Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The library was shrouded in darkness, in part because no candles had been lit in the chambersticks; the only source of light came from the embers in the hearth.
Darcy stirred the coals and added several logs, and soon a cheerful fire crackled in the grate.
Discarding the poker, he walked to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of brandy, loosening his cravat as he went.
Half an hour had passed since he had left Elizabeth in the drawing room. Had he remained, he was likely to do something far more forward than simply touch her hand. He ought not to have done it.
When he had first known her, she had often fudged her way through the more difficult pieces she chose to play, but tonight…
Tonight she had been perfect. Her playing was rich and expressive, arousing a host of feelings that he had kept tightly reined for years; but it was the lady herself who had charmed him and captivated him and drove him to distraction throughout the course of the evening—every bit as much as she always had, wholly and completely.
By God, he loved her!
He had never stopped, not once in all the time he had known her, even when she had broken his heart.
Stumbling upon her at Pemberley had provided a second chance for him—to show her the man he was in truth, and to endeavour to win her heart.
With each encounter, Elizabeth had seemed easier.
More open. More amenable to his society and his attentions—marked attentions he had not bothered to conceal from anyone, including her relations, the Bingleys, and the Hursts.
And all the while, Darcy had been desperate to know her heart.
Had she remained in Derbyshire another week, he likely would have asked her—again—to marry him, but with far more eloquence and without insulting and maligning her family. A family who was not so very different than his own, so far as eccentricities were concerned.
Feeling agitated and at loose ends, he set his glass upon the sideboard untouched and raked his fingers through his hair with an exhalation.
The last two years had been unduly stressful, as much for the uncertainty of Elizabeth’s situation as for a host of trials he had faced at Pemberley.
Flooding in the autumn of the year twelve; heavy snow in the winter of that same year; a terrible chest cold the following spring; and the implementation of new advancements and practices at Pemberley’s mines that summer had kept him in Derbyshire more than he liked.
Through it all, Darcy made enquiries through his man of business, searching for Elizabeth by whatever means were at his disposal.
Why Collins had never thought to specify that Mr Bennet had a sister was anyone’s guess. Why Darcy had never thought of the possibility himself was something for which he would likely berate himself for many years to come.
Shaking his head at his own shortsightedness, he reached for his glass and took a measured sip of brandy, relishing the warmth left in its wake as it slid down his throat.
Tomorrow he would call upon Elizabeth at her aunt’s home and attempt to discern her feelings without his family’s interference.
Surely, after passing the evening together, she must realise that his feelings for her remained unchanged?
His solitary interlude was disrupted by the entrance of his cousins and uncle.
“God in Heaven,” Lord Carlisle muttered, heading straight to the sideboard. “Your aunt is in fine form tonight. No thanks to you.”
Emerson followed, as did Fitzwilliam.
Avoiding the contingency amassing at the sideboard, Darcy settled into a tufted leather chair before the fire. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”
Fitzwilliam snorted. “Of course not. You were too busy making love to Miss Bennet. Not that I blame you.”
Darcy felt a flush of heat rise along the back of his neck and took another sip of brandy.
“And therein lies the problem,” said his uncle, claiming the chair opposite Darcy’s. His expression was far from pleased.
“Forgive me, your lordship,” said Darcy. “My conduct this evening was not what it ought to have been, but I hope your dissatisfaction with me does not extend to Miss Bennet. She is not to blame for my lapse in propriety. My actions are not her fault.”
This time it was Emerson who snorted. “I would say your actions are very much her fault. Had she not been before you, you would have kept to yourself. Instead, you kept yourself affixed to her skirts.”
Darcy’s countenance must have looked very dark, for in the next moment, Fitzwilliam laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Stand down, Cousin. No one is here to judge you.”
“Speak for yourself,” the earl grumbled. “He left no one in any doubt of his ardour, including your mother.”
“And therein lies the problem,” said Emerson, reclining on a leather sofa with a glass of port.
Incredulous, Darcy asked, “What problem? My intentions regarding Miss Bennet are honourable. They always have been.” He looked pointedly at Fitzwilliam. “As you well know.”
“Aye. But while I have long been privy to your admiration of Miss Bennet, my mother was not. Your lovemaking has upset all her plans, which apparently involved Miss Bennet as the pièce de résistance.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Darcy, growing more frustrated by the moment.
Rubbing his brow, Fitzwilliam informed him, “My dear mama wants me to resign my commission and settle down with a lady that she likes. She has decided that she likes Miss Bennet.”
Emerson frowned. “Are you implying that our mother does not like my wife?”
“No one likes your wife,” said the earl, swirling the contents of his glass. “Not even you.”
Scowling, Emerson rounded on Darcy. “You like my wife, do you not?”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “Lady Emerson is tolerable, but she would likely be far pleasanter if you behaved as though you liked her.”
“That would be one of the feats of Hercules,” he muttered with a frown. Raising his glass to his lips, he drained it of port. “Once more into the breach,” he announced, rising from the sofa to refill his glass.
“Getting back to your aunt,” said Lord Carlisle. “You need to fix it. She is in a lather. She wants grandchildren. Arthur has been utterly useless in providing her with one. Therefore, she has set her sights on Richard.”
“Who,” said Fitzwilliam with finality, “has absolutely no desire to marry Miss Bennet.”
“Ha!” said Emerson, plunking the near-empty decanter on the sideboard. “I daresay Richard does not like her any better than he likes Josephine.”
“I said nothing of the sort. I find Miss Bennet charming.”
“Liar. You do not wish to marry her. Therefore, you must not like her.”
“I like her very well,” said Fitzwilliam exasperatedly, “but not well enough to poach her from Darcy, who would likely beat me bloody.”
“I hardly think Miss Bennet would appreciate you referring to her as you would a game bird,” said the earl with a rueful twist of his mouth. He turned to Darcy. “What are you planning to do?”
“About her ladyship? Nothing. About Miss Bennet? I plan to call on her tomorrow morning and hope that her aunt will not send me away with my tail tucked between my legs. If all goes well, I plan to court her properly this time.”
“This time?” parroted Emerson and his lordship in unison.
“Never mind that,” said Fitzwilliam, more to Darcy than to his father and brother. “Do as you must. Leave this business with my mother to me. All will be well.”
“God help us if it is not,” muttered the earl, and drained his glass.
The next morning, a bleak, ominous sky cast a dreary pallor over the entire landscape.
Darcy stood before his bedchamber window wearing his banyan, a steaming cup of oolong tea in hand, and wondered whether he would see snow before the day was done.
If it were not so early, he would saddle his horse and leave for Rosewell directly, but it was barely half six.
Surely, Mrs Cahill would not appreciate him arriving at such an unseemly hour, especially after he had behaved like a besotted fool towards her niece the previous evening.
He took a sip of tea.
He glanced at the clock.
He took another sip of tea.
Again, he glanced at the clock.
Sighing, he set his cup upon its saucer and summoned his man, Worth, before retreating to his dressing room to prepare for the day ahead.
When he arrived downstairs, the breakfast parlour was empty save for his aunt, who sat at the table pushing a piece of cold ham around her plate with her fork. Darcy cleared his throat. “Good morning, your ladyship.”
“Good morning, Nephew,” she said glumly.
Instead of serving himself from the buffet, he pulled out a chair at the table and sat beside her. “I am sorry that you are not best pleased with me, madam.”
Lady Carlisle shook her head. “I am not displeased with you, not really. I am disappointed. I like Miss Bennet, Darcy. She is pretty and cheerful and clever—all the qualities that would suit Richard well.”
“He does like her. He always has. In Kent, there existed an ease between them of which I was dreadfully envious. But he made it clear from the beginning of their acquaintance that he could not marry her. Miss Bennet is too poor for him.”
Lady Carlisle shrugged. “His father and I would have helped, had he pursued her.”
“He would not have. Not when he knew that I loved her. Nor would he do so now, knowing that she refused my hand when I proposed to her more than two years ago.”
The expression of shock on Lady Carlisle’s face looked almost comical. “Miss Bennet refused you!”
“With just cause. I did little more than stare at her for the entire duration of our acquaintance. I did not court her, and when I proposed, I did so while informing her of her perceived inferiority. She has two uncles in trade, and her mother is not the daughter of a gentleman. I judged them poorly. I behaved poorly, and Miss Bennet rang a peal over me for it.”
She laid a hand on Darcy’s arm. “I am sorry for you,” she said quietly.
“Do not be,” he told her with a rueful twist of his lips. “I deserved it.”
“She seems to like you very well now.”
“I hope to make her love me,” said Darcy. “Fitzwilliam supports me in this. He has always supported me where Miss Bennet is concerned. He is willing to welcome her as his cousin, but not as his wife.”
Lady Carlisle exhaled heavily. “Is it too much to ask for a daughter who is not a humgruffin?” she asked, throwing up her hands in frustration. “A daughter who would adore my son rather than despise him?”
“Not at all, madam. But allow me to remind you that Emerson has never acted the part of a caring husband. Quite the opposite in fact. Lady Emerson’s cantankerous personality might soften considerably if he would only treat her with the respect that is owed to her as his wife.”
An affectionate smile graced her ladyship’s countenance. “You shall make Miss Bennet an excellent husband, Nephew.”
“I intend to,” Darcy replied. “But that is entirely contingent upon whether or not she accepts me.”
“If she does not, then she is not as clever or as deserving as I believed her to be.”
She extended her hand, and Darcy kissed it.