Page 1 of Darcy's Disguise (The Bennet and Darcy Chronicles #3)

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F itzwilliam Darcy’s desk was full of correspondence.

It towered. It spread. It seemed to multiply overnight.

Correspondence was a nice word for the bane of demanding pieces of paper which required a response. It didn’t matter how many he attended to, more arrived.

His butler, Simmons, had delivered them promptly that morning, and witheach passing minute, Darcy wished he’d hidden from his loyal servant.

The first wasfrom Lady Catherine de Bourgh—which wasnever pleasant.

My Dear Nephew,

It is high time that you fulfill the expectations placed upon you by both family and duty. Anne remains unmarried, and it is an absurdity that she should continue in such a state when theperfect matchhas been before her since birth.

I shall expect your responseat once. I shall expectyour presenceeven sooner.

Darcy tossed the letter onto the desk.

She was persistent, among other things.

He hadno intention of marrying Anne de Bourgh—none whatsoever—but Lady Catherine’sunyielding determinationmade it anexhausting subjectnonetheless.

Withgrim resignation, he reached for the next envelope.

It was fromhis sister Georgiana, which should at leastoffer a reprieve.

Dearest Brother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am content at Pemberley, though I confess I miss your company.

Lady Catherine has written to me—several times, in fact—regarding her expectation that you will soon be engaged to Anne. I did not know what to say in response, so I said nothing at all.

I trust you will handle this matter as you always do—with grace and patience.

Darcy growled to himself. Why was his aunt now hounding Georgianna with things not in her control?

Grace and patience.

He had exhausted both.

The remaining letters wereno better—requests for patronage, demands for attendance at insufferable dinner parties, and the ever-persistentinvitations from matchmaking mothers eager to ensnare him. Very few knew of the circumstances surrounding Amelia. Or they were ignoring his almost engagement.

Amelia.

He lowered his head to his arms on his desk, suddenly unable to keep his head upright. How could he have been so deceived in a woman? When would he have discovered her duplicity? After they were married? After their first child?

He sat up and paced his study. The whole system of finding a partner was flawed. You could never fully get to know one another, never a moment alone, only superficial conversation. And even if you were lucky enough to connect with someone, you just didn’t know their motives. Were they false? Were they in love with someone else as Amelia had been? He groaned. He’d not quite lost his heart, but he had been well on his way. The hope that he’d found someone to share his life with, the hope that she loved him and would be a wonderful companion, that kind of hope had filled him and had quickly made the bitterness of betrayal all the worse.

And now, he had no desire whatsoever to go through the steps of finding someone only to never truly know her. He was bitter. He doubted a good woman existed in his circles. He was making excuses. He knew it. The basic problem was simple.

He was afraid.

And for good reason.

The morninghad barely begun, and already he wanted to leaveLondon entirely. Which was unfortunate due to the social engagements he had already accepted or committed to attend.

Almacks that evening being one.

The London Season was challenging. He found it difficult to converse freely with people he didn’t know. He only liked dancing with those who he wished to know or already valued. He found Almacks to be a combination of all the worst sorts of activities London had to offer.

He leaned back in his chair trying to shake his mood. His thoughts sounded like the most uncivil depressing sort of person. Had he become such?

He’d do well to behave as his friend Bingley did, or at least attempt his cheery persona. If such a thing were impossible, he could hold his tongue.

He stood up from his desk. He best be out of doors. He’d get his horse saddled. Something he enjoyed doing would turn this morning around, surely.

Once outside he did feel better. The air was crisp. It shook him from his melancholy. And while out in his back fields, he admitted to himself that he had never really loved Amelia. Being deceived by her still hurt in many ways, including his ability to trust anyone ever again. But was he suffering from a broken heart? Did he wish she were by his side? A bit. But he would recover. What broke his heart really, was the idea that it would be impossible for him to find someone to love. He feared love was lost to him.

That being the case, hours later, at Almacks, Darcy reviewed in his mind why he had agreed to such an evening. If he’d determined finding a wife would never happen in such a place and he was wholly and completely uncomfortable…

Bingley had insisted. " You never go anywhere !" He had protested. " You’ll be suffocated by paperwork if you never breathe fresh air !"

Darcy highly doubtedAlmack’s could be called fresh air, buthis friend had been insistent, and so he found himself standing stiffly near the edges of the room,watching the chaos of a London Season unfold.

The hall wasovercrowded, the music wasloud, and the women…were particularlyaggressive that evening.

Two in particular had made ittheir missionto attach themselves to him. As a result he’d resorted to hiding along the edge of the room in the dark.

Miss Leticia Harcourt wasan expert at creating scandal—or at least, the appearance of one.

She had already"accidentally" dropped her fanat his feet twice.

She had"stumbled" into himnear the refreshment table.

And now, she wasloudly telling anyone who would listenthat she and Mr. Darcy were practicallyinseparable this season.

Darcy hadspoken no more than five words to her.

And yet she approached him again. She’d found him. "Oh, Mr. Darcy," she simpered,leaning in far too closely, her gloved handlightly brushing his arm, "you must not tease me so. If you continue tofollow me about the room, people will talk!"

Darcyraised a brow. "I am standing precisely where I have been for the last twenty minutes," he said dryly.

Miss Harcourtgiggled. "Oh, you are wicked! You know full well you have barely let me out of your sight!"

Darcyexhaled slowly, resisting the urge tofind the nearest exit.

People were taking note. The women were talking, gossip spreading. He hoped it did not involve him imminently proposing.

The only thing saving him from a gossip driven scandal with Miss Harcourt was Miss Arabella Whitmore who waseven less subtle than Miss Harcourt, which was a remarkable feat.

She hadspent the entire evening pursuing him, appearing at his side no matterwhere he moved.

When he attempted to excuse himself to the refreshment table, she was already there.

When he took a turn about the room, she conveniently tripped into his path.

And now, she had arrived seconds behind Miss Harcourt and was standingfar too closely, peering up at him withfeigned innocence.

"Mr. Darcy," she batted her lashes, "I have heard the most dreadful rumor."

Darcybarely suppressed a sigh. "Have you?" He found the whole batting of eyelashes odd.

She nodded, lookingfar too pleased with herself. "Indeed! They say you are to beengaged to a lady you do not even care for! This very evening.” The side eye glance in Miss Harcourt’s direction did not go unnoticed by the lady.

Miss Harcourt gasped and leaned closer. He was quite pinned between the two.

“I told them that could not be true, fora man such as yourself would surely only marry for love."

Darcy stared at her.

She smiledtriumphantly, as if she had just laid the groundwork for a proposal.

“I am not engaged.”

She practical jumped in place, clapping her hands. “I’m so relieved to hear it.”

He inhaledsharply. "I assure you, Miss Whitmore," he said carefully, "I have no intention of proposing to any woman this evening."

Her smile faltered slightly.

"But surely you must be considering proposing in general, Mr. Darcy," she pressed,lowering her voice seductively."A man of your wealth and standing cannot remain unattached forever."

Darcyhad reached his limit. "Indeed not," he said curtly,taking a deliberate step away, avoiding hands on his arms but barely.

Miss Whitmore blinked.

He nodded briefly, then turned on his heeland strode from the room.

He left a message with a servant for Bingley, called for his carriage and waited outside while they prepared it.

By the time he returned to his townhome, Darcy’shead was throbbing. He poured himself a brandy, sinking into his chairwith the fatigue of someone many years his elder.

He had toleratedeverything he could.

Lady Catherine’s demands.

The endless matchmaking.

The falsehoods, the flirtations, almost engagement to Amelia, the sheerexhaustionof it all.

And now he saw the danger of false proposals, rumors of engagements. He’d not like to entrapped.

He had to respond to Lady Catherine. If there was talk of his engagement to Anne, that must desist immediately. He’d have to speak to her in harsher tones than his mother would like, but she had not seen the latest efforts of Lady Catherine, may his dear mother rest in peace.

He missed his parents. He missed them for personal reasons, but he also missed them for the roles they played in managing the estate. And he missed his mother’s adept social standing. She would have been actively assisting him avoid the likes of Miss Harcourt and Miss Whitmore. She would have seen through Amelia and aided him in meeting the type of woman he would value at his side.

He glanced at the pile of letters still on his desk.

The expectations.

The responsibilities.

The suffocation.

He needed air.

He needed freedom.

Darcy let out aslow breath, pressing a hand to his forehead before reaching for the next letter on his desk.

He skimmed itwithout much thought, expecting yet another tedious request for his time or influence.

But this one was different.

Mr. Darcy,

As you are known for your generous patronage of education, I write in hopes that you might recommend a suitable tutor for our small parish school. We are in need of a man of good character and learning to take on the position until a permanent arrangement may be made. The post is modest, but it would be invaluable to our village.

Should you know of any such man, I would be grateful for your recommendation.

Reverend Thomas Rutledge

Oakmere Parish, near Meryton

Darcy’s eyes drifted over the wordsagain.

A tutor.

A position in asmall town—far from London, far from obligations, far fromeverything.

The ideastruck like lightning.

Could he?

For once, could he befree of expectation? Free of the name Darcy? Free to simply exist as a man—not as an heir, not as a bachelor of means, not as a prize to be won?

Could he, in fact, get to know a woman under no pretense at all?

He set the letter down, his fingerspressing into the parchment.

He could.

And he would. He could call himself another name. He could rest. He could heal.

By morning,a new tutor named William Dawson would be on his way to Oakmere.

And Fitzwilliam Darcy—if only for a little while—would be gone.

He dipped his pen in ink, writing a letter of introduction to the Reverend of one William Dawson, a temporary tutor of good standing and high social status. He smiled to himself. His life was about to change.