Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Darcy kept his eyes trained on his bacon as his aunt gave his cousin Emerson a dressing-down that was, unfortunately, entirely unlikely to curb his impulsive and inappropriate behaviour in the future. He reached for his coffee cup and raised it to his lips as Lady Carlisle said,
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Arthur! Of what were you thinking, drinking to excess at your own ball? It was very vulgar.”
The viscount, whose cravat was askew and who looked as though the effects of the decanter of port he had likely drunk the night before had yet to fade, sighed.
“I will have you know that my conduct was not nearly as vulgar as that of Mrs Porter’s niece.
The silly chit drank half the contents of the punch pot, danced a reel, tore her gown, and promptly cast up her accounts onto Lord Lithgow’s shoes. ”
“That was unfortunate,” the countess murmured, frowning at her toast. “But Miss Tisdale’s conduct, while lacking, is her aunt’s concern. Your conduct, and the respectability of this family, is mine.”
“Richard has done worse,” said the viscount, his tone petulant as he waved his hand at his brother, who was five years his junior.
“Liar,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, smiling innocently as he stabbed a slice of bacon with his fork. “I was an absolute angel, as was Darcy.”
Darcy, who was seated between Lady Carlisle and the colonel, snorted.
While he and his cousin Fitzwilliam had not been saints, they had certainly never been as bad as Emerson, the colonel’s elder brother, and heir to the earldom, who had a licentious streak that Darcy found utterly abhorrent.
By the way his aunt rolled her eyes, she likely knew precisely who had been doing what for the past four decades.
“Regardless, they both behave as gentlemen ought to do in company. They do not behave like ape-drunk buffoons before every person in the entire county. And ladies, Arthur! Fine ladies do not wish to witness a gentleman behave like a bosky imbecile, commandeer a fiddle from the orchestra, and proceed to sing Lavender’s Blue at the top of his lungs—and very badly at that! ”
Emerson winced.
Darcy—who, along with Fitzwilliam, had not arrived at Sallow Hall until that morning due to an unfortunate incident involving an overturned ox cart, a large drove of pigs, and the elderly, disoriented farmer to whom they belonged—choked on his poached egg.
Coughing and sputtering, he reached for his coffee to dislodge it.
Fitzwilliam laughed as he slapped his cousin on the back while addressing his brother. “Lavender’s Blue! God in Heaven, you are an idiot. Whatever possessed you?”
“Port,” said Emerson, rubbing his forehead with his hand.
“And far too much of it,” said the countess with obvious disgust.
Emerson made a show of scrutinising his breakfast before turning his nose up at it and sliding his plate towards the empty seat to his left. “I do not see what all of the fuss is about,” he muttered. “It is not as though anyone swooned.”
Lady Carlisle regarded him with an expression of utmost exasperation. “Your wife swooned!”
“Josephine does not count,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “She swoons at the slightest provocation.”
“Discovering a frog in the pocket of her dressing gown, or a spider on the seat of her chair, is not a slight provocation,” her ladyship informed him.
“It is certainly entertaining,” he murmured, attempting to hide his smirk behind his teacup.
“Well, I am not amused,” said his mother, tossing her jam-laden knife onto her plate with a clatter that made each of the gentlemen flinch. “Not at all. You are two-and-forty, and a viscount, yet you persist in behaving as though you are a schoolboy of fifteen. Do better.”
And with that, the countess quit the room, slamming the door as she did so, likely to exacerbate the pounding in Emerson’s head.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned as he laid his head upon the table and shut his eyes.
“What in the world were you thinking, putting on such a debauched display last evening?” Darcy demanded.
“Clearly, he was not thinking,” Fitzwilliam replied, looking as though he was biting back laughter.
“Sod off, Richard,” said Emerson. “I am not in the mood.”
“I should say not. You look as though you are still foxed.”
Darcy shook his head. “You smell like it, too. Have your man draw you a bath, for Heaven’s sake. My stable smells sweeter than you do.”
“Must you both speak so bloody loudly?”
“Yes!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed with a ridiculous grin.
Emerson uttered an oath and covered his head with his hands. “You are an unmitigated arse, Brother.”
“It takes one to know one.”
Darcy, feeling that a change of conversation was in order, cleared his throat and asked, “What are your plans for the day, Fitzwilliam?” Perhaps if they ignored Emerson, he would remain silent.
Fitzwilliam rubbed his brow. “I hardly know. I suppose we would do well to spend the day elsewhere once my father awakens. He is likely to ring a peal over Arthur that shall render both of us deaf if we remain within.”
“He already has,” Emerson muttered against the table. “As soon as the last guest left last night, he laid into me with the fury of a woman scorned, and did not let up until the cock crowed. He cannot possibly have anything more to say to me that he has not already said ten times over.”
Darcy had his doubts. His uncle was a man of few words.
If his lordship was inclined to give speeches, it meant that whatever had provoked his diffusiveness had also infuriated him beyond measure.
As a boy, Darcy had been on the wrong end of his temper dozens of times, usually owing to the competitive antics of Fitzwilliam and Emerson. It was not pleasant by any means.
“You are an idiot,” Fitzwilliam told his brother.
“Yes, yes, I am an idiot. I am a drunkard. I am a grown man. Blah. Blah,” Emerson snapped as he sat upright in his chair. “You need not flog a dead horse.”
“Nor do you need to go about your life in your cups.”
“This, from a soldier,” said Emerson with a derisive snort.
“It has been years since I have drunk myself stupid as you do almost daily.”
“That is because you are not leg-shackled. Josephine is no prize, let me tell you.”
“And yet you married her,” said Darcy, “knowing full well that she was…precisely who she is.”
“A termagant is what she is,” Emerson muttered, “and I was half-cocked at the time. It was her enormous fortune of which I was enamoured, not her person. Although,” he added begrudgingly, “she does have decent teeth.”
“Your father seems to like her,” Darcy reminded him. “He is usually an excellent judge of character.”
This incited laughter from both of his cousins.
Perturbed, Darcy looked askance at them.
“My father,” said Emerson, “tolerates her because she is my wife. The only woman he truly seems to like is my mother.”
“Because our mother is a saint,” said Fitzwilliam. “She has put up with our asininity for years.”
Darcy shook his head. “That is not even a word.”
“It ought to be,” Fitzwilliam told him, grinning as he linked his fingers behind his head.
“Make sure you tell that to Miss Barrett when she comes to tea on Thursday. Your command of the English language is certain to impress her.”
“Who?”
“Or was it Barnett…?” Emerson shrugged. “Either way, she is coming and there is nothing for it.”
“Darcy and I did not drive up from London to drink tea with my mother’s friends while they talk of netting purses and who is engaged to whom.”
“It is well, then, since Miss Bernard is not a friend of our mother’s but the niece of one.
” He sniffed the contents of his teacup, shrugged, and took a sip of tea.
“They were introduced last night. Not only has our mother decided she likes this young lady, she has decided that you will like her well enough to be yoked to her. Love at first sight and all that.”
Fitzwilliam stared at him. “You are joking.”
“I am not,” said Emerson. “Take heart. There is always the chance that my performance last evening may have scared her off.”
“Good,” said Fitzwilliam as Darcy asked,
“What sort of lady is this niece of your mother’s friend?”
Emerson scratched his head. “I have no idea.”
“What do you mean you have no idea? She was a guest at your ball, was she not?”
“I suppose that I must have met her at one point during the evening. I was mostly sober while I stood in the receiving line, but after that it all became a bit of a blur. I cannot clearly recall her face, or her name, nor whether she is a clever sort or a half-wit.”
“Shocking,” said Fitzwilliam drily, crossing his arms over his chest, “considering you were drunk as a wheelbarrow by the night’s end.”
Emerson drummed his fingers on the table. “If our mother likes her enough to want her for you, she must be worth having.”
“Then she may keep her for herself. I have no interest in meeting a woman whom she happened to meet at one of your so-called affairs.”
“That was unkind of you,” said Emerson with a haughty sniff. “My affairs are the talk of the town.”
“For all of the wrong reasons,” Darcy muttered. He, too, had no desire to mix with any of Emerson’s people. His friends were all too fond of playing high, frequenting gaming hells, and keeping mistresses as opposed to staying at home with their wives.
“Perhaps,” said Emerson, “her father is as wealthy as Croesus. You do require a substantial fortune to marry. At least fifty thousand.”
“This Miss Whoever-She-Is could have Prinny’s fortune. I would rather gouge my eye out with a spoon.”
“Ha!” Emerson exclaimed. “I dare you to say that to Miss Bertram. Better yet, say that to our mother. You will find yourself in the parson’s mousetrap before you can say, ‘Hey, diddle diddle’.”
Fitzwilliam tossed his serviette at his brother’s head with an oath.
Emerson caught it and tossed it back. “Prat.”
As they proceeded to argue, Darcy averted his gaze to the window and sighed.
Emerson and his antics were exhausting, as was his rivalry with Fitzwilliam. With each passing year, their antics reached new lows. Emerson’s acquisition of Lady Emerson—formerly Miss Stanhope—was a prime example.
It was Fitzwilliam who had first noticed her, wedged into Lord Malcolm’s anteroom with half the ton during a rout.
That evening, she was a very different creature than the disagreeable harridan she was now.
The moment Emerson entered the fray, his title and the promise of a future earldom were apparently too much for her to resist, and so she allowed Emerson to woo her all the way to the altar.
While her fortune of eighty thousand pounds was ample inducement for any gentleman seeking a wife, Darcy had always suspected the real inducement behind Emerson’s interest in her had stemmed from denying his younger brother the acquisition of a fortune that equalled his own.
Of course, Fitzwilliam would never have been happy with a woman who put on airs in order to ensnare a husband.
While he had made a fuss about his brother’s underhandedness, in truth he had not cared one whit.
Seeing Emerson saddled with an ingenuous crab for the rest of his days gave Fitzwilliam a ridiculous amount of satisfaction.
Miss Stanhope may have been wealthy, but Fitzwilliam required more than a rich wife: a sense of humour, a quick mind, and a tenderness of heart that would endure through thick and thin.
Miss Stanhope would not have made him happy.
Elizabeth Bennet, however, would have made his cousin an excellent wife.
Although the idea of Elizabeth married to Fitzwilliam afforded Darcy no pleasure whatsoever, a bittersweet smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he recalled the rapidity with which she had charmed his cousin in Kent.
Her handsome countenance, her cleverness, her unique blend of archness and sweetness, and the way she always had a bon mot at the ready were an irresistible combination, as Darcy had known himself all too well.
Elizabeth was, of course, too poor for Fitzwilliam to consider, but that had not stopped him from flirting with her again and again for the duration of their stay.
What had put a stop to it was Darcy’s own fascination with her, and Fitzwilliam’s fervent loyalty and affection for him.
Two years had passed, and still Darcy remained in her thrall.
No, he told himself as his bittersweet reminiscences turned regretful. ‘Thrall’ is by no means the correct word for what I feel.
It was love.
It had always been love.
And so it would always be love.
From nearly the first moments of their acquaintance—after he had realised what an unmitigated arse he had been to refuse Bingley’s offer to perform an introduction—Darcy had felt his heart swell with affection for the only woman who had ever dared to question him, challenge him, and tease him.
Since then, not a single day had passed when he had not thought of her.
Had Elizabeth not loathed him when he had asked her to be his wife in Kent, they likely would have been married by now.
Thinking of the life they would have had made his chest ache with regret: the long, solitary walks in his park; the spirited conversations about everything and nothing at all; the dinners; the mornings; the nights—loving each other, and holding each other, and loving each other some more.
They could have had children.
What they would not have had was a miserable marriage of convenience like Emerson’s and countless others of Darcy’s acquaintance. How his cousin would ever manage to get his wife with child when the two barely tolerated being in the same room together for half an hour was beyond his comprehension.
But Elizabeth…
Darcy could spend an entire lifetime with her and still she would fascinate him until he drew his last breath.
Her smile alone was ever changing, and the turn of her mind—her inquisitive nature and her intelligence—would be a constant source of pleasure.
Their children, he was certain, would take after their mother: clever, mischievous, affectionate, and beautiful, inside and out.
Darcy frowned.
That was his fairytale, not his reality. Presently, Elizabeth was God-only-knew-where, and he was stuck in Yorkshire with his cousins, who insisted upon behaving like children, as was shockingly evident when a serviette hit him squarely in his face.
“Hallo there,” said Emerson in irritation. “Stop ignoring us and come and have a drink. You look as though you are in desperate need of one.”
“It is half ten,” said Fitzwilliam, rolling his eyes.
“I daresay I need a drink,” said his brother.
Darcy sighed as the bickering continued.
It was going to be a long two weeks.