“Your intended! You are to be married!” Darcy crossed his arms over his chest and sat back in the chair as he surveyed his valet with amazement. “Fletcher, when did this happen and who is this woman?”

“Just before Christmas, sir. You remember I left Pemberley early to invest Lord Brougham’s gift?” Darcy nodded. “Well, sir, the ‘investment’ was Annie. His Lordship’s gift was security enough to enable me to support my parents and a wife and family.” He paused and cleared his throat, then straightened his shoulders with obvious satisfaction. “She said ‘Yes,’ Mr. Darcy, but not until I have your consent and her new mistress is wed. So I’ve said nothing, sir, as the lady has at present no eligible suitor.”

“She is of good character, then? You would bring an asset to Pemberley?” Darcy knew his duty to his valet and to his own interests. Bringing in a servant from the outside was chancy enough, but bringing in such a one as a wife could be disastrous to Pemberley’s domestic tranquillity.

“Of the best character, Mr. Darcy! A fine Christian woman.” Fletcher fairly glowed. “As modest as she is lovely, and to that you can attest yourself!”

“I? Where could I have seen her?” Darcy sat up, his suspicions alerted.

“Last November, sir, in church in Meryton that Sunday. You must remember!”

Visions of that day arose in Darcy’s mind with no effort at all: Elizabeth Bennet’s melodious voice and dancing curls beside him as they recited from his shared book, the increased import that had curiously invested the familiar words they had read, the psalms they had sung. He sighed. “Yes, I remember the day, but — you do not mean the young woman you defended from that lout in the middle of the church, do you?” Darcy looked keenly at his valet, whose chin jutted pugnaciously.

“Yes, sir. My poor girl had no defender then, but she is safe now. Between your reputation, sir, as my employer and her new mistress’s care, she is well and safe until she can come to me.”

“My reputation…” Darcy repeated under his breath as he rose and stared out the window. Looking back at his man, who was obviously in some anxiety for his word on this exceptional news, Darcy nodded. “You have my consent, of course, Fletcher, and my wish for joy,” he pronounced firmly.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Darcy! We both thank you, sir!”

Darcy held up a hand. “But you have met only half of your intended’s condition for your marriage. It would seem the more difficult part is yet ahead. Perhaps you might put your not inconsiderable talents to assisting her in finding a husband for her mistress…and allow me to read my letters,” he ended with emphasis.

“Yes, sir!” Fletcher bowed smartly, the silly grin returned to his face, and retreated to the dressing room door. “Thank you, sir!”

“Fletcher!”

“Yes, sir!” The door clicked shut and a blessed silence reigned in the room. Darcy turned to the window again, the letters unattended in his hand. It was snowing again. The flakes, large and wet, plashed against the pane as they flew from the darkening clouds. The walled garden below looked up in resignation as the new blanket was laid, further smothering the hopeful, dreaming seeds in the beds beneath.

What had he almost done! Fletcher’s stunning confession and exultation in the prospect of his future state of matrimony served to focus Darcy’s mind amazingly. The temptation he had been offered, his unwarranted susceptibility to it, and the slimness of his escape finally struck him like a blow to the stomach. Of what had he been thinking? Had he thought at all? Upon cool reflection, he very much doubted that thought had had anything to do with the encounter. He’d been drawn to her intensity and passion without consideration. The lady was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, and of acceptable, even honorable, lineage and station. Her intelligence, talent, and grace, were undeniable. Her infamous treatment at the hands of her family and his observation of her fierce defense of her new independence now she had returned had further attracted him, appealing strongly to his sense of what was just and right.

He had followed her, allowed them to be virtually alone together, and almost succumbed to a strong, momentary desire to kiss her. Not only a kiss, he reminded himself, a chill creeping up the back of his neck, but a kiss conditional upon the denial of verities he’d assumed all his life.

The interview in the gallery and her open defiance of Heaven had finally roused him from the gossamer webs of his enchantment to the perilous storm that lay gathered behind Sylvanie’s fairy gray eyes. One embrace, one moment of weakness in surrender to the demands of passion and he would have put his family, his fortune, his very future into her hands.

Darcy laid his palm against the cold windowpane, welcoming the icy burn as he watched the snow fall with increasing speed. There would be no travel on the morrow, no matter how much he might desire to escape his situation. Not only had his purpose for coming to Norwycke Castle met with failure but the circumstances he’d encountered had served to harden his opinion on the unlikelihood of finding a woman who could drive the other from her residence in his mind. Fletcher had the right of it. Although she was present only in his mind, Elizabeth Bennet’s shadow had eclipsed the Brilliants that Society had offered him, whether in the halls of the powerful in London or among old acquaintances in the country. Her winsome loveliness of character and person was the measure he’d held every woman against since their meeting — and every woman had been found wanting. It seemed as much a divine cruelty as Lady Sylvanie had declared, this unwilling attraction that bordered on an obsession over which his vaunted self-control could gain no lasting sway. What hope lay ahead for him, save to sacrifice all to gain what his heedless, traitorous heart was set upon? Could he do it? Or, having done so, would he regret the loss of all else he valued? Or should he stay his course, maintain that within which he had been born and bred, and eschew love and esteem to marry for his name? If not for himself, did he not owe his heritage to his children and theirs?

One of the letters fell from his hand. Darcy bent wearily and retrieved it, then sat once more on the chair Fletcher had thoughtfully positioned and brought Georgiana’s letter up to the fading light. He hoped that all was well, at least, with her.


January 15, 1812

Erewile House

Grosvenor Square

London


Dear Fitzwilliam,

I write to assure you that I am as well and happy as may be without your company, my own dearest brother. Your friend Lord Brougham visited yesterday to assure himself that I am not languishing for company and to fulfill your charge, so he says, that he care for my welfare. Our Aunt and Uncle Matlock were visiting when he came and were quite charmed with His Lordship and, as he is your particular friend, have given him permission to act as escort along with Cousin Richard whenever they are called away to their own affairs. I must, with shame, confess that you were quite correct about Lord Brougham, and that you have once again chosen well. His Lordship is not so much a fribble as was my first impression. We have discoursed sensibly on any number of topics, and he has promised to squire me to lectures and private concerts that I had never dreamed to have the privilege to attend. His care for my happiness and schemes for the broadening of my mind are such that it is almost like having you with me, Brother.

I hope that you are enjoying your stay at Norwycke Castle and that Lord Sayre and his guests are the excellent, stimulating company you so enjoy. But, dearest Fitzwilliam, I am selfish enough to wish that you are not having so enjoyable a visit that you will extend it too far behind the date you had set for your return. Although Lord Brougham is very kind, I miss you…dreadfully.


With prayers for your safe return,

Georgiana


Darcy carefully refolded the letter and set it on the small lamp table nearby the bed. Dear Georgiana! It was wonderful how her sisterly words served to steady him. She missed him “dreadfully,” even with Dy’s overcareful attention to her well-being. And what did Dy mean by all this attention? Doing it rather brown, wasn’t he?

The room was now in shadows; a lamp would be needed if he were to apprise himself of the contents of Brougham’s letter. Darcy rose, lit the lamp by the bed, and took up his friend’s missive as he settled once more into the chair.


January 15, 1812

Erewile House

Grosvenor Square

London


Darcy,

Pardon me for using your stationery, old man, but I knew I must write you straightaway. You have landed yourself in a nest of vipers, my friend, for a greater collection of knaves, rascals, and simpletons could not be gathered from among our old schoolmates than are at Sayre’s for this “do.” I poked around Town after you left on Monday and found that Sayre is in the very devil of a fix — in a word, deep in Dun’s territory — but his creditors are strangely silent on the matter. Only the merest whisper of a legacy through a sister’s marriage could I turn up as reason for their odd restraint in bringing the matter of his debts to the authorities.

Had you any notion of a sister when we were at University? For I surely did not! Step carefully, my friend, for something havey cavey is afoot at Norwycke! I would advise you to come back to London directly!