“George,” she murmured, “remember your promise.”
Mr. Darcy nodded, reaching out to take his wife’s hand. “I shall do it all,” he vowed, raising it to his lips and kissing it tenderly.
Mrs. Darcy’s eyelids fluttered closed. The little family sat in silence as her breaths grew shallower and shallower, until they stopped completely. George Darcy let out a gasp of anguish and began to weep in earnest. Frozen in disbelief, Darcy did not know what to do. Suddenly, his sister was in his arms, and his father had collapsed beside the bed, his face buried in the coverlet as he clutched his wife’s hand.
She looks as though she is sleeping,Darcy observed. Beautiful as ever, Lady Anne Darcy looked angelic against the white pillows. Her golden hair was plaited and lay across her shoulder. One hand rested on her stomach; the other lay in her husband’s grasp.
George Darcy was never the same after his wife died. He kept his promises, though, and Darcy went to Eton without Wickham. The two youths drifted apart. The former became the gentleman his mother had hoped for, and he grew to understand that true worth and beauty came from within. His unfortunate, blemished appearance meant he went largely unnoticed by his peers. There were other, more desirable targets for their cruelty—at least, thatwas what he told himself. In truth, he suspected his cousins had warned the others against teasing and mockery.
He became close to his cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, the second son of the earl of Matlock. Richard had plain, unremarkable features, unmarred by the so-called ‘mother's mark.’ Unlike Darcy, however, his gregarious personality made up for the lack. Darcy, on the other hand, remained a solemn, stoic sort of person. After Eton, Darcy went on to Oxford.
Wickham went to Harrow and then to Cambridge. Darcy hardly saw his former friend—and current enemy—except during the summer months. Though Wickham came to Pemberley for meals, Darcy rarely encountered the miscreant. His time was better spent learning all he could from his father. Still, tales of Wickham’s misdeeds reached him, and though Darcy heard them all, there was nothing he could do—so long as his father remained content to clean up his protégé’s messes.
They were both still in school when word came that Mr. Darcy had died. Suddenly, the unsightly Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was master of a large estate. With all the responsibilities came an unexpected turn of events—Darcy found himself the object of much speculation. Ladies began to show interest where once there had been none. Ever mindful of his mother’s warnings, Darcy retreated to Pemberley to mourn and to consider how he might move forward.
At least I have no need to deal with Wickham any longer,he thought one afternoon. The man had accepted three thousand pounds in exchange for the living Mr. Darcy had intended for his godson.With four thousand pounds, he ought to be able to make something of himself.Though Darcy doubted Wickham’s intentions, the man’s affairs were no longer his concern—not now that he was master of Pemberley.
Georgiana’s guardianship was shared between Darcy and his cousin, Richard. The little girl missed her father fiercely, but inconsequence, she grew close to her brother. Darcy vowed to do everything he could for his sister, and in doing so, fulfill his promise to his mother.
Chapter Two
October 15, 1811
Meryton Assembly
Darcy
Darcytuggedathiswaistcoat as he looked at his reflection in the mirror.Trust Bingley to attend an assembly the evening I arrive,he thought in amusement. His friend was ever fond of society. Darcy, on the other hand, did not enjoy socializing. He was the male equivalent of an overlooked lady—those who approached typically wanted something. Funds for investing, dance partners for their sisters, and even hopes of brokering a marriage between him and some female relation. No one outside his family, save for Bingley, wanted Darcy simply for his company.
He had agreed to attend the assembly with his friend and host somewhat grudgingly. Sighing, Darcy reached up and traced thelong, thin scar that ran from his temple to his chin. Richard had suggested growing a beard to conceal it, but he had declined.’Tis not as if it does any harm to my appearance,he thought again, running his finger along the raised red line.As usual, this is as good as it will ever get.With that, he picked up his gloves and left the room.
Mr. Charles Bingley, Darcy’s friend of three years, waited in the parlor. The gregarious young man greeted him by handing Darcy a glass of port. Bingley was tall and lanky, with red hair and a ready smile. His blue eyes twinkled with good humor. “I am tremendously excited about this evening,” he said, downing his own glass of port. “I have met several agreeable gentlemen and hope to meet more of my neighbors tonight.”
“You always love to make new acquaintances,” Darcy said neutrally. An assembly was not his idea of an enjoyable evening. It was always the same. Ladies would give him a cursory glance before turning away, only to feign interest when word of his fortune spread.
“Come now, Darcy! Your expression appears as though you are bound for the gallows! Is the prospect of an evening of dancing so terrible?” Bingley laughed and refilled his glass.
“You will certainly not want for partners.” Darcy drank his own glass before placing it on the tray. “Ladies prefer an amiable, handsome dance partner. They will not look twice at me—you know this.”
“So the ladies of thetonare superficial and shallow. That does not mean every female you meet is of their ilk! We are in the country. People here are naturally friendlier and more welcoming. Why, even that scar on your cheek will not deter them. How did you get it, anyway?”
Darcy grimaced. Memories of Ramsgate and George Wickham filled his thoughts. He looked down as he attempted to schoolhis features. “It was an accident,” he said indifferently. “My cousin claims it makes me look roguish.”
Bingley laughed, and Darcy joined in half-heartedly. In truth, Wickham had struck Darcy when he interrupted the man’s attempt to elope with Miss Georgiana Darcy. Furious at being thwarted, Wickham had attacked his former friend before fleeing the house. His ring had left a long gash on Darcy’s face and broken his nose. The latter had healed well, though a bump now marked the bridge. The gash had required stitches. It had become inflamed, and though long and thin, it remained raised and red. Wickham’s parting shot, before he fled, had been that a scar might improve Darcy’s appearance enough to make a woman want him.
In vain, he had hunted for the blackguard, determined to see him transported or thrown into debtor’s prison. Darcy held enough of Wickham’s markers to ensure it, but his old enemy had eluded capture. Even Richard’s military contacts had been unable to trace him.
“Where are they?” Bingley groused, calling Darcy’s attention back to the present. “We will be late!”
“Do not fret, Charles.” Miss Caroline Bingley glided in, nose in the air, and overdressed for a country assembly. Her sister and brother-in-law, Louisa and Reginald Hurst, followed. “The carriage is ready, and we may depart. Dear Mr. Darcy, I am dreadfully sorry you have been coerced into attending this insignificant country event—and so soon after your arrival!”
Miss Bingley’s simpering was nothing new. She, like so many others, had discounted him until she learned of his fortune. After that, she had used his friendship with her brother to attempt an intimacy that did not exist. Now she came to his side and slid her arm through his. Her dark curls were expertly styled; ringlets kissed her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled withavarice as she looked up at him. Miss Bingley batted her lashes in what she likely thought was a coquettish manner.
“I shall save a set for you if you like, sir,” she murmured. Her inflection, warm with false affection, made his skin crawl.
“I will be certain to dance with you and Mrs. Hurst. As my host’s sisters, ’tis expected.” He maintained an even tone, struggling to keep the derision he longed to express in check.Kind and honorable,he reminded himself.A gentleman does not speak meanly of or to others.He had repeated his mother's final lessons in his mind so often that they were permanently inscribed there.
“There is no need to be shy, sir.” She leaned closer. “I shall look forward to our set.” Miss Bingley did not release his arm, and so he escorted her to the carriage and handed her inside. The Hursts followed, and before he and Bingley boarded, his friend caught his arm.
