Page 36 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

Darcy shifted uncomfortably, aware of the sudden tension around the breakfast table.

“I’m afraid I do not recall her with any clarity, having not attended the wedding.

” He hesitated, then added, “I do recall that Bingley’s sisters objected vehemently to the match.

They considered it far beneath his station. ”

Lady Eleanor’s sharp intake of breath cut through the silence. “Fitzwilliam! What an extraordinary thing to say at breakfast.”

Elizabeth’s face had drained of color, her earlier animation replaced by a still dignity that pained him to witness. She lowered her gaze to William, busying herself with adjusting the child’s collar.

An irrational urge to offer comfort seized Darcy, so powerful he nearly reached across the table to touch her hand. He checked himself just in time, appalled by the impropriety of such an impulse. What was it about this woman that continually prompted him to forget himself?

“I shall mention your regards,” he said stiffly. “I am certain she would be gratified to know of your continued health.”

Her exclusion from corresponding with her sister, hidden away at the grange without attending her sister’s wedding, spoke volumes about the depth of her disgrace.

His hands clenched of their own accord. God help Mr. Collins if he were indeed the miscreant who had abandoned Elizabeth and her son.

Even if she had refused his offer before knowing about the child, an honorable man would have renewed his addresses.

Then again, why was Darcy perversely pleased that the toad hadn’t?

A piece of bread hit Darcy’s forehead, flung from William’s direction. Elizabeth’s mortification was immediate.

“William! No, sir, we do not throw food.” She pried another piece of bread from the child’s fingers. “I do apologize, Mr. Darcy.”

“It is of no consequence,” he replied, finding his voice oddly hoarse. He cleared his throat, which produced a sharp pain he attributed to speaking too much upon waking. “He is clearly exhibiting the Bennet enthusiasm.”

Now, where did that notion come from? He hadn’t met any Bennets other than Mary and Elizabeth. The baby, however, took his words as encouragement, his dark eyes lighting with mischievous delight.

“Da! Da! Da!” William crowed, bouncing in his high chair with such vigor that Elizabeth had to steady it with one hand.

“William, please,” Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

But William was not to be silenced. He gurgled and kicked his feet against the wooden tray, all dimples and sparkling eyes, his tiny hands opening and closing in Darcy’s direction as if demanding to be picked up.

A peculiar notion struck him then, so absurd he dismissed it immediately. The child resembled no one so much as Darcy’s own father in the miniature portrait he kept at Pemberley. But that was impossible, a trick of his confused mind and growing headache.

Flustered, he excused himself from the table earlier than propriety might dictate, the need to dispatch his letters outweighing social niceties.

The room had grown uncomfortably warm, and a slight shiver passed through him despite the heat.

He attributed this contradiction to the drafty hallway as he made his way to the estate office where he knew Graham Pullen would be reviewing the morning’s work assignments.

He would ask the steward to post the letters by express rider. The sooner he determined Miss Bennet’s situation, the sooner he could rectify the harm done to her.

But how? By demanding the errant clergyman make her his wife?

Heaven forbid, and yet, the only other alternative was unthinkable… and entirely too tempting.

As Darcy laid his aching body down to rest, he closed his eyes and tantalized himself with visions so improper they could only be attributed to his growing fever.

Elizabeth Bennet at Pemberley, her fine eyes brightening its somber halls.

William toddling through the gardens, safe under his protection.

The three of them forming a family not of blood but of choice—a ridiculous fancy born of illness and loneliness.

He imagined introducing her as his wife, watching society’s shock transform to grudging acceptance as his name shielded her from further harm.

He pictured teaching William to ride, to fish in Pemberley’s streams, to carry himself with the dignity befitting…

befitting what? The son of a country parson’s cast-off mistress?

Or he could claim him… forgetting all proprieties.

If William Collins denied the responsibility, all the better.

“Addle minded,” he muttered, pressing his palm against his throbbing temple.

His physician had warned that his head injury might leave him susceptible to such fancies—delusions that felt more real than reality itself.

This inexplicable draw toward Elizabeth and her child could be nothing more than his injured head creating connections where none existed.

And yet, he was too weak of a man not to give himself over to such impossible dreams…