Page 27

Fitzwilliam Darcy had never been a lady’s man by any stretch of the imagination.

As a child, he had adored his mother before her death and still thought of her with a wistful longing.

He had felt an intense, protective love for his sister since she had been placed in his arms as a newborn on his tenth birthday.

Growing up, he had spent some time with his Fitzwilliam cousins but more often he spent long, solitary hours exploring Pemberley’s woods and peaks, often pretending that he was one of those great explorers he read about, discovering new continents or scaling the impossibly high mountains of India.

His time at Eton and later Cambridge had been spent almost entirely in masculine company. He had divided his time between his studies, his bookish, intellectual friends debating philosophy and playing chess, and athletic compatriots serious in their training for various sport.

Darcy knew that most young men spent time during their university years practicing other sports with the local ladies but he had steadfastly avoided such outings.

In hindsight, he recognized that this was due in no small part to his disgust with the antics of which George Wickham boasted when that man returned to their rooms in the wee small hours of the mornings, in addition to the near constant teasing by his boyhood playmate over what he considered Darcy’s prudery.

In the privacy of his own mind, Fitzwilliam knew that he had been tempted like any other man, but his childhood in the idyllic wilds of Derbyshire left him with a greater desire to mimic Malory’s King Arthur than Radcliffe’s Signor Montoni.

The fundamental problem was that such a youth had left him singularly inept at understanding women.

He was an excellent dancer—it was much like the intricate footwork of fencing—but he was uncomfortable making conversation with strangers, not to mention the feeling of being on display.

This had become worse after his father passed away and he inherited sole control of the Darcy family’s vast wealth, properties and connections.

He knew the rules of propriety—what constituted “too much” interest in a lady, how to avoid being tricked into a compromising situation, and so forth.

Unlike many gentlemen he knew who regarded it as a great game, Darcy was left with a fundamental distrust of people in general and Society ladies in particular.

Darcy’s years of schooling had not prepared him to converse easily with strange females.

He could not catch their tone of conversation or appear interested in their concerns as he saw other men do.

He could debate Socrates and Voltaire with Oxford dons, discuss the economic implications of the war with members of Parliament, and talk about sheep breeding with a tenant farmer, but he had not a clue as to how (or why) to appear interested in the newest fashion of sleeves or the latest lace pattern from Belgium.

He despised gossip of all types and, perhaps worst of all, the subtle flick of fans and eyelashes that ladies used to convey their interest was as obscure a language as Mandarin to him.

In short, the advance of a flirtatious lady created in Fitzwilliam the desperate urge to flee.

However, the knowledge that a gentleman (and particularly a Darcy) must not run from a drawing room like a frightened fawn when faced with an approaching matron and her unmarried daughter was deeply ingrained and so Darcy had developed a mask, locking himself in place and speaking as little as possible until he might politely excuse himself.

It was not until Miss Elizabeth Bennet had admonished him in her delightfully arch manner that it occurred to Darcy that by participating in a conversation and introducing topics he found interesting, such interactions with strangers might be tolerable and possibly even enjoyable.

Elizabeth . He remembered the first time he had really seen her.

Upon stepping into the small, stuffy public assembly hall at Meryton, he had immediately stiffened as a sea of strangers turned to study him.

In truth, he had spent the first half hour fighting his every instinct to sprint from the country inn’s great room as greedy eyes followed him around the room and he caught whispers of his name and estimates of his wealth.

He vaguely remembered being introduced to some of the locals but although his habitual manners had him bow and nod at the appropriate moments, he recalled neither face nor name.

Eventually, Darcy was able to retreat to a corner and hide behind a trio of half-drunk, elderly gentlemen who were deep in a discussion of horse breeding and paid him no attention.

Fitzwilliam took several deep breaths, discretely wiped his sweaty palms on his coat and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to release some of the tension that locked his neck.

He was a Darcy, he berated himself, and a Darcy had no reason to fear a roomful of strangers.

“ Countrified rustics! Not a one with any connections!” Even the Bingleys and Hursts were far below him in Society for all of Miss Bingley’s pretensions.

Darcy’s thoughts continued in this vein for some minutes, reassuring himself of his own superiority in order to break through his overwhelming self-consciousness.

As his emotions settled, he began to notice faces and individuals.

The ladies of his own party swept by, Mrs. Hurst dancing with her husband and Miss Bingley with one of the local gentlemen—a Mr. Goulding, Darcy remembered.

Both wore an overabundance of jewels, lace, and feathers in an obvious attempt to assert their superiority over the local populace.

Bingley appeared as the dancers moved through their forms. Will smirked to himself—Charles had, as always, immediately attached himself to the prettiest girl in the room.

The dance ended and Bingley led his partner to a younger girl sitting along the wall not far from Darcy’s corner.

The ladies’ interaction suggested that they were close relatives but the two could not have been more different in appearance.

Where Bingley’s partner was a classic beauty with her symmetrical figure and serene visage, the younger girl appeared sullen, spotted, and slumped over what Darcy supposed was a pocket novel, removing her spectacles only when addressed directly.

At that moment, the horse-obsessed gentlemen screening Darcy moved away and Bingley’s face brightened at the sight of his friend.

Without hesitation, Charles and his enthusiasm invaded Darcy’s quiet corner.

“Come Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

Darcy very nearly groaned aloud. He had only just regained his equilibrium.

Partnering some unknown female with whom he had nothing in common could only constitute the worst of tortures.

“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged at present, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”

“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honor I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life, as I have this evening; and several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.” His eyes drifted back to the blonde he had last partnered.

Darcy allowed himself a smile. It was good to see Charles happy again. The death of his parents and elder brother in a carriage accident two years prior had deposited a heavy load of unexpected responsibility on his friend’s shoulders.

“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

Without bothering to look, Darcy assumed that Bingley was indicating the unappealing creature seated by Miss Bennet, which fired a spark of indignation within his ego.

He might not wish to dance, but he was distinctly irked that Bingley would push him toward such an unattractive girl when the younger man was dancing with such a beauty.

Darcy replied coldly, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had much better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Recognizing that his old friend’s foul mood was unlikely to be worked around, Mr. Bingley was forced to follow the advice and turned to greet a local squire and his wife.

Darcy was afforded but a minute to fume over the perceived insult to himself before the rustle of skirts alerted him to a presence moving in from the balcony just beyond his corner.

Then all thought was driven from his mind as a pair of sparkling eyes laughed up at him from beneath long, dark lashes.

Darcy was left breathing in the faint scent of lavender and gazing at dark chestnut curls bouncing above a slender neck and an elegantly simple rose-colored gown, accenting fair skin and an appealing figure.

Will swallowed and very nearly followed in her wake like a puppy.