Page 52 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 52

New York

D arcy felt like he would recognise Mrs Bennet anywhere. She would have serene cheekbones and a high brow, like her daughter Jane, and she would have lips that formed a bow and eyes that snapped and sang, like…

He stopped in the middle of the walk; his hand pressed to his chest. How long before her name could touch his mind without lancing through him like a molten iron rod? Surely, not all who lost a love felt this pain! Why, if this misery were common to mankind, men would more frequently succumb to the despair of sweet death, rather than walking around as a living shell. His face twisted as he caught his breath, the ache subsided as his pulse slowed, and he forced his feet to move once more.

He nearly stumbled to a halt all over again when he realised that of the two remaining sisters, there might be one who was the very spectre of his Elizabeth. Egad, how would he survive even meeting the family? Yet, it gave him even more reason to protect them from Wickham. His grip tightened on his walking stick, and he hurried his steps.

They were not at the Victoria. Not unless they were using an assumed name, which was entirely possible. Fifth Avenue Hotel was another mischance. Darcy strolled out to the walk once more, a dazed calm now squeezing his chest. Those were the only two hotels Mr Gardiner had mentioned, but this was New York. He doubted if anyone could even count how many hotels and inns and holes in the wall the city harboured.

And that was presuming Wickham had even brought the Bennets to New York.

Nausea rocked his core. What sort of beast used innocent women for money? Yet, it had always been Wickham’s way, beginning when they were boys, and Wickham had tricked him out of his new pocket watch in exchange for a promise to leave the new kitchen girl alone. Fool he—he had never said a word of it, thinking his father would not believe him! Now, not only did he see the whole incident through mature eyes, but he also saw the importance of one just man who could set it all right. And this time, the man was himself.

His determination galvanised, Darcy spent two days calling at one hotel after another. He checked the Victoria and Fifth Avenue twice more, with never any luck. With great trepidation, he had asked the local police if anything had been heard and was relieved to receive a negative answer.

He also called at the passenger lines, searching for ticketing information. Rather than too little information, he found a great deal too much—more than he could ever search through to discover three women and one man travelling together. Good heavens, they could be going anywhere, but his gut told him that Wickham was taking them to London.

He had lost too much time. By the third day, Darcy boarded a train back to Massachusetts, to take his leave of Georgiana, collect his affairs, and set sail again for home. When he called at the house, she met him with glowing cheeks.

“About time you came! I have been sitting on this letter for two days already!”

He put his hat aside. “What letter?”

She went to her desk and held it up. “It’s from Elizabeth. She is in Rhode Island.”

Newport

S he was trying to apologise, but it was not working.

Every look and manner was humble and full of appeal, but no words escaped her lips. Instead, she scurried in and out of his presence, softly delivering a drink or a pastry, his paper or even a pipe. Each time, he caught himself exhaling in aggravation, and that only made her step more lightly and quickly... away. How could he tell her that, far from soothing his ire, she was only making him feel like more of a monster?

This was so much more than a bit of marital discord. That, they could have worked through. No man of reason could propose living with a woman the rest of his years without a few quarrels, and nor would he wish to. A woman of liveliness and stout heart ought to put her man to the test on occasion, for that set kindling to the hearth flame. Even scarred and brittle though they both might be, they ought to have made one another stronger, burn more brightly.

Instead, they were spent embers.

The truth was before him all along, but he refused to heed it. They would have made the dearest of lifelong friends, but as a married couple, they were dismally mismatched. It made no sense, for all appearances gave the impression of felicity and suitability. And she stirred the eye and every masculine desire—he would be a liar to say she did not. But in his heart, he had nothing for her, and she... she had even less for him.

Still, that vow could never be revoked. For better or worse; that was the promise they had both made, and Richard was old-fashioned enough to believe it. So was she, otherwise she never would have followed him.

But the marriage was a sham... Aye, it was! But he meant well enough to protect her, so in that respect, he pledged his oath in full faith. He pressed his brow into his hand, closed his eye, and fell to morose ruminations.

He never wanted any of this. When he fled the Army, his plan had been scattered, unformed, but now, he knew precisely what he would do, where he would go. Open plains, simple life. A place where the sweat of his brow meant something and no one cared who his father was or what uniform he had worn in South Africa. A place in the world where a man’s dignity was everything, where respect was earned, and no one could purchase it. Somewhere he could be alone for days together if he chose, with nobody depending upon him but his horse.

He would go back to Wyoming. The one place on earth he could never take his wife. He sighed and allowed his thoughts to go blank for a time, rather than stripping away more of the protective cushion he had built around the truth.

Moments later, he snapped to attention when something bumped his hand. It was Elizabeth, trying to remove his cold pipe before it fell and dumped ash on the floor. She froze, her teeth flashing unhappily.

“I’m sorry. I was just...” She cleared her throat, retrieved the pipe, and turned to hasten away.

“Stop apologising,” he said after her.

Her figure tensed, and she turned back. “I won’t. I mean, I’m sor—” She frowned and looked down.

“Look, you are not making it better, treating me as if I mean to devour you. Can you just... just be you again?”

Her eyes shifted to the side, then re-centred on him. She said nothing.

He scrubbed his face, muttering, “Hell with it,” and got to his feet. “Good night, Elizabeth.”

She stepped swiftly out of his way. “Do you need anything?”

He snorted and shook his head. The list was far too long. Then, a notion pricked him, and he stopped. “Wait. There is something.”

She seemed to rise up, eager to hear his direction. “Yes?”

“What... what would you have done, that night behind the warehouse?”

The blood left her cheeks. “You mean...”

“Jake Bryson. What if things had gone differently, he had harmed you in every way possible, and you had to face him afterwards?”

Flinty cords tightened in her jaw, and her eyes glittered. “I would have hit him over the head with the hardest thing I could find. Maybe I would have found a rope and dragged his miserable filth behind my horse until no one could even recognise him, or pinned him down and kicked him over and over in the teeth. Something—I do not know what, precisely.”

“But you would not have cowered and cringed before him.”

Her nostrils flared dangerously, and her knuckles whitened. “Never.”

He shook his head. “He was the villain, but I am the one you fear.” Another sigh left him, and his shoulders drooped.

“You are wrong,” she answered gently. He stopped but did not face her as she finished.

“You are the one I failed.”

He closed the door between them.

That night, as he lay in his bed, Richard Fitzwilliam pondered the deep mysteries. Death and life, healing and wretchedness, grief and love—so much threaded and wove through the tendrils of dream that later, he would not recall how much of his epiphany struck in conscious light and how much slipped into his mind in the form of soulful enchantment. When he rose, however, the first resolve of any clarity had shaped and taken hold at last. And finally, he knew of something he could do. After all, Rhode Island was famous for more than just tourism—or, more accurately, a particular type of tourism.

There was no line when Richard stepped up to the county office. The secretary asked his business, and for a moment, the life left his fingers as he reached inside his coat. The papers stuck as he tugged on them, and his hands trembled.

He swore to protect her, to care for her... and this was the best means at his disposal to do just that. No less was it for himself, and the freedom and wildness his soul thirsted for. He drew a deep breath and unfolded the papers.

“Where do I file for a marriage annulment?”

R ichard had been away all morning. He had never said where, but the bellboy told her he rose early and took a cab downtown before she was even back from her walk.

It was just as well. Some people liked to exhaust their feelings and come to terms with their disagreements, but Richard was not one of them. Rather, he bottled them until the steam either cooled or found some crack through which to vent. Perhaps a day or two without seeing one another was just the thing, so they might speak more rationally when he was prepared to do so.

Elizabeth puttered through her morning duties: one of the maids was quitting, another requesting leave, and she hired a new kitchen girl. Reservations came in with the morning mail, and two guests checked out. After three steady hours, her neck and fingers ached, and she stood to stretch. It was not... not a bad life. Anyone would call themselves lucky to be where she was—comfortable, respected, with tasks to fill her days and some time for leisure. But she could not recall the last time she felt friendly with anyone. Perhaps Georgiana would write back soon.

She was filing reservations when Richard’s steps sounded outside. She did not bother to look at him, for his footsteps came only partially in, turned to the left, and stopped. His breathing was irregularly loud, as if he had run up the walk from the road, and she heard him shuffling items on the desk. Finally, she finished her task and turned around.

His face was chalky, his chest rising in uneven bursts. “Elizabeth...”

She started forward. “Richard, whatever is the matter? Is it the Army?”

He shook his head and raised his hand. “No—I need you to sit down. I have made a bloody hash of things. I hope you will still speak to me after I’ve said all.”

“What? Richard, whatever it is, we can sort it out. Truly—“

But he was shaking his head, an ominous set to his mouth. “Not this time.” He ruffled his hair, just as William used to do when he was flustered and turned to pace the length of the office floor. Elizabeth’s stomach knotted. He bore his Colonel look—the face he wore when he was about to do or say something fatal.

“Look, Elizabeth, I... oh, Lord, how do I even say it? I went to town today, and—” The bell jingled at the front desk, and he broke off, his entire expression almost swearing in vexation.

She shrugged apologetically. “Someone wanting to check in. The desk host only stepped out for a moment.”

He heaved a beleaguered grunt. “Blast it! Very well, I shall write the blackguard’s name on the bleeding register and send him on his merry way.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. Whatever had him bound in a snarl, she was starting to worry for his state of mind. Cautiously, she followed him back out to the front desk where an impatient guest stood tapping his toe and calling for someone to attend him...

And that was when the man locked eyes with her. His look was instant wrath, and her knees turned to water. Silas Bryson.

“Elizabeth,” Richard hissed, “run!”

Shoreline Hotel and Resort.

T his must be the place. Darcy paid the driver and got down in a rush, then checked himself. If Richard and Elizabeth were truly here, he would look like a dashed fool blundering up the walk, breathless and glowing like some besotted yokel. No, no, he would face them with all dignity, address the business at hand, and make an honourable exit. Of sorts.

As he strolled up the walk, a bellboy opened the grand front door. Darcy followed the hall into the main foyer, which was vacant save for... egad, was that... Richard?

There was no doubt about it, for that was none but his cousin, grappling over the counter with a barrel-chested man nearly twice his size. Their hats were on the floor and their faces already red with venom and bruises. Darcy was just in time to see Richard flying over the counter at the man. The other was trying to reach for a swinging door, but Richard caught him by the collar and clubbed him in the jaw. The bigger man bellowed an unsavoury epithet and reared back, then they were twisting and wrestling together, snarling like curs and roaring in mutual rage.

Darcy was already running to break them apart, but it was over too quickly. Richard wedged his knee between the other man’s legs, tripping him, and delivered a vicious uppercut, but the bigger fellow must have had a jaw made of iron. He fairly picked Richard up and threw him. Just before Darcy could catch him, the man circled back for a brutal kick to the groin that doubled Richard into a helpless ball, then he bounded for the door.

Richard was spitting from a bloody lip and groaning, writhing but not yet trying to rise when Darcy rolled him over. “Richard!”

His cousin’s eyes widened in recognition, his teeth still bared in pain... and then he wound up and landed a sharp blow to Darcy’s cheek.

“What the devil? Are you mad?” Darcy sputtered as he held his face.

Richard rolled to all fours, still moving sluggishly. “Go, Darcy,” he groaned.

“I am afraid I cannot. I came on a matter of utmost—”

“I said go !” Richard thundered. He staggered to his feet, still half-bent and panting in agony.

“What, have you lost your mind? Do you always punch the guests and send the—”

“Darcy, for the love of all that is holy, go! After him! That was Bryson, and he means to kill Elizabeth!”