after that. It was dangerous for him to show even the slightest interest in a single lady. Certainly, he could not attempt to use any of his friends’ seduction techniques, even for the fun of it. Darcy was reluctant to even make eye contact.
Such a resolution might have been easy for a monk, but Darcy was captivated by women.
He might feign disinterest, but he was a passionate observer when they were not aware of him.
He did not dare speak to them, but he longed to try.
The temptation to coax them to smile… to steal a moment alone…
to smell their perfume… drove him to distraction.
Cambridge was overrun with amorous, virile young men who were ready to ‘discover’ the world beyond their estates.
Most of them knew they must complete their education before looking towards marriage, and so did not attempt to form any real attachments to reputable ladies in the city.
Their beds were empty, their pockets full.
The demand thus established, supply soon followed.
Beautiful women who would never earn the appellation of ‘ladies’ frequented the halls so regularly that the students joked that they should take classes.
These women did not need to be seduced. Any reservations they had to a gentleman were easily overcome by the opening of a wallet.
They were too clever to fall for cheap lines or vapid promises, and their affections were reassuringly short-lived.
All they cost were a few coins, and perhaps a broken heart or two by graduation.
Strangely enough, those women were the first to ever admire Darcy for his own merits.
The same price was paid whether their client owned a house or a palace, so his wealth meant very little to them.
After the transaction was finished, however, they spoke of differences between their clients, and how they had heard that he was a good man.
Darcy only had an arrangement with one woman (a candid, pragmatic beauty with brown hair and deep blue eyes) but he was a matter of much discussion among the others.
He had a reputation among them for being kind, respectful, and reasonably undemanding.
These were qualities which the ladies prized, as they were shockingly rare amongst his peers.
He was reserved in public, as he was in private, and did not resort to artifice of any kind.
In stark contrast, the handsome swains who recited Wordsworth and Shakespeare to blushing virgins were very different behind closed doors.
Finding out about his friends’ insincerity was a revelation to the young Darcy. It led him to a grim belief: that seduction was a pretence. A lie, which women were fooled into believing and men used like a sword.
It was around that time that Darcy began to dislike his childhood companion, George Wickham.
Every lie which he saw his other friends attempt seemed to bloom in Wickham’s devious hands.
There was no sincerity in the rogue’s soul, yet he seduced with the skill of Delilah.
He treated all women the same, like a cat toying with an innocent mouse.
His trysts were brief, the consequences lasting.
His appetites were not confined to the ladies of the university, but to the sheltered innocents beyond it. It was despicable.
Inevitably, it was Darcy who had to pick up the pieces.
Finally growing weary of this, Darcy made it clear that the arrangement was over.
Any woman who encouraged Wickham’s debauchery would have neither Darcy’s coin nor his protection when things went wrong.
This statement, which seemed both sensible and fair in Darcy’s mind, incurred Wickham’s fury.
Given a choice between the two men’s goodwill, nearly all of the ladies rejected Wickham outright.
Who would prefer a crude, rough and selfish lover over a man who treated them as people?
Wickham found it easier to make friends than Darcy, and at that point in his life had not burned bridges with any of them. A much edited version of Darcy’s ultimatum was dripped into their classmates’ ears. By their final year, Darcy was used to being alone.
Only loyal Bingley remained. He confided to Darcy that a childhood surviving his sisters’ schemes had made him sadly familiar with duplicity, and that he could recognise a lie as easily as other men might identify a butterfly.
Darcy could not imagine another soul as wicked as Wickham’s until the day when he was introduced to Caroline Bingley.
After that, he and Bingley were destined to become allies.
Together, they withstood the petty, the spiteful and the vain.
Wickham returned, of course, and callously drove the final nail in the coffin of Darcy’s juvenile tenderness. Lonely, stony and cold, Darcy’s heart calcified.
Until he met Elizabeth.
Their honeymoon was simple and innocent.
There was nothing transactional about their friendship in Darcy’s mind, which was why he was deeply hurt when Elizabeth said there was.
He forgave her by believing that she was ignorant.
She had not his education, nor his sorry experiences in the fray.
It was refreshing to think of such purity.
At the time, Darcy had seen Elizabeth’s naivety as a blessing. Since she had no expectations, he did not need to offer or reject the kind of distasteful sentiments he so despised. They relaxed into a comfortable, chaste harmony which neither of them wanted to change.
How serene it was!
But…
How bright were her eyes! How graceful was the curve of her neck. How luscious was the swell of her hips. How much Darcy began to notice, with every passing day. How fiercely it began to prey on his mind!
Yet, Elizabeth was innocent. His angel, whom nobody had ever flattered or flirted with, would never get to experience the delicate flutter of fear and delight when a stranger met her eye.
Seduction was pretence. Darcy knew that for a fact.
But it was also a game - a dance of pleasure and wit - and one that he suspected Elizabeth might enjoy.
He had to admit to himself that the thought of provoking his wife was utterly irresistible.
And he dearly, desperately wanted to make her happy.
First, of course, flowers were required. The morning after Elizabeth released him from his vow, Darcy presented her with a simple bouquet of snowdrops. She laughed, rubbing her sleepy eyes.
“I expected flowers,” she teased, “But not these.”
“I considered going to the hothouse, but somehow it didn’t suit you.”
“There are still dew-drops on the petals.” she observed softly.
“I only gathered them half an hour ago.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, “You went out before dawn to pick me flowers?”
“I did promise to seduce you.” he quipped, then awkwardly added: “Are you pleased?”
She looked up from the flowers, eyes shining, and laughed when she saw the doubt that was clearly written on his face.
Despite her playfulness, she could not conceal the deep blush that trailed down from her cheeks all the way to her throat.
Irrepressible dimples made her lovely face look utterly charming.
Her voice was pert, of course, but charmed:
“You are a fool, my love. How can you doubt it?”
“You do not need to humour me.”
“I have no talent for acting, sir, and do not wish to make a study of it for the sake of your pride. Do you have a vase at hand? I fear these flowers will wilt by the time we finish reassuring one another.”
Darcy had no defence against such a friendly retort and smiled as he collected a vase. Knowing that his wife’s teasing was her way of downplaying her delight, he considered his early rise to get dripped on in the woods a sound investment.
Elizabeth, in turn, was relieved to find out that her promised ‘seduction’ was reassuringly unimaginative.
She had dreamed of Mr. Darcy again, but this time it had involved a convoluted plan, an embroidery hoop and a talking frog called Philip.
Flowers were sensible, predictable, and utterly delightful.
She started telling Mr. Darcy of her plans for the day, as she always did in the morning. At once, he held his hand up and shook his head.
“I have already told Mrs. Reynolds not to expect you, Elizabeth. You will spend the day with me.”
“On the estate?” she hid her surprise with a quick jibe, “Am I to visit the farmers with you, sir?”
“Would you prefer that? I had rather hoped to take you into town.”
“Town? Why?”
He raised an eyebrow, playfully secretive, and only said: “There are fewer pigs there.”
Elizabeth smiled warmly. She had not left Pemberley since they had arrive. As much as she adored her new home, she was sometimes homesick for the casual freedom she and Jane had enjoyed on their walks through Meryton.
Darcy insisted that she change into a fashionable blue walking dress that she had chosen during their honeymoon. Lizzie tried to protest that such a fine garment was more suited for parading through Kensington than walking through a modest town, but Darcy silenced her with a look.
“You want me to look beautiful.” she summarised with an exaggerated sigh.
“You already do, my love. Just wear the dress. Must everything be an argument?”
Elizabeth laughed, “Oh yes! Everything. I had no idea that being seduced would be so akin to being scolded. I refuse to be intimidated, sir.”
“Elizabeth…”
“I shall meet you in the hall.” she said and darted away with a wicked laugh.