Darkness Falls Upon Pemberley

Darkness Falls Upon Pemberley

Copyright ©
2013, 2012 by Susan Adriani

Cover
and interior design by CloudCat Design

Cover i
mage:
A Young Lady
by Mary Green, née Byrne, ca 1845

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its author, Susan Adriani.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

First paperback edition 2013

ISBN-13: 978-0615806747
ISBN-10: 0615806740

Publ
ished by White Soup Press

Visit us at www.whitesouppress.com

Meet
your favorite Austenesque authors at www.austenauthors.net

Susan Adriani
’s website: www.thetruthaboutmrdarcy.weebly.com

10   9    8    7   6   5    4    3    2    1

For Rebecca H. & Rebecca Z.,

two
constant beacons of inspiration,

whether
they realize it or not.

†

P
rologue

Many things are rarely as they seem. That much he knew. It had taken but one evening spent in her company to understand she was like no woman he’d ever encountered. There was something in her air, in her manner of speaking, in the way she moved and laughed that prevented him from dismissing her as commonplace. Miss Morton, Miss Redgrave, Miss Bingley—and dozens upon dozens of other ladies of the London
ton
, with their simpering attention, banal conversation, and exhausting single-mindedness—were commonplace; not Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Though they’d been acquainted less than a fortnight, Darcy had become thoroughly enamoured with her. For a man used to being his own lord and master, the development of such a strong attachment was unsettling, especially when nothing—not even the inferiority of her situation and connexions—had proven a powerful enough deterrent against the spell she’d woven.

Her intelligence was formidable and had fanned the flames of his admiration with as much ease as the teasing curve of her lips had coaxed his smile. Her wit and vivacity garnered equal veneration, as did the subtle sway of her hips whenever she entered a room, or danced a reel, or strode confidently through the countryside as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

Her complexion was flawless; her
skin pale and pure, and her dark, glossy locks—whether perceived by the glow of a wax taper or the natural light of day—appeared, in Darcy’s opinion, more lustrous than the finest bolts of silk.

His fingers itched to caress her cheek, her bare shoulder, the supple swell of her breast. The hours he’d spent thinking of her, fantasizing about her, wondering whether her body might be as responsive to his touch as he’d imagined had become too numerous to count. Darcy wanted to lose himself in her eyes and become immersed in her scent. He wanted to brush his lips against the shell of her ear and whisper his deepest desires.

He longed to make her breath quicken.

He longed to make her blush.

The thought of her blush alone was enough to make his pulse race. The idea of seeing Elizabeth with a flushed countenance; of feeling the quickening of her heartbeat, and knowing it was by his hands, did sinful things to him—dangerous things; things that, as a gentleman, he could ill-afford to act upon with any lady, never mind one so utterly lovely, innocent, and trusting as Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire.

With an exhalation, he closed his eyes and attempted to put a rein on his heightened emotions. The last thing in the world tha
t ought to be on Darcy’s mind was engaging in a flirtation, however deeply felt on his part; especially when his beloved younger sister was almost completely alone in the world, in isolation at his ancestral estate in Derbyshire: Pemberley.

He scowled, frustrated and bitter about the cruel situation in which they now found themselves. A few months ago Georgiana was innocent and whole, completely unspoilt by the world and any evil that dwelled in its shadows; and Darcy, though he wouldn’t go so far as to say he was happy, neither had he been miserable.

But at Ramsgate everything had changed.

Yes, he had arrived in time to save Georgiana, but not soon enough to prevent her current state, or eliminate her suffering. And though he and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam had acted swiftly to conceal her and exact retribution on the one responsible, in the end their actions were too little, too late. Georgiana was ever altered. Never again would she be the same gentle girl they’d known and loved, and yet, neither would she ever be anything else.

Darcy doubted that any man—even his good-natured friend Charles Bingley—was capable of enough selflessness and compassion to marry her. The fact that she could claim a dowry of £30,000 and ties to an ancient, though untitled family would carry no weight should Georgiana foolishly choose to confide her story to an unsuspecting suitor. In fact, the repercussions would be nothing short of catastrophic.

Should Darcy decide to take a wife the outcome would most likely be equally disastrous. Deception of any sort had always been abhorrent to him; therefore, he knew he could never in good conscience enter into an engagement without absolute honesty and full disclosure. But what if, after revealing all, his intended refused to accept or even tolerate his be
loved sister? Darcy could never,
would
never disown Georgiana, but what if the woman he chose to spend his life with demanded it of him? What if, in a fit of anger and disgust, she told the world his sister’s darkest secret?

Perhaps he would do better to remain a bachelor than take such a risk.

His conscience, however, whispered that Elizabeth Bennet would never make such a demand of him; that her heart was too kind and her spirit too generous to behave so cruelly, either toward Georgiana or himself.

For half an hour his mind entertained impossible scenarios. Should Elizabeth ever c
onsent to visit Pemberley Darcy could carefully introduce them. Georgiana, he knew, would take one look at Elizabeth and adore her. He was equally certain that Elizabeth, after seeing the sweetness in his sister, would undoubtedly feel the same.

But would such fledgling sentiments, however tender, survive once Elizabeth understood what his sister had so recently become? What Georgiana would always remain in the eyes of Society
—nay, in the eyes of the entire world?

Darcy swallowed thickly. Would Elizabeth shun them? Or would her inherent compassion prevail, even in so hopeless a case as theirs? His practical side knew no connexion between them—either with his sister or himself—should even be considered, never mind attempted. But there was a part of him that had grown undeniably selfish, especially given the sacrifices he’d made for his sister’s sake. Was it so awful of him to wish to know such happiness as Elizabeth could bring? Would it be so terrible of him to attempt it?

He exhaled roughly and ran slightly shaking hands through his hair. It was October, he was settled comfortably at Netherfield, and, by Georgiana’s insistence, at leisure until Christmas.
There is no need for rashness,
he told himself,
in any quarter
.
At least
not at present
…

His late father had been a firm believer that impetuosity was a mark of weakness in a man; weakness of mind and weakness of character. Until a few months ago Darcy had staunchly believed it, too, but no more. It was his impatience to see her that had ultimately enabled him to rescue Georgiana from the arms of evil. Perhaps a bit of impetuosity could now rescue Darcy as well.

O
ne

The autumn wind blew in fitful gusts, rattling branches and sweeping fallen leaves into chaotic frenzy as nighttime settled over Hertfordshire. Inside Lucas Lodge several roaring fires blazed brightly in the drawing room hearths, welcome beacons for those who’d braved the sharp chill of evening in order to make merry with their neighbours.

“I trust you are enjoying your stay in Hertfordshire, Mr. Darcy.”

Though many of Sir William’s guests had been vying for her attention, she was speaking to him, and Darcy was beyond delighted. “I thank you, yes. Though I’ve been here but a few weeks, Miss Bennet, I’ve found much to admire in Hertfordshire.”

“I’m gratified to hear it, sir, for I’ve often observed that those used to the bustling excitement and endless attractions of Town have a tendency to declare our humble society confined and unvarying. Your lack of expeditiousness is refreshing.”

Elizabeth’s impertinence was far more welcome to Darcy than the insipid words regularly uttered by the women of the
bon
ton
. As always, she looked completely and unwittingly lovely. The rich, chocolate colour of her gown, but a few shades lighter than her hair, presented a stunning contrast to her snow-white skin. Darcy’s eyes lingered appreciatively on each exquisite inch exposed to him. The elegant column of her neck, unadorned except for a delicate garnet cross, he found especially enticing. It would have pleased him infinitely more, however, to see her without any decoration. Her natural beauty was enough. She needed no further embellishment.

A mournful air, coerced by awkward fingers on Lady Lucas’ pianoforte jolted Darcy from his admiration. Chagrinned, he forced his eyes upward until they met Elizabeth’s and cleared his throat.

“While that is undoubtedly the case with some,” he replied, “you seem to have forgotten, madam, my estate is settled far to the north, and thereby surrounded by a similar ease and solitude. Though I confess to missing the theatre and museums to some degree whenever I'm absent from Town, I'm afraid I cannot repine much beyond that. In fact, it has long been my observation that variety and freshness are as abundant in rural, country neighbourhoods as they are in London, if one takes the trouble to notice.”

She appeared amused by his response, and arched her brow in challenge. “Shall I take that to mean you are not eager to be gone, then, Mr. Darcy? Our humble shire and its sometimes eccentric residents have yet to frighten you off? I find that interesting, indeed,” she said, raising her wine glass to her lips and taking a slow sip.

“I daresay we are all of us eccentric in our own way, Miss Bennet. I am, however, exceedingly flattered to hear that you find me interesting.”

“Oh,” she replied, “but I have not declared
you
interesting, sir, only your stubbornness.”

“You believe I am stubborn?” he cried, though his grin belied his affronted tone. “I suppose on certain subjects I am, but that I ought to be scared away by your neighbours, you must own, is a ridiculous notion. I've rarely met with pleasanter people.”

“Perhaps, I've misspoken,” she said archly. “Perhaps it is not the neighbours of whom you ought to be wary.”

Darcy’s smile slipped as he realised the irony of her implication, and felt a pang of guilt. Though this woman had most definitely taken him by surprise, and his instant, powerful attraction to her had caused him some degree of alarm initially, he'd never felt afraid of her. Discomposed by her, entranced by her, enamoured and aroused by her, yes; but certainly never afraid.

If Darcy feared anything it was losing Elizabeth’s friendship because of Georgiana’s unfathomable situation, but he told himself that was presently neither here nor there. For Elizabeth to learn of their troubles Darcy would have to inform her himself and, though he knew enough of her character to feel confident he could rely on Elizabeth’s discretion on many matters, he had no desire to speak so openly of something so personal and painful to him; at least not when their acquaintance was still relatively new.

He could, however, speak honestly of other things, and said sincerely, “Miss Bennet, I have found your society, by far, the most satisfying of all your Hertfordshire neighbours and I'm extraordinarily grateful for your kindness in bestowing it. Surely, you cannot mean to imply that I ought to be fearful of you?”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief and, perhaps, Darcy thought, a hint of something more. “You do not find me fearsome, sir?”

A small smile lifted the corners of Darcy’s mouth as he shook his head. “I would not call you particularly fearsome, no.”

“Frightening, then?” she hedged.

Darcy laughed.

Elizabeth pursed her lips in mock indignation, but her eyes, dancing with mirth, belied her pleasure. “Tell me. Is there nothing you find even remotely intimidating about me, Mr. Darcy; nothing at all?”

He dipped his chin and shook his head with a chuckle, slowly swirling the contents of his wine glass.
Intimidating, indeed,
he thought as he brought the glass to his lips.

As satisfying as he found her playful banter, in his heart Darcy longed to have a more serious conversation with Elizabeth; an infinitely more private exchange where he’d look deeply into her eyes and confess his ever-increasing attachment to her, and perhaps—if he felt particularly bold—the ardent nature of his admiration. Now
that,
he owned, was a terrifying prospect!

While Elizabeth’s eagerness to seek him out and tease him on multiple occasions had managed to convince him his suit would likely be welcome, he reminded himself this was Elizabeth Bennet before him and not some calculable lady of the
ton
. She was nothing if not unpredictable.

He’d learned very early on in their acquaintance that neither his reputed fort
une, his house in Town, nor Caroline Bingley’s exultant praise of Pemberley had managed to impress her, which left Darcy in unfamiliar territory. The realization that he had nothing more to recommend him but his charm was hardly a welcome one. Not only had the reticent master of Pemberley felt uncomfortable exerting himself in order to attract the interest of the opposite sex, but his reputation had never required it of him. That is, not until he’d met a certain persuasive Hertfordshire beauty.

Drawing a fortifying breath, Darcy cleared his throat and, with what he hoped was an engaging smile, gestured toward a
cushioned window seat in the far corner of the room that was, for the moment, blessedly unoccupied. There, they would have more privacy from prying eyes and lose tongues. “Would you do me the honour of indulging me for a moment, Miss Bennet? I should very much like to speak with you.”

“I was under the impression we were speaking,” she replied as she took another sip of wine.

Darcy stared at her, momentarily caught as he awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other; but when she lowered her glass he saw a familiar, teasing smile playing upon her pretty mouth and managed to relax his stance, if only a little.

“Yes,” he replied sheepishly
. “I suppose we are. Pray forgive my forwardness. I’m afraid I don’t usually perform well to strangers and, apparently, tonight is no exception.” He gestured to the room in general, overflowing with Sir William’s guests. To his immense relief, every last one of them appeared to be engaged at present, and so paid them no particular attention he could discern.

In silence Elizabeth regarded him. Her teasing countenance had turned serious, the lightness between them shifting to something infinitely darker and heavier, larger than the both of them combined. He hadn’t even realized he’d drawn closer to her until he felt her gloved hand upon his chest, gently stopping his advance. It was nothing more than a brief touch, but it was enough to sear his skin, even through the
heavy fabric of his dress coat, waistcoat, and the fine lawn of his shirt. Darcy drew a shuddering breath and took a step backward, inwardly chastising himself for his momentary lack of decorum. He was about to stutter an apology when she spoke.

“I’ve noticed nothing amiss with your performance. In fact, no one admitted to the privilege of knowing you could think anything wanting.”

Much like her touch, her quiet words flooded Darcy’s breast with unparalleled warmth, overwhelming him, but at the same time also robbing him of what little of his reticence remained. “You, madam,” he said roughly, “are no stranger. How is it that I’ve come to feel as though I’ve known you for years rather than mere weeks?”

“Perhaps you have,” she replied after a moment, turning her head aside as the hint of a smile blossomed on her lips. “Perhaps we were once friends in a former lifetime, such as the Hindus believe.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, almost nervously
then, and Darcy found it impossible not to smile himself.

“Perhaps,” he muttered, surprised, yet infinitely pleased by such evidence of her knowledge of the world. Elizabeth was obviously no stranger to her father’s library, and in that moment Darcy couldn’t help but picture her in Pemberley’s library, settled comfortably before the fire
as they discussed countless subjects, many of which very few ladies of his acquaintance were prepared to discuss with any level of intelligence, never mind interest.

Though Elizabeth’s wine glass was nearly
full he reached for it, gratified when she surrendered it willingly. Darcy set it down upon a nearby table beside his own, far emptier glass. He was about to offer her his arm and escort her to the window seat, where he had every intention of boldly confessing his ever-increasing admiration of her, when they were suddenly joined by her father. The grim, almost hostile expression on Mr. Bennet’s face wiped the complacent smile from Darcy’s with the efficiency of a bucket of ice cold water.

The master of Pemberley recov
ered quickly, however, and offered the elder gentleman a cordial inclination of his head. “Good evening to you, Mr. Bennet. How do you do?” Despite his disappointment and irritation at being thus interrupted, Darcy’s tone was civil. Whether Elizabeth’s father’s address would be equally so, remained to be seen.