Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer (15 page)

"No, actually, and I would appreciate it if you would not speak of her that way." Fitzwilliam suddenly felt protective of the exotic-looking woman with the fawnlike eyes.

Darcy watched his cousin to see if he was being serious.

"I am dead serious," Fitzwilliam said, reading his mind. After addressing several letters, Darcy folded up his papers and placed them all into a packet for his secretary, while Fitzwilliam poured them both more coffee.

"I am sure I shall regret this, but the Winter Ball is this Wednesday at Lady Jersey's mansion." Darcy picked up his newspaper to read, flicking it once or twice before surgically folding it in half, then reached over to his plate to search for his half-eaten cucumber sandwich, now long gone. He looked taken aback that the plate was empty. "I was going to ignore the invitation since Elizabeth will be unable to attend and Georgiana is still fearful of being in large crowds without her. However, perhaps with the two of us...?" His eyes darted in vain for any remaining food. His stomach was growling. "If there is a young woman of presentation age visiting, I am positive the old goat will have finagled an invitation. She is said to be a most avaricious social climber. Perhaps your lovely lady will also attend."

"Absolutely perfect." Fitzwilliam smiled broadly at Darcy.

Darcy's mouth twitched a little at the side. "Are you sure you are brave enough?"

Fitzwilliam leveled a steely glance at his cousin. "I laugh at fear. I sneer at danger. I..."

"Aunt Catherine is co-hostess."

"Oh bloody hell." Fitzwilliam's tossed a wadded-up piece of paper into the fireplace.

The Winter Ball, an eagerly anticipated annual event, was considered very important socially, due to its exclusivity, the herald of the coming Season, and the initial exposure for debutantes about to be presented at court. It was a small
fete
by
ton
standards, only the upper half of the socially acceptable being invited, marriageable daughters, nieces, and sisters firmly in hand. The middle-aged women present were on the whole a rather plain-faced bunch. They attempted with diamonds, paint, and feathers to achieve what nature could no longer--a countenance worthy to compete with their youthful charges.

The men fared little better. In general, they were middle-aged and balding, wearing gaudy-colored waistcoats as well as high-point starched collars that sliced into their cheeks. Frighteningly large jowls were created this way, framing ridiculous cravat creations.

And, as always, there were officers everywhere--the current darlings of society.

***

Fitzwilliam elbowed and pinched his way past the doorway idlers, coughed in the face of celebrity gawkers, forced a pathway through the chattering, teeming gentry. A terrified Georgiana could do nothing but keep her head low as he dragged her behind him through the crowd, an apologetic and mortified Darcy following in their wake.

It was when they approached the footman who would announce them that he saw her, her simple presence outstanding amidst a multitude of inbred and odd-looking individuals gushing and fawning over each other. Wearing an outmoded, drab gown meant for someone much larger and much, much older, she was tenderly patting stray locks of a young girl's hair, adjusting the bow on the back of the girl's dress, in short, fussing about the girl like a mother hen with her lone chick. He was thunderstruck. Even without the feathers, paint, lace, and jewelry, she far outshone the posturing aristocratic ladies surrounding her, who competed in vain for attention.

At this distance, the youth she tended to appeared to Fitzwilliam as little more than an infant--small, frightened, and frail. However, it was not the anxious-looking girl who was causing him concern, drawing his offense. It was the activity surrounding the two that began to fuel his indignation, the admiration of the many men milling about ogling
his
Beauty, commenting upon her shimmering blonde hair. Fellow soldiers gaping and drooling over
his
Beauty's eyes as they sparkled with amusement within a perfect, heart-shaped face, long, dark lashes lowered now to her task and shadowing
his
Beauty's cheeks.

It was a testament to her good looks that those who circled overlooked the other grander, more-opulently gowned women, to be drawn instead by a loveliness that appeared both alien and delicate at once.

The young girl nervously whispered something, and the Brown-Eyed Beauty laughed gently, her face softening as it tilted to the side, lighting up with open joy, her eyes twinkling in devilish delight. Deadly dimples suddenly appeared.

Instead of being charmed, Fitzwilliam was furious.

"Why do you look as if you've just gotten your foot caught in your stirrups?" As he followed Richard's rapt gaze, looking across the ballroom in the same general direction, Darcy discovered the object of his interest. "Ah. Well, well, well..." he muttered.

"What?" Fitzwilliam turned momentarily toward his cousin.

"I take it that is the woman about whom all your fuss has been?"

After one or two tense moments, Richard responded. "Yes, Darcy," he bit back icily. "That is the woman about whom, as you so haughtily say, all my fuss has been. What of it?!"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Still he hesitated, staring.

Seeing Darcy's reaction, Fitzwilliam bristled. "You wish to make some sort of observation, brat? Yes, that is the woman, and please do not stare at her like some sort of bedlamite."

"Well, pardon me, Your Worship. She's just not what I had expected."

"What do you mean by that?" Fitzwilliam glared. "She is the most beautiful woman in this room, if not the whole city."

"Jesu, calm yourself, Richard. I didn't say she wasn't. It's just that she's so... so..."

"So... what?"

"Well..." Darcy's eyes made a quick appraisal of the woman in the distance. "Well, for one thing, she is rather plainly dressed for such a grand assembly, and she does appear rather foreign-looking with those cheekbones. Here's an aside. Whatever happened to your dream of a deathly pale, full-bodied, and terminally ill English Rose due to inherit an estate the size of Kent? Hmm? In case you had not noticed, this young woman is very healthy and quite slender and apparently poor. At the very least, you must admit that she doesn't have the usual voluptuousness of which you are known to be so fond." Without even looking at his cousin, he could feel his eyes boring into him. He sighed.

"She is not that slender," Fitzwilliam said coolly. "And you are still staring at her. I don't like it, I tell you."

Darcy rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Please try and behave as an adult. I'm sure you've seen them about--emulate." The air crackled between them. "All I am saying is that she has a leaner frame than the average woman you prefer. She is tall and slim and, well, frankly, she appears small-busted." Darcy eyed her critically and then turned to look at a furious Fitzwilliam. "Maybe it is just that the dress is so huge. Stop scowling at me!"

He sipped calmly from a glass of wine he had just been handed by a footman. "Merciful heaven, aren't you suddenly the sensitive one! I have nothing against the woman at all. She is quite as lovely as you say, perhaps more so." Fitzwilliam's green-eyed rage was turning boiling red from his struggle for control. "And she is definitely not your type."

Fitzwilliam stiffened. "Aside from your previous gibberish, what is it about her, exactly, that you do not consider
my type
?"

Darcy hesitated for a few tension-filled moments before proceeding at his peril. "Truthfully? All right. Well, she's not at all fussy or overly made-up. She's naive-looking, soft, elegant, and pleasant. None of those are your usual requirements--in fact, quite the opposite." Darcy and Fitzwilliam stood glaring at each other before Darcy finally broke rank and turned back. He then gestured toward the woman under discussion. "I mean, she really is quite beautiful, to be sure. Oh, and my goodness, what an exquisite smile she has, such luscious, full lips. And dimples, too? Good God!" He chuckled and shook his head. "No, she's definitely not your type at all."

"All right, that does it. I should call you out."

"Well, think about it. You could actually grow to love this woman, then where would you be?"

"Never mind about all that. I don't care for the way you are looking at her, brat, with your insolent eyes. And how dare you comment upon her lips, goddamn it. You're almost drooling."

Darcy turned to coolly assess his cousin. "You should be medicated."

"You were leering at her."

"I was not leering, you apelike menace! I was asked my opinion."

"Aha! Well...you are the demented one--you were never asked for your opinion, and I, above all people, know a leer when I see one, and I certainly don't need your approval. I was merely pointing her out to you."

"What's going on, gentlemen?" Georgiana returned to their side after freshening herself. The carriage ride had been long and blustery, a frigid winter storm approaching with snow and sleet threatening to descend upon London at any moment.

"Oh, Fitzwilliam has finally lost what little was left of his mind. He is annoyed with me for glancing at his newest obsession," Darcy whispered loudly. "He is also exceedingly upset because I have been pointing out to him the many ways in which she would not suit him at all."

"Really? What fun! May I take a stab? Where is she?" Darcy indicated the far corner where the beauty was standing.

Fitzwilliam threw up his hands and turned his back on them. "I am leaving you both. I know neither of you. Good-bye."

"Oh, how charming she is and how different are her features! Truly a paragon!" Georgiana gushed. A slightly mollified Fitzwilliam waited. "And not your type at all, Richard. Definitely not!" Georgiana's clear assessing gaze darted from the beauty to Fitzwilliam and then back to the beauty. He turned slowly around and faced her.

"Et tu, Judas?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Heavens, Richard, just look at the color in your face! Are you feeling all right?" She regarded him with great concern.

"That is not my type of woman... exactly how, may I ask?"

"Well, no offense, dear one, but..." Fitzwilliam simmered as Georgiana wrinkled up her nose, hesitating for just a moment before she continued. "Well... frankly... I oftentimes feel a need to bathe after meeting one of your lady friends. Some of them have looked positively feral. For heaven's sake, some have not even appeared human, ha, ha, ha... Excuse me, that
was
unkind."

Darcy stepped away briefly to disguise his laughter as Fitzwilliam's fists balled up to his sides. It was then Georgiana took a better look at his face and stepped backward.

"Thank you so much, Darcy and Georgiana, for your candor. If, by any chance we should meet again, say either of you lie bleeding on the street or twisted beneath a carriage, please do not be offended if I cross the road to the other side. My, what a little nest of vipers are my family."

Georgiana gulped and whispered to her brother, "Heavens, what have I said now?"

Fitzwilliam glared down at her for several seconds. "Here's the thing, Georgiana. I require you to get me introduced to that woman--it is the only reason I'm attending this blasted nonsense. I don't know how you will do it. Fact is, my dear, I don't really give a damn."

Georgiana blanched at the horde surrounding them, her fear of crowds once again rising. She had so hoped to continue hiding between her two male family members, but Fitzwilliam was not to be put off. "And, if you do not, I will tell your brother here about a certain young acquaintance of which I have heard rumors."

Darcy's eyebrow arched neatly into his hairline. "Georgiana??"

"Sorry, Brother, I have a mission to accomplish." With her eyes averted, she had just turned to scamper off when she was stopped by an elegantly gloved hand clasped onto her wrist.

"There you are." The familiar and grating voice pierced their bubble of gaiety. Fitzwilliam cringed as Darcy turned to greet their aunt.

"Aunt Catherine"--he bowed to kiss her cheek--"what a delight to see you." He lied on behalf of them all. "We feared we would have difficulties finding you in this crush."

"Crush? I've taken baths with more servants in attendance. By the way, why on earth are you arriving at this hour? You were both taught better manners than this!" Darcy noted that her shiny eyes were having some difficulty focusing, possibly from too many glasses of sherry.

"Catherine," Darcy said calmly, trying to be patient, "it's only half-past nine."

"Exactly! Well, it can't be helped now. I must take you all to greet Lady Jersey. Where is Georgiana? Where is my little one?"

The two men parted to expose the trembling debutante.

Catherine's hands flew up to her cheeks, tears welling in her tiny and slightly dazed eyes. "Georgiana, you look so like your dear mother. She was my sister, did you know that? Well, you look absolutely exquisite, no other word to describe. Who designed your gown, dearest? It is lovely. Who is her dressmaker? Who...?" She looked questioningly at her nephews' blank stares and immediately gave up. "Oh, never mind. It's like talking to cheese."

"Madame Collette," Georgiana supplied, smiling.

Catherine nodded her approval then evaluated Darcy's appearance and glowed with pride. He was, as always, dressed in the height of elegance. She flinched visibly when she turned her attention to Fitzwilliam, cocking one eyebrow as she scanned his boots with her quizzing glass.

"I fell under my horse at Waterloo. Haven't had a chance to get them buffed up as yet."

Losing interest quickly in her nephew's boots, Catherine returned her attention to Georgiana and smiled kindly. "Do you have a lady's maid?"

"Aunt Catherine." Darcy was not amused. "I can assure you Georgiana has several lady's maids
and
a companion. She also has a number of homes at her disposal whenever and wherever she desires, all bursting with staff, horses, sixteen dogs, and five cats."

"I do so like your hair, Georgiana. I cannot abide a maid who is unable to properly attend to hair. Yours looks exceedingly well. Who did it? The cook? The laundress? The groundskeeper?"

"My maid, Aunt Catherine."

Darcy's foot began to tap furiously, but Catherine's infamous pendulum-like attention had now swung back to Fitzwilliam.

"Why on earth are you turning around every five seconds?! Have you a palsy or some other like condition?"

"Yes, Lady Catherine, and I appeal to you to excuse me. I feel the need to lie down and rest for a while."

Catherine huffed. "Oh, you have a condition, I'll warrant, but it isn't palsy. I am beginning to question your eyesight. You keep looking across the room at those old dowagers." She squinted harder and then turned back to him, aghast. "At least I am sincerely hoping it is the dowagers. Never tell me you are casting those longing looks toward the atrocious lavender dress. She is not suitable, Fitzwilliam. Don't repeat this to a soul, but I believe she is wearing wool."

He stared down at her in fuming silence.

"She is a servant, Richard! That is obvious by the meanness of her attire! You cannot be serious!"

Fitzwilliam's voice grew ominously quiet. "I am not in the habit of judging people merely by their garments,
Aunt
. Besides, how can you of all people consider her a servant? She is still young enough to walk without assistance."

"Don't you get so high and mighty with me, young man! No woman of quality would be seen out in the evening without jewels, with no gloves, no hair adornments--in
wool
! Where is her fan, I ask? Ugh! Merciful heavens, this is not to be borne!"