Page 3 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

D arcy shed his coat and called for the fire in his study to be built back up.

The outing had been brisk and invigorating, though an extended ride in such cold had been ill advised, at best. A dastardly little sentiment had crept into his thoughts, pricking and wriggling and leaving him no peace until he had satisfied it. The notion that Mrs Wickham, unfamiliar with the surroundings as she was, might have suffered some mishap on her walk had robbed him of his usual serenity. Little else could account for her being out so long on such a cold day, and after fretting near the window where he could see the path for half an hour, he had surrendered to his feelings of disquiet.

Now, appeased and feeling a bit foolish, he could be content that the woman was safely indoors once more. And then, he scoffed at himself. Was he now to become a mother hen to every soul who lived at Pemberley? Or just this one, the woman with the flashing eyes and sharp tongue? Impossible, he scolded himself. Elizabeth Wickham met none of the outward qualifications he required and bore some rather large prohibitions. One, in particular, was insurmountable—and it was not the fact that she worked for him.

He sank into his desk chair, breathing in the familiar aroma of the world of responsibility. It was clarifying and drew his mind back to the present so he could address the stack of letters his steward had brought while he was out. The top, bearing the seal of Lady Matlock, brought a smile of both pleasure and wistfulness as he opened it.

My dearest nephew,

Your uncle and I were dreadfully disappointed to hear you were in London just before the Christmas season, and we did not know of it until you had gone. We had counted on having you to Matlock House for Twelfth Night, but the messenger returned with word that you had already gone back to Pemberley. And on such roads! I wonder at you, Fitzwilliam, for coming and going in such haste. That is the way Lord W—’s carriage was overturned last year, as you recall that sad event.

I had a letter from Georgiana only last week, in which she declared her expectation that you would return with a new companion for her. As I now presume that was the purpose of your journey, I wonder that you did not consult me! By the time you receive this, you will have been returned long enough to know whether the new companion will suit. I beseech you, write at once if you discover that a replacement is needed. I will interview the woman myself, for our dear Georgiana’s concerns are close to my heart.

We had all the family to dinner two evenings ago, for Lady Catherine and Anne desired a return to the milder climes in Kent. As the roads had been reported sound, and the weather was warming somewhat, they departed yesterday. Richard remained in London and did not appear to sorrow overmuch at the prospect of solitude, but I was most troubled at his response when your uncle asked after you. Have the two of you quarrelled? I had not thought any rift possible between you, but I wonder if you held ill feelings after he wed Anne. Do put them aside, Darcy, for the matter is done. Though Lady Catherine still mourns how it has all come out, I would hope you might not. I trust you will write to him at once and sort the matter, for it distresses me greatly to see conflict in the family.

Our dearest Sophia is well. You recall, Darcy, that Mortimer’s death has left her a substantial fortune, but she has elected to live again with us rather than at her husband’s estate. Your uncle and I thought that suitable, for she is still young enough to be mistaken for a debutante, and just as beautiful as when last you saw her. I expect in six months when she puts aside the mourning garb, she will receive a flurry of callers. I hope you will be at your leisure to visit us at Matlock next summer, for I have always been very fond of you.

I have enclosed a letter for Georgiana. There are a few things I wished to begin discussing with both of you regarding her come-out next year. However, I will leave them for later, as your uncle has determined we must attend a dinner this evening and I retire now to dress.

Affectionately,

Lady Matlock

Dear Mama,

E lizabeth lifted her pen and gazed at the fire in her room. She ought to write—she wrote every Wednesday, and her mother would fret if she did not receive her regular letter. But what to say that she had not already said?

Miss Darcy sends her regards.

Miss Darcy always sent her regards.

Derbyshire is beautiful.

There were only so many ways to assure her mother that they were not removing to a wasteland in the wild north.

The new roof on Corbett Lodge is underway.

The surest way possible to make her mother inspect it daily for leaks.

Mr Darcy is outrageously handsome, but the most aggravating man alive…

No, that would certainly not do! She nibbled her lip and set her pen back on the page.

How I miss each of you! I am assured that we will see each other again soon. I thank Providence that we will be happily secured as a family once more by spring. I received a letter from Jane at last. She said she was moved to joyful tears and gave her notice at once to her employers, though I fear it may be some months before she can come to us.

Has Kitty recovered from her cough? Mrs Reynolds gave me a receipt for an elixir that might soothe her, and I will enclose it. I hope Mary enjoyed the book I sent last week. It was one that Miss Darcy purchased for her brother at Christmas, but after she left the room, he asked me if any of you would like it. Mr Darcy said he would have discarded it, as he has three copies already, but he does not subscribe to the destruction of books. It was altogether an odd conversation, as most conversations with him are, but I believe he was meaning to be generous.

I am concerned about what you say of Lydia, that she was flirting with the officers. Mama, I implore you, do keep a close watch on her. We need no longer be distressed for our futures, for you all have a home here in Derbyshire soon. It is not as if we will starve now if we do not catch husbands, and I fear for appearances if my sister is found in some indiscretion. It would be better if she were to go to our uncle Gardiner again until you all come here, but if not, pray do not let her go out without a proper chaperon.

I trust you passed Twelfth Night in comfort and good cheer? You probably suspected that we were engaged with balls and revelry at such an estate as I have told you Pemberley is, but we were a quiet house. Mrs Reynolds did mention the extravagance of the parties given by the late Mrs Darcy, but after her death the family have kept rather to themselves over the holiday.

You have asked me each week to give you my impression of Mr and Miss Darcy, and each week I have demurred until I knew them better. It is a month now, so I shall do my best to comply. Miss Darcy is a sweet girl of barely sixteen. She is nearly unequalled on the pianoforte and paints exquisitely. She speaks four languages and is gracious to all, including myself. She dislikes large groups of people and is entirely petrified of dancing, a skill I have been helping her to improve upon. I do believe her to be the bashful sort, easily troubled by the worry of giving offence even if none was intended. For that reason, I believe some might mistake her for a haughty character, unless they troubled themselves to know her better.

Mr Darcy is more difficult to sketch. Papa would have liked him immensely, for Mr Darcy would have proved a stimulating companion for all of five minutes. Once their conversation had done, I expect they both would have returned to their books and said not another word for two hours together. I can find no fault in his character and his servants all speak well of him, but I am constantly perplexed by trying to discover the answers to questions such as what and why and where… I suppose I must content myself with the understanding that I am no longer the daughter of the house and privy to all the master’s concerns.

It is a most trying resolution, for never have I encountered an individual who inspired more curiosity—and occasionally annoyance—in his disposition and motives, but I am determined, and therefore I will succeed in ignoring both Mr Darcy’s peculiarities and my own inquisitiveness. If you think of me in your prayers each evening, pray that I do not behave discourteously in my efforts.

I remain yours most affectionately and in hopes of embracing you soon,

Elizabeth

I t was insupportable—unthinkable.

Darcy stared devotedly at the pages of his book, blotting out the other occupants of the room. The ladies would not mind if he said nothing—they ought to be accustomed to his silences by now. Georgiana knew him well enough, and his growing familiarity with the new Mrs Wickham had taught him one other thing about her—a thing he was not altogether pleased to have discovered. She could brood as thoroughly and laboriously as he.

What had passed through her mind on that first journey from London, as she gazed out one carriage window and he out the other? What did she consider when she wandered out into the cold outdoors, or stared into the fire by evening? Certainly, he knew no other ladies who could fall into deep, ponderous thought for hours on end, without troubling him for mundane chatter to soothe their nerves.

Darcy raised the book he was trying to read a little higher, hoping with it he might block his own view of the ladies at the pianoforte. His vision might be obstructed, but his ears were not. And they rang pleasantly with the sounds of feminine laughter and musical harmony.

Mrs Wickham—drat, but that name suited her ill—was no great talent. Rather, she was clearly unschooled in classical forms and her voice, while charming, carried no remarkable quality of melody. Still, hers was a voice he could listen to without desiring to be elsewhere, a thing that could be said for only a handful of persons. But it was dashedly irksome that she had to be so enchanting while he was in the same room.

Georgiana liked her. That was a wondrous comfort, for his sister had been ill at ease since her near disastrous attachment three months previous. And that was why he had settled on Elizabeth Bennet—she possessed just enough cheek to shake Georgiana from her protective shell, but enough practical wisdom to know what it was to plan for the future… to fear for her family’s welfare… to take little for herself so that others might have more.

To be sure, his stomach had twisted the first time he had sat at table with her and beheld the faint widening of her eyes at the generous spread, and the meagre portions she chose thereof. With each passing day, she had seemed to settle a little more, but there was still a hint of discomfort when Georgiana would press her to try one more buttered biscuit, one more sweet roll. But those same eyes had taken on a healthy sparkle in these last weeks that was altogether new.

Darcy shook his head and tried to read another line of his book.

“William? William, did you hear that?”

“What?” He dropped the book at last. Georgiana was flitting toward him in that girlish way she still had, her toes light on the carpet as she came to clasp his hand and coax him to his feet.

“Elizabeth said she would play for us and you can teach me how to dance the Allemande. Come, do not be a rock on the sofa all night.”

He stood reluctantly, and Mrs Wickham applied herself to a lively, if not flawless tune. Georgiana was no more skilled than the musician—all legs and arms, she was. The graceful girl she was had vanished when the music began. She was probably thinking of the last time she had danced with a man—not himself. It was a memory that ought to make her as uncomfortable as it made him.

“No, Georgiana, like this,” he tried to explain. Yet, she kept twisting to the side whenever he would try to step dos-à-dos with her. “No, you must fall back. Has not your dance master taught you this?”

Georgiana pushed away, her expression taut and frustrated, as the pianoforte went quiet. “Oh, I shall never get this! Yes, my master tried to teach me, but I have never yet managed it. Elizabeth said I should try with you, but I cannot picture how it goes. If I could see it done—oh! Elizabeth, you must come show me.”

Mrs Wickham’s hands dropped from the piano. “I am sure that is unnecessary, Miss Darcy.”

“No, it is! Come, William is a fine dancer. You mustn’t let this last performance with me make you think otherwise.”

Reluctantly, Darcy bowed to Mrs Wickham when she drew near. She curtsied gravely as Georgiana began to play, then her chin came up in near defiance with those first few steps. “If it is any comfort to you, sir, I despise dancing.”

“Indeed? How should that be a comfort to me?”

“I would not wish you to suppose that I could accidentally enjoy your discomfiture.” They turned twice, she gracefully spiralling about on her toes and ending perfectly positioned beside him.

“I am not discomfited, Mrs Wickham. Are you?”

“Not in the least, sir.” She casually tipped her forearm to the side for him to take her hand, her eyes locked straight forward.

“And I suppose you do not care for balls?” he asked.

“Perhaps I have never been to one.”

He clasped her hand and felt her back sliding against the inner part of his arm. She was warmer than he had expected. And softer. Remarkable what several weeks of Pemberley’s best had done for her figure.

“I believe you are misleading me, Mrs Wickham,” he said after a moment of silence. “You seem far too familiar with the steps for one who has never been to a ball.”

“It is not misleading to suggest an alternative supposition. I only said ‘perhaps.’ I did not declare it as a fact.”

“In that case, ‘perhaps’ I dislike dancing as much as you do,” he replied.

“Is it the dancing or the environment in general you dislike? Or perhaps it is the music or the selection of partners that displeases you?” She tipped her chin round to him for the first time, and he glanced down into her eyes… and immediately wished he had not done so.

“‘Perhaps’ it is none of these,” he answered. “And ‘perhaps’ I am being as oblique as you, speaking in false trails and riddles.”

“What is a false trail, but an option not explored? And what is a riddle, but a kernel of truth taken out of context?” A faint curve appeared at the corner of her mouth, though she still did not look at him. Her shoulder pressed against his until he crossed his hands and invited her to pirouette under his arm. The way she floated by his side, each step sweetly musical—this was a woman who knew the ballroom floor; knew it well, was mistress of the evening when she stepped out. Her eyes met his, and a hint of amusement played at their corners. “Any sensible employer would consider me impertinent for such speech.”

“Madam, impertinent does not begin to describe you. Any sensible lady’s companion would think better of her manner.”

She laughed, and her eyes… egad, they danced. Darcy caught his breath in some astonishment at the queer sensations panging against his ribs.

“If you wish to reprimand my manner, you may. It is your house, after all. But I am afraid you have made it nearly impossible to dismiss me.” She tipped her head with a rather provocative expression, then made a graceful parting gesture with her left hand, taking care to flash that gold ring as she did so.

He stepped back, permitting her to rejoin his sister at the pianoforte. Odd, how she could be so… so present and sharp when she spoke to him, and yet seconds later, her attention was wholly fixed on Georgiana.

As it should be, he reminded himself. At last, he had secured for Georgiana a companion who truly seemed to take an interest in her. A lady of poise and elegance, and yet raw, simple humanity lay close upon the surface. There was a gentleness in her, for all her tart speech and irreverence. And she was clever… far too clever.

Hopefully, he would not regret that.