Page 51 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 51

Boston, Massachusetts June 1901

I t was a city rich in stories. Every corner, building, and even many of the trees seemed to tap one on the shoulder, beg him to linger, and to hear what they had to tell.

Darcy had taken a house in Brighton, overlooking the river. It was close to Georgiana’s conservatory, and she was away most of each day. Darcy had little of his own to do, but it was pleasant to walk, and so, he did. Every day, he set out, sometimes wandering for the entire afternoon.

No one recognised him. For a naturally private man who had more than his usual reasons for desiring solitude, this was a pleasant relief. He was free to ponder and reflect, free to sit for hours in a park, gazing at nothing, free to simply search for himself. He had never thought himself precisely lost, but the last year had taught him that he was far from the grounded and confident man he thought he was.

Bingley. Now, there was a man who knew himself and was comfortable in his own flesh. And secure in more ways than that... but Darcy preferred not to think of happy Bingley and his glowing bride. In fact, they were another of the reasons he had left England for a time—he could not bear being the one to greet them upon their return from their wedding tour.

The reprieve was not meant to be, however, for when Darcy returned to his rented house one afternoon, a telegram from Bingley was waiting for him.

Letter from Gardiner. Mrs Bennet and her daughters going to New York instead of London. Gardiner says you directed them there. Please advise.

New York? His last message to Mr Gardiner had clearly directed that gentleman to contact Bingley in London for further arrangements regarding the family. Perhaps it had not arrived in time or had been misunderstood. His stomach sank. Did that mean three women were presently wandering New York, expecting to meet someone who would never come?

This was entirely his fault. It was he who had secretly conceived the idea to surprise Elizabeth by bringing her family to her. Bingley had not been involved at all, except to be informed of it. And when he had lost Elizabeth, everything changed...

Darcy nearly ran back to the door for his hat and hailed a cab. A letter was too slow. He needed to talk to Mr Gardiner at once.

“Y es, I said Goose Creek,” Darcy repeated into the telephone receiver. “Wyoming. No, not Little Creek. Goose… G. O. O. S. E… Yes, I will wait.”

Thirty seconds of tapping and clicking noises followed, and he heard the operator speaking to another relay. More clicking. Another relay, and another.

“Sir, I have the rail office at Little Creek on the line. Go ahead.”

Darcy groaned and tried to set her right again. This call was going to cost him half his fortune. Several minutes later—how long he could not say—she finally announced that he was speaking to the telegraph manager at Goose Creek.

“Mr Gardiner, please. Edward Gardiner, at the Mercantile?”

The line crackled. “Hold, please.”

Darcy leaned against the wall and rubbed his aching forehead. He wondered how far the rail office was from Mr Gardiner’s store… or if the man was even in town. Had he gone with Mrs Bennet? He might never find them! Long minutes passed, and for some of them, Darcy was certain the line had been disconnected. The static ceased, and he was tempted to tap the receiver or crank the handle again to raise the operator’s attention.

A quarter of an hour came and went. At last, a masculine voice came to the line. “This is Gardiner.”

Darcy nearly shook in relief. “This is Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

There was a brief silence. “The Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire? It is an honour, sir.”

Darcy plugged a finger in his opposite ear. “Gardiner, I am in Boston just now, and I had a telegram from Bingley that Mrs Bennet was coming to New York. Is everything well?”

Another snapping sound garbled Mr Gardiner’s reply. “… yes, just as you said… last letter.”

“Bingley’s letter? I sent a telegram before I sailed. Did you get it? Did Bingley write to you?”

“… friend of yours. He said he would escort…”

“Mr Gardiner? Can you hear me?”

“… Darcy? Are you there?”

“Yes, I am here. Where are Mrs Bennet and her daughters now?”

The line cleared for a moment. “… due… New York tomorrow. Your friend… would see them on their way.”

“Bingley is in London. Did he send someone to New York?”

It sounded like Mr Gardiner was standing out in the wind. “… friend of yours… sailing for London on …day. … got… money you sent… passage.”

“A friend of mine? Mr Gardiner, what day are they sailing?”

“… Friday.… eager to see her girls! I could not have stopped her for… keep a tight watch on Lydia, though. … Lizzy with you?”

Darcy closed his eyes. How could Mr Gardiner not have heard? “Where is Mrs Bennet staying in New York? How can I find her?”

“… I think Fifth Avenue. Or… Victoria… depending on vacancy.”

“Thank you. I will take a train to New York myself to meet them.”

“… very kind of you! Sir, is it possible… speak to Lizzy? Is she well? … old uncle misses her!”

He cleared his throat. “Ah. Mr Gardiner, did Bingley not write of the present circumstances? Elizabeth is not with me.”

Poor though the connection was, the disappointment in Gardiner’s voice nearly matched Darcy’s own. “I see. No… no letter from Bingley.”

“Well, then who wrote to you? Which friend of mine is escorting Mrs Bennet?”

“… fine fellow. Very gracious… great favourite with the ladies.”

“Mr Gardiner? The line broke up. What did you say his name was?”

“George …ham.”

Darcy dropped the earpiece.

Newport

T he day had started promisingly enough.

Elizabeth returned from her morning walk early, and in a more nostalgic mood than usual. Having little else to do for an hour, and not hearing Richard moving about in his own room, she went to the hotel office and sat down with a pen and a piece of paper. Oh, how she ached to write to Jane! Perhaps it would not be so terribly alarming if she wrote as Mrs Williams.

Still, caution stayed her hand. Richard had been adamant that no word of their whereabouts should cross the ocean, even though they were safely out of reach of His Majesty’s Army. Elizabeth crumpled the page upon which she had written her sister’s name and set her chin on her fist as her pen traced wistful letters in the air.

She could write to Georgiana. Perhaps she was in Boston by now, and it should not be difficult to find the address for the Conservatory. The office would be able to give her the letter.

Meditatively, Elizabeth eased her pen across the page, savouring each stroke as a lifeline. Even if Georgiana should never get the letter—and she refused to consider that possibility—the simple act of writing to someone was a balm to her unmoored spirits. If someone she cared about could know she was safe, and an approximation of where she was, then perhaps she was not yet so lost as she felt.

Richard was in one of his fouler moods when she saw him later. Some days, that was simply the way of it—he was short with everyone, impatient with her and with himself, and surly when he ought to have been gracious. Perhaps it should not have surprised her, for had she not suffered her own emotional pinwheel? And his demons must have been far darker, but it concerned her every time she saw him thus. He was not entirely the master of himself on such days. He usually held his reserve with her, but with the guests, it was another matter. The previous week, he might have got himself fired over a simple misunderstanding if she had not intervened.

Today’s worry was written in every line of his face. Perhaps he had not slept again, or the nightmares were particularly bad. Whatever the cause, he only heaved a weary growl when she offered him a cup of coffee. Naturally, she felt compelled to lighten his manner.

“A fine morning today, did you see the sunrise?” she attempted. “There was a dove cooing just outside my window. I think it had a nest.” “Mrs Annesley sent up a note thanking you for helping her husband yesterday. She said they have never had such a pleasant stay at any hotel.” “Oh, your new suit coat arrived. I thought it a bit narrow in the shoulder, but if you try it on, I will ask for the appropriate alterations.”

Every ploy, he deflected with a one-word answer or a grunt, and her natural stubbornness urged her to rise to the challenge until she was chattering like Lydia. Nothing was too trivial if it could make him smile or even respond for an instant. She did not dare bring up any subject of import, thinking anything of the kind might worsen his mood, and before long she was sounding childish and simple, even to her own ears. Finally, his irritation made a swift transferral to herself.

“Leave me be!” he growled. “For pity’s sake, stop trying to fix me, Elizabeth!”

She stiffened. “I was only trying to help.”

He slammed his coffee cup down on the table. “You want to help? Then be a wife, and not my mother or my bunkmate!”

In the space of two blinks, he rose and stormed out.

S he did not see him for some hours, and then it was in the company of two of the guests. He was polite, he was elegant, even with his rugged-looking eye patch, and he even managed to make the older woman blush with some well-framed compliments. For a moment, he was the old colonel again—the same man who had devised a revolving door of dance partners for her sisters so they would be spared unsavoury attentions. The same man who had won her father’s good opinion and sat with her in a dark warehouse to be certain she would not fracture after the worst moment of her life.

And then, when they had finished with the guests, he cast a hard look her way before walking away from her.

Elizabeth waited until the other couple were truly out of sight and caught up with him. “Richard! Will you not speak to me?”

His scowl tightened, but he relented with a jerk of his head towards the privacy of their apartment. She followed, tense and worried about what he had to say, but consoling herself that whatever it was, it would be better opened to the air than festering under a haphazard bandage.

He closed the door. “Elizabeth, do you want out?”

“Out? I… do not know what you mean.”

“You are too intelligent to trifle with me. It has been almost two months, and you are still holding me at a distance. I have to beg your permission to kiss you, and I feel as if I am kissing a wooden statue every time.”

Her hands moved helplessly. “We knew it would take time. You offered—you said you would not rush me.”

“But I thought you would make some effort of your own!”

“I—I have,” she whispered, but even then, she could not be sure that she had done all possible.

He paced a short circle, then came back. “Do you know what I see when I look at you, Elizabeth? What is in your eyes each time I try to come close to you? All I see is Darcy’s reflection. Damn it, if you mean to make a go of this, you have to forget him!”

Her eyes were stinging now, and it was becoming difficult to breathe regularly. “I c… can’t!” she sobbed. “Why must I? Can I not love you both?”

“Apparently not, and I was a blasted fool for thinking you could.” He snorted and gesticulated. “I mean, what have I to offer the woman who could have had Fitzwilliam Darcy?”

Her jaw hardened. “Stop it, Richard. I came with you! I even left the only family I had for you—I was never even able to say goodbye to my own sister! Is that not evidence enough that I chose you?”

“No, you said it yourself. You had no choice, and now, neither do I. I live each day with a woman so breath-taking she could have laid the ton at her feet, and I cannot touch her. I am responsible for her well-being and happiness, but I can do nothing to contribute to them. Do you think I am a saint, Elizabeth?”

She blinked, and her chin drew back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I have desires, too! It means I, too, have lost everything dear to me, and the one thing I can call my own will not have me! I see you every day, living here, walking by, tempting me with your beauty and your sweetness, and none of them are for me. You are not a man, Elizabeth, but…” He abruptly clenched his fist before his face, cutting off whatever else he had meant to say, and turned away from her.

Blood was ringing in her ears now, and when she dared to blink, a cascade of moisture fell over her cheeks. “I never said I would not have you. I assumed… one day… we would have a family.”

“Really. You would have a child with a one-eyed cretin who makes your skin crawl?”

“Richard!” She balled her hands and stalked towards him. “I have never said or implied any of that!”

“You say it every time you look at me. Your eyes scream it—you think they do not? It is why you cannot lie, Elizabeth, because every fibre of your being betrays you.”

“It has nothing to do with… with anything! How ridiculously small of you to blame your missing eye for this. It means nothing to me!”

“You mean it would mean nothing to you, if you already loved me, but you don’t.”

She crossed her arms. “Do you love me? Answer me honestly, because I cannot read you so easily as you claim to read me.”

He hesitated. “I care for you.”

“But as you have said, that is not the same thing.”

“I want to love you. I know only one way to kindle that flame, and you will not have it.”

She lifted her chin. “You have not asked.”

He stared for several seconds, then slowly crossed the room. “I am asking now.”

Something in her belly wormed and twisted. But she could not refuse him… could she? If this was all that was to be her future, then he was right—she had to let go of William and fill her hands with something else. Without even knowing how she was doing so, her head slowly nodded.

Richard’s arms came around her, and she closed her eyes. If she could just imagine, just for a second, that this was how it should be, that they fit… that he was the one she loved.

But his lips were harder, his skin a different texture, his scent all wrong. His hair was straight and clipped when her fingers ventured over his scalp, and his cadence and touch were all off-centre. She arched back, and perhaps he took it for a signal of surrender. He scooped her up and carried her to his bed, where, presumably, all would be settled.

His mouth found her throat, and his hands settled over hers, pushing them up beside her head. His weight now pressed her down—lighter than William, and not so broad of shoulder, he was nonetheless more than a match for her, if… oh, wretched, wretched fate! Her breath quickened, and for the first time in months, her own horror flooded back upon her—a memory too vicious for piecing out. Sensations only; of foreign hands, of control spiralling, of a terror so fiercely visceral that all her reason could not overcome it.

It had not been this way with William. She had craved him, melded to him. And despite Richard’s plea for her to forget William, it was far worse that she would make her own husband feel like an attacker. Think of William , she coaxed herself. Feel him, not other memories .

She hitched her head back, grateful that he was not now trying to kiss her lips, but what he wanted from her... was not his. Her body was an unruly thing, yielding only to one master, and his name was not Richard.

He raised himself just enough for his palm to spread over her stomach, then begin to work its torturous way up, tracing the ridges of her stays inside her dress. She turned her head to the side, her teeth sinking into her lip until she tasted copper. If she could not hold fast to a vision of William, perhaps she could cause herself enough pain to distract her. But then, the telling quake, the shuddering breath, and her facade crumbled. Her core clenched, and she crumpled in a wavering sob.

Richard sat up. “I knew it,” he muttered. The bed creaked, then sprang up as his weight left it.

Elizabeth was still curled in a ball, weeping, when the door slammed.