Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"I heard a report of a most alarming nature."

Charles's blue eyes were fairly sparking with rage. Louisa Hurst glanced uncertainly between him, her sister, and her husband, wondering whether Caroline had done something wrong at the assembly the evening prior. Probably not—Caroline seemed to have a pious air about her. Her husband was unperturbed.

"What is it?" Hurst asked.

"I have learnt that there are wagers all among the regiment about Darcy and the colonel chasing after Elizabeth Bennet. And that you, Hurst, are a party to them." Charles drew himself up, and Louisa was reminded of how he had been as a child—small, sweet, and undeniably adorable on the few occasions he was roused into indignation.

"I think it is disgusting," Caroline said primly. "I refuse to believe Mr Darcy would willingly involve himself in such a thing."

Louisa smothered a smile. If the wager had not involved Mr Darcy, Caroline would have been right in the midst of it. The very gown she wore that morning was purchased with her winnings from gambling at Lady Farnworth's last card party.

Hurst shrugged. "You know how it is. Two men, one lady—everyone wants a hand in how it might turn out."

"But her reputation!" Charles said angrily. "What of?—"

"What of it? Pursued by two men above her station?" Lord Saye had entered the breakfast room. "Forget reputation, she will have renown."

That made Charles appear unsure. His lordship sank into a chair and Caroline immediately rose to serve and dote upon him. You do not stand a chance, Sister , Louisa thought, no matter how much coffee you pour him .

"One of them is sure to propose, you know," Lord Saye added.

"Impossible," Caroline declared. "Perhaps the colonel? But no, surely not."

Charles scratched his head. "I must agree with Caroline. I did not think Darcy even much liked her."

"Then it is a good thing I put your money on the colonel." Hurst smiled genially and gave Louisa a little sidelong glance.

"You did?"

"He did not wish to leave you out," Lord Saye reported from his chair. "So your money is on my brother for now, though you might change it if you wish to."

"Do not change a thing, Charles," said Caroline. "I am quite sure that Mr Darcy?—"

"Strange of Darcy to be mixed up in this sort of thing," Charles said thoughtfully.

"Darcy started the whole thing himself. Has a new carriage riding on the outcome." As Lord Saye spoke, he removed a small flask from his jacket and dosed his coffee with it.

Seeing Louisa observing him, he winked and said, "My personal physician has me on a very strict regimen. Purely medicinal."

"What ails you, sir?" Caroline asked, suddenly all concern.

" Horribili sobrietate ," Lord Saye informed her, causing Hurst to bark out a laugh.

Unlike her sister, Caroline had never studied her Latin and thus had no idea that Lord Saye had just said he suffered from sobriety. She nodded, her face a picture of sympathy, and said what a brave man he was to be in such good humour despite his struggles.

On the other side of the table, Charles still seemed to be weighing the bets.

"My money is on Mr Darcy," Louisa told him helpfully. "But mostly because I think these Bennet girls are grasping."

He scowled at her, and Louisa belatedly remembered that the reason they were all here was because he was about to marry a Bennet sister. "Save for dear Jane, of course."

"The colonel does seem friendlier with Lizzy," Charles said slowly. "I do not think I have seen Darcy so much as speak to her."

"I have put my money on the colonel as well," Hurst told him. "A safer choice, to be sure. Truth be told, there are only a handful who believe Darcy will get her."

"Not me," Caroline said hotly. "It is impossible in every way."

"Whom do the odds favour?" Charles asked.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam," Hurst replied.

"Lord Saye, you must have placed your money on your brother?" Charles asked.

They all looked at Lord Saye, who only winked and smiled. "I cannot disclose the nature of my wager."

"No? Your money is on your cousin then, is it?" Charles pressed him, but the viscount would neither confirm nor deny. It was telling enough that he would not disclose his leanings; Charles gave a little nod. "Change my wager, then. My money is on Darcy."

The door opened then, and the very gentleman they had been speaking of entered the breakfast room.

"There you are, Darcy," Lord Saye exclaimed, sitting up. "Been for a walk this morning, eh?"

"At this hour?" Mr Darcy asked. "I am afraid not. I have not slept well."

What Louisa could not account for was why the viscount seemed disappointed by that.

The tightness in Darcy's chest, first experienced while watching his cousin dance with and romance Elizabeth, remained the next evening when he found himself at a large dinner party at the home of Mrs Susan Simpson. Fate's only concession to him was that he escorted Elizabeth into dinner. Alas, she barely looked at him during the short walk, and murmured a near-inaudible thanks when he helped her sit. Darcy managed to restrain a groan at seeing Fitzwilliam, a cocksure grin on his lips, take the place on the other side of her.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said. "A pleasure! You know, I have been thinking about what you said about…" With that, his cousin was off and running.

It should have been Darcy's duty to help serve her, and yet his cousin encroached upon even that, talking and laughing with her all the while.

His cousin had a little trick he liked to use with the ladies. He lowered the volume of his voice such that whomever he spoke to was required to lean closer to hear him—preferably displaying the tops of her breasts as she did. Elizabeth had, unfortunately, fallen prey to this little ploy and was nearly in Fitzwilliam's chair. Darcy turned his gaze to an intent study of his plate to avoid having to watch his cousin's lovemaking.

The meal might have been delectable, or it might have been detestable; Darcy could scarcely taste it. In truth, he doubted he would be able to name one dish served once he left the table, for none of it made any impression upon him. The only thing that did was the sure knowledge, which grew ever more sure, that he was losing. Nay—that he had already lost.

"I begin to think you do not care for your food, sir." A voice— her voice—intruded into the fog of despair in which he had encased himself.

"I beg your pardon?" He raised his eyes and looked at her.

Elizabeth was lovely in a rose-coloured gown that set off her complexion beautifully and with a twinkle in her eye that was no doubt a remnant of whatever nonsense Fitzwilliam had spewed at her. Never mind that, he had her attention now and he would soak in it.

She gestured towards his plate, which contained a lemon cheesecake. "You have barely eaten a morsel, and your dessert is untouched."

"Yes, oh. I, um…I ate a lot earlier."

"Did you?"

Determined to do better, he added, "The meal is delicious in every respect. I have always been more fond of English cooking than French."

"Have you?" She took a small bite of her own cheesecake.

"Um." He reached for his wine and took a drink to stall for some time. In truth, he was a man who ate what was placed in front of him and rarely gave much thought to what style it was, or how it was seasoned, or sauced.

Elizabeth's eyes were unwavering upon him, which did nothing to ease his present anxiety. Thankfully, she rescued him from her query. "Not that I have much experience in the way of French chefs, but I, too, prefer simpler fare. It likely speaks to my country-town indifference or whatever it was Miss Bingley accused me of."

The last was said with good humour, but it gave him a jolt. Well did he recall that conversation at Netherfield last autumn. Miss Bingley had begun to abuse Elizabeth almost before the door closed behind her. He remembered admitting that he should not like his own sister to make any such exhibition, but he had not meant it as censure. Elizabeth could not have known that, however. He wondered when it was that he would cease finding further examples of his dreadful behaviour.

"I must be guilty as charged as well," he said. "Some well-roasted venison or beef and a nice potato is truly all I need."

"Your cook must be very grateful to you for it."

"I think that must be in part the reason for my preferences. As a boy, I often would sneak down to the servants' hall while they had their meal. It was always so jolly down there, all of them talking and laughing."

She nodded. "I have always thought it diverting to be below stairs as well, though Hill rarely allowed us to linger about. One quiet boy is likely far less disruptive than five boisterous little ladies all bent on stealing biscuits."

"I cannot deny that, though for my part there were generally two of us, not only me."

She, caught mid-sip, gave him a quizzical look over her wine glass.

"George Wickham," he said ruefully. "We were thick as thieves in those days."

"Oh, of course." She set her glass down, then turned towards him a bit in her seat, her head bent. "I am glad you mentioned him. I have wished to tell you how embarrassed I am by how I defended him to you. I-it was idiotic of me to believe his lies, so wholly?—"

"No, no," he said. "He has the gift of pleasing wherever he goes. I cannot censure you for being charmed by him in the same way countless others, including my own family, have."

"He appealed to my vanity." She gave him a sidelong glance. "I should not have imagined myself so cheaply enticed, but so it was. I know better now how one man might take on the appearance of goodness while another…"

"While another comports himself as the villain?" Darcy offered a tentative smile.

That made her smile, faintly. "I did not say you were a villain."

"Your friends and neighbours did not think well of me last autumn," he said lightly. "I cannot blame them. I did not give you, or them, any reason to think well of me."

"Any man who commits the unpardonable sin of leaving a lady to sit at a ball is rather doomed, is he not?" She grinned. "Of course, I do not expect more invitations to be forthcoming. I was hardly an agreeable partner at Bingley's ball last November."

"You were perfectly amiable," he protested.

"Oh no." She shook her head, ringlets bouncing. "No, I was determined to punish you for what I believed was your cruelty to Mr Wickham. I behaved abominably, I admit it. But it has left me to wonder…"

"What?"

"Is it dancing itself that you find disagreeable? Or is it partnering with me that you find distasteful?"

On the surface, her countenance appeared light-hearted. But in her eyes was something else—perhaps worry? He knew not if he dared believe it. To imagine she might think that their last dance together had soured him on dancing with her! He longed to dance with her; it was no more than his diffidence where she was concerned that inhibited him.

"I am not overly fond of dancing, in truth," he said cautiously. "But I enjoyed dancing with you before, and I anticipate that I shall enjoy it again at Bingley's next ball if you would so honour me."

"I would like that," she said softly with a small nod. Amid nodding, however, she grimaced. Reaching behind her, she tugged at one of her curls at her nape.

"Is something wrong?"

"This always happens," she explained with a little wincing smile. "My hair gets entwined with my button, and it feels like half my scalp is about to be torn off with it."

She had her hand behind her but did not seem to make progress in terms of solving her dilemma, not if the frowns and pulls she made were any indication.

"May I be of service?"

"Would you?" She looked relieved.

He laid down his fork quickly, then wiped his hands on his napkin. "Of course."

She turned so that her back was to him, then reached up, pulling as much of her hair away as she could and exposing the length of her pale neck. He closed his eyes against the rush of desire that engulfed him—he could too easily imagine himself unfastening these problematic buttons even as he ran his lips over her nape—but then opened them again and set to work. She smelt delightful, sweet and floral and decidedly feminine. Good lord, stop before you embarrass yourself!

"What is it that you find to dislike in dancing itself?" Elizabeth asked him as he gently unwound the hair. "It can be undignified, and if your partner is the tedious sort, it is nothing short of agony."

"Nothing like that," he said, undoing a particularly tightly wound strand. "In fact, my feelings on dancing trace back to when I was only sixteen or seventeen years old."

"Oh?"

"I had grown quite a lot that year," he told her just as the last bit of hair came free. "Seemingly overnight, although I am sure it was not so. Suddenly it felt like I had a lot more elbows and knees to account for than previously. My father thought dance instruction would help me, but in the event, it did quite the opposite."

She turned back to face the table with a smile of thanks. "Did it?"

He smiled faintly, remembering his younger self's humiliation. "The dance master told me that he had never been so fortunate as to go to the African savannah but that I had given him as good a view of a giraffe cavorting about as he would likely ever see." He smiled at her to show her it was an old embarrassment, and she laughed accordingly.

"Those childhood hurts do leave a mark, do they not? I can still recall when my father told us of Mr Benjamin Franklin's kite experiment. He said that the hemp strands on the rope of his kite stood on end with the electric charge travelling through it and Jane exclaimed, ‘it must have looked like Lizzy's hair!'"

Darcy gasped but managed to turn it into a chuckle, unable to imagine the very sedate Jane Bennet ever exclaiming anything, much less such an unkindness.

Elizabeth seemed to have read his mind. "Sisters are always capable of injuring one another, but in this case, I laughed and Jane cried, dismayed by her own cruelty. But the fact is, she was not incorrect. If it is not dressed properly, my hair can be quite wild—as you have just learnt first-hand—and back in those days, I would not sit still long enough for more than a plait."

"I think you have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen." His compliment was blurted out in the most inelegant manner imaginable and he reddened slightly at his own stupidity. "Fitzwilliam once told me that his sword was less sharp than my nose."

"Your nose?" she cried out. "But it is a fine, noble sort of nose!"

"It was far less noble on the face of a twelve-year-old, I assure you."

That made her laugh heartily, and he thought how strange it was to be hurling insults at himself so willingly. Anything to hear her laugh .

"My sisters used to say that I had such a boyish figure, they ought to dress me in breeches and pretend I was my father's heir," she told him.

Happily he stopped himself before uttering some inappropriate, albeit truthful, remark admiring her figure. "Um…my cousins teased me for my thinness as well," he confessed. "Saye always wanted to see whether I could fit into things—cupboards and barrels, one leg of a pair of old breeches we found once. I once got stuck in a hollow log they made me climb into."

She shivered. "Dreadful! I cannot bear small, confined spaces."

"Then I shall not even dare to mention the spiders to you," he said gravely.

"I have always liked spiders. Is that terribly odd for a lady? I used to cry when Hill killed them, and made her carry them gently outdoors instead."

He laughed and admitted, "I shall not lie, Miss Elizabeth—that is peculiar."

"You begin to see why my mother has always despaired of me," she said with a cheerful sparkle in her eyes. "A frizzy-headed moppet with a fondness for spiders."

"I find it charming," he said quietly, but it might have been lost in the rustling about the table. Mrs Simpson had risen to withdraw with her lady guests. As was proper, the gentlemen, Darcy included, also rose and assisted the ladies in their leave-taking.

Elizabeth hurriedly dabbed her lips with her napkin then laid it on the table and stood, picking up her gloves as she did. "Until next time, sir."

"Next time what?" Fitzwilliam pressed himself into their tête-à-tête. "Miss Elizabeth, what nonsense is this rapscallion tasking you with?"

"Nothing at all, sir, only speaking of spiders and the African savannah." She gave Darcy a little private look that was thrilling, then left them.