Chapter 2.6 #3
Darcy took Elizabeth’s arm and showed her to a corner of the room. The awkward incident went mostly unnoticed as the general noise made normal conversation impossible to hear.
Lord Felton remained still for a few moments, gazing after them, then returned to a group of loudly speaking gentlemen and took up a glass. Darcy glared at him once again then returned his attention to Elizabeth. She smiled at him, and he briefly kissed her hand.
“Are you well, my love? Did he say anything to upset you?”
“I am perfectly fine; you have no reason for concern. His offenses were all directed toward you, not me. I really cannot understand what is in his mind. What does he hope to accomplish? But he is a good dancer; I will give him that,” she added in jest, trying to dissipate Darcy’s anger.
He remained serious and frowned, so she smiled again, a different smile that both of them knew well.
“My love, please do not allow him to distress you. He is truly more ridiculous than anything else. I will never take his words seriously, and he cannot possibly affect me in any way. Let us forget about him.”
He raised her hand to his lips again. “You are correct as always, my dearest. Come – let us go to supper.”
∞∞∞
As the guests moved toward the supper-room, Lady Matlock slowly separated from her husband and firmly took the arm of a man she had been following with her eyes for some time. He stopped and gazed at her in disbelief.
“Lord Felton, may I have a private moment with you?”
“Lady Matlock…” With his arm held by the lady, Felton stepped away from the crowd then decidedly pulled his arm free.
“How may I help you, madam? I hope you have not also come to threaten me to stay away from the newest addition to your family. Darcy already did that,” he said impertinently.
“Not at all—I just want to say I understand your distress perfectly.”
“My distress? I do not know your ladyship’s meaning.”
“Come now, my meaning is very clear. You tried to gain Lady Hothfield’s favours when she was a famous actress, but you failed.
You maintained the impression that she chose Darcy over you, which is as silly as it is untrue.
She did not reject you because she preferred Darcy but simply because you were not the kind of man to gain her interest. So you have no reason to envy Darcy and continuously provoke him to compensate for your frustration. ”
“I fail to follow your reasoning,” he interrupted her, self-confidently wearing the same impudent smile. “And please do not presume you know the nature of my relationship with Miss Alton—or Lady Hothfield—nor what kind of man I am. As for Darcy, I am not provoking him at all.”
“I think you are insincere. We both know the actual reason for your jealousy, and I feel for you. It must be hard to accept that you are so poorly gifted precisely in the area that is most important for a man.”
Lady Matlock’s voice was so low that nobody could hear her, but she never blinked as she spoke the infamous words. Lord Felton stared at her in complete shock.
“Lady Matlock, how dare you say that? This conversation has become ridiculous, and I will end it instantly.” He turned pale and looked around in panic.
“I agree, we should conclude this entire conversation, and you should try to forget it. It is the only thing to do. Even if rumours say your ‘manly qualities’ are far from impressive and that might be the reason that your wife has not provided you with an heir after four years of marriage, I am sure you have other things to recommend you. Just focus on those and avoid any useless conflicts.”
“But that is…that is outrageous! It is not true! I am not—that is a horrible falsehood!”
“Is it? Well, that is what I heard, but I have not repeated such gossip to anyone—yet. I do not like to harm a person’s reputation unless I am forced to do so.
Oh, and that rumour that you always try to take advantage of any maid that crosses paths with you—so very un-gentlemanlike!
Several servants in my house spoke of it, but I still hope—for the sake of your mother and wife—that it is not true. ”
“It is not true! Who said that? What servant? What maid?”
“Keep your voice down. You should avoid by any means having such words spread further. People are quickly catching them, and the damage will be impossible to control.”
Lord Felton seemed lost, and a grimace hardened his features. Lady Matlock continued.
“I have not had the chance of speaking to you lately, but I am on the edge of my patience with you, young man. I have known you since you were a boy, but that will not stop me from giving you a proper correction if needed. I can ruin your reputation in a heartbeat.”
“That is nonsense – you would not dare. Nobody will believe you.”
“Do not duel with me, Gilmore Felton, as you have no chance to win. I have never lost a battle in my entire life, and I will certainly not start with you. Even your mother would believe my word over yours. Let this be the first and last time we speak on this matter. Be wise and turn your attention to the people who are pleased with your company if you wish to have a social life in this Town,” Lady Matlock concluded coldly, then majestically stretched her hand for Lord Felton to kiss as a gesture of truce.
He looked at it, dumbfounded, and then finally, unwillingly took it to his lips.
Lady Matlock walked toward the supper table and took her seat among other ladies of the ton, including his mother. Lord Felton stood in the middle of the empty ballroom another moment, then he turned away and left the house, forgetting to fetch his own wife.
∞∞∞
The rest of the night was pleasant with Elizabeth dancing almost every set and Darcy none. She was amused at Lady Marianne’s attempt to catch Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attention and the gentleman’s struggle to escape her insistent admiration.
During supper—and often afterward since they were again separated—Elizabeth felt her husband’s eyes on her, and his gaze warmed her. She knew quite well the meaning of such looks and the silent promise deeply hidden within them.
For Darcy, the ball was equally boring and distressing. Not fond of large gatherings, he found few moments of entertainment. He managed to avoid dancing, as there were enough young gentlemen willing to enjoy the music and the ladies’ company.
The notion that Elizabeth was asked for almost every set he accepted with petulance.
The custom not to dance with one’s own wife yet allow other men to dance with another’s wife he found ridiculous and unacceptable. He briefly decided to reject that idea at any future balls—if they ever attended again.
Then he remembered Lady Matlock’s insistence on introducing Elizabeth at Almack’s, and he realised any attempt to ruin his aunt’s plans would start a war worse than Napoleon’s, and he did not have the least chance of winning it.
He then admitted himself defeated and found solace in admiring his wife: her beauty, her dancing skills, her smiles, her eyes searching for him around the room, her most becoming blushes, and the small gesture of biting her lower lip when she was distressed by something.
He could easily see that many other men were gazing at her, yet he knew she hardly saw anyone but him—just as her image was the only thing in his mind and heart.
A gripping longing for her—for touching her, kissing her, caressing her, loving her—slowly grew inside him, and he was painfully counting every moment until the ball was over and he would have her in his arms.
When the last set began, Darcy glanced around the impressive room; most of the guests appeared engaged in finishing their conversations, and only a few couples occupied the dance floor.
He took his wife’s hand and caressed it briefly.
“I cannot waste the chance of dancing the last set with you, my love. I am starting a tradition which I intend to carry out at every possible occasion.”
Her face showed disbelief, quickly overcome by genuine delight.
“As Lady Matlock has repeated many times, dancing with one’s own wife is very unfashionable. Surely, you do not consider breaching propriety in public,” she whispered, and he could not keep his eyes away from her lips.
“Between the rules of decorum and the pleasure of having you in my arms, my choice is easily made. Would you do me the pleasure of dancing the last set with me, Mrs Darcy?”
“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours, Mr Darcy.”
Many pairs of eyes and even more disapproving whispers and frowning faces watched the aloof and haughty man holding his wife’s hands and eyes in the rhythm of the music.
For the couple, however, nothing mattered except each other. Just as happened at the Netherfield ball, they felt alone in the room full of people, paying attention to nothing and no one and surrounded only by their love.
From her seat, Lady Matlock observed the couple with mixed feelings; her amusement over her nephew’s changed behaviour matched her disapproval for his decision to dance the last set with his wife, especially as he had not danced at all the entire night.
His manners could easily be considered offensive toward the other ladies and the hostess herself and threaten future invitations from influential persons of the ton.
The Countess of Wellford looked rather well humoured—perhaps due to the third glass of wine she was enjoying.
“Upon my word, Darcy does not cease to surprise me; he seems a completely different man since he married,” Lady Beatrice whispered to her friend Lady Marianne, and the latter nodded with obvious disdain.
Lord Matlock, his sons, Lord Pemberton, and Lord Wellford only drank their brandy in silence, glancing at the dance floor from time to time.
“That is true,” the countess admitted. “Some men do change after they marry for love, and most of the time it is exceedingly pleasant.”