B006O3T9DG EBOK (18 page)

Chapter 24

A Note Too Late

Due to a throbbing headache, Lady Howgrave had her husband summon their coach not long after she spoke to Mr. Darcy the night of the Pemberley ball. Except for her sudden bout of ill-health, she appeared quite pleased with herself and the evening.

She was not.

———

When Elizabeth Darcy chanced to see them standing on the gallery above her that night, Juliette had been utterly delighted. Darcy’s smile was as rare as it was fleeting, therefore all the more propitious that it occurred when his wife looked up at them. Juliette had kept her countenance however. It would have been imprudent to reveal her pleasure to either of them. It was enough to know that Darcy’s wife had espied them together—in what looked to be nothing less than a stolen moment.

Was fate not grand?

No woman was immune to jealousy’s cruel barb—that was a certainty. Creating marital disorder was not Juliette’s true calling, just an amusing consequence. In deliberately gazing up at Darcy when (and how) Mrs. Darcy did, Juliette was not only aware that she might vex his wife, she gloried in that possibility. It had long been decreed that all is fair in love and war—although generals bow to ladies when scruples do account. Surely, Miss Bennet did not marry Mr. Darcy without understanding those rules of engagement.

There was a time when she might have liked Elizabeth Darcy, but once Juliette embarked on securing Darcy for herself, she was deemed a mortal enemy. A successful courtesan employed her conscience only marginally more frequently than her heart. That was the way of the world—her world, the demimonde.

Knowing full well that Darcy would tarry with her for but a moment, it was imperative that she put what time he allowed her to good use. Yet hurry could cause the most well-plotted seduction to go awry. It had only been through considerable guile that she had managed time alone with him at all.

Mr. Darcy was unlike other men. He did not come when she beckoned. (She had only to curl a finger and a College of Cardinals would be veritably panting at her slippered feet.) He was haughty and terse; passionate and particular—and he alone seemed immune to her charms.

If he was arrogant, she knew he had good reason to be so.

He had spent his life thwarting unwanted female flirtations and in doing so, become almost legendary for his refusals. One story had a lady passing Darcy a note asking him to meet her in her carriage. Somehow that note was secreted into the coat pocket of the lady’s own husband. When he, rather than Darcy, climbed into her coach, the man’s wife was called upon to perform more improvisations than a Piccadilly puppeteer.

Had Juliette not known Darcy so well, she could have expected to fail the way countless others had. Libidinous women forgot to take into account his immoveable pride. He did not dally with inferiors. He held his family name above all else. As all rich men, however, he enjoyed the power of doing as he liked. It was unlikely time had mellowed that inclination.

Although she would have rather died than admit it, Darcy’s long-past visits to her had always been perfunctory. He had come irregularly and no exclusivity had been implied. Yet, her ever-faithful spies told her that he
did not spend time with any other. She would have agreed to a more formal arrangement in a trice, but she dared not suggest it. To him, theirs was a business arrangement—incurring no more sentiment than had she laundered his shirts. Truth be told, she would have seen him without pecuniary inducement whatsoever. He recompensed her to befit his sensibilities, not hers. Hence, his loins had been consoled at no expense to his heart.

Although it had been some time since they had lain together, the recollection of the
générosité
of his manhood and the vigour wherewith he employed it was not easily forgotten. A night with young Mr. Darcy did not pass without numerous achievements. Her mettle could not afford to think of it often, but when she did, the memory gave her pause. His fierce ardour always left her breathless; his inexplicable nature kept her perpetually perplexed.

Seeing him again at Pemberley, she had to remind herself that she was in want of Mr. Darcy’s seed, not an
amour
. (But then there was absolutely nothing to forbid enjoying the delivery of either.)

In the brief moment that Darcy’s hands had rested upon the balustrade, Juliette was able to sketch more than merely the shades of his mind. She saw implicitly what was at stake. He was still the man of imperious bearing and exceptional leg. If she was any judge of a man (and she believed she was), he had not lost his admirable potency. She had not scrupled against taking a furtive glance at the crotch of his trousers. She made a mental note to send her compliments to his tailor.

Before he could bow and take his leave, she quickly made the observation, “You do not come to London as you once did.”

By invoking London and it vaunted milieu, she begged the memory of their once-intimate association.

“No, I do not,” he explained.

It was urgent that she hasten their discourse, but he was maddeningly uncooperative. His wife could intrude at any moment. Moreover, Darcy’s wavering gaze implied he was readying his escape and she had yet to draw him out. Juliette, however, was nothing if not light on her feet when forces united against her.

She said, “When Sir Howgrave and I are more settled into Kirkland Hall, we shall send round invitations. It shall not, of course, rival your gala, but then the house is much in need of repair. To be frank, the place is in ruin.” She checked herself, or pretended to, “Oh, do forgive me. I meant no offence to the Bingleys, they are a charming couple. Their children are quite enlivened.”

At the mention of the abominable condition of the Bingleys’ house, Darcy seemed amused.

Juliette was encouraged. Her mental machinations were much in use, so she did not listen closely to what he said. Later, she chastised herself for not taking greater note of that.

As a rule, Juliette had cordial feelings for children so long as they remained in their place. The Bingleys’ brood was cherubic, but hardly angelic. She had seen that when Jane attempted to stand them in line to make introductions the day she visited them. They stayed still for nigh a quarter of a minute and then ran off on some sort of loud, running game. With more good intentions than success, Jane shushed them and led Juliette into a quiet afternoon parlour. Juliette was offered a seat, but when she took it, she was stabbed by a toy sword. She hoped it was not a bad omen.

“Yes,” Darcy was saying, “Bingley’s children are quite ungovernable. Happy lot though.”

Juliette made a show of agreeing, “Mrs. Bingley is quite handsome. That she has remained so after the birth of so many children is a great wonder.”

To this observation, he remained silent.

“Children are both a blessing and bother in equal measure, are they not?” she continued.

His eyes barely fluttered. His nostrils flared imperceptively. She mistook his agitation. He bestowed her a cursory bow. It was most certainly not one of submission.

He said curtly. “I can no longer trespass upon your time.”

“Are we doomed to meet amongst the tedium of country manners?”

Juliette thought she took the sting out of such impudence with a spectacular smile. Her smile had rarely failed her. With just the right tilt of her head and an expression that promised everything, she had obtained her two houses, dozens of lovers, and an adorable white bichon named Tout.

“Shall we meet in London next season?”

“No,” he said firmly.

As dispassionately as she could manage, she said, “A pity.”

Juliette was not heavily powdered—only a light dusting across her bosom. Hence, the colour that crept from thenceforth to her neck was unnoticeable. She had realised that her lack of subtlety had offended him—possibly a fatal blunder.

With his usual grace, he clasped his hands behind his back and moved to a group of party-goers who had gathered a few feet away. They might have seen the beautiful Lady Howgrave—few did not. But they had little time to conjecture what, if any, conversation passed between her and Mr. Darcy. By no means would they have detected it from her ladyship. Her countenance was hidden behind her fan.

As Darcy stepped away from her, his scent remained—if only for the smallest moment. Yet, it was so familiar to her that a tear troubled the corner of her eye. Or at least it did until her delicate nose whiffed out a second scent intermingled with his. It was not perfume, but a musky combination of aromas. A lifetime dedicated to men and amour meant that she had recognized the scent. It was the odour of requited passion.

With the lightness of the wind, Lady Howgrave descended the staircase. As she did, her countenance did not reflect her acute vexation.

Why, Darcy had come to the ball fresh from his wife’s embrace!

How many times did that seductress have him take her? Two? Three? He had to be compleatly fordone by the exertion. Certainly he had been left in no condition to take another woman that night. What devious wiles that wife of his had.

Bloody hell.

———

For all her recollections, Juliette forgot the specific circumstances of how her acquaintanceship with Darcy had come to an end. In the lonely shadow of lost opportunity, she thought of it only at her leisure.

At the time she believed that Darcy had quit her bed in honour of his wedding vows. But he had forsworn her acquaintance before his marriage. Indeed, once he had fancied himself in love with Miss Bennet, he refused her.

There was another, more difficult truth she had to address.

Mentally stamping her foot, Juliette recalled that Elizabeth Darcy’s figure had been exceedingly voluptuous. No doubt she was again with child. The night of the Pemberley ball, something else was quite evident besides his wife’s blossoming waistline. The bulge in Darcy’s breeches (that she so surreptitiously admired) had not shrivelled from disuse.

Was she to gain Darcy’s cooperation, in her quest for his seed, she would have to appeal to his chivalry, not his cock.

It was much engaged with his damnable wife.

Chapter 25

Soldier On

Before Sally had gone on her way that day, Mr. Darcy found her.

It was unusual for a man of his eminence to seek someone sitting in the kitchen. Hence, when they saw Mr. Darcy he did not ask the servants to take their leave. Indeed, the cook and her scullery maids scattered. When Sally spied him, she knew instinctively that he meant to ask her of the event of mutual interest. She hoped that he would not ask if she plugged that bastard, Wickham, for she did not want to have to lie. In fortune, he did not. He held the piece of vellum she had brought with her. Perhaps he wanted her to retain it herself. No accounting for rich men’s motives.

But, he did not want her to take it. He had a question—indeed, several questions.

“I recognise Wickham’s hand. Tell me why did he sign
this
name?”

One long, aristocratic finger pointed to the signature.

“If he was to vow Wickham was dead, we figured that he needed another name. ‘Thomas Reed’ was one Daisy thought up.”

A quizzical expression passed over his countenance, “Beg pardon?”

“Daisy Mulroney,” she said, then explained further, “My partner—the wee brothel-keeper.”