Chapter 6
Fitzwilliam Darcy looked in the mirror, turning his head this way and that as he examined his hair.
Was it thinning along the sides? No, it could not be!
His mark had only appeared seven years ago.
Mate sickness was rare, and he had only heard of it occurring after at least a decade had passed without one’s soulmate.
Usually twenty years or more! He could not be wasting. Not yet.
Though he had noted the mark at work in other ways.
When he was younger, he used to notice women.
Not one particular feature over another, but he had appreciated their bosoms, both full and light, and the delicate bones that rested so tantalizingly above them.
He had wished to run his fingers through their lustrous hair, touch their brilliant skin.
A rosy cheek and a sly smile had appealed.
Long legs had brought delightful images to mind, and a coy expression had sent his blood rushing.
Now, he noticed them less and less. A barmaid practically sat in his lap at a tavern last week and he had barely even realized it.
His cousin Jeffrey had laughed uproariously at him.
He might have thought it was merely his age.
He had been twenty when the mark came in—hardly old enough for his blood to cool.
But his cousins were two and four years older than he, and they noticed women a little more each year.
Furthermore, they had developed very specific tastes.
Richard liked clever women with bright smiles and quick tongues.
The kind who sparkled in a crowd. He did not seem to have much in the way of physical preferences, though he had never shown much attention to a plain woman.
Jeffrey was just the opposite. He did not seem to care about her personality one way or another, or even that she had one.
He liked a comely face with delicate features, creamy skin, thick hair, preferably blonde or even better, red, and most importantly, a full bosom.
He also liked a full backside and a slightly shorter stature, but he was willing to compromise on those if his other desires were met.
Darcy rolled his eyes at him. At least Richard’s preferences had to do with character and compatibility.
Jeffrey was exactly as he seemed. A dandy who cared for nothing but appearances.
Well, he had gotten his just desserts. He had married Lady Minerva Sutton.
She was fine-boned, full-bosomed, and had a head full of strawberry gold hair crowning a pretty face.
She was also terrified of her husband.
Darcy could not completely blame her. She had only met the man half a dozen times before they were wed, and Jeffrey did little to befriend her or even accustom her to his presence.
He was direct and eleven years her senior.
That ought to have stirred some compassion in Jeffrey, but it did not.
He was only ever irritated at her timidity, and the more she retreated from him, the more he barked at her, and the vicious cycle went on and on.
Darcy would not be surprised if they were living in separate residences before their fifth anniversary.
That was one thing to be thankful to his mark for: he would not be pressed into an unsuitable marriage of convenience.
As the only Darcy male of his generation, the family could not afford to risk him becoming ill and dying without an heir.
As much as they disliked it, they would wait for his soulmate to appear and he would be spared their machinations.
He could only hope that he recognized her when they met.
This waiting was becoming tedious. He had been angry when the mark first appeared.
In truth, he still was. He did not like his choice being taken away, even if the end result would be a happy union with a woman he loved and who loved him in return.
It was the principle of the matter. He should have been able to choose his own bride!
Thanks to this blasted mark, he did not even have preferences. Every man he knew had preferences. They knew what they found attractive and what they did not. They knew what appealed to them, what drove them wild, and what left them disappointed.
Darcy had no idea. Did he prefer tall or short? Tall might be nice so he would not crane his neck looking down at her, but short was appealing if he ever wished to pick her up. Not that he thought of such things very often, but one did wonder.
Would he like a woman who spoke her mind, or one who was more reserved?
Would he have to question her endlessly to know her thoughts or would she freely volunteer them?
He thought chasing after someone’s opinion sounded exhausting, but then so did living with a person who told him every thought that ran through her head, regardless of its relevance.
He would prefer clever, but an unintelligent woman was not out of the question if she had a sweet nature.
He knew plenty of people who were intelligent enough, but their lack of morals or shrewish nature ruined any enjoyment he might have had from engaging their minds.
Kindness was more important. Now, if a woman was kind and clever, he would be satisfied.
Darcy smiled at himself. He had a preference after all.
He looked at his hair again in the mirror. It was his imagination. It was as full as it had always been. He was simply overtired and suffering the strain of being a guardian to a fifteen-year-old girl.
Georgiana.
He had nearly lost her. He was the worst of brothers.
She was a foolish sister—he had spent many hours contemplating exactly how foolish—but she was only fifteen.
Was everyone not foolish at such an age?
He was seven and twenty. She was under his care.
He had a responsibility to ensure she was not placed in situations for which she was unprepared and in this, he had failed spectacularly.
He had been deceived in her companion’s nature, but the woman had had all the right references.
He had checked them himself. Still…he should not have allowed her to go to a strange place with only a companion.
He could have sent the underbutler and a few footmen with her.
With strict instructions to escort her wherever she went, of course, and to report Mrs. Younge’s movements to him.
Regardless of her references, he had not known her long. That alone was reason for caution.
He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no use obsessing over what could have been. He had learned his lesson now and he would not make the same mistake again.
Mrs. Annesley came highly recommended. She was the widow of a vicar and had one son who was living in Derby.
Her husband had been significantly older than her and widowed himself, and he had three children from his first marriage.
She was on good terms with her husband’s children and one of them happened to have a living thirty miles from Pemberley.
Darcy was friendly with the estate owner in charge of the living, and he had grilled him relentlessly on Mrs. Annesley and her family.
He was comforted by what he heard of her, but he still would not allow her to take Georgiana anywhere without him.
They were at Pemberley now, and when he joined Bingley at his new estate, they would go to stay with his aunt Davies in Nottinghamshire.
Two of his most trusted footmen would accompany them with the sole job of looking after Georgiana.
Darcy was paying them well for their services, and their families had served the Darcys for several generations, so he was almost certain he could rely on them.
He still fretted though. Bingley was his closest friend and in need of his assistance.
And Georgiana was filled with remorse every time she saw him.
Even when he was at his gentlest with her, she could barely look up from the carpet.
She would likely recover quicker away from his presence.
But he could not help but feel he was leaving her at a delicate time.
Would she feel abandoned if he left? Or worse—would she be relieved?
He supposed the best he could hope for was that she would be grateful for the time to herself, not necessarily his particular absence.
Knowing he was thinking in circles and driving himself mad in the process, Darcy took up his riding crop and headed for the stables. A good ride would clear his mind.
There was nothing for it. Darcy must speak with Georgiana.
If she was upset at the idea of him leaving, he would put Bingley off.
His sister was more important. Regardless of what her reaction was they could not go on as they were.
He was the elder, he was more mature and experienced. It was up to him to broach the topic.
He quickly found her in the music room, playing a sad dirge.
“Georgie, may I speak with you?”
Her fingers clanged on the keys and she looked up at him like a startled deer. Was she truly afraid of him? Good God, how had such a thing happened?
She nodded and he gestured to the sofa by the window. Mrs. Annesley smiled at Darcy and discreetly left the room, leaving brother and sister alone. Together.
Georgiana settled next to him, perched on the edge of the seat as if she would run away at any moment.
“Georgie,” he said softly, “are you afraid of me?”
She startled and looked up at him with wide eyes. “No! Of course not! You are all that is good, brother. I could never be frightened of you.”
“Then why will you not look at me?”
“It is not you, Fitzwilliam. It is me. I am ashamed of myself.”