Page 30 of Requirements for Love (Love in London with Mr Darcy #3)

“Did you drink enough last night to elevate your spirits?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Why are you talking so loudly?” Darcy muttered, cringing at the sound of his cousin’s voice as he took a long drink of coffee.

Fitzwilliam sat across from him, lounging on a chair and grinning. “I am hardly yelling. You, my dear cousin, drank so much you ended the evening on my sofa.”

“I remember. I did not drink enough to confuse my intellect.”

His cousin refilled his cup with a laugh. “Darcy, I said to our friends, let us circulate the bottle, and you held on to it all night. You were dead drunk by the close of it.”

He supposed he had been. It had seemed a good idea at the time.

Seeing Captain Peck and Elizabeth together, knowing that each was interested in the other, had led to a series of poor decisions after he fled his house.

He recalled drinking at dinner, and then at his club, and somehow the group had moved to his cousin’s set of rooms at the Albany where he had awoken only an hour earlier.

Darcy winced as he took in the bright sunlight across his cousin’s parlour where he had passed the night. He was too old, too responsible, to drink that much and sleep anywhere but in his own bed. “I drank more than I typically do, but it is not as though you had to carry me home.”

“Despite the wine you had been drinking, you were uncommonly out of spirits,” Fitzwilliam drawled. “You could think of nothing but Elizabeth Bennet, could talk of nothing but her, and in short, spoke so openly that all of your friends soon discovered the unreturned affection you bear her.”

No matter how heated by wine or raised by passion he was, he would never have done that. Darcy stared flatly at his cousin. “I did not.”

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “Well, I knew it, and if our friends had ever seen the way you look at her, they would know it too. Do you deny that you called on me in a rush last night, regretting female society and intending to enjoy the evening pleasures of a bottle?”

“No,” he mumbled. He finished his second cup of coffee and took a chance on toast. “Peck called on her again yesterday, and she welcomed him.”

After a beat of silence, his cousin said, “Only a rare woman could overlook all of your missteps. And Peck is a likeable man.”

Elizabeth probably went to bed in charming spirits, her head full of her new suitor, while he foolishly spent the evening drowning his disappointed feelings in the bottom of a bottle. All he had to show for it was the same aching heart and now an aching head to go along with it.

“I believe I drank too much wine last night,” he said quietly. “It will not happen again.”

Fitzwilliam gave him an approving nod. “A very good notion, cousin, and I will second it with all my heart.”

He might be certain to not drink himself drunk again, but ridding Elizabeth from his heart was easier said than done.

And how to manage his friendship with Peck if he pursued Elizabeth?

If their relationship progressed to the point of marriage, he would have to be a stranger to both of them.

He once thought finding her a husband would be enough to end his attachment, but now he knew better.

Elizabeth had too firm a hold on his heart .

He would never put himself in a position where he would covet another man’s wife.

“I sent my man to your house for a change of clothes and your fencing equipment,” his cousin said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Fencing?” he repeated dumbly, before chewing his toast.

“It is Tuesday,” Fitzwilliam said with a laugh at his stupidity. “You have two hours to sober up, and then let us go to Angelo’s.” His cousin rose to leave and turned back at the door. “And Darcy? Very few people marry their first loves.”

The exercise would be good for him once his head was clear of the alcohol. That would not be an issue. The issue was reconciling himself to Elizabeth being in love with his friend.

“There is a science in using the sword,” the fencing master said as he walked alongside the men practising. “But the true art of sword defence depends on your judgement in deceiving your adversary’s motions, and in not being deceived by his.”

Darcy knew he was a first-rate fencer and tried to prove himself so today during his lesson. Although he was now alert, he felt embarrassed, as though everyone watching knew he had drunk his cares away last night. Or rather, that he tried to.

When the lessons were complete, most of the men remained to set up bouts amongst themselves. Some did it for the practice, some did it to boast of their wins, and others did it to set a few coins down on the winner. It was a good-natured competition that he never failed to take part in.

“Darcy, do you need a partner?” He turned round to see Captain Peck grinning agreeably.

He hesitated for a heartbeat. “Certainly.”

His cousin was across the room and caught his eye as Darcy took up his mask and foil. Fitzwilliam gave him a warning look and subtly shook his head, but Darcy shrugged carelessly. He was eager to best Peck, and while Peck was not deficient, Darcy was much better.

A little glory and renown in beating Peck would feel satisfying .

They agreed to play to twelve hits and found a space in the room, measuring the proper distance before putting on their masks and making their salutes to one another and the spectators.

This would be a swift match. Darcy preferred fencing with quickness, a short time between the beginning and end of every motion, both in delivering the thrust or forming the necessary parade.

He eagerly began, rushed and plunged in to intimidate his adversary, but Peck kept his spirits and was not flurried.

Each thrust had its parry, and each parry its riposte, and Captain Peck met him every damn time. He hurried again, but Peck countered contrary to his expectation and Darcy was not sufficiently quick to parry.

Peck landed another hit. No one, even the best fencer in the world, could be sure to prevent a chance hit. “Can he touch you?” was an absurd question to ask a fencer. One, two, or even three hits from an adversary were to be expected.

Darcy preferred exact precision. A quick fight.

There was no need to wait until Peck returned to his guard to return his attack, but Darcy’s riposte was all wrong, and he was hit again.

Darcy felt his frustration build. He should be able to counter when his adversary first attacked.

Perhaps the alcohol from last night still muddled his mind.

He was skilled enough to attack when Peck thrusted, but they went back and forth, him with increasing intensity and Peck with a cool deliberation that irritated him. Darcy had to best him.

He cursed under his breath as he took a wild lunge that cost him another hit. To be a good fencer, you had to parry with judgement and return with lively exactness. He did not feel lively; he felt downright enraged, and the only thing that would satisfy him was a hit that made Peck wince.

But he was not firm on his legs today. He fell for every feint Peck made, and all of his own left him uncovered and gave Peck a wide opening.

The bout was soon over. A capital fencer could hit nine to twelve with anyone he engaged; Peck had made twelve hits before Darcy could get past six. Darcy cursed again. Peck was not double his in talent. He barely managed to salute before stalking off.

“Darcy,” Peck called after him. “Darcy, wait.” He stopped by the row of pegs with foils, masks, and coats and took a calming breath before he turned round.

Peck was giving him a concerned look. “You seemed angry whenever you received a touch. That is not like you. And you could hardly meet my motions today, either.”

“You were able to tire me and found many openings.”

“You quite hurried into the assault,” he said, smiling. “Were you attempting a new style?”

“Are you calling again in Charles Street?” he said sharply while putting on his coat.

“No, aside from today’s lesson and an evening engagement, my responsibilities to my regiment will occupy me for the present. I will not likely see Miss Bennet until after she returns home.” Peck’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Is this about yesterday?”

“You have become quite her shadow,” Darcy said with affected carelessness.

“I did not know she was alone,” he cried. “And, frankly, I am insulted at what you are insinuating. Would I do anything untoward to a respectable woman, to your acquaintance? Does that sound like me? You have a proper share of common sense, my friend. I suggest you make use of it accordingly.”

He expected Peck to storm off, but Peck held out his hand, and Darcy felt his anger slip away. He was not sure what he felt in its place, but it was not wholly unmixed with regret. He shook his friend’s hand with a quiet apology, gathered his things, and left.

On the street, his cousin caught up to him. Darcy walked whenever he could in London rather than trouble with the carriage, but today he wished he had been able to climb into it and hide.

“Feeling a little competitive today?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Contest is a natural part of human life.”

“Hmm. Competition can lead to ugly behaviour. ”

Darcy threw him a surprised look. “No one cheated or taunted one another or did anything unsportsmanlike or ungentlemanly.”

“Oh, I meant ugly fencing from someone who is a capital fencer. There is no way that Peck should have beaten you twelve to six.”

“It must have been the alcohol,” said Darcy, walking a little faster. “Another reason not to spend a night with a bottle. I should not have practised if I was still feeling the aftereffects.”

Darcy knew he was completely sober, and from Fitzwilliam’s gaze, he knew it too. “Practice? That was practice? You were not practising to strengthen yourself or even show off a little.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You can lie to me and I will forgive you, but do not lie to yourself. You wanted to trounce Peck, but your anger got the better of you.”