Page 2 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

CHAPTER ONE

“No.”

Fitzwilliam Darcy considered himself a solver of problems, a man who found solutions to puzzles and issues, be they of his tenants or his household.

He knew the best ways to judge a horse, which twist in a cravat set off the cut of his chin, and how high the water should rise under a bridge before worry of flooding should take hold.

With all his mastery of detail and attention to creating solutions, it was beyond the pale that one area of his life constantly vexed him: his family. Incapable of resolving their own problems, it was often incumbent on him to take charge—or take the fall.

He was a man of fortune and in need of a wife and an heir.

It was not only his family who reminded him; this recitation of his personal affairs—his houses in town, his estates (the three that were known), his marriage, his widowhood, his fortune, his marital prospects—was a popular topic at all the best clubs and sitting rooms .

It mattered little. He did his best to avoid ladies whose fathers sought his connexions and money and whose mothers desired higher status and multiple properties.

After all, he was busy. Busy with his estates.

Busy with business. Busy with his friends and his sister.

And, as occurred whenever he wished to see his sister, busy fending off his family.

For they, once again, had ideas about his marital future.

“You marry the girl, settle some jewels on her, and she shall give you sons. You will make your aunt a grandmother, and the futures of Pemberley, Rosings, and Matlock are assured,” Lord Matlock opined.

Darcy stared across the desk at the older man, ignoring his cousin chuckling beside him.

“Simple as that. Happiness assured for all.”

Silence fell in Lord Matlock’s study as the males of that house awaited Darcy’s reply.

“All save one,” he said, enunciating each word. “I care for the future of Pemberley and the Darcy name more than I do anything, including my own happiness. But I will not dismiss my wish for felicity in marriage.”

“We realise Anne was not the choice of your heart, and certainly not in full health. However, Cecilia is a fine, hearty girl. She is handsome like her mother and you get on well.”

Darcy tapped the arm of his chair; it had been another tedious dinner at his uncle’s house on Grosvenor Square and, as usual, resulted in conversation about the marriage market and his role in it. This time, however, the discussion was more direct: marry your cousin.

Was it not enough he had already married one when he stepped up to save Anne’s reputation?

His own father dead scarcely a year, and all his focus on learning how to manage Pemberley and care for his young, orphaned sister, yet he had done as his desperate aunt begged him and wed his sickly, pregnant cousin ?

“Darcy, do not let him bleed me again.” Anne raised her arm. Her sleeve fell away, revealing a thin, wasted arm, its skin speckled with bruises. “My illness is not what he thinks. It is...where he does not look. Spots and lesions,” she rasped.

He stared at her in confusion. “Anne, what do you mean?”

She looked away, tears on her cheeks. Mrs Jenkinson stepped from the corner of the room. “One of the ‘healers’ brought in by Lady Catherine. He spent a fortnight here, often alone with Miss De Bourgh.”

Horrified, and with great urgency, Darcy spoke to her in a low voice. “She is diseased from him? Is there...more?” His eyes dropped to the woman’s waist before he recalled himself. “A babe?”

Mrs Jenkinson nodded. “I suspect so.”

For a minute, he stood still, breathing deeply as he thought over the almost unimaginable situation his cousin now faced: disease, dishonour, and death.

When he emerged from Anne’s chamber, he found his aunt slumped in a chair in the adjacent sitting room.

Darcy held back his anger and incredulity; clearly Lady Catherine was aware of all that had occurred.

“Anne needs a proper doctor. Bleeding her is not the solution for what ails her.”

Lady Catherine gazed at him with a sad, defeated expression. “I am aware, Nephew. Anne needs a husband.”

The secret between the four of them became a promise at their wedding one week later, and an oath when, three months later, came the funeral. Lord Matlock was less grieved than furious at the state of affairs .

“You got a child on her, which I had not thought possible. What were you thinking? Annie was frail, sickly. Your own mother could scarce carry a babe to term. Now Anne and the child are dead, and your aunt has a broken heart.”

If his uncle thought him a scoundrel or that he wedded Anne from dutiful indifference or to inherit Rosings, so be it.

But to accuse him of causing Anne’s death?

The violence of his emotions consumed him.

He had not saved Anne from an agonising demise, but he would continue to save her name. Darcy glared at the earl.

“In spite of her ill health, Anne wished to be a wife and mother. She would sacrifice anything to bear a child. I discouraged the idea, of course.”

“You discouraged the idea but not the action. Shame on you, Darcy.”

All that seemed forgotten now as his uncle sat smiling at him in expectation.

“Indeed, I have discharged all familial obligations in marriage.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed. “What’s this? You have a chance for more, and there are few families in society who?—”

“I do not know what you mean by ‘more’. There is nothing ‘more’ I require in life.” Darcy recognised his uncle felt the insult of being interrupted and softened his tone. “Uncle, I have many chances, many choices for both my peace and my happiness.”

“My daughter would not bring you happiness? Cecilia would bring you our name, unite our families and estates.” Lord Matlock leaned over his desk, his girth blocking the light behind him. “You have a responsibility. We are family. ”

Yes, we are family. He was half Fitzwilliam, and had allowed himself to be pushed into marrying one.

He knew his family. When his widowed uncle had chosen to remarry, it was to a woman more similar to his sister Catherine than to his first wife; the late Countess of Matlock had been all that was kind, ensuring that Darcy and Georgiana had a place in the Fitzwilliam home after their mother died and their father recovered himself.

Then twelve years ago, Lady Joanna herself had died, and all had changed.

Almost before his mourning had ended, Lord Matlock married the young widow, Susan Harding, who brought with her a seven-year-old daughter, Cecilia.

The girl became the joy of his life. Finally, the earl said, a daughter to spoil and indulge.

And, Darcy realised, a daughter to marry off for political and financial advantage.

Cecilia Harding Fitzwilliam was approaching her second Season after rejecting at least one proposal the prior spring. But Lord and Lady Matlock appeared less fixed on the promise of that season and more intent on marrying her off to him before this one began.

Even had he been able to admire Cecilia and see her as more than a spoilt child, Darcy knew with certainty he would not marry again within his own family.

He had shown his loyalty once, been drawn into a painful, secretive charade to protect his dying cousin, and his reward was to be slandered for his efforts.

At the age of three and twenty, he had been a na?ve young man. No longer.

“I believe the responsibility of ensuring the future of Matlock lies with your sons,” he replied, firmly but with a casual air. No need to stir up more anger than expected. “As it is their responsibility to make my aunt a grandmother.”

“It can be yours as well, with Cecilia.”

“It matters not whether Cecilia is a paragon of beauty and charm. I shall not marry her. I wish for more in a marriage than to please you. ”

“Ho there, Darcy.” The viscount pushed out his chair and leaned against his father’s desk. Arms crossed, the slender, balding man stared down with an irritated expression at his younger cousin. “You speak out of turn.”

Darcy rolled his eyes. “Out of turn, Valentine? You , married some three years, living apart from your wife and yet to bless this house with your progeny, will lecture me on the necessity of family obligation?” He looked back to his uncle.

“I do not question the details of my cousin’s private life.

He knows quite well what is involved in producing an heir. ”

“Down, boys.” The earl tapped on his empty glass and gave his son a raised eyebrow. The viscount grabbed the tumbler and walked to the sideboard

“More than an heir is needed, Darcy.” Lord Matlock sat back in his chair, a less severe expression on his face.

“My sisters are gone. You are Anne’s only son, and I know she would want the family to be united.

Catherine wished the de Bourgh line to be strengthened and its coffers enriched by a betrothal between you and Annie.

None of us believed it wise. Childbirth would have killed her?—”

“If the very act of child-begetting had not,” growled the viscount. He set down his father’s glass of port and slid into his chair, one leg over the arm, still wearing a scowl. His younger brother, leaning against the wall, snorted quietly.

Darcy stood angrily. “I heard no discouraging words from you, Uncle, but rather encouraging ones when I married.”

“Look at you, crying over such sacrifice!” his uncle growled. “It was my sister and my niece who died! The attachment may have cost you your chance at the first tier of society for a year or two, but it doubled your fortune!”

The viscount chuckled. “Which is your greatest asset, as your reputation is now forever suspect.”

“I am unaware of doors being closed in my face, Valentine,” Darcy said, ignoring the memory of a few years prior, when, perceived as a merry widower, he truly was the talk of the town. “I am welcomed everywhere I deign to go.”

“Your fortune gilds your path, Nephew, and the men who wish an alliance between you and their daughters wish access to it. Just the other day, I heard Bluth and Skevington espousing the great felicity your fortune could provide them if only their daughters were of age.”

“If only one girl was not German and the other the spitting image of her brutishly ugly mother.” Richard, finally bestirred to speak, provoked a brief smile from Darcy as he retook his seat.

“I shall marry when I choose. I married once, which is more than some in this room can say.”

The earl frowned at his nephew before the viscount once again interjected, “This game of yours must end. Your sister’s heart has been bruised by your neglect. Do not let my sister’s be next.”

Darcy leaned back in his seat, crossed his legs, and gave his eldest cousin a cool look. “Are you calling me out, Valentine?”

His uncle smacked his hand on his desk. “No threats, no entreaties. There are threads that bind us as family, obligations and duties that weigh on us. We enjoy great privilege but our lives have requirements.

“Cecilia is in need of a husband. You are in need of a wife. The ton is full of scoundrels and empty-headed, empty-pocket wags. She is a good girl. I will not have her subject to a gamer or gambler or wastrel in search of a fortune, nor will I see Pemberley and Rosings despoiled by a father desperate for a son-in-law to enhance his coffers.”

His uncle had spoken so many words on schemers and spendthrifts, it was as if he had sourced a thesaurus.

Darcy wondered whether a barrister could do so well in writing a closing argument, and realised that his uncle had, if not rehearsed this proposition, then spent good time and care in composing its words .

“Sir, I need no proposals written for me.”

Richard laughed and Darcy knew he had heard this speech before.

“The two of you are of age for marriage,” the older man said, his tone more paternal than scolding as his eyes moved between them. “Another season is not in Cecilia’s best interests, nor is it in yours. You have always got on well and she would be a good sister to Georgiana?—”

“I shall take your advice under consideration.”

“Cecilia needs no considering or pondering. It is she who should consider you as husband! What kind of man hides himself away and declines invitations to balls and parties?”

“Whose own sister does not wish to spend time with him?” Valentine unfolded himself from his recumbent position. “Georgiana is happier with us than with Darcy,” he said scornfully. “Yet we are to trust my sister with him.”

Darcy would congratulate himself later for withholding his anger at both men.

Cecilia had already a serious flirtation behind her, with a man of curious morals and small riches, and at least one other entanglement which could have forced a wedding had Richard not intervened during a house party.

Had her parents ever been told of those events?

Likely not; in her step-father’s eye, Cecilia had no faults.

She was handsome like her mother, and favoured the Fitzwilliams’ choice of pursuits: horses, dogs, shopping, and dancing.

Little wonder Georgiana was happier with the Fitzwilliams than with him; shopping for ribbons and music and novels was preferable to a brother who would quiz her on French and geometry.

She certainly did not wish for his company.

His hand clenched to think on it, to think of what Georgiana was doing without his guidance.

Enjoying herself.

His uncle was correct on at least one point.

His mourning had concluded more than three years ago, yet he sat home most evenings, refusing all social engagements but for family and one or two close friends.

Now his family was unbearable with its demands.

It was time for a change. He would accept the invitation he had received from Bingley.

Hertfordshire was but a morning’s ride away.