Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (14 page)

Fitzwilliam’s low voice broke the relative quiet.

“Do you wish to talk?”

Darcy glanced at him.

“About what?”

“I can think of a topic or two,” the other offered mildly, “but I imagine this is not the time. After the ball perhaps? With a good supply of brandy?”

“If you wish. But can it not wait until the morrow? This,” he gestured unenthusiastically towards the bustle and the glitter, “is not likely to quieten down for a good many hours.”

“I did not think it would. But I favour late hours. From what I have observed, fatigue and brandy work wonders in loosening tongues.”

Darcy laughed.

“When have you ever needed any such inducement?”

“You know very well I was not speaking of myself.”

He did not have time to inquire into his cousin’s meaning. A muffled cry caught their notice. The second had them darting to the hall.

* * * *

She had told Georgiana she was ready to retire, but only because she was of the same mind as her friend: there was no reason to tarry, for nothing could improve upon that lovely moment. That magical time in the orangery.

She had no wish to stay behind and once more witness him standing up with one heiress after another. With oh-so-fashionable young ladies in glittering apparel who had the right connections, or dowries, or both. They laughed, they smiled, they fluttered their feathers. And why should they not smile? They stood a chance. They were his equals.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn might have said the same. Not his equal in consequence or fortune, naturally, but in everything that mattered.

Miss Bennet, the lady’s companion, was nothing of the sort. A respected member of his household, aye. More than that, his sister’s trusted friend. But not his friend, nor his companion. Never his rightful companion. And not worthy of the Darcy name.

One of these other women would be thus blessed… Oh, she should leave these parts before it came to pass. Before he offered for some fortunate heiress and brought her to Pemberley as Mrs Darcy. To be still there and witness it would be the final stab into her heart.

Elizabeth suppressed the heavy sigh and forced herself to smile at Georgiana.

“Do go up, I shall follow you directly.”

Blissfully unaware of her thoughts, the dear girl left her with a warm embrace, the sound of her footsteps growing fainter and fainter as she ascended the great staircase, until there was nothing to be heard but the distant murmur of the fashionable ball.

She had been in earnest when she had observed she did not belong there, with self-assured strangers condescending to the lowly companion. And in all likelihood, for her sake if not his, he would not have stood up with her under the public scrutiny of an entire ballroom.

But at least she had this. A dance. Another perfect memory of a perfect night when, for a few treasured moments, she could imagine herself his equal – and could dream.

She looked up at the tall ceiling, all but lost in the shadows, and her troubled countenance softened into a smile. Arms tightly wrapped around herself she stood under the kissing bough and, eyes closed, she indulged the dreams a little longer.

But the hand that clasped her shoulder to spin her around was not Darcy’s. Nor were his the lips that crushed on hers.

CHAPTER 11

The smell of brandy was overpowering. Nauseating. As was the terrifying inability to fend off the assault of gripping hands – of hard, searching lips forcibly parting hers. Struggles and a muffled cry of protest had no effect at all, but she cried again, vainly striving to free herself from her aggressor.

When, blessedly, assistance came at last and he was dragged from her, she staggered back, almost losing her balance. And so did her preserver, when the other shoved him viciously aside.

“The insolence! You dare lay hands on me? Leave us!” he barked, but the command was disdainfully ignored.

“You should be the one to leave, my lord,” Mr Bradden retorted crisply, only to find himself violently shoved again. This time he returned measure for measure, and with sufficient force to send the other crashing to the ground. His head hit the marble floor with a resounding thud and he groaned, then went limp and still.

The parson barely spared him a glance before reaching for Elizabeth’s hand.

“Miss Bennet? Were you harmed?”

“Yes – no – I am well… I am well. I thank you, Sir. I beg you would excuse me,” she faltered, then turned around and fled up the great staircase without stopping for breath.

Nor did she stop when Mr Darcy’s voice thundered below.

“
Mr
Bradden! What the devil is the meaning of all this?”

* * * *

In her state of shock, it never occurred to Elizabeth that her defender might be blamed for the fracas, but Mr Bradden was left with no such illusions at the sight of his patron storming towards him.

“Calm yourself,” Colonel Fitzwilliam quietly entreated, laying a quelling hand on his cousin’s arm, but Darcy shook it off and did not break his stride until he had rounded past the foot of the stairs, when he stopped short at the sight of Lord Fenton’s prostrate form.

“Ah,” said the Colonel upon noticing him too, while Darcy’s eyes shot from Fenton to the top of the staircase, whence Elizabeth’s footsteps could now barely be heard.

He moved as though to follow, yet stopped and drew a hand over his face, then turned to Bradden.

“Pray forgive me,” he offered quietly. “I seem to have mistaken the matter.”

“I say, Sir!” Bradden shot back in barely mollified outrage, and Darcy sighed.

“I beg your forgiveness once again. May I know what happened?”

Bradden swallowed his ire and made to answer, but Colonel Fitzwilliam raised a hand.

“Not here. Darcy, we should take Fenton to your study. Mr Bradden, would you be so kind?”

With a nod, the reverend came to assist him, and between them they hauled Fenton up to promptly spirit him away before any straying guests could spot him lying there. Darcy strode past them to walk ahead. He opened the door into his study, then pressed it shut as the others let Fenton slump into a wingchair. And then he asked again:

“What happened?”

Bradden was brief and to the point.

“Lord Fenton imposed himself upon Miss Bennet. Kissed her against her will.”

The few words were enough to send Darcy’s blood boiling. He turned and left the room, but did not get far. Fitzwilliam caught up with him in mere moments and stopped him mid-stride with a hand on his arm.

“I trust you have not lost your senses to go to her bedchamber,” he urgently whispered.

This time his hand was not shaken off, and Fitzwilliam dropped it of his own accord. Darcy forcefully ran his fingers through his hair.

“I suppose it would do more harm than good just now…” he finally conceded, then burst out, “Still, I–… Did you not hear? Coerced – molested – in her own home!”

“
Her
home?”

“My home. This house. Where she lives. Blast it, Cousin, you know what I am saying!”

“Not entirely, but this is neither here not there. The point is– ”

But Darcy would not let him finish.

“I need to know how she is! You must understand.”

“Oh, I do. Send Mrs Reynolds then. Ask her to go up with a cup of tea. And a few drops of Laudanum, if you ask me. Upon reflection I should go find her, you are not fit to be seen. Can you be trusted to be in the same room as Fenton and not do him further harm, much as he deserves it?”

Darcy could promise nothing of the sort, but did not say so. There was no need to, and Fitzwilliam spoke again.

“Wait here then. I will send a footman with a bowl of water and some cloths. There is blood in his hair. I hope he has not cracked his skull.”

Darcy hoped he had, but again said nothing. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the panelling. This, Fitzwilliam took as an indication that he was prepared to do as bid and wait for him there so, as promised, he took himself off in search of a footman to send him to fetch cloths and summon Mrs Reynolds. He muttered as he vanished round the corner:

“Damme! I never thought the parson had it in him.”

* * * *

Far from the bustle of the forgotten ball, the corridor was very quiet but for the sound of footsteps. Darcy had long relinquished his spot by the dark panelling and was pacing up and down on the old floorboards, sending them creaking and ringing with his heavy footfalls.

Up and down he went, over and over. Where the devil was Fitzwilliam? Had he found Mrs Reynolds? Had she gone up already? She was a good choice, and he inwardly thanked his cousin for it. Her discretion was impeccable, her loyalty to this house unwavering, and besides there was every reason to believe that at this point in time her kind wisdom would be of greater assistance to Elizabeth than his possessive rage. It served them ill, all of them, yet he could not help it. The very thought that the woman he loved–

The shock stunned him, and he remained frozen on the spot.

He loved her.

Staggering yet indisputable, the truth sunk in, and every fibre of his being accepted it as absolute.

He
loved
her. This was why everything about her touched a chord. This was why her lengthy debates with Bradden had displeased him. This was why he had warned Fitzwilliam against paying her too much attention, and why he had been incensed by his cousin’s antics under the kissing bough. This was why he wished to tear Fenton limb from limb for forcibly taking a liberty
he
had denied himself.

He ran his hands over his face, shocked by the revelation as much as by his own former blindness.

How had he not seen it? How had he not known? When had she ceased to be a mere appendage to Georgiana, and had become part of his very soul?

That, he could not tell. He was in the middle before he knew he had begun. It was easier to grasp why it had taken him so long to see it. Had they met in any other circumstances, within less than a fortnight he would have recognised his growing interest in her for what it was: attraction. Unconquerable attraction.

As matters stood, he had not even considered it a possibility. The fact that she was a member of his household had served to deceive him. Or rather had made it all too easy for him to deceive himself into believing that it was natural and just to show an interest – learn as much as possible about her, her past, her troubles – task himself with her welfare, just as he did with everyone who lived at Pemberley.

A dark glare came to replace the look of shocked self-discovery at the reminder that he had failed dismally in ensuring the latter. This was not the time to dwell on himself, his shock, his feelings, but keep his thoughts on the matter at hand. Her comfort. Her good name.

Darcy pressed his eyes shut as he told himself he should be grateful not only for Bradden’s timely intervention, but also for the fact that the young parson had been the one to witness the abhorrent scene, rather than some tattler or another who, thoughtlessly or maliciously, might let damaging rumours spread. In that regard Fenton was a greater reason for concern, and Darcy’s glare darkened further. He would be dealt with. The sooner the better.

As though on cue, the door of his study was opened, and Mr Bradden peered out.

“Ah. Mr Darcy. Glad you are still here. I think his lordship is coming to, Sir. And I doubt it would do much good if my face is the first one he lays eyes upon.”

Nor would it do Fenton any good whatever if he saw his, Darcy glowered, but what he chose to say was:

“A fair assumption, Mr Bradden. Perhaps you ought to go. I will see to him. But before you do, pray allow me to assure you of my gratitude, and once more entreat you to pardon my earlier misjudgement.”

Christian forgiveness was a prerequisite for a man in Rev. Bradden’s position, but his voice still held a mild tinge of reproach when he replied:

“I already have. Although I beg leave to say I would have hoped that by now you knew me better.”

Darcy nodded, suitably abashed.

“Well said, Sir, and well deserved. I
should
have known better.”

“Then let us say no more. I will leave you now. Unless you have further need of me?”

“I thank you, but I imagine not. You have done more than enough tonight.” But when disgruntled noises reached him from within, he added, “The rest should be left to me,” as he clasped his hand on Bradden’s arm with enough force to make the other wince. He did not notice. With a nod of farewell, he walked into his study and firmly closed the door.

* * * *

Fenton looked up at the sound.

“Ah. Darcy. Good man. Would you be so kind to tell me how the blazes I got here?”

“You collapsed in the hall.”

“Collapsed, you say,” Fenton scowled. “Did you not know that Bradden manhandled me? Confounded impudence, I call it.” He groaned and brought his hand up to the back of his head and cursed to see it marked with blood. “This is assault! I tell you, that parson of yours will learn to know his place. This is not the last he hears of it!”

“Oh, I believe it is, and I shall tell you why,” Darcy retorted coolly, with an evenness of manner he would not have thought himself capable of a few moments earlier. “You will not breathe a word about tonight if you do not wish your mother to learn that your sister’s dowry was lost at cards three years ago and your estate is so heavily encumbered that you can barely call it yours. If your mother’s displeasure is not a sufficient deterrent, you might find that the entire breadth of your acquaintance suddenly becomes informed of your pecuniary circumstances. And then I should imagine you would find it well nigh impossible to save yourself through a fortunate alliance.”

Fenton glared.

“You know too much about other men’s business. Why is that?”

Darcy waved the question aside, disdaining to enlighten him that it was his right and duty to become very well informed about the business of any man who might at some later point form designs upon his sister.

“Moreover,” Fenton added, “why would you take the parson’s side and use me so uncharitably?”

The dark satisfaction as to his evenness of manner was premature, Darcy discovered. He felt the forced calm seeping out of him as he replied, struggling to still keep himself in check.

“You have taken unpardonable liberties under my roof tonight. The only reason I have not called you out is that I want no rumour of this spread abroad.”

Fenton rolled his eyes.

“Call me out? Over that?” He shrugged. “You can blame it on your excellent brandy. Speaking of which, another glass would not go amiss, if you are offering.”

Darcy made no gesture to oblige, and the other resumed.

“‘Tis the season of goodwill, so I will beg your pardon if you think I must. But, dash it, Darcy, in my defence, she was standing right under the kissing bough. I could not disappoint the fair maiden,” he leered, and Darcy’s fists clenched at his sides.

“She did not wish for your advances!”

Fenton scoffed.

“That is what they always say. Very well. Bring her here and I shall ask her pardon too, for the sake of neighbourly harmony,” he loftily offered, “although I would not scruple to say that a good neighbour would not ask me to demean myself before a servant, so I trust it shall not come to that.”

“It shall not,” Darcy enunciated through lips so stiff that they barely moved. “You will not come near Miss Bennet again. You will leave this house tonight and not cross my threshold unless circumstances force me to include you in an invitation for your sister and your mother.”

Lord Fenton sat up in his chair.

“Come now, Darcy, this is rather harsh, do you not think? I apologised, which is far more than this trifling incident requires. You are making a great to-do over– ” He stopped short and his countenance suddenly smoothed into a rueful knowing grin. “Oh, now I see how it is. Truly overstepped the mark then, have I not? Confound it, man, you should have said. How on earth was I to know she was your companion more than your sister’s, when you have been so discreet about it and she so prim and proper? A word of warning would have done the trick. I am not the sort to tamper with another man’s pleasures. Well. Bygones, eh? Rest assured, it will not happen again.”