Page 1 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 1

London, England July 1900

E lizabeth Fitzwilliam had enjoyed a most excellent morning. The majesty of London numbed her senses and left her speechless with awe—a rare occurrence in her life. After a week in such an environ, one might have expected her to have overcome her wonder at each new aspect of the sparkling, ancient city, but it was not so.

They had returned to their modest hotel now: she, her sister Jane, and their cousin Billy, who attended them as their escort. Jane collapsed into a little divan near the writing desk, fanning herself against the summer heat, and Billy had left them to see about some “luncheon,” as the English called it. Elizabeth remained steadfastly by the window, gazing out over the rippling heat waves rising from the paved streets.

“Oh! Lizzy, I do hope you hear from Richard soon!” Jane sighed. “How long do you think it will take for a letter to arrive from South Africa?”

Elizabeth, still craning her head out of the window, shrugged vaguely. “It cannot be so very much longer. I thought we would have had word from his family by now, though. He did say to forward our address to Lord and Lady Matlock at Twenty-Six Grosvenor Street, did he not?”

“Are you certain it was not Twenty-Seven?”

“Almost positive. Perhaps we ought to have calling cards made up. Surely, we could not be accounted rude for taking cards by, though we have already given notice of our arrival. Billy says that is the proper thing to do. Jane, do you suppose his family might refuse to receive us? Perhaps they will disapprove of their son marrying an American.”

Many girls’ voices would have risen in a note of strained panic at that fear, but not Elizabeth’s. Her brow furrowed in distress, but it was only out of concern for potential disharmony with her husband's relations. Nothing would bar her from beginning her new life with Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam when he returned home from the front, and after that, his family’s displeasure would be little more than a distant trifle. The life of an active cavalry officer was a vagrant one, and she intended whenever possible to travel with her husband.

A quick rap sounded on the door of their little suite. Elizabeth, anticipating only her cousin’s return, gestured flamboyantly with her hand as she continued to gaze out the window. Affecting her best English accent, she playfully sang out, “You may enter, William!”

The personage who emerged through the door was a vastly different sort of William than she had expected. Elizabeth had only glanced over her shoulder when the door opened but spun and jerked stiffly when a strange man entered their suite. Jane also leaped to attention, embarrassed that a stranger should have caught her lounging so idly.

He was quite possibly the tallest man they had ever seen, of impressive proportions in addition to his startling height, and a dandy, by all appearances. He had removed his hat, revealing a richly tousled mop of curly black hair, but every other iota of his dress was meticulously precise. A golden tie wrapped around a high starched collar, his chest shimmered with a matching waistcoat, and luxurious satin trim edged the crisp lapels of his coat. His trousers were pressed so sharply that it was a wonder he had not cut himself on them, and the toes of his gleaming shoes were no less pointed. His thickly lashed eyes were of such a brilliant blue they were almost turquoise, and his chin carried a pronounced cleft, just in the middle. The most ridiculous of all was the thick, twirled moustache, which was so in vogue with fine gentlemen, but seemed preposterously out of place on a man whose appearance already tended toward the extravagant.

He glanced uncomfortably between them, shifting a folded letter from one hand to the other. He finally settled on Jane—which most men eventually did. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I presume?”

“I am Elizabeth,” she answered before Jane could correct him. She came boldly forward—her chin up, one laughing eyebrow quirked, and an expectant smile just starting about her mouth. “I believe you must be Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, is that correct? Richard has told me about you.”

He stared mutely for half a second, his mouth not quite closed. With a blink, he recalled himself. “Quite so.” He hesitated, then bobbed her a quick, formal bow. “At your service, Miss Bennet.” He straightened, then cast his gaze down to the letter he held. The brief wave of astonishment in his eyes gave way to some deeper feeling as he ran one finger down the edge of the paper.

For the first time, Elizabeth felt her stomach twist, but she forced herself to remain calm. “Have you some word from Richard?” she asked lightly.

Pained eyes rose to her. She could see the tight collar moving as his throat worked. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing emerged. Elizabeth’s breath left her, and she drew unconsciously close—pleading for the fear in her heart to be only a passing nightmare. “Is… is he…?” Her voice trembled.

He drew in a shaking sigh, and the flashing dark eyes rounded in deepest sympathy. He could not form his own words, so at last, he opened the letter and read a portion. “… We regret to inform you that Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam of the 4th Battalion of the Derbyshires has been listed as Missing in Action ….”

He got no further. The devastation that had fallen with those fateful taps of some distant typewriter ripped Elizabeth’s hopes from her chest. An inhuman cry choked within her, and she trembled as she had never trembled before. Jane’s gentle arms wrapped around her, but it was not comfort Elizabeth needed—it was strength, for she had none left of her own. The world fell away from her feet; she saw nothing but blackness as she shook and stumbled for some purchase on reality. Her knees gave way, and she could not even bring herself to put out a hand to break her fall.

Just before her head would have struck the floor, black satin arms shot beneath her body and wrapped her in safety. Elizabeth’s eyes, glazed with horror, only lingered on the fluttering paper—thrown away at the last second to spare her—and watched as it slowly floated to the floor.

Wyoming, United States April 1900

C olonel Richard Andrew George Fitzwilliam, second son of the eighth Earl of Matlock and special envoy of Her Majesty’s Army, drew his horse to a halt. He patted the beast with some satisfaction after their long gallop and searched the saddlebag for his field glasses.

The purportedly well-travelled road he followed was little more than two deeply-worn wagon ruts, with several meandering animal trails beaten along its edges. The blossoming grasses and scrub brush of the valley below him seemed home to a multitude of small birds, creeping rodents, and he had even glimpsed a few snakes—he had no idea if they were harmless or not. As his horse panted, he took a moment to appreciate the terrain. Stunning country, this!

Richard pressed the glasses to his face and swept the vista from his right to left. Rolling, golden hills in the foreground gave way to jagged, snow-capped peaks in the distance. As far as the eye could see, not one earth-bound human soul flitted about the rugged landscape. It was desolate, wild, and staggeringly immense. He lowered the glasses, his face reflecting the fascination and the undeniable call echoing in his heart. The frontier, with all its rough savagery and backward ways, was far more boundless and glorious than he could ever have imagined!

He had been the first to protest this assignment. He was a leader of men, and rightly ought to be with his men as they struggled on the Boer front. His superiors, however, thought otherwise. More than good men, what the army needed most was good horses, and rapidly. His reputation as a fine judge of horseflesh and an accomplished master of the cavalry had cemented the War Office’s opinion that he should be the one to replace Colonel Marcus at this backwater outpost. One thousand horses every two months—that was what General Houghton had ordered him to procure, and they had to be of a hardy type to withstand the rigours and deprivation of war.

He almost snorted to himself as he lifted his field glasses again. With an order of that size to fill, the army did not need a judge of horseflesh, but a bulk merchant. Even the best cavalryman could not assemble what did not exist. Her Majesty’s army would have to take what was available, and hope for the best.

Richard grimaced down at the rangy brute assigned to him when he had stepped off the train. It was not an auspicious beginning, if this was intended to be an honour to his rank. To call the creature a Thoroughbred was a stretch. He seemed willing and at least somewhat trained, but he was a raw-boned thing with a loose-jointed gait that rattled his rider’s teeth, and a head that could have suited one of the long-faced cattle he had passed.

How Darcy would laugh to see him astride such a monstrosity! Ah, Darcy. What would you think of this unbroken land? His genial face split into a grin beneath the glasses as he appreciatively scanned the horizon once more. Three miles to the west, along this crude wagon road, had been his directions…

His fingers flinched on the glasses as a figure dashed across their magnified view. Pulling them down, he squinted and then trained the glasses once more on a galloping horse. It was cutting a path almost diagonal to his own and flying at breakneck speed.

He leaned unconsciously forward in the saddle. Was that a thatch of curly brown hair streaming behind the rider? Why, yes, it… it was a woman! She rode astride, her wide-legged split skirt flapping in the wind and her hat fluttering by long ribbons behind her. He swept the terrain again and found no other horses nearby. A runaway!

Without a second thought, Richard’s experienced eyes projected a path to intercept the wayward steed. He put heel to his mount, and they were off in hot pursuit. The leggy brown horse performed better than he had hoped, and in little time at all—though it seemed much longer—they had nearly caught the flying little range pony. He angled a bit more sharply towards it, his hand outstretched to catch the horse’s bridle.

The woman had seen him now. Wide eyes met his own, and her mouth rounded in a single, inaudible syllable just as he closed in on her.

“Whoa, there!” he called, snatching the reins, and giving a firm tug to bring the little pinto into line beside him. “Steady, boy! Miss, are you w—” he began to ask, but in that instant, she slashed across his face with the long ends of her reins.

“Unhand my horse!” she cried and swung her reins again. “Get back, sir!”

Yelping as if she had scalded him, Richard dropped the rein and jerked away. “I mean you no harm, Miss!” he protested. “I only thought to stop your runaway!”

The fury drained from her features, replaced quickly with wry amusement. “My runaway?” she laughed. “I am glad you informed me I had such a problem, for I might have mistakenly continued to enjoy my ride.”

“You… you were not in any danger, Miss?” he stammered. Naturally, he had known many a bold female rider—why, his mother used to enjoy a splendid gallop as much as any man, and his cousin, Georgiana, followed the hounds whenever she got the chance. The reckless abandon with which this woman tore across the range, however, was altogether new to him. “I… I do beg your pardon. Forgive me for frightening you.” He backed his horse away, touching his hat.

Perhaps sensing her own dishevelled state, she reached to settle her wide hat over her wild, wind-tangled hair. “You are new to the area,” she observed, with a little curve to her brow and an impish smile about her mouth.

Unaccountably shy all at once, he could not stop himself from admiring her before he spoke. How her eyes did sparkle when she smiled! “Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, at your service, Miss. You are correct, for I am only arrived today.”

She lifted her chin in a nod of acknowledgment as her smile widened. “In that case, Colonel, I might suggest you take care of the prairie dog holes when you race your horse off the road like that. Another of your colonels crippled two horses in that way last year.” With a mercurial wrinkle of her nose, she offered him one last grin, whirled her stubby-legged pinto, and darted off along her original course.

Fitzwilliam’s own mount attempted to bolt after the other horse, and had he not his orders, he would have been scarcely less inclined himself. He stared after her. What the devil was a prairie dog? And what a singular young woman!

He remained thus, gazing after the receding wisp of dark hair until she had completely disappeared. Americans were a strange lot.

London July 1900

D arcy gazed straight forward in his motor car, his back rigid and his jaw set. How was it that doing the “right” thing somehow always fell to him? He had refused to engage any of his passengers in conversation once they were underway, although he felt the solemn weight of the gaze of the lady riding directly beside him.

“Ah, the Royal Academy! I have it on good authority that the glazing of the windows alone cost in excess of a thousand pounds!”

Darcy arched a brow but otherwise dismissed the American’s ignorant comment. Collins, his name was. A blathering, baby-faced simpleton who spouted useless “facts” of dubious origin about a city he had never visited. A more bumbling, inept, and forgettable chaperone Darcy had never seen.

He pulled up before his own house and hesitated. The temptation of the instant was to turn the steering handle once more and go on, take his passengers to the earl’s house, and wash his hands of it all. Once he invited that doughy American fellow into his own home, and the ladies felt the comfort of his protection, they would be entirely his problem—just as surely as they should have belonged to someone else.

The taller lady—the prettier one—had ridden in silence just behind him, her hands neatly folded in her lap and her complexion pale. She seemed respectable enough, though he had heard an occasional gasp of uneducated awe at the sights they passed in the street. A raw, simple country girl, but not an offensive one. She could disappear, and he would hardly know she was around. And that pasty fellow on the rear seat beside her could be easily ignored—heaven knew, his house was large enough that he might scarcely see the man.

It was the third guest, the reason he could not turn them all away, who troubled him the most. She rode in much the same posture as her sister, but there was something about her eyes… they seemed to be living, speaking things. They fell on him frequently—he knew this by the way his collar tightened each time they swept his way. He had made the mistake of catching her look only once, and he still could not shake that eerie sense of vulnerability.

She was too free with her expressions. That must be the cause. Her figure seemed to pulse and snap, in contrast to the others who were politely indifferent to one another. Not so with this woman. He could read each nuance of her thoughts as she turned to the window, could perceive her gratitude for her sister’s presence, and her patient disdain whenever her cousin recited another triviality about the London sights. And whenever she looked his way, he felt certain she was some enchantress, endowed with the ability to peer into the hearts of mortal men.

She was staring at him now—Richard’s wife. That was the best he could possibly hope to call her, for either she was an ill-judged “mistake” of his cousin’s, or she was a fraud. Her gaze was steady, her breathing deep and slow as if she were meditating before some great undertaking. Darcy spared her another glance in that last instant before he opened the door. Her eyes never left him.

He stepped down from the motor car to assist the ladies. His shoulders tensed, and the back of his neck prickled when she took his hand, and then she stood on the pavement, her face tipped up to his front door.

He extended a hand towards the steps in the most gracious manner he could affect. “Welcome to Darcy House.”