No, he settled with himself. She was no peacock. She would not concealthat, of all things… although she did seem to be possessed of a number of secrets. His thoughts thus preoccupied, he went quietly to his billiards room to duel himself into submission, long after others were abed.
This dinner party had been ill-advised. The thought rang in his ears each time he paced around the table to line up another shot. He had been resigned to Anne; truly he had been. For mercy’s sake, she was among his oldest friends, and with her, he would never suffer certain brands of misery that so often plagued the marriages of their level of society. She was strident and opinionated at times, but he would take that over a mouse any day. And he could bear letting her quench her thirst for travel now and again, although he would have curtailed that honeymoon she spoke of by at least half. Or more.
It was when she stood in the same room as Elizabeth that something in his being had shrunk in childish dread of marriage to her. He could not even say precisely why—it was not as if he understood enough about Mrs Fitzwilliam to be able to compare her character. Where didherhopes lie? What broughtherpeace and joy? A man ought to know those things about a woman before considering spending his life with her.
Anne, he knew. All too well, he knew, but though her heart did not beat in rhythm with his, he had determined long ago that he could bear the mismatch. Apart from any disunity in their personalities, marriage to her came with the promise of social stability. Approval. Nothing risked.
The balls cracked with finality as he dropped the last, then stood back leaning on his cue to survey the empty table. Perhaps that was just his problem. There was little adventure in his life. He had taken the safe path, the expected route, at each possible turning. He was a Darcy, after all—it was in his blood.
But there was something when he was around Elizabeth that felt nearly electrifying. He could not quite call her foolhardy, but her life was one of caution flung asunder as it suited her. And yet, under that wild and rambling spirit, there was some deep root anchoring her to earthy things. Simple things, like a windswept field or a newborn calf. Anne would never…
He gave a jerk of the rod in his hand, as if acting his own schoolmaster and shaking it over his head in admonition. It was all vanity, anyway. He could fool himself all day if he chose, trying to protest that if there was one of Mrs Fitzwilliam’s variety in the world, there might be more—perhaps he ought not settle too quickly. Even before his mind whispered the subterfuge, he shot it down.
It was no longer the prospect of “someone different” that was keeping him from contentment with Anne. It was Elizabeth—who was as unavailable as a woman could be. It was madness even to permit the shadows of her to haunt his thoughts.
Besides, he had made a promise to Anne.
Chapter 15
Itmusthavebeennearly one in the morning when Darcy at last retired. Sleep would be a reluctant friend this night, but bodily rest was something, at least.
A faint sound as he was passing other rooms made him pause. It almost echoed in the way of a child’s whimper, but there had been no children resident at Pemberley since Georgiana. He squinted into the darkness, listening, and again, a hollow cry pierced the night. It sounded for all the world like someone begging for help! He held his breath. A few seconds later came another, and this time, he could tell whose room it was coming from.
Elizabeth’s.
Instant alarm rippled down his spine, though he counselled himself that there was likely no need for concern. A dream, perhaps… but the cries were multiplying. Once, he heard her call out, “Stop—please stop!” Scuffling, thrashing sounds joined her vocalisations, and before he was quite aware what he was doing, he had burst through her door in search of some… oh, some ruffian or darksome villain who would torment a woman in her own bed.
She was alone in that dusky chamber, butoh!The state she was in chilled his very bones. It was as if she were trying to tie herself in knots or wrestle the blankets. She sat up, her arms beating the air wildly and incoherent gasps sounding with each punch. “Please!” she was gasping. “Leave me!”
“Elizabeth!” He raced to her and grasped her shoulders, but she did not seem to notice him. She blocked his hands with her forearm and battled on, tears streaming down her face. Again and again, she smashed her fists into his hands, and any efforts of his at quieting her were hampered by fear of what he might accidentally grab.
“Elizabeth, listen to me,” he insisted, as loudly as he dared. “Wake up!”
Her body froze, and though her eyes had been open before, now they seemed to focus. She stared briefly at the ceiling, then, in a dazed sort of terror, swept them to his face.
“Oh, dear God!” she whispered. She flung herself back against the headboard, clutching the blankets to her breast.
“Do not fear!” he assured her in a raspy voice. “I am not here to harm you. Are you well?”
She put a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes. “Was I having another nightmare?”
“Something of the kind. This happens often?”
She swallowed and used the heel of her hand to mop away the sweat. “Please…” She sighed and swallowed again. “Please leave me be.”
“Elizabeth, this is no time for modesty. I will go as soon as I know you will be well. Shall I call your sister?”
She shook her head and stared at the counterpane covering her feet. “Please, Mr Darcy,” she whispered again. “I beg you, please leave me.”
He fell back, surprised at how dismayed he felt. So many creatures could have spoken to him from that bed—a blushing young woman, astonished at finding a man in her chambers; an irate madam, demanding penance and justice for the way he had breached her sanctity; or a humbly laughing confederate, such as she had been that very afternoon, willing to be amused at a simple misunderstanding. This fearful waif, hiding her face in shame, was the last being he had thought to encounter.
She had crawled under the covers and pulled them over her head by the time he reached the door. “Rest well, Mrs Fitzwilliam,” he said before he pulled it closed behind himself.
She made no answer.
“MayIspeakwithyou a moment, sir?”
Darcy looked up from his morning paper in some surprise. He was well accustomed to the ladies staying above stairs far longer than himself, and, in fact, had learned never to look for them until well after nine on an early morning. He glanced at his pocket watch.
