Chapter 1 Irredeemably Devoted #2
Darcy hoped this Mr Lucas was eighty years old, with a face covered in warts and a mouth filled with rotten teeth.
The mere mention of another man dancing with Miss Elizabeth quickened his pulse, and his mouth dried out like a summer in an arid region.
The need to protect her was instant and violent.
He had never been more charmed. She was not only beautiful but also funny and witty.
He had expected questions about his income and estate, but the badinage about her beauty was much more pleasurable.
“And now I would like to hear who your favourite poet is,” Miss Elizabeth prompted.
“Who is yours?” he countered.
“Oh no. I am not giving you the answer this time. In this I am only interested in your true opinion.”
Darcy enjoyed being commanded by Miss Elizabeth, though he would not mind turning the tables on occasion. “Firstly, I would have you know that I never speak anything but the truth, and secondly, I favour John Donne.”
“The love poet?” she remarked with surprise. “‘For God’s sake, hold your tongue and let me love…’” she quoted from the poem The Canonization.
“You are a romantic!”
Darcy’s ears grew warm, and he confirmed her supposition with what he suspected was a sheepish grin before the dance separated them.
Only then did he notice the curious looks of the Meryton residents.
He must guard himself before the denizens of this provincial place began any rumours that might travel back to London.
It was of the utmost importance that the quidnuncs’ interest did not turn to Darcy House before he had silenced Wickham…
His partner returned, and the onlookers were quickly forgotten.
His mind became more agreeably engaged, relishing in the feel of her feminine back against his palm as he led her firmly through the vigorous steps.
How would it be to grab her delicate waist with both hands and…
He had better not allow his thoughts to stray down that path and risk disgracing himself.
Darcy escorted his partner back to her sister and felt immensely relieved when Mr Lucas turned out to be a swain barely out of leading strings.
He watched Miss Elizabeth and the young buck enter the line, which unfortunately allowed Miss Bingley to sidle up to him while he was in a state of wool-gathering.
She grabbed his arm, and the firm grip hummed with portent.
Then she had the audacity to whisper in his ear.
“Miss Elizabeth has a mere thousand pounds upon her mother’s death.”
A thousand pounds was rightfully a paltry sum, but Miss Bingley was hardly a reliable source.
Darcy balked and pried the lady’s hand from his person.
The impudence of the woman was becoming increasingly bold.
A quick survey of the dancers convinced him that Miss Elizabeth had not observed Bingley’s sister’s forwardness, and a quick change of direction left the lady reeling.
Chuckling at her expense, he found a darkened corner to await his next set with the delectable Miss Elizabeth.
#
Mr Lucas was escorting Elizabeth towards the refreshment table when Mr Darcy’s fine, tall person intercepted them. He was ready with two glasses of punch in his hands. He offered Elizabeth one of them and then his elbow, both of which she accepted.
“Are you familiar with the far-famed Peak Cavern in Derbyshire, Miss Elizabeth, where they say the devil sits without his breeches?” Mr Darcy asked whilst expertly directing her away from Mr Lucas, to whom she directed a satirical smirk as an apology.
“Yes,” she admitted, watching Mr Darcy’s eyebrows rise.
Her aunt Mrs Gardiner, who had married Mrs Bennet’s brother fifteen years ago, had been raised in Lambton, a quaint town located at the foot of the Peak.
Elizabeth had never visited, but her aunt had described it in such detail that it felt like she had been there.
Mr Darcy looked as if he expected her to explain further, but she was of a mind to thwart him in that endeavour.
Surprised by his sudden loquaciousness after his taciturn beginning, Elizabeth expected him to converse if he was so inclined.
“This is the place in the conversation where I would presume you would expound,” Mr Darcy remarked in a flat voice.
Elizabeth was over the moon. She ought to attempt to charm him, at least a little. She could remark that Hertfordshire was naught but trees, fields, and low rolling hills, whereas the Peak was a wild place untamed by humans.
“It is lovely,” she replied dutifully whilst battling the tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Mr Darcy was not only tall and handsome but witty as well.
Which all gentlemen ought to strive for, if at all possible.
What fun it was sparring with this gentleman, much more so than any of Meryton’s ninnyhammers…
“I shall allow you to expound during our reel,” Mr Darcy said, gesturing to the lines forming on the floor. “Our set is about to commence.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks were suddenly uncommonly warm. She was usually more astute and blamed her lack of discernment on the unsettling presence of the gentleman.
“Which peak is your favourite? Kinder Scout, Mam Tor, or Stanedge?”
Elizabeth pursed her lips in thought, quite deliberately, and relished Mr Darcy’s eyes darkening into a deep sea-blue.
“Stanedge,” she decided on the grounds that it was the nearest to her aunt’s childhood home.
Mr Darcy’s smile made her breathing shallow and sawed. His shiny white teeth distracted her, and she almost missed his reply.
“It is my favourite, too, since it is located closest to my home…”
#
The autumn air hit Darcy’s face like a cold bath, sobering his wayward contemplations and agitated feelings. He was alone with his friend; the rest of their tardy party had yet to don their shawls and coats.
Bingley made a fishhook with his finger, inserted it into his mouth, tugged it upwards, and widened his eyes like a cod on land.
“Desist! You are as smitten as I am,” Darcy protested.
“True, but I have been bewitched many times before. You, on the other hand, have never acted like a mooncalf for as long as I have known you.”
Darcy made no reply but did a quick mental summary of the evening while they waited for the carriage, concluding that he had done nothing untoward.
The premonitions of a headache drummed at his temples, and he thanked the divine for Miss Bingley’s silent reproaches.
She was scowling at him on the dimly lit street, scowls that became invisible upon his entering the darkened carriage.
Bingley chattered incessantly the two miles back to Netherfield, making his dull headache bloom into a full-fledged hammering.
Excusing himself as soon as they arrived home, Darcy hied to his chamber and shut the door with a resonating thump that did nothing to assuage his pounding head.
A restlessness settled, compelling him to pace the floor until his valet emerged from the dressing room.
Grey only glanced at him before he disappeared for a minute and returned with powders to relieve his master’s sore head.
Stripped and medicated, Darcy tucked the covers around his chilled body.
The Devil
take it! Miss Elizabeth’s eyes, which had looked so prettily at him, turned dull in the light of reality.
She was a lowly squire’s daughter, and he was Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire, nephew to the Earl of Matlock—descended from an ancient noble line.
To imagine a connection beyond the innocent antics of a country assembly was insupportable.
Love was absurd and nothing he expected from marriage.
His tastes were simple; he needed beauty, brains, breeding, and…
Darcy struggled to find a word that meant fortune beginning with the letter b.
Marriage was the most important business arrangement he would ever make, and it was crucial to increase the family fortune, not to forget strengthening their standing in society. It was the burden of the master of a great estate, not that he minded much.
With that conundrum settled in his mind, he fell into a restorative sleep.