Chapter 1
One
A SNAKE IN THE GRASS
The wind whipped at Darcy’s face in stinging breath, bringing the scent and promise of rain. Although it was barely September, the weather seemed to believe it was mid-winter, and he wished he had worn a heavier coat.
“What am I doing here?” he asked aloud to the grey, overcast sky. His stallion, Gallant, munching on a tasty bit of grass near the forest’s edge where Darcy had halted him, only snorted in reply.
It was as sensible an answer as any. He had told himself he was here to help Bingley adjust to estate ownership, assisting in whatever issues might arise, but the truth was, he had come to assess whether to expedite his plans regarding Bingley and Georgiana.
He had never dreamt his sister would be tempted by a rogue such as George Wickham, but it was time to face the truth.
Georgiana was gifted artistically, but when it came to anything beyond riding, playing the pianoforte or scribbling in her drawing book, she was at an utter loss as to how to cope.
Worse, she seemed to have no idea she was not coping; she wandered off during conversations, never realising she had not excused herself, no matter how often she was reminded.
She either could not pay any attention at all, or paid too much, drawing or playing for hours, forgetting meals.
He trusted Georgiana’s new companion to keep a much better eye upon her, but the obstacles facing his sister were growing more complicated with every year that passed.
He had hoped the select seminary he had provided would train her to manage a life she was ill-suited by nature to handle.
Unfortunately, while she had mastered Stamitz and sketching, he still could not fathom her successfully navigating a Season, the ton, or the intricacies of society.
He had tried governesses of every nature—firm, strict, lenient, and motherly.
None seemed to have had much influence; she cared about music and the masters, endlessly striving for improvements in those realms, but the social niceties seemed a language she could not quite acquire.
Nevertheless, he had convinced himself she was yet a mere child, that she would mature, that she would learn in time.
“The Wickham affair disproved that comforting fantasy,” he told Gallant, the only creature he had for a confidant in this country backwater.
“Yes, I was deceived in the corrupted character of her companion, Mrs Younge, but I also deceived myself. Dear Georgiana, awkward and graceless, wishes for a husband and a family like any other young lady. Yet, in her behaviour there seems a profound unawareness, in essentials, of the social arts that are part and parcel of romantic pursuits. Furthermore, she is altogether too persuadable. For now, she is still young and I can protect her, but what of the future? In a couple of years, she will want to come out. The men most likely to overlook her lack of charm and address are least likely to truly care for her, and I fear the next amiable scoundrel might succeed where Wickham failed.”
Gallant offered nothing whatsoever in the way of comfort. With a sigh, Darcy urged the beast forward again.
Arranging a marriage for his sister with someone acceptable, perhaps with an extended betrothal period, was obviously the wisest course.
Bingley had been his first choice as a candidate-bridegroom; Darcy had been certain of his ability to convince the young man of the wisdom of accepting the offer.
But Bingley was still young, and inclined towards brief, impetuous bouts of romantic attachment.
One such flight of fancy seemed in progress now—he had been making calf-eyes at some local miss with a ridiculous family.
It seemed unwise to bring up a betrothal with Georgiana, who was in every way the exact opposite of his current infatuation.
There appeared nothing to be done except keep an eye on the situation, ensuring the Bennet girl did not entrap his friend; however, she behaved in every way respectably, and if he was any judge of character, Bingley had nothing to fear from that quarter.
Darcy could feel nothing except restlessness, and the weight of problems without quick resolutions. A long ride upon his favourite mount had done nothing to ease them.
Lost in these ruminations, he did not see the adder until his horse was almost atop it; neither, apparently, did Gallant. The horse reared, and Darcy, unprepared, flew backwards, sailing through the air and directly into the undergrowth at the forest edge.
His first thought, once he came to himself, was to worry for Gallant. Dazed and bewildered, he began scrambling to get his feet beneath him, struggling to free himself from his entanglement in a weedy hedge.
“Stop!” cried a feminine voice from somewhere nearby. “Please, sir, do not move!”
He was just stupefied enough to obey.
Suddenly above him appeared a woman, her cloak of forest green almost blending with her surroundings, its hood shrouding her face in shadows; with one gloved hand, she carefully moved aside the clump of weeds inches from his face.
“You have landed within a patch of gorse and stinging nettles, sir,” she said, her voice soft and even.
“Thankfully, I see you are able to move, and your clothing has hopefully protected you from the worst of it, but believe me when I say that you do not wish for more of this to touch your bare skin.”
In that instant he became aware of a burning sensation upon his jaw where the weeds had grazed his face; plainly, she was correct.
He had been lucky, in more ways than one.
The thick hedge had provided a sort of mattress to his landing, and whatever bruises or punctures he had sustained, he was essentially intact.
But the thorns clawed at his head and clothing and nettles were stinging his wrists between his gloves and sleeves; he was also beginning to feel twinges of pain from his flight, and thus heard himself snapping back, “Yes, yes, I can see that for myself. Out of the way, if you please. I must see to my horse.”
She did not respond to his rudeness. Nor did she let go of the nettles, which would have undoubtedly given him a deserved slap in the face, but offered her other hand to him.
Surrendering to the chagrin now flooding him, he took it, meaning only to use her hand to steady himself until he could regain his footing.
However, she pulled hard; she was amazingly strong for such a slender female, and he quickly found himself stumbling upright—she might have been knocked over had she not gracefully danced out of harm’s way.
The dimpled jaw within her hood’s folds lifted a bit, as if she smiled. Had she meant to do that?
“Are you well?”
Pride demanded that he answer immediately in the affirmative, but as the landscape tilted and spun, he was forced to bend over, clasping his knees, taking deep breaths so that he did not fall upon his face.
It was with some surprise that he felt a gentle hand upon his back, and heard a compassionate murmur.
“That is right, sir. Take deep, slow breaths. Give yourself time to regain your bearings.”
Her voice was a mellifluous one—not simpering or weak—but soft and low, without being grating. It was the voice of a young lady, and a refined one at that, and yet…how could such a one be roaming the land alone? He felt a sudden urge to yank her hood away, to reveal her secrets.
“Must…see to my horse,” he repeated instead, the words coming out more as a gasp than the cool tone he had intended.
“Neddy and I were out walking, and we saw you thrown into the nettles,” she said. “It looks as though your mount stepped in them as well. I will go and fetch Mr Hill’s remedy. It will work upon horseflesh, as well as a man’s.”
‘Neddy’ she had said. So, she had a husband with her; she was accompanied, after all. He would not allow any disappointment to register that she was attached. After all, a pretty voice did not a pretty female make.