Chapter 19 All Mouth, No Trousers #2
The door to the study flew open, and Elizabeth shivered at the anger emanating from Lord Matlock.
She retreated into the shadows of a corner and cursed her misfortune.
The earl could not have come at a more inopportune moment.
She was desperate to speak to her husband alone, but he was never at home.
Too busy arranging the wedding, collecting Wickham’s debts, and finding the reprobate an occupation that would allow him to keep a wife.
Mr and Mrs Bennet were only too happy to leave the arrangements in Mr Darcy and Mr Gardiner’s capable hands and had left for Longbourn that morning, taking Kitty with them.
Darcy had just returned from his attorney and was standing by the window, staring unseeing onto the square.
Lord Matlock must have discovered Lydia’s abduction. It had happened only yesterday, yet the newspapers had run rampant with speculations.
“What the hell is this!” The earl dropped a newspaper onto Darcy’s desk, ignorant of Elizabeth’s presence. His eyes were fixed on her husband’s broad back.
Darcy spun, hastened to his desk, and slumped into his chair before pulling the newspaper towards him.
Curiosity got the better of her, and Elizabeth leant over Darcy’s shoulder and perused the page. What she read was not at all what she had expected…
We have news of a Lieutenant W, who dallied with a certain Miss D of P in Ramsgate last summer. According to my source, W was then thwarted by the timely arrival of Mr D of P, who saved his sister from eloping to Gretna Green.
W has returned to town and has been spotted with a beautiful blonde on his arm. I suspect the rumours, in this case, have been proved true…
Elizabeth covered her gasp by slapping her hand over her mouth.
“What despicable lies!” she cried.
“Leave us,” Lord Matlock bellowed, scowling at Elizabeth.
Darcy said nothing; he did not even look at her. Her breath left her in a rush, and she hastened out of the study.
“Is it true?” Elizabeth heard the earl ask her husband. She could not help but listen to what his reply might be and halted behind the door she had just closed. Darcy spoke not a word.
“I see,” the earl growled. “How could you allow that reprobate of a steward’s son within a mile of your sister? You are a great disappointment to this family and should consider renouncing your claim to Pemberley.”
“They have the wrong sister,” Darcy replied with his usual calm.
“I cannot believe it of Miss Bennet.”
“No, it is the youngest, Miss Lydia. Rest assured that I have the situation under control. The first banns will be read this coming Sunday. The wedding will be held the Monday following the last reading.”
It was then that Elizabeth realised Darcy would never agree to forgo Lydia’s wedding to Mr Wickham and that time was running out. It was already Friday.
“Miss Lydia was in Ramsgate too? Was that how you became acquainted with Mrs Darcy?”
“No. The paper has its facts confused. Lydia was in Brighton, not Ramsgate, and it was this year, not last year.”
“Idiots! I can readily believe it. One might think they were illiterate, the whole lot of them,” Lord Matlock scoffed.
Elizabeth hastened to her room. Poor Georgiana!
It was not so strange that the girl had turned inwards with such a family.
To risk facing the enraged earl must be daunting for any young woman; with Georgiana’s shy nature, it must be even more intimidating.
Of course, this was the reason why Darcy so eagerly forwarded a marriage between Lydia and Wickham.
He had to, to deflect the quidnuncs from his sister’s folly.
She and Darcy were so alike…
Elizabeth did not see her husband before breakfast the next morning.
“You look tired, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth almost choked on her morning toast.
Both Georgiana’s and Mary’s eyes widened at this impolitic declaration from Darcy.
“I am,” she readily admitted. “Would you mind if I begged off Lady Castlereagh’s ball tonight?”
Her husband did not look pleased. It was unwise to risk offending a peer when their position in society was so precarious.
It was a miracle they had received an invitation, but she already knew what it would be like.
It was exhausting, fending off barbs, pretending not to notice the askance looks and derogatory remarks.
There was no strength left in her to force an expression of complacency to her face or bite her tongue at the rude utterances.
“But you should attend,” Elizabeth added. “I dare say Lord Downshire quite depends upon your presence.”
She immediately questioned the merit of her own assertion.
The beau monde had so far been unforgiving in regard to their unequal marriage, but Mr Darcy might be more welcomed if his plebeian wife did not accompany him.
Lord Downshire was the exception in London’s society, but his station was secure, so he might not be concerned about being associated with the Darcy pariahs.
“If you do not mind? I would like to attend to investigate whether the latest rumours are generally believed.”
She was not truly indisposed, only tired. “Not at all. I do not relish the thought of ruining your plans just because I am not inclined to attend.”
Her husband’s look of relief grated on her, but she smiled, as always, and retired early for once.
After hours of peaceful slumber, though not sufficient to fully restore her strength, she was awakened by someone stumbling through the door. Her immediate fright was mollified when a thump was followed by her husband’s low curse.
“Blasted chair! Why cannot the furniture stay in its designated place?”
He had sanctioned the refurbishing of her private quarters.
Darcy struggled to remove his fitted coat. Why had he not rung for his valet? Elizabeth glanced at the window and discovered the morning reds were conquering the sky. It must be late or rather early in the morning, depending upon your perspective.
She could help him, but he managed it before she had decided whether the offer would be welcome.
The bed dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge and continued to undress himself. Sleep had claimed her consciousness until he lay down and pulled her roughly against him. He smelt of port and cigars, which made her stomach turn in displeasure.
“You looked so pretty tonight.”
Elizabeth could have laughed had she not been so nauseated. Was it not mere hours ago that he had remarked upon her haggard appearance?
A light snore tickled her ear, and she allowed her consciousness to drift when he spoke again.
“I have wanted to do this for so long.”
Yes. About twenty-four hours, she thought wryly as his hand moved to cup her breast. She could not help the moan that escaped her.
“Caroline?”
Elizabeth stiffened and dared not even breathe. Was her husband so drunk he had mistaken her for Caroline Bingley?
The hand on her breast stilled its gentle movement, and for that small mercy she was utterly grateful. His hand moved to her back, and with a forceful push she was propelled to the floor. It was a blessing that the thick rug had cushioned her fall or she might have been injured.
“Good riddance,” Darcy mumbled before the bed creaked as he turned away.
The quick change of location stunned Elizabeth, and she listened for movements from above whilst hardly daring to draw breath. What could he mean by shoving her out of her own bed? Was he disappointed to find his wife in his arms rather than Caroline Bingley?
The only sound she could hear was her husband’s gentle snoring. Bile rose precariously high in her throat. She could not force it down.
Elizabeth rose as silently as possible, begging the floor not to creak, and made it to the commode with a Herculean effort, where she lost the contents of her stomach. Even when it was completely empty, she continued to heave, and to her mortification, footfalls approached from behind.
“My dear, you are truly ill,” Darcy mumbled.
She hated it when he called her my dear. It was what her father called her mother when he was vexed, and she had told her husband repeatedly not to call her that. “Yes,” she managed to croak between the cramps.
“Good Lord! I cannot stomach the smell,” he cried and hastened away to his own chamber.
Good riddance, she thought, feeling only relief when the door to the master’s chamber closed with a distant thump. Soon after, she retched again, though not as violently as before. When utterly spent, she plodded back to bed.