Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer (21 page)

Grunting, he shook his head. For heaven's sake, he fumed, he could not, in all good conscience, allow her to embark on a relationship with him that would harm her in any way. Her culture was not like his culture, and he realized what she did not, that her preferred course would only lead to tremendous emotional upheaval and guilt for her. He would protect her, even from herself. He loved her beyond all reason, beyond himself.

He just wanted to kill her.

Amanda had spotted the old priest walking toward them and sucked in her breath. She leaned toward Fitzwilliam. "You have possibly forty seconds left to decide. Oh, merciful St. Jude, Father Riley is scowling and is heading toward us. It is mistress or nothing, Colonel. Where do we meet and when?" Amanda's heart stopped. She waited.

Fitzwilliam could hear the voice of the old priest getting nearer and nearer as he greeted the few others that had remained after mass.

"Ye gods! Twenty seconds," she whispered hysterically.

"All right, all right! I cannot believe you are forcing me to do this!" All these months he had been proudly mending his ways, removing ties to the darker sides of his life, and now desired only to take his place as a respectable member of society and set up his nursery with the woman he loved. He was livid. "What days do you attend the hospital?"

"Tuesdays or Thursdays usually, occasionally both."

"Bloody hell! All right, madam, all right. Thursday morning I will send my batman, O'Malley, to meet you at the hospital. Just so that we are clear, I believe you to be seriously deranged. I am agreeing to this fiasco on one condition alone, and that is that we are meeting to discuss our situation! I am in no way sanctioning any sort of liaison."

"Amanda, will you introduce me to this great, huge, hulking English soldier who is inhaling all the breathable air from my church?" Father Riley had arrived.

It had been a trying and busy few days for the colonel. They were to have their "discussion" at the Lions Head Inn, an elegant and discreet place just outside the center of London, a place where Fitzwilliam had brought many ladies of quality over the years.
Too many
, he soon realized as the staff hailed him warmly, and he, in turn, found he was able to inquire by name after family members. He was an important patron, and as such, one of the best rooms was always held in reserve for his use alone, overlooking the exquisite back garden and not the front street with the noise and pollution.

Extremely well-to-do merchants, daring members of the
ton
, and visiting dignitaries mingled, along with anonymous travelers, all scurrying back and forth, assiduously minding their own affairs. There was no permanent housing or residences in the area--an area where there was deliberate inattention to who was doing what to whom. Everyone was anonymous and treated with the utmost discretion.

He had been pacing nervously, wiping sweaty palms, and trying to calm a pounding heart, but his resolve remained steadfast. A part of him worried that she wouldn't come even as another part worried that she would. He patted once again the packet of papers within his coat.

At last there was a soft knock on the door before it was opened by an older matron in a white ruffled mobcap and black dress with white apron, remnants from a much older, more formal time. Following closely behind came a walking pile of dripping wet veils and hooded cloak. Her boots were squishing water.

"Terrible it is out, Colonel. Quite a rumpus of a storm blowin' out there." The round-faced little woman had escorted Amanda up to the room, and then followed her inside, advancing with bold curiosity to the fireplace to better view the removal of her veil. "Can I get anythin' else for ye, Colonel?" she asked brightly, never taking her eyes from the back of the sodden and discreetly obscured visitor. "For you and yer fine lady both?"

"No, no, thank you, Mrs. Beale." He pressed several coins into her hand and turned her by her elbow to leave. "We will not require anything more from you or your fine staff. All is well."

"I imagine she's a real beauty, Colonel, under all that muck. Poor mite is freezin' and wet, I am sure. I must say she be very polite, very genteel-like." The old woman peeked around his shoulder as he pressed her farther toward the door. "Best to remove all yer clothes, luv, quick as ye can, before you catch yer death." She looked up at Fitzwilliam and winked. "There, dearie, saved ye some time, Colonel. She be the sweetest and the nicest..."

"Yes, yes, she's a real peach. That will be all. Thank you so much, madam. Don't let the door catch your skirt. Please see that we are not disturbed. Thank you..." Even as the matron curtseyed, she pressed her face as far as possible to the side until the door was finally closed on her view.

Fitzwilliam looked over his shoulder, not even certain it was Amanda within, hiding her appearance. "How in hell can you see under all that?" He turned to face her fully after locking the door.

She lifted the heavy black veils and smiled. "It is good to see you also, Richard. This is such a charming inn. I think I recognized several prominent people attempting to keep their faces hidden behind palm fronds. I was quite impressed." Her overly big woolen cloak was dripping wet and so was placed neatly on a chair near the fire to dry, alongside the veils. "No wonder parliament always recesses so early in the winter. They've such a long journey to reach here before dark."

Layers of outer gear had not prevented her clothes from becoming wet, while gusty winds had loosened her hair from her chignon. She was freezing. First rubbing her arms briskly in an attempt to restart her circulation, she then primly smoothed back the dripping tendrils from her face, finally straightening the skirt of her wet, dark grey dress to shyly turn and face him. She looked like a schoolgirl on her first day of class.

Even in such disarray, he found her striking beauty astonishing, and that caused him to renew mentally his vow to spend this time with her only in outlining his "perfect solution" to their problems. "Would you care for a glass of wine?" Fitzwilliam's heart raced as he walked over to the side table where a bottle of claret waited to be opened, along with a pot of steaming coffee and buttered scones. "Or would you prefer coffee or tea?"

She looked up briefly from her intense study of the room. "For myself, it is a little early for wine. However, hot coffee would be very welcome, thank you."

He raked a hand through his unruly hair, wishing to give himself a moment before he reached down for the coffee and cups. He was surprised that his hands shook, and three times he asked if she wanted cream and sugar, to which she always patiently replied, "Just cream, thank you.

"She seemed to know you extremely well," commented Amanda as she turned to face the hearth, warming her hands before the fire.

"Of whom are you speaking? Oh, you refer to Mrs. Beale. No, not really. It is just good business to make patrons feel important and call them by name." Fitzwilliam cleared his throat nervously.

"Really?" she said. "That's odd, since she told me on the way up the stairs that you kept regular rooms here to meet with your 'special friends,' but that this day you had requested a better, larger room. She was quite impressed with me because of that, I believe."

Richard growled, silently mouthing earthy expletives as he poured a second glass of wine for himself, having already gulped down his first. He forced his voice to sound relaxed. "I sometimes have occasion to stay here with out-of-town guests, since my family no longer keeps a home in town. It is not always possible to impose upon Darcy's good nature."

"Ah." Amanda hesitated for a moment in silence. "She also said that your special friends are generally well-titled and wealthy widows and was wondering if I was one of..."

"All right, all right, I get your point, Amanda," he testily interrupted. "No need to bludgeon me to death. Can we forget what the woman said, please?" He was growing increasingly petulant at both himself and at the entirety of London in general. He turned from the table to face her. "We are here to talk about our problem and not about my colorful little past..." He took two steps in her direction, her cup and saucer held out before him, when he saw that she was removing the pins from her hair.

He felt an immediate and earth-shattering slippage in his resolve.

"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped.

At his sharp tone, she looked up quickly, somewhat surprised. "What does it look like I'm doing? My hair is wet, or hadn't you noticed? I need to dry it, so I have removed the pins. Heavens, look at your face! Do we need to alert the press? I have only six of them, pins I mean, to my name and cannot afford to have them flying about." She had picked up a towel from the basin, rubbed her hair briskly, then began running her fingers through, finishing off by tousling it around a bit. "There, that's much better. You will find that I can be a bit frugal... Richard? Are you all right?"

Her hair was much fuller and longer and more astonishingly beautiful than he had anticipated. Damn it. He could not speak. He just stood staring--at all that wet, very long, gloriously thick blonde hair pulled over to the side and cascading down over her shoulder, reaching almost to her waist. It was a dense and shiny mass of tangled curls, a golden halo surrounding her face. It emphasized her very high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. He sensed a little tension begin in his chest.

The South of France was beginning to stir, also.

"Richard??" She repeated apprehensively. His eyes had taken on an ominously molten appearance.

"I don't think it is wise for you to leave your wet hair exposed like that, Amanda." He spoke slowly. "You might catch a chill. Perhaps you can wrap the towel around your head or something, perhaps around your face a bit, too." His voice sounded rough-edged as he advanced toward her, and she took the coffee from his hands. He backed away quickly. Clearing his throat and tossing back yet another glass of claret, he again silently vowed to himself to remain on his planned course of action, no matter what.

"Ahem. Ahem. (Cough) While I am certainly grateful that we can have this opportunity to speak, I would not want it to be the cause of your catching a chill, especially since I have planned a sort of surprise. Whether you will feel it is an acceptable surprise will pretty well determine our course of action here today."

Suddenly turning on his heel, he paced a few feet away and began his rehearsed speech, his voice rising to much the same timbre of any general addressing his troops. "Amanda," he intoned, "it is evident that we have a strong attraction for each other; however..." Glancing over his shoulder, he stopped dead in his tracks. "Now what are you doing?" he burst out. A second large crack had appeared in his reserve, and the nerves in his body began to throb.

Sitting on a small stool before the fire, her hair tumbling nearly to the ground, she looked up at him in confusion. Already having placed a boot on the side of the hearth, she stopped, her dainty foot poised a few inches from the floor. "I am taking off my boots and stockings, that is, if it is all right with you, sir. My feet are cold and wet because my boots leak like a sieve. Please go on. Don't let me interrupt."

She reached modestly up under her skirt, her eyes darting in embarrassment to his face, and then she rolled down her stocking. She next removed the boot and stocking of the other foot. "Ahhh!" she exclaimed happily as she wriggled her toes before the fire. "That feels absolutely wonderful, much better. Richard, do go on, please, with your speech, it was very interesting, I am sure."

He bitterly catalogued all the attacks on his resolve unfolding before him: a fine-looking young woman with her long, wet hair flowing around her shoulders and her face glowing with youth and health, the top and bottom of her dress dampened more than enough to cling to her, her arms wrapped around slender legs, trim ankles that peeked out from her skirt and her pretty little pink toes--a sensually explosive cornucopia warming itself innocently before the fire.

"Richard! Are you all right?" She tried to run her fingers through her hair to help dry it but quickly abandoned the attempt because of the snarls. She then pushed it from her face to lean her elbows atop her knees. She demurely placed one row of toes over her others to keep them warm.

"Hmm?" His eyebrows rose with his response, his mind a hopeless mush of confusion.

"You were saying something important, were you not?"

"I was?"

"I'm almost certain you were." She gave him a guilty smile and stood. "Oh, dear, I am not being very attentive again, am I?" Padding over to him, she rested her hands high up on his shoulders. "I am very sorry. Please forgive me for being so rude. Good heavens, barefoot like this, I feel small standing next to you." Smiling contentedly she ran her hands across his shoulders, and then gently stroked down the front of his chest. "It's like I am standing in a hole or something." Her eyes drifted, just for a moment, to his mouth.

Fitzwilliam scowled. "Amanda, go and stand over there, please." He sounded very annoyed.

"Why? What have I done?"

"Just do it, goddamn it."

"If you insist, Colonel." She pursed her lips and walked back to where she had been sitting near the fire. "Fine, shoot."

"I beg your pardon?!"

"Sorry, that was an American phrase. Please proceed with what you wanted to say to me."

He hesitated for a moment and then began again, after further clearing his throat and downing his fourth or fifth glass of claret. He had lost count.

"Amanda."

"Yes, Richard. I have not left. I am listening."

"Right. Yes... where was I?" He began to massage his temple. "Ah... It is evident that we have... strong attraction for each other... damn it to hell, what was I saying? Your fussings, all this to do, have gotten me completely off topic! Oh, yes, I remember--Amanda, I am of an age where I find I desire something more substantial in my life than a meaningless coupling with someone. Forgive my blunt speech, but I do want us to be open with each other." He pinched the bridge of his nose as he strolled to the window, a headache threatening, then rubbed at his chest, feeling as if a ravenous wolf was within clawing to be released. It had been those little pink toes, and he knew it. For no apparent reason, those stupid pink toes had captured his imagination and were now driving him wild.

"Ahem. Ahem." He hesitated for a moment to stare outside. "After years of professing the complete opposite, I find that, since meeting you, I truly do desire a home life and a family. I want to share my thoughts with someone, share my dreams and love and future with one person, and we seem to rub along well together, don't we? Can you understand what I am saying?" He turned to look at her. "As I was saying, I have arranged for something to which I pray you are amenable..." He suddenly exploded. "Bloody hell! Now what are you doing?!"

She froze midway in her process of unbuttoning her bodice, a guilty blush sweeping over her face.

"Now are you going to tell me that your breasts are cold and wet and you need to relieve them of your top?" His voice sounded angrier than he had meant it to be, while his walls of protection continued crashing down around him. The wolf was breaking free.

Brown eyes looked down in shame, and tears began to well. Her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "Please do not yell at me, Richard. I cannot help it if my dress is wet, and I'm cold."

"I don't mean to yell. It's just that I am trying to bare my soul to you here, and you cannot seem to retain possession of your clothes. Now please get yourself dressed again. We are not staying. If you would only let me explain to you my overall strategy..."

He watched in horror as her face crumpled into a blubbery mass of tears. "I am angering you, and you are sending me away." She stomped her bare foot in self-disgust. Throwing back her head, she began to wail and sob with her frustration and anger and disappointment. "Oh, I am such a fool! I wanted to look beautiful! Instead, I look like a sodden pile of rags. But please, Richard, don't force me to leave here. Don't give up on us."