A lady in a thin, wet muslin gown offered him an apple from her bare hand. Darcy quashed a shudder at her revealing attire before he declined. He glanced at Elizabeth but could barely see her wide eyes through the smoke. She was staring at a blond gentleman whose shirttail had escaped his breeches. His crooked finger beckoned her to join him. She turned abruptly away from the debauched Lord Hazard, and her fierce grip tightened round Darcy’s arm.
“Was that the master of ceremonies calling?” Elizabeth asked with hope filling her voice. “I believe the first set is about to commence.”
“Then let us return promptly to the ballroom.”
He escorted his relieved wife to the intricately decorated floor. The chalk-painted pattern was about to be destroyed by dainty slippers and shiny shoes. For the third time this evening, Elizabeth looked down the left side of her skirt.
“Pray, is anything amiss?”
“No, nothing at all,” she assured him.
Elizabeth was an excellent dancer. Her hands moved gracefully, her chin rose high above her swanlike neck, and her feet were so light she glided flawlessly across the room. What could a simple gentleman do but admire her elegance to the detriment of his speech. When the first dance ended, he had not spoken a word, and the next was a vigorous reel not suitable for conversation. It was a new invention that he doubted had made it to country assemblies yet, but Elizabeth surprised him by knowing all the steps. Her face brightened at the exercise, and she hardly seemed winded when it ended. He must make an effort to dance with her as often as he could because nothing pleased him as much as watching her unmitigated pleasure.
By design, Viscount Crawford had been assigned to Elizabeth’s second set. He was a bit stoic for someone with his wife’s lively disposition, but at least he could dance. Watching from the edge of the room, not inclined to engage any of the other ladies at his aunt’s ball, he startled when Elizabeth made the viscount smile. It was a rare sight, and he could allow himself to breathe easier. He had every faith in his wife. She would prove them all wrong and conquer London’s society ere long…
Lady Amelia approached with a group of friends, and he retreated behind a plant. She, possessed of a royal beauty that commanded obeisance, had been one of his occasional partners in town. Though the daughter of an impoverished viscount, her handsome features made up for a smallish fortune. Every eligible gentleman in London vied for a role at her court, regardless of her insignificant portion. But Darcy was not inclined to dance, preferring to watch Elizabeth. Although he could no longer see the tittering females, his hearing was unfortunately not impaired by the leafy decorations.
“It is a shame that a country chit has stolen your handsome Mr Darcy,” someone drawled. “I am certain by nefarious design.”
Could she be speaking to Amelia? Had she developed expectations from a handful of dances and two morning calls?
“Why? Mr Darcy is nothing to me,” Lady Amelia replied. “Handsome he may be, but he is so taciturn that he does not make much of a suitor. Besides, he has no title, and I would never have entertained any serious designs from him.”
Darcy went still, puzzled and heavy—hardly daring to breathe. Always acting like a gentleman, he had never embarrassed himself for a beautiful woman. He had not written any bad verses or challenged anyone to a duel, though he had once climbed a balcony… He had satisfied his formidable sensual appetites by discreetly engaging willing widows of the nobility and bringing expensive hothouse flowers to the ladies he had called upon. He was as proficient at wooing a woman as any gentleman. Lady Amelia’s heart must be made of ice…
“He has possession of his fortune, and you would have no belligerent mother-in-law to quarrel with upon household matters. There are worse matches to be had…”
Darcy straightened at the praise, then frowned at the insult to his mother.
“I thank you, but no,” Lady Amelia said with conviction. “Pemberley is not enough to entice me when I could marry an earl or even a duke. I shall never condescend to accept any gentleman who is not in possession of a viscountcy, at the very least.”
Darcy did not relish being so thoroughly dismissed. The heat of the ballroom became unbearable, and the rustle of silk and coats thundered in his ears.
“Well, Mr Darcy arrived in town married, without a hint of a courtship. It was all such a hurried affair, even this ball in their honour. Lady Matlock could not have been apprised, or she would surely have sent the invitations in a timelier manner. What arts and allurements could she have employed to entrap him? Mr Darcy is so reserved and forbidding that she must have acted in a shockingly brazen manner, do you not think, Harriette?”
“Definitely. I cannot even imagine how Mrs Darcy managed to seduce him, but I am sure it was a debauched method that neither of us would ever stoop to contrive.”
“I heard they were discoveredin flagrante delicto.”
“I suppose it must be so. Why else would he have concealed his impending marriage? If there was nothing amiss, the subterfuge would be entirely unnecessary.”
Darcy had heard enough and walked determinedly towards his wife. He was undoubtedly acquainted with most of the people he brushed past but was so intent on his object that he did not recognise them. Her smile was like the shore after a long voyage, and he remained pointedly at her side like a compass needle directed north. It might indeed have been a mistake to conceal the engagement, but he had felt he could not risk interference from his family because they might have changed Elizabeth’s mind. If left with a choice, he would endure bitter remarks for the pleasure of being married to Elizabeth.
The night ended well, Darcy concluded on the way home. He had been cautious with whom he introduced Elizabeth to, and the likes of Lord Hazard and Lady Amelia had been thoroughly rejected. Why the aforementioned reprobate had received an invitation was a conundrum, though he supposed as the heir presumptive to a dukedom, he could not be dismissed. The carriage drew to a halt outside his home, and seducing Elizabeth was a much more pleasant prospect to engage his thoughts.
Chapter 11 Bluff and Bluster
Speculations about his marriage dominating the gossip rags was bad enough, but the harsh judgment of Elizabeth ventured far beyond his most dismal predictions. His wife was no fool, and certainly not promiscuous.
The caricatures were the worst of it. Blasted Henry C-e! Whoever he was, he should be punished. The drawing he had made of Elizabeth was called Mrs Darcy’s scandalous attire. The neck of her bodice was inappropriately low, and the fabric beneath it was sheer, depicting her ample bosom on full display, and the skirt had a split that ran so high her buttocks were hanging out. It was eerie how accurately he had captured the colour and Hellenic style of the gown. Even managing to have it printed and distributed in the course of twelve hours. One might think it had been drawn prior to the ball, but given how late the garment had arrived, that was impossible.
A knock on his door prompted him to quickly fold the paper and hide it in a drawer. It would not do for Elizabeth to see the licentious depiction of herself nor the harsh renditions of her character.
A sigh of relief escaped him when it was his butler who entered. He was shaken to the core and would prefer to delay encountering his wife until his equilibrium returned.
“Your correspondence, sir.”
Mr Gilbert placed the stack of letters on his desk. By the looks of it, it was mostly bills.
