Darcy leant against the bureau, taking deep breaths, forcibly quieting his wrath.
It is my wedding night. Nothing shall ruin it for me; nothing shall ever be wrong again, once I am with Elizabeth.
When he had regained good regulation over his temper, he stood straight and walked to the connecting door.Elizabeth is the only one who matters, he told himself.
At the door he paused in the act of reaching for the door handle; his hand was actually trembling, as he imagined her awaiting him in her bed, surrounded by pale linens, her hair—her long, silken tresses revealed to him, spread across her pillow. He might look ridiculous at the moment, but he would make her forget everything.
Eagerly, he drew the door open.
He blinked in the brightness of dozens of candles, golden light blazing from every available surface and momentarily blinding him, disconcerting him. It was unexpected, but unwilling to wait another moment, he turned to the enormous bed.
Reclining upon it was a large, naked, extremely hairy—and extremely male—back.
“What is this?” he shouted.
The reverend Mr William Collins turned a startled face towards him, the glutinous mass of his large, hairy belly sluggishly following as he twisted around.
“Mr Darcy! What are you doing in my wife’s bedroom?” the vicar shrieked. “Get out! At once! If you require my ministering, it will simply have to wait until the morning!”
Shocked and alarmed, Darcy staggered backwards; suddenly he found himself once again in his own room, facing the closed connecting door.
“I did not see what I just thought I saw!”
“What did you expect?” Bingley’s voice startled him into whirling. His friend was dressed for riding. “You cannot believe that every man would be as slow to act as you are. I am returning to Netherfield. I hope it is not too late for me, as it is for you.”
“Too late?” he repeated stupidly.
“Far too late,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, suddenly appearing beside Bingley, his medals gleaming against his regimentals. “’Tis for the best, Darcy. She shall be much happier this way.”
Darcy thought of the hairy blob of a man who lounged naked in a bed awaiting Elizabeth.HisElizabeth. “Impossible!” he cried. “How can she be happy with that…that…”
“Husband,” Bingley finished for him. “He is her husband. For as long as they both shall live.”
“No!”
“Yes,” the colonel said mournfully. “She had not gold enough to earn your good opinion. She has ample ability to earn his.”
Words failed him, but it was not the time for them. Giving the other men his back, he wrenched at the door. It would not open, not for all his strength.
“Too late, Darcy,” his comrades chorused. “Give it up. Too late. Much too late.”
“Noo!”
Darcy sat bolt upright in bed, the sound of his own horrified shout of protest waking him.
“A dream!” he gasped aloud. “Not real. Only a dream.”
But with a sickening feeling, he knew it was no dream. It could easily be truth. Elizabeth might already be married to the Reverend William Collins.
Gone, lost forever to him. The phantom neckcloth still choked him.
Flinging the bed curtains aside, he scrambled out of bed. Thin grey light streamed through the chamber’s window. It was already morning.
“Pennywithers!” he shouted.
Darcy checked his watch again. It had taken far longer to escape London than he had hoped, even mounted, as several streets were clogged in early morning traffic. He had given his stallion, Plunder, his head once they were on country roads. Still, it was nearly ten o’clock before Longbourn was in sight, and it took him another ten minutes to reach the manor house door.
At its entry, he faced a neat older woman, obviously an upper servant.
