“Many times, and that is why I wonder at your invitation for us to mingle with your guest. Did you not tell us only yesterday afternoon that you intended the opposite?”
“I did, and I reconsidered. You are Richard’s wife, and I intend to show you the respect you deserve. The earl can take his grievances up with me, if he has them.”
At this, she turned to him with a full, grateful smile, and might have spoken something equally enchanting. Her cousin, however, had enough of being ignored by Georgiana and sought someone else to amuse him.
“Mr Darcy, sir—may I sit? Sir—” he dropped into the chair on Darcy’s right—“I was trying to learn more of the Earl of Matlock. I am to understand the family have a remarkable history. When was the title first granted, if I may be so bold?”
Darcy glanced uncomfortably at Mrs Fitzwilliam. He could not say why, precisely, but it felt somehow pompous to expound about his long family heritage in her hearing. “The annals of the family history are all in the library, Mr Collins. If it intrigues you, I shall ask the maids to direct you to the correct volumes.”
“Oh!” Collins’ figure seemed to swell, and his hand clasped ridiculously over his heart. “I ask for a pittance, and you offer a treasure! You are too gracious, Mr Darcy. I presume that only the finest families in the country appear in such a book. An earl’s descendants must be utterly selective in the choosing of alliances. I have heard that your paternal family is also quite distinguished. Is it true that your father was selected personally by the former earl to be his son-in-law when he was but a lad?”
“That is nothing unusual. Many such marriages are, if not specifically contracted, at the very least proposed early in life.” Darcy’s neck felt hot as he spoke—Mrs Fitzwilliam was watching him with those solemn, penetrating eyes, and something raced down his spine as he saw her lean fractionally closer.
“And, sir,” Collins continued, “I have heard it said that such an auspicious honour has been bestowed upon yourself? Forgive me if I am seen to be impudent, but I am earnestly fascinated. Is it true that you are to ally yourself with yet another of the oldest families in the kingdom?”
Darcy wished he could refuse to answer, but to do so, in front of Mrs Fitzwilliam, would be to revert to the stick she must have thought him to be upon their first acquaintance. But hang it all, to speak of Anne, inherhearing, felt somehow disrespectful to both ladies. He cleared his throat softly and sensed the way Mrs Fitzwilliam’s breathing slowed.
“There is not an engagement, per se, but an understanding of some long duration with a lady of good family,” he confessed, glancing self-consciously at Mrs Fitzwilliam.
“I think I said before that Richard spoke of her,” she answered. “Miss Anne…?”
“De Bourgh,” he finished. “Her mother’s family had ties to Matlock, and her father was an intimate friend of my own father’s.”
“How perfectly suitable!” Collins praised him. “What a privilege it will be, sir, when you conclude and bring to completion that which was first sought by the generations before you! I dearly hope, Mr Darcy, that the joyous day is soon to come, and that we may wish you every happiness upon the occasion.”
Darcy thanked him, more stiffly than he would have liked. Mrs Fitzwilliam was still watching him with that unsettling gravity about her expression, but when he glanced her way once more, she quickly averted her eyes.
“I say,” Bingley spoke from across the room, “Miss Darcy, do you still play the piano as exquisitely as I remember?”
Darcy glanced at Georgiana, who had been seated closer to Miss Bennet, but still somewhat alone. She had seemed quite content to be left in peace and not forced to converse with anyone, but she answered Bingley readily enough.
“I am flattered that you found my playing memorable, Mr Bingley, and yes, I still play.”
Bingley flushed with pleasure—poor fellow, with his red hair and ruddy countenance, every feeling scrolled across his complexion with the clarity of the written word. “Miss Bennet, if we can induce Miss Darcy to play for us, would you show me how that dance step is done?”
“Dance step?” Darcy asked—more of Mrs Fitzwilliam than Bingley.
She lifted her shoulders. “I do not know which she means. We know very few formal ‘dances,’ as you may think of them. Typically, the figures are called by a prominent gentleman of the assembly, so everyone knows which steps to perform.”
“Permit me, sirs.” Collins rose with a flourish and a bow, and then came to stand near Georgiana at the piano. “Lizzy, you must dance with Mr Darcy, because we cannot have just one couple. Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I trust you are willing? Now, Miss Darcy, will you please play… let me see…”
Darcy looked to Mrs Fitzwilliam, who gestured helplessly, but with a spark in her expression that inspired a mischievous grin of his own. Bingley and Miss Bennet were already taking up a place—in the middle of his Turkish Rug, apparently—and his ingrained courtesy would not permit him to refuse. And so, he gave his hand to Richard’s wife, set his other hand on the smooth curve of her hip, and gazed down into her bewitching eyes as Collins called the steps, and Georgiana rolled out a slow-metered waltz.
And that was when he decided to flee to London on the first available train.
Chapter 8
Wyoming
April 1900
Afortnightcameandwent, and the first train cars full of horses had started for the East Coast. The time had wrought some little improvement in affairs at the horse corrals. Richard drew his present mount to a halt and patted the animal’s neck in satisfaction. The larger number of them were wilful, disrespectful, and bored, as if the drills he asked of them were an insult. However, he had rarely discovered a hardier group of horses. Sure-footed, cautious, and intelligent nearly to a fault, they would be far better suited to carrying his men safely over the South African front than any rash, hot-blooded Thoroughbred. Perhaps the Army knew what it was about, after all.
“Corporal—” he gestured to one of his younger men as he dismounted. “Cool this one out and see that he gets to the water.”
“Yes, sir,” was the smart reply.
Richard drew back his shoulders, flexing his arms inside his uniform coat. Nothing but his dignity was stopping him from removing it in the dry summer heat. The Americans made do with light cotton shirts—without even a waistcoat while they worked—but not Richard. If the soldiers in Africa must keep their uniforms in all weather, then he and his men would as well.
