Page 30 of An Offer of Marriage (Engaged to Mr Darcy #7)

TO KNOW HIS DANGER

T he carriage swayed slightly, and the sound of the horse hooves clip-clopping against the street was almost soporific as Elizabeth and Darcy travelled to the theatre later the next evening.

It was not their first appearance in Society since their marriage—Darcy had taken her to an art exhibition, and they had also gone to church—but it was the first evening outing.

Elizabeth understood that Lady Matlock had wished to hold a ball, or at least a large dinner party, but Darcy had refused, unequivocally.

Or so Anne had told her while they had walked one morning; Darcy himself did not speak of it to her.

Nevertheless, it was exciting to be able to wear one of the beautiful evening gowns she had purchased, to have her hair dressed by her new maid in a very elegant style, and to wear the jewels which her maid had been instructed to put on her.

Darcy jewellery, or so she supposed. She had hardly recognised the fashionable creature which stared back at her in the mirror; the pleasure of it gave her something to think about besides the pensive man opposite her in the carriage.

It was no more than a mile or so to Covent Garden Theatre, and the many carriages clogging the streets meant it was certainly far longer to be driven than to walk there from Mayfair, but Elizabeth knew better than to suggest such an unfashionable activity as walking to the theatre.

Instead she bore, as cheerfully as she could, the tense ride with her silent husband.

For a brief moment, when she had descended the stair to meet him in the vestibule, his eyes had seemed to approve of her.

Very briefly. It was likely she had imagined it, for almost as soon as she observed it, coldness and hauteur returned to his aspect and he extended an arm and said, “The carriage awaits.”

Those had been the last words he spoke. The carriage awaits. And now they both merely studied the view of London outside the carriage.

Elizabeth decided to place her thoughts onto more agreeable notions and contemplate the ladies she had met in the days prior in whom she saw the possibility of friendship.

Miss Lillian Goddard, also from Hertfordshire.

Miss Sarah Bentley, very wealthy and an accomplished baker of all things.

Lady Euphemia Boothe who was evidently very high, and if not exactly kind, was at least accepting.

She wondered if any of them might be present this evening.

“It is the same opera.”

Elizabeth required a moment to recognise that Darcy had spoken. She turned to look at him as he repeated what he had said and added, “The same that we saw some weeks ago.”

“Yes, I knew that.”

That was all. He turned back to his study of the view outside his window, but no matter. She believed she understood him well enough. They were attending to see and be seen, not to be entertained, not to spend time together. It was all for show.

A few minutes later, Darcy began to stir, placing his hat on his head and sitting straighter as if in anticipation of arrival. She did likewise, pulling her wrap closer, and smoothing her hair that escaped from the sides of her bonnet.

“You are looking very well.”

The compliment was delivered in a flat voice, devoid of any warmth, and Elizabeth hardly knew what to make of it. “Thank you.”

“I understand from Georgiana that you have had quite a few morning calls.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Good.” He gave a little nod, still not quite looking at her.

After a short pause, she said, “I have greatly enjoyed the company of several of the ladies.”

He nodded, seeming uninterested in pursuing the subject further. She supposed if they were going to have amicable conversation, they ought to perhaps save it for when they were in the box.

Darcy stepped from the carriage, turning to help Elizabeth out as well.

Her hand was light as a feather on his arm, and he caught the faint scent of lily of the valley emanating from her.

Her touch seemed to go through him like a bolt of lightning; for a moment he needed to turn his head and breathe deeply.

The weight of her hand thrummed through him, penetrating his coat and seeming to penetrate his stone-cold heart as well .

Save for the fact that I do not possess a stone-cold heart, much as I might like to.

A scant few days into their marriage and she was enrapturing him once again, despite the fact that he scarcely saw her.

No matter that; had he not understood the depths of his attachment to her over the long, cold winter in London?

There were months between when he saw her in Hertfordshire in November and Kent in March and yet his ardour had only grown.

And of course his musings of the day prior did not help him and had indeed continued to plague him.

It seemed, suddenly, of critical importance for him to determine what precisely she had felt in Hertfordshire, whether it had been hate, indifference, spite…

or something else altogether. Of course, he could not learn any of that without talking to her, and talking about his feelings and hers was not yet something he was willing to do.

The crush of theatregoers necessitated that she walk slightly ahead of him which also meant he was required to see the curls at her nape brushing against the milky white, undoubtedly soft skin of her neck. He imagined that he could almost feel the warmth of it against his lips.

It was one of those days, the days when he thought: Who cares how she got here?

I have her; she is my wife. And: Why continue in anger?

Just be done with it. Talk to her, sort things out.

She had spoken of their problems very candidly to his aunt and sister, had admitted her regret to them.

Lady Matlock and Georgiana had each subsequently urged him to discuss his feelings with her, to make things right.

Not ready , he thought. I am simply unprepared for any steps towards reconciliation, for to do so means my heart is open, once again, to being injured.

But the bitterness and gall which had supported his fury had begun to seep away.

He could remind himself of her actions, of her biting tongue, but the feeling behind it was no longer there.

She did anything he told her to do. She kept out of his way, she spoke humbly and meekly to him, and she performed in a society for which she had no wish to perform.

If she did not have at least some measure of respect for you, she would not try so hard to please you.

Unless she only wishes to save her own reputation.

He knew she had had an enormous number of morning callers; scandal would do that, everyone wishing to come get a glimpse at the lady behind the tales.

But it seemed somehow that she had won them over, or at least some of them.

They could scarcely move two feet before being stopped by someone else who wished to greet her.

Then they would stand while she sparkled and shone, talking with her eyes aglow and her countenance filled with pleasure.

She was very good about casting frequent, loving looks in his direction, almost like a true wife would.

She is an even better actress than the ones which will grace the stage , he mused, but again the thought lacked the true heat of ire.

The truth of it was he did not wish for this, any of it. He longed to return to the halcyon time of their brief courtship, those few days in London where he had loved and believed he was loved, the time when they were happy with one another. Had it really all been an act?

After what seemed an interminable stretch, moving through the theatre lobby, they managed to reach his box, seating themselves where the best view was afforded to anyone who cared to look at them.

They would be alone tonight in the box, to further persuade the ton that intimacy and their own companionship was all they desired in these, the early days of their marriage.

In some ways, it was truth. Even if it would be false, he longed to whisper in her ear, to act the part of her lover, to be close to her at least for a time.

And then Saye arrived.

“Hey-ho!” With a grand huff, he tossed himself into the chair on Elizabeth’s other side. Taking the libretto from her hands, he moaned then tossed it back onto her lap. “Not this again. The Season is so dull!”

“You know my uncle often says only a dullard can be dull,” Darcy informed him and Elizabeth laughed.

It was strange, the burst of pleasure her laugh gave him, and he smiled at her, feeling a moment of true, congenial amity between them.

“Yes, well, we think Father suffers senility, so what he has to say of the matter cannot be taken wholly in earnest.” Saye peered down at the persons on the floor beneath them. “Who is down there? Anyone of interest?”

Darcy ignored his query. “Why are you not in the Matlock box?”

“My father has lent his box to Contessa Bonifacio and her party,” Saye replied, his eyes now scanning the persons in the other boxes. “They are late, but you will see them shortly, I am sure.”

Darcy leant slightly across Elizabeth, wishing to speak to Saye clandestinely. In a low voice he said, “Elizabeth and I are trying to make this appear as a lovers’ outing.”

“Pray do not let me stop you,” he said with a smirk.

“Lovers do not generally admit a third,” Darcy said more insistently.

Saye gave a careless wave of his hand. “Pretend I am not here.”

“I would, save for the fact that you tend to sing along. Badly,” said Darcy. It earned him another laugh from Elizabeth, and he gave her another smile.

“I can stay and help with the Italian,” Saye offered.

“Elizabeth knows Italian and does not require your assistance,”

“I was speaking of you,” Saye retorted with one brow raised. “You know languages are not your foremost strength.”

“Is that true?” Elizabeth looked up at him.

He nodded, a bit ruefully. “Learning languages has always been somewhat difficult for me. Does it surprise you?”

“I confess it does. I thought it likely you were good at everything,” she said with another smile that seemed almost genuine.

“Not by a long shot.” Saye leant over. “But as you might imagine, Darcy was very studious, so the things for which he had no natural inclination only made him study harder.”

“There is a great deal to be admired in that,” Elizabeth replied, casting a little look at him.

“I, on the other hand, have natural inclination for everything but studied for nothing,” Saye informed her.

“I had only my charms to recommend me when it came to the approval of my professors. Happily, it was more than enough, for no matter my education, I am still a viscount and wealthier than Prinny himself.”

“Not true,” Darcy muttered, again to his wife’s amusement.

“It is true,” Saye replied indignantly.

The opera had begun by then. Although they had seen it so recently, Elizabeth appeared no less interested in it the second time round. She bent slightly forwards, her gaze rapt as an aria commenced, appearing to be lost in the feelings of it .

Preoccupied as she was, Darcy felt it safe to admire her a little.

She had been pretty in the attire of a country girl of little distinction, but now, adorned in town finery, her hair dressed by a properly trained maid, she was beautiful.

Her hair, richly dark and scented of something he could not name, begged to be let down.

He could almost see it, see himself pulling out the pins while the curls tumbled over his hands.

He permitted his gaze to move lower, watching her chest rise and fall with her breathing. It made him think of feeling that same skin warm against his own bare chest or—heaven help him—his lips. What are you thinking of? You are in public! Look away!

He could not help himself. He wanted her; there was no way to deny that.

He wanted her, wanted her badly, and had for many months now.

What would it be like to have the right to reach over and give a clandestine brush against her softness, or to whisper words of sensual anticipation for the night ahead of them?

The worst of it was, he could not imagine she would refuse him.

Elizabeth wished for things to be different between them.

Had not she tried, on several occasions, to speak to him about it?

She did everything in her power to please and appease him, wounded beast that he was.

She would allow him his marital rights…but likely loathe every moment she spent thusly.

It would be disgusting, and he would never so indulge himself.

If only he might persuade the baser part of him of the rightness of their course.

But no; there was a roaring fire within him that wanted to lean over and claim her lips, to brush her arms with his hands, and to urge her to abandon the opera and go home into his bedchamber.

Or hers. Or any place they might enjoy uninterrupted solitude .

Get yourself under regulation , he scolded himself. This is not the time nor place for such musings.

Saye leant across Elizabeth to say something to his cousin; what he meant to say would be lost, however, for he was holding his ever-present flask. Leaning over caused him to pour a measure of it directly into Darcy’s lap.

“Saye!” Darcy barked.

“Oh no,” Saye replied in unconcerned accents. Then he laughed. “You are going to smell of spirits all night!”

Darcy glared at his cousin, but in the meantime Elizabeth, no doubt wishing to appease, had extracted a handkerchief from her reticule and began to dab at the liquid on his leg.

For a moment, Saye was forgotten and Darcy could scarcely breathe.

Her bosom was pressed against his side—through no less than four layers of fabric, but even so—and her curls brushed against his face while her hand moved against his thigh.

The pleasure of it was absolutely agonising and irresistibly seductive.

He had to escape it. Abruptly, he pushed her hand away. Too sharply, he said, “I will take care of it.” She drew back and apologised, but he said nothing more, did not even look in her direction. He pushed his chair away from her and rose.

Saye had also risen but not from any concern for him, seemingly only to wish to stretch his legs. “Stay with her,” Darcy ordered him.

“Where are you going?” Saye asked.

“I will return shortly.”

He exited the box rapidly, still feeling Elizabeth’s touch on him, a ghost of a loving wife come to haunt him.