Page 13 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)
Chapter 13
D arcy found himself at sixes and sevens. The officers at Whitehall and even General Houghton had provided almost nothing new of import for Reginald’s questions. He had been able to dispatch another letter to Richard’s fellow officers, but it would be weeks, at best, before any reply could be had. And so, the most prudent thing to do seemed to be to withdraw again to Pemberley, at least until travel to Africa was favourable.
A groom had brought his horse to the train station at Derby, and Darcy set out at a brisk trot for home. After the stifling air and cobblestones of London, the springy green of the turf beneath his horse’s hooves was invigorating. An hour’s ride—long enough to clear the cobwebs from his body after so much sedentary waiting. Why had he stayed in London so long?
Oh… yes.
Richard’s wife must be relegated to her proper place in his mind and in his home. That was what he must do. She would take her meals with the family as a guest naturally should, but he would avoid her during his hours of work and study. She must not interfere with his daily activities, with his plans and routines, for she was but one more woman in a house full of them. And as soon as Reginald joined his wife at Matlock, Darcy would pressure his cousin to do his proper duty and receive the whole party as he should have done before—the dowager and her sensibilities be hanged. That would secure him peace of mind on all fronts, and that was the only logical and proper thing to do.
By the time he crested the knoll overlooking his home, he was filled with a renewed sense of purpose and decisiveness. This enigma of a woman would know her place, and he would no longer permit her presence to cloud his judgment. What was she but a small nuisance? The real problems—Richard, his business interests, Georgiana’s future, and the management of his home—these must be first in his mind.
Only a few moments after he had settled this with himself, he was tested. He had ridden the shorter route, round the fields of grazing livestock, when a distressed lowing caught his attention. Not far off, one of his shorthorns was down, and she looked to be bringing a calf. It was late even for an Autumn calf—most of the other calves were already fat and sleek—but this appeared to be one of the younger heifers. If she had no help…
But what was that? A horse stood nearby. Whoever had come to the cow’s aid was already hunched behind her. Darcy jogged near, expecting it to be one of his herdsmen. “How is she?”
There was a surprised squeak, and a bare, curly head popped up above the cow’s hip. “Oh, thank goodness it is you, Mr Darcy! Can you help?”
“What the devil… Mrs Fitzwilliam!” Darcy swung down from his mount and was at her side in an instant. “What are you doing out here?”
She cocked an annoyed look up to him as he towered over her. “Trying to save your cow, which is more than you are doing. Come, lend me a hand. I don’t have any rope.”
“Mrs Fitzwilliam, my men will look after the cow. I insist you come away at once!”
“Your men are at least twenty minutes away, and unprepared besides. It will be nearly an hour before they make it back here if we go to fetch them. Do you really intend to let your cow die rather than permitting me a little blood on my hands?”
“You cannot know what you are doing!”
But, in fact, she did seem to know. He watched in horrified amazement as she did the unspeakable—reaching inside the cow to search for the calf’s front hooves. She grimaced, her dark eyes looking in his direction but not focused upon him. “Mr Darcy, I can feel it, but my hand is not large enough to grasp. Can you try?”
Revulsion shuddered through him, but his pride would not suffer for a woman and a guest to best him at such an endeavour. He stripped off his coat and tossed it over his saddle, then rolled up his shirt sleeves to kneel beside her.
The rest passed in something of a daze for Darcy. Above the gritty brutality of the scene, a piercing awareness left him reeling. Her shoulders were pressed into his chest as she tried to turn the calf, then they were pulling together. His mind must have closed itself down to everything it found repulsive, for the only senses he was aware of was the touch of her hand beside his, the warm life stirring beneath his fingertips, and the fresh, clean fragrance of her hair when the calf lurched at last, and she fell into him. She was laughing, her weight toppling him backwards. Though he still held his soiled hands apart, his arms unconsciously closed around her body until the soft flesh of her neck bumped his chin.
She wriggled, trying to sit upright again and accidentally delivering a few rather sharp blows to his ribs in the process. “A bull! It is a bull calf, sir! I—” She stopped mid-sentence as she turned to him and found his face only inches away. She cleared her throat, blinked, then looked down at her hands. “I suppose I need some water.”
He lurched unsteadily to his feet and offered his hand to help her up, then considered withdrawing it when he saw the filth covering his palm. “Uhm…”
But before he could step back, she grasped his hand, and a moment later they stood facing one another—both the worse for their labours. “I…” He stared stupidly at their hands, their clothes, and still could not help but admire the sweat-streaked tendrils of hair that had worked loose from her bun.
She was still holding his hand, but with a few rapid blinks and a gasp, dropped it suddenly. “Mr Darcy, sir, I beg you would forgive me for asking that of you.”
“Asking what? That I would care for my own animals? Who should have done it but I? You were quite right, for both would have died if we had tried to send for help.”
“But to direct you to do as I did… to order you to… you must have found it offensive. I expect now you know me to be far less a lady than I had managed to convince you before.”
He laughed quietly. “I had already settled it with myself that you were no proper lady. That was no surprise to me, but do you always fling yourself headlong into trial and danger?”
“Frequently, I am afraid.”
“Indeed! Perhaps I am beginning to understand why my cousin carried you off, after all.”
Her expression at once took on a haunted, broken look, and she stepped back. Idiot , Darcy scolded himself. What a foolish thing to say to a woman mourning the absence of her husband!
She was looking uncomfortably around, avoiding his face. Darcy gestured beyond her, fumbling for some way of helping her forget his careless words. “There is a stream just there. We can wash a little, and I will escort you through the secret passageways into the house.”
Mrs Fitzwilliam tilted her head, those eyes twinkling in curiosity. “Secret passageways? Why?”
“I… thought it might go better for you if you were not seen… that is, before you dressed.”
“Oh. Miss Darcy would find it vulgar. Of course, you are right. I had not thought of that.”
Darcy pinched his lips together and turned about, rather than meeting her gaze. The young cow was already standing and cleaning her calf, her mortal peril now entirely forgotten. The calf, too, thrashed lustily and then struggled to his feet. Mrs Fitzwilliam was beaming proudly as they watched the youngster, then turned as if to share her infectious joy but she sobered instantly when she met his eyes. He tipped his head in the direction of the stream, trickling only a few yards away, and began to walk. She followed, then they knelt together on the marshy bank.
Darcy’s eyes strayed from his own hands to the delicate lines of hers as the cool water sparkled over them. Her hands were formed… differently than he was accustomed to. Her fingers were not long and tapered like most ladies he knew, but rather short, and not entirely straight. The flexor muscles at the base of her thumb were well-defined and curved almost voluptuously down to delicate wrists. Her forearms were sculpted, shapely and lean, and a fine network of veins crossed their inner surface… no. No, they were not veins, but a light web of scars.
He looked curiously to her face, but she had apparently sensed his notice. Her mouth was set grimly, and she even seemed to be turning faintly away as she finished the task of cleaning her hands. Darcy settled back to his own concerns, briskly scrubbing his forearms, and then shaking the cold droplets from his skin. He returned to the horses before she did, and retrieved both of their hats from the ground, dusting hers off before offering it again to her. She accepted it as if uncertain what to do with it, turning it over with a furrowed brow before she settled it on her head, the veil slightly askew.
“Mrs Fitzwilliam, if I may?” He gently turned the hat on her head, and enjoyed her embarrassed giggle more than he cared to admit. He then offered his hand to assist her into the saddle. Her face softened, and she looked for a moment as if she would accept with pleasure, but then her features seemed to cool.
“Thank you, Mr Darcy, but it is not necessary. I can manage.” She gave the horse a cue, and Darcy watched in astonishment as his own mare—a champion polo pony purchased for her fire and quickness—gave a low groan and dropped herself down on the grass for her rider to mount. Mrs Fitzwilliam settled herself in the saddle, and even spread her skirts with little trouble, and then she gave the horse another signal to stand up.
She grinned proudly back at Darcy. “I have grown quite fond of your horse, sir.”
He coughed. “Yes, well… not many can manage a horse of her sensitivity, but I see you are getting on with her well enough.”
She laughed and patted the mare’s neck, but when she took up the reins, she looked all abashed, then started twisting in the saddle and looking at the ground. “Drat!”
“Something amiss?”
“I, ah… I believe I have lost my gloves again. I forgot all about them—not used to them, you see. I think it is the third pair I have lost.”
“And I am certain they will not be the last. Come, I believe we can manage to find another pair for you.”
She tightened her lips into an apologetic smile. “I am afraid I am quite the nuisance with my wardrobe. I understand I have already ruined four petticoats beyond any hope of proper restoration.”
“Five, after today. I shall be certain to send my cousin the launderer’s bill... the earl, that is,” he clarified when her brow creased faintly. “Truly, I am in jest, Mrs Fitzwilliam.”
“I should hope so,” was her tart response, “for I expect you will earn such an earful from your valet that my transgressions will pale in comparison.”
Darcy glanced down at his trousers, then allowed a boyish grin as he looked back to her. “Do you know, it was worth it.”
She answered him with a look of warmth, then turned quickly away, wetting her lips. “I expect we should hurry.” She stiffened her spine, and a moment later, her horse was galloping away from him.
Darcy had thought at first to walk sedately back, enjoying the leisurely amble to the house with one whose company was becoming a greater pleasure than he dared confess, but… perhaps it was better this way. Her still-crooked veil flapped in the breeze, and her figure was bent forward, hands light on the reins as her mount ripped up the sod before him. A curious thrill spiralled through his chest—a free-spirited whim, a playful fancy. Surely, it could do no harm.
He hissed to his horse and gave chase.
E lizabeth had dashed to her room as quickly as her legs could carry her, heedless of Jane’s pleas for decorum or Margaret’s startled yelp when she jerked wide the door. With one look at Elizabeth’s attire, Margaret wordlessly left to order a hot bath. Elizabeth watched her go, expecting that after so many ruined garments the maid would be sending a seamstress to measure her next. She frowned and set to stripping away her soiled apparel.
“Lizzy, what in heaven’s name have you been doing?” Jane wondered. She gasped when she came near enough to smell Elizabeth’s clothing. “Oh, Lizzy, you didn’t… tell me you were not doctoring some cow!”
“Very well. I was not.” Elizabeth shook out the ruined skirt and tossed it aside. “Do you suppose these boots will shine again?”
Jane shook her head. “Even if they do, you will never rid them of the odour.”
Elizabeth kicked the boots out of her way as she bent to step out of the petticoat. “Well, it doesn’t matter. We are leaving anyway.”
“Leaving! Whatever for? Has there been some news? Oh, please tell me you have not offended Miss Darcy!”
“Miss Darcy? I am sure I have, but she is not the cause. It is… Jane, can you reach that button?”
Jane complied, but with a snort of exasperation. “Will you please tell me what happened?”
“What happened—” Elizabeth arched her back and clawed at her chemise until it gave way with a ripping sound. “Never mind what happened. It is what could happen… what is happening. Perhaps I should simply say that I am dreadfully homesick. Will that satisfy?”
“Lizzy, you know you cannot go back. Please, you wouldn’t consider it!” Jane had gone pale, her voice scarcely above a horrified whisper.
“Not back home, but perhaps New York. No one would look for me there, and particularly not if Mama spread the word that I went to England. I can assume a different name, find work—”
“Lizzy!” Jane grasped her shoulders and shook—hard. “I demand that you tell me what happened! I thought you were just out for a ride. Why are you suddenly talking about going away?”
Elizabeth set her jaw and turned to the cavernous wardrobe, filled with clothes purchased for her at Mr Darcy’s expense. She ripped down the simplest and humblest of gowns—just enough for her to look like a respectable lady when she travelled. “You needn’t follow me if you do not wish. I am sure Billy could find you a position as a tutor to the countess’ daughter if you asked. New York will not be… will not be like this.”
Jane blocked Elizabeth’s path from the wardrobe, her arms crossed, and her features hard. “Then why are you so determined to go? Is Richard… have you heard, is he…?”
Elizabeth sagged wearily. “No, I don’t know about Richard. All I know is that I cannot stay here in Mr Darcy’s house another week. Not even a day.”
Jane’s eyebrow twitched. “Mr Darcy is to blame? But he is not even here.”
“Oh—” Elizabeth chortled bitterly. “He is, indeed, here. Very, very much here. And I must not be.”
“But I thought you were getting on with him better. You said you were—you said—”
“Jane…” Elizabeth held up a pleading hand. “I beg you, leave me for a while. I… I need to write to Papa.”
Jane softened only fractionally. “Do. And will you promise to do nothing hasty until he answers?”
“Do you mean in a month when I finally get his letter, if he even bothers to send one? Jane, I am not so rattled that I cannot see your pitiful excuse for a delay. Please, let me take that bath Margaret has ordered and cloister myself in my room for the rest of the evening.”
“The bath, I will not deny you.” Jane’s nose wrinkled as she stepped back. “But if Mr Darcy has returned, that might mean Miss de Bourgh will come to dinner, and the countess, too. You cannot refuse to come down. You would not embarrass me, would you?”
Elizabeth gave a reluctant promise, mostly to appease Jane into leaving the room. When Margaret at last informed her that the bath was ready, she sank into it and submerged her head for several seconds of clarity. She could do it… she could . Purchase a ticket and find an elderly couple on the ship who would not mind her company… Perhaps there was a school or an orphanage in New York where she could work.
But by the time she finally rose to the surface and cleared the water from her ears and nose, she knew it all for foolishness. Jane was right—not only was it stupidly impetuous, but wrong to leave. Richard would come here, if he came anywhere, and Richard was her husband.
Richard … not… not anyone else.