Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy Read online

  "Elizabeth," he said, as if trying to calm a fractious child, "I know how to manage a horse."

  She dashed away the tears with her knuckles. "He almost killed you. You nearly died." She took a gulp of air, trying to fight back sobs, conscious that she was creating a scene.

  His arms came around her, and she buried her face in his shoulder, comforted by the warmth and familiar scent of him. He said, "I am perfectly well now."

  "By God's grace only. I thought you were going to die." She could not completely control her tears. "I hate him."

  She felt his hand stroking her hair, her cheek. "On that, you have made yourself quite clear, madam."

  His formality reminded her they were in public. She straight ened her shoulders and stepped away. "Shall we go, then?" She did not know how she would bear watching him mount Hurricane.

  "Would you prefer to walk? One of the stable boys can bring the horses back."

  Almost sick with relief, she nodded, unwilling to trust her voice.

  "Then let us walk." He offered her his arm.

  She took it and walked beside him, too embarrassed to look at him. Between her foolish display and the inappropriate situa tion, he had more than enough reason to be angry with her. He said nothing either, and she kept her eyes on the ground.

  When they reached the house, Darcy asked her to join him in his study once she had rested and refreshed herself. She could not help feeling like a child being called in for a scolding, except this would hurt more because it came from him. After all they had shared the last two nights, she was back where she had begun.

  In the shelter of her room, she washed her hands again, trying to scrub them clean of the odour of birth and death. Lucy hurried in and clucked at the state of her apparel but made no comment on the bloodstains. She must have heard the story already. With the maid's assistance, she changed into a fresh dress, a dove grey one that matched her mood, then sat obedi ently as Lucy tried to coax her hair into some order.

  A knock at the door announced the presence of Mrs. Reynolds, who was bearing an unrequested poultice for Elizabeth's face. So the details of the incident had spread as well. Although her jaw still stung, she did not think it required a poultice. But her husband might be angry if she refused the treatment, so she submitted to Mrs. Reynolds's ministrations.

  Elizabeth held the poultice to her cheek. "Mrs. Reynolds, would you be so kind as to arrange for some assistance to be sent to Mrs. Tanner? Clothes for her and the children, I think, and blankets, as well as food."

  "Already done, madam. Old Sarah will stay to help Mrs. Tanner, and she knows to send word if they need anything." The housekeeper raised the poultice and examined the swelling underneath it. "Lucy, we'll be wanting some powder to cover this before Mr. Darcy sees it again. No need to distress him further."

  At another time, Elizabeth might have resented being managed to this degree, but at the moment, she was relieved someone else was making the decisions for her, especially if Darcy was as angry as Mrs. Reynolds's words suggested.

  Mrs. Reynolds paused, then put her hand on Elizabeth's arm. "It was a fine thing you did, Mrs. Darcy."

  It helped to know someone thought so, even if her husband did not.

  A few minutes later, as Elizabeth approached Darcy's study, she wished she could turn time back. She had been so happy with the progress they had made and the affection he had shown her, and now he was angry again. The despair of the last weeks returned to flood her. Would she ever manage to keep his good opinion for long, or would it always be a series of struggles? And she could not even blame him. But she might as well face the worst. Wearily, she knocked on the door.

  Darcy opened it and held it for her with courtesy, but as soon as he closed it behind him, his face lost its careful neutrality. "Elizabeth, what were you thinking, to confront such a man? Did you not consider the danger?"

  She drew in a careful breath. "I considered the danger to the infant to be more serious than any danger to me."

  "That is admirable but unacceptable. I will not have you risking yourself." He paced back and forth. "You are the mistress of Pemberley, not a servant. And if there is a chance you are with child, you must be that much more careful."

  She sat in the leather armchair so she could avoid seeing his face. Her back straight, she said, "What would you have had me do? Allow him to hurt the infant?"

  "You ought not to have been there without a manservant to protect you! Then the danger would never have arisen."

  "Fry was with me earlier, but I could hardly bring a

  footman into a birthing room, nor did I have any reason to fear for myself. I did not anticipate Mr. Tanner's presence. He had never been there before when I visited." She struggled to keep a quaver from her voice. Once again she was little more than a problem to him. The sting of hopelessness was painful in its familiarity.

  "In future, I expect you always to be accompanied or not to go. Is that clear?"

  Her cheeks burned. She would almost rather he hit her than treat her with this disdain. "Completely, sir."

  Something in her voice must have struck him, for he stopped his pacing suddenly and his brow knitted. He knelt before her. "I do not wish to quarrel with you. He could have hurt you seri ously or even killed you had he a mind to it."

  She turned her head to the side, hiding the bruise. "And would that not be the best thing for everyone? It would solve a myriad of problems."

  There was a measured pause. "What do you mean by that?"

  Her bitterness would not be contained. "Why, he would hang for it and cause no more trouble. You would be free to marry again to a woman who would make you happy and beget an heir without tainted connections."

  His hands gripped her arms tightly. "Elizabeth, do not say such things! Not ever."

  "Very well. In future I will only think them."

  "Christ in heaven, Elizabeth! Are you trying to drive me mad?"

  She was about to make an angry retort when the pain in his face struck her. "No," she said tiredly. She rose to her feet and walked to the far end of the room, facing away from him. "I will be reasonable now and go back to pretending all is well and that I believe you are content in our marriage. I will do my best to avoid danger in future and always take a servant with me when I call on tenants. I will even pretend I do not hate your horse. Is that satisfactory?"

  The silence was like a leaden weight. "I will stop riding Hurricane. It is the only thing you have ever asked of me."

  It was the last thing she expected him to say. She put her hands over her eyes and burst into tears.

  She heard his footsteps, and then his arms came around her. The warmth of his breath caressed her forehead as he spoke. "I am sorry, Elizabeth. I had thought you happier of late, but obviously I have been deceiving myself. There is nothing I can do to make up for the pain I have caused you. All I can do is to ask you what I might do, what I might change to make you less miserable. Ask, and I will do it, whatever it might be."

  Elizabeth could not even think to respond. He was a good man, and she should not have spoken to him as she did. "I am happier. What happened earlier…" She faltered as an image of the baby's face presented itself in her mind, a life that would never be lived, a child who would never play outside in the sunshine. She gripped Darcy's shoulders tightly, unable to breathe.

  "Elizabeth, what is the matter?"

  She could not help leaning into his embrace, sobbing for every thing that had been lost. "She was so very tiny. The baby…"

  His hand stroked her back comfortingly until her sobs subsided. "I am sorry you had to witness that, to have it add to your unhappiness."

  He did not understand, but perhaps no man could. She wiped her eyes. "It was frightening, and I have not yet fully recovered my spirits. Please do not take that to mean I am unhappy in general."

  "This is why I do not want you in such a situation."

  "I have said I will not do it again."

  "So you have." He released her but d
id not walk away. "But my question remains—what can I do to make you happier?"

  His intensity made her uncomfortable. "Truly, I am quite content. I need nothing beyond what I have. But I thank you for the offer. Shall I see you at dinner, then?"

  His hand gripped her arm. "No, Elizabeth. We are not done yet. I have let you slip away too often when you say all is well. You are not leaving until you have asked something of me."

  "But there is nothing I want or need. You have always been generous."

  "I am not speaking of trinkets. What can I do that will make you happier?"

  What was she to ask when the only thing she wanted was his love? But that could only be given, not asked for. "I do not know."

  "There must be something you would like that I have never done."

  Once, he had loved her. Still, she had to answer him. Perhaps she could ask for something that would help her understand him better. "You could tell me about your brother."

  His expression of surprise was replaced quickly by dismay. "How will that make you happier?"

  Elizabeth's first impulse was to tell him he need not do it, but she recalled it was his insistence that she ask for something. "I do not know yet, but I do not like secrets."

  He ran his hand through his hair. "It is not a secret, just something we do not speak of."

  "It is a secret to me."

  "Very well." He crossed the room and poured himself a large brandy. She did not recall seeing him drink this early in the day before. He settled himself on the brown leather loveseat. "What is it you wish to know?"

  "I know nothing about him but his name."

  "Well, then. He was two years my junior and my closest friend in my youth, though we could not have been more opposite. I was serious; he was merry. I was cautious; he was bold. I disliked meeting new people; he loved it. But there was no one whose company I preferred." He fell silent, gazing intently into his glass. "There was one other difference as well. He liked George Wickham; I did not, but I pretended to for Thomas' sake."

  She had no wish to discuss Wickham. "Did you spend much time with Thomas?"

  "Whenever we could. We had lessons together and rode with our mother. Later, when my father insisted on my involve ment in the business of the estate, Thomas ended up in scrapes, usually aided, if not led, by George. He had no malice in him, just the high spirits of youth. George had more cruelty in him, but Thomas never saw it."

  "What happened then?"

  He took a swallow of brandy. "Nothing in particular. I went to Cambridge, and I missed Thomas. He was due to join me in two years, and I looked forward to it. But there was an outbreak of smallpox that winter. Neither Thomas nor my mother survived. I knew nothing of it until it was all over, and when I returned…" He paused, his attention seemingly on swirling the brandy in the glass.

  She had the feeling he had forgotten her presence. "What happened when you returned?"

  "Nothing. Thomas was always my father's favourite, and I my mother's. My father did not find me an adequate substitute for Thomas. I suppose I resented my father as well for surviving when my mother had died and for seeking his comfort in George Wickham's company. Then two years later, my father died of apoplexy, equally unexpectedly, while I was in London. So if I seem to worry excessively over your safety, perhaps that is why."

  She nodded slowly. "That is enough to make anyone worry. I am grateful to be back on the list of people you worry about."

  "Back?"

  Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. "I believe there was a time after our quarrel when you would have been just as happy had I disappeared into the mist!" she said, trying to turn it into a jest.

  "No, never that. I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction when I realised what I had unwittingly done. I never stopped loving you."

  The assertion was so startling and matter-of-fact that Elizabeth could not believe it at first, much less take pleasure in it. "But you…"

  "I know; what I feel hardly signifies when it has caused you so much pain. I do not even know how to begin to beg your forgiveness for what I have done to you."

  "There is nothing to forgive," she said, still struggling to take in his startling assertion. "But do you not regret marrying me?"

  Darcy stood and walked over to the window, looking out over the Pemberley grounds. "That is a difficult question, for the answer is both yes and no. Yes, in that I would not do it again because of the pain it caused you. I wanted to make you happy, and instead, I made you suffer. But, as you know, I can be very selfish. Can I bring myself to regret having you as my wife? No, I cannot."

  She would never forget this moment or the flood of relief it unleashed in her. She went to him and put her arms around him. "I do not regret it either, nor do I regret loving you."

  She felt the breath catch in his chest. "Are you trying to assuage my guilt or do you truly mean that?"

  She tipped her head back to look up at him. "Of course I mean it. Do you think I could have given myself to you as I have these past two nights if I did not love you?"

  He searched her eyes, then his arms crushed her to him almost painfully. "I can speak of this no more, Elizabeth. You do not know how I have suffered for what I have done."

  She put her finger to his lips. "Then do not speak of it. Shall I leave you for now?"

  "No." He held her tightly, as if he feared she might disap pear. "Do not go."

  Chapter 19

  AFTER SUPPER, DARCY ANNOUNCED that he was fatigued and would be retiring early, giving a significant glance to Elizabeth. Slightly bemused, she accompanied him when he returned to their rooms. But instead of taking her to his room as she expected, he stopped in their private sitting room, leading her to the sofa by the fireplace. He invited her to sit with him and put his arms around her, encouraging her to lean her head against his shoulder.

  Elizabeth hid a smile. "This is why you wished to retire early?"

  He flushed. "I found I did not want to share your company with Georgiana this evening. We had so little time this after noon and much yet to be said."

  She heard the slight doubt in his voice. "I am perfectly happy to have you to myself as well, especially since for so long I could not."

  He seemed content just to sit and hold her, but after a few minutes he said, "May I ask you a question?"

  "Of course."

  "You often seem frightened of me, and I have wondered why. I like to think I have not mistreated you."

  "No, of course you have not." She hesitated before answering, fearing her response might displease him. "But you yourself said you were of a resentful temper. The lies Wickham told me convinced me you could be ruthless when angered. I saw how you did not hesitate to show your disdain. I did not know what you would do if I disappointed you, and as your wife, I was totally in your power." She paused. "As I still am."

  His lips tightened. "But you must know I would not abuse that power."

  "I know that now. But I still fear displeasing you, for I never know what will make you turn me away."

  "You need not worry. Nothing could do that."

  Her instinct was to remain silent, but hiding her feelings had not served her well with him. "But you have often rebuffed me when I approached you."

  "What do you mean?" He sounded more puzzled than irritated.

  "Whenever I took the initiative to approach you—when I thanked you for the necklace, or when I greeted you on your return from London, or when I wrote you that letter—it angered you. You cannot deny it."

  "But I was not angry with you." He sounded more than a little annoyed by her suggestion.

  "It certainly seemed so to me."

  His arms tightened around her. "Do you know what it is to be a man violently in love? To live for a woman's smiles and laughter, to hunger for her touch until life itself seems impos sible without it, to desire her as you desire to breathe? I was angry and hurt after our quarrel, yes, but it did not take long for those other feelings to resurfac
e, and then…" He abruptly turned his face away from her.

  Elizabeth felt a moment of panic then forced herself to remember how he had told her of his love just that afternoon. She ran her finger down his cheek. "And then?"

  The words began to tumble out, like water behind a breached dam. "Then I faced an impossible temptation. You would give me anything I asked for. I could have all those things I wanted so badly, merely by indicating to you I wanted them. You would smile and laugh for me and welcome me to your bed, but it would not be out of affection on your part, merely duty." He said the last word as if it were poison.

  "But I told you I loved you in my letter and many times while you were ill."