Page 25 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
All eyes turned to the inappropriate woman who at least had the grace to lower her gaze. Her color deepened. Georgiana had moved to his side, and behind the woman stood a stern gentlewoman holding a Bible.
Aunt Eleanor stepped smoothly into the void.
“Allow me to make proper introductions,” she said. “Fitzwilliam, this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her sister, Miss Mary Bennet. They have been residing at Bellfield Grange these past months as my guests. And this young gentleman,” she added, gesturing to the child, “is Master William Bennet.”
“Ah, the Bennets of Yorkshire?” Darcy mumbled, raking his memories. “Or perhaps Sheffield?”
“No sir. Hertfordshire.” The woman curtsied and received her son from Pullen.
“A county I’m unfamiliar with,” Darcy replied conversationally, trying to put her at ease. “Although I have heard the landscape is quite picturesque. I apologize for my misapprehension, Miss Bennet. ”
Was it his imagination or did she flinch at his pronunciation of her name? Her expression remained carefully controlled, but Darcy detected a flash of something in her fine eyes—hurt, perhaps, or disappointment. Why his mistake should affect her so deeply, he could not fathom.
“No apology necessary, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, her voice musical and well-modulated—the voice of a gentlewoman, not a farmer’s wife as he had assumed. “We understand that… circumstances… have made many things unfamiliar to you.”
“Ah.” Darcy found himself continuing to look at her, aware that his scrutiny was becoming improper yet unable to look away.
There was something about her features, the way she held herself, that commanded his attention despite his better judgment.
He forced himself to turn to Lady Eleanor.
“I was not aware you had connections in Hertfordshire, Aunt.”
“The connection is more recent,” Lady Eleanor replied with careful neutrality. “Through mutual acquaintances.”
The woman avoided his gaze, giving him an opportunity to study her without seeming to pay her inordinate attention.
She was handsome, no doubt, but in a wild, unrefined manner, like a Yorkshire goat, hardy with more strength than her size would suggest. Her sister, Mary, appeared properly reserved, but the one with the child, Elizabeth, caused the most unsettling sensations in his chest despite her obvious moral failings.
How could his aunt possibly countenance such a woman’s presence in his household?
An unmarried “Miss” with a child, installed as what appeared to be the housekeeper of Bellfield Grange?
And then, Georgiana tickled the child’s feet and the boy belted out in laughter—easy laughter that made him feel strangely drawn to the sound despite himself. And the woman, Elizabeth laughed, her voice rich with amusement.
“Perhaps the young master favors the Bennet side in temperament,” she said lightly. “We tend to laugh more freely than some families of greater consequence, though perhaps with less dignity. ”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Darcy said, suddenly needing to escape this confusion, “I should like to retire to my chambers. The journey has been fatiguing.”
“Of course,” Pullen said quickly. “Your rooms are prepared, sir. If you’ll follow me?”
Darcy nodded and moved through the parlor, walking directly past Elizabeth Bennet and her child.
As he did, he found his gaze drawn once more to her face, lingering a moment too long.
She met his eyes with a directness that both startled and inexplicably pleased him, before he recollected himself and looked away.
What was he missing here?
“Your chambers are this way, sir,” Pullen directed, leading him up a narrow staircase.
The room prepared for him was large and airy, with windows overlooking the rolling hills beyond. A fire had been lit against the September chill, and his traveling cases had already been brought up.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Pullen asked.
“No,” Darcy replied, then, remembering his manners, added, “Thank you.”
Left alone, Darcy sank into a chair by the window, pressing his fingertips against his temples. The headache that had become his constant companion since the injury pulsed behind his eyes. He closed them briefly, seeking relief that did not come.
When he opened them again, his gaze fell on the scene below.
Elizabeth Bennet stood in the garden, her child toddling unsteadily beside her, one small hand clutching her skirts for balance.
As Darcy watched, the boy took several independent steps before tumbling onto the grass.
Instead of crying, he frowned—a particular expression of annoyed determination that struck Darcy as oddly familiar.
Elizabeth laughed and helped the child to his feet, her face transformed by her smile. The sight stirred something in Darcy—a feeling so acute it might have been his heart crying.
He watched her longer than propriety should allow, studying the graceful way she moved, the animated expressions that crossed her features as she spoke to her son.
Despite his disapproval of her situation, he could not deny that there was something compelling about her—a quality that demanded attention.
Darcy turned abruptly from the window, disturbed by his own thoughts.
What was wrong with him, to be so fixated on a woman whose moral character was clearly questionable?
Perhaps his extended confinement had affected his judgment more than he cared to admit.
He had been too long without proper society if he found himself drawn to observe a fallen woman with such inexplicable interest.
He would be polite to the Bennet sisters, respectful to Pullen, and attentive to his aunt and sister. He would give no indication of his confusion, his frustration, or the strange pull he felt toward a woman he could not recall ever meeting.
And he would certainly not allow himself to watch her from windows like some lovesick youth. He was Fitzwilliam Edmund Darcy of Pemberley, and whatever else his injury might have taken from him, it would not take his dignity or his sense of proper conduct.