Chapter Nine The Rake in Repose （Panic）
Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, heir to an earldom, was currently staring at his reflection in the mirror of his dressing room at Matlock House and coming to a horrifying realization: he was turning into his cousin.
It was Christmas Eve. He was tying his cravat for the fourth time, after dismissing his valet for over-fussing. He was sweating. And he was worrying about whether the flower arrangement in the hall was too ostentatious for a dinner party that included a warehouse owner.
"I am Darcy," he told his reflection with grim certainty. "I am brooding. I am fretting over floral tributes. Next, I shall start reciting poetry to sheep and refusing to dance."
He abandoned the cravat and poured a brandy. He needed it. Tonight was the night. The Matlock Christmas Eve dinner was usually a staid affair involving his father complaining about the Whigs and his mother complaining about the draughts.
But tonight? Tonight was an invasion.
Tonight, he was bringing Jane Bennet—The Goddess—into the lion's den.
And while his parents had been surprisingly amenable at the Opera, seduced by the promise of rare rum and witty comebacks, the dinner table was a different battlefield.
The dinner table was where the Countess of Matlock disassembled souls for sport.
There was a knock at the door, and Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam entered, looking annoyingly relaxed in his dress uniform.
"You look like you're going to a funeral," Richard observed, helping himself to Robert's brandy. "Or an execution."
"It's the same thing with Mother," Robert muttered. "Is Darcy here yet?"
"He arrived ten minutes ago. He is currently in the library with Father. I believe they are staring at the fire in companionable silence, interrupted only by Darcy sighing every thirty seconds."
"He sighs so much," Robert shook his head. "It is like living with a punctured lung."
"He is terrified," Richard grinned. "He thinks Mother is going to eat the Gardiners. He thinks Father is going to quiz Miss Elizabeth on the price of wool. He thinks the world is going to end."
"And you?" Robert asked, narrowing his eyes. "You seem remarkably cheerful for a man who is about to witness a massacre."
"I am the spectator, Robert. I have no skin in this game. I am just here to watch you fumble over Miss Bennet and watch Darcy try to protect Miss Elizabeth from our parents. It is better than the theatre."
Robert finished his drink. "You are a parasite, Richard. A parasite in a red coat."
"And you are in love," Richard countered, dodging a throw pillow. "Come on. The guests are arriving. If we are late, Mother will start the soup without us, and you know how that sets the tone."
Robert checked his reflection one last time. He smoothed his hair. He adjusted his cuffs.
"Right," he said, taking a breath. "Into the breach. If I die, tell Jane I looked magnificent doing it."
The Matlock drawing room was vast, gilded, and designed to make visitors feel small.
Robert hated it. He usually avoided it. But tonight, he marched to stand by the fireplace, waiting.
When the doors opened, the air in the room changed.
It wasn't just the cold draft from the hallway. It was the sudden influx of life.
The Gardiners entered first. Mr Gardiner looked calm, which Robert respected immensely given that the Earl was currently looming near the sideboard like a hungry bear. Mrs Gardiner looked elegant in dark green silk, carrying herself with a quiet dignity that made the room seem less imposing.
And then, the sisters.
Miss Elizabeth was in crimson. A bold choice.
Robert approved. She looked ready for a fight, her dark eyes scanning the room, assessing threats.
She spotted Darcy, who had moved to stand protectively near a flower arrangement, and offered him a small, reassuring smile.
Darcy visibly deflated, looking less like a statue and more like a human being.
And then, Miss Bennet. Robert felt his breath hitch. She was in silver. She looked like moonlight woven into silk. She looked serene, kind, and so utterly beautiful that he briefly forgot his own name.
"Lord Keathley," she said, offering her hand as he rushed forward.
"Miss Bennet," he managed, bowing low. "You look... well, you make the rest of the room look rather drab."
"You are too kind," she smiled, and the warmth of it hit him in the chest. "And you look very dashing. Though you seem tense."
"I am trembling in my boots," he whispered, deciding honesty was his new policy. "My mother is watching us."
"I know," she whispered back, her eyes twinkling. "She smiled at me when I came in. It was very focused."
"That is the infamous Matlock Smile. It means she has plans for you. Run while you can."
"I do not wish to run," she said simply.
Robert stared at her. She does not wish to run. He wanted to kiss her. Right there. In front of his mother and the potted palm next to them.
"Gardiner!" The Earl's boom interrupted his reverie. "Come here, old chap! I have opened the '98 Port. I want your opinion on the corkage."
Robert watched as his father dragged the man towards the drinks tray. He watched as his mother glided towards them.
"Miss Bennet," the Countess said, stopping in front of Jane, inspecting her from silver hem to blonde curl.
Robert held his breath.
"You have excellent taste in silk," she declared. "And you have done something to my son's hair. It is actually combed. I approve."
Miss Bennet curtsied. "Thank you, Lady Matlock. Though I can take no credit for his Lordship's grooming."
"Oh, you can," she murmured, her eyes sliding to Robert. "You most certainly can. Come, sit by me. I want to hear about this Cheapside of yours. Robert seems to think it is the new Eden."
Robert exhaled. Step one survived. Now for the dinner.
The dining table at Matlock House was long enough to land a small air balloon on. Robert sat on one side, Miss Bennet beside him. Darcy, Miss Elizabeth and Georgiana were opposite. The Earl and Countess held the ends like monarchs, having the Gardiners nearby.
Robert spent the first course, a soup that tasted of sherry and intimidation, watching the others.
He watched Darcy. His cousin was eating mechanically, his eyes darting to Miss Elizabeth every three seconds as if checking she was still there. It was painful. It was adorable.
He watched Miss Elizabeth. She was seated next to the Earl, opposite her uncle. This was the test. His father liked to test people. He liked to ask impossible questions about politics or the Napoleonic Wars just to see them squirm.
"So, Miss Elizabeth," the Earl rumbled, stabbing a piece of turbot. "Fitzwilliam tells me you read. Novels, mostly?"
It was a trap. The Earl hated novels.
"I read everything, my Lord," she replied, her voice clear and unafraid. "Though I confess a partiality for history. It is often more amusing than fiction, as the characters make more foolish mistakes."
The Earl paused. "Mistakes? Give me an example."
"Well," Elizabeth mused, "Caesar trusting Brutus. Napoleon invading Russia in winter. Or perhaps... a certain Earl thinking he could intimidate a guest by frowning at her over a fish course."
Silence descended on the table. Darcy dropped his fork. Robert choked on his wine. The Earl stared at Miss Elizabeth. His bushy eyebrows drew together. Then, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"Hah! She has teeth! I like her! Fitzwilliam, she has teeth!"
"I am aware, Uncle," Darcy murmured, looking at her with a mixture of terror and absolute worship.
"Good," the Earl pointed his knife at her. "Don't let him bore you, girl. He's a good lad, but he takes himself too seriously. Needs shaking up."
"I am doing my best, my Lord," she smiled.
"Excellent." The Earl turned to Mr Gardiner. "Gardiner, pass the salt. And tell me about this sugar tariff."
Robert relaxed into his chair. He turned to Miss Bennet. "She has conquered him," he whispered. "It took me two and thirty years to get him to laugh at a joke, and she did it in five minutes."
"Lizzy is very brave," the Goddess said proudly. "She is not easily frightened."
"And you?" Robert asked, lowering his voice. "Are you easily frightened?"
She looked at him. Then her eyes landed on the Countess at the head of the table, who was watching them with keen interest. She turned her head to take in the opulence of the room.
"I used to be," she admitted. "I used to be afraid of doing the wrong thing. Of wanting too much."
"And now?"
"Now," she said, her hand brushing his under the table, "I find that what I want is worth the risk."
Robert felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the wine. He squeezed her hand. "I am very glad to hear it."
Dinner ended without bloodshed. The ladies withdrew, the men drank port, during which the Earl declared Mr Gardiner "a capital fellow" three times, and then they rejoined the ladies in the drawing room.
Robert was feeling bold. He was feeling victorious. He motioned to Richard, who nodded and moved to distract their mother with a story about a horse.
Robert seized his chance. He took Miss Bennet's arm. "Miss Bennet, have you seen the conservatory? It is botanically significant."
"I should like to see it," she agreed.
He led her out of the room, down the hall, and into the glass-walled sanctuary at the back of the house. It was cold, smelling of earth and damp leaves, lit only by the moonlight reflecting off the snow outside.
"It is beautiful," she breathed.
"It is cold," Robert said, taking off his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders. "But it is private."
He stood in front of her. He looked at her face, framed by the moonlight. He thought of all the women he had flirted with, all the hollow conquests of his rakish past. They all faded into grey against the silver brilliance of Jane Bennet.
"Jane," he said. It was the first time he had spoken her name aloud. In his head though, she was always Jane.