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After returning to his room, Darcy read for half an hour—his selection, a paper on trigonometric series by the French mathematician, Fourier. Snuffing the candle and laying his head on the pillow, he soon nodded off. His last cogent thought before drifting into slumber was that he was perhaps becoming unnecessarily anxious.

He was woken by the creak of a board. Darcy’s lashes flew open and he froze, staring into the inky darkness, instantly alert for the tiniest sound. There was a swish, as of silk. Then a hand lightly touched his shoulder. It was not a man’s hand.

“Finn!”

After the briefest of pauses, an oil lamp was lit and Darcy found himself in the company of Miss Caroline Bingley, charmingly arrayed in a peach silk nightgown and with her hair still coiffed in the elaborate style she had worn to dinner.

“Where am I?” she asked, blinking in confusion.

“In my room,” returned Darcy baldly.

“Oh, dear!” cried Caroline, bringing her hand to her mouth in a dramatic gesture and looking left and right as if to orient herself. “I must have been sleepwalking!”

“Quite,” replied Darcy. “Finn, pass me my banyan please so that I may escort Miss Bingley back to her room and do accompany us to lend us countenance.”

After Miss Bingley was redirected to her accommodations, the gentlemen retired once more to Darcy’s stateroom and exchanged a speaking glance.

“I do hope that sofa is more comfortable than your bunk, Finn?”

“Immeasurably, sir.”

“Excellent! Please share my cabin for the rest of the voyage. I cannot have my valet complaining of a sore back!”

Lying back down, Darcy felt vindicated. His suspicions had not been unjust. Clearly Miss Bingley had decided to step up her campaign from the ardent flattery she had employed when they had first been housed together at Netherfield.

As for Finn, he was sanguine he did not have to share cramped quarters with Bingley’s valet Crimplesham who despite his insufferable airs and graces, including a deplorable fake French accent, had not been born a gentleman.

Chapter 20: Sirens and succubi

Following his encounter with Caroline, Darcy had a disturbed night. First, he had trouble getting back to sleep, imagining every creak and groan of the ship to be a return of Miss Bingley. Finally, after he did drop into an uneasy slumber, he was woken again by a sudden jolt. Coming to his senses, Darcy became aware that the churn of the paddlewheel had stopped. As he was groping around for the tinderbox, Finn lit a candle. Telling Darcy to rest easy while he investigated, his valet drew on his banyan.

Finn seemed to take an interminable time returning. Mindful that the problem might escalate into a full-blown emergency, Darcy could only doze fitfully. His valet eventually reappeared to announce that a rope in the river had become entangled in the paddlewheel. The captain had advised they would be on their way shortly. Having noticed his master’s restless repose prior to this incident, Finn retrieved the chair he had propped against the door while Darcy was dressing. This, he re-deployed as a sentinel of the threshold, after which he blew out both candles and returned to bed.

Feeling he had only managed half a night’s sleep, Darcy closed his eyes again, soon drifting into an uneasy slumber. A board creaked, the door opened, and into the room slunk Elizabeth Bennet, wearing her brown silk ball gown with its lace net overdress and that owl cameo.

She gave him one of her mischievous smiles. “I thought I would return the favour,” she whispered, closing the door quietly.

“Favour?” Darcy asked.

“Of visiting you after your fall. Remember? You visited me after I fell from the balcony, to return the cameo.”

Darcy had a vague memory of coming off his horse. Had that happened yesterday? He watched in fascination as Elizabeth advanced towards him. There was nothing coquettish about her, yet he was entranced by those sloe eyes. He felt himself stir powerfully and yearned to reach out and touch her but restrained himself from such an indecorous act.

“Is your back hurting?” she asked.

“Yes, a trifle,” he lied, perfectly aware that he did not feel the slightest twinge, but hopeful she might lay hands on him to soothe his fictitious aches. He’d had a nurse once who’d rubbed his back to send him to sleep; and after all, he had helped Elizabeth remove her shoe from her injured foot...

Elizabeth kicked off her slippers, raised her skirts a trifle and, without further ceremony, climbed atop him to sit astride his lap. For a moment, Darcy thought he might lose control. Despite the constraint of the bedclothes between them, the bulge in his trousers seemed to fit perfectly in the hollow between her legs, as if they had been made for each other, like two cogs. He groaned.

She began to move rhythmically on top of him. “Is that helping?”

“Yessss,” he sighed.

Her hands reached out to clasp his shoulders, pinning him to the bed.

“Kiss me!” he breathed.

He watched in fascination as her plump lips descended.