Page 12 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 12

London September 1900

D arcy’s hand fell from his cheek, jarring him back to consciousness as he snapped his head upright. He shook himself and scrubbed his face with his palms before stretching back in his desk chair and craning his head to survey the window.

Nearly dusk already. How could that be? A full hour had slipped away while he ruminated and, apparently, dozed. He frowned at the stack of correspondence on his desk, wishing even half of it could have been something useful. Something productive. Something that would help his cousin.

But, no, he was to be burdened with investment statements and dinner invitations and the occasional letter of duty written by some old school friend whom he was unlikely ever to see again, except by chance. He picked them up, one by one, and set the letters to be posted on the salver while other specimens filled his wastebasket. Such a dry, pointless exercise had become his daily routine.

Bingley probably spent less than half this amount of time bothering with matters of business. The earl had a man hired specifically to sort and attend to all his correspondence—Darcy doubted that Reginald had written more than a dozen letters in his own hand in the last six months. And yet he, with his many cares and rather considerable abilities, wasted himself day by day at his desk. Waiting for something better.

By the end of the week, he would be bound for Pemberley. That alone should have brightened his dulled spirits, but the knowledge came with a sense of foreboding. Anne was now a guest at Matlock, and he knew well why she had gone back to Derbyshire. It was her signal to him that she was resigned to their eventual marriage.

Two years, they had agreed. If neither found a more attractive option before their deferment had ended, they would link their pedigrees and join their fortunes in the most suitably proper marriage the ton had seen in half a generation. But if they did find someone more appealing…

He sighed and rose to stand by the window. No use following that thought, because neither of them had the least notion of what they even wanted, save that it was not each other. A fleeting thought coursed into his mind before he had the power to check it, and there it lodged, like a rock half-buried in the turf. Richard found what he wanted when he was not even searching.

Darcy snorted to himself and pulled at his moustache again—a mannerism he had hardly been aware of before…

Before her .

How had that simple American woman so deftly wriggled her way into his thoughts? She was a mystery, to be sure, and he had always been fascinated by mysteries. But with her, it was less the intrigue of her circumstances and the curiosity of her birth and upbringing. No, it was something less tangible. Like the vapours of fog rising from Pemberley’s lake on a crisp Autumn morning, or the flame-cast shadows dancing at the darkest corner of his study, it was something he could not grasp. He could only behold and wonder at the mesmerising nuances and figures.

Perhaps it was that she was so unique to his experience. Surely, that was the thing. Her opinions, so full of starch and stubbornness, were merely fixed by her background and nothing unique to her character. And the cat-like way she moved—a product of a woman accustomed to work such as few men undertook, and perhaps a generous measure of watchfulness that must be natural in the wild place she called her home.

But her eyes… he could not explain those away. They pierced and sparked, then sometimes softened without warning in a way that made him wish to pour out his deepest cares to a veritable stranger. That must have been why Richard fell for her like a meteorite.

And that was what he must take care to remember. Her person, her name, and her heart belonged to the cousin he loved like a brother. Any disconcerting feelings inspired by her presence must be tempered by that understanding. He would become accustomed to it, eventually, and would learn to ignore the way his stomach knotted each time she looked his way.

But it would be difficult—damned near impossible—to pay proper court to his soon-to-be bride while that American fay was a guest in his house.

Pemberley

L ady Matlock called again a few days later. Elizabeth fared somewhat better this time, mostly because she decided that the strain of propriety was not worth the headache she would earn for her efforts. She had no desire to cause real offence, but she did not particularly care if she somewhat astonished Miss Darcy by her informal manners or her lack of reverence before the imperious Anne de Bourgh.

And astonish she most certainly did, though not intentionally, nor very much to her regret. In fact, the experience amused her so greatly that later, she and Jane shared a riotous laugh over the matter in their rooms.

Lady Matlock started it. She had brought her pet pug—a rather audacious gesture when visiting another’s drawing-room, but Elizabeth saw through the ploy at once. Georgiana Darcy was nearly yellow in the face with irritation at Lady Matlock’s brashness, but in consequence of her rather slavish observation of proper hostess manners, she said nothing of it. In fact, she pointedly remained almost mute.

The conversational void was unfelt, for the countess and Elizabeth had picked up easily on the countess’ favourite topic, which happened to be her children. It seemed the lady had some rather firm opinions on the matter of bringing the youngsters up, and she solicited Elizabeth’s views to see how precisely they might match her own.

“I knew it!” the woman had nearly crowed when Elizabeth affirmed her thoughts. “I knew Richard would find a girl of sense. Utter foolishness, this business of sending my dear little lad off to boarding school when he still needs his mother so! Think of it, Elizabeth. For nine months together, the best I would have of my sweet boy would be a letter, and that not even a pleasure to read, for I would know some schoolmaster had stood over him to correct his penmanship and spelling. And his precious little sister should have to go to yet another school in a year or two! The very idea! I’ll not have some stranger bringing up my little dears.”

“And what do you intend to do instead?” Miss de Bourgh snorted. “Bring the creatures up on your own? I never heard of such a notion. You would be entirely a slave to their education. It is a preposterous sentiment, Lady Matlock. I know very well that you yourself went to a school for girls in Boston from the age of nine years, and it did you no harm.”

“On that point, I beg to differ. Do you not recall the drudgery, Anne? The loneliness, the bigger children setting after the smaller ones, the rigid rules? My darlings will have a gentler time of it.”

“How very American of you,” Miss de Bourgh said with a frown. “I daresay a bit of adversity and hard work would do the spoilt things some good. Pray, Mrs Fitzwilliam, do not encourage her silliness. She is a rational woman when she chooses to be, and she must one day discover that the upbringing of a future earl and a society heiress is not to be undertaken by an amateur.”

Elizabeth had been trying to smother her amusement at the two aristocratic ladies bickering like children themselves over the matter. “I am sure you speak from experience, Miss de Bourgh, but so, I believe, does Lady Matlock. Why should she not be permitted her own preferences for her children? I can think of no one more devoted to the happiness and security of a child than its mother.”

Lady Matlock applauded this little speech, and even Jane was nodding her silent agreement, but Miss de Bourgh shook her head with a dour expression. “I suppose it is no concern of mine, but I cannot think what you see in the odd little creatures. Dirty, noisy things that are of no use to anyone until they have had the foolishness schooled out of them and are capable of reasonable comportment.”

“That is only because you have none of your own, Anne,” the countess answered tartly. “You will change your tune in time, and sooner rather than later, I think.”

A look of faint distaste crossed Miss de Bourgh’s features. “I dearly hope not. But let us apply to the one person in the room who must have some better information on the subject. Mr Collins?”

Billy looked up from his tea, his eyes wide as a frightened deer and his cup tipping precariously. He cleared his throat. “M—me, Miss de Bourgh?”

“Indeed. You said your father was a schoolmaster. Pray, tell us whether the conditions in such a school were as harsh as Lady Matlock seems to fear.”

He blinked rapidly and nearly choked on the gulp of air he had sucked in when he prepared to speak. “Why—why, yes, indeed! What I mean to say is no, not at all. I am quite certain that the… the conditions were everything agreeable and comfortable.”

Miss de Bourgh pursed her lips. “You do not know this for yourself?”

“Well, certainly I… that is, no, I was too young when… but my father told me all about it, of course. He was immensely proud of his school, had the very best reputation, you understand. And, naturally, he was always pleased to render his humble service to the fine families who deigned to send their sons—to receive the most exquisite education, of course!”

Elizabeth and Jane rolled their eyes towards each other, but Miss de Bourgh seemed pleased with Billy’s answer. She lifted her chin. “Precisely as is proper. I am sure you have every reason for pride in your father’s work. Tell me, what is your specific field of expertise?”

Billy’s eyes glowed with a passion that was rarely permitted him. He set aside his cup entirely and sat a little straighter, his voice a little clearer. “Well, Miss de Bourgh, I should say I am a fair Classic, but I have a fancy more towards the modern schools of thought as well. ‘Non scholae sed vitae discimus 1,’ of course. But truly, madam, it is the tale of all the world where I believe the hearts of the true learners ought to venture.”

Miss de Bourgh’s eyes pinched faintly and she tilted her head. “How do you mean?”

“Oh, that the experience of man is rather a common thing, and can be learned in the writings of places far and near. Mathematics are well and good, but a true master—if he desires to call himself such—ought to drink deeply of wisdom as much as knowledge.”

Billy’s face flushed as he fell silent, with a quick glance to Elizabeth. She offered him a short nod of praise—it was rare to hear Billy truly speak his thoughts. His particular skills had not been highly valued back home, so he had kept them well hidden, but it was a pleasure to be reminded that he did, in fact, have them.

Anne de Bourgh seemed to approve as well. “Brilliant explanation, sir,” she declared. “Your father must have carried on his school in an eminent manner. There, do you see, Lady Matlock?”

“See nothing,” huffed the disgruntled countess. “How can there be any comparison? If we must apply to an expert on the matter, we ought to ask one who has attended the very school my little Clarissa would be bound for. Georgiana, dear…”

Georgiana, who had been lapsing into a death-like ennui that had her eyelids fluttering in contempt and her lip curled into a bored sneer, exerted herself to attention at the countess’ notice. “Your Ladyship?” she answered, but her tone was not quite deferential.

Lady Matlock smiled sweetly, held the girl’s gaze for a moment, and then her smile slipped. She gave a little gasp and waved her hand. “Never mind, my dear, that will do. Er, Elizabeth, you seem a bright, clever sort of girl. Tell me, who managed your education?”

Miss Darcy certainly perceived the countess’ slight, and her features even looked nearly green after that. Elizabeth could scarcely bite back a chuckle. She answered the countess as best she could, with the result that the noblewoman came away from the conversation resolved to acquire books of poetry, a chess board, and a reasonably proficient tutor or two—all despite the doleful predictions of Anne de Bourgh and the affronted scowls of Georgiana Darcy.

“Mark my words, Your Ladyship,” Miss de Bourgh promised, “that youth will be fit for little better than a common tradesman if you persist.”

“And yet,” Elizabeth answered brightly, “are not tradesmen required, in fact, to know more figures and letters than others? My cousin Mr Collins can attest to the trials of keeping up an inventory, contracting with distant parties, and projecting futures.” She shot Billy a mischievous wink, and her cousin returned a look that promised revenge of some kind for teasing him in public.

Lady Matlock laughed aloud at this, but Miss de Bourgh sniffed at her friend and inclined her head towards Billy. “If you insist on this course, then offer the position to Collins here—at least he has some notion of how matters ought to be carried forth.”

Billy nearly fell over his feet as he stammered his profuse acceptance—even though Lady Matlock had not made the offer herself. However, by the time the Matlock coach rolled out of Pemberley’s drive, Billy had secured employment, Miss de Bourgh and Lady Matlock appeared equally satisfied with the outcome, and Georgiana Darcy looked thunderous.

When their hostess excused herself, Jane and Elizabeth shared a private look. Elizabeth pointed up the stairs with a wicked smile, and Jane shielded her mouth just long enough for them to gain the privacy of their room before bursting into giggles.

N othing had ever held the power to calm her senses like this. Elizabeth halted her mount and drank in a deep breath of mountain air. If she closed her eyes, she could almost… almost … imagine that she was back home, climbing the range just to the south of her father’s old ranch. The rocky, gorse-covered slope might instead be adorned in yellow snakeweed. The Derbyshire shale rang the same way under shod hooves as it did in Wyoming. But the smells, they were all different. There was a loamy quality to the earth here, rather than the familiar aridity of home… what used to be home.

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes tightly to stop that old searing burn. The waves of homesickness washed over her again, threatening to break loose her carefully laid moorings and cast her into despair. But no! It never did any good to weep—nothing ever changed by it, and she had forbidden herself to pass through that door. Not while… not yet.

She finally trusted her eyes enough to open them and surveyed the view. She had not gone far from the house—at least, it did not appear to be far. In truth, she wondered just how far into the hills she would have to climb for that mansion to dwindle to a mere a dot on the landscape. The moon, most likely. But still, the fact that she could now wander some little on her own had done wonders for her spirits.

It was Jane’s doing, of course. Jane, who seemed to get on with Miss Darcy the best, had sweetly cajoled their hostess into ordering a horse saddled for Elizabeth—and only Elizabeth—every afternoon. Miss Darcy might have simply been pleased by the prospect of having Elizabeth out of the house, but she obliged.

Whether she chose to ride every day was her own business, but the fact that the groom and horse stood ready for her after luncheon each day meant that she ventured out more often than not. And, thank heaven, it was no longer Mr Darcy’s big-boned hunter but a “diminutive” bay polo pony—also his, she was told—that felt much more like what she had been accustomed to at home. The mare was hot-blooded and feisty, but softer-mouthed and more biddable than the big gelding had been, and Elizabeth had come to like her quite well. And, after a particularly fine afternoon had inspired her to bring a book along, she taught the horse an old cow-pony trick she had seen her father use a dozen times. The mare now laid down for her on command, so she could take her ease and even lean against the horse as she read, if she chose.

As for that wretched side-saddle, it was not so difficult to slip her knee from the pommel and ride astride once she was out of sight of the house. However, without her old split skirts and with no stirrup on the right for support, she soon discovered that it was more comfortable to climb the mountains when she rode in the way of a proper English lady. Anyone looking at her from a distance at all might even mistake her for such.

Elizabeth fixed her gaze on the distant peaks and measured three long breaths. Up here, she could think, as she so rarely could in the confines of the mansion. And lately, what seemed to occupy her the most was her place in the world—or her lack thereof. Oh, how she missed home . Whether it was that dear old place for which she broke her heart or the people she had left there, she could not say.

Jane was settling in better than expected. Frequently, Elizabeth fancied that her sister might even catch herself some handsome Englishman and remain here forever. And Billy, he had left for Matlock as a tutor, though Elizabeth and Jane were still not invited to that estate. Lady Matlock had confessed privately to her that the dowager countess was not well, and it would not do to distress her, but Elizabeth was not certain whether the ailment was of a physical or emotional kind.

She flicked the reins idly in her hand as she frowned to herself. Bored . Above and beyond the homesickness, she was dreadfully bored. And it was not that she sought constant amusement, nor that she was incapable of entertaining herself, but she craved either the numbness of distraction or the satisfaction of feeling useful. Either would have soothed the edge from her nerves. That, or someone trustworthy and understanding to talk to—someone for whom she did not feel the burden of responsibility. It was a pity Miss Darcy had not proved to be such a person.

She sighed and adjusted her seat in the saddle. She had been gone from the house long enough, and it was time to return to being a proper lady and guest. She nudged her horse and started down towards the grazing meadows bordering the estate. At least the sights and sounds of Mr Darcy’s herds were something familiar.