She dreamed of home.
And she woke with the knowledge that she was not alone—and never had been.
Chapter 6
Ramsgate, July 1811
The ballroom glittered with candlelight and crystal, but Fitzwilliam Darcy stood motionless near the fireplace, his posture ramrod straight, his expression unreadable. The sound of laughter, clinking glass, and rustling silk filled the air, yet none of it seemed to reach him. His gaze moved from one face to another without settling. Crowds had always made him uneasy—but not like this.
Everything had changed three months ago.
He had returned to London in May, after supervising the early planting at Pemberley. Georgiana had remained at school in Town, and he had expected no more than a month or so of business, quiet dinners with family, and perhaps a few obligations among theton.
Instead, the first note had arrived.
Slipped beneath the door of his chambers at his club—pink paper, a neat, feminine hand. No signature. No address. Only the words:
I can see it in your eyes and in your smile. You are all I have ever wanted, and my arms are open wide.
He had dismissed it at first. Some society miss with more daring than sense. He had burned it and thought little more of it—until the next arrived, this time on the front stoop of his home.
This one was a small parcel: a sprig of lavender tied with a ribbon, accompanied by a card.
Do the simpering society misses know this is your favorite scent? You smell so good, and I am coming for you.
Darcy had frowned and checked with his valet—no one had brought a parcel, and none had seen anyone near his door. He began paying more attention.
The third arrived folded into his morning paper.
You look so severe as you survey a crowded room; perhaps it is me, Darcy, who you are looking for?
And then a fourth, this by regular post.
I have been alone with you inside my mind, and in my dreams, I have kissed your lips a thousand times.
By the fifth, he could not ignore it. That letter had not come by post either—but had been placed directly upon his pillow. Neither the butler nor his valet had seen anything. And this one had mentioned Georgiana.
Darcy, is your sister home? Or did you go away and leave her all alone?
His blood had gone cold. Within an hour, he had gone to collect Georgiana from her school, despite her protests that there was still one more week of the term left. She had called him overbearing, paranoid, ridiculous.
But he had remained unmoved.
He arranged for her to set up her own establishment in town with a new companion, a stern and competent widow named Mrs. Younge. Her references were unimpeachable, and she seemed unlikely to coddle or flatter. He had paid her well and instructed her to report weekly.
But when a seventh note arrived, making it clear that he was being watched, he decided to send Georgiana away.
I saw you yesterday in Bond Street. You looked very fine. I reached out, but you did not even see me. If I were to have screamed out for you, would you have heard me?
The idea of a seaside stay at Ramsgate finally appeased the surly girl, and Mrs. Younge took her smiling charge away.
That was last week, and there had been no more notes sent. Still, he did not sleep well.
He attended social functions as necessary, but his friends noted the change. He spoke little, danced rarely, and no longer accepted invitations that were not a matter of business or duty. Tonight, his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam had caught him scowling into a glass of wine and made a pointed comment.
“If you glower at the musicians any longer, Darcy, they may pack up their violins and flee.”
Darcy had allowed a ghost of a smile. “I am perfectly civil.”
