“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.

Chapter 4

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.”