Would he ever grow accustomed to waking to her softness, close and warm and blissfully real, to falling asleep beside her, to feeling her gentle breaths against his skin? It was not, simply, the passion, the lovemaking, the affections he adored showering upon her. It was life itself that he found within her arms—a reason for being, a reason for providing, a reason for holding hope close and looking with expectation to the future.
May I remember this, always, he thought, slipping carefully out of bed so that he did not awaken her. Havers had him shaved and dressed expeditiously; as well, his man informed him that ‘a new guest’ was now sharing the quarters of Lady Catherine, and that Colonel Fitzwilliam had assigned men to keep watch to ensure ‘the guest’ stayed put.
“It is not my place to say so, sir, but we all slept betterknowing the colonel was keeping an eye upon the situation. Any person who would destroy a Weston coat with such impunity…” the little man shuddered.
Darcy was unsurprised; his cousin Fitzwilliam could be trusted to keep his eyes wide open.
As he had expected, he was not alone in the breakfast parlour—the earl was already waiting, despite the early hour, and obviously in an ill mood.
“Did you have to rub so much salt into the wound?” Matlock asked gruffly. “Anne was hysterical. It took Catherine, her ladyship, and me an hour to calm her.”
Darcy quelled the irritation that wanted to rise at this criticism, reminding himself that the earl’s lack of sleep influenced his tone. Nevertheless, he would not receive a dressing down meekly. “I shall remind you, sir, that for years—years—I was careful in the extreme—careful never to dance with young ladies who might grow hopeful, careful to maintain the strictest behaviour, careful that rumours might never spawn to reach Anne’s delicate ears. It was a mistake.”
“Now, Darcy, we all agreed that in the beginning she required?—”
“A mistake,” he interrupted harshly. “From the beginning, she ought to have been made to understand. I realise none of us knew it would lead to this. Yet, we also have always known that she was uncontrolled. We have always known that her mother spoilt her, giving in to her tantrums, allowing her to dictate anything she wanted if she screamed loudly enough for it. All we did by our so-called protection was give her plenty of time to play stupid pranks and write stupid poetry, worry her mother, and leave her imagination free to create of herself some sort of victim of my supposed unfaithfulness. What good, I ask you, has all your calmingand soothing and all my caution done?” He took a slice of bread from the tray, and strode to the fire to toast it himself.
“You must admit, Nephew, that it was a ridiculous public display you made before us all. Are you not concerned for the loss of your wife’s dignity?”
Darcy glanced over his shoulder with a fierce frown. “There was only one ridiculous public display, and Anne was the one who made it. Let me be rightly understood: if I wish to make love to my wife before my entire family—who, I shall add, were the ones who imposed uponourprivacy, and not the other way round—Iwilldo it, and the rest of you can stuff it. Now, tell me that you intend to send Catherine and her daughter elsewhere under armed escort, and I shall save my breath to cool my porridge.” He turned back to his toast.
Matlock was not accustomed to being spoken to with such impertinence, but there must have finally been something in Darcy’s tone which warned him to step more carefully, for he answered with uncommon mildness.
“Anne is in her mother’s rooms, and I daresay they will both sleep the rest of the day. Catherine was not much more composed than her daughter, once she was made aware of her, um, arrival. Thank goodness she did not see the spectacle on the lawn. Richard posted men to ensure Anne does not leave their rooms—which I thought unnecessary, but he insisted.”
“Of course he insisted—because he has the sense God gave a goose. Why doyoupersist in treating Anne as a great, harmless baby? She is obviously adult enough to survive in London on her own, to hire minions for her self-serving mischief, to sneak uninvited into a home, to steal my clothing, and to ruin Bingley’s lawn whilst making an utter fool of herself before at least fifty people. She wrote a horrid letterin an attempt to frighten Elizabeth—not that my wife is easily frightened, but plainly it was the intention—and thereby crushed any sympathy I might have had for her. I do not trust her, my lord, and neither should you.”
He bit his tongue against all the other recriminations he wished to offer—after all, he himself had helped create the ‘situation’, as Havers had termed it.
To his surprise, Matlock gave him a wry smile. “I suppose you cannot be blamed for your feelings; I was newly married once, Darcy, a hundred or so years ago. Naturally, you are protective. We will see Anne returned to Kent, as soon as may be.”
“What is to stop her from simply running away again, and causing more mischief?”
“Her companion shall be replaced with someone who is less…biddable.”
It was probably the most he could hope for. He made himself express gratitude, but vowed to himself that he would make his own arrangements for the security of his family. He was done worrying and wondering how to pacify Anne de Bourgh.
Darcy faced Elizabeth in the room they shared, feeling even more frustrated than after speaking with his uncle. He had explained to her the measures they had taken to prevent further trouble from Anne; he had expected her gratitude.
Instead, his wife obstinately insisted upon speaking with his cousin…privately.
“I will not leave you alone with her,” he refused, irritably.
“Dearest, she is half a head shorter than I am. I daresay if she attacked, I could hold her off. I am stronger than I look.”
She was smiling, as if it were a joke; it did not help that he had interrupted her toilette. She was fresh-faced, her hair newly brushed but tumbling down around her bare shoulders, and wearing some nearly translucent muslin undergarment. She looked about eighteen, a girlish temptress.
“It is out of the question.”
Her smile faded, and he hated it.
“I do hope you are not questioning my ability to deal with childish, self-indulgent young ladies. Lydia is my sister, you know.” She was trying, he saw, to be reasonable—at least as she understood the circumstances.
“You do not understand my cousin’s character. Miss Lydia is somewhat spoilt, yes, but she is not…devious. I cannot allow it.”
Instead of giving way to anger, she only looked at him with soft, dark eyes. The wanting, which seldom faded, grew stronger as she stepped closer.
“Cannot?” she questioned gently.
