Darcy
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood apart in one corner of the ballroom, surveying the dancers with a deepening scowl. It was Christmas Eve, and instead of being home with his father and Georgiana, he was here. Aunt Tilda’s Christmastide balls were always amongst the most lavish affairs, yet they held no appeal for him. He would far rather be at Pemberley, lighting the yule log and overseeing the decorations. But Father and Georgie were in London as well.
“Go, Fitzwilliam,” George Darcy had wheezed. “There is nothing you, or anyone, can do for me. Spend the holidays in frivolity as a young man ought. I promise I shall not expire while you are at Matlock House.”
Darcy had offered him a glass, lowering his voice with resolve. “Do not speak so. You are not going to die.”
“You must cease telling yourself that; it will hurt all the more when I do, son.” His father coughed, accepting the drink with a tremor of the hand. “We have much to speak of before that day arrives, but for now, you must attend your aunt’s ball.”
Darcy had frowned at that. “It is dreadful of Aunt Tilda to act as though nothing is amiss. We ought not to be making merry when—”
His father interrupted him, denying him an opportunity to continue. “Tilda acts as ever she has done—hiding her grief and nerves behind entertainments. Do not hold it against her. Now, wear your dark-bluewaistcoat, the one embroidered with the silver thread. And have Brisby tie your cravat into something more fashionable than that sorry knot you persist in wearing.”
In the end, his father had persuaded him, but attending did not oblige him to dance.
The present returned. A voice broke through his brooding. “Why are you scowling, Darcy?”
Lieutenant Richard Fitzwilliam sauntered up, his red coat bright beneath the candlelight, gold buttons gleaming. “Do you not know that it is nearly Christmas?”
Darcy regarded him evenly. “I am not disposed to frivolity, Cousin.”
Richard‘s good humour softened. “Is your father very ill?”
“He is. I fear he will not live beyond Twelfth Night.” The admission constricted Darcy’s throat; he drew a steadying breath.
“I am sorry, Darcy.” Richard clasped his shoulder with feeling. “I shall be here for you…when the time comes.”
“Georgiana will need you as well.”
Darcy’s attention was captured suddenly by a lovely young woman attending Lady Westland. “Who is that?”
Richard turned, his mouth turning down in disapproval. “That is Mrs Elizabeth Fiennes. It seems she has wormed her way into Suzanne’s favour. My mother says her sister insisted on inviting the couple, and Mama did not consent until enquiries were made.”
Darcy’s gaze remained fixed on the lady. “And?”
“And nothing remarkable was discovered. Mr Fiennes owns an estate in Hertfordshire; he met his wife in the country. She is the second daughter of an insignificant country gentleman. Little enough to know, save that the husband earns his living lending money.”
Darcy’s brow knit. “A usurer? Why would your mother admit such a man—and his wife—into her house?”
“It is a favour for her sister, or so I am told.”
“That hardly explains it.” Darcy folded his arms, unwilling to relinquish the subject, though his eyes did not leave the enchanting vision beside Lady Westland. She had beautiful chestnut curls, but they were arranged in a fashion ill-suited to her fine features. Her gown, midnight blue trimmed with ivory embroidery, fitted to perfection, enhancing every advantage of her figure. Teardrop earrings and an elegant sapphire necklace emphasized her high cheekbones and long neck.
“What could Lady Westland’s fascination with her be?” he asked, his gaze following the ladies as Suzanne introduced Mrs Fiennes around the room.
“Whatever it is, Mama is standing behind her. You had best keep your distance, Darcy. I do not like her husband at all. Fiennes is not what he seems.”
Darcy turned to his cousin. “How can you be certain?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
“’Tis just a feeling.” Richard’s feelings were rarely wrong. “Stay away from her, Darcy. I can see your interest. She is married and out of your reach.”
Darcy looked affronted. “I would never!” he insisted, lowering his voice so they would not be overheard.
“I was not accusing you of anything.”
Suddenly, Lady Westland approached, her young protégé on her arm. “Darcy, Richard, I am pleased to see you both. Pray, allow me to introduce you to my dear friend, Mrs Elizabeth Fiennes.”
Both gentlemen bowed. Darcy straightened, pleased with the opportunity to speak with the handsome lady despite his cousin’s warning. “MrsFiennes, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said kindly. Richard murmured in agreement. Filled with a sudden desire to dance with her, he asked if she had a set left unclaimed.
