Here’s forty shillings on the drum,
For those that volunteer to come,
With shirts, and clothes, and present pay,
Then o’er the hills and far away.
O’er the hills and o’er the main,
Through Flanders, Portugal, and Spain,
King George commands and we obey,
Over the hills and far away.
Hark! Now the drums beat up again,
For all true soldier gentlemen,
Then let us ’list and march I say,
Over the hills and far away.
Fighting a brutal and sudden gust of frigid November wind, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was making slow headway in his march across Mayfair, advancing doggedly toward the townhouse of his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Onlookers not distracted by their freezing extremities saw a tall, broad, and very familiar soldier passing by them. Hunched shoulders beneath a nearly floor-length, battered military greatcoat, muscular legs resembling tree trunks encased in scruffy military knee boots, gloved hands grappling at the cloak’s broken neck closure. This pathetic excuse for an ensemble was topped off by a large, dark bicorn hat that had been pulled low and was plain and battered, absent of fancy feathers or brass.
Bent against the cold and sleet, he was presently lost in thought, having just left his general’s home. It was November 11, 1817, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was returning from a disturbing morning meeting with Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington—his mentor, commanding officer, and dear friend.
“Halloo, Colonel!” someone yelled from a passing coach, a stranger to whom Fitzwilliam automatically raised his arm in response, smiling pleasantly and nodding. Two gentlemen passing by noticed this and boldly approached him, insisting on introducing themselves when they realized who he was. They pressed their cards into his hands and, winking broadly, hinted that they would do right by him if he would merely endorse one of their enterprises, lend his name to one of their products, or if he would allow them to use his likeness in any way. He smiled politely, as he always did, saying he would certainly consider their requests, and then excused himself to move on, pulling his collar up higher and his hat lower, ostensibly against the cold.
It had been like this for the two years since Wellington’s Anglo-allied army’s magnificent victory at Waterloo, and still the city of London was mad with patriotic fervor, and Richard’s valor having long since elevated him to the lofty status of celebrity. For several years now, the military’s every battle, their wounds, and even in some instances their deaths, had been liberally seasoned with florid prose then served up by the daily news sheets as entertainment. Animated discussions on every corner encouraged opinions to flow as freely as wine, thereby enriching the dreariness of the baker’s and the blacksmith’s lives, alleviating the tedium of the shopkeeper or the farmer.
It was the Battle of Waterloo that propelled him into this truly legendary status. Stories in the daily papers immediately after his return had revealed his wounding and heroic struggle to survive amidst the onslaught of barbaric French soldiers swooping in for the kill of this high-ranking British officer. That the story, as it now was told—told and retold and told again some eighteen months after the fact—bore little resemblance to the reality of the event… well, that seemed irrelevant to the editors.
Devotees called out to him from windows, from passing horses and carriages, or as he lounged within the gentlemen’s clubs. It made no sense to him at all. He was the same man who had spent ten years living like an animal in Portuguese and Spanish mud, often grudgingly caught in the reflected glory of being one of Wellesley’s favored officers. Then, shortly after Waterloo and his highly publicized heroics, he returned home to a frenzied reception.
He squinted through the sleet to check for carriages prior to his crossing, wondering if the adoring masses would be as impressed were it known that a moment of abysmally poor judgment had him fighting alongside his men that fateful day, that a military blunder on his own part had caused his beloved horse to be shot out from under him. Stupidly caught by a sudden French cavalry charge, he was a very high-ranking officer trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time, then tossed into the bloodlust of battle. It was the reason officers stayed remote, far back from the fighting, a dictum he had failed to follow. “Kill the head and the body will die,” common knowledge in warfare. It was his misjudgment to have lingered so long near the front, and his lovely Domina was brought down, pinning him beneath her and crushing his leg.
“Hold square! Hold square!” He roared the command to his men as he lay injured on the open field before them. His officers defied that order, a first for them, and had run out to drag him back within their square to safety, completely ignoring his threats of courts martial. He never did follow through on those threats, musing that they had all fought to save each other that day, not for patriotism. Over and over he fired the rifle that had been unceremoniously thrust into his hand, a rifle grabbed from a dead soldier, eventually ending up slashing and butchering blindly with its bayonet. The French soldiers kept coming for him, and too many of his men, his band of brothers, thieves, and drunks as they were, had been injured or killed trying to defend him. If I told the masses that I had to piss into the barrel of the rifle in order to clean it, would they still be so enthralled with the story? Oh yes, Fitzwilliam, you’re a regular Lord Nelson.
He waved in his good-natured manner to another well-wisher then hurriedly turned a corner, momentarily relaxing his shoulders a bit, protected from the storm by a large building. Now that there was relative peace in Europe and a new world order on the horizon, he would need to decide what to do with the rest of his life—whether to stay in the army or resign his commission, work for Wellington at the Board of Ordnance. It was a hard decision either way.
Staying with the status quo would mean continuing in a peacetime army and a lifestyle within which he no longer felt comfortable, a lifestyle of loose women, drinking and carousing, and avoiding the responsibilities of adult life. He paused in his steps for a moment, forgetting just why any of that was so bad, and then continued on, laughing softly.
Then again… he could follow his mentor, work on the Board… well, that would necessitate embroiling himself in political infighting and backstabbing. Rather like battling the Frogs but with better meals and no honor. And he knew Wellington. Wellington was ambitious, ruthless really, and would not stop until he was made prime minister. The man was obsessively victory driven. It was the main thing he admired in his friend and a character trait they shared in common.
Then again… he could return home and fight twenty-four hours a day with his wretched older brother, Regis.
Any of the choices before him made him want to gag or get good and drunk.
Another shout out came from a group of young Corinthians racing by in their phaetons. “Whoo! Hoo! Well done, Colonel!” “Capital fellow!” “Come have a drink with us!!” He smiled vaguely then winced as one phaeton slid sideways on the ice, almost toppling itself and nearly injuring the precious horses. Goddamn stupid idiots, he thought as he smiled and waved. They righted themselves soon enough and laughed uproariously at their own daring.
The wind was kicking up more now, and it was biting cold. Bloody hell, did Darcy move his goddamn house? I don’t remember it being this far of a walk. He should not have told his batman to go home and get warm so that he could continue alone and think. Thinking is highly overrated he decided as he stomped his feet while awaiting traffic. I’m going to freeze my fucking balls off if I don’t… “Ladies…” Smiling warmly, he bowed and tipped his hat, flirting outrageously with the three giggling lovelies who slowed their pace as they walked by, whispering and staring back at him as they did. His spirits rose considerably when they spun around to follow him.
There definitely was an upside to fame.
The sad truth was that the one thing he really would have wanted to do with his life was the one thing that he could not. In his heart of hearts, Fitzwilliam wanted nothing more than to be a simple country squire. He wanted to work the soil, chop trees, and visit his tenants. He wanted to read and actually understand cattle and crop reports, or bicker over terms with tradesmen. He wanted a quiet, neat little home and the chance to doze off in a chair in his own garden, after he’d had a good pipe and glass of port. He wanted to smell the daisies handed to him by an adorable little moppet daughter, and to teach a son to ride a pony and how to fish. He wanted an innocent, demure, quiet, and biddable heiress wife, a shy lady who would be a model of English propriety by day and a whore for him in his bedroom by night. He sighed and grunted at his own foolishness.
After all, he had no money of his own.
He was a well-bred English second son.
He also was thirty-two years old and had spent the first blush of his young manhood sitting in mud and worried about getting enough food for his troops. Enough food and enough blankets, bullets, boots, horses, etc. Scavenging and stealing had occupied much of any time not spent in battle or being blind drunk, and the years had just slipped away. To his mind, he was too old now to start afresh, had no home of his own and no income. Of course, he could ask his father for any amount of money his heart desired, but he could not and would not take advantage of a man he so respected. He was back to wondering what to do with the remainder of his life. Most second and third sons could be assured of benevolence from the firstborn who inherited all; however, once his father was gone, he was certain Regis would cut him off without a farthing. They hated the sight of each other.
He truly should plan for the future, but not today.
Well, I have finally struck bottom, he suddenly realized. I am wandering the streets, destitute, lost and homeless, and waxing maudlin. I’ll be sobbing on some poor bastard’s neck soon, drunk as a lord. If I am very lucky, perhaps Darcy will adopt me.
A gentleman slapped him on the shoulder. “Good show! Good show!” the man exclaimed then planted himself squarely in Fitzwilliam’s path. “I say, Colonel, may I call you Dick? Excellent! My, you’re a tall one, aren’t you? How’s the weather up there, what? Ha! Ha! Dick, did you happen to know my cousin? Major Billy Hench? Average height, light hair. Oh, surely you knew him. He was at Waterloo, also, and made quite a show for himself there.”
Fitzwilliam stared down at the diminutive man, expecting a little more information, and when it wasn’t forthcoming, he decided he would speed things up a bit.
“Excuse me, sir. Was your cousin also with the Coldstream Guards?”
“No, he was with the 72nd. To tell the truth, he did not actually see much action in the battle, per se, but he did attend the Duke of Richmond’s rout the night before. Surely you were there yourself! No? Are you certain? But my dear Dick, you must be mistaken. It was the place to be, I am told! It’s quite a humorous story, actually; he became frightfully drunk and nearly missed the whole fracas. Got in the game rather late in the day, I’m afraid. Oh, I am certain you must have met him—he wore a red uniform jacket with black boots.”
Oh my God, some people should just be drowned at birth. Fitzwilliam smiled down politely at the eager gentleman. “I don’t recall meeting him, sir, but I am certain I heard about his bravery. If you will excuse me, I must be going. I am late for an important meeting. Good afternoon.” Thank God this bloody war is behind me.
Truth be told, though, the war years were not completely behind Fitzwilliam, whether he acknowledged it or not. Unknown to his friends and even to some of his family, Fitzwilliam had been experiencing the aftermaths of war—battle fatigue and its accompanying nightmares, flashbacks, and panic seizures.
The more these symptoms plagued him, the deeper he fell into his old cycle from the years before—drinking, women, and gambling—until he himself was becoming aware of the adverse effect it was having on his physical, as well as mental, health.
The tide turned upon one comment from his beloved aunt Catherine. “ Character is revealed in the dark, Richard. ”
Damn old bat.
The remark had struck home. He knew his dark had become more and more appalling, possessing moments he would be loath to have exposed to the world, behavior of which he had become deeply ashamed.
One day he would open up to Darcy. He knew that a day would come eventually, probably during a drunken weekend and after several bottles of whiskey, and maybe then he could begin to confront the demons that tormented him.
He wanted so to have better life.
He wanted so to be a better man.
The cold wind bit viciously at the little slice of his face still exposed to the elements. He held his hat down and averted his eyes from the sting of the icy crystals that were blowing everywhere. One more blasted block to Darcy’s, and he was already muttering scandalous oaths into his scarf. He heard the horses’ whinny at the last minute, just in time to avoid crashing into the back of the private carriage sitting alone in the square.
His initial aggravation was soon replaced with concern for the coach’s livestock. I dearly hope this groom is sensible enough to bring his horses out of the blasted cold, he worried. A cavalry man by trade and a country gentleman in his fondest dreams, he rated horses on the same level with few people he knew, and on a higher level than most others. He approached the man, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind.
“Excuse me, John Coachman.”
The man turned a jaundiced eye toward him, only to have his demeanor dissolve into the excited wonder to which Fitzwilliam was now accustomed. “Well, bloody ’ell! I say, I say. You’re ‘The Waterloo Colonel,’ ain’t you, sir?! Let me shake your ’and, sir. Let me shake your ’and. Well, cor, what a honor this is, to be sure! Bloody ’ell!”
Nodding, Fitzwilliam firmly clasped the man’s hand in both of his, saying loudly over the wind, “I don’t think it wise to keep your cattle still like this for much longer. Perhaps you should walk them around for a bit.”
“Imagine you takin’ a interest in these poor, dumb beasts, but ain’t you the finest there is. That’s wot everyone says, and so it is, so it is. Don’t worry yerself, Colonel, sir. ’Er ladyship will be off just as soon as the young ’un brings ’er blanket. She works the poor tib somethin’ fearful. ’Ere she come now.”
The older woman, a very disagreeable old tabby he recognized as being of his late mother’s slight acquaintance, had snapped down the carriage window and was leaning forward, her two hands clasped on the edge. “Amanda! Attend me, you ignorant girl! Did you remember to bring my woolen shawl also? I do need my woolen shawl,” she screeched. “And my fan—be quick about it, do you hear? We haven’t all day!” The window on the carriage snapped upward again. Fitzwilliam turned, amused and curious now as to whom she would call so rudely, when his breath caught in his throat. The whole square suddenly hushed.
He recognized her instantly. Over the years he had always been eager to smile in greeting and tip his hat in the hopes they could meet; she had been his dreamlike ideal of beauty, always mysteriously vanishing before he could reach her… and now here she was in the solid form of a plain, simple, dark grey cloak and gown.
She was blindly running up behind a young girl who looked to be around Georgiana’s age, a child dressed in the top stare of fashion and waiting to be handed into the coach by a distracted footman. The young woman had squeezed her eyes shut against the sleet and misjudged the distance to the young girl, colliding into her and causing them both to start a fit of giggles. The old tabby launched into yet another heated tirade.
He was unaware of how intensely he stared or how long this little scene lasted, struck senseless as he was by this elusive beauty now so close before him. She had dropped her reticule and was spinning, searching the ground, clutching at the old woman’s shawl that swirled about her legs. Long, dark blonde tendrils escaped from a bonnet threatening to be blown off, and her eyes blinked against the flying, stinging ice crystals. He bent to pick up the bag lying unnoticed in the wild wind and, stepping up behind her, rested his hand gently upon her arm. Electric.
She gasped and spun around, looking first at his chest, which was eye level, and then turning her face up higher, her eyes wide with surprise. She smiled her recognition instantly. His heart stopped. When he spoke, he raised his voice over the wail of the wind. “I believe you dropped this, madam.” He then warmly smiled back at her. Those huge eyes were a breathtaking almond shape, the deepest, darkest brown imaginable and innocent as a baby doe’s, fringed with long, thick black lashes. Delicate dark blonde brows arched above them like willowy, graceful caterpillars. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, creamy and flushed, the rosy red tint of the freezing wind accentuating broad, high cheekbones. Her nose was not the tiny button of an English miss but strong-looking and slightly wide. He stared at her lip’s full, soft moist form and nearly began to salivate, actually forgot to breathe. The whole effect was exotic, exhilarating.
Taking the bag, she nodded in thanks and was just opening her mouth to speak when a muffled threat barked from within startled her, commanding her to enter the carriage. The footman quickly approached and took her hand, forcing her to step up onto the coach steps while the driver leaned toward Fitzwilliam to apologize. “Sorry, Colonel, sir,” John Coachman yelled into his ear. “’Er Royal ’ighness ’ere is in rare temper today. Let me shake your ’and again, though, sir. ’Tis a honor, sir, a honor, and one that I shall lord over me mates tonight!”
The old tabby angrily pulled the carriage door closed once the beauty was barely within and then bellowed for them to be off immediately, furious that they were scandalously late for somewhere already. John Coachman tested and secured the door, touched his hat respectfully toward the colonel, and jumped up into his seat.
Fitzwilliam stepped back as the carriage jerked forward and started moving, making a turn at the end of the square and then once again slowly crossing his path. He watched it closely, his eyes searching within, his heart pounding against his ribs when he saw she was looking directly back at him, clasping the bag to her bosom and smiling in thanks. It was her eyes that seared him, melted into him, creating an emotion that sent intense waves of heat rushing throughout his body. When the carriage moved quickly away, only the back of her bonnet showed in the window.
“Look at me, love,” he whispered, willing her to turn around so he could see her again… and then she did. He had never been so affected by a woman before in his life, nor had he seen a face so beautiful and so unique and so riveting. She watched through the back window and continued staring at him until the carriage was out of sight.
It seemed then that the world around him had been sitting in a sort of muted shock, as if a new day gradually was dawning in his conscious mind. He continued his watch long after the coach passed from view. When his heart started beating again, he harrumphed and pulled his collar up to hold tightly around his neck, blowing out the breath he was suddenly aware he had been holding.
What in bloody hell was that? He tried to shake off the emotional bond that seemed to have sparked to life between them. This is ridiculous, he snorted. Too much cheap claret at lunch. He laughed to himself, willing his nerves to somehow stop trembling. It wasn’t until another carriage passed by and someone he knew called out a greeting to him that he roused himself and continued on to Darcy’s.
“And where’s our Little Behemoth? I hope she’s not lodged herself within some doorway again.” Fitzwilliam stood gratefully before the roaring fire and rubbed his raw, cold hands briskly together. Elizabeth had become very, very pregnant of late. They teased her mercilessly. She was immense.
Without raising his eyes, Darcy motioned upward with his pen, in the general direction of Lizzy’s private sitting rooms. He was ensconced at his desk, surveying the reports spread upon it, reports brought to him that morning by the estate manager of his massive holding, Pemberley, in Derbyshire.
“Unfortunately, we had a bit of a disagreement at breakfast. Apparently LB is questioning the fairness of this whole pregnancy situation and at present is hosting a lively protest in her room. She and Georgiana have finished off two boxes of chocolates, a dozen scones, and are now into the peach tarts.”
Fitzwilliam laughed while he turned the chair across from Darcy around and straddled it, happily accepting the coffee handed him by the butler. “Thank you very much, Winters. You are a prince among men. It is bloody freezing out there.” He turned his attention back to his cousin as he sipped the hot drink. “Well, I don’t mind lending my support for her escape as long as the peach tarts hold out.” He tilted his chair forward to clutch an uneaten sandwich from Darcy’s plate. “Perhaps you can provide us with some type of hoist.”
Darcy abruptly looked up from his paperwork. “You are excessively tardy, as if that surprises me. Never tell me you’ve been at Wellington’s all day? I thought it was only to be a breakfast meeting.”
“Yes, well, it started out that way, but as usual, the breakfast meeting stretched into a chatty luncheon visit. We wasted an awful lot of time as he shaved this morning. I think the man is part ape; in fact, I’d swear to it. I could see his beard growing while I ate my Jerusalem artichokes. Put me off my feed for a while, I can tell you.”
Darcy’s snort served as his opinion regarding that possibility when he belatedly pulled his now empty plate back from within his cousin’s reach.
“And how is his good wife?”
“An idiot. Say, Darcy…”
“I hate to admit that was my impression, also, poor dear. Still, she has some basis for her arrogance, you know, comes from very good stock, wonderful bloodlines. If she was a horse, I’d admire her fetlocks and the astoundingly broad fullness between her eyes. By the way, has he finished remodeling his new townhouse? I’d say he bit off a bit too much with that one. Good location, though, excellent for resale.”
“Who cares? I say, Darcy…”
“Bingley heard that he’s resigning his commission. Is that true? Smart move if he is. Mark my word, he’ll be prime minister one day.
“Gad! Can we forget about Wellington for one moment, please? Good Lord, he puts his little breeches on one leg at a time, just like you and I. Now, try to pay attention. I wanted to ask you about that woman who lives across St. James square. You know who I mean—the old beastie with the hairy mole on her chin—lives in that house across from Aunt Catherine.”
Darcy shivered in recollection. A ruder, more snobbish, social-climbing harridan did not exist in all of London. “Yes, she’s lived there for years—name is Pennwalt or Pensky or Petterson. She’s an absolute horror. What on earth would you want with that old woman?”
“Didn’t she have a son that died a few years back? On the Hamilton yacht wasn’t he… when it sank… or some such accident?” He settled his chin on his folded arms, surreptitiously eying leftover biscuits.
“Yes, I believe she did have a son who drowned, but not on the Hamilton boat.” Darcy didn’t bother to look up from his writing. “Sit up straight—you’re going to break the legs on that chair, lurching back and forth like that! It’s like having an elephant bouncing on a twig.” He slapped at his cousin’s hands. “And stop grabbing at my food, you thieving bastard.”
Fitzwilliam grunted. “You’re sounding more and more like Aunt Catherine, the older you get, did you know that? Even beginning to look a bit like her. What else do you know about the matter? I mean the hag’s son.”
Darcy returned to his figures. “I believe he was a baronet. He was on his way to confront a wayward wife who had left him and run off to America. His ship went down during a storm or at a blockade. I can’t remember which.”
“Well, I wonder who I saw, then. The woman I have seen coming and going in the square was certainly not a baronet’s wife. Dresses rather plainly, and now she accompanies a young girl. Mayhap she is a governess or teacher,” Fitzwilliam was muttering.
“What are you going on about?”
“The old tabby wouldn’t have perhaps produced a beautiful daughter somehow of which you are unaware.”
“She couldn’t produce a beautiful anything, if I’m thinking of the same person.” This interruption was causing Darcy to lose focus. Rubbing his forehead, he stared intently at his cousin. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in helping me with these accounts, seeing as you are just sitting there doing nothing but annoying me?”
“Help you with accounts?” Fitzwilliam let out a hoot of laughter. “That is rich, Darcy! Really, you have the most wonderful sense of humor!” Fitzwilliam chuckled casually as he shook his head.
After a moment, Fitzwilliam pressed on, once again disturbing the silence. “Do you know if she has any visitors at the present? The beast, I mean.”
With a resigned sigh, Darcy removed his spectacles, pinching his nose at the bridge. “Richard, I have no idea what goes on in this neighborhood. I can’t even direct my own household.” After replacing his glasses, he picked his pen back up and set to work again. “Ask Aunt Catherine if you require the latest on-dit.”
Fitzwilliam shivered and sipped his coffee. He was very quiet, unnaturally so for him. After a few moments, an anxious Darcy looked up. “What has you asking these questions, please?” Fitzwilliam was on an extended city stay as plans were implemented for the allied armies to begin leaving Paris the following year. The prior two weeks with his brother had done little to relax him. He was ripe for trouble.
“Well, since you bring it up, I just saw that beast in her carriage, and a young woman walked over and got into it with her.” Fitzwilliam smiled wistfully. “Absolutely lovely. The young woman, I mean. I have seen her before upon occasion, from afar, but never met her, never even knew where she lived. She gives one the impression of being very ethereal, very otherworldly, very foreign.”
He grabbed absently at some papers on the desk, reshuffling them, replacing them gently when he realized he had ruined their order. “Sorry.” He returned his hands to his knees. “She may be accompanying a young girl Georgiana’s age, perhaps an acquaintance?”
A grinning Darcy leaned back in his chair, studying his cousin closely. “Shall I describe this lovely lady of yours? A dimwitted little pocket Venus—a redheaded slow top.” Chuckling at his cousin’s glower, he picked up his quill again.
“You are not, in any way, shape, or form, amusing, Darcy.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, the only trouble is that you always get bored with these silly creatures within a week, sometimes less, and then you have the problem of where to dump the bodies. And if she is a servant or governess or even a paid companion, that never ends up well, does it?”
Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to argue but realized that Darcy was pretty much on target. He grunted and went back to sipping his coffee. “Are you going to finish that pie?” he asked and reached for the apple tart on the side of the desk.
Darcy quickly snatched back the plate, never taking his eyes from his books. “Yes, I am going to finish that pie. Don’t you have a barracks or something that provides you with food? I’m not made of money, you know.”
“Are you insinuating that I take advantage of your good-natured hospitality?”
“Who’s insinuating?” Darcy abruptly looked up from his paper and stared hard at his cousin. “A man your age, really, Fitz! You should have a home of your own by now. You should be over this constant need for conquests, unless you truly don’t want to marry and have a family.”
Fitzwilliam shifted in his seat and studiously avoided eye contact. “Well, certainly I do, Darcy. One day. Perhaps in the future. The distant future. When I am old and defenseless. Stop staring at me like that! There is no immediate rush, is there? There are so many lovely ladies I have yet to meet in the time God has allotted to me. Besides, I have little income, no home, and no immediate prospects. So, unless I can impregnate a ninety-year-old virgin heiress with a dickey heart, I am not inclined to rush the event.” He put down his coffee cup on the edge of the desk and brushed off the crumbs that had been collecting throughout the morning.
Darcy rolled the quill between his fingers and looked with benign pity upon his cousin. “You should, you know. It’s a wonderful feeling to be the head of your home, with a wife who adores you and whom you adore in return.”
Fitzwilliam whipped out his pocket watch. “Oh, look at that. I have to run.”
Ignoring him, Darcy turned his face to the fire, a besotted look in his eyes and a smile on his lips. “It’s a good feeling to care for your family and their well-being. It makes you finally grow up, I can tell you.” He sighed deeply and began attacking his figures once more, his mind filled with unlimited love and joy, thinking on his upcoming paternal responsibilities. “I myself find women to be unbelievably wonderful creations.”
“I suppose you will continue with this treacle even as I beg you to stop.”
“Well, think about it…” Darcy continued, looking up from his work.
Fitzwilliam groaned.
“They give back to you double and triple whatever little you hand them.”
“I think I’m going to be ill, Darcy. Please stop.”
“You hand them disparate items of food, and they give you back a wonderful meal. You provide them with four walls and a floor, and they give you back a loving home. You give them your seed,” Darcy’s eyes misted, his voice choked with emotion. “You give them your seed, and they give you back the most precious thing of all—a child…” They sat in silence together.
“And God help you if you give them shit.” Fitzwilliam was calmly packing tobacco into his pipe, and his eyes met Darcy’s for a moment. Understanding flashed between them.
“Amen to that, Cousin.” Darcy crashed down to earth, quickly resuming his work.
Not to be dissuaded for long, Fitzwilliam continued. “She had a lost look to her. Perhaps she’s a widow, a French war widow. She looked foreign somehow.”
Struggling to suppress his grin, Darcy returned his attention to his papers. “You are incorrigible,” he muttered.
“Well, I can dream, can’t I? A lovely, willing young widow of a certain station is better than going off to Mrs. Cleary’s house to buy a woman’s affections. Don’t look at me so affronted, I saw you there once. I was there myself.”
“I was never there! I deny it. Anyway, I went merely for the gaming.”
“Tell it to Bingley, brat; perhaps he’ll believe you. I saw you myself, upstairs, entering a room with a very busty brunette, not more than six years ago. I was briefly in on leave and not about to go yelling your name down the hallway.”
The wind taken from his sails and shamefully red-faced, Darcy shrugged in annoyance.
“Well, it is true that a man does have certain needs.” Darcy glanced up briefly.
Fitzwilliam sat back, restless and eager to be doing something. “Besides, widows are so damn grateful…”
Darcy let out an aggravated yowl, “You have no conscience to speak of, do you?”
“Well, what should I do? I will more than likely never marry. I’m not about to go ruin some eighteen-year-old debutante. Then the older they are, the more desperate their ploys. You could be trapped with someone you wouldn’t want to spend five minutes with, let alone your entire life.”
Fitzwilliam raked his hands through his hair several times, leaving its appearance wildly on end. It was thick and unruly and tended to go its own merry way once its morning duty was over. “You know, I am rather disappointed at your attitude toward me, as well as offended,” he huffed. “You do owe me some gratitude, brat. I was, after all, your example in polite society, your role model, as it were, especially with the ladies.”
Darcy stared at him in disbelief, the fighting anger just as strong at that moment as it had been when they were ten and eight years old.
“ Role model?! You farted on my head.”
“You peed in my face!”
They glowered at each other for several seconds.
“Apparently we have a stalemate here, relative to degrees of bad behavior. In the interest of family harmony, however, I will concede the peeing was worse than the farting.”
“Thank you, Darcy. Damn big of you.”
Fitzwilliam again picked up his coffee cup. “Getting back to our subject,” the professor continued, “married women are, of course, also quite acceptable…”
Darcy slammed his hand down on the desk and gave Fitzwilliam another warning look.
“Well, they are! But they tend to have angry, pistol-holding husbands, and that can sometimes be very tricky. Now on the other hand,” Fitzwilliam continued with a gleam in his eye, his brows waggling, “widows have experience, and if they have attained a certain station in life, they rarely wish to remarry. They are generally well-bred and can converse with a man, and by thankful, I mean thankful for the attention, not the other, you lout.”
Darcy was still shaking his head in disbelief.
“All right, maybe they are grateful for the other. The ones I’ve entertained certainly have been ecstatic.” Fitzwilliam beamed, wallowing in his memories.
“I would ban you from my house if I thought for a moment you would pay any attention. Get your coffee cup off my desk, you are making a mark.” Darcy picked up his pen to write again, noticing the tart was missing. “And quit eating my food!”
After a few minutes of silence Darcy finished his work and began to blot the ink. “So, you are hoping for an introduction to this pretty-faced, eager, young cork brain—is that the gist of what you’re saying?” Darcy looked up to see a surprised expression on Fitzwilliam’s face.
“No, actually, and I would appreciate it if you would not speak of her that way.” Fitzwilliam suddenly felt protective of the exotic-looking woman with the fawnlike eyes.
Darcy watched his cousin to see if he was being serious.
“I am dead serious,” Fitzwilliam said, reading his mind. After addressing several letters, Darcy folded up his papers and placed them all into a packet for his secretary, while Fitzwilliam poured them both more coffee.
“I am sure I shall regret this, but the Winter Ball is this Wednesday at Lady Jersey’s mansion.” Darcy picked up his newspaper to read, flicking it once or twice before surgically folding it in half, then reached over to his plate to search for his half-eaten cucumber sandwich, now long gone. He looked taken aback that the plate was empty. “I was going to ignore the invitation since Elizabeth will be unable to attend and Georgiana is still fearful of being in large crowds without her. However, perhaps with the two of us…?” His eyes darted in vain for any remaining food. His stomach was growling. “If there is a young woman of presentation age visiting, I am positive the old goat will have finagled an invitation. She is said to be a most avaricious social climber. Perhaps your lovely lady will also attend.”
“Absolutely perfect.” Fitzwilliam smiled broadly at Darcy.
Darcy’s mouth twitched a little at the side. “Are you sure you are brave enough?”
Fitzwilliam leveled a steely glance at his cousin. “I laugh at fear. I sneer at danger. I…”
“Aunt Catherine is co-hostess.”
“Oh bloody hell.” Fitzwilliam’s tossed a wadded-up piece of paper into the fireplace.
The Winter Ball, an eagerly anticipated annual event, was considered very important socially, due to its exclusivity, the herald of the coming Season, and the initial exposure for debutantes about to be presented at court. It was a small fête by ton standards, only the upper half of the socially acceptable being invited, marriageable daughters, nieces, and sisters firmly in hand. The middle-aged women present were on the whole a rather plain-faced bunch. They attempted with diamonds, paint, and feathers to achieve what nature could no longer—a countenance worthy to compete with their youthful charges.
The men fared little better. In general, they were middle-aged and balding, wearing gaudy-colored waistcoats as well as high-point starched collars that sliced into their cheeks. Frighteningly large jowls were created this way, framing ridiculous cravat creations.
And, as always, there were officers everywhere—the current darlings of society.
Fitzwilliam elbowed and pinched his way past the doorway idlers, coughed in the face of celebrity gawkers, forced a pathway through the chattering, teeming gentry. A terrified Georgiana could do nothing but keep her head low as he dragged her behind him through the crowd, an apologetic and mortified Darcy following in their wake.
It was when they approached the footman who would announce them that he saw her, her simple presence outstanding amidst a multitude of inbred and odd-looking individuals gushing and fawning over each other. Wearing an outmoded, drab gown meant for someone much larger and much, much older, she was tenderly patting stray locks of a young girl’s hair, adjusting the bow on the back of the girl’s dress, in short, fussing about the girl like a mother hen with her lone chick. He was thunderstruck. Even without the feathers, paint, lace, and jewelry, she far outshone the posturing aristocratic ladies surrounding her, who competed in vain for attention.
At this distance, the youth she tended to appeared to Fitzwilliam as little more than an infant—small, frightened, and frail. However, it was not the anxious-looking girl who was causing him concern, drawing his offense. It was the activity surrounding the two that began to fuel his indignation, the admiration of the many men milling about ogling his Beauty, commenting upon her shimmering blonde hair. Fellow soldiers gaping and drooling over his Beauty’s eyes as they sparkled with amusement within a perfect, heart-shaped face, long, dark lashes lowered now to her task and shadowing his Beauty’s cheeks.
It was a testament to her good looks that those who circled overlooked the other grander, more-opulently gowned women, to be drawn instead by a loveliness that appeared both alien and delicate at once.
The young girl nervously whispered something, and the Brown-Eyed Beauty laughed gently, her face softening as it tilted to the side, lighting up with open joy, her eyes twinkling in devilish delight. Deadly dimples suddenly appeared.
Instead of being charmed, Fitzwilliam was furious.
“Why do you look as if you’ve just gotten your foot caught in your stirrups?” As he followed Richard’s rapt gaze, looking across the ballroom in the same general direction, Darcy discovered the object of his interest. “Ah. Well, well, well…” he muttered.
“What?” Fitzwilliam turned momentarily toward his cousin.
“I take it that is the woman about whom all your fuss has been?”
After one or two tense moments, Richard responded. “Yes, Darcy,” he bit back icily. “That is the woman about whom, as you so haughtily say, all my fuss has been. What of it?!”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Still he hesitated, staring.
Seeing Darcy’s reaction, Fitzwilliam bristled. “You wish to make some sort of observation, brat? Yes, that is the woman, and please do not stare at her like some sort of bedlamite.”
“Well, pardon me, Your Worship. She’s just not what I had expected.”
“What do you mean by that?” Fitzwilliam glared. “She is the most beautiful woman in this room, if not the whole city.”
“Jesu, calm yourself, Richard. I didn’t say she wasn’t. It’s just that she’s so… so…”
“So… what?”
“Well…” Darcy’s eyes made a quick appraisal of the woman in the distance. “Well, for one thing, she is rather plainly dressed for such a grand assembly, and she does appear rather foreign-looking with those cheekbones. Here’s an aside. Whatever happened to your dream of a deathly pale, full-bodied, and terminally ill English Rose due to inherit an estate the size of Kent? Hmm? In case you had not noticed, this young woman is very healthy and quite slender and apparently poor. At the very least, you must admit that she doesn’t have the usual voluptuousness of which you are known to be so fond.” Without even looking at his cousin, he could feel his eyes boring into him. He sighed.
“She is not that slender,” Fitzwilliam said coolly. “And you are still staring at her. I don’t like it, I tell you.”
Darcy rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Please try and behave as an adult. I’m sure you’ve seen them about—emulate.” The air crackled between them. “All I am saying is that she has a leaner frame than the average woman you prefer. She is tall and slim and, well, frankly, she appears small-busted.” Darcy eyed her critically and then turned to look at a furious Fitzwilliam. “Maybe it is just that the dress is so huge. Stop scowling at me!”
He sipped calmly from a glass of wine he had just been handed by a footman. “Merciful heaven, aren’t you suddenly the sensitive one! I have nothing against the woman at all. She is quite as lovely as you say, perhaps more so.” Fitzwilliam’s green-eyed rage was turning boiling red from his struggle for control. “And she is definitely not your type.”
Fitzwilliam stiffened. “Aside from your previous gibberish, what is it about her, exactly, that you do not consider my type?”
Darcy hesitated for a few tension-filled moments before proceeding at his peril. “Truthfully? All right. Well, she’s not at all fussy or overly made-up. She’s naïve-looking, soft, elegant, and pleasant. None of those are your usual requirements—in fact, quite the opposite.” Darcy and Fitzwilliam stood glaring at each other before Darcy finally broke rank and turned back. He then gestured toward the woman under discussion. “I mean, she really is quite beautiful, to be sure. Oh, and my goodness, what an exquisite smile she has, such luscious, full lips. And dimples, too? Good God!” He chuckled and shook his head. “No, she’s definitely not your type at all.”
“All right, that does it. I should call you out.”
“Well, think about it. You could actually grow to love this woman, then where would you be?”
“Never mind about all that. I don’t care for the way you are looking at her, brat, with your insolent eyes. And how dare you comment upon her lips, goddamn it. You’re almost drooling.”
Darcy turned to coolly assess his cousin. “You should be medicated.”
“You were leering at her.”
“I was not leering, you apelike menace! I was asked my opinion.”
“Aha! Well…you are the demented one—you were never asked for your opinion, and I, above all people, know a leer when I see one, and I certainly don’t need your approval. I was merely pointing her out to you.”
“What’s going on, gentlemen?” Georgiana returned to their side after freshening herself. The carriage ride had been long and blustery, a frigid winter storm approaching with snow and sleet threatening to descend upon London at any moment.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam has finally lost what little was left of his mind. He is annoyed with me for glancing at his newest obsession,” Darcy whispered loudly. “He is also exceedingly upset because I have been pointing out to him the many ways in which she would not suit him at all.”
“Really? What fun! May I take a stab? Where is she?” Darcy indicated the far corner where the beauty was standing.
Fitzwilliam threw up his hands and turned his back on them. “I am leaving you both. I know neither of you. Good-bye.”
“Oh, how charming she is and how different are her features! Truly a paragon!” Georgiana gushed. A slightly mollified Fitzwilliam waited. “And not your type at all, Richard. Definitely not!” Georgiana’s clear assessing gaze darted from the beauty to Fitzwilliam and then back to the beauty. He turned slowly around and faced her.
“Et tu, Judas?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Heavens, Richard, just look at the color in your face! Are you feeling all right?” She regarded him with great concern.
“That is not my type of woman… exactly how, may I ask?”
“Well, no offense, dear one, but…” Fitzwilliam simmered as Georgiana wrinkled up her nose, hesitating for just a moment before she continued. “Well… frankly… I oftentimes feel a need to bathe after meeting one of your lady friends. Some of them have looked positively feral. For heaven’s sake, some have not even appeared human, ha, ha, ha… Excuse me, that was unkind.”
Darcy stepped away briefly to disguise his laughter as Fitzwilliam’s fists balled up to his sides. It was then Georgiana took a better look at his face and stepped backward.
“Thank you so much, Darcy and Georgiana, for your candor. If, by any chance we should meet again, say either of you lie bleeding on the street or twisted beneath a carriage, please do not be offended if I cross the road to the other side. My, what a little nest of vipers are my family.”
Georgiana gulped and whispered to her brother, “Heavens, what have I said now?”
Fitzwilliam glared down at her for several seconds. “Here’s the thing, Georgiana. I require you to get me introduced to that woman—it is the only reason I’m attending this blasted nonsense. I don’t know how you will do it. Fact is, my dear, I don’t really give a damn.”
Georgiana blanched at the horde surrounding them, her fear of crowds once again rising. She had so hoped to continue hiding between her two male family members, but Fitzwilliam was not to be put off. “And, if you do not, I will tell your brother here about a certain young acquaintance of which I have heard rumors.”
Darcy’s eyebrow arched neatly into his hairline. “Georgiana??”
“Sorry, Brother, I have a mission to accomplish.” With her eyes averted, she had just turned to scamper off when she was stopped by an elegantly gloved hand clasped onto her wrist.
“There you are.” The familiar and grating voice pierced their bubble of gaiety. Fitzwilliam cringed as Darcy turned to greet their aunt.
“Aunt Catherine”—he bowed to kiss her cheek—“what a delight to see you.” He lied on behalf of them all. “We feared we would have difficulties finding you in this crush.”
“Crush? I’ve taken baths with more servants in attendance. By the way, why on earth are you arriving at this hour? You were both taught better manners than this!” Darcy noted that her shiny eyes were having some difficulty focusing, possibly from too many glasses of sherry.
“Catherine,” Darcy said calmly, trying to be patient, “it’s only half-past nine.”
“Exactly! Well, it can’t be helped now. I must take you all to greet Lady Jersey. Where is Georgiana? Where is my little one?”
The two men parted to expose the trembling debutante.
Catherine’s hands flew up to her cheeks, tears welling in her tiny and slightly dazed eyes. “Georgiana, you look so like your dear mother. She was my sister, did you know that? Well, you look absolutely exquisite, no other word to describe. Who designed your gown, dearest? It is lovely. Who is her dressmaker? Who…?” She looked questioningly at her nephews’ blank stares and immediately gave up. “Oh, never mind. It’s like talking to cheese.”
“Madame Collette,” Georgiana supplied, smiling.
Catherine nodded her approval then evaluated Darcy’s appearance and glowed with pride. He was, as always, dressed in the height of elegance. She flinched visibly when she turned her attention to Fitzwilliam, cocking one eyebrow as she scanned his boots with her quizzing glass.
“I fell under my horse at Waterloo. Haven’t had a chance to get them buffed up as yet.”
Losing interest quickly in her nephew’s boots, Catherine returned her attention to Georgiana and smiled kindly. “Do you have a lady’s maid?”
“Aunt Catherine.” Darcy was not amused. “I can assure you Georgiana has several lady’s maids and a companion. She also has a number of homes at her disposal whenever and wherever she desires, all bursting with staff, horses, sixteen dogs, and five cats.”
“I do so like your hair, Georgiana. I cannot abide a maid who is unable to properly attend to hair. Yours looks exceedingly well. Who did it? The cook? The laundress? The groundskeeper?”
“My maid, Aunt Catherine.”
Darcy’s foot began to tap furiously, but Catherine’s infamous pendulum-like attention had now swung back to Fitzwilliam.
“Why on earth are you turning around every five seconds?! Have you a palsy or some other like condition?”
“Yes, Lady Catherine, and I appeal to you to excuse me. I feel the need to lie down and rest for a while.”
Catherine huffed. “Oh, you have a condition, I’ll warrant, but it isn’t palsy. I am beginning to question your eyesight. You keep looking across the room at those old dowagers.” She squinted harder and then turned back to him, aghast. “At least I am sincerely hoping it is the dowagers. Never tell me you are casting those longing looks toward the atrocious lavender dress. She is not suitable, Fitzwilliam. Don’t repeat this to a soul, but I believe she is wearing wool.”
He stared down at her in fuming silence.
“She is a servant, Richard! That is obvious by the meanness of her attire! You cannot be serious!”
Fitzwilliam’s voice grew ominously quiet. “I am not in the habit of judging people merely by their garments, Aunt. Besides, how can you of all people consider her a servant? She is still young enough to walk without assistance.”
“Don’t you get so high and mighty with me, young man! No woman of quality would be seen out in the evening without jewels, with no gloves, no hair adornments—in wool! Where is her fan, I ask? Ugh! Merciful heavens, this is not to be borne!”
Darcy cleared his throat. “Aunt Catherine, we had considered that possibly the young woman in question may be a foreigner, perhaps in mourning attire. That would explain the rather drab clothing as well as her lack of embellishment.”
“Oh, the poor dear, a war widow, do you think?” Catherine’s hand went to her heart in devastated compassion, completely forgetting her previous outburst.
It swiftly passed.
“Very well, come along, everyone,” she chirped. “Fitzwilliam, it appears that you will be having a bit of competition for your widow—oh la, that sounded rather ominous, didn’t it?” Catherine had been motioning toward an officer circling Brown Eyes when she realized what she had said. She took Fitzwilliam’s arm and pulled him behind her. “Well, never you mind, sirrah. At the present, you will have to settle with charming your viperous hostess.”
It was nearly a half hour later before Fitzwilliam and Darcy made their escape from the high-pitched, squealing voice of their hostess, Lady Sally Jersey, in addition to the whining Lady Castlereigh, the barely audible Lady Cowper, and the baritone Lady Sefton, all audibly thrilled to have such distinguished gentlemen in their midst.
“Kill me if I ever agree to do this for another female relative,” Fitzwilliam spoke pleasantly to anyone within hearing.
“Aunt Catherine wants me to dance with Princess Esterhazy’s daughter…”
“Oh, you poor sod.” Fitzwilliam’s attention was distracted suddenly.
“Can I leave you alone for fifteen minutes without your causing a scene? Richard? Richard?”
Richard had already stomped away.
Merde.
Amanda Sayles Penrod sat among the dowagers, widows, and poor-relation chaperones that occupy the draftiest, farthest, and darkest corners of any ballroom or assembly, and happy she was for even this little diversion. It had been months since she had seen been at a public gathering, years since she had attended a society ball with music and dancing. If only her dearest Anthony had accompanied her this night, she would have felt safer and more relaxed, less alone.
She was momentarily drawn from her daydreams to be introduced, along with her late husband’s cousin, Emily, to a beautiful young woman, a member of one of the grandest families in England, the Darcys. A gracious and sweet young lady, Georgiana Darcy was much less intimidating than the other debutantes in attendance this night, and Amanda could sense Emily’s immediate ease. She wistfully waved the two off, both girls emboldened now by the presence of a kindred spirit, as they began meeting other young people.
Amanda sighed. One day perhaps she, too, would again know the joy of beautiful clothes and dancing and love and romance. Her heart quickened as always at the thought of a certain oddly attractive and very tall colonel who, if not classically handsome, was very masculine and self-assured and commanding. She had noticed him over the years, followed his brilliant career, had smiled shyly at him from across the square, but had never come face-to-face with the man until he retrieved her reticule from under the carriage. Still and all though, they hadn’t really met properly and probably never would. Well, it did no harm to fantasize. Fantasy was all she would ever allow herself. She could never meet anyone now, not when her little boy so needed her.
Of a sudden, she was aware of movement around her. Officers had approached and were attempting to converse with her. Pretending ignorance, Amanda shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, an impressive dumb show of confusion if she did say so herself. She lowered her eyes to hands folded demurely on her lap and just prayed to heaven that the men would forget her and leave.
Instead, the two old women who had been seated beside her and in front clucked their tongues and walked away, uninterested in assisting a young woman who looked so poor and acted so servile. A third old tabby dozed fitfully, her head lolling back and then jerking forward whenever her snores awakened her.
At first, the men seemed to be enjoying what they interpreted as shyness, quickly becoming emboldened by her apparent lack of understanding and protection. The discourse between the drunken officers spiraled into the colorfully ribald. “Could she be a delectable little soiled dove in disguise as a housemaid?”
One inebriated officer laughed hysterically as he attempted to see the color of her eyes. As she kept lowering her head to avoid him, he kept bending over until, at one point, he nearly lost his balance.
“Neddie, at the very least tell me if she rouges her nipples, please.”
The color was rapidly draining from Ned’s cheeks with his head bent down so far. He hiccoughed and nearly lost his footing again. “With this ghastly dress, it’s hard to tell if she even has bubbies.” He stumbled a bit and then plopped down on the floor before her. “I can’t even be assured she has lips. But, by God, I believe there is a true beauty hiding in these dowdy duds, if only she would raise up her eyes! Bunty, poke her shoulder. Make her look up.”
“I should indeed love to poke her, Ned—but in the shoulder is a bit perverse, even for me.”
The raucous laughter brought another soldier up, a major. “You two are making complete clodpoles of yourselves!” The major shook his head, and standing behind her boldly placed his hand upon her shoulder to keep her seated. “You are both far too into your cups to be of any service to this sweet young thing. Bugger off and leave her to me!”
Moments passed that felt like years while the whimpering in her head continued unabated and her heart pounded. Afraid to raise her eyes, she was flushed with embarrassment, only gradually realizing that the bawdy comments had ceased and the area around her was now silent. She held her breath, though, knowing that she was still not alone. Someone stood before her, a form leaning over her and large enough that it blocked out much of the light provided from the wall sconces behind.
She slowly looked up, first at his dusty and beaten-looking riding boots (My stars, what big feet ), and then at the muscled legs encased in white trousers ( Must be a lifelong horseman). She blushed, realizing that she should not be gazing quite so intently at those. Next came the impressive barrel chest, the fine masculine shoulders made broader by epaulettes wide enough to serve dinner upon, a scarlet military jacket with its sash, golden buttons, braids, and medals…lots of medals ( Oh no, another soldier! ) His gloved hand rested on the hilt of a beautiful dress sword.
When her eyes finally reached his face, she saw the kindest bluest eyes she had ever beheld, a prominent jaw with a crooked, easy smile, tousled muddy-colored blond hair… With a gasp, she realized that it was the celebrated colonel, the man she continually fantasized over, her hero from the street. She sat bolt upright.
Huh.
In stunned silence, she glanced around to see that the other men had fled, and she sat alone, staring up at that tender face. It was unbelievable, her shock and his sudden presence crushing her ability to speak.
Huh.
He spoke to her at length in French, appearing surprised when she blinked back in wonder. He laughed a little and straightened up, looked around the room, and then stroked his chin. He then began speaking in Spanish, and after that a language she had never heard before.
After running off the drunken soldiers with unsubstantiated threats and one menacing eyebrow, Fitzwilliam turned to the beauty before him and bowed. If he imagined she was lovely through a blinding sleet storm or from the frosted window of a carriage or from across a ballroom, she was breathtaking up close, staring at him like a fairy-tale princess awaking from a trance. A gradually awakening Sleeping Beauty, perhaps, her eyelashes slowly fluttering open.
Then, her full, red, luscious lips opened to pronounce what sounded like a muted “Duh?”
He winced. Oh, shit. A horrible fear gripped his gut that Darcy would be right again and she might be yet another brainless twit. He would never live this down. Never. His heart sank further as she revisited her first observation with an even louder “Duh?”
He spoke to her eloquently in French, apologizing for his boldness in approaching and for the inebriated officers, all the time admiring her beauty if not her conversation. She was beginning to blink more rapidly, at least, her squint appearing more intelligent, or was that just wishful thinking on his part? She certainly did not look Spanish, but he tried that, too. Her eyes opened wider. He finally tried Danish. She shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps the poor darling was truly mentally impaired.
“Well, I have run out of languages, beautiful one. Now what shall I do?” He turned around and searched the crowded ballroom. “Where the hell has Georgiana gotten to?”
Her hand immediately reached out and briefly touched his sleeve. She was terribly alarmed; desperate that he was about to leave. “Pardon me for being so forward, Colonel, but she should return here in a moment. I heard her mention that she needed to find her brother and cousin.”
Fitzwilliam spun around in shock. “You speak English!”
“No. I’m sorry, sir, I do not. I’m an American.”
Georgiana, along with her new dearest friend Emily, reached the laughing couple several moments later. “Cousin?” she whispered kindly and tapped his shoulder, but he was lost to the world, staring into the loveliest eyes he had ever seen, so that he felt nothing and heard little else.
“Cousin?” she repeated more loudly and with a bit more force, then flicked his ear sharply with a hard snap of her fingers. His wits quickly returned, and he turned to his left, stunned to see people surrounding them.
“Georgiana! How nice to see you. Whatever are you doing here?” Fitzwilliam looked genuinely surprised by the crush surrounding him, suddenly being encircled as he was by eight giggling, squealing little females. It was appalling. He then recollected sending Georgiana around for his introduction.
“What do you mean, ‘Nice to see you; whatever are you doing here?’” She looked curiously at him. The girls all squealed and giggled, batting their eyelashes and whispering to her their wishes for introduction. “You just sent me on a breakneck tour around this room, which was no walk in Hyde Park, I might add, in order to get you an introduction, and you end up storming across the ballroom like a man possessed!” Georgiana had an annoying tendency toward honesty, a habit of saying exactly what she was thinking the moment she thought it. Fitzwilliam briefly considered gagging her mouth.
“Well, I am sure I have no knowledge of what you are speaking,” he murmured then raised his brows in what he hoped would be some sort of silent communication to her to keep her unholy trap shut. “I happened to see this lovely lady being accosted by some anonymous soldiers and came to offer her my assistance.”
“You mean Ned Jeffries? And Bachman? I swear I saw Bachman sidle over here. I thought you knew them. Ooh! You did, didn’t you? Yes, of course, you were all on the same cricket team for several years, and didn’t Bunty play football with you and Brother at Harrow?”
Not wanting to eavesdrop on the two cousins’ whispered conversation, Amanda had been watching the excited debutantes with great amusement. They were bouncing up and down, awaiting their moment to impress the famous “Colonel of Waterloo,” edging Amanda and Emily farther into the background. When Georgiana finally began the introductions, the girls squealed anew, gushing and jockeying for closer positions. They preened and flirted, fanning themselves ragged, competing so outrageously that a scuffle began between them, and just when the whole situation threatened to get downright ugly, it was announced that Daddy Hill and Sir Frederick Maitland had just arrived. The herd stampeded in their direction.
“Fame is fleeting,” marveled Fitzwilliam and turned again to his Beauty.
Amanda laughed. “Thank you so much, Colonel, for coming to my assistance. I apologize if I have caused you any alarm.”
“Not at all, madam.” He took her hand and held it gently. “It is I who should apologize to you for the behavior of the younger officers. Often at these little parties, there is too much wine and not enough common sense.”
She was introduced to him then by Georgiana as the widow of the deceased baronet Augustus Penrod, and the young girl as the late baronet’s young cousin, after which Georgiana tugged on his sleeve. “Excuse me, dearest of Cousins,” a clearly perplexed Georgiana said with a sigh, “but I am still somewhat confused. About those soldiers who were bothering Lady Penrod—did you not rent a villa in Capri with Major Bachman just two years ago?”
“And her mouth continues unchecked…” Fitzwilliam returned his gaze to Amanda. “Ignore her, madam,” he said. “We all do,” he concluded under his breath.
“I hope that the officers were not too forward with you, Lady Penrod. I will be happy to have a word with them and make certain they apologize to you directly. I can assure you that I will enforce strict disciplinary measures on them all.”
“Oh, no, please don’t bother yourself. I am just so thrilled and honored that you, of all people, came to my rescue.”
Fitzwilliam felt like a strutting peacock.
For the next two hours, the glittering favored of London society stood up for their dances or sat for their gossip, changed partners with elegant nonchalance, chatted and visited and basked in the intoxicating glow of too much money coupled with too many choices and much too much time. Everyone wanted to be seen and heard, and no one cared much about listening. It was all a performance, honed and perfected over centuries, a familiar presentation that allowed for no surprise conclusions as it continued unchecked through the night. Indeed, to the teeming multitude, it secretly felt as if the orchestra had been playing eternally.
The couple sat alone on the fringes of the assembly, he a high-ranking British officer condescending to speak with a forgotten widow of low status, an unfortunate meeting of complete opposites. They could have nothing in common, coming as they did from different classes, embracing different mores.
However, of all the glittering attendees at this party, it was these two people who felt a spark ignite between them. From the beginning, they set into teasing each other, laughing outrageously at anything the other said, even finishing each other’s sentences. They thought similarly about nearly everything, she with an ease of manner and simplicity that he found delightful, as if they had known each other for years and not moments, he with his lack of pomp or proper attitude. He was easily self-assured without being arrogant. She was warm and friendly without fawning.
Although the woman’s beauty fed the embers of this pursuit, it was the purity of character that fanned the flames into fire. There was humility in her self-deprecating laughter, and joy of life at her core. She made him feel alive and happy to be a man.
For Amanda, she felt her prior attraction to him only intensify. She no longer saw only the famous celebrity whose attentions had flattered and excited her. His masculinity, his strength, made her heart tremble. His self-confidence mesmerized her. He made her feel desired and secure.
“I believe that there will be a waltz played next, Lady Penrod. I would be honored if you would dance it with me.”
Amanda was initially thrilled, over the moon with joy at the prospect of dancing, of again being young and carefree. Her innate common sense, however, soon overcame her. To be seen with this famous man would be courting her former mother-in-law’s ire, to hold him in her arms emotional suicide. He was too attractive, too appealing, her interest too passionate. “I appreciate the honor you do me in asking, Colonel Fitzwilliam; however, I do not dance this evening.” She sighed and repeated the excuse she had prepared earlier, “Out of respect for my late husband.”
He was undeterred. “Your late husband is lucky indeed to have a wife faithful to him so long after he has passed.” Watching her eye the assembly, he sensed the undercurrent of fear for the first time, and his heart ached for whatever was troubling her. “Perhaps if we were to go to a less-conspicuous area, away from quite so many revelers, it would be less objectionable to you. I see that the conservatory is available for dancing.” He motioned toward a series of large glass doors that opened onto a lush greenhouse. “It is a lovely setting and visible enough for respectability, but at the rear of the ballroom, away from being on display, as it were.”
Amanda’s mind began to spin. If I am to be allowed only one night with this man, I must surely seize the moment. Besides, she had not danced in so very long. Looking into his intense gaze, she knew instinctively that she would be protected by him.
“P-p-perhaps… Perhaps that would be acceptable.” Blushing crimson at her stuttering response, she cleared her throat and beamed.
From the first notes of the waltz, Amanda was swept up into what seemed like the twirling flight of angels. The conservatory was very large, large enough for exotic, flower-laden trees to tower easily above them. The beautiful ferns, the fragrant blossoms, and marble statues were wasted on the entranced couple, however, so new and exciting was their attachment. It was perfect and private and safe from the public scrutiny she so feared. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the totally female thrill of being protected and cherished, held in the arms of a man for whom she felt the first stirrings of love. It was heaven.
When the dance was over and while still in each other’s arms, they looked intently at each other as couples politely clapped and angled by, trying to escape from the narrow and rather humid confines. Fitzwilliam watched her eyes, understood and shared all her unspoken emotions. He was a mere moment away from enclosing her in his arms and smothering her mouth with his.
Someone nearby cleared his throat. Startled, Fitzwilliam looked to his side to see the three errant officers from before and introduced them to her after a few tense seconds of hesitancy. The major bowed politely. “It is an honor to meet you, madam. I am afraid that we behaved abominably to you earlier and have come to beg your forgiveness. Had we known you were a lady acquainted with Colonel Fitzwilliam, we would never have behaved so ungentlemanly, nor said such things to you. Again, please accept our apologies.”
“No apologies are needed, gentlemen, but they are accepted.” Amanda was touched by the sincerity of the apology. “In truth, I did not understand much of what you said.”
Too late, she saw the effects of her speech, not because of her words but because of her American accent. One of the captains swore crudely, and the other glared. The major, seeing Fitzwilliam’s livid reaction, immediately stepped in front of his friends. “You have been most gracious, madam, and again, it was an honor to meet you. Make certain that the colonel brings you to the refreshment room. Good evening, madam, sir.” With that, he turned and roughly shoved the two soldiers on their way.
There remained an edgy silence that hung in the air between them. Fitzwilliam was furious, with himself as much as the men. He knew them and how they had changed over the years, become more calloused and bitter from warfare, from the deaths and maiming of their friends in battles both on the Continent and in America. He had been distancing himself from many of these former colleagues, uneasy as he was with their hatred and talk of vengeance.
“I thank you most kindly for the wonderful waltz, Colonel. Please do not feel any obligation to bring me refreshments. I will return to my seat.” Her eyes looked sadly into his. “Believe me when I say how beholden I am to you for making this a joyous evening for me.” She bowed and began to turn, when he took her elbow.
“You won’t escape me that easily, madam.” His voice sounded gruff as he placed her hand upon his arm. “Never again.”
Darcy was grinning, still delighting in the memory of his cousin’s irritated reaction to the elegant bow and gracious compliments he bestowed upon Lady Penrod at their introduction. In fact, he was purposely continuing those attentions as he now joined the couple at their table for refreshments.
“Don’t let us keep you, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam grunted as Darcy ignored him to pull up a chair and turn to address Amanda. Within seconds, Georgiana and Emily also arrived. “I’m certain you all have somewhere else to be… anywhere else…” He was growing very tired of trying to be subtle. Soon he would be flinging them all out the door.
“Nonsense, Cousin, we don’t mind.” Georgiana was sipping happily on her lemonade, relieved to be away from the crush. “It is just so good to have some quiet privacy, is it not? It is impossible to visit intimately with all those people surrounding you. Well, you two seem to be hitting it off quite splendidly.”
“Yes. I am afraid I have monopolized too much of the colonel’s time this evening, and he has been very kind.”
“I have enjoyed every moment.” His eyes devoured the young woman then turned to Darcy and silently commanded him to leave. Darcy gleefully ignored him.
“Georgiana has told me of the officers who were bothering you earlier this evening. Apparently the colonel rescued you from some scoundrels.” Darcy had to avert his eyes from his cousin’s obvious irritation.
“Oh yes, he was quite magnificent.” The besotted couple stared at each other, lost to the world. Amanda forced herself to turn away. “Truth be told, I did not understand much of what they said. There are so many colorful terms.”
“Give us an example, madam, and we shall do our best to enlighten. The cant vernacular can be confusing even to a native.”
Amanda began to share with them some of the slang words that had been used by the officers. They were able to explain one or two to her, amid growing laughter. Phrases like “plant him a facer” and “watering pot” were easily explained.
“‘Lobsterback?’” Amanda chuckled.
“‘British soldier,’” supplied Georgiana.
“Really? What about ‘soiled dove’?”
“‘A lady of the evening,’” muttered Fitzwilliam, “and I’m going to kill them.”
Amanda patted his hand tenderly. “I am not offended. Please do not cause a fuss; besides, this is such fun. There was one officer who fancied himself a ‘rum cove.’”
Fitzwilliam explained that was a word for a ‘clever rogue,’ his voice rising to be heard over the raucous chatter of a particular group walking by them.
“Oh, then perhaps that was what the other word meant, the word that was said back to him.”
“What word was that, madam?” Darcy strained to hear as he retrieved champagne from a passing waiter.
“‘ Bollocks,’” she called out loudly at the very moment the chattering stopped.
Georgiana, Darcy, and Fitzwilliam were waiting alongside the fringes of the ballroom. “Do you think… she’ll ever return?” Darcy spoke aloud to no one in particular. With his hands clasped behind his back, he stood casually, biting his lip, his eyes cast toward the ceiling. Fitzwilliam did not respond, just leaned his shoulder against the wall and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He lowered his head in a vain attempt to disguise his grin.
Georgiana was angry. “You are both no better than twelve-year-olds.” She shook her head while her brother rubbed his face rather vigorously.
“If only she had not spoken so loudly.” After a moment, the two cousins turned their heads away from each other as they choked back laughter.
“I see I do a disservice to twelve-year-olds.”
“Georgiana is right.” Fitzwilliam attempted a more serious look. “I only hope we haven’t upset her too much with our teasing.” It took only a second for the men to begin laughing again.
“I am going to find her. Richard, I think you should come along, and, Brother, you go see to our aunt, who is again turning this way.” Georgiana stared at the two men, daring them to refuse.
“I’ll go intercept Aunt Catherine.” A still laughing Darcy went off, dramatically sighing at his martyrdom.
They saw Emily standing in the hallway, patiently answering the questions of two extremely elderly society matrons scrutinizing the consequence of her ancestry. She excused herself and approached Fitzwilliam and Georgiana.
“Is Amanda all right?” Georgiana asked.
“She’s fine, only a little upset.”
Fitzwilliam’s heart sank with regret. “I am so sorry if we hurt her in any way.”
“No, no, Colonel. No, she was vastly amused, actually. As a matter of fact, we laughed all the way here.” Emily gently placed her hand on his arm. “She was asked to leave the ladies’ retiring room. It was all quite humiliating. It seems several of the ladies mistook her for a servant and were incensed at her entering.” Emily shook her head sadly. “When she began to explain, they laughed at her, called her a backwoods colonial.”
Georgiana’s tears threatened to fall at any moment. “Why must people be unkind? She is such a delightful and gentle woman.” She looked intensely at Emily. “Amanda, I mean.” Emily stared at her blankly before Georgiana repeated what she had said. “Yes, a really delightful and gentle woman.”
Finally, Georgiana kicked her new friend’s ankle.
“Owww… oh! Yes. She, I mean Amanda, is a most wonderful person. She volunteered to escort me this evening. I know my aunt, uh, warned her that there would be repercussions against her, you know, being American and having no, um, social station or family to speak of, but being such a lovely person, she did not want me to miss this evening.”
Emily saw concern cloud the colonel’s face and decided she was doing splendidly. She immediately infused her narrative with a little more drama, a bit more dash, nearly overturning a vase with her emotional hand sweep. “Oh, how thrrrrilled Amanda was to be finally allowed out this evening, the poor, poor dear. Then to be brutally insulted in a ladies’ area! The indignity! The humiliation! The odor! Shocking! And dear Amanda forever thinking of others, you know. Yes, always kind and patient she is, and positively the most beautiful woman alive, don’t you think so, too? Even in the morning when her hair sticks out all over and she has that little drool on her lip and her eyes are all crusty…”
Georgiana vigorously shook her head and then cleared her throat, but nothing could dissuade Emily’s eloquence now. “It is not I alone who feel this way. No, no, no, I tell you, men fall over themselves into dead, writhing heaps, swept away in stoopid admiration wherever she goes, follow her around like stoopid little apes. Little hairy apes. Ouch! Georgiana, don’t pinch me like that. Where was I?” Her eyes darted from Georgiana’s exasperated countenance back to the colonel’s. “Oh, she has a little boy, you know, lost custody of him to my old aunt when Cousin Augustus passed. Now she has to beg to be allowed to see her son, you know, her own son! Beg, I tell you! No, that is just so very wrong, unnatural, uh, don’t you think? What a magnificent mother she is, too, kind and patient. She is just so very, uh, lovely and beautiful. Did I say that? I did? It must be true then, ha, ha, ha. Yes, yes, yes, lovely and beautiful. And kind. A really good, good mother…”
Fitzwilliam and Georgiana stared at Emily for several moments after her performance faded to a halt.
“Where is she now?” Fitzwilliam’s voice was filled with warm compassion. Emily nearly swooned in her amazement. The idiot had believed her.
“She is outside on that farthest back balcony. She thought to hide there until she was able to compose herself a little.” Now it was Emily’s eyes that threatened moisture. “She’s been crying a bit, I have to tell you. She could, um, probably do with some comforting, you know.” Fitzwilliam nodded, already headed toward the balcony. The two girls stood in silence.
“Sorry about the pinch, but gad, you were doing it up a bit brown, don’t you think?” Georgiana and Emily watched her cousin’s retreating form.
“Was I?” She turned a worried look back to Georgiana. “Oh, dear, I so hoped he wouldn’t notice my few blunders. I was trying to get in all the bits we wanted. Did I mention kind? Yes I did, didn’t I? I liked the ‘mother’ comment, also. He seemed moved by that, did he not? Huh! It worked much more quickly than I thought it would. Very promising, Georgiana,” Emily said with a chuckle. “Yes indeed, very promising.”
The encounter in the ladies’ retiring room had humiliated her, and had convinced Amanda more than ever that she would never become accustomed to these people, she would never belong here. She sighed, wishing she had thicker skin, was not so easily hurt, then shuddered from the cold evening. She began to mumble to herself, wondering why Emily had asked her to wait on the balcony. If she had known she’d be going outside, she could have brought her wrap.
“May I join you?” Fitzwilliam hesitated for a moment in the doorway and then approached her, removing his coat to place over her shoulders. “If you notice, I did not provide you with an opportunity to deny me.”
She gazed at him, grateful for the warmth of his coat and the kindness of his smile. “Thank you so very much,” she said. “My blood was beginning to freeze out here.”
They stood silently, each vibrantly aware of the other, looking out over the wintry gardens of this most impressive of mansions. “Miss Emily has told me of your unpleasant encounter just now. That was dreadful, and we weren’t much better. I’m so sorry if we hurt you in any way with our teasing.” He leaned toward her in confidence. “The trouble with close families is that you fall into a routine of banter and oftentimes forget others may not be aware that it’s all meant in fun.”
“Oh, do not distress yourself.” She smiled sweetly. “I was not upset.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Embarrassed and shamed, without a doubt, and extremely mortified, humiliated, in fact, but please don’t give it another thought.”
They both burst into laughter. He apologized again, much relieved. Then all was quiet. She suddenly felt shy, standing there wearing a jacket still warm from his body, alone with him for the first time when like magnets, their shoulders touched, sending a tremor of excitement through them both. Their gazes met.
He looked longingly from her parted lips up into her eyes. True mirrors of her soul that they were, they showed every emotion within her, every longing, every vulnerability. She would have no resistance to his more worldly experience he realized; she was so sheltered, so trusting and innocent that she could never even imagine the need for such defenses. This woman was all softness, all femininity; his complete opposite in every way.
“You better put your arms into those sleeves before you catch your death.” It was the best conversation his keyed-up brain could improvise at the moment with his heart bouncing around in his chest and his lips dry as the desert.
He helped her slip the coat on, and then they both laughed at the overhanging arms and hem. She thanked him, blushing when he briefly rubbed her arms to create some warmth.
“Truly, it is my own fault that I spoke that word and not another phrase I thought to be… very indelicate; but a phrase which apparently refers to someone who has died. I asked Emily about it as we walked, and she explained it to me.”
“You mean ‘cock up one’s toes’?” Fitzwilliam asked, chuckling already.
Her face was bright pink, and she hesitated, but only a moment before she nodded. Fitzwilliam let out a loud laugh, and she quickly joined in, shyly giggling.
After a while, when their laughter quieted and the stars and moon began to work their magic, they returned their attention to the quiet night. She sighed at the beauty of the stark Mayfair landscape sparkling with its glittering layer of snow and hard rime. Inhaling the crisp air, she whispered her gratitude to God for this magical moment. It had been a struggle all night for her to not to sit gaping at him, and here he was next to her, stirring up emotions that she never even knew existed.
“My son will be impressed when I tell him I have had dinner with a real soldier.”
“Indeed?” Fitzwilliam was taking great pleasure in the scent of soap and flowers surrounding her and crossing his arms before him leaned closer, his hip against the balustrade. “And how old is this ne’er-do-well son of yours?”
“Five.”
“Ah, the age at which I achieved my emotional peak. I take it he is a fine boy, the very essence of an English gentleman.”
“I confess to total prejudice in his favor. He is truly the most beautiful child alive, noble and happy, with the sweetest nature. However, spending nearly two years in America may have tarnished his English manners. I believe I have finally managed to convince him that spitting is not a competitive sport.”
“He sounds like officer-candidate material to me,” Fitzwilliam whispered. She intoxicated him, drew him like a bear to honey as he rested his hands against the wall behind her, trapping her between them. “He is a very lucky young boy to have such a beautiful and devoted mother.”
The balcony became very still.
“Amanda, I am certain it has not escaped your notice that I am very enamored of you. Very enamored.”
Her heart was pounding viciously. She had been yearning for a declaration of some sort from the colonel, but he had surprised her with his bluntness. He was so straightforward and her reaction was so intense it unsettled her. She smiled briefly then cleared her throat. “Perhaps I should return to the dowagers.”
“What is it, Amanda? What do you fear so much? Is it me?”
“No. Not you.” She shook her head sadly and sighed. “In truth it would never work, colonel,” she said finally, her lashes low enough to hide her eyes, “you and me, together.”
“Why ever not?” Taking her hand in his he kissed it then pressed it against his chest with both of his. “You care for me also, you know you do. How can you deny it?”
“You don’t understand.” She spoke barely above a whisper. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, you and I have no future beyond the moment. I am attracted to you—very attracted, and I am happy to know you have found me interesting. However, you belong to a world I do not understand nor even like. It is a world in which I have already failed miserably.” She looked up into eyes that seemed to hold only warmth and love.
“I cannot imagine why you would fail in it, and I refuse to accept that there is no future, only here and now. Give me your reasons, young woman, so that I may bash them away.”
“Well, it’s all very obvious, there are so many differences. For one thing, you are an earl’s son, a British officer, and I am an American citizen, the daughter of a teacher of medicine, a physician.” Her eyes wrinkled with self-deprecating humor. “When you become upset, you retire to your country estates. When I become upset, I make applesauce.”
He studied her hands, so cool and delicate encased within his large, scarred ones, and they were indeed hands that worked at many tasks, clean and neat but not manicured or fussed over. Bringing them to his lips, he kissed them both. “Is applesauce to be our only impediment, then?” His lips brushed lightly across her forehead, her cheek, her neck. She really did smell wonderful.
Her mind was suddenly very muddled. “No, of course not. That would be childish.” She sighed and wondered what that wonderful scent was on his neck. It was very exciting, very masculine. “Well, ahem, my heavens, let’s see; there’s also apple pie and apple butter and apple…” She knew she was making no sense, and her voice trailed off with the heady feel of his warm breath on her closed eyelids.
“Yes, go on. You were speaking about apples, I believe. What other affront am I to battle with regards to apples?”
“Tarts,” she rasped. He raised his eyebrows, and his eyes crinkled in amusement. She shook her head in momentary confusion. “Apple tarts, that is. Yes, that’s it, apple tarts.”
“Ah. Thank you for clarifying that. Well, you may be correct. However, I am only a second son, so my life has long been my own to decide, with my so-called exalted heritage of a level that I can do pretty much whatever I want and still be fawned over outrageously by the peerage.” He pressed her fingertips to his heart.
“And, while perhaps you are right and we only have right now, not tomorrow or next week, I cannot help but think that there is more to us than mere physical attraction.” All the gentle teasing gone from his eyes, he stared seriously at her. “You have lit up something within me, Amanda, an area that has been dark all my life, an area that I refuse to have go dark again. It is as if I had never lived before.”
And suddenly she knew for a fact that nothing would ever be the same; everything he was saying was true. She was feeling the exact emotions as he, also alive for the first time in her life. His feelings mirrored her own so nearly that she shivered, began to entertain a thin ray of hope. It was frightening, allowing herself a moment to stand on the threshold of something wonderful, holding hands with the man, the only man, who had ever made her heart race and her knees weaken. Amanda pressed her back against the wall and stared mutely up at him and then down at their two hands still tightly interlocked.
The music, the laughter, the three hundred voices had faded into silence. Fitzwilliam tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear then rested his forearm on the wall next to her head, his smiling lips mere inches away from hers. She opened her mouth to speak, only to close it again while her eyes drifted from his rumpled hair to his shining eyes and down again to his mouth.
She had waited for this moment her whole life. This is my beloved.
Resting his hand over her heart, he felt it pounding as hard as his. Her eyes brimmed with joyful tears as both her hands came up to press his more firmly against her breast. The moment had an unreal feel to it, as if two souls destined to journey together throughout eternity had finally been reunited.
They had finally both come home.
They blended together smoothly, then, their embrace encircling and their mouths slanting each to the other. His arms slipped around her waist and her shoulders, and his hand plunged into her hair. She was eager and pliant and passionate.
How long did they stand there as their kiss deepened, their hands growing more and more bold with passion? Five minutes or five hours—neither of them could later say. They were lost in that kiss, a cessation of time and space wherein she felt she could not hold him close enough, nor did he feel that he could kiss her deeply enough. But they kept trying, nonetheless. With his body, he pressed hers hard against the balcony wall, their tongues caressing. “This is madness,” she gasped.
“Insanity,” he agreed.
When they finally separated and rested their foreheads together, they smiled, warm and silly and in a besotted shock, breathing raggedly.
Then another even more passionate kiss began, leading into another.
And then one more.
“Fitzwilliam? Fitz? Where in bloody hell is that old fart?” Darcy muttered. “Richard, you’d better not be taking a piss off the…” He finally saw the couple in the far shadows, recognizing them a second later. The woman had jumped at the sound of his voice and now turned her flushed face away, hiding it in the shoulder of his cousin.
“Pardon, Fitz, oh my, forgive me for intruding.” Stunned, Darcy stepped back, attempting to make a hasty retreat from the terrace.
“What is it, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam managed to say finally.
“Nothing, nothing really…” Darcy tried averting his eyes, but they kept flinging themselves back to the embracing couple. “Well, Fitz, I feel quite ridiculous. Georgiana is getting anxious in the crowd, and Aunt Catherine is concerned, wants us to take her home, but it can wait, good Lord, it can wait. Carry on… I mean, please excuse my intrusion.” He walked back into the ballroom, cursing his own stupidity.
Amanda pulled back from the embrace to stare deeply into Fitzwilliam’s eyes. She was sadly tumbling back down into reality. Even if they could surmount all other obstacles, there was still her son—she would never marry, could never leave her son. He tried to return to that magic, pulling her close in his arms, and she reached up to caress his cheek. “I must go.”
“Don’t leave, please,” he whispered so earnestly. “Stay with me, forever.”
She stared long and hard into his eyes. “You could not understand what you ask,” she whispered back. “This must end here. Forgive me, Colonel, but there really is no future for us.”
“I found the one whom my soul loves.” She mourned within at the words. Was that not the Psalm at last Sunday’s mass? Foolishly, she had believed at the time it an omen of good luck. Her broken heart twisted with the thought. “I am promised to another, Colonel.”
His iron jaw clenched, and he took a quick step back, still holding her arms. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yes. I am promised to another. I am afraid that there really is no future for us.”
He stared down at her for a few moments. Something was very wrong here. Nothing made sense. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He chuckled, blithely dismissing her comment with a smile. Hoping to read her thoughts, desiring only to stare again into her eyes, he attempted to lift her resisting chin with his finger. “No. No, I will not believe this. You are teasing me for some reason. Have I offended you, been too forward, is that it? I can assure you, madam, that my intentions are more than honorable. I’m in love with you, Amanda.”
Amanda cleared her throat. “Forgive me. It was the romance of the night.” She looked away, her eyes misting. “I forgot myself just a little.”
What? Fitzwilliam’s head shot back. “Forgot yourself ‘ just a little’?! You quite amaze me with that immense understatement. Explain yourself.”
Amanda began to stammer. “W-w-well, I was s-swayed by the lovely night, by the wine, but I am more lucid now. I couldn’t think before, you see. The fact is that I am involved with someone else, and it would be unfair to him, as well as you, to allow this to go on any further.” Her voice sounded thin and completely unconvincing, even to herself. “If my emotions have been carried away, I can only explain it by saying I am only human after all.”
“Huh!” He threw an amused glance at her, one eyebrow quirking itself to death with its skepticism. “Please do not lie to me, Amanda.” His tone became authoritative, firm. It was as if he was reprimanding a recalcitrant child. “I am not an idiot, my dear. There could be no one else, as we both know. What sort of foolishness do you play here?”
What did he mean—could not be anyone else? Was she that undesirable? Even if she did regret this ridiculous lie, she could not retreat from it now. She yanked her hands free from his grasp and crossed her arms over her chest. “I beg your pardon, Colonel? You cannot honestly be calling me a liar?!” Her tone was icy cold.
“Yes, I can, and a pathetically poor one at that.”
“Well, well. Colonel Fitzwilliam, I am not accustomed to having my words doubted in this way, or in any way, for that matter!” She was suddenly livid. “I can assure you that I am involved with another! Oh yes! He is a respected physician, and I know him very well from chapel on Sundays. In fact, I go often to his hospital to volunteer my services to the poor. Yes, we are very involved! I am involved unto the brink of receiving and accepting his offer!” Ha! That told him. She pulled and tugged at her dress then ruthlessly yanked locks of falling hair and seemed to pin them directly into her skull. He half expected to see rivulets of blood stream down her forehead and neck.
A disbelieving Fitzwilliam was becoming exceedingly annoyed. “Really? Is that a fact? How very interesting. Come, who is it, then? I insist on knowing his name. You say he is from the hospital. Very well, I am there often to visit my men. I am certain I know him. Well, speak, woman, who is this mysterious man you cannot live without? Tell me— if you can! Is it Mr. Cannon? Mr. Braithwaite? Sir Michael Siemons?”
“Sir Michael is nearly eighty-five years old!”
“Madam, after this encounter, I have every confidence in your ability to raise the dead. Now stop bamming me, Amanda! You are hardly the sort of female to be on the brink of betrothal to one man while passionately making love to another! I am not some young buck just come to town.”
This was the outside of enough! Even if he was absolutely correct in his appraisal, why would he not think another would want her? She believed herself to be attractive in certain lights—true, those lights needed to be very dim and at least twelve feet away. The nerve of this arrogant turtleback or lobsterfoot or whatever he is. Her Yankee temper flared red-hot, and she twitched around like a netted fish, unable to stand still in one spot. “Please stand aside. I am returning home.”
“Who is it? Anthony Milagros?” Please don’t let it be Milagros. He had met Milagros and liked the man, but Milagros was tall, dark, and elegantly handsome. Most women he knew adored him. Suddenly he loathed the man. When Amanda’s head snapped up at the name, Fitzwilliam’s temper detonated. “So it is Milagros, is it? I might have known you would be like all the rest, drooling over some goddamn oily Latin type. Well, he is handsome and rich, I’ll give you that!”
It was at that moment that Darcy came out onto the balcony, a concerned look on his face. “Is everything all right? You two are making a bit of a racket. People are beginning to become alarmed…”
“Get out!” they shouted in unison. Seeing the furious looks on both their faces, he immediately spun around on his heel and made a hasty retreat inside.
“Well!” She furiously patted her hair down on both sides. “I have never been so insulted nor so abused in my life! Colonel Fitzwilliam, I would appreciate it if you would never attempt to speak with me or contact me again!”
“Believe me, Lady Penrod, that is the farthest thought from my mind! You shall have no cause for further alarm on that front! The joy of the evening to you, madam!” Fitzwilliam released his hold on Amanda’s arms so suddenly that she almost fell back against the wall. His fists rested upon his hips as he turned his body angrily away.
She threw down his coat and stormed off.
There was dead silence on the balcony.
Darcy had time only to retreat a few steps into the shadows of the ballroom, coming forward as soon as Amanda ran past, her head lowered. He came to stand just within the balcony doors. “Jesu, Fitz! What in hell happened out here?” Darcy ran his hand through his hair as he walked slowly toward his cousin.
Fitzwilliam looked out over the garden, unable for once in his life to torment his little cousin. “We were passionately in love—for a few minutes, anyway. One of my longer relationships.”
Darcy chuckled. “I take it the earth moved?”
Fitzwilliam barked out a laugh. “Well, I’ve never heard my anatomy called that before, and yes, the South of France did wave.” He grunted mirthlessly. “Shit! Give me a moment, Darcy. At present I am in no condition to walk through that room. Is Georgiana all right?”
“She’s fine, merely her usual distress at being among such a large crowd. This promises to be a trying come out for us all.”
Fitzwilliam saw the bottle of wine and two glasses in Darcy’s hand. “I hope that’s liquor you have there and that it is intended for me.” Reaching over, he brushed aside the glass his cousin proffered, preferring the whole bottle. He took a long, hard draw.
“Did I come out here too early or too late?”
“Damned if I know.” Fitzwilliam exhaled loudly and took another draw from the bottle, finally remembering to pour some into Darcy’s glass. They stood in silence for a while.
“She claims to be promised to another. Can you credit that? Promised to another when we were…” He looked quickly away before he continued. “Well, forget the rest of that. I just cannot believe this has happened! Something is very wrong.”
“Did she say who the man is?”
“Dr. Anthony Milagros.” Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. Darcy winced, knowing Milagros’s attraction to the opposite sex.
“Go after her, man!”
His cousin considered that recourse for only a brief moment then shook his head. “Never, brat! I am a confirmed bachelor, my own man, set in my ways and too old to change.”
“You are only two and thirty. My own father was married at four and thirty. You have years left. Do not give up so easily.”
“Goddamn it, Darcy, I do have some pride.”
“Oh, you stupid idiot. When it comes to love, pride always takes second place.”
“I have never had to chase a woman, never, and certainly have no intention to begin now!” With that, Fitzwilliam stormed away. “Beg for that harridan! Ha! I have not enough interest in her to even pursue this any further. End of discussion.”
Fitzwilliam leaned against Darcy’s carriage, an angry lover assessing his rival’s townhouse, the freezing rain fueling his fury. And the townhouse was an awesome sight, more a mansion, one of the largest, grandest homes in London, exceeded by few others, including Darcy’s and Catherine’s. “Shit. I knew the bastard was rich, but not this rich.”
His loyal batman and driver, O’Malley, grunted his opinion. “Ah, well, don’ be so hard on yerself, Colonel. Ya have good points—God bless me, even a busted clock is right twice the day. No, truly. Yer a good horseman, the very best I’ve ever seen, and yer kind to unfortunates… and ya have grand teeth. Oh, the fancy doctor may be filthy rich, an’ dark and handsome an’ all, and irresistible to the ladies, and…” Fitzwilliam’s cold, hard stare stopped the litany of Anthony Milagros’s greatness.
Unable to tear his eyes from his colonel’s O’Malley took a large swig from his flask and trembled violently from the potent brew. He took out his pipe. “I’ll not say another word. Me lips are sealed.”
“Bloody hell…” Fitzwilliam cursed as he made his way across the road, and then again as he opened the gate. He began the climb up the granite steps, hissing “shit, shit, shit,” on each one. He looked around as he approached the massive and elaborate double-door entryway. “Bloody hell.” Fine, money evidently will not influence him. I cannot possibly kill him. What are my other options? He pounded on the door knocker.
An ancient butler answered, terror registering on his face within moments of Fitzwilliam demanding entrance. Without saying a word, the trembling servant turned, motioning for Fitzwilliam to follow, slowly leading the bizarre little parade at a snail’s pace into a magnificently ornate receiving parlor. Finally facing the colonel he announced, in dreadful tones, that the doctor would be informed of his presence.
The splendid room was lit by the fires within two huge marble fireplaces, one on each end of the room, along with several gilt branches of candles strategically placed, Fitzwilliam sneered, for the sole beatific illumination of the highly expensive furnishings, rare tapestries, and paintings. It worked brilliantly. He walked to the front bank of French windows and turned to get the full effect, sweeping the room with his eyes. He exhaled loudly.
Shit.
Within the elegant mansion somewhere, an unsuspecting gentleman ignored the outdoor gloom and rain. To him, it was a lovely Tuesday evening in winter, crisp, clean and enchanting. Dr. Anthony Milagros had recently returned home after spending a productive but tiring day at his hospital and had put aside the disturbing visions his dearest friend’s words had conjured up the day before.
“Bah!” He laughed at his baseless fears, rebuked his own reflection in the dressing-room mirror. He had reacted much too emotionally. Amanda had, of course, been correct, although that would be a first for her. The colonel was a highly decorated, nationally respected military leader, was lionized as a hero, a role model, a modern-day knight in shining armor. He would not act like some rabid dog defending a bone. Would he…?
No! Of course not. Ridiculous.
Anthony laughed softly as he thought back to the Sunday just past when he and Amanda had had their tiny “fracas.” It was amusing to think of, really. In fact, as he now remembered it, with two days of hysteria as a cushion, he had been quite understanding during the entire confrontation—tolerant, sophisticated, exceedingly sympathetic.
“Have you lost your mind?!”
“Anthony, let me explain.”
“He will call me out, Amanda. I’m a dead man. I will never again see my family, never again see Madrid. Look at these hands… look at them. They are beautiful and perfect, slim, elegant. And to think I will never again play the violin.”
“You hate the violin.” She dutifully complied with his request and studied his hands. “You play very badly.”
“That is beside the point! I will have no time left to practice, will I? I will be dead.”
They had stood outside the small chapel both attended for early Sunday mass, the only place in London that allowed Catholic services. People scurried past, frightened by his extraordinary and spirited outburst, whispering and pointing, crossing themselves. Amanda dragged him by the elbow back into the church and deep into the south transept.
The chief of physicians at St. Theresa’s Hospital in London paced back and forth. “I cannot breathe,” he announced in amazement, then stopped. “Perhaps this is a heart attack?” He pressed his hand onto his chest. “I think I can hear my mother’s voice.”
“I do not understand what upsets you so.”
“Oh, dios mio mi vida, pardon my thoughtlessness,” he hissed. “You have told a man who desires you, whose profession it is to kill people, I might add, that I am your lover. Is this not correct?”
“Keep your voice down!” Amanda swept her glance around the main room of the church, concerned that they were in danger of being overheard, then returned her attention quickly to her agitated friend. “All right, Anthony, you are partially correct, in a way, yes…”
“In a way?” A ray of hope, that. Perhaps he had misunderstood her. “In what way am I mistaken, querida?” His long dark lashes were blinking furiously.
“Well, we had a somewhat intimate moment between us…oh, it was heavenly, Anthony. However, when he expressed a desire to court me, I am afraid I rather panicked, may have led him to believe something of a relationship was occurring between you and me.”
He took a few moments to run a bejeweled, elegant hand through his curling locks then perused his cuticles closely. It was a while before he could calmly express himself. He decided he would speak slowly to her in the hope that she could grasp the gravity of what she had done.
“Well, as you know, I am acquainted with this Colonel Fitzwilliam of yours, Amanda. I have been in meetings with him at the War Office concerning his wounded soldiers. He possesses a look and manner not unlike your American grizzly bear. That is, he can be short-tempered, ruthless, aggressive, self-confident due to his rather formidable build. Also, he has fairly coarse hair.” He watched her eyes closely for understanding, for a glint of comprehension. “He is vicious, pitiless, and ferocious.” She still did not respond. “I like him enormously. But”—his hand went up before him to silence her—“I have no intention of willingly becoming the object of one of his vendettas. He is as unrelenting as he is merciless. He always gets what he wants, Amanda, always, no matter whom he must annihilate.”
Anthony searched her face to see if this speech had affected her, penetrated her thick American skull. But no, he saw only hesitation in her sad, blinking brown eyes. She looked like a spaniel. He leaned forward and spoke louder to compensate. “Do you not comprehend me, querida??” Perhaps her hearing had gone the way of her brains.
She flapped her hands for him to be quiet. “Anthony, please cease being quite so Spanish. Compose yourself.” He spat out an indignant harrumph at that. “Dearest, are you certain we speak of the same man? Richard has been all that is gentle and kind with me. Well, aside from his furious explosion on the balcony. I do not believe that he will pursue me if he believes us betrothed, and I surely had to stop his coming to Penwood, to that house. No, I am confident that, at heart, he is a most honorable man.”
“ Betrothed? ” In his burgeoning terror, Anthony heard nothing else. “Tell me, do I have little beads of sweat forming upon my brow? No? I swear that I feel definite moisture about my hairline.” He brought his silken handkerchief up to mop his brow then inhaled deeply. “So, my darling—tell me quickly to lessen the sting— did you, or did you not, inform him that we were betrothed? Yes or no.”
“No, Anthony, of course I said no such thing. I would never lie, not really. Not in so many words. However”—Anthony’s breathing stopped—“I may have implied that you were about to offer for me.’
Anthony looked horrified, but she continued without noticing. “You see we were… together, in each other’s arms. Oh, it was beautiful, Anthony, heavenly. Never before have I experienced such passion, and he was so gentle. Anthony, he told me he loved me.” She beamed, her eyes shining. “Do you remember how I would question you about him after your meetings at the War Office? I must confess I have long admired him.”
Anthony still looked horrified.
“Anthony, do be calm. He is all kindness. I fear what he truly felt was the need to comfort me, not love me. Emily informed him how a woman who thought I was a servant ridiculed me and tried to have me thrown from the ladies’ retiring room. It was very lowering, Anthony. She made me feel very sad.” He looked down at her bowed head, his hands rubbing her upper arms soothingly, then leaned forward and softly kissed her forehead.
“All right, now tell me exactly what you said about me to the colonel.”
“Is that all that concerns you?!” She was incensed. “Have you heard nothing else?!”
“Amanda! I am the most sensitive man alive, as you well know! I am profoundly troubled with how that woman insulted you. I hate that woman. I spit on that woman. Oh no, wait! I cannot spit on that woman because I will be… dead! Thank you, Amanda.” He grabbed her hands, bending over to look straight into her eyes. “My darling friend, why do you hate me so much?”
“Please try to see this from my viewpoint, Anthony. I am in love with him. There, I have finally spoken the words.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply before continuing. “It was imperative to say something to him to keep him away. I had to make him believe that I was involved romantically with another. You understand, don’t you? You, as my dearest friend in the world, must understand. I have never before asked anything of you, have I?”
“Yes, yes, you have. Many times. Countless times. Constantly.” Anthony watched as Father Riley spoke to the few stragglers in the church, after which he glanced quizzically their way. The old priest had an unerring instinct for rooting out trouble. Like a pig for truffles, Anthony thought wildly. He grabbed Amanda’s elbow and led her deeper into the church.
“May I say something to you, as a close friend who loves you with all his heart and cares deeply about your happiness?
“Of course, Anthony. You know I value your opinion most highly.”
“How idiotic can you be?”
She punched him in the shoulder very, very hard.
“No, truly, Amanda. You have a chance for genuine happiness with a man you love and who evidently also cares deeply for you.” Reassuring himself that Riley had been diverted once again, he looked down with affection at his friend. “Amanda, dios mio, attend me, please. You are a healthy, lovely young woman, and he is a healthy, single man. Grab life and live for a change.”
“I have given you my declaration that he will never bother you, Anthony,” Amanda said coolly. “I must discourage this suit somehow, and he truly is an honorable man. As long as he feels that I am spoken for, he will not push me for any deeper sort of a relationship.”
“You are mistaken concerning this for two reasons.” He sighed and took her hands in his. “First, no one is honorable when it comes to love.” His eyebrows rose when she opened her mouth to protest, and he raised his hand to silence her.
“Second, you are throwing away your life. True love is rare. You know I have never been able to replace mine. If you love this man as deeply as you say, well then you are a fool to let it pass. Even if it is experienced only for a moment, true love is rare and precious.” He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly.
“But how can I, Anthony? You know how my life is held in forfeit. I could lose my son if she discovers us.”
Anthony turned a compassionate gaze at her. “In the eyes of the law, you have already lost him, querida. When will you accept this? Anyway, did I say she would have to know? Liaisons are a national diversion here. In some circles they are even mandated. Are you not aware that one half of the ton is always cuckolding the other?”
As her eyes filled with tears, she shook her head.
“It is just not my way, Anthony.” She sighed deeply. “I was not raised to carry out the sort of life they lead here. I do not understand these people and I doubt that I could ever be capable of having a relationship outside of marriage vows. I couldn’t, could I? No, it is not in my upbringing, but I love him so very much. Oh, I don’t know what I should do! You understand this, as a Catholic, don’t you? I mean, would it not feel sinful?”
“Only if he is very skillful…”
It had taken only a moment then for Amanda to swat the back of Anthony’s head very, very hard.
Remembering, he shook his head and chuckled at his own witticism. “Only if he is very skillful,” he repeated to his reflection in the mirror. Very clever, Antonio, he complimented himself and smiled, once again at peace and happily looking forward to drinking his very expensive imported French brandy, eating an exquisite meal prepared by his very expensive French chef, and relaxing for hours in the arms of his latest paramour, due at any moment.
Life was, indeed, very good for Dr. Anthony Milagros.
As the valet adjusted the lapels of Anthony’s exquisite dinner jacket, his butler scratched discreetly at the dressing-room door. “Enter, Bascome.” Swirling a brandy snifter around several times, Anthony took his initial sip, savoring the sweet nectar as he regarded his butler’s visage in the mirror.
The ancient gentleman gazed back.
Anthony raised his eyebrows in question and waited. They remained staring silently at each other in the mirror for quite a few moments, the tottering butler apparently unable to vocalize. Anthony finally turned toward him and finished off his drink. “Well?”
“Your lordship…” Bascome appeared distressed.
“Yes, old friend,” he said patiently and with mild humor. “I know who I am. What is it you wish to say to me?” Anthony smiled warmly at this most beloved of servants and dear old confidant. “Out with it, please. Be courageous, man. Is there a problem with the salmon? Has the cook overdone some sauce again? What is today’s disaster? What?”
As he began to fuss with the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting their length until just the proper amount of lace peeked from the sleeve of his jacket, he suddenly groaned. “If it is the champagne ices, I am afraid you will have to deal with the wine steward yourself this time. He terrifies me.”
The butler grimaced, sadly shaking his head. “Your lordship,” he intoned again, “it is with great regret that I must inform you… there is a British officer here to see you.”
Anthony froze. “Sorry? What did you say?”
“A quite massive British officer, a colonel, I believe, wishes to see you. He is in a somewhat emotional state.” Bascome removed a large white handkerchief from his cuff to dab at his brow. “Truth be told, sir, this is the first Englishman I have seen in any emotion. It is an unnerving and ugly sight and— Mother of the Divine Savior, intercede for us— he has a sword on his side that he keeps touching and— God have mercy on our souls—I believe a pistol hidden within his uniform.” The elderly butler stuffed his sodden cloth back into his pocket and attempted to stand at full attention, his arthritic five-foot-five-inch aching frame poised for the defense of his master. He dropped his voice several octaves. “Shall I summon the constabulary?”
Anthony blinked for several moments as his extremities became numb. “ Merde… I will kill her one day. Ah, I have dreams, Bascome, oh yes, wonderful dreams of a world without my dearest Amanda. We will ship her remains to Greece. I have people there you know. No one would suspect.” He studied the terrified old man and reined in his rhetoric. “I go down directly. Please pour yourself a glass of brandy. You look as if you are about to have a seizure. Put your feet up, old friend, all will be fine.” He pointed to a chair, and when he was certain his butler was settled, he turned to contemplate his own certain death.
“May I help you?” Fitzwilliam turned to see the familiar and elegant gentleman peering at him from the doorway. “Ah! Colonel Fitzwilliam, how good to see you again. It has been too long.” Despite voicing such welcoming pleasantries, however, Milagros did not approach him or extend his hand for greeting. Fitzwilliam was not displeased—it denied him the opportunity to encircle the good doctor’s throat with his hands.
“Yes, it has been a while, Doctor. I trust you are well.” Without waiting for an answer, Fitzwilliam continued. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.” Fitzwilliam absently rested his hand on his sword and had the satisfaction of seeing Milagros’s eyes nervously follow.
“Of course, Colonel. Please have a seat. My home is your home.” The gentleman sauntered into the room and motioned for Fitzwilliam to sit. He himself then sat at some distance away, crossing one leg over the other. “Can I have my butler provide you with anything, Colonel? Port? Brandy? Hostages?” He laughed anxiously, quickly quieting into a subdued cough, and then ended with a penitential throat clearing.
“This is not a pleasure call, Milagros.”
Resting his elbow on the chair arm, Anthony cupped his chin while he perused his visitor. “’More’s the pity,’” was his mumbled response.
Fitzwilliam had a fleeting impression that he was receiving a sort of sexual scrutiny from the man. He shook off this impression as hysteria or lack of sleep or gas. “I have come to discuss your relationship with Amanda Penrod.”
Anthony’s eyebrows rose momentarily. “My goodness, we are direct, aren’t we?” He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I have been expecting you.” A hand went up to smooth his already perfect hair.
“If you have been expecting me, then you must know what I have come to discuss with you, gentleman to gentleman.”
“I have a fairly good idea.” Milagros settled back into his chair, slouching in an attitude of evidently benign indifference, while in reality, his heart pounded. His fingers pinched at his lower lip while he assessed his opponent. Suddenly he spoke. “Let me make this somewhat easier for you, Colonel.”
Fitzwilliam was confused. He had been prepared for mental and mortal combat; however, the man before him did not appear as one whose affections for another were being threatened or challenged. This man seemed totally indifferent to that situation. In fact, as the minutes ticked on, Fitzwilliam began to feel uneasy, anxious, exposed. He shifted uncomfortably, crossing his legs as Anthony’s gaze drifted downward, taking in all of his body, from his boyishly disheveled hair, the rumpled colonel’s uniform jacket that emphasized the muscled arms and large chest, then down to a perusal of the tree-trunk legs encased in his white uniform trousers, and his well-worn boots.
Milagros sighed and muttered something.
“I told Amanda you would come here.” He spoke in a very matter-of-fact manner, drumming his fingers on his chair arm. “I told her it was a ridiculous story, but as you may or may not know, she can often be very stubborn. Dios mio, to call her stubborn is an insult to mules.”
Fitzwilliam sank slowly onto the settee. “What in blazes are you talking about?” In total bewilderment, he watched as the doctor stood to pour out a brandy from the decanter next to him and then down it in one gulp. Richard waved off one for himself. Anthony shrugged, finished off that second one also and sat down, holding tightly onto his third drink.
“Are you in love with Amanda, Colonel?” Milagros’s eyes peered at him from above his brandy glass. That second drink had given him a slightly more courageous tongue.
“Goddamn you to hell! Of all the impertinent, rude questions! Listen to me, Milagros, a man would have to have lost all common sense to get involved with a woman in possession of that sort of temper! She has no conception of restraint, does she?”
“Normally I would defend her with my very last breath. However, no, she does not. But that did not answer my question, did it? Do you love her?”
“Ha!” Fitzwilliam snorted his derision. “You must be insane! She is a good deal too unpredictable for my tastes. No, no, no, that’s too kind of an assessment. Actually, I suspect she is mentally unstable. Yes. That’s a more accurate description of her true personality. She possesses serious mental impairments.”
“But do you love her?”
“Well, yes, dammit! Of course I love her, you idiot! Do you think I’d be here making a bloody fool of myself for any other reason? Now, I want to know from you what is going on, because I cannot get a sensible word from her mouth. Are you bedding her? Have you made her an honorable offer?”
“You English aristocrats are so amoral that you are unable to entertain a thought above your waist.” Anthony huffed. “It is extremely unromantic.”
Fitzwilliam slowly turned his head, and then with a menacing look, he leaned on the table, resting his weight on his fists.
“I always make the mistake of saying exactly what I am thinking at the moment. Very unfortunate…” Anthony’s voice shook as it rambled on into silence. He passed a hand over his eyes. “You realize that if you kill me, someone will figure it out. I bleed profusely.”
“One last time, Milagros. Are you and she betrothed? I have been making inquiries. Those who know of you believe you are secretly involved with someone, although no one seems to know whom. Was Amanda married when you began this affair? Is that it, Milagros? Is she the reason none of the ton ’s mamas can lure you into an alliance? Is it she who has been your secret lover?” Fitzwilliam’s voice was now barely above a whisper.
“ Dios mio.” Anthony ran his fingers through his hair. “You are going to make me say this out loud, aren’t you?” Anthony’s voice quivered, and his stomach roiled, but Fitzwilliam continued to glare, his fury barely under control. He finally had enough.
“Answer me, damn you!!”
Anthony leaned forward, all the color drained from his face. “Please understand, Colonel, that what I tell you now could have me imprisoned or worse.”
Startled, Fitzwilliam eyed him suspiciously. “What is going on here, Milagros?” He had not anticipated this line of argument.
Anthony angrily began muttering something in Spanish about Amanda, his hands poking wildly at certain emphatic declarations, then mopped at perspiration running down the back of his neck.
Fitzwilliam was listening intently, trying to grasp a word from the too-rapid Spanish, when he suddenly heard a sneeze from the hallway. He stiffened and spun toward the closed door. “Is she here?” He spoke low, but his mouth had set into a cruel, clenched line.
Anthony’s head shot up quickly as he too turned toward the hallway. Alarmed and tense, he began to rise.
“Colonel, listen to me! You are under the impression, I believe, that you and I are in some sort of competition for the affections of Amanda, are you not?” Fitzwilliam said nothing but continued to glower. “ That is your mistake. You see, in actuality, it would be Amanda and I…” Glancing at the door, Anthony swallowed hard and lowered his voice. He coughed and cleared his throat. “It was Amanda and I in a competition for you.”
Fitzwilliam heard a muffled male voice spit out the words “bloody hell” from the corridor, followed by running footsteps, then a door slamming. Anthony groaned and started toward the doorway. “Edmund, wait!” he called just before another door somewhere deep in the house slammed shut. Within moments, a carriage raced from the back of the house and onto the street.
Fitzwilliam and Anthony stared at the closed door for several minutes, then both turned to watch through the French doors as the carriage careened wildly down the driveway. Anthony dropped into the chair, his head falling backward onto the headrest.
“Merde!” he whispered miserably.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes were huge as saucers as he turned slowly in stunned silence. “Beg pardon?” he managed finally to say.
Anthony’s second nightly delight after his warmed brandy—the superb meal that his chef had prepared with such care—was quickly relegated to the trash. It was now near midnight, and the two men sat silently before the fireplace, each wallowing in his own lovelorn misery. Emptied bottles of wine were scattered amidst the tobacco pouches and cheroot ashes.
“Why doesn’t she want me, Milagros?” Fitzwilliam was slumped far down in his chair, his shirt disheveled and his cravat loose around his neck. He tried to rub the burning from his red-rimmed eyes. “Bah! That’s an unfair question. I am certain this is as much a mystery to you as it is to me, because, obviously, I’m a perfectly pleasant fellow. The ladies adore me, usually.”
“What?” Milagros turned a bleary eye to his companion. The poor doctor did not look like the same fine fellow who had begun the evening with such anticipation. Liquor had dimmed his glamorous eyes, his cravat was now askew, his hair a bit tousled, and he sat loose-limbed, his shirtsleeves unlinked and turned back. Already a heavy, dark beard was beginning to appear on his face. All in all, it was the most slovenly Dr. Milagros had looked in nearly four years. He had been staring intently at the end of his cigarillo, turning the burning cylinder slowly between his fingers. “What are you blathering about now?”
“My God, what a pathetic pair we make.” Fitzwilliam shook an empty bottle, then another, finally finding one half full. Anthony automatically held out his glass. “Listen, Jose, I want you to know that your secret is safe with me. I apologize to you for forcing the issue, pushing you to tell me the truth. Shouldn’t have pushed, should have minded my own business. But then I would have needed to kill you. However, I imagine I did you a favor, actually. It felt good to admit everything out loud, what? A load off, as they say.”
After slanting him an evil look, Milagros flicked his ashes at him. “No, Dickie, it did not feel good. It felt like shit, which is how I now feel. But that is fine. I imagine that I will survive this, no thanks to you.”
“No one will learn of your deep, dark secret from my mouth. I swear on my brother’s life that I will go to my grave with this knowledge.” A slightly inebriated Fitzwilliam poised one finger before his mouth and emitted a soft “sshh.”
“Well, if you really feel so badly about this I would appreciate your doing exactly that as soon as possible—go to your grave, that is, Ricardo. It will save me years of anxiety.”
“Nonsense, Manuel. My lips are sealed. I have been trusted with worse secrets about many others, much, much worse, ghastly secrets, people you know well, famous people, people of the Empire. Remind me to regale you with them someday, always popular fare at parties. You will be astounded. It will curl your hair.”
Anthony groaned, and Fitzwilliam chuckled.
“Seriously, Anthony, I do apologize. Did you care for this person very much? I mean, will you be able to explain to him what happened?”
“That a bloodthirsty, murdering, bastard of a soldier knows our secret? Of course, I am certain he will be thrilled. No, what I will tell him will be some sort of lie, and he’ll believe me because he wants to believe me. He really is a good fellow, you know. I am certain that when he stops to logically consider this, he will find it highly unlikely that I would choose you over him, and he will come back to me.”
They stared at each other silently for a moment.
“I believe I have just been insulted.” Fitzwilliam puffed on his pipe, and they turned to study the fire again, continuing in companionable silence for a time.
Richard was the first to speak. “So, tell me, Carlos, why doesn’t Amanda want me? I can almost understand your rejection of me, but why hers?”
“No, no, no, my dear friend, you are not approaching this the right way. It is not you she is rejecting, although now that I know you better, it would be the path I would recommend.” Fitzwilliam grunted his protest. “No, no, she is restricted by the custody issue of her child, as I have explained to you at least three times by now.” Anthony stubbed out his cheroot and lit another. “Hearing is the second thing lost to old age, or so I am told,” he mumbled under his breath. Fitzwilliam scowled.
“Shall I tell you how I met her?”
“I really wish you would not.”
“Very well, then, I shall. I met her almost directly after her marriage to Augustus…”
“It’s very late. Will this take long?”
“Yes, it will. Be quiet, and maybe you will understand better. Open up that bottle of red substance, whatever it is, and listen. Now you will learn all.”
“I knew who Amanda was before even meeting her. As you might suspect, a part of my social life is centered among a rather select and discreet circle of the aristocracy.” Anthony held out his glass for Fitzwilliam to refill. “Amanda’s husband, Augustus, was a well-known, if not particularly well-regarded, figure at many of our social gatherings.”
The room became quiet as a tomb as Anthony allowed that particular revelation to settle. Fitzwilliam’s raised eyebrows were the only indication of his shock. Anthony nodded. “And, Richard, that is something which she must never know.
“He had been involved with another for many years, a devoted couple, as if married in every sense of the word; however, there could obviously never be an heir from their union. It was the incessant harassment from his mother that sent him to America in search of a wife, both mother and son feeling it too dangerous to choose from among the upper classes here and thereby risking exposure. Amanda’s father was physician to one of Penrod’s American relatives, and she would oftentimes accompany him. Augustus requested an introduction, courted her, easily impressing her with his title and manners. She was so very young, unsophisticated by ton standards, but all he really required from her was an heir. In his defense, I believe he did care for Amanda at first, but not in the way she deserved, more like one would love an adorable child or pet. Do not become offended at what I am saying, Colonel, please.” Richard’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. “He also quickly became embarrassed by her.
“I personally grew to know her later, when she came to worship at St. James Chapel on Spanish Place. There are so few places here where Catholics are allowed to worship that we all eventually become acquainted with each other, no matter what status or rank. My own ancestors headed the Spanish Court that founded this same chapel centuries ago, and now I sit beside poor Irish potato farmers and displaced French counts. It is all very odd, but what can one do?
“I found I liked her very much. She was exceedingly spirited, enormously pretty, and quite tenderhearted. We became very close friends, the best of friends. She began to volunteer at the hospital, confiding in me a great deal. She realized she had married in haste without knowing her husband’s true character, said he had grown cold and unfeeling. I knew better than she that her marriage was doomed to failure. When she did begin increasing, it was a huge relief to them both. They could now go their separate ways. In the end, sadly, Augustus turned his back on her and the child, hating them both for the rift that had developed between him and Andre. I am afraid he was very vindictive and harsh.”
Fitzwilliam rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “It makes me heartsore to think she has been so mistreated. I am grateful to you, Anthony, for being a friend to her all these years.”
Anthony shrugged. “I, too, love Amanda, Colonel. She was there for me when no one else came forward. Four years ago, someone I cared for deeply was killed in Portugal. He was a courier for Wellington when he was captured and… tortured. Och! Terrible business—war. It destroys so many more lives than is obvious.” Anthony cleared his throat and continued. “I received a letter telling me that Mario had been killed, telling me how bravely he died. He is… he was, my life.” Tears began to slide down his cheeks, tears which he quickly swiped away.
“I locked myself in this room and cried for hours, the poor servants terrified I would do something rash. My butler, Bascome, sent word to Amanda, and she immediately came.
“I unlocked the door, and she walked in as I threatened to kill myself. I was extremely dramatic in those days.” He laughed softly at the memory, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “ Dios mio, but she was angry with me! By that time, she knew the truth about my life, had lectured me to death about it, and still does, I might add. She was quite forthright with me, saying I was behaving dangerously and that I would soon be exposed by my behavior. She was patient but firm.” He sighed deeply and smiled for a moment.
“I believe it was his mother who prodded Augustus into suing for sole custody of the child, considering Amanda an encumbrance. He accused her of kidnapping their child when she returned to America to nurse her father. Eventually he applied to parliament to sever any privileges she might have. He was actually on his way to America to claim his son when his ship went down.
“It was not until her return to England that she was informed she had lost custody of her child. She was told to either leave the child immediately or risk being imprisoned.
“Well, the child became so hysterical that the mother-in-law had to relent, allowing her to remain. That is where she stands today, a sort of tenant at sufferance, a poor relation. If her mother-in-law even suspects that she has interest in another man, she will consider it a final insult to her son and throw Amanda out.”
After a long time sitting in silence, both staring into the fireplace, Fitzwilliam relit his pipe, stood, and walked toward the windows. It appeared that in a matter of days his universe had changed focus, centering now upon one exasperating but adorable young woman. He resented the people who had laughed and taunted her, evaluated her unfairly, and found her wanting.
And they would never accept Amanda or any other person without the requisite familial associations, proper ancestry, certainly would never acknowledge someone whose family had physically worked to provide hearth and home, even a physician and teacher as her father had been.
“You know, Anthony, I have begun to yearn for a home and a spouse, children.” He puffed on his pipe absently. “I had actually meant to properly court Amanda toward an eventual offer for her hand.” He shook his head sadly.
“No, she would never leave her son, Colonel, not even for you, and she would think a liaison the height of sinfulness. What a coil. You would have made a good husband for her.”
“Who said I won’t marry her?”
Anthony’s lips twitched a little. “Ah, you perhaps also have difficulties with the English language? I seem to have just wasted an inordinate amount of time and energy explaining why she will never marry.”
“I must have missed that. All I heard is that she won’t leave her son, perfectly natural and understandable. I simply won’t ask it of her, but we shall marry.”
At a loss for words, Anthony began to laugh, shaking his head in mild amazement.
They sat for quarter of an hour listening to a gentle rain outside before Fitzwilliam spoke again. “You know I had a similar conversation to this not long ago. My God, was it only weeks ago I swore that I would never marry, that it was something that held no interest for me? What a pompous ass I am.”
Anthony grinned devilishly, and Fitzwilliam cocked one eyebrow in mock hauteur. “May I know the reason for your amusement, sir?”
“I hope I do not offend you; however, I cannot but wish you had a brother I could meet.”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes wrinkled in humor, and he turned to his new friend. “Well, actually, I do have a brother, and we have been wondering why he has no interest in marriage and in producing the requisite heir. I wonder…”
“Is all well, your lordship?” The ancient butler, who had fallen asleep in Anthony’s chair, attempted to rise as his master walked into the bedroom’s dressing room.
“Sit, Bascome, rest. Why don’t you pour us both a drink? I have quite an enjoyable tale to tell you.” Anthony allowed his valet to help him shrug out of his jacket.
“I am very sorry that your lordship’s friend left in such an agitated state.”
“Who? Sir Edmund? Oh, do not concern yourself, old friend. I believe he will return.” He leaned down to take the brandy snifter. “I have a good feeling about him.”
“What of the colonel, sir? They have told me he showed great promise. Perhaps…?”
Anthony laughed as his valet undid his cravat. “Regretfully, no, Bascome, his interests quite literally lie elsewhere, shall we say?”
“More is the pity. He reminded me so much of our late Master Mario.” Anthony nodded and smiled wistfully, lighting up another cigarillo, then sat down to tell his old friend the tale of Amanda and Richard.
On the following morning, Sunday morning, Fitzwilliam felt terribly hung over but remarkably more optimistic, having identified his true enemy. Instead of the dashing Spanish aristocrat he had so feared, he found that the biggest obstacle to his future happiness appeared to be a social-climbing, elderly society matron. The Beast. The mother of Amanda’s late husband, Augustus, was tough as steel and bitter from her loss. Upon further reflection, he decided he might have preferred the Spanish aristocrat.
It was the last Sunday before advent, and the carillon bells announcing early morning mass rang out high above ancient St. James Chapel. The streets were bustling with Spanish Place street vendors, shouting out their raucous greetings to one and all as they loaded their carts, readying themselves for the journey across to Covent Garden. Former soldiers warmed themselves around sputtering campfires, comparing war stories and wounds, exchanging bawdy remarks with the evening ladies who were finally making their exhausted way home.
Fitzwilliam jogged up the uneven stone steps and opened the church’s massive wooden doors, music from the men’s choir greeting him as he stepped into a musty darkness, taking a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It was a surprisingly large crowd, to his mind, for this early an hour. At the very least, an Anglican service would never interrupt the ton ’s morning-after recuperation time like this.
He had no trouble spotting Amanda and Anthony. After a squeaky walk up the old center aisle, Richard slipped into the pew behind them. As a rather large British officer, he had caused something of a commotion upon entering the church, but he took this all in stride, excusing himself most graciously for the interruption, even exchanging pleasantries with the people around him. Only one or two of the faithful were brave enough to express their anger with him. Most seemed only sleepy, and others were just plain curious. “Pardon, please pardon…” he kept repeating politely in his rumbling baritone whisper, then he set his hat down on the seat beside him.
Anthony turned almost immediately, amused and nodding in welcoming acknowledgement, but Amanda’s reaction was one of stiff-backed bewilderment. On the pew between them sat a sleepy little boy, a beloved cloth toy clutched to his chest. He suckled his thumb as he nodded off to sleep.
Fitzwilliam had composed what he felt was a compelling argument to present to Amanda concerning their joint future. As he would before any battle, he had methodically examined each and every option, attempted to anticipate any unforeseen impediments, and had settled upon a clearly thought-out and logical plan of action. Now that his plan was decided upon, Fitzwilliam was eager to set it in motion. In his experience with battle, delay often meant defeat.
Managing to sit still in his pew for only a few moments, he came forward to kneel on the hard wooden slat. He poked Amanda once in the back, unaware that her face had already passed bright pink and was now approaching crimson. Her hand flew behind to swipe his away. “Amanda,” he gruffly whispered, “I need to speak with you.”
A chorus of “shhhhs” assailed him from every direction.
“Pardon me… My error… Terribly sorry…” Sufficiently chastised, he nodded apologetically to all around him and most drifted back into an inattentive daze, unwilling to further antagonize the intruder. After all, he towered over everyone, even kneeling down.
The choir started on their next hymn, the number in large letters on a board in the front of church. Casting about for a hymnal, Fitzwilliam snatched one from the pew behind him, turning to the indicated selection. It was with great relief that he recognized, “O God Our Help in Ages Past.”
“How very excellent. This hymn is one of the favorites of my youth,” he announced in an ear-deafening aside. Fitzwilliam faced forward and began to sing.
His booming baritone erupted like a bomb in the small chapel, easily drowning out the half-hearted Catholic bleating of the flock. Anthony’s shoulders began to shake. Amanda yelped. The child between them jumped as if bitten.
Up on the altar, Father Riley’s shoulders flinched, and he turned an annoyed glance in Fitzwilliam’s direction, removing his glasses and putting down the outline of the sermon he was reviewing. Many of the faithful in the congregation followed their pastor’s lead and strained to look at this most vocal of visitors.
Fitzwilliam, who had always considered singing at the top of your lungs in church the very best reason for attending, appeared blissfully content with the attention and graciously smiled back at one and all.
It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Harry Penrod was bored, bored with the hushed voices and the dim candles, bored with the slow, reverent singing. He was so bored that he was even unwilling to fight, as he always did, the drift into sleep he was feeling. He sucked contentedly on his thumb and moved his tiny hand forward to play with the fringes of his mama’s shawl. Even horsey was not of any interest to him at the moment.
It was then that the earth shook, and Harry jumped from the shock, his head spinning around to see what disastrous event had occurred. To his great surprise, behind him stood the largest man he had ever seen, wearing a huge tent of a cloak, which when parted, revealed red material containing shiny brass medals and glimpses of golden braid.
It was a soldier!
Harry stared up at the giant for the longest time, speechless. What to do? What to do? Here was one of those moments his mama had warned him about that could divert him from respectful silence for Baby Jesus. On the one hand, he was only a little boy, but on the other, he had promised his mama to remain quiet and out of trouble for the duration of the mass. After all…
Baby Jesus never caused trouble.
Baby Jesus obeyed his nursey and put away his clothes.
Baby Jesus always finished his soup. Privately, Harry had once or twice sacrilegiously thought that Baby Jesus did not seem to be much fun, but still and all, Harry wished he could be like Baby Jesus, if only for a few moments.
Then the giant winked at him!
His little heart pumped wildly. Unable to resist, Harry pulled himself into a standing position to commence reconnaissance. Perhaps beneath that heavy cloak there were gold buttons and braids, more medals, velvet trim—oh, but it could be a hidden treasure trove of delights, this magnificent uniform. He gingerly pulled back the edge of the cloak to peek inside, hoping that the large man would somehow not notice this rather personal intrusion. Never before had he seen so much brass and gold—this must be a very important soldier, he reasoned, and such a huge expanse of red that it made his eyes swim! Pushing the cloak open even wider, he leaned way over and then sighed, disappointed not to see a bloody sword. He closed the cloak and then patted it fondly.
The child sniffled, vigorously rubbing his nose back and forth across his sleeve, and oh, how Fitzwilliam remembered the days when there was no time for studies or naps or pianoforte lessons, let alone handkerchiefs. He retrieved a clean one from his pocket and held it over the child’s mouth and nose. The boy’s eyes flashed up to Fitzwilliam’s face as he blew his nose loudly into the cloth two or three times. Fitzwilliam then folded it over and dabbed the little nose dry before returning the saturated cloth to his pocket.
Harry stood up on tiptoes so that he could whisper near to Richard’s ear, “Thank you, sir.”
“You are quite welcome,” replied Fitzwilliam, smiling down at the beautiful youngster. With a child’s innocence, little Harry disregarded the imposing size of the man, only to see the gentle warmth of his smile, and smiled in return. He continued to regard Fitzwilliam for several more minutes.
“You are a soldier, sir.”
“Why, so I am,” Fitzwilliam responded, and the child nodded gravely, his eyes filled with respect.
He studied Fitzwilliam thoughtfully. Holding the back of the pew, he rocked back once or twice, his intense curiosity focusing on the many scars of battle he saw, on the soldier’s neck and forehead, the faint scar across his jaw, then finally he rested his gaze on a very large and ugly scar on Fitzwilliam’s hand. Utterly fascinated, he fingered it tenderly as he sniffled once more. Again he went up on his tiptoes to speak into Fitzwilliam’s ear. “From where did you receive this, sir? Was it in a battle?” he asked in his child’s little whisper.
Fitzwilliam nodded. “I received that at Waterloo,” he whispered back. The boy gravely nodded with all the immense respect due to the significance of that fact, even though he hadn’t a clue what a Waterloo was. Then he recollected a wound he himself had received in battle and pulled up his trouser. Twisting his leg around, he pointed to a scar on the back of his calf while he held onto Richard’s shoulder for balance. Richard reached his arm about the boy’s waist for support.
Richard dutifully studied the little scar and made an appropriately sympathetic noise. He raised an eyebrow inquiry.
“Dorset” was the identification of the battlefield.
Fitzwilliam stifled his chuckle with a discreet cough. “Ah.”
They stayed like that for several moments, the companionable silent bonding of two warriors. They were now best of pals, Harry’s arm stretched up to Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, which he would pat occasionally to comfort his new friend. Fitzwilliam still had his arm supporting the child’s waist.
He strained upward to speak into Richard’s ear again as he touched the scarred hand. “Did a Frenchie do that to you, sir?” His compassion was deeply serious, and Fitzwilliam nodded, much moved by the child’s sincerity.
Harry let that information take root for a moment in his five-year-old brain, and sighing, shook his head.
“Goddamn Frenchies…” he sympathized.
“All right, that is quite enough.” Amanda turned, no longer able to pretend ignorance of the conversation behind her.
Harry cast a worried glance up at his mother. “Whatever is wrong, Mama?” he whispered.
“Shush! Harry, please sit down now and pay attention to the mass,” she whispered back.
“But, Mama, I wasn’t doing anything bad,” he explained. “I have to give comfort to my new friend. He is a soldier. Don’t look at him. He’s been horribly disfigured by war.”
Amanda’s eyes went briefly up to Richard’s in mute apology, but he was grinning back at her, his eyes revealing his deep affection. A defeated Harry sat back down in his seat as his mother began her obligatory reprimand.
Fitzwilliam could not hear what was being said but felt a twinge of guilt seeing as he was equally to blame for the disruption. She was a gentle mother though—kind and firm, loving and sensible. Harry nodded and whispered something back, and then they kissed. Fitzwilliam’s heart swelled at the beautiful sight. After a moment, Harry looked back at Richard and smiled contentedly.
It was some time after the service had ended, and Richard now stood at the back of the church, waiting for Amanda, mentally reviewing his prepared comments for her, going over and over in his head the course before them. Absently, he twirled his bicorn hat in his hand as he nodded to the people streaming past him—the street vendors already late for work, the immigrant men who held their poor but proud heads high, the black-dressed, elderly women hurrying home, the street children looking for a few hours’ warmth, the Irish housemaids. He especially acknowledged the salutes of several old soldiers and happily spared them as much time and coin as they required.
Anthony reached him finally and accepted his handshake, while behind Anthony, a beaming Harry dragged his mother forward.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, I am so surprised to see you here.” Amanda was breathless as an exuberant Harry bounced up and down on his heels. “Colonel, allow me to introduce you to my son, Harold Augustus Penrod. He is very anxious to make your acquaintance.”
“Mama, please let my hand go. I must make my bow. Grandmamma showed me.” He took a step forward and bowed deeply, showing a fine leg. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Colonel.” He was for a brief moment the picture of elegance but then ruined the entire effect by sniffling and smiling broadly. “You are ever so tall, sir. I’ll bet you can see all the way to India, or Ireland.”
Richard beamed down at the boy. “Why don’t you see for yourself, lad?” He reached down and lifted Harry up onto his shoulders.
“Oh, Mummy! This is very high up! I should like to be this tall someday! Will I ever be this tall, do you think? How tall are you, sir? I don’t think Tio Anthony is even this tall!” Harry excitedly pumped his arms and legs as Fitzwilliam turned the twisting little body this way and that to see everything.
Observing the couple stealing glances at each other, Anthony reached up to retrieve Harry. “Let us give your mother and the colonel some privacy, eh? We will await you outside, Lady Penrod, Colonel.” As Anthony carried Harry out the door, he could sense the colonel’s single-minded intensity and Amanda’s apprehensive nerves, and laughed when he turned and saw her gazing anxiously after him.
Fitzwilliam cleared his throat first and adopted his usual formal parade stance. “Amanda, my dear…” he began; however, she spoke simultaneously. “Colonel…”
They both laughed awkwardly.
“Excuse me, madam. I wanted to apologize to you for my behavior the other evening, very unlike me, really. But please, you go first.”
“Thank you, Colonel. I was going to comment on the fact that you appear to already know Dr. Milagros. I have only recently learned of this.” After one quick glance up at his face, she returned her eyes to a level with his cloak button. “He has also just told me that you and he have recently spoken. Imagine my surprise.”
“Yes, and he has told me something of your situation…”
As he spoke, Amanda took a deep breath, her heart strumming. He looked so very masculine and strong and smelled very nice. And very handsome. Yes, he looked very handsome indeed. Amanda’s heart was hammering away determinedly and sounded so loud in her head that she heard nothing of what he was saying, only watched his mouth and admired his fine teeth. The knowledge that he had come here to seek her out, that he was truly that attracted to her and that interested made her suddenly bold, feeling desirable and feminine and alive. She trusted him. More importantly, she loved him desperately. Amanda had thought of little else than this man for two weeks and now had at last come to a spontaneous decision. She was going to live for the moment. She would agree to become his mistress!
Placing her hand on his arm, she interrupted him just as he was beginning the meatier part of his presentation. “Colonel, I have been thinking of what we spoke of at the Winter Ball. Perhaps we should see more of each other, as you said. Much more.” Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and rushed on. “Perhaps we could meet somewhere? You are an experienced man of the world, and I am sure you know of a place where a man and woman can have some private time together, a place that is discreet and out of the way.” Amanda had whispered this in such a rush that she needed to stop and catch her breath. Her face was crimson.
Fitzwilliam stared at her as if she had grown gills. His fine speech went out the window. “I beg your pardon, madam.” He appeared to find her words somehow humorous.
Amanda’s color brightened even more, and for the first time, she looked directly up into his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘I beg your pardon’?” she said, her embarrassment giving her words a harsh clip. “I am suggesting that we should meet. ‘In private,’ as they say.” She raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t that what you wanted? We are both adults, and I am a widow, after all. You need not fear that I will be shocked.”
Instead, Fitzwilliam was shocked, no longer amused by what he thought had been an embarrassing bit of misspeak on her part regarding ‘Private Time Together.’ The chit was serious! What was it about this woman that both pulled him so strongly while at the same time could aggravate the hell out of him so easily? He was never out of sorts with anyone else, always smooth and clever and carefree. Why, he was the most bloody charming person he knew, goddamn it.
“I believe you have misconstrued my meaning, madam, perhaps not listening quite as attentively as you should. I said to you that I had honorable intentions. That generally would mean calling for you at your home, to take you out riding in my impressive carriage—well, actually in my cousin’s impressive carriage—to escort you to the opera, to take tea with you, and to take your son out to the park. In short, madam, I desire assurances that we would suit each other, with an eye toward an offer of marriage.” Damn but she was infuriating. He was not just flapping his lips here! How much plainer must he be?
Seeing the anxious look in her eyes, he dropped his voice to the barely audible. “I certainly did not intend to coax you into some sort of sordid secret liaison.”
“Well, why ever not?”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘Why ever not’?!”
Amanda was distraught. Oh, sweet heaven! All her hopes and dreams were disappearing before her eyes. She was losing this man before ever possessing him. “I believe I made it clear to you that I am not available for courtship, Colonel. However, it is perfectly acceptable here for widows to engage in nonbinding relationships of mutual consent. I am a widow, and therefore I consent.”
He took a step back and stared at her in stunned disbelief. He arched his eyebrow in palpable annoyance. Instead of these perfectly clear machinations dissuading her, she continued! “No. To pursue a course toward marriage would be a complete waste of both of our times. I am quite sophisticated, I’ll have you know, and very worldly. Yes, I am. And what is more, I am already involved with Dr. Milagros, as I have previously mentioned. However, I have spoken with him, and he has no objections if I meet with you also. So, as you can see, there is nothing to impede our being together.” She rocked back on forth on her feet. “It is all very sophisticated.”
Fitzwilliam nearly laughed in her face. “Bah and humbug, madam, what a terrible liar you make! You are not involved with Dr. Milagros! I discussed this with him also.”
Her eyes narrowed. “My, what chums you both have become! Well, he is the deceitful one, he the liar. I will deal with him later.”
His fists balled at his waist. “Amanda, this is beyond enough! I am not going to have you as a mistress, so just put that from your mind. I do not want a mistress! I had a mistress. Actually, I have had several mistresses. I allow myself exactly one mistress per year. Unfortunately, at the present time, I have used up my allotment until the year 1846. And because I have never fully embraced, nor understood, the concept of celibacy, you can understand that it is imperative that I take a wife.” As he spoke, he had gradually backed her into a corner and now towered over her, continuing his furious reply. “ I want a wife and family. I desire that wife to be you, and your son to be my family.”
Amanda was humiliated beyond belief at his refusal, even insulted. Her eyes darted back and forth while her brain tried desperately to catch up. “But I was led to believe all aristocratic Englishmen want a widow to bed so you did not need to marry. Don’t you know this, you ill-tempered person?” She shoved his shoulder in her anger. “Oooh, you aggravating man! I cannot believe how pigheaded you are, and here I was expecting you to be happy! I was expecting you to be thrilled! You are spoiling everything!”
Fitzwilliam coming to court her at Penwood was unthinkable. It terrified her. Her mother-in-law would throw her out into the street and bar the door. There was slim chance of a secret liaison succeeding, let alone a marriage! He must be mad, she thought. Marriage?! A marriage would have to be grabbed in snatches. He would have to accept second place to her son. How soon would it be before he grew to hate her, grew tired of the lies, and asserted his lawful rights over her as his possession?
No, she would have to remain single and in control of her own life. But she wanted him so frantically. She loved him so very deeply.
She just wanted to kill him.
“Please control your temper, madam. Remember, we are in a church.” Fitzwilliam dragged her by the wrist to a more isolated area of the back of the church. When they had at last reached a secluded alcove, he paced back and forth in frustration, raking his hand through his already tousled hair.
“This must be some new ring of hell of which I was unaware,” he muttered, his tone gruff with anger.
In response to this, her arms crossed before her, and her foot rapidly tapped.
“Now, I take it that you doubt the possibility that we can adapt to a marriage that would accommodate your temporary problem with your mother-in-law’s custody of your child.”
He saw the hesitancy in her eyes as they quickly searched his. This is splendid, her heart began to soar. Perhaps he does understand. That is precisely the problem in a nutshell. “Well, yes. I am afraid that marriage is just not possible for me at this time.”
Grunting, he shook his head. For heaven’s sake, he fumed, he could not, in all good conscience, allow her to embark on a relationship with him that would harm her in any way. Her culture was not like his culture, and he realized what she did not, that her preferred course would only lead to tremendous emotional upheaval and guilt for her. He would protect her, even from herself. He loved her beyond all reason, beyond himself.
He just wanted to kill her.
Amanda had spotted the old priest walking toward them and sucked in her breath. She leaned toward Fitzwilliam. “You have possibly forty seconds left to decide. Oh, merciful St. Jude, Father Riley is scowling and is heading toward us. It is mistress or nothing, Colonel. Where do we meet and when?” Amanda’s heart stopped. She waited.
Fitzwilliam could hear the voice of the old priest getting nearer and nearer as he greeted the few others that had remained after mass.
“Ye gods! Twenty seconds,” she whispered hysterically.
“All right, all right! I cannot believe you are forcing me to do this!” All these months he had been proudly mending his ways, removing ties to the darker sides of his life, and now desired only to take his place as a respectable member of society and set up his nursery with the woman he loved. He was livid. “What days do you attend the hospital?”
“Tuesdays or Thursdays usually, occasionally both.”
“Bloody hell! All right, madam, all right. Thursday morning I will send my batman, O’Malley, to meet you at the hospital. Just so that we are clear, I believe you to be seriously deranged. I am agreeing to this fiasco on one condition alone, and that is that we are meeting to discuss our situation! I am in no way sanctioning any sort of liaison.”
“Amanda, will you introduce me to this great, huge, hulking English soldier who is inhaling all the breathable air from my church?” Father Riley had arrived.
It had been a trying and busy few days for the colonel. They were to have their “discussion” at the Lions Head Inn, an elegant and discreet place just outside the center of London, a place where Fitzwilliam had brought many ladies of quality over the years. Too many, he soon realized as the staff hailed him warmly, and he, in turn, found he was able to inquire by name after family members. He was an important patron, and as such, one of the best rooms was always held in reserve for his use alone, overlooking the exquisite back garden and not the front street with the noise and pollution.
Extremely well-to-do merchants, daring members of the ton, and visiting dignitaries mingled, along with anonymous travelers, all scurrying back and forth, assiduously minding their own affairs. There was no permanent housing or residences in the area—an area where there was deliberate inattention to who was doing what to whom. Everyone was anonymous and treated with the utmost discretion.
He had been pacing nervously, wiping sweaty palms, and trying to calm a pounding heart, but his resolve remained steadfast. A part of him worried that she wouldn’t come even as another part worried that she would. He patted once again the packet of papers within his coat.
At last there was a soft knock on the door before it was opened by an older matron in a white ruffled mobcap and black dress with white apron, remnants from a much older, more formal time. Following closely behind came a walking pile of dripping wet veils and hooded cloak. Her boots were squishing water.
“Terrible it is out, Colonel. Quite a rumpus of a storm blowin’ out there.” The round-faced little woman had escorted Amanda up to the room, and then followed her inside, advancing with bold curiosity to the fireplace to better view the removal of her veil. “Can I get anythin’ else for ye, Colonel?” she asked brightly, never taking her eyes from the back of the sodden and discreetly obscured visitor. “For you and yer fine lady both?”
“No, no, thank you, Mrs. Beale.” He pressed several coins into her hand and turned her by her elbow to leave. “We will not require anything more from you or your fine staff. All is well.”
“I imagine she’s a real beauty, Colonel, under all that muck. Poor mite is freezin’ and wet, I am sure. I must say she be very polite, very genteel-like.” The old woman peeked around his shoulder as he pressed her farther toward the door. “Best to remove all yer clothes, luv, quick as ye can, before you catch yer death.” She looked up at Fitzwilliam and winked. “There, dearie, saved ye some time, Colonel. She be the sweetest and the nicest…”
“Yes, yes, she’s a real peach. That will be all. Thank you so much, madam. Don’t let the door catch your skirt. Please see that we are not disturbed. Thank you…” Even as the matron curtseyed, she pressed her face as far as possible to the side until the door was finally closed on her view.
Fitzwilliam looked over his shoulder, not even certain it was Amanda within, hiding her appearance. “How in hell can you see under all that?” He turned to face her fully after locking the door.
She lifted the heavy black veils and smiled. “It is good to see you also, Richard. This is such a charming inn. I think I recognized several prominent people attempting to keep their faces hidden behind palm fronds. I was quite impressed.” Her overly big woolen cloak was dripping wet and so was placed neatly on a chair near the fire to dry, alongside the veils. “No wonder parliament always recesses so early in the winter. They’ve such a long journey to reach here before dark.”
Layers of outer gear had not prevented her clothes from becoming wet, while gusty winds had loosened her hair from her chignon. She was freezing. First rubbing her arms briskly in an attempt to restart her circulation, she then primly smoothed back the dripping tendrils from her face, finally straightening the skirt of her wet, dark grey dress to shyly turn and face him. She looked like a schoolgirl on her first day of class.
Even in such disarray, he found her striking beauty astonishing, and that caused him to renew mentally his vow to spend this time with her only in outlining his “perfect solution” to their problems. “Would you care for a glass of wine?” Fitzwilliam’s heart raced as he walked over to the side table where a bottle of claret waited to be opened, along with a pot of steaming coffee and buttered scones. “Or would you prefer coffee or tea?”
She looked up briefly from her intense study of the room. “For myself, it is a little early for wine. However, hot coffee would be very welcome, thank you.”
He raked a hand through his unruly hair, wishing to give himself a moment before he reached down for the coffee and cups. He was surprised that his hands shook, and three times he asked if she wanted cream and sugar, to which she always patiently replied, “Just cream, thank you.
“She seemed to know you extremely well,” commented Amanda as she turned to face the hearth, warming her hands before the fire.
“Of whom are you speaking? Oh, you refer to Mrs. Beale. No, not really. It is just good business to make patrons feel important and call them by name.” Fitzwilliam cleared his throat nervously.
“Really?” she said. “That’s odd, since she told me on the way up the stairs that you kept regular rooms here to meet with your ‘special friends,’ but that this day you had requested a better, larger room. She was quite impressed with me because of that, I believe.”
Richard growled, silently mouthing earthy expletives as he poured a second glass of wine for himself, having already gulped down his first. He forced his voice to sound relaxed. “I sometimes have occasion to stay here with out-of-town guests, since my family no longer keeps a home in town. It is not always possible to impose upon Darcy’s good nature.”
“Ah.” Amanda hesitated for a moment in silence. “She also said that your special friends are generally well-titled and wealthy widows and was wondering if I was one of…”
“All right, all right, I get your point, Amanda,” he testily interrupted. “No need to bludgeon me to death. Can we forget what the woman said, please?” He was growing increasingly petulant at both himself and at the entirety of London in general. He turned from the table to face her. “We are here to talk about our problem and not about my colorful little past…” He took two steps in her direction, her cup and saucer held out before him, when he saw that she was removing the pins from her hair.
He felt an immediate and earth-shattering slippage in his resolve.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped.
At his sharp tone, she looked up quickly, somewhat surprised. “What does it look like I’m doing? My hair is wet, or hadn’t you noticed? I need to dry it, so I have removed the pins. Heavens, look at your face! Do we need to alert the press? I have only six of them, pins I mean, to my name and cannot afford to have them flying about.” She had picked up a towel from the basin, rubbed her hair briskly, then began running her fingers through, finishing off by tousling it around a bit. “There, that’s much better. You will find that I can be a bit frugal… Richard? Are you all right?”
Her hair was much fuller and longer and more astonishingly beautiful than he had anticipated. Damn it. He could not speak. He just stood staring—at all that wet, very long, gloriously thick blonde hair pulled over to the side and cascading down over her shoulder, reaching almost to her waist. It was a dense and shiny mass of tangled curls, a golden halo surrounding her face. It emphasized her very high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. He sensed a little tension begin in his chest.
The South of France was beginning to stir, also.
“Richard??” She repeated apprehensively. His eyes had taken on an ominously molten appearance.
“I don’t think it is wise for you to leave your wet hair exposed like that, Amanda.” He spoke slowly. “You might catch a chill. Perhaps you can wrap the towel around your head or something, perhaps around your face a bit, too.” His voice sounded rough-edged as he advanced toward her, and she took the coffee from his hands. He backed away quickly. Clearing his throat and tossing back yet another glass of claret, he again silently vowed to himself to remain on his planned course of action, no matter what.
“Ahem. Ahem. (Cough) While I am certainly grateful that we can have this opportunity to speak, I would not want it to be the cause of your catching a chill, especially since I have planned a sort of surprise. Whether you will feel it is an acceptable surprise will pretty well determine our course of action here today.”
Suddenly turning on his heel, he paced a few feet away and began his rehearsed speech, his voice rising to much the same timbre of any general addressing his troops. “Amanda,” he intoned, “it is evident that we have a strong attraction for each other; however…” Glancing over his shoulder, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Now what are you doing?” he burst out. A second large crack had appeared in his reserve, and the nerves in his body began to throb.
Sitting on a small stool before the fire, her hair tumbling nearly to the ground, she looked up at him in confusion. Already having placed a boot on the side of the hearth, she stopped, her dainty foot poised a few inches from the floor. “I am taking off my boots and stockings, that is, if it is all right with you, sir. My feet are cold and wet because my boots leak like a sieve. Please go on. Don’t let me interrupt.”
She reached modestly up under her skirt, her eyes darting in embarrassment to his face, and then she rolled down her stocking. She next removed the boot and stocking of the other foot. “Ahhh!” she exclaimed happily as she wriggled her toes before the fire. “That feels absolutely wonderful, much better. Richard, do go on, please, with your speech, it was very interesting, I am sure.”
He bitterly catalogued all the attacks on his resolve unfolding before him: a fine-looking young woman with her long, wet hair flowing around her shoulders and her face glowing with youth and health, the top and bottom of her dress dampened more than enough to cling to her, her arms wrapped around slender legs, trim ankles that peeked out from her skirt and her pretty little pink toes—a sensually explosive cornucopia warming itself innocently before the fire.
“Richard! Are you all right?” She tried to run her fingers through her hair to help dry it but quickly abandoned the attempt because of the snarls. She then pushed it from her face to lean her elbows atop her knees. She demurely placed one row of toes over her others to keep them warm.
“Hmm?” His eyebrows rose with his response, his mind a hopeless mush of confusion.
“You were saying something important, were you not?”
“I was?”
“I’m almost certain you were.” She gave him a guilty smile and stood. “Oh, dear, I am not being very attentive again, am I?” Padding over to him, she rested her hands high up on his shoulders. “I am very sorry. Please forgive me for being so rude. Good heavens, barefoot like this, I feel small standing next to you.” Smiling contentedly she ran her hands across his shoulders, and then gently stroked down the front of his chest. “It’s like I am standing in a hole or something.” Her eyes drifted, just for a moment, to his mouth.
Fitzwilliam scowled. “Amanda, go and stand over there, please.” He sounded very annoyed.
“Why? What have I done?”
“Just do it, goddamn it.”
“If you insist, Colonel.” She pursed her lips and walked back to where she had been sitting near the fire. “Fine, shoot.”
“I beg your pardon?!”
“Sorry, that was an American phrase. Please proceed with what you wanted to say to me.”
He hesitated for a moment and then began again, after further clearing his throat and downing his fourth or fifth glass of claret. He had lost count.
“Amanda.”
“Yes, Richard. I have not left. I am listening.”
“Right. Yes… where was I?” He began to massage his temple. “Ah… It is evident that we have… strong attraction for each other… damn it to hell, what was I saying? Your fussings, all this to do, have gotten me completely off topic! Oh, yes, I remember—Amanda, I am of an age where I find I desire something more substantial in my life than a meaningless coupling with someone. Forgive my blunt speech, but I do want us to be open with each other.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he strolled to the window, a headache threatening, then rubbed at his chest, feeling as if a ravenous wolf was within clawing to be released. It had been those little pink toes, and he knew it. For no apparent reason, those stupid pink toes had captured his imagination and were now driving him wild.
“Ahem. Ahem.” He hesitated for a moment to stare outside. “After years of professing the complete opposite, I find that, since meeting you, I truly do desire a home life and a family. I want to share my thoughts with someone, share my dreams and love and future with one person, and we seem to rub along well together, don’t we? Can you understand what I am saying?” He turned to look at her. “As I was saying, I have arranged for something to which I pray you are amenable…” He suddenly exploded. “Bloody hell! Now what are you doing?!”
She froze midway in her process of unbuttoning her bodice, a guilty blush sweeping over her face.
“Now are you going to tell me that your breasts are cold and wet and you need to relieve them of your top?” His voice sounded angrier than he had meant it to be, while his walls of protection continued crashing down around him. The wolf was breaking free.
Brown eyes looked down in shame, and tears began to well. Her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Please do not yell at me, Richard. I cannot help it if my dress is wet, and I’m cold.”
“I don’t mean to yell. It’s just that I am trying to bare my soul to you here, and you cannot seem to retain possession of your clothes. Now please get yourself dressed again. We are not staying. If you would only let me explain to you my overall strategy…”
He watched in horror as her face crumpled into a blubbery mass of tears. “I am angering you, and you are sending me away.” She stomped her bare foot in self-disgust. Throwing back her head, she began to wail and sob with her frustration and anger and disappointment. “Oh, I am such a fool! I wanted to look beautiful! Instead, I look like a sodden pile of rags. But please, Richard, don’t force me to leave here. Don’t give up on us.”
Fitzwilliam reached her in two steps, pulling her roughly into his arms. “Stop it, Amanda. I’m the fool, not you.” Immediately their mouths found each other, and they kissed with hunger, licking and biting and ravenous. “Forgive me,” he mumbled over and over while her hands grabbed into his hair, pulling him closer. He crushed her to him and lifted her from the floor, those offending pink toes dangling in midair.
“I love you, Richard. You don’t know how I dream about you and pretend I talk to you when you’re not with me. I love you so much I kiss my pillow each night, and hug it, and wish it was you there with me.”
“I am the worst of brutes, bellowing at the only person who matters.” He kissed her eyes and nose and feasted kisses on her neck. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart. Please. I love you so much. This was entirely my fault. It was a stupid idea to meet here. But you see, I have made some plans. I wanted to explain to you…”
She sniffled and nodded, agreeing with him wholeheartedly. Holding his face in her hands, she stared lovingly into his eyes. “Yes, it is your fault, isn’t it?”
He smiled over her head as he set her down on her feet again and reached into his pocket, sacrificing yet another handkerchief to the Penrod family. “Blow,” he instructed, and she trumpeted into the cloth. “Well done. Are you finished?” he asked, and she nodded. “Good. Come with me.” He lifted her into his arms and carried her to an overstuffed chair, where they settled down, her legs tucked neatly across his lap. She sniffled and snuggled as he nudged her head under his chin, stroking her cheek and hair to soothe her. They sat in easy silence until her sniffles stopped and she finally sighed.
“Are you warmer now?” he asked quietly, and she smiled.
“What is wrong with me, Richard?” she asked after a moment.
“Wrong with you? Now why would you say something silly like that?” He kissed her forehead, gently pressing her head onto his shoulder. “You are perfection.”
That was nice, she thought. Nestled in his arms like a child, she began to play with his cravat. “I worried and worried myself sick about today, I swear it. I must have awoken at four in the morning to get dressed and fretted about whether to wear the horrid lavender dress or the dreaded grey dress.” She wriggled closer to him, her voice becoming even softer. “Tell me again how I am perfection.”
His answer was another deep and thorough kiss. “You are beyond perfection.”
“You are just being kind. You are very kind, you know, and brave and decent and honorable. No, I have bungled this whole thing. I’m such an idiot.” She sighed once and then once again. “I look pitiful. My nose is running, my hair is drenched, my hands are coarse… feel free to disagree with me at any time,” she muttered into his neck.
Fitzwilliam’s senses were lost somewhere in her hair, in the fragrance of flowers and soap. He was very glad to hear her humor emerge again. He glided kisses across the top of her head.
“You have brought others here, have you not? What is wrong with me that you don’t want me in that way, Richard? Why am I so undesirable to you? I thought I was being alluring by loosening my top a little, but you looked horrified.” She hiccoughed then apologized when her head hit his chin.
“We seem to be working at cross-purposes, my love. This has nothing to do with not wanting you. I want you desperately. I hoped you knew that by now.” He kissed her waiting lips. “I love you passionately.” She wriggled joyfully in his lap and threw her arms around his neck.
“ Merciful heavens, ” he moaned with his rampant arousal. “Good God, what in the world was I saying? I can’t remember anything at the moment with you bouncing about.” He hugged her tightly to him and tried to catch his breath. “Ah, yes. The problem, as I see it, is…” he started quietly, “what I was trying to explain to you is that we could meet here, if you truly desire, and begin a relationship with each other, but I know in my heart that you would not be happy, and then neither could I. You would feel used, and worst of all, you would grow ashamed of us, come to blame me and eventually hate me. It is true I’ve been here with mistresses or one-time lovers, but that is all I wanted from them and all they wanted from me.” He kissed her temples and the tip of her nose. “This is very different, though. Don’t you sense that we have a greater future than that? I have known that since the very first moment I saw you.”
She was very still, her head resting on his shoulder. “I, too, felt from the beginning that we were meant to be together, forever.”
He smiled then kissed her mouth softly. “Excellent. I will speak with your mother-in-law tonight, and…” His voice trailed off as she struggled to break free from his arms so that she could look into his face.
“You cannot do that! No! Oh, Richard, you would make my situation so much worse. She will throw me from the house. I will lose any contact with my son. She is only waiting for me to misstep. Please promise that you won’t seek her out or speak to her or tell anyone about us.”
He raked his hand through his hair. “So what do we do? Do you want us to part ways over this? Does it truly mean nothing to you? You know, Amanda, the culture in this country is quite different from yours. The most sophisticated, wealthy, and titled marriages are oftentimes no more than mergers. After an heir is presented, many of these couples go their own way, and no one thinks ill of them as long as they behave discreetly. An affair with you would not harm me in the least, but for you, Amanda, well I have serious doubts. I truly fear that emotionally it will cause you much distress.”
She reflected on what he said. “Though I confess I am very naïve about the mechanics of this, I am also selfish.” His eyes and his lips were so close. “I want you, and I want my boy, both. I see no other way for us, no other immediate answer, and I am agreeable if you are. Besides, how could it be a sin to be loved by you? I want to be loved by you. I need to be loved by you.”
He saw the truth in her eyes, was moved by the trust he saw there. He was also completely aware that he had lost the fight. His fingers began to stroke her hair. “You are so beautiful to me, and you don’t even realize how much. Maybe that’s a good thing, because I am at your mercy as it is.”
She turned her face to kiss the palm of his hand. “Don’t deny us being together, please.” Desperate to possess him, she reached her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.
And that was it, a final attachment to functional thought snapping, the last pitiful reserve breached. His entire world was there before him, lying in his arms. If he were to die tomorrow, he would consider his life as being fulfilled having just known for a moment the love and trust of this one woman.
The hand that had rested so innocently on her hip came to life and began an intimate gentle journey, firmly pulling her closer. Fitzwilliam’s speeches and plans, all rational thought, vanished beneath the soft, warm, yielding flesh of a woman, his woman, and the desire in her eyes. He angled his mouth onto hers and crushed her to him, kissing her deeply and passionately—once, twice, and again and again.
When they finally separated, he rested his forehead on hers. The room was about to burst into flames, and he knew it. He made one more attempt at logic. “Amanda, I am rapidly losing control.”
She grunted impatiently, pulling his head down again, pushing his mouth onto hers; his hand came to rest between her silky legs.
“Richard,” she said, her voice breathless, “it has been a long time, since before my son was born. Please don’t be too disappointed with me.”
No longer coherent, he eased her dress down, her breasts bared to his touch.
“I love you,” she whispered in awe, her hands touched his hair, his cheek, his mouth. There was no sound in the room other than their breathing.
“I love you,” he said simultaneously, a growl beginning deep in his throat as his mouth went down to cover hers. He stood then, with her in his arms, to carry her to bed where, undressing each other wildly, they both went mad.
Fitzwilliam was in the grip of an overpowering insanity, much greater than he had ever known before. On fire, he now possessed no ability for coherent thought. He saw only red from inside his closed eyes and forgot time and place.
It was over much too quickly, the explosive release for both triggered nearly immediately by the anticipation of the deed. He was still inside her as he held her fast and rolled onto his side. Neither one was able to calm their breathing anytime soon.
They lay holding each other for a brief time, and then the madness overcame them again, staying with them much longer and growing even more intense than before.
A disheveled Amanda dragged the heavy chair before the hearth and then took up the poker, shoving it repeatedly into an already roaring fire, while the rain and sleet continued to batter the windows. Even though she had noiselessly slipped into her dress, the back of which remained open with its millions of unreachable tiny buttons, the din from her slamming and thumping and grumbling could have raised the dead.
She found she was still in a wicked temper upon the discovery that her shoes remained obstinately damp. Well, heavens, that was apparently a deliberate insult, so she threw them across the room. Beginning to wheeze with her exertions, she now yanked a throw from another chair and tucked it around her lap for extra warmth. It was no use. Nothing seemed capable of warming her this morning.
She snatched a quick glance at the creature she had so recently left reclining upon the bed—the fiend, the sexual deviant. Before her eyes rested a repulsive debaucher—a seasoned rake upon his cot of crime, a seducer of innocents, sated and smug. She colored deeply at the vile sight and cursed herself for being even more drawn to him now that the deed was done, and done so soundly. Her angry stare dragged across his fuzzy barrel chest and his muscular tree-trunk arms and long powerful legs. She trembled with the remembrance of his overblown male…ego. Crazy, mud blond hair was both falling forward onto his forehead and wildly standing straight up around his head at awkward angles. He smiled sweetly at her.
She sighed. He was beautiful.
Fitzwilliam had no idea what to do next, a first for a worldly soldier having just bedded a beautiful woman. Ordinarily, he would kiss her cheek, leave his card, and be off, usually neither requiring nor desiring a second acquaintance. Au contraire, to his dismay now he felt possessive and jealous and disgustingly vulnerable. He was the first to admit he was captured, sunk, defeated. Merde.
He would make her see reason, his reason naturally, because for certain, he would never let her go now, so utterly female as she was—soft and warm. Lord, he remembered the heat of her kisses—kisses on his neck, on his chest and stomach. He remembered the shyness, the tender wondering way she had touched him, stroked him. How she had quivered and moaned with each of his strokes, then her little gasp each time he entered her. He remembered the feel of her silky, warm thigh against his cheek, her trembles when he kneaded and nipped her fanny, her panting when his mouth suckled her breast. Their hands and tongues had branded each other everywhere, their kisses more passionate than any others in his prior and most extensive experience. He abhorred the notion that she could regret any moment of it, any of the magic that they had experienced together.
He cleared his throat loudly. “So tell me, Amanda, what would you be doing right this moment if you were at the hospital?”
At first taken aback, Amanda thought for a moment and then put her head down. “Oh, I suppose I would be with the babies right now.” Her head bowed down, she smiled briefly—very briefly. “I spend as much of the mornings as I can with the newborns and young children, holding them and such. I love the babies. The afternoons are generally with the mothers, teaching them how important love and nurturing is to their child. Anthony believes most of these poor women have lived without decent families and cannot understand how to properly care for children, what they should feed them, how important tenderness is, so he has me speak with each mother before she leaves.”
The mantel clock ticked loudly. Fitzwilliam was drowning with his memories of loving her and caressing her body. They had fit together perfectly, were custom-made for each other. His hands still were warm from touching her. “You should have more babies of your own.” His voice sounded rough with emotion. “You are a good mother, Amanda, an excellent mother. Your son is quite wonderful.”
Her eyes began to water, and she turned her face away. “I prefer to not discuss this,” she whispered.
It was becoming harder and harder not to dash over and shake her, drag her back into his bed to hold her and comfort her several more times, to love her and worship her. This was not the most advantageous time however.
They had made love twice. Twice, and in broad daylight . That must be the very definition of a woman of easy virtue. What must Richard think of me? She groaned softly and shook her head. Well, goodness. She tried to persuade herself that her behavior in their first coupling was forgivable, since she had been, she now realized, almost as ignorant about passion as the most sheltered innocent. Why, she had no defenses against an experienced man of the world, and not for the first time, she wondered about her marriage.
For one thing, she had never seen a naked man before today, before Fitzwilliam. Her husband, Augustus, never had a naked moment in his life of which she was aware. Why, he never even slept with her. Occasionally he would appear suddenly by her bedside, all quaking and nervous in the darkness, quickly “do the deed,” as he called it, and then leave as soon as possible.
No, definitely their first coupling today had been a complete revelation. Her immoral conduct was not her responsibility in any way, was only the consequence of his wicked expertise. He was cunning. He was a devil. He was a man.
All that remained then was the annoying problem of their second coupling, only twenty minutes after the first. Oh dear God. She blushed crimson with the memory. Who could have believed such depraved behavior from her? She had succumbed to madness twice within one hour. A second coupling within one hour was just flagrant wickedness, wasn’t it? And, frankly, wasn’t “it” much slower the second time, more inventive, more intimate, and much more thorough? She shook her head and groaned, her lips moving with her thoughts. I am vile and sinful and decadent and…loud, and she blushed even deeper with the memory of just how loud. Oh, but heaven forgive me, I would run to him again right now, this very second, if he asked. She opened her clenched eyes and caught sight of the ripped chemise dangling from a curtain rod above the bed, where Fitzwilliam had hastily tossed it.
Anthony was right about one thing. If done correctly, lovemaking certainly did feel like sin.
“Amanda, to whom are you speaking?” Fitzwilliam was rapidly becoming annoyed. Why the little hoyden looked embarrassed to tears by her passion, even as sweet and as innocent as it had been. She had been all warm love and gentleness, completely surprised by the strength of emotions involved in physical love. At the height of her passion, she had gasped his name. Anyway, she had gasped someone’s name into his ear. Heaven knows he had been in no condition at that particular moment to comprehend anything.
You could not wait, could you, Fitzwilliam? No, you had to release the beast! What do I say to her now? How can I explain to her what I really had planned for us?
“You think I am an easy woman, don’t you?” She was watching his face, thinking how disillusioned with her he appeared. “I do not see how this will ever work out.” Her resentful reaction had been exactly what he had predicted it would be, but she loved him so much that she had tried to force herself into behavior that was against her principles. Maybe “forced” was too strong a word, especially since she seemed to recall entreating him for that second time . Eeeeh! Everything was ruined. She had shown her true wanton colors, and he was finished with her.
He threw off the covers and boldly stood before her in all his glory, grabbed his smallclothes, and leisurely began to dress. Amanda let out a gasp at his nakedness and turned her back again to him. You see, the disrespect has begun already.
“I am afraid you are right, dearest, this is not for us, and I shall attempt to restrain myself from saying I tried to warn you.” He smiled at her lovely back with all that soft white skin, and at her delicate sensibilities. She really was adorable. An easy woman! Ha! He almost began to laugh out loud at that. He was pulling on his boots within moments. “You know, Amanda, that I love you very much.”
He saw the back of her head nod. “No more than I love you, Richard.” Her voice was barely audible. She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.
“All right, then. Let’s get you buttoned, and we’ll go out, shall we? I have a surprise for you anyway, dear. I was planning to show you earlier, but you kept removing your clothes, if you remember.”
“Richard!!”
“Yes, I know, you prefer to not discuss it.” He reached into his coat pocket and then handed her the packet of papers he had spent days procuring. She opened them up and began to cry.
Within two hours, the special license Richard had acquired from the offices of his dear cousin, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had been presented at the nearest church. Amanda Sayles Penrod and Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam became husband and wife, yet one more relieved bride clinging to her eager bridegroom within the morally ambiguous London social elite.
In her tearful joy and pride, Amanda struggled to suppress those misgivings and suspicions that nagged her, forced to the background fears regarding acceptance by his family, qualms that he would grow to hate the secrecy this deed would force upon them.
She had married in haste again—true, this time to a man she adored, but as before, a man she did not know. It was her grab for happiness, and so she managed to restrain the sense that her problems were just beginning.
It was several weeks later, two days before Christmas, and Amanda was smoothing out the counterpane on the bed, her hair again pulled severely back into her braided bun, her dreary dress and worn shoes primly announcing her imminent return to the hospital. She was incredibly happy, her initial fears over the secrecy of their marriage now laughable. Her husband was warm, loving, and attentive, protective in the extreme.
Since their marriage, they had been meeting at the inn secretly, stealing precious moments of happiness. Smiling to himself, he watched her as she tended to this rented room as if it was their home, tidying the bed, dusting and straightening furniture. She sat suddenly on the bed, shaking her head and sighing.
“What is going on, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” He crouched down before her, resting his arms straight out over her shoulders.
She was quiet for a very long while.
“Amanda, my legs are killing me. Please hurry.” Instead of speaking, she bent her head lower, pressing her hands together on her lap. “Tell Papa what is wrong, Amanda.”
She sighed. “We may not have the luxury of any more time together.”
He felt his chest tightening, and his blood began to boil. He found it hard to speak at first. “I’ll find you if you attempt to leave me. I will give you no peace at all.”
She looked up, surprised at his intensity, and then patted the bed. “Come and sit next to me.” When he sat, she took both his hands and held them tightly, her eyes beginning to tear up. She brought his hands slowly up to her lips.
“You haven’t noticed something, I’m afraid, dear,” she said.
“What?”
“We’ve been coming here twice a week for nearly a whole month now or more, and making love like randy little rabbits.”
“Did you think I was unconscious of this?” He smiled and hugged her tight, his pain easing a bit.
“Think about it, Richard. Access that wonderful brain above your waist for a moment. We’ve been meeting together for a whole month, actually, a little more than a month.”
He still looked at her questioningly.
“Richard, all women have a certain time when they cannot engage in this…” she leaned in toward him, whispering as if others were listening, “activity. When they…”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Amanda, I am a grown man. I have lived in both Copenhagen and Paris, so I do have a rudimentary knowledge of the female. What does that…?” He stopped suddenly.
She nodded.
“Oh, dear God, you haven’t bled, have you?”
“Finally”—she smiled, nodding her head—“give this man a cheroot. No, I have not for seven weeks, and you would not know it, but this is the one area in which I am never late.”
He stared at her blankly, and they both exhaled. The future moment they had discussed, the moment God would decide their destiny, had already arrived.
“I wasn’t going to say anything yet. In truth, I should wait until another cycle is missed, but I believe I am. The brutal fact is that my breasts are very swollen and sore, and I vomit each morning like a drunken marine.”
An amazingly strong emotion surged through him. The enormity of the joy and exaltation filling him, alongside the fear, was a complete surprise. His eyes began to swim with tears, unmanly tears if they were before anyone but her. He pulled her tightly into his arms and kissed her passionately.
“I take it that you would be pleased, then, if this is true?”
“Yes,” he answered, trying to compose this rampaging emotion, his voice catching a little. “Forgive me if I find your tale of breast pain and nausea to be absolutely wonderful.” He had rarely thought about being a father before and found himself taken aback at the thrill it had brought him.
Amanda pulled from his embrace. “What about Harry, Richard? We still have the problem of my mother-in-law. This is the scandal for which she’s waited.”
He inhaled sharply, his soldier’s brain snapping into position. The war had finally begun, the enemy engaged. Calm settled over him. “Then we leave,” he said simply. “We will seize him and leave immediately, head for the Continent. Later we can discuss heading to America, possibly. I will find out about passages and timetables and then purchase a coach to drive us to a safe area. I want you settled in a location with the best of doctors well before your confinement. First and foremost is a secure house for you and Harry.”
Amanda patted her stomach. “You make it sound so simple,” she whispered anxiously. “What about your inquiries? Have you had any response from your solicitors about our regaining custody?”
Fitzwilliam shook his head. “But never fear, Amanda. I have hired new investigators and have browbeaten my solicitors. We are very close.”
“Richard, if we run, it will be too late; we cannot come back. You do realize that, don’t you? Are you willing to leave England, leave your family?” Her heart was heavy with the guilt of all that he would be sacrificing for her, all he had already sacrificed—a normal home life, his career, and now his beloved family. It was too much to ask of anyone.
He smoothed the hair from her face. “I have every faith that it will turn out well for us. Better than that, even, because now we have a child of our own on the way. If you’ve taught me anything, Amanda, it is that God has decided we are ready, He probably had this all planned long before we met. If He believes in us, who am I to argue? Get your cloak now, and I’ll call for our coach.”
It was nearly seven-thirty that evening when an exhausted Richard returned to the inn. He had sent a message to his father, contacted his solicitors, set into motion the purchase of a sturdy travel coach and horses, but he still had arrangements to make and needed to speak to the War Office, then have a long talk with O’Malley and see what he could set up for his old friend. He nodded his quick hello to the concierge who anxiously motioned him over.
“You’ve had a visitor, Colonel— a Grand Gentleman,” he said with feeling and pointed toward the overly crowded public dining room. “And might I say his is the finest Weston superfine with which I have ever had the honor to converse. He has been waiting for you, there at the table to the left of the fireplace, for several hours now.” As Richard looked in that general direction, he thought he saw a figure, a man relaxing casually in the corner. He thanked the concierge and cautiously entered the room.
His direct sight line was initially hampered by smoky candles flickering, by waiters running about and diners rising and sitting, by the numerous people milling about between the entranceway and the dining area. The overwhelming racket of chatter, laughing, and dining sounds distracted him while he bobbed his head around one person then the next as he moved forward.
About halfway into the room, the crowd finally parted, and he beheld the tall, dark, and exceptionally handsome English gentleman, his long legs crossed, his champagne-buffed black riding boots brilliantly reflecting the flames from the hearth. The dark green superfine coat (it really was magnificent) and subdued checkered waistcoat set off his brilliantly white shirt and cravat. One elbow was draped casually across the back of his chair while the other hand sensuously stroked the stem of a wine glass resting on the table before him. His eyes never left Fitzwilliam’s face.
He was the very essence of stylish nonchalance.
Except for his eyes. His eyes were the very black depths of hell.
“Why, hello, brat, fancy meeting you in this godforsaken place. Are you slumming with friends?” The colonel’s greeting for his cousin was accompanied by a cold smile, feeling as he was the wash of displeasure being directed back at him. “You’re looking well. Are those new boots?” God how he hated Darcy when he looked so pompous. He had an irrational desire to smack the back of his little cousin’s head. As he reached down to finger the magnificent, lapelled satin waistcoat, Richard shook his head. “By God, Darcy, you look nearly as fashionable as your butler. Well, aspire to greatness, boy. Who knows, one day you may equal the man.”
Darcy sensed his cousin’s belligerence, knew the man as well as he knew himself, and by the position of his jutting chin, realized they were dancing very near the battlefield at the moment. “Nice of you to say I am in good looks this evening. You, on the other hand, look like shit.”
Fitzwilliam’s gaze narrowed dangerously.
Darcy indicated the chair across from him. “Sit.”
His cousin yanked the chair back and settled heavily into it, crossing his ankle over his knee. “How terribly remiss of me to so offend you with my appearance. Apparently, however, my looks improve with frequency of contact, something to do with my famously charismatic personality.” Fitzwilliam’s counterfeit smile dissolved almost immediately. “Not to mention my heavenly blue eyes.”
Darcy never broke his stare.
“Are you drunk?” Fitzwilliam asked pleasantly.
“No, although I have been sitting here for hours, drinking and waiting, watching the time slowly tick on by.”
Darcy could outstare a corpse.
Fitzwilliam could not, and his color began to rise. He turned as a waiter passed behind him, unapologetically grabbing a tankard of someone else’s ale from the tray, enjoyed at least two large swallows, and then slammed it onto the table. A nearby woman screeched in alarm and threw her napkin over her head.
“Have you been enjoying your little holiday here?” The gentlemanly manner was ice cold.
“Oh, one cannot complain, really. The bathwater can be slightly tepid; however…” He was stopped in midsentence by Darcy’s incredulous bellow.
“Damn it, do you realize that the whole family is worried sick about you? Everyone has been frantic—your father, friends, even Wellington was alarmed!” Darcy’s fury had nearly pulled him from his chair, and he desperately attempted to regain his composure.
Fitzwilliam managed to control his temper by counting to twenty. Then he exploded. “Forgive me, brat; however, I am a grown man, answerable to no one, and I prefer not to speak of this!” His voice rose with every word until he was shouting. “Where I have been and what I have done is no one’s concern but my own!”
Darcy kept watching him, his ire growing more impossible to squelch with every silent moment that passed. Of all the inconsiderate baboons! Of all the self-centered, egomaniacal…! Fitzwilliam’s expression remained stoic as he tossed back another swallow.
“Has it something to do with Amanda?”
It was an insightful shot in the dark that showed immediate results. The comment snapped Fitzwilliam’s attention back to his cousin. “Tell me what it is in the phrase ‘I prefer not to speak about this’ that is escaping you?” Fitzwilliam’s eyes were dark and furious.
The tension between them was suffocating, intense enough to begin alarming surrounding tables, but Darcy was not going to retreat this time. For all of their lives, it had been the older and livelier Fitzwilliam leading the younger and more reserved Darcy, guiding him through life’s adventures. Darcy had always idolized his cousin, never crossing him or trying to harness his free spirit. However, now he realized Aunt Catherine was correct. Perhaps they had all let his cousin drift unchecked for far too long.
“Who was that veiled woman you left with earlier?” Darcy’s question was contemptuous.
Fitzwilliam almost choked on his drink.
“How dare you question me, you half-formed pup!” he shouted. “How long have you been here spying on me?!”
“Long enough to see you leave with your latest conquest. Is this another war widow, or are you back into opera singers? Or was this the wife of some dear friend?”
“Bloody hell!” Fitzwilliam roared, slamming his fist on the table and sending their glasses clattering across the table. “I don’t have to answer to you or to anyone!” The waiter, who had been approaching, quickly spun around to retreat back out the door.
“Oh, I understand now. You’ve been shacked up with some bit of muslin you found, is that it? This place is too expensive for a street whore, or was there more than one? I suppose if you drink enough, any behavior is acceptable.” Darcy was pushing his cousin as hard as he could.
“I should call you out for that, damn you to hell!” Fitzwilliam’s voice shook with rage as he slowly rose from his seat.
“Again?” Darcy’s bark of laughter was rife with scorn. Suddenly standing, he leaned over, his fists on the table. “Well, what is it then?! Who are you holed up with here? I know there’s a woman. The concierge said you were here with your wife!”
“Damn you to hell, Darcy, I am!” Fitzwilliam bellowed back.
Oh dear, this could not be a good sign. Darcy’s head shot back in confusion. It appeared Elizabeth’s wifely accusations were correct, and his hearing was going. His cousin had just said something that could not be, something that made no sense whatsoever. Quite humorous, really. No, no, no. Hell had not as yet frozen over, to his knowledge.
“Sorry?”
Fitzwilliam sank back into his chair, his fury spent. He rested his elbows atop the table; shaking hands raked through his hair. “It’s true, absolutely true, man. I am staying here with my wife. Amanda and I were married a little over four weeks ago. No one knows except you now, a half-deaf priest, and my batman. Oh, yes, and the entire office of the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Darcy stared unblinking at his cousin for several moments then smoothed down his waistcoat and straightened his cravat before summoning the trembling concierge over to the table. “Pardon me, my good man. I find that we are going to need a truly remarkable amount of alcohol brought to us, and also perhaps a private room and some food please…” When Darcy looked about, he was surprised at the empty dining room. “Well, damn my eyes—I guess this room will do fine. Where is everyone?”
“Aunt Catherine has her footmen everywhere, looking for you. She is that frantic, imagining you have done some grievous harm to yourself. I had to talk her out of calling in the Bow Street Runners.” It was very late evening, and they sat alone in the darkened dining room, the room illumined only by two table candles and the blazing fireplace. Moonlight reflected from snow newly settled on the garden outside the windows.
Fitzwilliam cast his eyes up to heaven. Eloquent as ever, he intoned reverently, “Shit.” He turned to Darcy. “How did you find me?”
“Natural brilliance, unsurpassed logic, plus I stumbled upon O’Malley. He’s a very good man, Fitzwilliam, but it appears he has a weakness for Gunther’s ices, as does Elizabeth. This week she has had a craving for lemon ices and figs. I spied him there and followed.”
Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, a pleased look on his face. “I knew it! They have not said as much, but I do believe his wife, Isabella, has the same craving for ices as Elizabeth, and for the same reason.”
“I was not aware that you were allowing O’Malley his marital rights. Conjugal visits are so very egalitarian. Decent of you, old man.”
Fitzwilliam threw a chunk of cheese at his cousin’s head. “Do you know what is so pathetic about all of this, brat?”
“You mean aside from your breath?”
Richard loosened his collar and then the top of his pants, a heartfelt sigh of relief escaping him as he slouched down into his chair. “As you well know, I have never truly wanted to be married. Anyway, I made the claim often enough.”
“And loud enough,” Darcy volunteered. Fitzwilliam glowered.
“Well, pardon me, but marriage is necessary only as a means to pass on inheritance. And yet, here I sit, a pathetic love-starved fool, watching the clock for hours on end, counting the days until I see her. Damn me if I can understand how things changed so drastically and so quickly.” He reached into his pocket to bring out his beloved pipe. “‘Thy glory, O Israel, is slain upon thy high places! How are the mighty fallen.’”
“And now you’re quoting the Bible. Dear Lord, we must be near the end of times.” Darcy saluted him with his glass of whiskey. “So, how are we enjoying married life?”
Fitzwilliam snorted, grumbling something about Amanda hiding his tobacco pouch. He finally located it in his coat pocket, in the exact spot he had secreted it, and then began to fill the pipe. He used a candle flame to stoke the tobacco, then spread his hands over the immaculate white tablecloth, all the while giving impressive and grave consideration to Darcy’s question. His fingers worked out some imperceptible creases in the material. He crossed his legs.
“How are we enjoying married life?” he mused, puffing once, then twice, and then removing his pipe to intently study the bowl. “Well, first and foremost, please allow me to say that I have never quarreled so much in my entire life.”
Darcy began to laugh.
“Ah, you laugh. What is truly terrifying is that I include in that statement all of my years of battle against the Corsican.” Fitzwilliam puffed. “Well, to continue, may I reasonably assume that yours is the laughter of the well experienced?”
“Oh, yes. It is an unspoken truth that marriage can be a rather intense alliance at first, shall we say, and not always of the romantic bent.”
“Intense!” Fitzwilliam began to quickly warm to his subject. “Intense! Darcy, my good man, they are not like us. Not even remotely. Now, I speak not of the obvious—the absence of both logic and reason. No, I refer to certain areas that really should be made plainer to men before they embark upon this life-changing commitment.” He puffed on his pipe, suddenly throwing back his head in a bark of laughter.
“First off, I would like to know why they are so bloody sensitive about everything, especially their weight. ‘Do I look plumper?’ is an almost impossible question to answer. They also, apparently, never forget offenses, even if they do forgive them. The most difficult thing to me is the necessity to trot out innermost feelings and discuss them to death.” He shook his head, smiling delightedly at some memory then quickly feigned a scowl. “Well, obviously, since a true man has no innermost feelings, I agree with whatever she says.”
Darcy shook his head as he settled himself lower in his chair, his long legs stretched out before him. “Elizabeth herself is of the female persuasion. It is her firm belief that over the course of a marriage, women invariably control everything—what we wear, how we raise our children, and ultimately how we behave—and we must willingly go along or die alone. The Benevolent Dictator is how I believe Uncle Bernard referred to Aunt Lucille.”
“You’re right, I had forgotten that.” They both chuckled at the memory.
Richard’s eyes wrinkled happily as he puffed on his pipe. “But by God, Darcy, I love every moment. I’ve never felt more alive in my life. We argue, make love and then have a good meal, laugh and talk. Then we make love again.” The light in his eyes could have brightened a small village. “In such a short time, she has become my closest friend, my lover, and my whole life.” He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment. “Sometimes I find I cannot breathe for wanting her.
“And her son, Darcy… I have actually come to love that child as if he were my own. He is so happy, so full of boyish mischief and fun, and so very good-natured. I look at him and wish to God I could again be twenty-five when he is, instead of a doddering old fart in his fifties. He would be a most excellent companion, most excellent.” Richard sighed and looked wistfully into the fire. “I miss her so dreadfully sometimes.”
“It is overwhelming to love someone more than yourself, isn’t it?”
“I believe I would die for her, Darcy, I truly would.”
Darcy nodded with complete understanding. “May I be permitted just two questions?”
His cousin nodded.
“Am I wrong to assume that your acquaintance with the lady is of a rather short duration? How long did you know her before your marriage?”
Fitzwilliam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Long enough.”
“It could not have been more than a few weeks, Fitz.”
“As I said, Darcy, long enough. See here, I am accustomed to making crucial decisions quickly, could never have lived through the war if I had not.” His eyes glowed with purpose. “And I knew she was mine the moment I met her. Why prolong the inevitable? We both felt strongly about each other almost immediately.”
Darcy had no argument for his friend, the deed already done and over at any rate.
“My second question is why are you living like this? Why the secrecy?”
Fitzwilliam put down his pipe to rub the exhaustion from his eyes before he answered. He briefly related Amanda’s situation to his cousin and then poured himself another drink.
Darcy whistled softly. “What will you do?”
Fitzwilliam waited a long time to answer. “If we cannot find a solution soon, and by soon, I actually mean immediately, we shall have to seize the boy and leave, secure a coach for Portsmouth or Dover, go to the Continent, and hide out there for a time.”
“Richard, you do realize that you would not be able to come back. You’d be hounded by the authorities. You would both be fugitives.”
Fitzwilliam had waited as long as he could for the worst news. “Yes, I know. In truth, I am thinking it will be best if we relocate to America. She still has her family home in Boston and some relations there to help us begin anew. As you know, I have no real means of surviving here without my father’s aid, and I could not ask him to support something like this.” Fitzwilliam inhaled deeply and raked his hand through his hair again. “We don’t even have the luxury now of examining our options. She believes she’s with child.”
Darcy’s eyebrows shot up, and he smiled warmly at his cousin. “By God, Richard, I know it’s making it more difficult, but how glad I am for you.”
Fitzwilliam could not contain his own smile. “Truth be told, I’m rather pleased myself. I had never hoped to have children of my own.”
“America,” Darcy said quietly.
Fitzwilliam nodded.
“America!” Darcy repeated, the realization beginning to sink in.
“Will you quit repeating that like we’re going to the moon?” Fitzwilliam ground out in irritation.
“Bah! It’ll never happen.” Darcy tried to rally his drooping spirits. “I cannot possibly credit that Aunt Catherine would allow it!”
They sat in quiet for a long while. “Would you be leaving soon?” The thought of his cousin’s leaving weighed heavily upon Darcy, knowing it unlikely he would be able to return to England once they fled.
“I’d like to wait until the end of January, of course, until Elizabeth has the baby, but that may not be possible.”
“Well, how can I help you, Fitz?” Darcy asked.
“If needed, may we stay at your home, Darcy, for one night only? We would be leaving within the next week perhaps. I hate to drag you into this, but I want her to know she has a safe refuge to which she can escape should something go amiss.”
Darcy fought off his growing sadness and laughed. “Come on, you great idiot, you know we never need beg favors of each other. Meanwhile, let’s get you home. Lizzy is driving me mad with her worry.”
When they arrived at the Darcy’s house, Elizabeth was at the door to greet them, nearly in tears with her relief. Her hand firmly pressed onto her aching back, she waddled around the two men, staring up at their severe faces, greatly annoyed at not being acknowledged more demonstratively. She kept switching her weight from one foot to the next as they settled farther into the hallway and handed their coats and gloves to the footmen.
Unable to restrain herself a moment longer, she began her outburst. “Richard Fitzwilliam, where have you been? We thought something ghastly had happened to you. You gave us such a fright! Did he not, William? Yes, a terrible fright! Everyone has been out looking for you, did you realize that? Was it something to do with that woman to whom you were attracted? Did you have an argument or something? That is so common, really. You must not take it to heart. Look at William and myself. Remember how horrid he was to me in the beginning? That horrid, demeaning, contemptible proposal he made me at first? But we overcame that, you see. I have forgiven him completely—the insult to my family, the humiliation, the cold disdain for my feelings. We never think of it anymore.” Darcy and Fitzwilliam’s eyes met briefly over her head, and both valiantly refused to grin. Darcy leaned down and kissed the top of his wife’s head.
“Oh! Or was it something else? Did you get ill? Is he ill? Are you ill?” she shouted on the off chance that he had suddenly gone deaf.
Fitzwilliam passed by and patted her shoulder then turned to speak in a loud whisper. “Is there any chance she will find a period to this sentence and employ it soon?” He began to ascend the stairs slowly, the fatigue and stress of the past weeks beginning to overwhelm him. “I take it I still have my old rooms upstairs, or have you moved me somewhere else?”
“No, same place as always. Shall we wake you for breakfast?”
“Not if you desire to live.” He turned and walked back down the two steps, leaning over to kiss Lizzy on both cheeks. “Good night, beautiful,” he muttered, “and thank you for the concern.” He then disappeared up the stairs. Elizabeth and Darcy both watched him until he turned the corner of the hallway.
“Well, that is very strange, I must say!” Elizabeth whispered, one hand pressed to her lips. She turned to look up at her husband. “Very extraordinary, don’t you think? I shall have to go up and speak with him tomorrow.”
“Leave him be for a while, please, Elizabeth. And by the way, how did you get down those stairs? Hmmm? Did you call for assistance? I do not seem to see the carrying chair down here, do I?” Sighing, Lizzy rolled her eyes and waddled silently away, shaking her head and holding onto her back.
“Don’t you walk away from me, young woman!” Darcy’s hands were planted on his hips. “ I am speaking to you, Mrs. Darcy! ”
December 24, 1817
Dearest Emily,
I hope this letter finds you well and having a merrier Christmas at Penwood than we are experiencing here at Pemberley House. It is with a heavy heart I convey to you that my brother has lost his mind completely and is attempting to take us all down with him. There is to be no Christmas pudding, no mistletoe, no garlands of ivy, no gifts, and no wassail.
“What is left to you, dear friend?” you may ask. We are left with something akin to the Twelve Days of Good Friday rather than Christmas.
We are left with servants hiding below stairs whenever possible, hiding so determinedly that one must drag them from their rooms by their feet.
We are left only with the “Interminable Wait” for the “Blessed Event,” although my dear brother grows paler each time he calls it that. He has alienated everyone, including the dogs, and his temper is so tightly coiled at this time that I fear his eyeballs will pop from their sunken crevices.
What concerns me most is that even the doctor has taken umbrage, refusing to return his calls, saying there is “plenty of time yet.” He has even refused my brother’s requests to install the midwife a month early, and I fear my brother is more persistent than prudent. We will all be glad when this is over.
And dear Elizabeth is sometimes an afterthought in all the horror.
Many thanks to you for allowing me to vent my frustrations like this. You are a true “Friend in Need.” I shall look forward to seeing you Boxing Day at Bunny Bridges’s holiday gathering, which will probably be the only merry time this year for me.
Yours in friendship,
Georgiana Darcy
Miss Georgiana Darcy did not, in any manner, exaggerate the mood at Pemberley House at Christmastime in the year of our Lord 1817. There were indeed no wishes to stir into the Christmas pudding. There was no mistletoe, no garland, no wassail. A goose life was spared, the fowl in question remaining undressed and happily ignorant of his near-death experience. Perfectly good presents remained unmolested upon shop shelves.
Darcy’s fears for Elizabeth’s pregnancy had progressed over the past months into an unreasoning hysteria as he envisioned his delicate wife, now much larger horizontally than vertically, in the throes of childbirth. Nightmares disturbed his sleep.
And she had still another month to go. Another four weeks for that behemoth, that monster, that fiend within her to continue its unchecked growth! Darcy had purposefully removed Elizabeth from the country, from the very bed in which his own mother had died giving birth to Georgiana. He had purposefully brought her to his beloved London, the city with superior physicians and advanced medical practices. He had not, however, counted on the greater crowds, almost twice as large as the prior year, and the noise! London, bursting at this holiday season and still celebrating the allies victory! Was this damned commemoration never to end?
The house remained in expectant quiet and seemed deserted to the innocent outside world, the knocker still packed somewhere within the attic, giving notice that no visitors were welcome. But those who lived within knew better. They who lived there, and all of surrounding St. James, waited.