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Chapter 9
Darcy lifted the brandy decanter and started pouring before realizing it was empty. With an oath, he slammed the decanter down and grabbed the bottle of port beside it. He eyed the liquid suspiciously. Would there be enough?
He poured a healthy measure of port into his glass and took a swallow, relishing the burn at the back of his throat. Ah, that was what he needed. He staggered to the chair next to the fireplace and slumped into it. The damn cravat was choking him, so he tugged at the knot until the strip of cloth hung loosely around his neck. He had already divested himself of his waistcoat. The London weather was unseasonably warm for November, and the brandy had warmed him further.
The port slid smoothly over his tongue. Perhaps only a little more was necessary to achieve his goal: oblivion. And oblivion was essential. This morning at breakfast, Georgiana had announced that Elizabeth was in town and would be arriving for a visit in the afternoon.
Darcy had not seen Elizabeth since that awful visit in July when she had informed him of her plans to return to Hertfordshire. He still shuddered at the memory. With Darcy’s prompting, Georgiana had secured Elizabeth’s promise to assist with some of the preparations for the come out. He had known Elizabeth would be unable to refuse his sister when the debut so clearly frightened her. Of course, the preparations had only recently begun in earnest.
During Elizabeth’s first visit to London in October, Darcy had managed to visit Pemberley, but now business required him to remain in the city. An encounter with Elizabeth was inevitable—if not tonight, then soon. But he was unprepared. He had exerted great effort to ensure Elizabeth’s continued contact with his family … and he longed to see her but knew he should not. For months, the day when he would again see Elizabeth had loomed large in his imagination, creating a sickening combination of desire and dread.
Each time he had pictured their reunion, he experienced again the fear that he would not be strong enough to restrain his desire. Then he would be overcome by the self-loathing that accompanied lusting after his dead cousin’s fiancée. The cycle was depressingly familiar to him.
Darcy snorted at that thought and drank deeply.
Now, deep in his cups, he realized lust was not an accurate description. Lust would be simple; the needs of the body he could control. His dilemma was that he was in love with his dead cousin’s fiancée. If he would own the problem, he should at least own the enormity of it.
Darcy had survived three months without careening off to Longbourn to kneel at Elizabeth’s feet and declare his love. But it had been a near thing once or twice. Occasionally, he had permitted himself the fantasy.
However, even if—by some miracle—she agreed to accept his hand, he would be betraying Richard’s memory in the most fundamental way imaginable. While it was simple to picture Elizabeth in his bed and as mistress of Pemberley—in fact, he had difficulty banishing such visions—he could not possibly envision living with the guilt. No, it was impossible. Richard would forever stand between them.
Ironically, it was at such times that Darcy missed his cousin most acutely. Richard had been the only one to whom Darcy had ever confided his deepest thoughts and feelings. At every turning point in his life, Darcy had relied on his cousin’s advice. Darcy could easily picture himself discussing his dilemma with his cousin, if the source of his troubles were anyone other than Richard’s betrothed. Richard’s absence felt as if someone had cut off one of Darcy’s limbs. In the back of his mind, he was aware that something was missing every minute of every day.
Darcy tossed off the remaining port and staggered to his desk to refill his glass. The drinking was a short-term solution at best. He had repaired to his study for the purpose of avoiding Elizabeth. At least in this condition, he would never surrender to the voice reminding him Elizabeth was in his drawing room visiting his sister—and urging him to stride down the hall to join them. No impulse was stronger than his fear of saying something to make a fool of himself.
Like suggesting that he was in love with her.
No, better that she believed he avoided her because he disliked her.
Unbidden, he recalled a conversation he had overheard between Georgiana and his Aunt Rachel two days previous. His harsh words over the summer had prevented his aunt from attempting matchmaking again. But he had heard her asking Georgiana if her brother had a mistress, something no one should be discussing with a girl of that age. His aunt must be desperate. Far from being shocked, Georgiana had merely responded thoughtfully that she did not believe so.
Then his aunt had the impertinence to inquire if Darcy was in love with a married woman! Apparently, she was exceedingly determined to ferret out the reason he had declared he would never marry. Georgiana had denied that supposition as well. Darcy supposed he should be grateful that neither woman suspected the truth, but the conversation had not improved his present mood.
Despite his defiant words to his aunt, Darcy did wish to marry. He had always imagined bringing a wife home to Pemberley and raising a family. However, he could not envision marrying anyone other than Elizabeth. Nor could he envision marrying Elizabeth.
Damned if you do, damned if you do not.
Just damned.
However, either he or Georgiana needed to produce heirs for Pemberley. He could not stomach the thought of it falling into the hands of a distant cousin he barely knew. If Georgiana were disinclined to marry, Darcy would not require it of her. Should it come to that, perhaps he could find a respectable woman who would understand he was incapable of loving her. They could lead separate lives and rarely see each other.
The thought threatened to make him vomit.
Or perhaps it was the port.
The room spun in lazy circles around him while his arms and legs felt unusually heavy. At least now he was sufficiently foxed. Even if he could walk without falling, his pride would forbid him from allowing anyone, even Georgiana, from observing him in this state. He was safe from any foolish impulses to visit Elizabeth.
He stared out the window at the rapidly descending dusk and the rain pounding against the glass. At least he had accomplished his mission for the day. With that thought, he rested his head on his desk and fell asleep.
***
Upon awaking, he noticed that the unconsumed port had spilled and stained the right sleeve of his shirt, so he smelled even more like a distillery than before. Outside the window, the day had turned to night, and rain was pounding against the glass. He had slept longer than he expected.
He stood cautiously, holding onto the desk for support. The room was no longer spinning, but it still swayed like the deck of a ship during a storm.
Experimentally, he released the desk and was inordinately pleased he could stand without support. Perhaps he could walk under his own power as well. At least he had slept through the danger of Elizabeth’s visit. Georgiana had undoubtedly already retired for the night as well. No one would be about, except perhaps a few servants, whom he could easily avoid.
He stepped carefully to the study door, placing each foot precisely in front of the other to increase his chances of remaining upright. As he opened the door, he reflected on the need for a different strategy to handle Elizabeth’s presence in London. While daily drinking held a certain appeal, it would create many other problems. Avoidance was the best solution but would be almost impossible if Elizabeth were a daily visitor.
