Chapter Fourteen The Frostbitten Romance #2
"I am glad to hear you are well, Mr. Bingley," she said. Her voice was steady. "And I wish you every happiness. But please, do not distress yourself on my account. I am perfectly happy."
"But—" Bingley pressed her hand harder. "Jane, surely—"
Suddenly, a shadow fell over the table.
Robert Fitzwilliam rose.
He didn't jump up. He unfolded himself from his chair with a slow, predatory grace that Darcy had rarely seen.
The smile was gone. The twinkling eyes were gone.
In their place was Viscount Keathley—heir to an Earldom, a man who had faced down creditors and duellists, and a man who was currently looking at Charles Bingley as if he were a particularly offensive insect.
"Bingley," Robert said. His voice was soft, but it carried a blade. "Release the lady's hand."
Bingley blinked, looking up at the towering figure of the Viscount. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are distressing a lady I am accompanying," Robert's voice was smooth like velvet and sharp like a blade. "And you are touching her without permission. Remove your hand, sir. Before I remove it for you. From you, entirely."
Bingley snatched his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove. He stumbled back a step, colliding with his sister.
"Lord Keathley!" Miss Bingley gasped, trying to salvage the situation by pivoting to flattery.
"Surely there is no need for... Charles was merely renewing an acquaintance with an old neighbour.
We are all friends here, are we not? Although one wonders at the company one keeps in such public places.
.." She cast a sneering look at the Gardiners.
Robert turned his gaze on her. It was a look of such haughty, aristocratic disdain that Darcy almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
"Miss Bingley," Robert drawled. "You wonder at the company? I confess, I am wondering the same. I am currently seated with the daughters of a gentleman, the granddaughter of a solicitor who served my family, and my own cousin. You, however, appear to be obstructing the waiters."
Caroline's mouth opened and closed like a fish.
"You will excuse us," Robert continued, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We are enjoying a private family celebration. And we do not wish to be disturbed by acquaintances."
He turned his back on them. He sat down and took Jane's hand—the one Bingley had touched—and raised it to his lips, kissing the glove with a reverence that was a deliberate, public claim.
"Are you well, my dear?" he asked Jane, loud enough for the Bingleys to hear.
"I am perfectly well, my Lord," Jane smiled at him, ignoring the existence of Charles Bingley entirely.
Behind them, Darcy watched Bingley's face crumble. He watched Caroline flush a deep, mottled red.
"Come, Charles," Caroline hissed. "We are leaving."
They fled. There was no other word for it. They retreated from the tea shop like beaten curs.
Darcy let out a breath. He looked at Elizabeth. She was watching Robert with an expression of profound approval.
"Remind me," Elizabeth whispered to Darcy, "never to cross your cousin when he is defending his territory."
"He is a Fitzwilliam," Darcy said with a hint of pride. "We are slow to anger, but we are thorough when we arrive."
"I think," Mrs Gardiner noted, calmly stirring her tea, "that the Viscount has just earned himself an extra slice of cake."
"He has earned," Elizabeth agreed, looking at her sister's shining eyes, "a great deal more than that."
The thirtieth of December was a day of domestic absurdity. The weather had turned foul again, confining the party to the Gardiner drawing room.
Robert, however, was undeterred by rain. He had decided that Jane's artistic talents—she had mentioned a fondness for sketching, ONCE—needed a muse.
"I shall pose," Robert announced, stripping off his coat and loosening his cravat. "I have excellent bone structure. It is often remarked upon."
"By whom?" Richard asked from the armchair, where he was reading a newspaper. "Our mother?"
"By artists. Sculptors. The general public." Robert grabbed a tablecloth from the side table and draped it over his shoulder. "I shall be Julius Caesar. Crossing the Rubicon. Miss Bennet, capture my resolve."
Jane, who was seated with her sketchbook, was trying very hard not to giggle. "I shall do my best, my Lord. But Caesar was bald."
"Artistic license," Robert declared. He struck a pose—one foot on a footstool, hand thrust into his waistcoat (the tablecloth), chin lifted to a heroic angle. "There. The conqueror."
"You look like you have a stomach ache," Henry Gardiner observed from the floor, where he was building a tower of blocks.
"It is the burden of leadership, Master Henry," Robert said without breaking character. "Uneasy lies the head that wears the laurel."
"You are wearing a tablecloth," Alice pointed out.
"It is a toga of the mind, Miss Alice. Use your imagination."
Darcy stood by the window with Elizabeth, watching the scene.
"He is ridiculous," Darcy murmured.
"He is in love," Elizabeth corrected. "Look at Jane."
Jane was sketching, her charcoal moving quickly over the paper. But her eyes were fixed on Robert's face with a tenderness that had nothing to do with art. She wasn't just drawing him. She was memorizing him.
"Is that what it looks like?" Darcy asked quietly.
"What?"
"Love. Making a fool of oneself in a drawing room just to make a lady smile."
"I think," Elizabeth said, turning to him, "that love looks different on everyone. On Robert, it is loud and joyful. On Jane, it is quiet and radiant."
"And on us?" Darcy asked. The question hung in the air, heavy and sweet.
Elizabeth looked at the man who had ridden through snow, who had bought her books, who stood beside her now with his heart in his eyes.
"I think," she whispered, "on us, it looks like a truce that became a victory."
"Mr Caesar!" Miss Ruth Gardiner toddled over to Robert and tugged on his tablecloth. "I want to be a Roman too!"
"Excellent!" Robert broke his pose, scooping the little girl up. "You shall be Cleopatra. We shall rule the Nile together."
Jane laughed, a free, happy sound. Robert looked at her over the child's head, his expression softening into something raw and beautiful.
"Capture that," Darcy said softly. "That is the real picture."
"I think she already has," Elizabeth replied.
While the Romans conquered the rug, a quieter alliance was being forged in the corner of the room. Mrs Gardiner sat on the sofa, sorting through a basket of wool. Georgiana sat beside her, helping to wind a skein of blue yarn.
"You seem pensive, Miss Darcy," Mrs Gardiner noted gently.
"I am. I am thinking about tomorrow," Georgiana admitted. "The ball."
"Are you nervous?"
"A little. I have never been to a grand ball. And Lady Catherine will be there. She is staying at Matlock House. She will be watching me."
Mrs Gardiner stopped winding. She reached out and patted Georgiana's hand. "Lady Catherine is a loud woman with very old-fashioned ideas, I am told. But she has no power over you. You are under the protection of your brother, and the Earl. And, I dare say, my niece."
Georgiana smiled tentatively. "Elizabeth is very brave. She stood up to William. No one stands up to William."
"She stands up to him because she respects him enough to tell him the truth," Mrs Gardiner said. "And because she loves him."
Georgiana's eyes widened. "Do you think so? Truly?"
"I have known Lizzy since she was a baby. I know when her heart is engaged. She watches him when he is not looking. She defends him when he is criticized. And she looks happier than I have seen her in years."
"William is the same," Georgiana whispered. "He hums. He never hums. And he asks my opinion on his waistcoats."
"Then we have nothing to fear from Lady Catherine," Mrs Gardiner declared, resuming her winding. "Let her glare. We shall be too busy dancing."
"Will you dance, Mrs Gardiner?"
"If my husband insists. Though I prefer to watch. I want to see you dance, Miss Darcy. You have a grace that deserves to be seen."
Georgiana sat up straighter. "I shall dance. I promised Richard the first set. And I think I shall ask Elizabeth to stand with me during the supper."
"A wise choice. Lizzy is an excellent shield against dragons."
Darcy and Elizabeth, having exhausted the view of the rainy street, drifted over to join them.
"Plotting?" Elizabeth asked, eyeing the wool.
"Planning," Mrs Gardiner corrected. "Strategies for the ballroom."
"The strategy is simple," Darcy said. "We arrive. We survive. We leave before Lady Catherine can corner anyone near the punch bowl."
"That is a very pessimistic strategy," Elizabeth teased. "My strategy is to dance every dance and eat a great deal of white soup."
"I have already claimed the first two dances," Darcy reminded her. "And the supper dance."
"You are very greedy, Sir."
"I am making up for lost time," he said, his voice dropping. "I missed the opportunity in Hertfordshire. I do not intend to miss it in London."
Georgiana looked from her brother to Elizabeth, her eyes shining. "I think," she said softly, "that tomorrow will be a perfect night."
The morning of New Year's Eve was frantic. But for once, it was a happy frantic.
Darcy stood in the hall of Darcy House at midday. He was dressed for a final call at Gracechurch Street before the evening's festivities began.
He checked his pocket. The ring was there. The diamond ring he had taken from the strongbox three days ago. It felt heavy. It felt right.
"Ready, William?" Georgiana appeared on the stairs. She looked calm. The tumult Lady Catherine caused seemed to have receded, replaced by the excitement of a young girl going to her first ball with friends.
"Ready," Darcy said.
"Have you practiced your speech?"
"I do not have a speech. I have a question."
"Even better. Keep it simple. You tend to ramble when you are nervous."
"I do not ramble."
"You lectured me on the history of the fork once."
Darcy sighed. "Point taken. Simple. Direct."
They rode to Cheapside through the roads of a city which was buzzing with New Year's energy. When they arrived, the house was already in a state of preparation. Hairdressers were expected, gowns were being steamed, and who knows what else ladies found necessary for a ball.
Robert was already there, of course. He was showing Jane a piece of sheet music he was absolutely certain she would love.
"Just a brief call," Darcy said to Elizabeth, finding her in the library—their usual spot. "To ensure you are still willing to brave the lion's den tonight."
Elizabeth looked up from the book she was reading. She wore a morning dress of sprigged muslin and looked fresh and lovely.
"I am willing," she said. "Though I hear Lady Catherine has been practicing her glare."
"Let her glare," Darcy said. "Tonight is not about her. It is about the new year. New beginnings."
He stepped closer. He wanted to ask her now. He wanted to get down on his knee right here on the Gardiners' rug and secure his future. But he had a plan. He had a strategy. Midnight. The Matlock Ball. The start of 1812.
"Save me the supper dance," he said hoarsely.
"You have already claimed it," she reminded him, her eyes soft.
"I am claiming it again. I want no confusion."
"There is no confusion, Fitzwilliam," she whispered. "I am yours for the dance."
And for the rest? he wanted to ask.
Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight.
"Until this evening," he said, bowing over her hand.
"Until this evening."
He left Cheapside with his heart hammering a rhythm against his ribs. The courting was done. The battles were fought. Now, there was only the victory to claim.