Chapter 1

July 1811

When she arrived at the appointed meeting place, Georgiana Darcy felt the familiar thrill and amazement that, once again, he awaited her. She knew she was plain; her mirror did not lie. The features which sat so handsomely upon her brother’s visage looked mannish and unrefined on hers. Who would ever believe that she had attracted the attentions and affections of such a fine-looking man?

After an affectionate greeting, he held out to her the page of yet another newspaper.

“Your brother’s doings have made the papers again,” her lover explained, his expression carefully neutral.

She snatched it up, reading the report quickly. Of course, the papers did not name her brother directly—he was Mr F—D—or ‘Derbyshire’s Dastard’ or some other equally stupid sobriquet. In the last several months, Fitzwilliam had inexplicably come under the notice of London gossip sheets as some sort of dubious character, a mysterious bachelor who used his looks and wealth to hide great, possibly illegal secrets, smuggling, or scandalous affairs. When he had stayed in London—it had been over a year since he had even left Pemberley, Georgiana was sure—he had spent more time at his club or with his solicitors than attending balls. Fitzwilliam had never been a great socialiser and had probably been thought dull; to suddenly begin garnering such dramatic attention was ridiculous!

His interests had always been more concerned with increasing his tenants’ yields. Fishing with their cousin Richard—formerly a colonel in His Majesty’s Army—was a much-preferred entertainment over dancing in society’s ballrooms or driving in Hyde Park. In Derbyshire, he was still admired and respected—but the London papers scoffed and published these obscenely false tales. His reputation in town, she was certain, was blemished.

“I cannot understand this,” she said, shaking her head.

“Can you not?”

“Not at all. Fitzwilliam is the hardest working man in England…or at least, he is, compared to the character in these stories. He would never use the caverns to hide smuggled goods from France—the very idea is ludicrous! We have the usual family troubles probably found in half the world. His life is uneventful, dull, even.”

“What does he say about the gossip?”

She shrugged. “When I bring it up, he says it is all nonsense and beneath notice.”

George Wickham nodded, his expression sorrowful. “That is because these are simply murmurs at this point and easily disregarded. Soon, however, I predict that one of the most popular reporters, such as Mr Pennywithers, will take hold of the story, and every eye in England will be upon your brother. He will not be able to use a chamber-pot without some scribbler writing about it.”

“That would be awful,” she said, blushing a little at his reference, but trying to behave in a sophisticated manner, not as a little girl just from the nursery. “Fitzwilliam would hate such attention. I cannot imagine who is responsible for these tales.”

He raised a brow. “Truly?” he questioned. “Is there not one female of his acquaintance who would do anything to become his bride, who is already at the periphery of his life, always there, always waiting for him to notice? A woman of excellent fortune yet who is not considered ‘good enough’ for him? A woman who, with very little effort on his part, could soon be your new sister?”

“Oh, no! You cannot mean Miss Bingley?” He knew well her uncharitable thoughts on Caroline Bingley, who pestered her unceasingly whenever she connived an invitation to Pemberley by clinging to Mr Bingley’s coattails—which was altogether too often.

“I would not be at all surprised.”

She shook her head in disagreement. “But why? Why would she behave so viciously towards my brother, especially if she wants to be his wife?”

He chuckled a little. “My sweet innocent, the more distasteful the rumours, the less ideal the groom! She is decreasing the competition for her chosen mate! The worse his reputation grows, the fewer of society’s best will allow him in their company, let alone avail their daughters as his bride. However, I doubt she has thought it all out.” He bent his head closer to hers. “And once more eyes are upon him, surely your cousin’s sanity will be called into question. The entire family might be tainted with the gossip.”

“Richard is not insane! He is only…troubled, as anyone might be in his situation!”

“You know the truth and I know it. The ton does not know it. Darcy’s prospects for a bride of good name and fortune are diminishing bit by bit, with every column published. By the time he bothers with regard for his reputation, the most obvious choice will be the only one. We must act before that point. Elope with me.”

Georgiana stared at her handsome suitor in shock.

“Elope? You cannot mean it, George!”

He sighed, tossing back the blond locks that fell so beautifully across his brow. “If Caroline Bingley becomes your brother’s wife, how often do you believe you will be able to meet me? She is too conscious of her own shortcomings in blood and breeding, and will insist you raise her reputation by marrying someone far more eligible than I. She will watch you every moment, and it will be her life’s work to procure you a duke!”

“She would not!”

But she might.If Miss Bingley had the run of her life, she would take it over. She would want a brother who was titled, and would parlay Georgiana’s fortune to get one.

“If the worst happens and your brother attracts the notice of a scribbler such as Pennywithers, Pemberley will be overrun with reporters. Between Miss Bingley and all the other attention, you will not be left alone for a moment. Unless we act before Pennywithers does, I will never be able to come near you again. I despise the idea of elopement, sweetling, but I cannot see any other way we can be wed. Can you?”

The trouble was, she could not. She stared out over the garden, the furthest one from the house, beyond even the hermitage—the only place they could meet without being spotted from Pemberley’s massive edifice and the many eyes within and without. Even here, they were not quite safe—not only might a gardener appear out of nowhere, but Richard often wandered about and might pop up unexpectedly where one least expected him. Still, it was early and Richard was mostly a creature of the night now. She stifled the ache in her heart at the thought of her once gregarious, cheerful cousin.

Sad and troubled, silent and resentful, angry, certainly…but not insane, never that! Fitzwilliam said he was not, and her brother would never give up on him.

“If only you would simply apologise to each other and come to terms with the past!” she cried, turning her back on her lover. George was so beautiful; she was likely to agree to anything when looking into his eyes.

“We have both made too many mistakes in that direction, my love,” he said, settling his large hands upon her shoulders and pressing a kiss at the curve of her neck, sending shivers coursing down her spine. “He would never hear it. If you want me, you can have me—but only upon those terms. Come away with me. Presented with a fait accompli, your brother will have no choice but to accept our marriage. In time, all will be well, but in the present…sacrifices must be made.”

If she wanted George, she would have to be the one to make those sacrifices. She could not imagine ever loving anyone the way she loved him, ever receiving kisses from another, ever being held by a different man. Her imagination conjured up a picture of herself presiding as mistress of a lovely home of her own. Fitzwilliam had promised to set her up with an establishment but at nearly the last moment, the companion he had hired to oversee it had been arrested for theft in an incident related to a wealthy former patron. His horror that he had almost put her into the care of a felon had completely reversed all his ideas of granting her independence. If it were up to him, she would probably die a spinster at Pemberley, alone forever. Pemberley, the pride of the Darcys and symbol of nearly two centuries of wealth, power, and prestige, was to her a vastly lonely place, a symbol of her isolation.

Fitzwilliam would never listen to her, never believe her if she told him the rumours were all from Miss Bingley. To him, Georgiana was still a child who knew nothing; Miss Bingley was his dearest friend’s sister. He would never see the plot until it was far too late.

She turned to face George, another image appearing in her mind: a chubby baby with his blue eyes and golden ringlets, a babe she could hold close, a child who would be all her very own. The vision rocked her with captivating force.

It was hardly her fault that Fitzwilliam and George could not forgive each other for childhood squabbles. This elopement might even be for the best—a forced reconciliation.

“Yes,” she said. “I will do it. I will go away with you.”