But nothing prepared him for the shock he received one morning as he sipped on his coffee and nibbled on a toasted slice of thick bread with cheese melted atop, that day’s edition of the London Times spread before him. He skimmed through the social page, not particularly interested in what Lady Whocares had worn to some play at Covent Garden, when his eye was captured. He read the gossipy announcement of the betrothal of the Marquess of Wellson to the widowed Lady Fotherby in utter disbelief, his trance-like gaze returning to the top of the column again and again.

On a windy day in mid-October, after two weeks of pain worse than anything suffered as a result of battle wounds, Colonel Fitzwilliam rode up the long drive toward Pemberley. The mansion beckoned to him with inviting hominess as it always had from the earliest memories of his childhood. No one expected him, the footman Rothchilde hiding his surprise with typical formality.

“Welcome to Pemberley, Colonel,” he greeted, as if unexpected visitors were a daily occurrence, taking the offered coat with an impassive expression. “I will inform Miss Darcy that you have arrived.”

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Darcy out?”

“They are away at this time, sir. Dr. Darcy is at the hospital in Matlock, but Miss Darcy is in residence.”

Richard managed to hide his dismay at that undesirable news. He nodded, heading unerringly for the parlor and liquor cabinet.

“Cousin Richard, what a pleasant surprise.”

He turned at the voice, glass of brandy halting midway to his mouth, stunned at the vision before him. It was Georgiana, yet not Georgiana. The woman who was once his child ward strolled gracefully toward him with a beatific smile, blue eyes shimmering with happiness. She wore a gown of rich purple velvet, clinging to her tall, willowy, but curvaceous form with perfection, golden hair piled elegantly atop her regal head, face stunningly beautiful above a slender neck and delicate shoulders. She drew close, raising one fine-boned hand to his cheek as her eyes clouded with concern. “What is it Richard? You look sad.”

He would never be able to explain how it happened, but never would he be ashamed at the comfort he sought. With lithe dexterity she captured the glass as it began to fall, gathering his brokenhearted body into her firm, sympathetic embrace, crooning soothingly as she gently rocked the silently weeping man.

They ended up on the settee with him telling her everything as she held tight to one hand. She listened attentively without interjecting once until he had exhausted himself of words.

“I had to come here,” he finished, breathing deeply. “Pemberley has always stilled my soul in a way even Rivallain never did. Of course, I was intending to burden your brother with my woes. Forgive me, little mouse, for laying this on your slim shoulders.”

He smiled weakly, Georgiana shaking her head slowly. “Do not be ridiculous. This is what friends are for.”

“Where are Darcy and Lizzy by the way?”

“They went to the Lake District with the Lathrops, Sitwells, and Vernors. You just missed them as they departed three days ago. They expect to return in a month.”

“Were you not invited?”

She laughed. “No, but I would not have wished to spend three weeks with a group of young married couples.” She paused, the mournful cast to his face at the reference to marriage too awful to ignore. “Oh, Richard! I am sorry! Is there anything that can be done?”

He stood, walking the gait of an old man to retrieve the forgotten glass of brandy, drinking deeply before answering. “No. She has made her decision apparently and the date is set. A Christmas wedding,” he finished bitterly. He drained the drink in one swallow, crashing the glass onto the table’s surface. “Why? I keep asking myself why! I know her father is pressuring her into this! It is the only explanation. But it makes no sense! She is an independent woman now. Lord Fotherby made sure of that with a more than adequate jointure to add to her engagement settlement. Seeking her father’s permission was merely a formality. One I was more than willing to bow to, as it is only proper, but still just a formality. And to choose Lord Wellson! My God, Georgie! The man is disgusting! Obese, crude, in his late fifties, a reputation of mistresses and illegitimate children scattered all over England. The thought of him with Simone…” He paced furiously and although there was not the slightest hint of humor in the realization, Georgiana could not help but note that he, for the first time in memory, reminded her of her brother when he was dismayed or agitated.

“I waited and waited for her to send word for me to join her,” he continued brokenly, voice rising and falling with his anger and pain, “but no word came. Nothing! Then I read about her engagement in the newspaper. In the Society page, for God’s sake! She did not even have the decency to write me herself. I couldn’t believe it, I just couldn’t. In desperation I rode to the estate, but was repelled at the gates, by orders of Lady Fotherby I was told. God, Georgie! How could she be so cold? So unfeeling?”

“Perhaps you misinterpreted her sentiments, dear cousin?”

He shook his head vehemently. “I cannot believe I was so duped! It just cannot be that she would deceive so totally. We talked of marriage, our future together. She said she loved me, over and over! It was in her eyes, Georgie, in her kiss…” He paused, glancing with embarrassment to his innocent cousin whose face remained drawn with sympathy. “Could I have been so blinded by my own desires? I must have, although I still have difficulty countenancing it.” He released a harsh, humorless laugh. “My pride does not wish to face that error in judgment, let me tell you. I am not a child to be so led astray!”

“You said yourself that your visits together were few and usually with crowds about. When it comes to affairs of the heart, it is easy to be blinded into believing what one wishes.”

He halted his frantic pacing, looking with faint amusement into her mature eyes. “My, quite the expert on love, are we Miss Darcy?”

She blushed, ducking her head. “Little personal knowledge, I am pleased to say. And I do pray I never learn this lesson at the expense of my heart. But you know what William suffered and… Well, I do not suppose I am being a horrid gossip if I reveal what happened to Miss Bennet this summer only to you.”

Richard scowled. “Miss Kitty?”

She nodded, it now her turn to launch into another tale of romantic woes. Richard rejoined her on the settee, listening to the story with genuine sadness as he truly cared for Lizzy’s sister. Yet, as reprehensible as it was to admit, there was an odd sort of comfort in knowing that others besides himself suffered such heartaches. Additionally, the reminder of Darcy’s tangled web on the road to marital happiness was a mild consolation. The chances of his romance turning out as Darcy’s did seemed nil; but the hope, however faint, was in the knowledge that there may be peace found after the turmoil.

The following weeks passed in slowness both agonizing with the persistent ache that lived in his heart while also involving moments of tranquility surprising in their intensity.

A leave from his Regiment was granted, only General Tammon guessing that the “family crisis” was more of a personal nature. Richard had fled London with no clear purpose other than to escape the painful memories that seemed to be everywhere he looked and to talk to Darcy. All of their lives, although Darcy tended to be far more secretive than Richard, they had understood each other and innately knew how to cheer each other up.

Affairs of the heart, l’amour, were different however.

The Fitzwilliam family was not raised with the staunch religious ethics and morals of the Darcys. That is not to say they did not revere the Church and the tenets taught, but merely held a slightly more liberal interpretation. Richard did not suffer from the same reluctance to engage in or even discuss matters relating to sex as Darcy did. Although far from promiscuous in his romantic encounters over the years, never taking a mistress nor able to claim a huge number of lovers, Richard was quite certain his experience vastly trumped Darcy’s prior to marriage. Since it was the one topic they had never talked about, he could not be sure, but if a wager was involved, his bet was that Darcy had been innocent upon his marriage, as unlikely as that may have seemed to most.

So ingrained and natural was this taboo subject that Richard had been only mildly hurt when Darcy retreated and suffered in silent solitude after the rejection by Elizabeth Bennet. It was his mother who put the pieces of that puzzle together, Richard feeling like an absolute imbecile in not figuring it out himself; but Darcy going crazy over a woman had simply not been a concept that ever occurred to him. It was so utterly out of character. Since the resolution of that dilemma and Darcy’s happiness in marriage, his cousin had loosened up a bit in expressing emotions and discussing romantic topics. Never, of course, would Darcy follow the often ribald characteristics of some who delighted in boasting about their bedroom antics and prowess, but at least the subject could be broached, as evidenced by his openness in talking about Lady Fotherby. The one area Richard was certain they would agree upon was the sanctity of the marriage state itself and the belief in faithfulness for life; thus, Richard’s driving need to seek out his cousin and dearest friend’s counsel and comfort. He instinctively knew that Darcy would understand his pain.

So he waited and took whatever comfort and weak joy he could find in the interim.