1. Chapter One
Gentle readers, it has come to the attention of this author that FD of Derbyshire has attended three balls this past week. Yes, you read that correctly. He attended two private balls and willingly made an appearance at Almack’s. Dare I say all the surprised mammas of the ton are aquiver, wondering if this is the year the elusive bachelor chooses a bride? I assure you, this author will watch very carefully, quill at the ready to apprise you where his interest might land.
Fitzwilliam Darcy threw The Tattler onto his desk and pushed back his chair, cursing the intrusive gossip column which fed people’s avarice for salacious tidbits regarding secret liaisons and intrigues. Damn Ashton and his ludicrous bet, whereupon the loser was required to attend – at the very least – twenty balls before the year ended. Only two weeks into this debacle with five balls notched on his metaphorical belt, Darcy felt as though he was in the third circle of Hell.
He should never have agreed to the wager, but then again, he never expected to lose the race from Lambton to Pemberley. When his horse threw a shoe barely half a mile outside of the village, he could not, in good conscience, continue. Any hope of winning the race was lost while he kicked pebbles on the street in front of the farrier’s shop, and it was a gloating Viscount Ashton who waited for him on the front portico of Pemberley later that same day.
“I cannot believe I beat you.”
“Arion threw a shoe just outside of Lambton.”
“You know,” Ashton began as the cousins entered the house and made their way to Darcy’s study. “I should concede you would have won the bet if not for that mishap, except, I dearly wish to see you dance and make pretty speeches to breathless young ladies who will line the walls, awaiting your request for a set of dances.”
Grim-faced, Darcy stomped past his cousin, moving directly to the cabinet that housed his port brandy. He poured the expensive concoction into a cut glass tumbler and threw back the drink in one swallow, followed closely by a second. After pouring a third drink, he turned to face Ashton.
“Can we negotiate terms?”
“You agreed to dance a minimum of three sets per evening. We also agreed you are not required to dance the opening or final sets, but you must dance the supper set and escort your partner into dinner.”
Darcy closed his eyes and blew out a hard sigh.
“There are times I believe I hate you, Ash.”
“No, you love me for I am your second favorite cousin, next to Richard.”
“Not even second favorite. You have officially fallen below Anne and Thurston”
“And Thurston!” Ashton clutched his chest as though mortally wounded. Then he chuckled. “I should be offended, but the taste of victory is still sweet on my tongue and I cannot repine the fact you will be forced to partake in the Season.”
“You forgot, my pernicious cousin, you did not specify when or where I had to attend.”
Ashton started to speak, then paused.
“At times, you are too smart for your own good. Regardless, I know you will be in town for the next few months so a portion of your penance will be paid there, and you are too honorable to not fulfill your promise.”
“In that you are correct. I will abide by our agreement, but…” Darcy leaned toward his cousin, staring him in the eye as they were almost the same height. “My retribution will be swift and unexpected.”
“I am not afraid of you, cousin.”
“You should be,” was Darcy’s only reply.
And now, here he was back in London, attending the promised functions. He may not have minded, but three sets in one night including the supper set, meant that four hours of his life each evening was gone. Wasted, never to return.
“Darcy!”
He turned to see his good friend Charles Bingley and almost smiled in greeting until his gaze landed on the woman clutching his arm. All joy leeched from his body at the sight of Miss Caroline Bingley. From the first moment they had been introduced three years ago, she had made it very plain she saw herself as the next Mistress of Pemberley. He was equally determined she would never cross the threshold of any of his homes bearing the name, Mrs. Darcy. He’d fake his death before he waited at an altar for her arrival.
“Bingley, Miss Bingley,” he said with a polite bow of greeting.
“Mr. Darcy,” the lady simpered as she sank into a curtsy. “We are so pleased to see you again. It has been an age.”
“We saw Darcy just the other day, Caroline. What are you going on about?” Bingley ignored the glare his sister settled upon him. “I am glad we came across you so quickly. It is quite the crush tonight.”
“I saw you almost immediately, Mr. Darcy.”
Did she just bat her eyelashes at him? Although he loathed the activity, he had to secure a dance partner who was not Miss Bingley, which gave him a valid reason to avoid the two siblings.
“Pray, excuse me, I must find a partner for the second set.”
“But the dancing has not started,” Miss Bingley protested.
“I am aware; however, I must secure the young lady’s set before they are all taken.”
“All my dances are open, sir. Shall I reserve the supper set for you?”
He kept his expression as bland as possible at her brazen behavior.
“I have already chosen another partner, Miss Bingley.” Although not true, he wasn’t interested in entertaining her delusional thoughts that he saw her as a potential spouse. Ignoring her sharp gasp, he continued, “Let us speak later, Bingley. We have matters to discuss in private.”
“Of course, I will look for you during supper. What salon are you in?”
“The first one.”
“We are in the third.” Bingley frowned slightly, then his face cleared up. “Well, no matter. I shall likely take a walk through the card room to see who is there. We can have a drink before the dancing starts again. I have something quite exciting to tell you.”
“I will keep an eye out for you,” Darcy promised. “I really must go. Lady Evelyn has arrived and I wish to secure a set.”
He gave the brother and sister a polite nod of the head and strode through the crowd, uncaring of where he went as long as it was away from Miss Bingley. Unwilling to remain a stationary target for the determined miss, he escaped to the other side of the room near the entrance, whereupon he discovered Ashton had arrived.
“I have a bone to pick with you over the terms of our wager,” his cousin said by way of greeting.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“I do not believe I have reneged on any of the terms.”
“No, you mangy cur, but you have found a way to side-step the most important one.”
Darcy could not help the dark smile that crossed his face and his mind hearkened back to the first ball he attended to fulfill the agreed-upon terms. By a fluke of circumstance, he had solicited Lady Hudson, a dear friend of his late mother for the supper set, whereupon he discovered a loophole. He did not have to suffer the inane prattle of a simpering miss for nigh unto two hours if his supper sets were reserved for well-educated, happily married matrons. He refused to waste valuable time with young ladies whose only goal in life was to find a wealthy husband.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Ashton.”
“Did you think I would not notice that all your dinner partners already have a wedding ring firmly attached to their finger?”
“Have they? I had not realized.”
“You are a terrible liar.” Ashton shifted to stand beside him and looked over the crowded room. “For certainty, you will have your pick of lovely ladies to dance with tonight.”
“Since the onset of my paying the forfeit of our wager, the attempted compromises have increased to almost unbearable measures. The worst being last week at Almack’s.”
“Miss Hopewell has become desperate. This is her fourth season and time is running out for the poor girl. She has been given the nomenclature of Miss Hopeless.” Ashton grinned. “You must admit, she was clever. Unsuccessful, but clever.”
Darcy tried to wipe his cousin’s unrepentant grin off his face with a haughty glare. It did not work, he only grinned wider, if that was possible.
“She purposefully bumped into me, hoping the lace on her dress would catch my waistcoat button. When that did not work, she practically rubbed herself against me like a cat in heat.”
“She is quite the buxom lass. You must have received some pleasure from her antics.”
“Ashton, buxom or not, the lady is a dreadful bore.”
“You do not need to speak with her to make babies. Close your eyes, and dream about Helen of Troy or some other reputed beauty. You never know, she may excel in ways that secretly delight you.”
Darcy glared at his cousin again.
”I do not want to simply visit my wife”s bedchamber once or twice a week to alleviate any tension which might arise—”
Ashton outright guffawed at his oblique reference to natural desires, causing a few heads to turn in their direction.
“That is not how I envision my marriage to unfold. I also wish to enjoy her company. Engage in lively conversations and share mutual interests.”
“You want a marriage like your parents.”
“I do.”
“Did your father darken your mother’s door once or twice weekly?”
Ashton’s eyes sparkled with mirth.
“I will not dignify that question with an answer.”
“You know as well as I, your parents had a healthy, active marriage.”
Darcy’s ears burned with embarrassment, but he nodded in agreement. His parents had at times, behaved as newlyweds for most of their married life. It was one of the main reasons his father had been completely devastated when his wife died. It was also the reason Darcy swore he would never fall in love. He would like and respect his wife, but never – never would he allow his life to revolve solely around one woman.
Elizabeth Hamilton followed her Aunt Sarah, Lady Courtland, into the crowded ballroom. Although she had attended many fêtes and balls with her extended family, she remained fascinated by the sheer number of candles used to illuminate the cavernous room. Temporary inattention to her surroundings caused her to bump into the back of a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman. About to apologize when he half-turned and stared her down, the words stuck in her throat for two reasons, the first being he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. The second was because the look he bestowed upon her was so cold, that it would have made a Bedouin nomad reach for his blanket on the hottest of days.
“Must I now expect every brash young woman to throw herself at me before the dancing has even begun?” he asked his equally tall companion, disdain dripping from every syllable.
The other gentleman looked at Elizabeth and said, “You could not have asked for a prettier trap to be caught in. Shall I seek an introduction?”
The haughty man gave her a hard, sideways glance.
“She is tolerable I suppose, if one prefers ordinary garden flowers. However, she is not handsome enough to warrant an introduction.”
“I say, that is most unkind. You have no idea who this young lady is.”
“And I have no desire to learn her name or antecedents. Let us remove ourselves before she tries anything further. I have already had more than I can stand of this present company.”
Mouth slightly agape, Elizabeth watched the two men make their way across the crowded floor. That they were popular was evident, given the number of people who entreated them to stay and chat, but they continued until they disappeared through a door that led to rooms where men played cards and smoked cigars. Her aunt, who had surged forward to greet an old neighbor, completely missed the entire exchange. Determined not to let the rude man ruin her night, Elizabeth smiled when her aunt presented her to Mrs. Jennings, who was at the ball with some distant cousins of her daughter’s husband.
“My guests, the Misses Dashwood, will enjoy making your acquaintance. They are around here somewhere. Miss Marianne is anxious to see her beau and continues to promenade about the room in the faint hope he will attend.” Mrs. Jennings assessed Elizabeth’s figure with a keen eye. “You will not sit down once this evening; I am certain of it. With your delightful figure and fine eyes, men will fall all over themselves, vying for your hand.”
“I would not be too certain of that, Mrs. Jennings,” Elizabeth said without thought. “One gentleman already thinks I am not handsome enough to warrant an introduction.”
“What! Who has said such a thing?” Aunt Sarah demanded, clearly outraged someone would insult her beloved niece.
“Pardon my indiscretion; I should not have said anything.”
“You must tell me who dared to disparage you in such a manner,” her aunt said. “Point him out when your uncle joins us. I know, for a fact, he will have a quiet word with the gentleman.”
“I do not know who he is,” Elizabeth answered honestly, regretting her tiny outburst. “Besides, he has already left the ballroom.”
“You will tell me when you see him. Yes?”
“Thank you for wishing to be my champion, but I am quite capable of holding my own in a battle of words. If you insist on worrying, save it for that gentleman should we cross paths.”
“You have a bit of a spitfire on your hands, Lady Courtland,” Mrs. Jennings said with a wide smile. “I look forward to your niece slaying the rude dragon. That is if he dares to make a reappearance.”
To Elizabeth’s great surprise, given the earlier disappointment, she enjoyed the ball. Having just returned from her last set, her back was to the dance floor when Lady Courtland’s face brightened with delighted surprise.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said with a wide smile. “What a pleasure to see you this evening.”
Elizabeth started to turn, wondering which gentleman had garnered such warmth and pleasure from her aunt when she heard that voice and froze.
“Lady Courtland, would you do me the great honor of dancing the supper set with me?”
It was him! She could scarcely believe her ears.
“I would be delighted,” Aunt Sarah replied. “I will ask my husband to partner with my niece, then we can have a merry party during supper.”
“As you wish, madam,” came his silky reply.
Aunt Sarah signaled her husband, who quickly joined them. Elizabeth had yet to turn around, unwilling to look upon the rudest man she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting.
“Darcy, my boy. Are you here with that rapscallion Ashton? Or maybe Richard?”
The rude oaf was her cousin! Her aunt had nothing but good things to say about her Fitzwilliam cousins. Elizabeth held back a soft sniff of disapproval. It was quite apparent, to her, that he showed his titled cousins a different facet of his character, saving his cold rudeness for hapless young women he thought below his social sphere.
“Ashton is here, attempting to coax Lady Abigail into dancing with him.”
“She still hasn’t forgiven him for his trifling faux pas, eh?”
“No sir. He may have to strengthen the fabric in the knees of his trousers before the lady will soften her heart.”
Uncle John laughed out loud.
“It will do that young pup some good to have his ego deflated. What about you? What are your plans for the evening?”
“I am here, sir, to ask your wife to grant me a set.”
“I thought you abhorred dancing.”
“How can I not wish to dance when such a delightful partner as your wife is before me?”
“Ahh… You inherited your father’s charm, I see.” Uncle John half turned and held his hand out to Elizabeth. She took it and allowed herself to be brought forward. “Have you met our niece, Elizabeth?”
“No, I have not had the pleasure…”
A flicker of disgust first crossed his face upon seeing her, then he paled when he realized she was the niece of Lord and Lady Courtland, not some lowborn girl he could dismiss.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy, I present to you, Lady Elizabeth Hamilton, the daughter of my wife’s late brother Timothy, the Earl of Tiverton.”
Mr. Darcy quickly recovered and gave her a polite half-bow.
“Lady Elizabeth.”
She waited for him to straighten and look her in the eye. When she was certain she had his undivided attention, she turned her back on the gentleman. Upon hearing the soft gasp from her aunt, she almost relented and turned to greet him properly, but then his words, ‘she is not handsome enough to warrant an introduction,’ echoed in her memory and her courage rose.
“Elizabeth, what is the meaning of this?” Uncle John demanded.
“Your horticulturally minded acquaintance does not believe us poor garden variety flowers warrant introductions.”
Before any of them could utter another word, she turned on her heel and quit the room.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy, what have you done?!”