Happily for Elizabeth, who was distracted to the point of incivility, Miss Hawkridge was the sort of person who could gaily rattle away even in the presence of decidedly less voluble company. Elizabeth’s sensibilities were in too much of a tumult to contribute more than an occasional ‘Indeed?’ or a ‘How extraordinary’. So it went right up until the moment that their conveyance drew near to Mrs Millhouse’s street.
“…and no one knows who they are, these ladies, for they always scamper away the minute anyone has a whiff of comprehension that they are not, in fact, gentlemen.” Miss Hawkridge waggled her eyebrows. “Scandalous, is it not?”
Embarrassed that she had been such a poor companion, Elizabeth frantically searched her mind to recollect what Miss Hawkridge had lately said. There was something of card parties and ladies dressing as men to sneak into them and play as men do. “Oh, exceedingly scandalous. This is happening here in town, you say?”
Miss Hawkridge shook her head. “Even worse—the officers’ quarters! Is it any wonder people are mad to discover who it is? Only imagine what secrets and gossip they must hear! I should think they imagine themselves akin to Agent 355.”
Elizabeth laughed along with her at that. “Let us hope not! That was the female spy believed to have lost the war with America, yes?”
“Just so,” said Miss Hawkridge. “Although from what I have seen of the dunderheads in Brighton, I cannot think there is much to be told that would be of any consequence to anyone save the publicans.”
“I imagine they are merely the officers themselves trying to create a bit of intrigue,” Elizabeth said. “No decent lady would undertake such things. Who would even wish it?”
“Not ladies, to be sure,” Miss Hawkridge agreed. “But they are assuredly women, for the men would not be in such uproar otherwise. I should imagine they are light-skirts and the reason they disappear so quickly is that they go off into the barracks.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed. They had arrived atMrs Millhouse’s doorstep by then, and Miss Hawkridge lingered in her phaeton nearby, prepared to hie off to her lodgings as soon as Elizabeth was safely inside. With a smile and thanks for an enjoyable journey, Elizabeth bid her adieu and closed the front door on one of the most eventful afternoons of her life.
The remembrance of Elizabeth’s lips united with his own within the intimacy of the dark cupboard rendered Darcy singularly incapable of playing cards. The smoke from Sir Frederick’s pipe might have ordinarily vexed him or caused a headache, but he hardly noticed it. More than once did Saye comment on his stupidity, but he did not care a whit about that either. He had kissed her, felt the soft contours of her body pressed to his, and in truth the only thing he much cared about was how soon they could do it again.
Ought he to declare himself tomorrow? Today? He had hated leaving her before they had the chance to speak—before he could assure her of the honourability of his intentions—though surely she knew his heart by now. His heart, which was presently soaring some four hundred feet above the earth, prevented from going higher by impatience alone. How soon might he truly call her his own?
The conversation around the table had turned to the usual topics—horses, hunting, the quality of the wine—when Mr Hartham arrived, out of breath and carrying the scent of the sea air with him.
“Pray forgive me, men,” he cried out as he handed his coat and hat to the servant who approached. Heasked the lad for a drink and then seated himself at the table.
“We will deal you in next game,” Saye informed him. “Fred here has an unforeseen and uncommon lead and cannot give it up.” A cursory introduction was performed between Sir Frederick and Hartham, though neither seemed much interested.
“I am afraid I shall be little challenge for any of you today,” Hartham proclaimed with a wide smile. “My mind is on other matters.”
“Must be a woman,” Sir Frederick grunted from around his pipe. “Only thing that makes a man insensible to a good card game.”
“Notallmen,” Saye said under his breath, raising an eyebrow in Hartham’s direction and drawing a snort from his friend.
“You are not incorrect, sir,” Hartham said. “In fact, I have just got myself engaged?—”
Darcy’s eyes had been on his cards, but they immediately jerked upwards to stare at Hartham. He had not seen the man with any woman except…
“—to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened involuntarily, bending several of the cards in his hand. Engaged to Elizabeth?HisElizabeth? The room seemed to tilt slightly, and he was grateful for the steadying weight of the chair beneath him.
Fitzwilliam, across the table, fixed him with a worried look. Darcy held his gaze for a moment, no idea what his own expression showed, before dropping his eyes back on his cards. His blood roared in his ears, but he heard his cousin remark, mildly, “That is a bit of a surprise, is it not?”
“More than a bit,” Saye said, not under his breath this time.
“Is it?” Hartham tilted his head. “I have spent a great deal of time with her these past weeks. I imagined that others might have noticed, but perhaps your mind was on your own concerns.”
Fitzwilliam placidly agreed with that assessment, his voice sounding unnaturally measured. Darcy could feel his eyes on him still but was not equal to looking up.
“Your play, Darcy,” said Sir Frederick.
He forced himself to play a card, unknowing and uncaring what that card was, his hand trembling as he laid it. Around the table, the conversation continued, but the words seemed to come from a great distance. Hartham prattled on about his ‘intended’s’ many virtues and his plans for their future. A wedding trip to Belgium with Hartham’s friends seemed to be chief among them.
It made no sense. None of it made any sense. Darcy still had the taste of her on his lips, the feel of her beneath his hands. He had not imagined it—it had been no accidental brushing of fingers but a full-bodied, virtue-quashing embrace. She hadmoanedwhen he pressed against her.
“Darcy? You do understand how these games work, eh?”
He realised he had been staring blindly at his cards for several minutes. “Forgive me,” he said, rising abruptly from his chair and laying his cards face down on the table. “I find I am not well. Perhaps another time, gentlemen.”
