Fine Eyes and Pert Opinions Page 18

  He rapped at the dark oak door that gleamed in the sunbeam and smelt vaguely of polish. How long could it take to answer a knock?

  The housekeeper showed him into Bennet’s study. Cluttered and filled with books and journals and papers, it was nothing like Darcy’s own, but somehow it managed to be warm and inviting just the same. Little paintings and samplers, surely done by his daughters, decorated the two longest walls. A squat bowl of cut garden flowers stood slightly off center on a side table near the fireplace on the wall opposite the desk.

  Bennet rose, silhouetted by the window behind his desk. “Mr. Darcy. What may I do for you, sir? Shall I call for some tea? It is excellent to see you up and about once again.”

  “Thank you, but I do not prefer tea. I am, though, enjoying the freedom of movement once again.”

  “I think it a far underrated privilege, indeed. Please, sit and take your ease, or stand if that is more satisfying to you right now.”

  “Yes, well, it is actually rather more pleasing at the moment.” Darcy stood near a threadbare brown wingchair near the desk, cushions lumpy, with faded stains.

  “What brings you to call? With a full house party in residence, I hardly imagine it is company you seek.” Bennet came around the front of his desk and perched against it.

  “My sister requested that I inquire after Miss Elizabeth.”

  “I see.” His voice cooled. “And what would you inquire about?”

  “Georgiana would like to know where she might direct a letter for Miss Elisabeth. You must understand, Georgiana has never wanted to write letters and that she would wish to now is both notable and pleasing. I would prefer to get her the direction before the whim departs.”

  “I believe Elizabeth would enjoy a letter from your sister.” Bennet searched the jumbled desktop for a pencil and a scrap of paper.

  “She also asked if there was a date upon which we might anticipate Miss Elizabeth’s return.”

  Bennet scratched out the direction and handed him the irregular scrap. “As to her return,” He tossed the pencil on the desk. “You may tell your sister … oh, bother … I do favor honesty … tell her I do not expect Lizzy to be returning at all.”

  Darcy collapsed onto the wing chair. “Have I heard you correctly? She is not returning?”

  “Going forward, she will reside with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner in London.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Bennet wandered away from his desk and stopped in the window. “Lizzy is nearly one and twenty.”

  “What has that to do with anything?” Darcy clutched the arms of the wingchair, the worn fabric giving way under his fingers.

  “At such an age, a young woman’s thoughts naturally turn to her future. Lambton’s society is quite limited.”

  “But she has lived all her life here, in the shadow of Pemberley. Why should she leave? Georgiana needs her friendship and her guidance.”

  “We need her here at the vicarage as well, but some things cannot be helped.”

  “But why? Why should she wish to leave … here?” Darcy gulped back a lump in his throat.

  “I suppose she finally understood she could no longer stay.”

  “Has someone been untoward to her? Unfeeling? Inconsiderate? What has suddenly made … Pemberley’s society intolerable to her?”

  “Nothing untoward, I assure you. Just the normal course of things opened her eyes to the true nature of life.” Bennet turned to him.

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “My daughter is a tender-hearted young woman whose feelings I will not expose to inspection by those who cannot properly have concern for them.”

  “Her feelings? What feelings?”

  Bennet peered down his nose and scowled. “None you need be aware of or concerned with.”

  “But Georgiana misses her company dreadfully.” So did he.

  “For that I am heartily sorry. But I cannot ask Lizzy to sacrifice her future for the comfort of your sister who is well able to find new friends. Her aunt and uncle are well-connected in London. It is time for her to be introduced in society and to eligible suitors. She needs a home and a family of her own—and….” He met Darcy’s eyes with a pointed gaze. “It is quite clear she cannot find them here.”

  “Why so suddenly? Are you, or your family, in need?”

  “Mr. Darcy, you must forgive me, but I will say no more to you on the matter. Your sister may write to Lizzy if she wishes. But pray, ask Miss Darcy not to entreat Lizzy to return. This is what is best for my daughter. I ask you to honor that.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He folded the direction and tucked it in his pocket. “I should leave you then. Good day.” He bowed, grabbed his walking sticks, and shambled out.

  Darcy grumbled as the driver handed him into the carriage. “Take the road that circles the lake.”

  He threw the walking sticks to the opposite side of the coach and fell back against the squabs. How could she abandon him and Georgiana when they most needed her? Who else could, who else would, advise him on his household, on Georgiana, on Blanche and her tonics? He needed her right now. What business had she being anywhere else but Pemberley?

  What had Bennet been blithering about her future? What more could she want for? She had a home and a parish that depended upon her. How could she just walk away from her duties to seek … marriage to some nameless gentleman?

  A sick, cold knot tied itself between his shoulder blades. Bloody walking sticks seemed to do as much harm as good.

  Whom would he talk to now? Who would advise him on these baffling matters?

  She had not even said goodbye.

  He returned to Pemberley near sunset, ankle and head throbbing a counterpoint to one another. Best confine himself to his room lest he materially damage one of the ladies’ refined sensibilities.

  Richard caught him at the staircase. At least, he had no refinement to offend. “Do you need assistance? You look like the very devil himself.”

  “Kind of you to notice.” Darcy trudged up the first step.

  Fitzwilliam maneuvered to his injured side and grabbed his elbow. “You had a memorable morning?”

  Darcy snarled as his injured foot made contact with the steps.

  “That was not the response I expected.”

  “What do you expect whilst invading my privacy?”

  “Privacy? A beautiful woman sends you what I assume was a carnal invitation and you believe there is any privacy left to be had? You are a wonder.”

  “A wonder who does not require gawkers.” Darcy would have pulled his elbow away had he not needed the support so much. “What leads you to believe there was any invitation?”

  Oh, the look Richard gave him! “You do take yourself far too seriously, you know. Any man would dream of the favor you were granted.”

  “My father would not.”

  “He is dead and before that too disabled—”

  “Stop. I will not discuss this.”

  “Fine, fine. Go on then thinking of your father as some sort of departed saint. It might do you well to realize he may not have been the man you thought he was.”

  “This is not about him.”

  “I beg to differ.” They reached the top of the stairs, and Richard released him to his walking sticks. “It is, as is everything you do. He is dead all these years, and yet you still seek to please him as much now as when he lived. With about as much success, I might add.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Half way down the corridor, almost to his chambers, and he would be free of this conversation.

  “For all that you admired him, he was a taciturn fault-finder to the core. No one could ever do enough to satisfy the old curmudgeon. You, me, my father, the king himself! No one would ever satisfy him. Even your saintly mother bore his constant dissatisfaction. When are you going to stop trying to please him and start living?” Richard shoved open the white paneled door to Darcy’s chambers. “I had hoped today might be that day.”

 
Darcy paused, panting. Was it the conversation or the exertion that rendered him so breathless? “Come to my dressing room. Things are complicated and I … I need advice.”

  Richard’s eyes widened, and he shut his mouth hard.

  The dressing room caught the rays of sunset against the warm, dark oak paneling, leaving the room comforting, somehow appropriate for a conversation he did not want to have. Darcy laid aside his walking sticks, tumbled into his favorite leather chair near the fireplace, and put his foot up on a nearby footstool. They would need candles soon.

  “Let me help you off with your boots lest your foot swells, and you need to cut them off.” Richard grabbed the heel of Darcy’s boot. “Hold on. This will not be pleasant.”

  Richard was a master of understatement.

  “Nothing like a wee bit of torture to loosen the tongue, you know.” Richard headed to the brandy decanter in the corner cabinet. Richard always knew where to find brandy. He poured two glasses. “So, tell me of this complication.”

  Perhaps this was a bad idea, and he should keep his own counsel. Richard dropped onto a nearby chair, his gaze never leaving Darcy’s face. Gone were the traces of levity in his eyes, replaced by a furrowed brow and tight lips.

  “As you suspect, I tried to call upon Blanche—Miss Garland—this morning.”

  “Clearly it did not go as you expected. Were you … unable ….”

  Darcy ran a finger around the edge of his collar and sipped his brandy.

  “You would not be the only man to whom it has happened—especially with a woman as extraordinary as she.”

  “My performance was not the issue. It was hers.”

  “Hers? What has she to do but lie there—”

  “She was unconscious.”

  “Excuse me?” Richard set his glass hard on the table between them.

  “Or all but in any case. She invited me, but in her condition—” Darcy lifted open hands.

  “Her condition? I do not understand.”

  “There was an empty tonic bottle in the bed beside her. She was all but insensible. Call it what you will, but I could not, not with her in such a state. Go on, mock me. Tell me I am a fool for not partaking of such easy fruit.”

  Richard sipped his brandy, swirled it and sipped again. “I cannot mock you, and I cannot laugh. You have a very real problem. I have seen too many caught in the grips of laudanum to think light of it in any way.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “You must confront her, forbid her from the stuff lest she offer it to Georgiana.”

  “Georgiana?” Darcy fell back against his chair. “I had not even considered that.”

  “Well, you must. The poor girl is only now coming out of her shell. You know how tumultuous a Season in London can be. Think of what could happen if she were to offer Georgiana something to calm her nerves. I mean no offense to your sister—”

  “But you can clearly see her falling victim to its soothing properties.”

  “Indeed, I can. This is very bad. Do not waste a moment. Take charge of your betrothed, and put a stop to this before it goes any further.”

  “But how?” Darcy raked his hair with both hands.

  “How? Just go in and speak your mind. I have never known you to have a problem with that. Finish your brandy and go to it, man. Do not delay.” Richard rose and rummaged in the large wardrobe. He handed Darcy a pair of slippers, ones embroidered by the Bennets—a gift from several Christmases ago. Darcy gulped down his brandy and slipped them on. Perhaps they might carry a little of Miss Elizabeth’s wisdom with them.

  Blanche’s lady’s maid informed him that she was sleeping and had left orders that she was not to be disturbed. He penned a note—a summons for Blanche to attend him in his study and gave it to the lady’s maid.

  The woman turned positively white. That could not be a good sign. She warned him that her mistress sometimes took considerable time in recovering from such a headache. So much for dealing with the matter without delay.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, Darcy shut himself inside his study and paced the floor—without the walking sticks, relying only on the support of his riding boots for his injured ankle. Richard peeked in and interrogated him on his choice to forgo the walking sticks. Yes, riding boots in the house were highly improper and yes, his ankle still hurt; no, he probably should not be doing it. But if there was a time he did not need to feel like an invalid, it was now, so damn the advice; he would do as he pleased. Richard beat a hasty retreat.

  Darcy stalked straight down the center of the impeccably neat room, along the line made on the geometric-patterned carpet as the morning light streamed in through freshly-washed windows. Every chair was in its place; each book sat on the proper shelf, arranged by category and title, all bound in the same custom Pemberley black leather binding with gold print; the curtains hung straight as they should; and the folios on his desk were lined up perfectly with one another. In short, the room was exactly as it should be.

  Yet, nothing was right.

  His valet had brought him a note with his breakfast tray that Blanche would see him in his study after breakfast.

  Apparently, he had failed to account for the difference in their habits. For her, breakfast was far later than for him. He had been in his study failing to accomplish anything useful—except to increase the ache in his injured ankle—for nearly an hour and a half now.

  A soft knock at the door stopped his heart. What was he going to say? For all Richard’s insistence that Darcy was quick to speak his mind, that only held true when Darcy knew what he was going to say.

  “You look so serious this morning.” Blanche glided into his study. The Valkyrie had returned, clad in white silk flowing over her curves like a spring flowed over pebbles, caressing and bringing them to sparkling life.

  “I trust you are feeling better today.” He shut the door behind her and pulled his shoulders back. She must not distract him from his purpose.

  “I am rather put out, you know.” She stood very close, her shoulder brushing his, angling herself just so as to offer him the best possible view.

  Darcy stepped back. “Excuse me?”

  She ran her finger along his shoulder and down his chest. “I seriously considered ignoring your summons. After all, you ignored mine.” She turned her face up toward him and blinked slowly.

  He stepped out of her arms’ reach. “I beg your pardon.”

  She dropped her hands to her hips. Her tone turned cold and sharp. “Oh, do not be so prudish, Darcy. I gave you an invitation that any man in England would have answered in a trice and not only did you keep me waiting, but you walked out on me. You have humiliated me, and I expect a very pretty apology.”

  She wore indignation well—very well. Had she tried to tempt other men this way? How many?

  “Do not look as though you do not know what I mean. What more invitation do you need? The door was unlocked for you.”

  “Being conscious would have been attractive.”

  “I was hardly unconscious. I remember your visit quite well.”

  “You were insensible.”

  “Who are you to judge?”

  He strode behind his desk and braced his hands on the solid mahogany top. “Have you forgotten that I am your betrothed?”

  “Not at all. Would I have invited you otherwise?”

  “I am not certain. To whom have you offered this sort of invitation before and how often?”

  She whirled away from him and stalked toward the windows. Did she intentionally arrange her shoulders so the light emphasized the graceful curve of her neck? “How dare you! I do not like the implication of your question.”

  “I do not like the state in which I found you.”

  “You have no right to question my behavior. My reputation is impeccable.”

  “As your betrothed, I have every right—”

  “To ask for what I offered you, and you refused! Do not think I will forget that easily. You have insu
lted—”

  Darcy slammed his fist on his desk. “I did not refuse you, and I have not insulted you.”

  “I remember quite clearly. You turned your back on me—”

  “On an insensible drunk who could hardly form a coherent thought. Lying with you would have been insupportable!”

  She pressed her hand to her bosom. “You call this insupportable? I am … my person is insupportable? No man has ever—”

  “And just how many men have had the opportunity to.”

  She spun and stamped toward him, eyes flashing with fire. He caught her upraised hand before she could strike him. “Release me!”

  He held her wrist for three more breaths then released it. “You will not raise your hand to me or to anyone in my household ever again.”

  “Or what?”

  “Is my command not enough? I need to follow it up with a threat?”

  “You seem the sort of man who would do such a thing.”

  “Clearly you do not understand my character.”

  “You have impugned mine liberally enough.”

  “Enough!” Bloody hell, he sounded like his father. He drew a deep breath and moderated his tone. “Enough. I have said nothing of your character, only of your behavior. You will eschew any further use of your tonics whilst you are under my roof.”

  Her eyes grew wide, and her jaw dropped. “You have no right.”

  “I have every right. I am master of Pemberley, and as such, I will decide what is acceptable within its borders. I do not abide by my household raising hands against another either, and I will not tolerate any more soothing tonics in my home.”

  “You do not know what I suffer. I am in great need—”

  “Then I will employ a surgeon or a physician, if you like, to alleviate your discomfort.”

  “I already have what I need.”

  “But I do not.” His face prickled; he had not realized it until the words came out, but it was true—and it was not her.

  “You had the chance—remember you turned your back on me.” She tossed her head with an elegant little sneer.

  “I need a wife with whom I can entrust Pemberley.”

  “Are you saying you cannot trust me?”