Darkness Falls Upon Pemberley (2 page)

T
wo

Mr. Bennet observed no pleasantries beyond a curt nod in Darcy’s general direction before addressing his daughter. “I daresay you’ve entertained Mr. Darcy long enough, my dear. It's time to let Sir William’s other guests have an opportunity to enjoy his company.”

Though Mr. Bennet’s volume was discreet enough that his neighbours were unlikely to overhear him, Darcy had no such difficulty, and couldn’t decide whether he was more appalled by Elizabeth’s father’s assumption that he’d desire a reprieve from her society, or by the man’s complete disregard for her sensibilities by actually giving voice to such an insinuation.

Darcy assured Mr. Bennet that nothing could be further from the truth. “As a matter of fact,” he added, directing his attention to Elizabeth, “I’m unable to recall ever passing an evening so agreeably. Will you not take mercy upon me, Miss Bennet, and indulge me a while longer? I find I am loath to part ways so soon.”

“You see, Papa,” she said, placing her hand upon her father’s arm, “all is well. There is nothing to fear.”

But neither his daughter’s words nor Darcy’s assuaged Longbourn’s master, whose disinclination to indulge the couple was evident by his rigid stance and disapproving glare. “Be that as it may,” he said tightly, giving Elizabeth a pointed look, “I believe it is in everyone’s best interest that Mr. Darcy rejoins his friends now. He has neglected them this evening, and I have little doubt they’re regretting the loss of his society acutely. I have it on good authority that Miss Bingley, in particular, desires to see him safely returned to his party. According to Jane, she is an intimate friend of Mr. Darcy’s sister, who I understand is but fifteen years old.”

Abruptly Elizabeth withdrew her hand from her father’s arm and turned aside her head. Darcy’s keen eyes did not miss the heavy rise and fall of her breast, the hard set of her jaw, or the way her fingers curled into fists as she perceived the rest of her family on the opposite side of the drawing room, seemingly oblivious to the exchange taking place between father and daughter.

Mary, Elizabeth’s middle sister, was seated primly at the pianoforte, fumbling her way through a doleful dirge while the two youngest conversed energetically with several red-coated officers. Their mother, who forever encouraged their forwardness, attended them with an indulgent smile. Bingley was with them and Elizabeth’s eldest sister Jane, predictably, stood at his side. To Darcy’s surprise, however, Jane’s eyes were not demurely downcast as Bingley prattled on about whatever topic struck his calf-eyed fancy at the moment, but fixed intently upon Elizabeth with an expression of utmost distress.

Elizabeth raised one hand to her neck, where her trembling fingertips sought the garnet cross nestled at the hollow of her throat. She swallowed thickly, caressing the pendant in an almost methodical fashion before grasping it tightly in her fist. The expression she wore as she turned and addressed her father simmered with defiance.

“While I will always understand your concern and Jane’s, and can even appreciate your interference on occasion, I assure you, sir, both have been entirely unnecessary this evening. There is no danger to be found here. Mr. Darcy is perfectly safe.”

Before either man could so much as blink, she had turned—a whirling dervish of dark silk, pale skin, and raven locks as she strode across the room and out of the door.

In that moment, Darcy wanted nothing more than to turn on his heels and follow her, to soothe and console her, and to contradict her preposterous presumption, for he knew perfectly well that, so long as he remained in her vicinity, she was far from safe with him.

But she was not the only one in harm’s way, for Darcy had known for some time that he was in very great danger himself: in danger of falling completely and irrevocably in love with her; but propriety—and a drawing room full of people, including Elizabeth’s father—kept his feet rooted to the floor.

Propriety, propriety… Damn propriety!

Darcy silently cursed himself. So far propriety had afforded him nothing but vexation, discontent, and misfortune. His frustration and anger—at Mr. Bennet; at his own intolerable situation and his utter uselessness to Elizabeth—peaked. If anyone deserved to be reprimanded for impropriety, it certainly wasn’t the slip-of-a-woman who’d managed to turn his entire world upside down in a mere handful of weeks.

Elizabeth had conducted herself with decorum during every single encounter they’d ever shared, and Darcy respected and esteemed her highly; but the thoughts and desires she unwittingly provoked in him were another matter entirely. Although he’d never voiced or acted upon them—nor would he ever, he knew, unless she willingly gave her consent to be his—he could not deny that his powerful inclinations toward her were…ungentlemanly, to say the least. His intentions, however, remained nothing but honourable.

Throughout the course of his lifetime Darcy had felt passionately about many things, but that passion was always tempered by an equally strong desire to remain in staunch control of his emotions; to think, and speak, and act in a rational manner at all times and in every circumstance. As a child, self-control was something he’d taken great pains to master; something repeatedly insisted upon and ingrained in him by his parents. Self-control was something the master of Pemberley prided himself on and possessed in abundance—prior to setting foot in Hertfordshire, that is.

Seemingly without ceremony Elizabeth Bennet had captured his notice, claimed his heart, and caused his inherently passionate nature to flare hotter than a bonfire. With each passing day, whether Darcy had the pleasure of her company or not, she’d managed to make his careful self-control wane to a disturbing degree. Some might even call it perilously close to non-existent. At times it was all he could do to keep his head on his shoulders and his ardency for her in check.

The unwelcome sound of Mr. Bennet clearing his throat returned him to the present. While Darcy could hardly fault any father for being vigilant with his children, he felt Mr. Bennet’s circumspection was, in this instance, severely misplaced. The man had mortified, demeaned, and injured one of his few truly respectable daughters when his efforts would have been far better employed endeavouring to prevent his youngest two—and occasionally his wife—from flirting so shamelessly with the officers.

With a dark countenance he turned toward Mr. Bennet. Though determined to remain respectful for Elizabeth’s sake, as well as his own, Darcy found it difficult to speak without using the authoritative tone he often employed as Pemberley’s master.

“Mr. Bennet, with all due respect,” he began, but was instantly silenced by the menacing look on the elder man’s face.

“You, Mr. Darcy,” he hissed, “have been playing a very dangerous game, one that you are shockingly ill-equipped to win. I strongly urge you to keep to your own kind, sir, and give my second daughter a wide berth. She is my favorite and, though it pains me exceedingly to deny her anything that affords her even the slightest measure of happiness, I will endeavour to protect her at all costs and in any manner I see fit. However honourable your intentions toward her are, take heed when I assure you that any romantic designs you have on Elizabeth will bring upon you retribution of the acutest kind.”

T
hree

A fortnight had passed since he’d last seen her—the arch of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the graceful column of her neck. Fourteen days since he’d heard her melodic laughter, watched her lips curl into a smile, or listened to her speak the syllables of his surname.

Day after day Darcy told himself that Elizabeth’s absence from society was no cause for concern, but night after night the ache in his breast—the sheer longing he felt to be in her company—only worsened. Nothing eased his hunger for her presence or quenched his thirst to hear her voice. Nothing purged her image from his mind or dulled his intense desire to know her infinitely better than he already felt he did.

What was this hold she had over him? What sort of spell had she cast with her artless beauty and engaging conversation, her fine eyes and clever wit? How many mornings had he awakened from dreams so vivid he’d confused them with reality?

Had she truly come to him in his bedchamber, he wondered; her expression and words as tender as her touch? Each time Darcy awoke and stumbled to his door—only to find it locked—the absurdity of such a scenario seemed obvious; but why, then, did his heart pound as though it might burst from his chest? Why did his lungs burn as though he hadn’t been able to draw a breath? Why were his sheets a tangled mess upon the floor, and his nightshirt sweat-soaked and twisted upon his body? For the life of him, Darcy could t
hink of no rational explanation…at least none that made any sense.

The master of Pemberley ran shaking hands through his hair. He was a disaster. If he didn’t speak to Elizabeth soon he was afraid he’d go mad. But where on earth was she? When he’d brazenly called upon her at Longbourn—on a day he knew Mr. Bennet would be absent tending to business in Town—she was nowhere to be found. Neither had she attended church, or visited the village, or called upon her neighbours and friends.

Clearly, her family was keeping her under lock and key and Darcy feared it was somehow his fault. After passing so many agreeable moments together he flatly refused to believe that Elizabeth’s sentiments weren’t equal to his for her. The idea was simply too painful for him to contemplate. It must be Mr. Bennet who was responsible for their separation, but Darcy could not fathom why.

Had his private thoughts and desires concerning Elizabeth been known, there was no doubt in Darcy's mind her father would have deemed them wildly inappropriate; but Mr. Bennet was no mind reader, and Darcy’s conduct toward his daughter ha
d always been that befitting a gentleman. He could think of nothing he’d either said or done that might have angered the elder gentleman to such a degree as to deny his approval; nothing, that is, except the keeping of Georgiana’s secret.

That Elizabeth’s father would even suspect what had transpired at Ramsgate was impossible, for no one but Darcy, Georgiana, and their cousin Fitzwilliam knew of it. Of course, one of their servants could have betrayed them, but Darcy sincerely doubted that was the case, as the servants who lived at Pemberley were f
iercely loyal to his family, not to mention
their
families had proved trustworthy to the Darcys for generations. But perhaps his sister’s current proclivities no longer transcended that loyalty. It was a prospect that terrified him, and Darcy suddenly felt a chill in his bones that had nothing at all to do with the weather.

†

The view from the drawing room window was wretched, the surrounding land and everything upon it mired by drizzle and fog as far as the eye could see. It had been this way for days, and by mid-morning Darcy had reached his wits end. He’d no patience left to extend to Bingley’s sisters—Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst—who sought to engage him in insipid conversation, inquiring in cloying tones after
dear Georgiana
; nor did he desire to remain any longer where he'd absolutely no chance of meeting with Elizabeth Bennet.

No doubt sensing his guest’s restlessness, Bingley challenged Darcy to a game of billiards, but Darcy declined and called for his greatcoat and hat instead, intent on riding out despite the miserable weather.

“Are you completely mad?” Netherfield’s master cried, rising from his chair by the fire to gape incredulously at his friend. “The fog is thicker than Cook’s pea soup. You’ll lose your way within ten minutes and take a chill. Besides, we are to dine with the officers this afternoon, or have you forgotten? Whatever shall I tell Colonel Forster should you fail to attend?”

“You may tell the good colonel that if I’d remained any longer in this house without the benefit of fresh air and exercise, I could not have been held accountable for my actions.”

Bingley frowned. “Honestly, Darcy, it’s dreadful out there, not to mention cold. Do be sensible and stay at home. There can be nothing out there to hold your interest in such weather as this.”

Darcy adjusted his leather riding gloves and claimed his crop from Bingley’s butler, slicing the stale air of the drawing room with several quick flicks of his wrist. “I appreciate your concern, Bingley, but my mood is beastly. Trust me when I say that you and Colonel Forster would do well to be rid of me today.”

“And I cannot help but disagree. However appalling your mood may be, I wish you’d reconsider and stay at home. At the risk of sounding like a woman, I won’t be easy until you return.”

Even as Darcy’s lips twitched his resolve held firm. He tucked his crop neatly beneath his arm and donned his hat. “I’ve ridden out in far worse weather than this at Pemberley. You need not worry yourself over me. I’m quite used to a bit of rain.”

†

By the time his horse was saddled and ready the rain had grown heavier, but Darcy mounted without giving the rapidly worsening weather a second thought. He flicked his reins and set off at a slow trot until he reached the crest of a nearby hill, where he took several deep, cleansing breaths. The air there was crisp and cold and helped clear some of the fog in his head, just as his journey to higher ground had led him above the fog below. With renewed focus he dug his heels into his horse’s sides, urging him onward at a punishing pace, intent on exorcising his demons, or at the very least resolved to give them a good, hard run for their money.

He knew not how long he rode, nor how far, when his mount became spooked by some unseen apparition and reared. Darcy held fast to the reins, determined to keep his seat, and after some effort managed to get the stallion under control.

His exhalation as he dismounted was harsh. After cinching the reins tightly, Darcy stroked the animal’s thick neck, murmuring words of assuagement. They did little to soothe man or beast, however, and Darcy squinted into the pouring rain, wondering whether there was real danger afoot. For the most part he was on open road, but the road was unfamiliar, flanked by several meters of hay with thick woods bordering either side. The trees within appeared dense and overgrown, littered with briars and dead brush; a veritable fortress that Darcy speculated could not be easily penetrated by humans unless they wielded torches, pitchforks, and sickles.

A loud crack of thunder sounded, resonating through the countryside, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. Lightening followed swiftly on its heels—several great, blinding flashes that set the leaden sky ablaze. Darcy’s horse tossed his head with a terrified squeal, nostrils flared and eyes wide as the freezing rain assaulted them with renewed determination.

For one wild moment, out of the corner of his eye Darcy imagined he saw an all-too-familiar set of eyes watching him intently from between the trees, as bewitching and dark as ever—as dark as the surrounding woods. But rather than lips the colour of pale rose petals on her beloved face, these lips were dyed a deep crimson; bright, and slick, and wet.

A shock of fear shot through his breast before he realized the absurdity of such a thing and shook his head, irritated and angry with himself.
At last,
he thought darkly,
the madness has set in.
Grabbing hold of his horse’s mane, Darcy jammed his foot into the stirrup and mounted, more than willing to return to the warmth of Netherfield and the devil he knew.