Chapter 11
An hour later, Darcy’s bedchamber felt oppressively small, too still and far too quiet. When she had slipped inside and checked on her sisters, she found them asleep together in Emelia’s room, still unaccustomed to separate chambers and solitary beds.
Darcy had returned quietly to her own chamber and pressed her back against the closed door, her breath unsteady, her chest rising and falling too quickly as she struggled to master herself. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown, as though sheer force might anchor her.
It availed her nothing. She removed her mask and eased out of her gown, then slipped off her slippers and peeled down her stockings until only her chemise remained.
With hurried steps, she crossed to the bed and sank upon it, her limbs heavy, her thoughts chaotic.
Even after several minutes, the darkness brought no comfort.
With a weary sigh, Darcy turned onto her side, then her back, shifting again when rest continued to elude her.
The sheets tangled about her as she moved, her body betraying a disquiet she could neither soothe nor understand.
Each time she closed her eyes, the memory returned with vivid clarity.
She remembered the warmth of his mouth, the deliberate care of his touch, and the slow, devastating patience with which he had drawn her into something she had never experienced and could not now forget.
Darcy lifted her hand to her lips, pressing her fingers lightly against them, as though she might remove the sensation that lingered there.
It only sharpened the recollection. A soft, unsteady breath left her as she turned onto her back, staring up into the darkness, her heart still beating far too quickly, her body far too aware.
How was it possible that not one moment, but a handful of fleeting exchanges, could alter her so completely?
Each kiss had been different, and each had awakened something new.
She possessed no understanding for what had awakened within her.
Darcy turned onto her side once more, drawing her knees slightly inward, her fingers curling into the linen as though seeking purchase.
His voice lingered in her mind. The way he had spoken her assumed name, “Red,” as though it belonged to him alone.
“How absurd that I cannot drive you from my thoughts,” she whispered into the stillness of the room.
Darcy squeezed her eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, yet they clung stubbornly, refusing to be dismissed.
Sleep did not come easily. When at last it claimed her, it was shallow and uncertain, her dreams troubled by dark blue eyes and the lingering certainty that she would not soon forget his kiss.
Darcy had just reached the middle of a passage in Sense and Sensibility, her attention absorbed in Elinor’s quiet endurance, when the soft strains of the pianoforte drifted through the room behind her. Emelia’s touch was light, thoughtful, each note placed with gentle precision.
Across the room, Jane and Sarah stood pressed near the window, their heads bent close together in conspiratorial delight.
“I am certain she has just eloped,” Sarah whispered, peering intently at a passing carriage. “Her gown is so lovely.”
“Nonsense,” Jane returned, equally intent. “She is going to a ball, and that gentleman is her secret admirer. You may tell by the manner in which he handed her into the carriage.”
“I do not believe people attend balls so early. It is scarcely six o’clock.”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “Are we quite certain there are no assemblies or entertainments at such an hour?”
“We have very little knowledge of high society,” Sarah conceded.
“One day we shall know everything,” Jane said with quiet conviction. “And we shall attend grand balls in the most beautiful gowns and arrive in splendid carriages!”
Darcy’s heart tightened. She had often heard their hopeful speculations of the future, each one filled with a lightness that felt at once beautiful and fragile.
They spoke of belonging within society, of being received, of their brother taking a deeper interest in their lives and securing their place within his world.
Darcy knew she ought to temper such expectations, to make them understand that, as illegitimate daughters, society would never grant them the same standing or reception afforded the earl and other ladies of quality.
Yet she could not bring herself to do it. She could not bear to see that understanding dawn in their eyes, nor the quiet heartbreak that would surely follow. Only Emelia fully understood the circumstances of their birth, and even she did not yet seem to grasp their full consequence.
Jane sighed softly. “Perhaps he is taking her home to meet his family.”
Sarah gasped. “Then perhaps they shall marry by the end of the week.”
Darcy smiled faintly at their fanciful imaginings, though her eyes remained upon the page. The quiet domesticity of the moment, so simple and undisturbed, wrapped about her like a gentle reprieve. Then Jane gasped, this time with far greater force than her sister.
“Darcy,” she hissed, turning sharply from the window, her eyes wide with astonishment. “Darcy, he is here. What should we do?”
Darcy’s attention snapped at once from the page. “Who is here?”
“The earl is here!”
The book slipped from her fingers, falling forgotten upon her lap as heat rushed unbidden to her cheeks.
It was too soon. Only last evening, his lips had been upon hers, and she had been carried away by a sensation so consuming it had left her altered.
How was she to stand before him now with any semblance of composure?
How was she to conceal the intimate and dangerous knowledge she now possessed?
“Are you certain it is Lord Raine?”
“Yes! He has just stepped from the most handsome carriage I have ever seen,” Jane said in a breathless rush. “He is coming to the door. Oh, he is coming inside!”
A flurry of motion followed. Emelia abandoned the pianoforte at once, rising so quickly she almost stumbled. Sarah darted from the window, her small hands already smoothing at her skirts.
Jane seized Sarah’s arm. “Come, sit. No, stand. Oh, what are we to do?”
“Compose yourselves,” Darcy managed, though her own heart had begun to pound with alarming force.
They gathered upon the sofa with hurried precision, arranging themselves into what they clearly believed to be the very picture of ladylike grace.
Their hands were folded neatly, their backs straight, and their expressions carefully schooled into polite serenity, though the barely contained excitement in Jane and Sarah’s eyes betrayed them entirely.
Their eagerness disconcerted Darcy, for the man inspiring it might never truly accept them into his life.
Emelia, by contrast, appeared far more composed, and perhaps even a touch wary.
Darcy rose just as the door opened. The butler announced the earl, and then he was there.
Lord Raine entered with unruffled composure, his presence filling the room in a manner at once commanding and unsettling.
He bowed with elegant precision, his dark blue eyes unreadable as his gaze passed over them.
Darcy resented the way her stomach tightened at the sight of him; a disquieting warmth spread through her and deepened the flush upon her cheeks.
Darcy curtsied with her sisters, though it required no small effort to maintain the calm civility expected of her. She kept her gaze steady, refusing to allow even the smallest flicker of recognition to betray the memories that lingered so vividly in her thoughts.
“My lord,” she said. “Your visit is unexpected.”
“Is that censure I hear, Miss Whitley?” he returned, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he looked to the others. He inclined his head to each of her sisters in turn, his manner impeccably polite.
“No, my lord. Only surprise.” Darcy folded her hands before her. “We are honored by your visit. Pray be seated.”
He did not sit. Instead, he regarded them for a moment, as though measuring something unseen.
“The weather is far too agreeable to waste indoors,” he said. “I have come to invite you all to Vauxhall Gardens.”
“To Vauxhall?” she asked, her eyes widening. “This evening?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “If you are at leisure.”
Darcy glanced at her sisters, who looked as though they might expire from barely contained delight. “We would only require an hour to prepare, my lord.”
He inclined his head. “Take the hour you require. I shall wait.”
That was all the permission her sisters required.
The moment propriety allowed, they swept from the room in a flurry of whispered exclamations and barely restrained excitement, their composure dissolving the instant they crossed the threshold.
Darcy did not trust herself to speak further.
She inclined her head once more and followed her sisters, her pulse already quickening at what the evening might hold.
Once in her chamber, she rang for a lady’s maid, still unaccustomed to having assistance in dressing, though she could not deny how much more efficiently matters now proceeded.
Despite her assurance that they would be ready within the hour, nearly an hour and a half passed before they returned downstairs.
The earl remained composed and unhurried, as though the delay held no consequence.
Her sisters wore new gowns, their stockings free of holes, their bonnets simple yet elegant.
As they stepped outside, they bore a striking resemblance to the ladies of quality they so often watched from the window, and the sight tightened Darcy’s throat.
Another swell of emotion rose in Darcy as the earl assisted them into the carriage one by one, his attention unflagging, his courtesy effortless.
When at last he turned to her and extended his hand, she hesitated only a moment before placing her gloved fingers in his.