Duty and Desire (8 page)

Contentment with Elizabeth’s presence in his home, with her ease at the pianoforte playing for him, and with the notion of their companionable seclusion warmed his frame like the effects of a fine brandy. He was sure that if he moved his foot just so he would fetch up against her embroidery basket, and if he had the strength to slide his hand along the divan, he would find her lavender-scented shawl carelessly draped over its back. His eyes still closed, he turned his head and breathed in slowly.
Yes.
He smiled again; he could detect that reminder of her drifting to him from within its silken folds.

The music continued from her hand, softly flowing, seeking out all his hollow places to fill them with longing for what only she could bring to him. “Elizabeth,” he breathed, his voice low-pitched as he acknowledged her power. The music hesitated, then continued on its intimate exploration of his emotions. He knew himself to be enthralled, just as he had been at Sir William and Lucas’s, during the ball at Netherfield. He knew it, and rather than pushing it away, he welcomed it with a joy that he now saw mirrored in her eyes. They were strolling through the conservatory, his parents’ Eden, lush with blossoms, and she was whispering of something that necessitated leaning down close.

“Fitzwilliam.” His name on her lips, so close that her breath fanned his cheek, was a most agreeable sensation. The answering surge of blood through his veins emboldened him to reach for her hand.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, returning her whisper with feeling.

“Fitzwilliam?” The question in her voice was not what he was expecting, nor was its timbre. “Brother?”

Darcy’s eyes flew open as, with a jolt, he came back to himself and to the reality of Georgiana perched on the divan beside him, valiantly attempting to suppress the cascade of giggles that threatened to spill over fingers pressed tightly to her lips. He blinked at her, for a few moments unable to comprehend that what he had felt, so real his heart still beat powerfully in response, had all been a dream. He looked desperately beside him on the divan, but no shawl reposed there, nor was an embroidery basket to be seen at his feet.

“Brother, what are you searching for? May I be of help?” Georgiana had sobered somewhat, but laughter still danced in her eyes, and her lower lip was firmly caught in droll amusement at his disordered state.

Darcy eyed her with sudden horror. What had he said as he sat here dreaming? How had he allowed it to happen? A lingering warmth suffused his body, reminding him of the strength of the inducement he had withstood until fatigue had breached his defenses. If he was to recoup his losses, he must needs rally immediately. But the freezing retort died, stillborn before it reached his lips, as he stared in new awareness at his sister. When had Georgiana ever dared to laugh so? When was the last time he had been brother to her, rather than guardian-father?

His bemused regard of her was too much a test of her equanimity. Georgiana’s laughter spilled forth in beautiful swells that brought tears to her eyes, and when he allowed himself a rueful grin in response, she sank helplessly against the back of the divan. “Oh, Fitzwilliam!” she finally managed, “I pray you will forgive me, but I have never seen you so!”

“Yes, well…I believe that I must have fallen asleep,” he offered uncomfortably as he straightened his posture from the traitorous one that had encouraged his indiscretion.

“
Well
asleep…and dreaming, I should imagine,” she replied, looking at him keenly through tear-brightened eyes. She continued softly, “Will you tell me about Miss Elizabeth Bennet now, Brother?”

Darcy peered down into her open, earnest face for several moments before looking away.
Tell her, a voice within him urged. In truth, what is there to tell? We quarreled, we called a truce, and we danced and quarreled again. Finis!
He returned to his sister’s hopeful countenance and abandoned immediately any idea of offering her such a prosaic account. It would not do, nor was it entirely the truth.

“What is she like, Brother? Should I like her?” Georgiana’s smile became wistful as she gently pressed him.

Darcy felt his reticence slip and his heart expand as he beheld her so. “So many questions, my dear,” he murmured as he took her hand. “Do you truly wish answers to them all?”

Her hand turned in his and squeezed it briefly. “I have tried to be content with your wish for privacy, Fitzwilliam, and not tease you. But so often you are distracted. A certain look crosses your face, and I sense you are thinking of her.” She blushed as he started at her assertion. “At least, I believe that is so.”

“Distracted? How so? I am sure you must be mistaken,” he denied swiftly, but it did not dissuade her.

“Were you not, just now, dreaming of Miss Elizabeth?”

Darcy knew he was fairly caught. Georgiana was asking for his trust, requesting that he make trial of her. This change in her both excited his admiration and alarmed him. Her new wholeness was all and more than he could have wished for; but he could not understand it or bring himself to question her concerning it. Nor could he, for fear of the fragility of her newfound confidence, withstand her plea for anything that was clearly in his power to give. It was surely check and mate. How could he be anything less than truthful with this precious one entrusted to him by Heaven and their father?

Darcy took a steadying breath. “I will tell you what you wish to know as far as I am able.” He held up a warning hand at her bright smile. “But I warn you now that you will find it all rather disappointing. I am not a ‘romantic.’ Although I do not pretend to know her mind, on
that
subject the lady in question would surely agree.” He paused to assess the effect of his caution, but the dimple on Georgiana’s cheek only deepened further. He sighed in resignation. “Where should you like me to begin?”

“Tell me what she is like! Miss Elizabeth Bennet must be a singular lady to have earned your regard.” Georgiana settled back on the divan, awaiting his answer as she had awaited the stories he had read to her as a child.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is…” Darcy’s brow wrinkled in thought. He had never tried to quantify her. She did not precisely belong within any group of women of his acquaintance. She was…Elizabeth! “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a female who defies the usual categories of Society.” He frowned into space. “That is to say, she is unusual. But,” he hastened to add, “you must not imagine she is an Antidote or one of those dreadful Unconventional Females.” He smiled to himself. “One of her neighbors, a squire, spoke of her as a woman of ‘uncommon good sense, all wrapped up in as neat a little package as could be desired.’ The description does not do her justice, but it is not far off the mark.”

“She is pretty then? Beautiful?” Georgiana prodded him.

She, a beauty? I would as soon call her mother a wit.
He flinched at the memory of his injudicious words and wondered that he had ever thought so.

“I did not think so at first, but that was because she is not formed in the classical manner and I did not have the wit to appreciate her.” Darcy found himself becoming more expansive as he concentrated on answering his sister truthfully. “As I grew to know her, however, I found her very pleasing. Very pleasing, indeed! It was her eyes, I think, that first arrested my attention. They are very expressive, and when she lifts her brow, they speak volumes to those who can —”

A giggle interrupted his soliloquy. “Forgive me, Brother,” Georgiana apologized sincerely. “Do go on.”

“She is beautiful, yes. I think so, at any rate.” He finished abruptly. “What more do you wish to know?”

“Is she kind as well as beautiful?” Georgiana’s voice trembled a little.

Alert to her apprehension, Darcy was thankful for his answer. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a strong-minded young woman,” he admitted, “but also a most kind one. Her attention to her sister who fell ill at Netherfield was unflagging. Nothing was done for Miss Bennet that Miss Elizabeth did not do herself.” Recollecting other scenes, he continued, “I have seen her set crusty old majors at ease and buck up the confidence of shy misses and country-bred youths almost in the same breath.” He laughed at the memory of that evening and then almost immediately sobered. “But I must say that she does not suffer fools or toady to those who may or may not be her betters. She is polite, of course, but she can hold her own. To that, my own experience can testify!”

“Yes,” his sister responded eagerly. “And were you able to regain her good favor?”

Darcy’s brow wrinkled once more as he pressed his lips together, considering her question. What should he say? What was the truth? “I truly do not know, my dear,” he confessed. “She accepted my hand at the ball, or rather she acquiesced for politeness’s sake, and we seemed to get on; but then, for various reasons, the accord we had reached began to unravel. Afterward, events so transpired that she would not have welcomed my company on any terms.”

The pleasurable sensations Georgiana’s questions had conjured in his breast faded as his narrative reached the point of their true state of affairs. Their place remained empty as they took flight and left him with only his duty and the ache of a frustrated desire. He should not indulge these memories, he told himself severely. Was not he, himself, the assassin of any inclinations in that direction? There was no purpose to this; it was against all reason that he should tease himself thus.

“I have not seen or spoken to her since that night,” he continued brusquely, “and, as Bingley has recovered from his infatuation with her sister, it does not seem reasonable to expect that she will ever come in my way again. And that, my dear sister, is all there is to that!”

“You will not seek her out?” Georgiana looked at him with a mixture of surprise and regret. “You will not preserve the acquaintance?”

“No,” he replied, choosing the plain, unvarnished truth over a softer answer.

“I shall never meet her then?” she asked sadly.

The droop of her shoulders at his reply gave Darcy pause. “I shall not say ‘never,’ dearest,” he retreated, “but it is not likely. Her fortune is very small. She would not move in the same circles of Society in which we do.”

“I should still like to meet her, Brother,” Georgiana whispered.

“I think I should like that as well, Georgiana,” he returned. “Although why, and to what purpose, I do not know, save that I believe you could not find a truer friend.” The idea surprised in him a comforting hope. “Perhaps that is enough.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must take myself off to bed. Sherril has nearly killed me with clambering over grain sacks and up and down loft ladders, and I do not wish to fall asleep in public again!”

He left her looking after him with a pensive expression upon her sweet face. When he reached the door, he looked back to give her a last, bracing smile; but she was no longer aware of him. Her regal bearing was bent in such an attitude of contemplation that a shiver of apprehension shook Darcy at the sight. What had been the effect of his words? Had he overburdened his sister or disappointed her in some fashion? Perhaps she was merely fatigued. In truth, he had been so caught up with the business of Pemberley that he had not seen to her ease or enjoyment. Rather, she had spent herself in entertaining him! He continued to his chambers and pulled at the bell, deep in self-excoriation. The morrow would be spent at Georgiana’s command, Darcy vowed as he awaited Fletcher. And as tomorrow would be Sunday, the business of Pemberley could damn well wait!

Zealous to put into action his resolution to be at his sister’s service, Darcy awoke earlier than was his habit the following morning. Lying there among his night-tossed pillows and quilts, he wondered that sleep had ever claimed him. The half-dreams he had experienced during Georgiana’s music had re-animated and, worse, exposed that portion of his heart that he had thought successfully packed away. In truth, he had reconciled himself to the fact of his admiration for Elizabeth Bennet. Its veracity was attested to by the silken keepsake resting within the pages of his book. But the dream of her at home in his home and the degree of satisfaction that vision had brought to him in his unguarded state were appallingly dangerous to his future peace.

“Very dangerous,” he spoke aloud, lecturing his errant whimsy, for Georgiana had been more correct than he had acknowledged. The source of at least some of his distraction
had
been fancies of Elizabeth, as he had begun looking at all that was familiar to him — all that was Pemberley — with what he imagined to be her critical eye. “It will not do, sir!”

The sounds of drawers opening and shutting from behind his dressing room door broke upon his consciousness.
What? Why is Fletcher about so early?
The question of arising thus decided for him, Darcy flung back the quilts; and rising smoothly from his bed, he quietly moved across the room. Pulling open the door to his dressing room, he found his valet already within arranging his clothes, a ewer of steaming sandalwood-scented water standing at the ready.

“Fletcher!” he growled, pulling his dressing gown about him. “You are early this morning!” He stopped to stifle a yawn. “You have ever been mindful of your duties, but this is more than scrupulous attention!”

“Ahem.” Fletcher cleared his throat and flushed an alarming shade of red. “Yes, sir. It is my…ah…pleasure, Mr. Darcy.”

“Your pleasure! Are you ill, man? Tell me if you are ill at once! I will not have you attending me if you should be in bed. One of the other servants can assist me.”

As red as Fletcher’s face had been, it now turned quite pale. “Oh no, sir! I am very well!”

Darcy examined him skeptically. “You do not look it! Come, man, physic yourself and be done with it!”

If possible, Darcy’s advice caused Fletcher to blanch even further. “I assure you, sir, I am not ill, and the last woman I want to see is Molly!”

This information caused Darcy’s brow to shoot skyward. “I thought you and the herb woman had an understanding of sorts, Fletcher.”

Fletcher sniffed. “Molly is of the same opinion, sir, but I never gave her my promise.” He turned to his barbering instruments, plunging them into the hot, scented water. “Nor have I done wrong by her!” he added emphatically. “We were never alone, sir!”