Page 49 of Pride, Prejudice & Wicked Pleasure

“I have the same assessment of my stepson,” Abby informed Darcy when he expressed his concerns, “and endeavour my best to restrict his access to my students.”

“But my pupil—she has already met Nicholas,” Darcy said as he donned a powdered wig.

“By happenstance. I cannot guard against all circumstances of chance, but the young woman is aware of the risks she takes in coming here.”

Abby stood before him and adjusted his cravat. “Your pupil is ready for her second lesson.”

He reviewed himself in the mirror and remarked of the improvement she had made, “You have not lost your skill.”

“Having undone many a cravat, I am quite intimate with the tying of linen.”

Dressed once more in silk breeches and a satin waistcoat, he looked fully prepared for an evening at Almack’s. After fitting a black velvet mask over his eyes, he took a deep breath to quiet his nerves but to no avail. His heart continued to pound. Abby opened her mouth, but decided against what she had intended to say.

“I always did like the look of a man in breeches,” she remarked instead, sweeping her gaze over his tight clothing. “If I were years younger, I should be madly in love with you.”

“And I thought you to disdain artifice as much as I,” he replied.

She shook her head. “My dear Fitzwilliam, you are far too solemn. You require, I think, a woman of lighter spirit, who enjoys humor and can laugh at herself. After all, do we not engage in a most covert undertaking?”

He had long seen the irony of his disposition against deception and the pretense required of Trenwith House but was convinced the balance of good tilted toward the latter.

He stood, surveying himself in the mirror. All the eagerness that had driven him to Trenwith House stalled with the possibility that his apprehensions might be confirmed.

“She awaits in the Red Chamber,” Abby prodded.

With a nod, he took his leave, the careful gaze of his hostess upon him till he disappeared from her view. Before entering the Red Chamber, he required a moment to steel his nerves. He had spent the better part of the night pondering the ways he might subtly ascertain her identity without revealing his own, and preparing himself if his suspicions should prove themselves. What he would do upon discovery, however, he knew not.

She sat before the fireplace, this time in full dress from the same period, a plumed mask upon her, reading from Fanny Hill. As she had not heard his entry, he had the opportunity to observe her unnoticed. Her neck was of no remarkable length, but her shoulders had a nice contour. The arms were of similar thickness to those of Miss Elizabeth. The bust, constrained by a corset and covered by a fichu, could not be assessed. But his heartbeat quickened as his gaze moved up to study her lips. The shape, the suppleness—

She must have felt his scrutiny, for she looked up and in his direction.

“A favourite book of yours?” he inquired, almost forgetting to mask his own voice.

“Hardly, but it is significant in that it is the first bawdy novel I have ever read.”

Her cold, though improved, lingered. To encourage her continued speech, he asked, “And how do you esteem the work?”

“I found myself caring enough for the heroine and what was to become of her. And I cannot help but be amused by Cleland’s prose. His reference of, well, that anatomy as a ‘machine’ or ‘weapon’ is too droll.”

“Is it not?”

“I suppose it may appear imposing to one unaccustomed to its nature.”

It was his turn to be taken aback. He had not considered—did not want to consider what lovers Miss Elizabeth might have had. He still held hope that the woman before him was not whom he feared her to be.

“If Cleland is to be believed, all manner of women are drawn to the wondrous implement like moths to a flame,” she continued. “They cannot remark enough upon the look and size of it.”

“Our sex is prone to paying that part of ourselves great attention.”

“I thank you for your admittance, for I had suspected as much, and that the devotion Fanny and her peers pay to that ‘instrument’ is more a reflection of the author than of womankind.”

“You do not admire cock?”

“I appreciate the purpose it serves.”

“I think you are as like to mock it as extol. Perhaps you need to learn to regard it properly”

One corner of her mouth quirked into a smile. “And will you learn me to respect the ‘weapon?’ Is yours as awesome as Cleland would describe it?”